Flowers are everywhere, even in the concrete jungles of cities, where a rising emphasis nowadays brings the color and beauty of flowers to the streets. I remember how impressed (and happy) my eyes have been, to witness the abundant flowerbeds along the main boulevards of Chicago and elsewhere.

I am not an avid gardener, but this personal failing does not stop me from loving flowers. I do not study and plan and plant and nurture gorgeous gardens! I wish I was better at it, but gladly, I can get help from people with better backs than mine to brighten my place with a wonderful array of flowers. The best I ever seem to do is plunk some impatiens and coleus plants near the front door and pop some nasturium seeds along the driveway border.

My best friend always keeps fresh cut flowers in her house. I adopted the habit a while ago, and the value of this extravagance has, well, blossomed over time. It makes me especially happy when I can cut my own hydrangeas, daffodils, lilacs and Russian sage to bring indoors. Flowers in a vase catching the morning light always brighten a day, especially when we are crawling through the dark grey tunnels of Midwestern winters.

Every flower gets my vote. Even dandelions make my heart happy. (And the bees of early spring really need the nectar, so please wait to mow until they are done blooming. Pass it on!) Along the roads and pathways of my daily walks: flowers. In humid swamps and up in the high country: flowers. Scented or not: flowers Every color, every geometric pattern, tall and short, showy and plain: flowers. What a gift each one is.

And so, yes, I am a flower geek. I don’t know all their names, or how they like to grow, but that’s ok. Every day, it matters to take the time to stop and really notice the flowers brightening my world. They have my humble and deep appreciation. They never fail to improve my outlook. They enliven days that are going well, and inevitably boost sagging days. The role of flowers in my world is well-entrenched, and I hope the same is (or can become) true as well for you.  

Fés has served as Morocco’s imperial capital off and on some eight times, through different dynasties and reigns of power. It has certainly had its share of trouble, being rocked and ravaged by invasions and sieges and overthrows by one ruling dynasty or another in what must often have seemed a perpetual struggle for power.

But in 2026, our visit to this historical hub of manufacturing led us into a center also renowned for its sophisticated arts and crafts. We visited people making ceramics and zellige (mosaics), tanning and dyeing leather, spinning vibrant silk thread of every hue and shade, selling antiques, and weaving beautiful textiles and fabrics. Trying to peek at all these things in just one day was, well, ambitious! Properly visiting a place like Fés surely warrants more time.

The original, oldest part of the city is called Fés el-Bali (“Old Medina”). It is an exciting and intriguing jumble of some 9,000 narrow streets which, to our eyes, more often resembled alleyways. UNESCO lists it as the world’s largest car-free urban area [Source: Google.com]. The streets wind through the different medinas (quarters) such that not even tiny cars could get through. In fact, one of the biggest challenges for our group of just 10 people (plus guides) was not to lose anyone in the crowd and crush.

One of the most famous sites (and sights) in Fés el-Bali is the Tanner’s Quarter. As we walked into one of the oldest, the Chouara Tannery, we were handed sprigs of fresh mint to hold up to our noses against the stink. Our view was from a third-floor vista looking down upon dozens of round stone and brick vats. The medieval atmosphere evokes traditions spanning thousands of years managed these days by about 50 families passing the trade from father to son.

Many of the vats held white liquids consisting of “cow urine, pigeon feces, quicklime, salt, and water”! [Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chouara_Tannery, accessed March 23, 2026] For several days, the brew works to clean and soften the goat, sheep, cow and (less often) camel hides. This readies them to absorb the dyes, many of which are derived from natural sources: poppies (red), indigo (blues), henna (oranges) and more. After drying in the sun, the leather is sold to artisans who produce exquisite Moroccan leather goods. (Ask me sometime about my lovely blue suede jacket, purchased at the behest of my new BIF, aka “bad influence friend,” Wendy!)

The souks (Arabic for “marketplace”) were a feast for all the senses. We wandered past the food section (veggies, fruits, meats including a camel head) into many other fascinating areas: spices, olives (so many different ones!), slippers and shoes, henna, silks and brocades, garments such as kaftans and djellabahs, jewelry, Moroccan lights with their pinhole designs and so much more.

Our guides were masterful at maneuvering us from hither to yon. We visited Fondouk el-Nejjarine, formerly a caravanserai, or inn, where travelers could find lodging both for themselves and their animals. This one had a beautiful bricked central courtyard for the animals. Above it rose three storeys with railings of intricately carved wood. It is now a “Museum of Wooden Arts.”

The other main section of the city is Fés el-Jedid (“New Fés” or “White Fés”). The concept of newness is relative: Fés el-Jedid was built in 1276 as a stronghold against invaders. Until 1912, when the French Protectorate came along, Fés served as Morocco’s administrative center. In the 18th century, a royal palace complex called Dar el-Makhzen was built, where Morocco’s current monarch, King Mohammed VI, stays when he’s in Fés. We stood in awe of its gateway of exquisitely engraved bronze doors for some time, just taking in the intricacy and beauty.

It was a long but glorious day. Earlier, before losing ourselves in the old medina, we visited a ceramics co-op where we watched how Moroccan mosaic and ceramics are made, with their gorgeous shapes and elaborate, detailed designs. At the end of the day, we visited another co-op, this one with weavers who demonstrated their looms and the way they could craft amazing fabrics. In the middle of the busy day, though, came a true highlight. We stopped for lunch and were treated to a famous Fés specialty not found everywhere. Moroccan Pastilla is a savory pie filled with spiced chicken (or, more authentically, pigeon), caramelized onions, and toasted almonds wrapped in multiple layers of thin “warza” (like phyllo dough) and topped with cinnamon and powdered sugar. It is crispy! Complex! Delicious! I could go back, just for that.

[Our trip guide was the incomparable Ali ait Ichou, and our local guide (reminiscent of Al Pachino) was the incomparable “Mayor” of Fés, Rachid. Our adventure travel company was Wilderness Travel. For more about it, see https://www.wildernesstravel.com]

Even before the Romans arrived, Volubilis was a thriving Berber (more correctly known as Amazigh) settlement. Throughout northwest Africa, Amazigh people have a rich, proud history spanning centuries and lasting through to current times. At one point, Volubilis served as the capital city of the Kingdom of Mauritania under King Juba II, an Amazigh man and a prince whose life straddled the epochs: 48 BCE to 23 CE. Among the accomplishments of this scholar, prolific writer, and royal person was his marriage to the daughter of the Egyptian queen, Cleopatra.

After the Romans departed, Volubilis was inhabited by Christians, Jews, and Greeks before becoming an Islamic settlement in 788 when Idriss I (credited as the founding father of Morocco) lived there. But when the city of Fes took the seat of power from Volubilis in the 11th century, Volubilis shrank from view and was, for centuries, largely forgotten.

Our group of ten was largely oblivious to this place with the Latin name as we trundled along in our van on the Moroccan roads between the cities of Rabat and Fes in January 2026. We were crossing a beautifully green, rural stretch when Volubilis came into view on a nearby hillside. It seemed remote and at first underwhelming. As our local guide, Rashid, led us up a nothing-fancy dirt path, though, Volubilis blossomed for me into a place of real fascination.

What had not succumbed to neglect and abandonment was destroyed in the 1755 earthquake that leveled Lisbon. After being rediscovered in the late 19th century, Volubilis (pronounced “va-LOO-ba-lis) became the most extensive Moroccan archeological site dating back to Roman times. It is a 100-acre wander through history. (One fun fact offered by Rashid: the origin of the word “spa”! It is short for “salus per aqua,” Latin for “health through water.” Now you know.)

