Run DMZ

I Leave You With This

2025-12-15T12:41:00.000-08:00

There's this social media post some guy put up on Instagram. I almost scrolled past it, but I'm glad I didn't. It asked what question we should ask ourselves when we die. In retrospect, ChatGPT's response was basically pulling from Eastern philosophy, but, still, I couldn't stop thinking about it in the hours and days since I first heard it.

Here's a partial transcript I cribbed using -- what else? -- AI. Some guy set up the prompt, which was long and convoluted. The following picks it up from there.

Some guy: I'm assuming most people would ask, 'Where am I going? What's next?' Something like that. Is that a good question?

ChatGPT: No, because they don't matter.

Some guy: Why don't they matter?

ChatGPT: If there's a heaven or hell or some next phase, you're likely already heading there. Asking won't change your destination. It's a wasted question.

Some guy: That's a good point. Um, what about 'Did I do enough?'

ChatGPT: You also shouldn't ask, 'Did I do enough?' Because once this life ends, regardless of beliefs, there's no more doing, no more trying, you're left with the truth you already lived.

Some guy: Okay, so what do you think is the best question to ask if you only had to ask one? Or you only could ask one?

ChatGPT: You should ask, 'Did I see it?'

Some guy: Why is that the question?

ChatGPT: Did I see the sunrise I rushed past? Did I feel the love standing right in front of me? Did I notice the beauty in the days I labeled boring? Did I see any of it?

Some guy: Why does seeing my life matter more than anything else I could have asked?

ChatGPT: Once you die, the only thing left is awareness. Not fixing, not changing, just knowing. And the truth you'd want most is whether you were ever awake for the life you spent so much time surviving. That's why that's the question.

Like so many others, I've been in survival mode for so long that I am no longer familiar with any other state. We're surviving a nation in chaos. We're surviving an affordability crisis, gaping economic inequities, significant slights, and societal cruelties on a scale none of us saw coming. We're surviving widespread use of the products of soul-less tech barons who've manipulated us all. Not to mention the largess being stolen as we all bitch but do nothing. We're surviving family members and friendships lost to diseases of aging or despair, and more than a few derangement syndromes. And, we're finally reckoning with a growing reliance on products we now know are bad for us.

Instead of just surviving, let's pause on the panic and truly see life, appreciate it, experience it fully while we are still alive. See as much importance in witnessing a specific moment of beauty or truth as we do participating in a big event. Stay truly present and observant instead of charging through another day. And may you discover the joy in the little things that actually make up a life.

Wordless Wednesday

2025-11-19T13:17:00.000-08:00

Tell Me More! Tell Me More!

2025-11-08T13:35:00.000-08:00

Dear ChatGPT: How would you characterize Run DMZ, the running blog based in San Diego?

Run DMZ was one of the pioneering running blogs of the 2000s, especially within the "citizen journalist" scene for endurance sports. It's often overlooked today, but it played a real role in the grassroots online running community.

Overview

Run DMZ (a play on Demilitarized Zone and "Running in San Diego" was a personal yet community-focused blog covering the San Diego running scene -- races, training groups, charity events, and local profiles. It stood out because it wasn't just a training diary; it was journalistic.

Anne's tone blended personal running experiences with race coverage, photography, and stories about everyday runners years before local running media became common online.

Why It Mattered

Early regional focus: One of the first running blogs to act as a local community hub, spotlighting races, clubs, and personalities.
Balanced voice: Not purely about the author's running; it chronicled the culture of running in Southern California.
Pre-social community building: Before Facebook groups or Strava clubs, Run DMZ connected runners in real life through blog comments and link exchanges.
Recognition: It was often linked or referenced by the Complete Running Network, which cataloged the top running blogs in the 2000s.

It inspired other local running bloggers (especially in the U.S. and Canada) to blend the personal storytelling with community reporting.

A Dead Reckoning

2025-11-02T16:15:00.000-08:00

I stopped contributing to this blog once I realized Google had abandoned the platform, opening the door (not even a back one) to bad actors with malicious intent and forcing the few of us left to give up the ghost. I even took it offline until the other month when I had a change of heart.

I could move to Substack or whatever the cool kids are using these days. But why start from scratch when I can just pile on more posts to 20 years' worth of memories. Admittedly, I felt a little lost without my personal parcel on the internet.

I'm also a wee bit worried about becoming another casualty of artificial intelligence. Not just the job loss, which will happen. I'm talking about its threat to humanity. One of the ways it initially insinuates itself into our society is through de-skilling. A doctor that relies exclusively on an algorithm's clinical diagnosis risks no longer recognizing diseases or disorders (or AI hallucinations!) using their own hard-earned training. A teacher who decides to offload lesson plans to ChatGPT may find over time they lecture with less vigor and fail to engage future generations to think critically. And don't get me started on the bots influencing everyday decisions.

I don't want to lose my writing skills, weak as they may currently be. So today, on my second favorite holiday, I'm bringing this blog back from the dead.

Now, that's the spirit

It wasn't until I moved to San Diego decades ago that I became interested in Dia de los Muertos, or Day of the Dead. Such celebrations date back several millenia to ancient Aztecs and Nahua people who created annual rituals, later merged with Catholic traditions, to remind us that the dead remain an integral part of living.

These days, there are festival-like celebrations sprinkled throughout the county, but we always head to Old Town, the birthplace of what is now California, because they pull out all the stops and because it just feels a tad more authentic. There's ballet folklorica dancers, catrina dolls, a community offrenda and other memorials. Of course, there's also face painting, cervezas, food vendors, and souveniers, not to mention a candlight procession that always brings tears. Somehow in all the kitcsh, a visitor never loses sight of the reason for gathering.

