Run DMZ

Directions seem so easy on paper. Or a smartphone app. Or a car’s navigation console. For as many times as our party of four had read the description for today’s hike, you’d think we would have gone the right way. Or at least recognized the wrong way at some point in the 3.5-mile journey. But no. That did not happen.  Ever since Deborah months ago read a blog post about a nice beach walk at San Onofre State Beach , we’d tried to schedule a Saturday morning trip. The problem was timing it with low tide and everyone's schedules. After three months of examining tide tables and calendars, today was the day. We drove about 45 minutes from our meeting spot in San Diego to the Basilone Road exit off the 5 North freeway and then worked our way first west and then south in the dark to an empty state park kiosk and parking lot. Along the way we passed a landmark every southern Californian recognizes: the decommissioned San Onofre Nuclear Generating Station, better known ...

Unexpected storm moving into Poway this past Monday. If there’s one thing that people in Southern California love to talk about, it’s “weather,” our colloquialism for anything other than sunshine and mild temps. And we’ve had plenty of it this winter, with annual rainfall well above average and night temps prompting frost advisories. No one complains after years of drought had good citizens holding off toilet flushes and replacing thirsty plants and grass. Almost every hike I’ve planned the past two months has been canceled due to rain or the serious threat of it. Before you roll your eyes and think “wimp,” please know that we locals stay off the trails out of respect for fragile areas. And rules. When it rains, most public trails officially close. Not to mention I have a hard enough time staying upright going down steep dirt hills without the additional stress of slick mud underfoot. This has left many a weekend free to guiltlessly nest inside, where it’s warm and dry....

I love the music of Kate Bush and Joan Armatrading . Both are longtime, UK-based artists – true, uncompromising, one-of-a-kind artists – whose careers greatly influenced my own. No, I can’t sing or play a musical instrument or carry a tune of any sort, but their lyrics and arrangements have inspired my own prose and poetry over the past 40-plus years. They dare to be different and both have been blessed with critical acclaim.  Here’s the thing, though: I can’t run or row to either of them. Other than Bush’s 1985 hit “ Running Up that Hill ,” I can’t maintain a nice rhythm while working out. It’s even harder with Armatrading’s music. Try as I might, I tend to mentally stop and ponder or instantly reconnect with an old memory whenever one of her songs is playing. The exception: “ Drop the Pilot .” Maybe this is why I’ve migrated in recent months from listening to music while exercising to podcasts, which require their own level of attention. Podcasts are very in, as y...

In the 332 books I’ve read and recorded on Goodreads since 2007, only twice have I given a book a 1 out of 5 stars. Usually, if a book is that bad, I just stop reading and move on. But on two occasions I felt compelled to offer a different point of view from the prevailing opinion. One was upon reading the best-selling  The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying  by Marie Kondo. I read the tiny book, took in the clothes-folding instructions and rolled my eyes at her personal story. I honestly thought the woman was a wee bit touched, what with talking to towels and crying over unkempt shampoo bottles. I also thought the KonMari Method was better suited for the smaller, minimalist homes of her native Japan than most larger U.S. dwellings. (Her book happened to hit about the same time as the tiny house movement and after we underwent a major downsizing .)   Then Kondo’s show hit Netflix this month and I decided to watch an episode. Which turned into five more b...

I am trying to remember the last time I went to BodyPump. It had to be about a year ago. Did I set up my equipment in my favorite spot? Or was I forced to the other side because that woman with auburn hair got there first? Was I wearing my favorite workout outfit? Or did I dress in the dark again and arrive with mismatched clothes? Did we have Amy as our instructor? Or was it that young woman who loved hard rock songs?  By the time my daughter convinced me to go to a group class, I’d been rowing and running at that gym for about four years. I’d always wanted to return to BodyPump after (gulp) 20 years. But I’d come to dislike crowded rooms and especially ones encased in glass walls so anyone could watch your workouts. I got over it and went. And I got hooked. Within minutes I was breathing heavy; within a few more sets, I was soaked in sweat. I only went to the Tuesday and Friday 5:30 a.m. sessions because of my work schedule. But I started to think of those days as...

Pip was supposed to go poop when she instead stared intently at some roadside brush. I tried to nudge her, but she wouldn’t budge. She saw something but didn’t move, which made me think it wasn’t a rat or a squirrel or a rabbit—the usual suspects she’ll chase. I hoped it wasn’t a rattlesnake. I hoped correctly. Staring back at us was an injured or ill owl that had made some metaphysical connection with our geriatric, gentle-souled dog. We were about 100 yards from our house, with a street crew not even noticing the large bird just sitting there. It had chosen its final resting spot well: If it hadn’t been for Pip, I wouldn’t have noticed either. By the time I got home and had tried to find someone to come get the ailing bird of prey (learning that the city no longer has an official animal control department), it was dark and she was gone. No feathers and no blood had me hoping she vanished on her own accord. Such wildlife encounters are common yet infrequent where I live. Sinc...

Kanab, Utah is a busy place for a tiny town. Resting on the border with Arizona, it’s a convenient place to fuel up and wind down in between day trips throughout remote southern Utah and northern Arizona.  Except Sundays. Most of downtown closes up for the sabbath, and I’m assuming special dispensation is given to those who must work at one of the few hotels or restaurants that cater to us non-Mormons. We were warned the place shuts down on Sundays, but fortunately for us we found a restaurant that not only was open, but served caffeinated beverages (and even alcohol!). Hallelujah. I’m not going to kid you: Living in a multicultural, big city, I wasn’t accustomed to the homogeneity. Not only was everyone white and blond, but most eateries had huge tables filled with sister wives managing a large brood. We were in polygamy country, but we also were surrounded by some of the most beautiful landscape I’d ever seen. The only non-white, non-blond employee I ever...