Made prosperous by trading opportunities and its capital status, the level of sophistication includes stunning floor mosaics in many of the aristocrat homes, an aqueduct that carried water to the fountains and baths from a half-mile away, impressively-engineered drains, and many olive presses. It is bisected by a wide boulevard called the decumanus maximus (common to Roman cities) that leads several hundred yards from the city’s main gate southwest to a 26-foot high triumphal arch. The arch, built in 217 CE, was once crowned by a sculpture of a chariot and six horses, long gone. Only this arch and the walls of the basilica were standing when excavations, beginning in 1915, brought Volubilis back to light. So far, only the city center has been excavated.

The heart and nucleus of a Roman city (so we were told), is the forum. More than simply a market area (which is partly true), the forum also served as a public space for processions, elections, public speeches, even criminal trials. At the basilica on the eastern side of the forum, the senate would meet and higher orders of business and civic administration were conducted. Sometimes, as we take our tourist group shots, I found myself pondering, “what other feet have walked across these stones?” For thousands of years, even while it was abandoned, Volubilis (and so many places like it) has contributed to our ability to sense of the impact of mankind. It is humbling to me.

[Our trip guide was the incomparable Ali ait Ichou, who is also an Amazigh man. Our adventure travel company was Wilderness Travel. For more about it, see https://www.wildernesstravel.com]

[Sources: https://www.britannica.com/place/Volubilis accessed March 11, 2026 and “Morocco,” Alison McGill, Sr. Editor (NYC: Penguin Random House, 2019]

After the earthquake, the city was rebuilt yet again, this time by the reigning Sultan Sidi Mohammed Ben Abdellah. He called it “Dar El Beida” (Arabic for “white house”) but with the huge advent of trade with Europe, the name of Casablanca finally stuck starting in the 1780s, so I’m told. It was later solidified in the pantheon of place names by the 1942 romantic drama about a guy named Rick and his famous café. (The café, by the way, was a fiction built on a Hollywood set. In 2004, an enterprising American named Kathy Kriger, a former diplomat, built Rick’s Café near the Casablanca shoreline where people, tourists mostly, can enjoy some nostalgia and live music with their meals. Maybe the piano player will play it again, Sam.)

The Casablanca of the 21st century finds it less chock full of touristy stuff and more focused on being the financial capital of this very modern nation. It has become a powerhouse of international commerce, banking and trade.

On our day tour, our Booking.com guide, Hamid, centered our activities on two places: that white-housed hillside, and the mosque. As we drove through the area of (still mostly) white houses, we paused to see the former Anfa Hotel, site of the pivotal World War II “Casablanca Conference” in January 1943. The meeting was primarily between US President Franklin Roosevelt, UK Prime Minister Winston Churchill, and the sovereign (later, king) of Morocco, Sultan Muhammad V. (Soviet Secretary General Joseph Stalin was unable to attend because he was contending with the Battle of Stalingrad.) The outcome of this meeting was the Casablanca Declaration, a unified statement of purpose that said the Allies would accept nothing less than unconditional surrender by the Axis powers. (Given its historical importance, the former Anfa Hotel is now being renovated and will soon serve as a museum to commemorate those events.)

Earlier in the day, we visited the Hassan II mosque. Our timing yielded perfect morning light after a day of rain as well as minimal numbers of fellow tourists, who tend to arrive in droves. It was a memorable experience. A recent addition to the Casablanca skyline, the mosque stands on a promontory overlooking the adjacent Atlantic Ocean. It was built in just six years from 1987 to 1993 by the son of Mohammed V, King Hassan II (1929-1999) who reigned over Morocco from 1961 until his death. He wanted to build the farther-west mosque in the African Arab world in order to incorporate the elements of not only land and air, but also water. Thus, part of the mosque’s foundation lies deeply embedded in the ocean water.

Among the largest mosques in the world, Hassan II mosque is deeply Moroccan. It was built and decorated by Moroccan builders and craftspeople using carved plaster, ornate tile designs (known as “zellige” which is different from mosaic), and carved cedar. The work was painstaking. For example, we were told that it took craftsmen four to five days to carve each square meter. Source materials were almost entirely Moroccan except the 56 chandeliers. The cost of construction—about US$700 million— was largely by public donation. Twelve million people stepped up to give. Each received a receipt and certificate, even the smallest donors of just 5 dirham (about fifty US cents).

The minaret on Hassan II mosque is the world’s second tallest at 689 feet (210 meters). Luckily, the muezzin who call the faithful to prayer five times every day can take the elevator instead of the 1,200 steps to the top! Atop the minaret, a laser beam oriented towards Mecca lights up electronically in the evening and can be seen for miles. Inside, the ornate decor and almost relentless designs include walls of hand-crafted marble, chandeliers holding a total of 80,000 lightbulbs, 360 speakers embedded throughout within ornate plaster columns. The gold-gilt roof is retractable, which is surely a relief when a full house of 25,000 people gather to pray, especially in the hot months! They can be joined on the gigantic plaza outside by another 80,000 people.

In addition to the mosque itself, the complex has other structures: a madrasa (Islamic school), hammams (bathhouses), a Moroccan history museum, conference halls. The library is said to be exceptionally comprehensive. In the courtyard are forty-one elaborately decorated fountains, and the beautiful gardens are popular for family picnics. In all, the place is enormous, and worth a visit. It is a true monument of achievement.

While driving around Casablanca, we could often see the beautiful mosque from a distance. On a nearby ocean point, the historical fishing shanties have been demolished, sadly, to make way for upscale development (including one being planned by Ivanka Trump). When the FIFA World Cup starts in Morocco (co-hosts: Portugal and Spain) in 2030, the Casablanca scene will surely be much different than what we fortunately witnessed. 

What an opportunity it was to go there and encounter a superlative guide, itinerary, and group of ten fellow travelers. Our initial plans took several of us north from Casablanca for three days to the “blue city” of Chefchaouen, pop. 46,168 (in 2024). After returning to Casablanca to meet up with our main group, we traveled for ten days by minibus, 4x4 Landcruisers, and even camels (!) as we circumnavigated the Atlas Mountain range, ending in Marrakech. As they say in Morocco: “Yela!” Let’s go!

When researching this trip, I had never heard of Chefchaouen, but given my love for words, the place-name alone intrigued me. It has as many vowels as my name! Our five hour drive carried us through beautiful agricultural areas on the flat terrain near the Atlantic coast, then uphill into the Rif mountain range to the small city founded in 1471.

Our guide knew where to make a quick stop for some Moroccan wine at the outskirts of this dry town. (There are 14 wineries in Morocco offering excellent wines, despite Islamic prohibitions regarding alcohol.) On our way into what felt for all the world like a speakeasy, we had our first glimpse of the Blue City across the valley...and blue it is! Why? For Jewish immigrants escaping the Spanish Inquisition starting in the 1490s, it perhaps symbolized the color of the sky and protection. Or maybe to ward off mosquitoes. Or maybe because town leaders a few decades ago recognized a unique draw for tourists. Whatever the history, the effect is remarkable.

Chefchaouen, like many old Moroccan cities, was built to fend off invaders. The imposing original citadel, known as the “kasbah,” with its high walls and ten towers (and scary jail) was built in the late 1400s. It is now a museum, with a paradoxically calm central courtyard filled with beautiful trees and gardens. The “medina” (walled city) surrounding the kasbah evolved later, with its lower walls and seven arched gates. Its ancient origins resulted in a warren of very narrow, mostly cobblestone streets, rising and falling over the mountainous terrain, twisting and turning helter-skelter. It was easy to get lost, but we never felt any alarm.

All medinas divide organically into smaller neighborhoods, or quarters. Each quarter includes five elements: a fountain for water, a school, a bakery, a mosque, and a “hammam.” A hammam is a traditional public steam bath which, while mysterious to westerners, is locally valued for both deep cleansing and (segregated) social gathering.