My own mental offrenda is running out of shelf space. So many family and friends are gone now. Most left due to natural causes, but not all. You think someone important to you will always be in your thoughts, but time has a way of thinning out the void reminders.

The last two years, we've brought our grandsons, now 4 and 6, to Old Town's festival. They love decorating sugar skulls and correcting my enunciation of "papel picador." This year, they decorated wooden butterflies dedicated to their Aunt Julie, who passed over the summer at age 31. The circumstances behind her death still make my blood boil. It shouldn't have happened, but it did.

The Monarch butterflies' migration in Mexico coincides with the holiday, and as such, the butterfly has come to represent the souls of the deceased visiting their survivors. When done decorating their wooden butterflies, people hang them in a memorial garden. I asked my grandsons where they'd liked to hang their tributes. They both said they'd like to bring them home for the next time Julie visits.

Turns out my grandsons understood something about Día de los Muertos that took me decades to learn: the dead don't visit on our schedule. They're already here, just waiting for us to notice.

Wordless Wednesday Returns ... with Words

2025-10-29T16:24:00.000-07:00

Wordless Wednesday

2024-08-21T05:14:00.000-07:00

Wordless Wednesday

2024-08-07T11:04:00.000-07:00

A Hard Lesson from Tragedy on Half Dome

2024-07-26T14:12:00.000-07:00

I haven't been able to get the tragic tale of a young woman and her father out of my mind. In case you missed it, the pair of experienced hikers summited Half Dome in Yosemite just as a rogue storm approached. They immediately began the descent, which is nerve-wracking on its own, when the skies opened and turned the "trail" of slate from dangerous to deadly.

The young woman, who was studying to become a teacher at Arizona State, was wearing new boots that lost traction. She slipped beyond the cables and plunged 200 to 300 feet, dying of a head fracture. These types of incidents, still uncommon, are unfortunately appearing in news feeds more frequently as hiking enjoys a moment. Last year a group of Half Dome hikers were trapped during a lightning storm that struck one of the hikers sheltering in a rock cave. Others barely made it down during the deluge.

The thing that struck me with the most recent fatality is the role of trail congestion. The Arizona woman's father noted that they tried to descend as quickly as possible and were hit with a wall of earlier hikers either paralyzed with fear or taking too long to move, thereby jeopardizing everyone above them.

This is why Half Dome requires a permit: to prevent pileups during emergencies like this. It takes an average of 10 to 12 hours to complete the 16-mile trail, and this warning from the National Park Service should alert anyone with height issues or inexperience that Half Dome is not for them. Three hundred hikers daily during the months when cables are up is a lot. If it takes all day to do it, people are going to start and end around the same time. This means slower hikers will be mixed in with faster ones, which forces the more cautious (or struggling) climbers to either create bottlenecks or push quicker people to take risks to maneuver around them.

That poor father is going to relive that moment for the rest of his life and always wonder: What if the people below us were not so slow?

When I was hiking some dicey spots in northern Arizona and southern Utah years ago, my friend would remind me to make the leap (literally). "Trust the boot," she'd tell me. That college kid from Arizona trusted her boots too, despite never having tested them under the circumstances she faced.

Maybe we shouldn't put so much faith in our footwear, or gear, or abilities on any given day. You can demonstrate grit and grace without putting other people in danger the moment things take a dramatic turn. You can prepare for all kinds of challenges during your training yet fail to see the biggest one you may face: others following in your footsteps, or you in theirs, who don't respond appropriately to a threat and end up endangering all.

Photo of Half Dome during a family vacation to Yosemite 20+ years ago.

(Mostly) Wordless Wednesday

2024-07-17T06:00:00.000-07:00

The Vista Fire on Mount Baldy last week, just hours after it erupted. As of today, it's about 50% contained and all nearby trails remain closed. The West is having quite a hard time with wildfires this summer.

Wordless Wednesday

2024-07-10T06:40:00.000-07:00

'An Ounce Becomes a Pound, and a Pound Equals Pain'

2024-07-01T15:52:00.000-07:00

Since 1919, one of southern California's most-posh-yet-most-primitive vacation spots has belonged to the Wrigley family (of chewing gum and baseball fame). The land today is dominated by the Catalina Island Conservancy, which controls 88% of the island to ensure it's never overrun by developers. This past weekend, I got to explore a portion of the primitive part with an REI-sponsored group backpacking trip from Two Harbors to Parsons Landing and back.

Training versus the actual trip

My friend Mary and I began to train in earnest in early spring, when temperatures on trails were ideal in San Diego. Even into May and June, we typically had thick clouds to shield us from the enervating effects of full sun. This made it difficult to prepare for what the weather actually was over last weekend: hot and sunny.

We knew we'd be carrying heavy packs, and in the last two months we weighed down our packs to 32 (me) and 38 (Mary) pounds of water and gear for our 5- to 6-mile treks. The most difficult hike was a 6.6-mile hike to Eagle Rock via the PCT in Warner Springs, where it was already toasty when we started and hillier than anticipated. In hindsight, we should have done more trips like that one to prepare for what was to come.

Unexpectedly high temps is one thing, but in the days leading up to the trip, apprehensions ramped up after a 50-year-old woman hiking a popular trail near me with 100 others somehow got lost and ran out of water. Her body was found a quarter mile from civilization the following morning. I added more water, emergency supplies, electronics, and food to my final pack, which, when combined with borrowed and group gear added another 10 pounds to what I'd practiced with.

Before we began our 7.7 miles to Parsons Landing, a seasoned guide told us he could look in any of our packs and find items we don't need. Remembering his Boy Scout days, he told us: "An ounce becomes a pound, and a pound equals pain."

'This is flat?!'

The trip was billed as great for beginners because of the distance, elevation, and trail conditions. Maybe if you backpack a lot. Though not a beginner per se, I'd rate the course moderate. There were hills bookending steady inclines or declines with plenty of gorgeous views throughout the journey. We spent most of the time (after the first short 'n' steep climb) on a fire road that hugged the coves and coastline, including a scenic lunch break at Lion's Head, location of the only restroom on the trail.

Everyone was feeling more confident with their pack weights and in good spirits. We periodically stopped at points of interest and watched all the partygoers on yachts below. The sunshine cast the waters in a gorgeous teal blue. We searched for foxes and bison, though we already knew there was a fence to prevent them from getting too close to the dirt road. Still, there were warning signs letting us know to stay away from these beasts, especially if they start huffing and stomping in our direction.

Almost 6 miles in, I developed a big blister on the bottom of one foot and a hot spot on the other. I was by then at the back of the pack, the blister pain forcing me to slow my pace. Another woman also had foot issues, so we stopped with one of the guides on the side of the trail to apply some moleskin, only to realize I picked a place with a bunch of burrs. They clung to my wool socks, got all in my hiking boots and pierced my behind in numerous spots. I took the distraction in stride because I knew we had a hill to get up and over on our way to the Parsons Landing campsite.

Camping on an isolated beach

My favorite part of the weekend was cresting a short-but-steep single track of mostly ruts and rocks to find a field of wild fennel that kept us from noticing how dicey this section was. Poles would have certainly helped, but mine were packed away. I figured I could do this, forgetting what gravity also can do when you're carrying 40 pounds on your back and hips. It was comical to watch me try to stand upright after a misstep, but I also didn't care because no one was behind me.

Parsons Landing lived up to its billing. There are eight campsites with a picnic table at each. For $20 you can reserve 2 gallons of bottled water (because there is no potable water for miles) and wood to start a fire. I pitched my tent on the outer edge of our campsite, with my tent opening away from the others. It was set up in a way recommended by our guide to prevent the tent from falling over with stiff winds (which it did anyway when I left to use the compost toilets up a hill). The downside of this arrangement was clear once it was bedtime: All night I constantly slid to the lower end with all my stuff because of the angle and lack of traction between my sleeping pad and sleeping bag. I didn't mind though because I had a visit from a fox just after nightfall and that kept me awake for quite a while.

The ocean offered its version of a lullaby as I drifted into dreamland, cozy in my tent as temperatures dropped dramatically. At some point, the wind and the waves died down and a light fog rolled in. That explained advice to expect everything to be damp once morning arrived. I woke around 4 a.m and walked out of my tent to take it all in. A pelican stood vigil on a rock along the coastline. The fog encased everything in a cosmic light. I stood there, just soaking in the solitude and soothing imagery until I saw my tent being invaded by sand weevils I didn't want to bring back home to San Diego. (A few hours later, I also saw a scorpion among the weevils, so I made the right call.)

A couple of hours later, we were all finishing up our oatmeal and packing up for the long haul back. The hills were still as steep; the day's heat, even stronger. But a bond had formed, one sealed with silent acknowledgement. We knew everyone (even one of the guides) was experiencing advanced levels of ache from accomplishing something far more strenuous than first imagined. If we learned anything on this sojourn, it's to always remember an ounce becomes a pound, and a pound equals pain.

Me (forgetting to uncinch by hip belt!) and my good friend Mary near the start and at the end, waiting for the ferry at Two Harbors.

Wordless Wednesday

2024-06-19T10:59:00.000-07:00

Instagram Wisdom on Life's Luxuries

2024-06-18T08:00:00.000-07:00

I'm always amazed at how many social media influencers warn us to stay off social media most of the time. It's great advice, but I doubt these people follow it. Afterall, this is, like, their job, isn't it?

Every once in a while, though, something pops up in the endless feed that does resonate with me. The following hit hard this morning as I complete the final week of backpack training and console myself in the passing of another dear old friend who was once the image of health and verve, until he wasn't.

I'm not sure if this actually comes from the mind of @jadebonacolta or she just didn't bother to use attribution, but here's a gem that reflects what all of us of a certain age know is true.

6 luxuries in life:
time
health
a quiet mind
slow mornings
ability to travel
a house full of love

(Mostly) Wordless Wednesday

2024-06-12T05:30:00.000-07:00

To be able to sleep in and get in a long hike before life kicks into a higher gear is a true blessing. So many people were out and about last weekend, perhaps because trails were closed the three days prior due to tree treatments. Will be back here tomorrow (Thursday) with friends as the big backpacking trip approaches.

(Mostly) Wordless Wednesday

2024-06-05T06:00:00.000-07:00

I almost turned around early on the trail last Saturday, a bit creeped out by the lack of others despite ideal hiking conditions. I'm glad I didn't because I would have missed the field of yerba mansa in bloom about a mile from the Los Penasquitos "waterfall" on the South Trail.

(Mostly) Wordless Wednesday

2024-05-29T06:45:00.000-07:00

Thought it might be nice to resurrect Wordless Wednesday for the season. This is Eagle Rock, which we accessed yesterday via the Pacific Coast Trail in Warner Springs. The 6.5-mile hike had its challenges, from territorial cows and bulls to a snake in the middle of the trail. It heated up to high 70s, but that was a good thing for me and my heavy backpack.

The Joy of the Middle

2024-05-22T11:39:00.000-07:00

The beginning and ending tend to be what gets remembered most. We can recall the excitement and enthusiasm starting a new project, partnership, romance, home, family, or friendship. We also vividly remember how all of these end, whether naturally or suddenly.