At night, we returned from our adventuring to a wonderful Moroccan feature: our riad. Wealthy families traditionally built their homes (riads) designed with stout exterior walls looking inward to an interior courtyard with a fountain and gardens, open to the sky—very private, very quiet. Many riads have been converted nowadays to boutique hotels, and we were the beneficiaries of this wonderful lodging concept for much of our journey.

It was rainy during our days in Chefchaouen, but all the Moroccans were thrilled; the nation had endured a severe seven-year drought which seemed to be ending at last. Sadly, within days of our time there, northern Morocco, including the Chefchaouen region, was hit by epic, lingering storms. “According to the International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies, as of [Feb. 12, 2026], these events have claimed 43 fatalities, left 23 people injured, displaced roughly 300,000 residents, and affected a total of about 2 million individuals.” [Source: https://reliefweb.int/report/morocco/] Our hearts go out to everyone affected.

[Note: Our guide was the incomparable Ali ait Ichou. Our adventure travel company was Wilderness Travel. For more about it, see https://www.wildernesstravel.com]

Luckily for me, the perfect opportunity soon arrived on an alumnae trip with NOLS (the National Outdoor Leadership School). In 2014, I joined a group including two very good longtime NOLS buddies, as we sampled the delightful part of the world known as Parc Naturale delle Dolomiti d’Ampezzo. It is not far from the popular ski resort of Bolzano and Cortina d’Ampezzo, site of the 1956 winter Olympics. This blog (originally appearing in another blogsite, “Design Destinations” in 2014) is rewritten in honor of the upcoming 2026 Olympic Games in Milan and several skiing centers in those dramatic Dolomite mountains.

The Dolomites are composed of sedimentary carbonate rock imbued with a lot of calcium [source: “Dolomite” in Wikipedia.org]. Although sometimes multi-hued, the predictable result are often brightly white vistas. Imagine: a white mountain range without snow. Stunning.

The Dolomite area is intensely popular with hikers, and so it is laced with well-marked trails. Some send you straight up (say, 3,500 vertical feet, for example, as on our first day), or down through steep scree fields. Some meandered through grassy meadows and past alpine lakes, where we might pass cows swinging their bells in lovely aural accompaniment with our footfalls. Some were the same paths used by ill-equipped soldiers in what was a brutal part of the Great War in the early 20th century—and we could still see the bunkers and battlegrounds. The fighting that occurred in those times is referred to as “il fronte verticale” or “the vertical front.” This is in reference to the extreme conditions encountered by soldiers, many of whom were from the south of Italy and had never seen snow. There were, as a result, more deaths from cold, avalanches, harsh conditions, and steep terrain than in battle.

Our group walked for seven days and nights, exploring the mountains from Lago Braies to the roadhead at Borda di Cadore. Sometimes as we walked, we were in socked-in, foggy drizzle, sometimes not. I can attest: some of the trails were challenging, especially on the last couple of days. They could often be muddy-mean. Very muddy! Did I mention mud?

We rested our heads each night at a different high-country hotel, known in Italy as a rifugio. These destinations were welcome after days spent hiking 5 or ten miles (for a total of 50 miles overall). At each rifugio there were shoe-drying rooms, adult beverages, hot showers (sometimes), and multi-course dinners. We stayed in bunkrooms where we had comfy beds, quilts or blankets, and pillows, using our own sleeping sheets (and earplugs to blunt the snoring!).

Although it was rigorous, the Dolomites are a place where I’d return to if it ever becomes possible. As the newest round of Olympics ramps up, I feel very grateful to be able to return at least in my mind’s eye to that beautiful place. All in all, it was a splendid adventure. 

I know people who travel with their special coffees, their own pillows, their creature comforts from home, and I am not totally immune to that inclination. I always take a favorite scarf, for example, and my own bar soap. But leaving for an adventure implies a willingness to depart from treasured routines and daily habits, to make space for the main reason for going: to see what happens. Adventure means the chance to see the ways that differences in people, place and time can be engaging and interesting and worth the struggle of going.

My eagerness to upset my norms is not shared by everyone. I have met (but honestly do not judge) people who choose not to travel largely because they like their routines, they want things to stay the same. There’s a lot to suggest that routines are helpful. A routine is a regular sequence of predictable, unchanging actions. A good routine is a stabilizer in a world that can be chaotic and even upsetting. When the daily news raises blood pressure and hackles, a routine of tai chi or meditation can help. When the seasons are changing, the routine of bringing the warm clothes up from storage (and replacing them with summer-wear in a few months) is a wonderful marker for the passage of time. Here’s a fun one: the 11-year-old German shepherd I adopted a few months ago has a routine of following me every time into the bathroom for a hug while I’m seated. It’s very sweet!

One reservation I have about routines are those that hold a person captive. If some daily occurrence (routine) is happening less by choice than by intractable habit, it could perhaps begin to feel like a rut. Someone once said that a rut is nothing more than an open-ended coffin. My own experience of growing up in an alcoholic home makes me watchful against such traps.

So, when I choose to interrupt my various routines (and those of my dog), I do so mindfully and willingly. I know that, upon my return, I can resume it all. It’s a dance: turn outward and see the world, turn back and c’mon home. Because I’ve been away, it all feels somehow delightfully fresh and, at the same time, wonderfully familiar. This return to my at-home routines is like greeting a cadre of old friends.

Yes. The morning drink powder and its cute wooden scoop will be here when I walk back into the house in a few weeks. That first morning back, I will reach in the pantry in a foggy, jet-lagged state and be pleased to find it. Well, hello, old friend, I might think. I will head across the house to the green chair by the fishpond (mug of hot deliciousness in hand) to write in my journal. All these small actions, these routines, help me land again. Life in all its pieces and parts, all its interrupted routines, will resume. As glad as I was to have the chance to head out on an adventure, I know I’ll also be happy to get all this back again. I will celebrate the freshness of it according to my travel-changed eyes.

And so, I suggested to her, why not say “yes”? We have all witnessed the way a poorly timed "no" can cause unwelcome meltdown in a toddler’s world. Similarly, saying "no, you can’t have that" to our inner child when s/he has fixated on a chocolate bar is probably a doomed mission.

“Yes” is a simple maneuver. It’s a more welcome word, one that can nicely redirect one’s attention without the opposition inherent to the path of “no.” It can help break a toddler’s fixation on, say, needing to have that certain toy or food item. What a difference it can make, to say “Yes! Of course you can have your toy...as soon as you [fill in the blank: get in the car, pick up your room, help me clear this dinner table...].”

In a similar vein, I have often found it helpful to use the “Yes!” strategy on my own self-discipline. I learned this back in 2010 when I emerged as a flabby mess after the sedentary habits of grad school. My battle cry became, "I refuse to age into doughiness"–you know, that nasty feeling of unwelcome layers of insulation that add jiggle to your heft. The power of “yes” became my ticket to reining in the weight-creep that had occurred.

“Yes,” I would reassure my needy inner self, “you can certainly have that bag of chips...after you drink two glasses of water.” I was constantly making such deals with myself. Taking the time to drink that water (or stretch for 10 minutes, or go outside to feed the birds, or...) buys my resolve enough time to bubble back up to the surface. The distraction and pleasure of “yes” makes me worry less about failing and helps me appreciate ways where I can succeed. When my good intentions override my impulsive behavior, the turn of events helps me forget the moment of weakness, helps me walk past the kitchen, helps me attain my real goal of skipping the unwanted calories.