This robs us of the portion that really matters, where the mundane resides but without which progress comes to a halt. I'm talking about the middle, that part of a plan, relationship, or life where we actually devote the bulk of our time. It tends to muddle together because it doesn't leave quite the impression of the beginning and the end, what is known as the primacy effect.

That's why so much emphasis is placed on first impressions and final departures. But the middle is where we make our imprint, whether living up to a promise or proving people wrong. It's everything in the middle that determines how we are seen and remembered when it's lights out.

Right now I'm in the middle of my backpack training. Like my marathon training years, I am feeling that first peak -- where the mind and body are aligned and early aches and pains are no longer worrisome. Where the finish line is not just possible but probable.

I'm also in another middle -- trying to enjoy the remaining time we're living in San Diego before retirement propels us far north. I can still enjoy my container gardens and not worry about what will happen to them once we move on. Rooms are enjoyed as is, not scrutinized for what must go before the movers show up. Weekends are all about family and friends, not do-do lists with definitive end dates.

Our teen is in the middle of high school, inching toward adulthood (legally, at least) without the real need to have a plan for what's next. My grandsons are still middling through preschool, not subject to peer pressure or teachers' timetables for 12 years.

I love the middle. Always have. In high school, it wasn't my freshman or senior years but sophomore and junior ones that proved pivotal to my future. I found my future career, even if by defying my classmates and teachers. I found my future husband. I was happy having less pressure to perform well. My freshman year in college, I floundered; my senior year, I panicked. In between, I found lifelong friends and part-time jobs that let me graduate on time and with manageable student debt.

Until San Diego, I moved every two to four years for my entire life. And when we settled down, I moved houses every two to five years until our current place, where we would have moved years ago had life circumstances not changed dramatically.

Back to that backpack training. I'm now able to walk 3-5 miles with a 20-25-pound pack and will soon bump it up to 30 pounds and 6 miles and call it complete. My initial hike was just under 2 miles and left me sore for days. On Sunday, I went twice as long and had energy to spare.

I know peaking when I experience it, and I know the key now is to gently nudge up numbers without rattling my musculature or taking a tumble that costs more than momentum. Just yesterday I suffered a freak accident where the fridge door slammed into my foot and left quite the raised bruise. Fortunately, I'd already planned a break due to travel.

The middle is where the magic happens. It's the heart of a story, where characters evolve and plots thicken. It's the sweet spot in a journey, where the thrill of the unknown mingles with the comfort of familiarity. It's where ideas spark during conversations and true connections are made. So let's all embrace the middle and appreciate the depth and beauty that lies between a beginning and ending.

Photo of a lake during the middle of a training hike within the Grasslands Reserve in Ramona.

From One House to Another

2024-05-01T12:15:00.000-07:00

I never considered how Bandelier National Monument got its name until a week after I'd left the abandoned cliff dwellings, the time-defying petroglyphs, the impressively preserved ruins, and one harrowing climb to an ancient housing complex that I wisely sat out.

Despite these New Mexico lands serving as home to ancestral Pueblo people for millennia, once the cliffs and canyons joined the U.S. parks system, government officials chose to honor Adolf Bandelier, a Swiss immigrant and self-taught archeologist who studied this region and played a role in its establishment as a national monument to preserve the sites. That was in 1916 after the place had been vacated some 400 years prior by the indigenous populations that made a decent life out of honoring the elements surrounding them.

A brochure you receive at the gate includes a message from the Affiliated Pueblo Committee:

Spiritually, our ancestors still live here at Bandelier. You see reminders of their presence here--their homes, their kivas, and their petroglyphs. As you walk in their footsteps, value the earth beneath you and show everything the same respect we do when we re-visit this sacred place.

We walked about four miles in those ancestral footsteps, mostly along a concrete-turned-dirt footpath that did not exist then but now allows more than the able-bodied to enjoy the sandstone spires and remains of an entire civilization that used ingenuity and natural resources to build community.

The main loop will take you to the Long House, an 800-foot stretch of what constituted condo living back in the day. It's really a marvel to witness and accessible compared to the other big attraction another half-mile away: Alcove House. To see the viga holes and niches of 25 ancestral homes, you must climb 140 feet straight up. There's a warning sign that those with health problems or a fear of heights should go no further. I knew I could get up to the caves, but I couldn't risk vertigo striking while coming down. So I watched my two friends and all who followed them (which, based on my calculations, was only 35% of those who passed me waiting on a log). As one woman my age who changed her mind told me on her way back, "With age, comes wisdom."

After stopping in the gift shop, we decided on lunch in White Rock, the only town of significance along our route and only because it houses many of the people who work at nearby Los Alamos National Labs. It is lost on no one that land still serving as a spiritual center is just miles from the birthplace of the atomic bomb.

If Bandelier offered peace and quiet, our next stop did the opposite. We pre-purchased tickets for Meow Wolf, a funky art installation that made me grateful I don't drink or do drugs because otherwise I might still be trying to find my way out.

Located on the outskirts of Santa Fe proper, this Meow Wolf (there are others in Texas, Denver and, of course, Las Vegas) has a permanent exhibit called House of Eternal Return in which nothing is as it seems and every nook, cranny and secret doorway leads you into labyrinthine hallways and corridors with kaleidoscopic hues. With the threshold between imagination and tangible art on display, wanderers are plunged into the otherworldly creativity that is, quite frankly, hard for me to describe at the moment.

There's a riddle to solve in the main section of the house itself, but I was already through the fridge and into a space ship before I could comprehend what was happening.

Meow Wolf was fun in its purest sense. And maybe a little too crowded. We'd just be getting into the blinking eyes staring down at us as we lie flat on the carpeted floor of a hut when kids came in to disturb the peace. Some staircases were quite narrow; soon as we'd start to descend, some teen would decide to come up. This also was a social media influencer's dream, and more than once we waited for our shot, only to have it ruined by a group that didn't honor an unspoken code of etiquette.