The power of “Yes” can go further than momentary recalibrations of resolve. For example, according to the experts, humans descend into decline over time. “No,” some say, “not old age!” I know a person who refuses to let me utter the “O” word in apparent horror of the idea of “old.” What about putting a different spin on it? Personally, I’m impressed how my 70-plus year old body is holding up, considering the wear and tear. Think of the way items we grew up with (some of which are eerily showing up in museums) are valued. Well-aged furniture in its original condition eventually earns the designation of “antique.” Autos are considered “classic” after 20 years and “vintage” when they get to 90. Old is, ok, a somewhat time-worn word. Instead, I think, isn’t there a certain cache to other words like “vintage” and “classic” and “antique”? I say “yes!”

I cannot buy into the doomsday reports that aging inevitably means negative, dire consequences. Of course, our bones get more porous, our blood pressure spirals upwards, muscle mass diminishes while our heft seems to mushroom. Regardless, there’s no need to cry an existential “no!” It is possible instead to choose to look at things differently. Yes, I appreciate the endurance of this one mortal body of mine. Yes, I am willing to work at maintaining a healthy level of fitness. Yes, I invest in my well-being because I intend to be well. I say, “Yes!” Why not? It sure beats the alternative.

[This blog has been enthusiastically edited from its original version, which was posted April 6, 2015.]

The day was brisk but the skies were sunny and clear as we drove south 45 miles from our cabin in Hot Springs to the Biltmore entrance in Asheville. We had reserved a 10:30 a.m. entry, but I was confused. Why were we being told to allow 45 minutes to get from the entrance gate to the parking area? As it turns out, it’s a 3-mile long driveway, artfully twisting and climbing from the valley floor through beautiful wooded terrain. My imagination was on fire thinking of the true horsepower required when the house was finished in 1895 to clip-clop up to Biltmore House.

Met in the parking lot by an enthusiastic docent (who was still there four hours later!), we learned that the drive can be clogged by motor homes and inexperienced drivers. On our off-season Thursday morning in November, we had made good time. The docent was the first of dozens of friendly and helpful Biltmore staff/volunteers who offered us exceptional customer service throughout the day.

Our walk from the parking area brought Biltmore into view suddenly as we came around a corner. Even from the far end of the huge grassy lawn (complete with fountain), the grandeur of this Gilded Age mansion was clear. At nearly 179,000 sq. ft, the chateau is still the largest privately owned house in the United States. Built by George Washington Vanderbilt in the French Renaissance tradition of the Loire Valley, its 250 rooms include 35 bedrooms, 43 bathrooms, and 65 fireplaces. Although it actually served as the family’s home, the Vanderbilts really enjoyed entertaining! There are a grand foyer, a music room, gathering areas both upstairs and down from the sweeping staircase, a cool patio and a stunning library housing 10,000 of Vanderbilt’s 23,000 volume collection, most of which he surely read. The huge kitchen and pantry areas support an ample breakfast room and a lavish banquet room. For fun, there is a bowling alley, a well-stocked workout room including weights, and an indoor swimming pool (with separate changing areas for men and women). The high-ceilinged, well-lit and airy stables housed 30-40 horses for riding and driving, and about twenty carriages.

Using plans drawn by architect Richard Morris Hunt, construction began in 1889 and took six years, 1,000 workers, and about 60 stonemasons. The cost was about $5 million (about $190 million today). The basis of George Vanderbilt’s inheritance began with George’s industrialist grandfather, Cornelius (aka “The Commodore”) who prospered mightily from shipping and railroads. George’s father, William Henry, the fourth of 13 children, carried on in the Commodore’s footsteps, beating out Rockefeller and Carnegie to be the wealthiest American by 1885, with a net worth of about $200 million ($6.35 billion today).

Vanderbilt married Edith Stuyvesant Dresser in 1898. Their only child, Cornelia Stuyvesant Vanderbilt, was born at Biltmore in 1900 and grew up at the estate. After George died unexpectedly in 1914 at age 51 (pulmonary embolism following an appendectomy), Edith was intent on carrying on George’s vision and stewarded Biltmore through World War I. When she remarried in 1925, Cornelia and her husband, Englishman John Francis Amherst Cecil lived at Biltmore, where their two sons were born. The family began to share their legacy with the public in 1930. To this day, the family owns Biltmore and its descendants are directly involved in its operation. It was named a National Historic Landmark in 1963.

George intended Biltmore as a country get-away. It perches on a stunning ridge overlooking the mountains of western North Carolina. The vistas added fuel to George’s love for natural beauty.  He purchased 125,000 acres of land, much of it depleted by long-standing farming practices. A pioneer in sustainable land use practices, George (who never went to college) became a passionate and self-taught forester, inventing and supporting many innovative forestry practices. And he hired well: the acreage and the closer-by gardens were designed by the famous landscape architect Frederick Law Olmstead. In 1914, Edith sold 86,700 acres to the US government for $5/acre to help fulfill her husband’s vision for forest conservation. It was the nucleus of Pisgah National Forest which is now about 500,000 acres. This legacy gift was instrumental in establishing both our national forest system and the US Forest Service.

More than a million people visit Biltmore each year, and it’s not difficult to understand why. While the statistics are impressive, I discovered a surprising empathy for George. The youngest of a family of nine, George was shy and introverted. He was passionate about learning, travel and art. He was reportedly very generous to and caring of his necessarily ample staff. The family’s on-going respect for the people who built and continue to run the house was evident throughout our tour. Despite the grandeur and lavishness of Biltmore, a palpable vibe of humility reigned for me. I noticed it in the audio-tour, in the honest pride of the staff, and even in the lack of outright ostentation that can be common among the ultra-wealthy. It was enough to make me want to go back.  

When the pretty lights and bright decorations for Christmas start, oh, somewhere back at Labor Day, the grace of gratitude offered by Thanksgiving inevitably gets essentially lost. But in my book, it is the strong, silent holiday that stands steadfast beside the wild chaos and often fake exuberance of that December event. Hands down, Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.

What I am doing for Thanksgiving is less the point than what I am feeling about the opportunity to just say “thank you” in as many ways and to as many people as I can. No money need be exchanged, there’s no pressure to outdo someone else, postal mailing deadlines aren’t relevant, there’s not even all that much pressure to show up. Sure, it’s a family day (thus the cause of much of the angst). It may involve taking a few days to drive or fly to gather with people you may or may not care to spend time with. But the main event is really only for a few hours and a football game, right?

All of which to say, I am surely not alone when I hem and haw in answer to that question about holiday plans. People have surprisingly ingrained ideas about the right answer. Yet many face innumerable non-traditional, multi-parent, blended family situations. Unless you are lucky enough to have a reliable annual tradition to guide you, there’s a perpetual struggle. Maybe it means going one place for one holiday and another for the other. Maybe it means putting up with a least-favorite relative’s behavior. Maybe it’s tolerating the red-hot political divide. It’s complicated.

So the other day, when a friend made the inevitable inquiry, I said I might be in one place, might be in another, depending on a situation waiting to be clarified and that I just might be alone. When the gasp was audible, I reassured him that I would be fine. I do “solitary” well, and (usually) skip “lonely.” But I do find it interesting the way some people are appalled when a plan doesn’t fit their preconceived notions of how something like this  “should” be. They instantly begin to try to find ways to include me. This is deeply appreciated, of course! But, as my friend and I agreed, every year is different and sometimes a new plan is needed. He concluded our conversation with this beautiful idea: “Just be your own pilgrim.”

What a wonderful way to approach Thanksgiving! What gracious permission not to stress out about the logistics of this precious holiday. However it unfolds (and it will unfold with treasured friends, no matter where I land), I’ll bring my best pilgrim self to the table.

Then, of course, soon comes the next question: “So, what are you doing for Christmas?”