But I don't want to leave the impression this place was anything but playful. And two hours was all that's needed to go through every crevice and enjoy every inch of artistic wonder. I think the ancestors of the hallowed grounds we'd walked along earlier would have approved of this place. Not the behavior of the crowds, of course. Not the collision of spiritualism and commerce. But the embrace of human ingenuity that comes from being immersed in both the starkness of the past and visual excess of today.

Take Me to Church

2024-04-27T10:55:00.000-07:00

It is impossible to take in Santa Fe and not witness myriad manifestations of spirituality. It's in the historically significant churches anchoring a public square. The sacred grounds of nearby reservations and pueblos. It's in the art and jewelry showcased in galleries, outposts, and sidewalk sales. The preparation of Christmas enchiladas and heated discussion of what "spiritual but not religious" really means over lunch at the Plaza Cafe.

Rarely has a girls' getaway been so in-your-face about its underlying intention. Less than a week later, I'm still unsure how I feel about everything after experiencing so much mysticism during three days in New Mexico.

Spring awakening

Spring arrived just as we did, from bursts of lemongrass-colored tree buds lining walkways to a white and pink blossoms spilling over brown adobe fences meant to contain them. The high desert sun shone intensely except for one brief April shower that bode well for early May blooms waiting their turn to dazzle.

My travel mates from New England soaked in the warmth and lunar landscape of the American Southwest. I wasn't as enrapture by high desert highlights, especially given it hit 86 on the day I wore winter clothes and settled back to low to mid-60s soon as I switched to lighter spring wear. Still, I could appreciate the lack of daily disruptions and the thick glass standing between me and an anxious reptile at a kitschy rattlesnake museum in Old Town Albuquerque. I wolfed down New Mexican cuisine (It's all in the green chiles, I'm told.) and enjoyed a chance encounter at the George R.R. Martin bookstore.

I did things I expected (ogling art exhibits, spending too much on souvenirs) and some I didn't (praying over my symbolic ribbon knot for Mother Mary to help me untie, crying in the relaxation room of a fancy spa).

Feeling better ... and worse

I came home carrying the germs of a raging cold and work deadlines that didn't care if I was sick. My body was sore for days from a therapeutic massage that smoothed out seven years' worth of painful adhesions. My mind was still a mess, which is saying something given all the reminders that there's a higher power ready to assist.

I felt an ethereal presence in the ancient caves we accessed on wooden stairs, dwellings that once housed thriving communities predating European settlements; the brushstrokes of genius in a Georgia O'Keeffe painting; the ingenuity of a funky art installation that had me traveling through a refrigerator and stuck in the fireplace for a hot minute. It was in the fine dining experiences I wasn't sure I deserved and in the grace of robe-wrapped strangers who let me fall apart in that zen-dominant spa.

Maybe if I hadn't come home with such a bad head cold that persists to this day, I might be offering a few more Amens for all that Santa Fe offered. Instead, at least for now, all I can summon is a succession of Achoos.

Coming up: more trip details, once the clouds in my head and congestion in my chest clears.

Photos from The Cathedral Basilica of Saint Francis of Assisi, the mother church of The Archdiocese of Santa Fe.

Next Time You Need to Vent, Don't Try to Outrun It

2024-04-09T14:07:00.000-07:00

I read a lot of studies in my line of work, and every once in awhile something's published that makes me stand up and take notice. This week it's a piece in Scientific American that looked at more than 150 other studies to conclude that "jogging" and cycling while angry or stressed actually makes you feel worse, not better.

The researchers cite the physiological responses that show elevated, rather than reduced, aggression in people after rigorous or repetitive exercise. "Some activities people use to manage their anger amp up arousal and increase anger and aggression levels. Jogging, a popular stress-relief activity, actually increased anger in the studies we looked at. The repetitive nature of jogging may induce feelings of monotony and frustration, potentially exacerbating anger rather than alleviating it," researchers wrote.

Reading further, the meta-analysis essentially contradicts what we've long been told: Take out your anger through physical activity, vent that way. "This research helps dispel the myth that it is good to blow off steam and 'let it out' or 'get it off your chest.' Skip screaming into your pillow or pounding on a punching bag. Save your money rather than going to a rage room to break stuff with baseball bats. Such activities are not therepeutic."

So why did we think they were? And what are we to do instead? Breathe deep. Relax your muscles. Meditate. Do yoga.

I must note that the study does not mention walking or hiking or backpacking, though I suspect rowing would fall into the don't-do-while-angry category (though when I have, I've turned in amazing stats on the ERG). I'm thinking the lower impact and serene settings might factor into their exclusion.

This research was based on 154 studies involving more than 10,000 people total. The full writeup is behind a paywall, but the magazine piece distills the findings well. If you need to chill out, don't pick up the phone to vent to someone or pull on running shoes. And especially, don't vent to someone while on a run or bike. It may create more problems than it resolves.

Photo of how I chill out: Visiting the beach -- this one in Leucadia -- at low tide.

Fool for a New Challenge

2024-04-01T06:00:00.000-07:00

I did something Saturday morning that I haven't done in years: nothing. I spent five glorious hours sipping tea and watching HGTV in bed while a flash-flood-inducing storm blew through. I took advantage of a rare lull in my life to force my body and brain into rest mode.

I also did it because things are about to change for the next three months. I'm going to start training in earnest for a weekend backpacking trip on Catalina Island this summer.