So, in June 2025, two buddies and I decided to take an autumn trip to the hill towns of Hot Springs, Marshall, and Asheville, NC. Our express purpose was to infuse some tourist dollars while these communities continue to get back on their feet. We booked flights, and arranged five nights in a (delightful) cabin near Hot Springs plus a night in Gatlinburg, devastated by wildfires in 2016, killing 14 people and injuring 190.

Wow, what an experience! During our week in November, we met tough, grateful, friendly, resilient people. Six weeks after the storm’s first anniversary, they were glad to see us. We spent time (and dollars!) in shops and restaurants everywhere we went. Our day in Asheville was mostly spent at Biltmore (a must-see, by the way - stay tuned for another blog).

Our day in Marshall was with my cousin Susan, whose second-floor apartment in the old mill was inches above the French Broad River’s flood waters (which reached the first floor ceiling). (Support this talented artist if you can! See her jigsaw puzzles, cards, and more at https://www.mcchesneyart.com/). We enjoyed sea bass tacos at a main street restaurant reopened just that week, and stopped at several shops and art galleries. Each proprietor could tell a mud-caked story.

We mostly spent time in the Hot Springs area, 16 miles north of Marshall and 36 miles north of Asheville. Because the French Broad River flows north, Hot Springs not only got flooded by local rain, the flood waters from both the other towns hit it, too. To boot, the river merges with Spring Creek in downtown Hot Springs. At its worst, the water there pulsed at 101,000 cubic feet per second, “equal to the amount of water flowing over Niagara Falls in high season and ten times stronger than the Class IV rapids in the Colorado River at the Grand Canyon.” [Source: Stronger Than The Storm, edited by Shelley McKechnie–the profits of which benefit local recovery efforts, available online]

In the fresh wake of my own orthopedic recovery which has taken most of 2025, I tested my rehabbed body for three days on hiking trails in the area. First was a 2-mile meander along a peaceful river the day we got back from Marshall. That went well, so the next day, using excellent hiking pamphlets produced by Madison County Outdoors, we had two lovely hikes. First was along the banks of the French Broad River, then steeply up to Lover’s Leap. The story goes that a Cherokee chief strategically wanted his daughter to marry another powerful man, who murdered her heart’s desire. She jumped from the cliff to be reunited with her love...and the murderer was attacked and killed moments later by a panther. Happily, the forest was autumn-colored and calm for us on this 1.7 mile hike.

Later, we hiked 1.1 miles on a tranquil, off-the-beaten-track called Betty Place. The path meandered past immense rhododendron bushes blanketing the hillside. Surrounded by very tall trees, we crossed the creek and looped down the other side of the drainage. Then we headed to our cabin for the hot tub and movie night with popcorn!

Our final day on the eastern flank of the Smoky Mountains was my first true test: a 5-mile out-and-back hike up 1,430 feet on the Appalachian Trail to Rich Mountain Firetower. The day was cool but clear, and splendid. After regrouping (including hot tub time), I felt great physically. Our souls were then nourished by an evening of bluegrass music at the local brewery.

Our next plan was to drive south on Highway 209 to the eastern portal to Great Smoky Mountains National Park. The route included the famous section known as The Rattler. This popular road has 290 curves in 24 miles. Driving it on a (very) low traffic day was really fun, just sayin’.

Soon after, at the national park’s Oconaluftee Visitor Center, our plan to drive west to Gatlinburg via the park road was thwarted. The road over the top was snowed in. But then we realized the southern route around the bottom of the park would take us to the famous Tail of the Dragon. This notorious, iconic section of road bested The Rattler, with 318 curves in just 11 miles! Because it was a snow-squall day in November in North Carolina, we got to drive in nearly solitary splendor. W.h.a.t. F.U.N.

On our final day, we drove to Cade’s Cove in the park (worth the drive). Suddenly, a black bear heading uphill from the Laurel River crossed right in front of our car! Later, it was time to head to nearby Knoxville and the flights home. It was a wonderful week in mostly natural settings and mostly beautiful late-autumn weather. Walking and eating and shopping (and dropping tourist dollars!) in places still rising from the devastations of last year were worth every bit of the effort to go there. 

On that day, happily, we were very much on a path. Our 301-degree heading carried us directly toward the Azores. It is a place I’ve wondered about ever since its intriguing place-name caught my attention decades ago. Our arrival was delayed a day because a hefty storm was rolling through, so our captain had wisely decided to wait in Madeira to avoid being caught out on the open ocean. The result was that our time in the Azores was cut short by a day.

We pulled up to the dock at Sao Miguel, one of the nine main islands in the volcanic archipelago in May, 2025. Its largest city, Ponta Delgada (pop’n 69,000), is the capital of the Azores, an autonomous region of Portugal. Our one full day there was busy! We went whale-watching on small boats with spotters on the island guiding the skippers. We saw some sperm whales at a distance, and some bottlenose and common dolphins close-by. Then it was onto a bus for the ride to the town of Furnas in the highlands. There, we sat at long tables and enjoyed a highly-efficient lunch at Tony’s (eat there when you go!); it was a delicious traditional stew cooked in the boilers of the volcanic fumeroles. Next we were whisked off for a rapid (read: rushed) tour of the Gorreana tea plantation. It was a typical day for group-travel – on and off the boat and bus, (bossy) shepherding by an impatient guide, and no wiggle-room for spur-of-the-moment asides. It was a good reminder that a tourist (as we were on this trip) must give up some autonomy and live with the convenience of having everything pre-arranged, I suppose.

The next day, after disembarking from two weeks aboard our ship, our flight to the mainland wasn’t until evening. We had thought ahead and arranged a private tour of Sao Miguel. What a difference! Our guide, Gabriel, was a breath of fresh air, and the experience was thoroughly enjoyable. A guide since age 14, Gabriel showed us the northern part of the island. A highlight was descending from the rim of a volcanic crater, over a bridge separating a blue lake from a green one, to a town built inside: Sete Cidades. Serendipity graced us when a Mother’s Day church service let out and a horde of  townsfolk walked in a traditional parade led by an oomp-pah band all around the town. (Gabriel can be found at https://azoresislandsexperience.com – take a look!)

What I learned from my limited visit to the Azores is this: I need to go back! There are nine islands in three groupings which all warrant a proper look-see. If the rest is as good as what I was able to see during my short two days solely on Sao Miguel, I can understand the attraction of this mid-ocean place filled with history and natural wonders.

[If it interests you to read my brother’s “take” on the journey, go to his website at https://sheepdogguides.com/tr/atlan25/atl-itin0.htm]

Imagine that this group discovers a place that can help, one well-versed in educating others how to overcome the adversities of malfunction and disruption, and to work with their differences. Imagine that the members of this group at last embrace the importance of learning (maybe re-learning, for they haven’t always been so crusty) that respectful discourse and civility and dialogue are part of getting along.

Imagine they agree to a course of study where they leave the familiar, go into the wilderness, stay long enough to tune in and remember things that they possibly learned as children but have forgotten: the sights and sounds and healing forces of the natural world, the authority of weather and uneven terrain, the shock and relief of jumping into a mountain lake after a hot day of hiking. The comfort of sitting around a fire circle at night, a dense carpet of stars overhead. The thrill of hearing coyotes greet the rising moon.

They learn how to live with one other day after day as they gain the skills to thrive in this unusual place: learning to cook meals, pitch tents, carry the weight of their lives on their backs, gain the top of a pass or mountaintop.

There is a school called NOLS, not widely known (even though it’s been around for 60 years) where students of all ages are routinely transformed in just this way. I had the task and honor of writing its history in 2015. I can vouch that a NOLS education can and routinely does teach many skills essential to negotiating this increasingly hostile world: judgment, leadership, tolerance for adversity and more. With tact and impressive skill, NOLS instructors help their students respect the values and beliefs of all the members of the expedition. They promote positive attitudes, and help motivate students to work hard with people who very often are quite different from them. They learn how to make the welfare of the group equal to their own. A profound understanding evolves that expeditions can and do succeed when every member is successful. [See https://www.nols.edu/]

NOLS students learn how to get along, because in the wilderness, groups have to rely on each individual. The skills of both leadership and followership are embedded in lessons. A NOLS course builds a culture of tolerance and support. The learning environment is positive. In time, participants evolve into colleagues who know how to get along. Students return to the far more challenging terrain of daily life with new interpersonal skills and profound respect for others.

For our nation, the current times are like a daunting mountain rising menacingly, filled with numerous dark hazards. We are on a collective expedition, but one which sadly lacks a sense of confidence that our leaders are up to the task. They lack the core principles foundational to a NOLS field expedition. One of these was dubbed “expedition behavior” by the school’s founder. Lovingly referred to as “EB,” good expedition behavior alone would doubtless alter the tenor of our government for the better. Wouldn’t it be something for members of the U.S. Congress to acquire a NOLS education?

It’s not too late. Astronaut teams routinely go into space as solid teams well-versed in EB and leadership/followership, thanks to a NOLS education. Naval Academy midshipmen test their classroom lessons in military leadership on 30-day NOLS courses. Imagine what could happen if the U.S. Congress could go to NOLS, and be guided by the precepts they’d learn there.

Imagine.

[Note: This blog has been edited and updated from when it was first posted on November 16, 2016.]

It was a rag-tag dream built on little more than Petzoldt’s passion for the idea, financed by a few intrepid supporters. In the first years, getting by was a matter of “robbing Peter to pay Paul,” of spreading his infectious enthusiasm, writing 40 letters a day to prospective students, spending winters talking up his vision to university outdoor clubs and whoever else would listen. Legions of young people showed up at the school’s base in Lander, Wyoming, to play a part in bringing NOLS to life. Many were beneficiaries of Petzoldt’s famously-innovative “Pay Back When Able” scholarships. Student numbers abruptly tripled overnight when an article about NOLS was published in Life Magazine in December, 1969, followed the next month by a documentary on TV’s Alcoa Hour  titled “Thirty Days To Survival.”

Petzoldt’s dream was audacious, and it also enjoyed great timing. The decades of the Sixties and Seventies were an era of restlessness and rebellion, and the numbers of people wanting what NOLS offered mushroomed. Petzoldt was nothing if not magnificent at making people believe in the impossible, telling them, Go for it. You can do this. The school caught on and survived deeply challenging times through the Eighties and Nineties, ultimately spreading to branch locations worldwide.

NOLS recently celebrated its 60th anniversary. How those now-aged pioneers got the job done is the source of lore and head-shaking stories. Equipment was sourced from government surplus stockpiles or created by Thelma, a seamstress who practically invented outdoors-wear. The school used cattle trucks for student transport when I left town for a two-week winter course in December, 1973. We got outfitted for a 1974 horsepacking course at the (leaky) former lumberyard which had been purchased and turned into an equipment depot and staging area. In those first years, staff displayed legendary levels of dedication and hard work, mostly just for the chance to be part of something cool. It certainly was not for the money. No one believed NOLS would ever evolve into a place where one could have a lifelong career (but it did).

It is a very compelling story.

Yet I have pondered this lately: what if someone like Petzoldt came along now, a quarter of the way into the first century of a new millennium? Would someone nowadays be able to get away with much, if anything, of what he did? What comes to mind instead is a raft of “but-first” tasks of compliance and permission and legal framework and certifications and endless assurances that nothing would or could possibly go wrong. This trend can be witnessed in ubiquitous signs and labels: bridges ice before roads, and consuming alcohol can be harmful to a fetus. Of course they do. Notices to proclaim protection from legal liability prattle on ad nauseum. Can anyone with a dream these days get anywhere?

One area of concern is the topic of judgment (a foundational pillar of a NOLS education). Judgment is a process of using thought and reasoning to make informed decisions. For example, I am clearly nowhere near underage, yet when I buy alcohol these days, the (poor) servers are tasked with seeing my ID. I protest the way our society no longer allows them the judgment to make that decision. Honestly! Modern society is increasingly averse to the possibility that something might not go “right.” And in uncertain situations, people who have not been given a chance to develop decent judgment are disturbingly paralyzed from making decisions. Watch: people just give up, often without even trying.

To Petzoldt, the development of judgment was crucial. As Simon Bolivar quipped, “Good judgment comes from experience, and experience comes from bad judgment.” Everyone makes mistakes, but the real tragedy is not learning from them. If we are so inured from the possibility of making a mistake, how are we to learn right from wrong, yes from no, grace in the face of things that didn’t go according to plan? In addition to judgment, some of the other transformative lessons of NOLS include how to tolerate adversity, how to trust one’s inner strengths, how to be resilient.

In a world where the trend is to find the easy way, I fear the losses in character development that are mounting because people are scared to try new things and learn from the experience. Petzoldt gave such opportunities to thousands of people, and they have passed his legacy along. But what would happen, I wonder, if someone with a NOLS-type dream were to come along these days? Would it ever be possible to realize it? This seems to me to be a sadly pertinent question. 

It’s tempting to frame an understanding of glaciers through facts. The National Snow and Ice Data Center (Colorado) website said that ten percent of land is covered by glaciers, and sea level will rise approximately 70 meters worldwide if all that ice melts. Some Antarctic ice is over 4,200 meters thick; glaciers store about 75 percent of the world's freshwater. Ice shelves in the Antarctic calve icebergs more than 80 kilometers long, and glacial ice crystals can be the size of baseballs. The bluer the ice the denser, as eons of pressure coax out even the tiniest pockets of air. (Full disclosure: these facts were true when this blog first appeared back in 2010, and much has changed...)

But my understanding of glaciers is more personal. It started in 2009 in the world’s second-largest non-polar ice cap in Wrangell-St.Elias National Park (Alaska and Canada). For sixteen days on the Alsek River, we visited many glaciers, starting with Lowell Glacier (particularly fun, since I live in Lowell, Michigan). We rafted past them and often hiked on them. I tried to bite into shards of the ancient, clear ice. The density makes such a stunt impossible. I discovered glaciers to be as individual as people, some smooth and approachable, others prickly and difficult. Each is a magnificent natural sculpture, kinetic art that alters the surroundings while being altered by them in turn. Glaciers may be slow, but they are always engaged with the world, reshaping it. Even on glacial lakes there is continuous splash and ripple as icebergs which fell from the glaciers, some as large as apartment buildings, calve too.

To me, glaciers seem like immense organic beings, not just lumps of ice. This notion, hatched in Alaska, was confirmed on a visit to the world’s largest non-polar icefield in Patagonia at the tip of South America. Glaciers have moods, and good days and bad. As we approached Argentina’s Perito Moreno glacier from a vantage point above it, severe winds sent up such intense spray that it made a wind-bow below us (sort of like a rainbow, but better). Later, while walking on the glacier with crampons, we paid close attention to the guides for fear of becoming lost in the spires and valleys.

I ponder the varied eloquence of glaciers and their gifts of wonder. To be in the presence of a glacier is like being with a treasured teacher. The size and power yet grace and mystery of a glacier reminds me that while my own needs and cares are valid, they are puny. To encounter a glacier is to be humbled in a most wonderful way.

Yet Earth’s changing climate, thanks largely to human impact, makes for a doubtful future for glaciers. This is well known. I am saddened, the way a beached whale saddens me. Can we prevent such devastating losses? I hope humankind collectively takes heed in time.