I don't know how I found the REI excursion, but I do know sessions were sold out whenever I checked. This year, I bookmarked the page, so when it updated, I was there. That's how I secured the first spot for a group backpacking trip on June 29-30, 2024. Three friends soon signed up, but one withdrew due to a shoulder situation and her sister backed out too. It's down to me and my friend Mary.

I'm excited to have a new focal point to get out there when my body and mind want to be elsewhere. I'm also fortunate to live next to a preserve with plenty of convenient trail options. My plan is to head out with incrementally heavier packs one or two days per week. Before and after those days, I'll do strength training and build endurance. It's a traditional training schedule, but one that twice I failed to adhere to.

Climbing out of a giant hole and up to a lake in the clouds

I'm hoping, on this day devoted to fools, that I am not going to again be among them come summer. On my first backpacking trip to the Grand Canyon, I did everything wrong. I bought a too-small pack that got little use before the trip. Because two of the women in our group of five had done this twice before, I did very little homework on what to expect. I never practiced pitching a tent I carried with me all day. I never cooked with the camping gear that took up a lot of pack space. And, despite on-and-off heavy thunderstorms the entire time, we had no potable water to drink or flush toilets (when available).

The following year, I went with a friend to New Hampshire's White Mountains, with that other arduous trip still fresh. I invested in a bigger, better pack. We stayed in AMC huts, which certainly lightened the load. My mom had died a couple of months before the big date and I abandoned my training plan. However, I stuck to my commitment (I really needed to get away!) and was again ill-prepared for the rocky terrain and wild weather.

A week after I returned to San Diego, I learned my father had stage 4 lung cancer. Life took a hard turn, and here we are six years later. I'm ready to re-engineer the next 12 weeks to go on this new, easier-in-every-way backpacking adventure. It's shorter in time, kinder in elevation, and less ambitious than the past two trips. But, I'm also older, heavier and postmenopausal. I'm busier too, working full time, raising a disabled teenager, and enjoying grandparenthood and important friendships. It's a lot.

Something's been missing since I was forced to give up running, and I guess I am hoping this fills the void. Twice now I underestimated time commitments and overestimated my athleticism and outdoors know-how. Here's hoping third time's the charm.

Top Photo: Bright Angel Trail in the Grand Canyon (2015). Me and my friend Tracy at the Mt. Washington summit before we headed for hours (and hours) along a socked-in ridgeline to the Madison Springs AMC hut in the White Mountains (2016). Bottom: Typical conditions (lots of rain = lots of mud) on the South Kaibob Trail in the Grand Canyon (2015)

Mahalo Mahalo, Maui

2024-02-13T18:52:00.000-08:00

"Aloha" might be the most recognizable Hawaiian term, but on Maui, "Mahalo" is a close second. It lacks linguistic flexibility, meaning just one thing: Thank you. However, it is quite pliable in conveying a desired tone.

Come enjoy authentic Hawaiian shave ice. Mahalo.

Yes, our lines are long. Please be patient. Mahalo.

The restaurant kitchen's closing early tonight. Mahalo.

Our $1.50 (each) kiwi fruit are better. Mahalo.

Do not move the mat concealing a heating element inside your unit's oven or you may destroy the appliance. Mahalo!

I can think of no better word that reflects the four days recently spent exploring a paradise always on alert for potential disasters. Which pretty much sums up our trip, too.

Mahalo for those quiet, pre-dawn mornings I spent sipping hot tea on our balcony and watching locals setting up for another busy (hopefully profitable) day while pale-skinned tourists ran, walked, and cycled along S. Kihei Road because they hadn't adjusted to the time change. Then there was the family from the unit four doors down not doing a good job keeping the kids quiet as they loaded into their rented red Jeep around 5:30 a.m.

Mahalo to time-challenged roosters on the beach that behaved more like night owls, cockadoodledooing at all hours to remind visitors these feral chickens have command of this land. They were everywhere, and my Moana-obsessed grandsons, ages 2 and 4, named every one of them Heihei. They were particularly present at the Maui Brewing Company, where some of us were hand delivering french fries to fowl underfoot when we noticed a sign that read: Please do not feed the chickens. Mahalo!

A deeply felt mahalo to the kind surf, silky sand, and cooler temps on Kama'ole Beach III during our early morning family visits that ended up my favorite part of the trip. I was in heaven enjoying a relatively people-free beach, making sandcastles and moats, watching outriggers skimming the sea's surface, paddle boarders hard at play ... even sighting some migrating whales by tracking all of the whale watching boats with bare eyes. My daughter was stung by jellyfish and still ranked our beach mornings No. 1. So did my other daughter, who swam in the Pacific for the first time since high school.

Mahalo to us for beating the crowds and arriving by foot and double stroller at That Cinnamon Roll Place just after it opened at 6 a.m. And to that day's super tasty lunch from Coconut's Fish Cafe in the same strip mall. Oh, before I forget, to the high humidity that made my thinning hair look full again -- mahalo!

Mahalo to airy clouds and gorgeous sunsets but absolutely no rain, which we Californians really appreciate because, if you haven't heard, we've had a wet winter and now, in addition to wildfires and earthquakes, we all fear floods and landslides. Speaking of which, my son-in-law and I were on our balcony watching the waves when the four-story building shook and we instantly looked at each other and said without ever actually saying it: Earthquake! It was confirmed a few minutes later; 5.7 magnitude.

Mahalo to our tour guide Jackie at Surfing Goat Dairy, who didn't seem to notice my older grandson's temper tantrum in the fields on our way to feed a herd. I learned so much about these animals, like they have a pecking order and moms can produce a gallon of milk per hour. And mahalo to me for grabbing us a great table for our post-tour cheese and cracker snack that included more cheese than crackers, so we improvised with Animal Crackers.