To see an impressive sequence of glacial calving, see the 2:26min video of Moreno Glacier (Argentina, Feb. 2011) by Mary Allen at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EDe-gL8KaIU

(This blog, now updated, originally appeared at my friend Susan’s blogsite, “Design Destinations” in March, 2011. Since then, I’m sad to say, the health of glaciers has worsened. Many (most?) are in critical condition. Soon, there will be no more glaciers in the European high country. Greenlanders are unable to sustain their ancient ways because the ice is no longer adequate for them or the critters they hunt. And, and, and.... Sigh. The planet is warming, There is no denying it.)

Ah, the Colorado peach season! Every August when the peaches came in, my much-loved step-father, Tim, waxed poetic about them in his weekly letter to the family. It was a pilgrimage for him and my mom to go to the Minturn Farmer’s Market on Saturdays and stock up on those peaches. We heard about their deliciousness for weeks.

I get it. These peaches really are special. They are grown in the western Colorado farming area of Palisade, just east of Grand Junction. The Palisade area is located in the Grand Valley at an altitude of about 4,800 feet. The valley enjoys a microclimate with warm days and cool nights moderated by famous winds that blow through Debec Canyon, a 15-mile chute along the Colorado River that helps protect the orchards from frost. The net effect are peaches that boast sweetness and juiciness that can only be described as extraordinary.

Not surprisingly, Palisade celebrates its famous fruit! For 57 years, there has been an annual Peach Festival in August boasting everything peachy, including the peach-pancake breakfast, a peach eating contest and other races, a peach cuisine throwdown, and live music on the Peach Jam Stage. (See https://palisadecoc.com/events/palisadepeachfest/)

Peach season is also a brilliant opportunity to remember some life essentials, the way I see it. The simple act of biting into a perfect peach inspires the (very legitimate) emotion of joy, which seems helpful when a present and growing sense of dark times is arising for many people. To be in Colorado when this exceptional fruit is abundant is also a beautiful reminder of the relevance of living in the present moment. They only last a few weeks, and then (to Tim’s annual dismay), they are gone for another year. Eat this peach! Enjoy it now!

Then there is gratitude. What’s not to be thankful for, if not being the recipient of a Palisade peach? It is no small thing. A daily gratitude practice is easy during peach season. And because Tim and peaches are so entwined for me, what a nice reminder, too, of his love for me. He always made me feel special.

This week, in mid-August, some dear lifelong friends arrived to visit me in Colorado for a couple of days. With them was (be still my heart!) a box of ripe Palisade peaches. It has been some years since I was in Colorado for peach season, and, well, what a wonderful gift!

Our 250 mile overnight crossing from the Canary Islands brought us to Las Desertas. the first of the three main islands in Madeira. This island is strictly held as a natural reserve in hopes of giving the monk seals a chance to come back from near-extinction. We had a short walk on land near the ranger station, and then a Zodiac ride offshore to see the colorful and volcano-striated cliffs. (A monk seal popped its head out next to another Zodiac, much to everyone’s surprise–they are notoriously shy.)

On the short hop over to the main island (also named Madeira) to the capital city of Funchal (6th largest city in Portugal), we encountered a large pod of pilot whales swimming across the strait. The sighting emptied the room where an excellent lecture about the Portuguese language was underway, to everyone’s joy, including the presenter. These marine mammals, the largest of the dolphin family, swam with their babies alongside our ship for some distance on that beautiful, calm day.

Colonized by the Portuguese in around 1420 and still an autonomous region of Portugal, Madeira is a popular tourist destination, especially for Europeans. Half of its quarter-million residents live in Funchal. A walk near the harbor led to narrow, cobblestoned streets, one named Rua de Santa Maria which is famous for its 200 or so painted doorways which are worth the amble.

A morning drive inland led to some beautiful vistas and then to one of the region’s many vineyards. At the Barbusano winery, we sampled a range of their numerous varieties of Madeira wine. Each was eloquently and passionately presented by the vineyard’s enthusiastic owner. Madeira wine comes from grapes grown on steep hillsides in overhead arbors that I imagine require pickers to be part mountain goat, part gymnast. Besides the grapes themselves, the underlying secret to what makes Madeira wine special is a process known as “fortification” where grape spirits are added during fermentation, increasing the alcohol content to 17-18%. Then it is either heated (to simulate the aging process the wine endured in hot boats during long sea voyages in ages past), or aged in oak barrels either in heated rooms or exposed to the hot tropical sun. The results are rich, complex flavors which bring great happiness to my taste buds.

After the busy port of Funchal, it was nice the next day to arrive at the region’s third main island of Porto Santo, 44 nautical miles northeast of Madeira. Porto Santo is nearly bisected by a two-mile runway used until 1992 when the island stopped serving as a NATO base. It is a quiet place of just 5,000 residents (until tourist season, which quadruples the population and fills the eight hotels and four B&Bs).

It would be remiss not to mention that Madeira is also host to a famous cocktail known as “poncha.” The essential ingredient is “aguardente”—similar to brandy and made of either distilled grapes or sometimes distilled cane sugar. To make poncha, one mixes the spirits with honey, adds lemon juice, more cane sugar as needed, tea, water, and additional flavors as desired. (Check that your designated driver is with you!). On our one beautiful day on Porto Santo, we drove around the island with an information-packed guide, saw a hoopoe bird (very exciting for me!), and then had the sandy beach and breakers to ourselves. Happily, the poncha bar at the beach was open and we had the chance to taste-test a variety of poncha flavors. What a wonderful final impression of a lovely place, I thought, as our ship headed northwest toward the Azores later that day.

[Note: If it interests you to read my brother’s “take” on the journey, go to his website at https://sheepdogguides.com/tr/atlan25/atl-itin0.htm]

A point of clarification: the “dogs” may have actually been monk seals, also known as “sea dogs.” Either way, the flag of the Canary Islands includes two lovely canines.

More than two thousand years after Juba II, in May, 2025, I arrived in the Canary Islands after a lifetime of dreaming to see that intriguing place. Our approach was by sea in the midst of a two week venture through Macaronesia aboard the National Geographic Orion.

Macaronesia (not Macro- or Micronesia) consists of four island archipelagos, all volcanic in origin, scattered across the Atlantic Ocean off the northwest coast of Africa: Cabo Verde, Canary Islands, Madeira, and the Azores. Small, but mighty, they boast a unique biodiversity with numerous endemic species of plants and birds, and also a solid place in the history of maritime exploration and the slave trade in centuries past. Nowadays, they are kept afloat mostly through tourism.

Our itinerary landed us on three of the seven main islands in the Canaries: La Palma, La Gomera, and Tenerife.

La Palma, pop. 85,000, is largely characterized by rugged, forested terrain. After a morning browsing the main city of Santa Cruz de la Palma, we rode a bus to the heights and hiked from the cloud forest down past the rim of a volcano named Tajogaite, which erupted for 85 days in 2021 and is still burping gases. The pumice quality of the volcanic “ash” (really, more like fine gravel) took its toll on the soles of our boots. (The only death reported during the eruption was of a man trying to shovel the ash off his roof– it is very heavy!)

Overnight we steamed 50 nautical miles over to La Gomera Island, pop. 22,500, which has a diameter of just 14 miles. (Of historical interest, La Gomera was the last port of call for Christopher Columbus before he headed west into the unknown in 1492.) On La Gomera, I took leave of the group to follow my own whims. From my journal: “It feels like a long, delicious exhale.” I wandered the town of San Sebastian, where I found the Municipal Market and had a refreshing beverage at a local’s café.

What I enjoyed most was stumbling across a “battle of the bands” under a large tent in the town square. Two robust orchestras, one from San Sebastian and the other from the nearby east coast town of Hermigua, were doing a great job on the occasion of an island book fair event called “Musica y Letras.” The quality of the playing was high, and they looked sharp in matching suits, lime-green ties for one, red ties for the other. They deserved to feel so obviously proud that the island could mount not one, but two, such orchestras.

Because of impending rough seas for the next phase of our journey, our trip leaders called for a bonus day in the Canary Islands. We steamed over to Tenerife, a popular tourist destination, especially for Europeans. It is the largest of the Canary Islands, and the most populated (trending toward one million). Many probably recall also that it was the site of aviation’s deadliest commercial crash in March, 1977 when two Boeing 747s collided on the runway in heavy fog, killing 583 souls.

Our day in Tenerife included a visit to a market in the UNESCO site of Old Town, where we also visited the famous 1580 Catholic church, Real Santuario del Cristo de La Laguna. In the countryside, we hiked along a splendid path, now disused, along which people would travel to carry their agricultural and crafted goods to market long ago. The terrain (much of which is protected) is characterized by lush “laurisilva.” These laurel forests of shiny, broadleaf trees are found in subtropical places where they can rely on stable, mild temperatures with high humidity.

The Canary Islands have been under Spanish control since the Treaty of Alcáçovas in 1479, when Spanish sovereignty took over from the Portuguese, who had arrived in about 1420. These days, the region is an autonomous region of Spain. Since the language at our other stops was Portuguese, being in the Canary Islands made me happy to try out my Spanish language skills. Our visit was tantalizing—and too short, which probably means making a return trip someday!

[Note: joining me on this trip was my brother. If it interests you to read his “take” on the journey, see his website at sheepdogguides.com/tr/atlan25/atl-itin0.htm]

Wherever you go in Patagonia, it brims with natural beauty and drama. It hosts the world’s second-largest non-polar ice cap. (Fun Fact: the world’s largest non-polar ice cap lies in Canada’s Yukon Territory in the Kluane National Park & Reserve.)

Our journey began in the port city of Punta Arenas, Chile. There, our group  of six met our Patagonian-born guide T.C. Bahamondez. With T.C. and the other in-country staff from Mountain Travel Sobek, we visited both Torres del Paine (pronounced “Pine-ee”) National Park in Chile and Los Glaciares National Park in Argentina.

On the drive from the coast, we were surprised by the subtle ascension of the Andes over the horizon; one minute, you’re on the level, seemingly endless pampas with hardly a single tree in sight. The next, breathtaking spires and towers and granite and snow and glaciers are just...there. They seem modest enough at first, but the vistas grow quickly with ever-increasing drama.

At Torres del Paine, we took to our feet and headed out to enjoy the celebrated 50-mile “W Hike,” so named for its shape on the map. We trekked via three beech-filled valleys to high ground in search of world-famous views of three sheer granite towers, but we were thwarted by an atypical midsummer snowstorm in Ascension Valley. Our French Valley hike started well, but weather blocked the best views that day, too. On the third spoke of the “W” we hiked long and hard to the base of Grey Glacier, where lucky weather permitted the ferryboat to arrive and take us past glorious views of the four peaks of Paine.

Our first day in Argentina was spent at and upon Perito Moreno Glacier, not far from the town of El Calafate. We got to don crampons and take a hike on the glacier itself. Toward the end, we rounded a corner only to discover that our guides had set up a surprise (and very welcome) cocktail hour featuring Famous Grouse whisky on cubes of glacier ice!

Then we headed for the famous climbing and trekking village known as El Chaltén. During the drive, the Andes again rose spectacularly from the pampas. The highest tower, at 11,073 feet, is also named El Chaltén, meaning “the Smokey One.” This beautiful peak has its own microclimate that often leaves it wreathed in clouds—but we saw it! We enjoyed amazing vistas of the striking towers and needles of the Fitzroy massif as it hovered over us during hikes on nearby trails for the next three days.

Wildlife sightings were wonderfully exotic for us North Americans. We encountered many guanaco, wild relatives of the llama family. Happily, we were there when their very sweet babies were still little and full of spunk! We saw some ostrich-like choique (or nandu), a large flightless bird very similar to the ostrich. They are very fast runners! We even caught sight of some Magellanic woodpeckers, which can be quite elusive, as well as many impressively large Andean condors free and on the wing.

If you ever go to Patagonia, be prepared for wind! We had our fair share. (On our free day before starting out, Margaret and I went to see a Magellanic penguin colony outside Punta Arenas–and nearly got blown off our feet by the powerful wind!) Wind, I noted in my journal, “is an interesting character in this scenario...you know it’s windy when there are big ripples on little puddles.” Even for a tent addict like me, our reservations at refugios (trailhouses) and hotels were very welcome, thanks to the shelter from that constant and significant force.

In our eleven days in Patagonia, we hiked 48 miles in Chile and 42 in Argentina. Nonetheless, we gained weight, thanks to the amazing hospitality and excellent wines and beers of the region—but that’s another story!

[This blog originally appeared in Susan Smith’s blog, “Design Destinations” in February, 2011. It has been updated and edited.]

Nearby were the tarp shelters of the other “students” on this NOLS alumnae sea kayaking course, settling in for our first night. As we rummaged through the food bag, I was taken back to the “NOLS way” of having only a bag of ingredients; no prepackaged, add-a-cup-of-boiling-water meals for us! I suggested we caramelize some onions on the camp stove to add to our beach dinner, and I remember Margaret being amused at the conjunction of such gourmet preparation while roughing it.

It was our “shake-down” trip, the one to see how we’d get along while traveling, and aside from (me) bumping heads with Tom all week, it went well. Even during the journey to Baja, I had greatly enjoyed the new sensation of having someone to watch my heavy bag while I wandered a bit in the San Diego airport. And I could return the favor. It had been a few years since I’d had a travel buddy, and I immediately thought, this is great!

Suddenly, it has been twenty years since our first adventure. My Travel Buddy and I have done some pretty cool stuff: hiking 90 miles over two 16,000+ passes in Bhutan (2005). Hiking 90 miles in Patagonia (2010). The Great Walk of Africa: another 100 miles, walking across the Kenyan backcountry (2014). Throwing snowballs at each other in Norway in June (2022). A three-week odyssey to the Southern Ocean, including the Falklands, South Georgia, and the tip of Antarctica via the Weddell Sea (2019). Seeing Bengal tigers in India, including trekking 32 miles through their terrain (2024).

At some point, we added river rafting: the mighty Colorado through Grand Canyon (2014) and the Alsek River in southeastern Alaska (2017). We visited gray whales on another trip to Baja (2014), and trekked over the 15,190-foot Salkantay Pass down to the train into Aguas Calientes, before taking the bus up to Machu Picchu (2015). It hasn’t all been so exotic. There were the relatively tame 84 miles along the Cotswold Way in England (2019) with friends Bob and Kathy, and some domestic journeys in Colorado and New England.

Over time (and–can’t lie–with some wistfulness on my part), our trip decisions have begun to hinge on slightly less rugged adventures than sleeping in tents for weeks. Maybe it isn’t all bad to have a hot shower and a glass of wine at the end of the day. But we still head out the door as often as possible, heartily grateful for the good health and means to go. Coming up: a domestic trip to the Asheville area and, next winter, Morocco (including desert camping for a couple of nights with camels!).

My Travel Buddy is a kind, nice, strong and fit woman. She is intrepid, and willing to inch past the boundaries of her comfort zone. We get along well. I am the Odd Couple Oscar to her Felix, true, but it works out. I take the towels on the left (since I’m left handed), and hers are on the right. We “rummage” equally enthusiastically through our luggage as we settle into a new place, but we manage not to get in each other’s way. We enjoy ourselves, and we make a good team. So, my Travel Buddy, here’s to it all, and to what is yet to come!