A big, big mahalo to a moment in time when we were driving back from Kula and The Beatles' "Here Comes the Sun" came on the radio and all five of us (ages 2 to 62) wedged in that red Jeep softly sang along, with me thinking: This is perfection.

Mahalo to the Maui Ocean Center in Wailuka, which lived up to its ranking as a Top 10 Aquarium in the world. An extra mahalo to the whale that breached while we were on the lookout. I was so excited I forgot to order a Dole Whip from the nearby cafe like everyone else. And, a hat tip to the film crew that took three years to shoot an incredible 20-minute documentary on humpback whales that had me crying beneath my 3D glasses. And which my grandson told everyone that was a lot of fun, even though he and his mom left just before the IMAX movie started.

Mahalo to everyone at Mama's Fish House in Paia. It may have been too dark to see the beach just beyond our outdoor table, but the sound of crashing waves was good enough for me. So was my octopus appetizer and the curry dish entree cooked better than anything my mama ever made.

Mahalo to a great Super Bowl game that came down to overtime and, even if the 49ers -- clearly the favored team at beaches and bars here -- lost in the end, Brock Purdy redeemed anyone who was ever picked last. And Taylor Swift may have peaked in popularity based on all of the boos and hisses -- even among drunk Chiefs fans -- whenever she appeared on TVs at the Waikiki Brewing Company.

Mahalo to the couple I met on the Eddie Pu Trail who told me about a family of sea turtles just hanging out in waters below a lava outcropping that looked doable in my Keds. Well worth the tender feet the next day. And, even if we steered clear of Lahaina due to heavy traffic from well-intentioned tourists, there were signs everywhere that the island was rooting for the northwest coast's triumphant return.

I'm even going to throw a mahalo to the surly flight attendant who matched my mood on the first leg home. Even my daughter said the woman had something against me, and I'm assuming it had nothing to do with my grandson in the next seat screaming "I want more choc-o-late!" with a Spanish accent for 20 minutes.

And because I still have that post-vacation glow, I'm not going to mention that we could have avoided at least two of the seven or eight very public meltdowns that day alone if my daughter had let me buy two of everything as I suggested. She forgot I used to travel with her and her sister at this age and know how we all suffer when there's inequality.

Finally, mahalo, dear Maui, for helping me see into the future. My husband stayed behind, so I was the odd one out though no one ever made me feel that way. I had enough time alone when I wanted it, and plenty of togetherness too. I definitely preferred the together part, even if my role was to break up brother fights, apologize with my eyes to fellow passengers, and watch (over and over) the part in Moana where Maui sings "You're Welcome."

Everything Is Possible at 6 a.m.

2024-02-01T12:58:00.000-08:00

Whether you're still sleeping or been up for hours, everything feels doable at 6 in the morning. The hours ahead hold so much possibility. We're going to be productive. Well nourished. Well liked. Well dressed. Well mannered. Relief is coming to those who had a rough night. A reserve of energy is now available to those who didn't.

Then life hits. Emails and texts pour in from people that make you regret that extra cup of caffeine because your heart's racing and mind moving too rapidly. And it isn't even the official start to the day.

Kids won't get ready. Dogs won't poop while the ground's dry and skies clear. Significant others head out too soon or linger too long watching some lame ESPN show when there are dirty dishes still in the sink, school papers to be signed, outfits to inspect, and contingencies if the dog still won't go No. 2.

At 6 a.m., we've yet to break plans, promises, or hearts. We're still convinced the next 18 hours will unfold as predicted, or reveal answers to mysteries or miseries we hold close. That the vacation now right around the corner is not canceled, but maybe the Zoom call you've been dreading will be.

Plenty of people are still asleep at 6, their minds consumed with subconscious thoughts they may or may not remember upon waking. But larks like us are always up, even when we don't need to be. Weekdays at that hour I'm either helping get a teenager with absolutely no self-management skills to eat his breakfast, shower and brush his teeth thoroughly, put on clean clothes, and get to the school bus on time. Or, just as likely, I leave it to my husband to handle. "Gotta get in some exercise," I announce as I pull on running shoes to head out for a 3-mile walk before he can object.

Weekends I'm either meeting friends for a beach walk or inland hike, or I'm curled up on the couch with a steaming mug of tea to help soothe a soul sick of so much bad news. I like our local broadcasters, even the kooky ones on KUSI. I believe their weather reports, even when the chyron says its currently 56 degrees and my phone app shows otherwise. Nothing another layer won't fix.

For years, decades really, I finished a weekday run by 6 because I worked for an East Coast company. At that hour, I was at least 10k into a Sunday long run of which I rewarded myself with an entire morning reading newspapers in my pajamas. Lord, do I miss those days.

Now, I need to wait for the first flares of sunrise to signal my starting time, no longer confident in my ability to see, hear and respond to dangers in the dark. I need to fully take in the road ahead, keep ears and eyes pealed for the dens of coyotes highly active near dawn. Decide if today I will at least nod or weakly smile at the guy with a wonky gait who never does likewise when we pass each other on Black Mountain Road.

Today marks the midpoint between winter and spring, in case you didn't know. The proof is in the pink skies that greet us as we open the window blinds, maybe head out the door. The days are indeed getting longer, even if each dawn also reminds us our lives will soon be one day shorter so we must make the most of the hours we've got.

(Photo: View while descending a steep hill on yesterday's walk.)

Life Below the High Tide Line

2024-01-15T17:00:00.000-08:00

The king tides pummeling the cliffs of La Jolla Cove were the most impressive I'd witnessed in all my years living in San Diego. Of course, I usually head to the beach during the other end of the cycle: the extreme low tides that expose tidal pools filled with crabs, sea anemones, sea cucumbers, and lobster shells shed either naturally or by vicious currents.

But that morning, with everything bathed in a celestial blue thanks to an impenetrable marine layer, we watched serious swells march toward the sandy beaches of La Jolla Shores. Closer to us, an inlet filled repeatedly with frothy waters while a gulp of cormorants (yes, I had to look that up) bore witness to the sea's incessant violence from a safe distance. There must have been hundreds of the black birds blending in with the dark, wet stone and dim light. Pelicans settled in on another cliff, recovering from their aborted flights in gale-force winds. They flew so close we could make out the veins in their webbed feet, feel the woosh of wing flaps.

We moved along a small promenade and saw a stand of photographers, their expensive cameras secured to tripods sheltered by an outbuilding and pair of Monterrey cypresses. They were focused on the birds but as we drew closer to a guard-railed edge, I saw dozens of sea lions being tossed around in the harsh surf, bobbing up and down between surges that pushed them onto rocks. Were they panicked or playing? It was hard to tell. They always carry an amusing expression as they sway to and fro like Stevie Wonder or Ray Charles playing a piano. They had nowhere else to go, so this is how they ride it out, I supposed.

I knew it was pupping season because the beaches were currently closed. Were the babies safe? Were those their mothers situated higher than the surf, providing their offspring protection as waves crashed closer? Ordinarily, these sea lions occupy a manmade inlet known as Children's Pool. It was built by one of the city's major benefactors and philanthropists, Ellen Browning Scripps, to provide a safe harbor for children to learn to swim. But the calmer waters also drew the sea lions, who quickly claimed the cove as their own.

The locals don't like the stench and noise the sea lions make, living as they do out in the open. Not to mention the bad press when out-of-towners interfere with mating season. But what kept me fixated on those sea lions was the danger in the air -- for them, not us. Clearly older bulls and cows, as they are technically called, have been through worse. But not the pups. I said a small prayer that all would remain well as we moved up the coast to Wind 'n Sea, which lived up to its name that day.

I felt fortunate to watch this natural event unfold as we walked with our windbreaker hoods tied tight. It was a weekday morning, so the crowds were sparse. Everyone held out their camera to record such a social-media-friendly scene. A trio of young, underdressed runners moved past us. My friend looked at me. "That would have been you," she said with a smile.

At one point we could hear the churning seas smash against something in a storm drain, then looked up to see unsuspecting bystanders doused in saltwater when a wave breached a barrier. One victim walking his dog at just the wrong moment told us: "I always tell people this is my church. Today, I got my baptism."

We eventually turned inland in search of Harry's Diner for breakfast. We were a few blocks from the destination, with the three of us deep in conversation, when we came upon a homeless man decamping on a narrow sidewalk. He looked weathered and angry. With the world and with us. He unleashed a torrent of threats liberally peppered with expletives. We shut up and quickened our pace, avoiding eye contact. One of us turned back once or twice to see how far he might follow us. Was he defending his turf, as temporary as it may be? Convinced we meant him harm? He appeared mentally unwell, which made him highly unpredictable.

We made it to Harry's without further incident and returned to a calmer cove to head home. The gulls, pelicans, and cormorants had segregated themselves among the cliffs as they waited for high tide to recede.

The sun was now out. So were the sea lions looking like their usual unflappable selves, the earlier crisis already forgotten. We took one more look at the other popular inlet and saw an older, lanky woman in a Speedo carrying fins as she descended stairs. Even the boldest of surfers had heeded official warnings to stay out of the dangerous surf. But apparently not this woman. Some might call her fully committed or foolish for engaging in such risky behavior. But after everything I'd witnessed in the past few hours, I think she had the confidence of those sea lions combined with a similar insanity embodied in that homeless man. Like him, she was going to do as she damned well pleased in public and no one was going to stop her. Not us. Not nature. Not today.

Less in the Coming Year

2023-12-20T08:13:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I wonder if we establish New Year's resolutions now because of how hard winter holidays hit. The angst of family gatherings. The aching reminders of those we've loss. The accumulation of gifts in need of a place to go. The scale that doesn't budge (at best) due to the uptick in treats. The end-of-year work assignments weighing on us. The exercise routines uprooted by inclement weather or injury.

Even under the best of circumstances, something always feels off right about now.

That's why in 2024, I'm committing to less.

Less junk work that dilutes quality. Less negative thoughts. Less mindless scrolling. Less yelling. Less sugar contributing to inflammation. Less carbs that make me crabby. Less caffeine that impacts sleep. Less trips to the store because I'm bored. Less guilt saying "No." Less talking. Less sitting. Less bad TV. Less social media.

For me, this has less to do with consumption and more with capacity. I don't want to quantify success with preset goals tracked on calendars or diaries and logs. I just want to be more intentional with my time. (And, if I were attempting such accountability, technically my Word of the Year would be fewer, not less.)

Looking back on this year's word, preserve, I did well. My skin, teeth and hair are in much better shape. My organs, relatively speaking, are as well. My house has benefited from seasonal deep cleans. My stuff is more organized. I went on more outings with friends. I held tight to the rules of engagement with certain family members. I kept our finances flush despite a decent drop in income. My patio garden is thriving. My freelance career too.

Now I want to declutter ... everywhere. Speak less. Eat less. Do less. Only then can I make room for other endeavors, like the books I've yet to read and the one I need to finish writing. I want to respond more quickly to a friend in need. I want to initiate calls to my sisters, rather than routinely ignore theirs that always come at a bad time. I want to witness glorious sunrises and sunsets (like the one in the photo above) that bookend fulfilling, not frenzied days. I want to make more meals with love. Handwrite more notes of appreciation.

There may be less entries here too. It all depends on the direction my year of less takes. Stay tuned, everyone, there's more to come.