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The journal is a place to decant the stuff of life; reassuringly, none of it is wasted. It remains fresh, still tasting of its source. Transferring experience from the vat of life into the vessel of the journal is a distillation: it sieves, concentrates, and ferments.
- H. Hinchman
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 In what would mark the end of my five year football career, a trip to Tennessee in 1978 remains one of my more cherished memories. Aboard a bus with my teammates, coaches and cheerleaders, we headed from the nation’s capital to a quaint little town that had not yet been over-commercialized. Gatlinburg made quite an impression upon a young suburbanite like me. I was in awe of the Smoky Mountains, and over a three day period, I was immersed for the first time in deep southern culture.
We came for a three game tournament and our team easily won the first two. Then in the championship, we were matched against a team from DeKalb, Georgia whose players were age-restricted, not weight-restricted like us. We held off their significant size advantage into double overtime. It was a grueling match, draining every ounce of energy from both teams.
Thirty three years later, when reflecting upon this experience, it’s just these memories that remain clear…
Eating chocolate chip pancakes and being called ‘honey’ by a waitress for the first time.
Cozying up to a cheerleader on the way home, then asking her to prom.
Standing exhausted in the end zone watching a team from Georgia celebrate a championship that was in our grasp.
Time is the enemy of our memories. But it also weeds the garden - leaving just the essentials. I cannot remember what I had to drink with my pancakes or what the cheerleader was wearing on our bus ride home. I cannot even remember the names of half of my teammates when looking back at pictures. Nonetheless, the memory of my trip to Tennessee in 1978 remains a treasured one, despite the lack of clarity.
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 At the car rental counter yesterday, I was thinking I pity the young guy in tie that’s about to rent me an SUV. Little does he know I’m taking it up one of the more challenging roads in southern California: Nate Harrison Grade. It’s a seven mile switch-backing, unpaved and rutted driving challenge that draws odd thrill seekers like me. A local writer referred to a trip up The Grade as a “poor man’s National Geographic expedition”. I concocted this little adventure after viewing some interesting YouTubes. Though it’s not for the faint of heart, I found evidence that a non-SUV can possibly make the climb under good conditions. Unfortunately, I wasn’t blessed with good conditions. On the day before my ascent, eight inches of snow fell at elevations above 4,000 feet; and Nate Harrison Grade doesn’t end for another 1,500 feet above the snow line.
I began my ascent knowing full-well I may not make it. But I also knew experiencing part of The Grade was better than none at all, especially since I’d flown across country to get here. For the first five miles, below the snow line, the conditions cooperated. I made slow and steady progress up the mountain, stopping frequently to take in the stunning and ever-improving views. The switchbacks were unrelenting and even comical in tightness at times, but the rented SUV performed flawlessly. At the first hint of snow though, bedazzlement was replaced by caution. Snow, mud, rapidly deteriorating traction, and visions of roll-overs infiltrated the adventure. A bit further on, I made the tough decision. Enough was enough even though the top was in sight.
On my way back down, my decision was affirmed. A guy in a more substantial SUV had also turned around where I did. Though I struggled with the decision, I’m certain it was the right one.
Incomplete as it was, my time on Nate Harrison Grade was spectacular. The uniqueness of the adventure, the phenomenal views, and the success of not having rolled to my death off a cliff were quite rewarding.
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 Long ago, I saw a commercial on TV implying that the best artists use only the best brushes. The ad, obviously, was attempting to pitch the quality of some product. My reaction to the quote then was this counterpoint: a true artist can create regardless of brush quality. Give Picasso a tree branch dipped in mud and he’d still create a masterpiece. After this weekend however, I’m having to re-think that counterpoint…
About three years ago I bought a guitar. Just a cheap, mass-produced one from a place where people “Save Money, Live Better” and yellow smileys abound. It was just an experimental whim so I didn’t want to invest much. It turned out to be the best $99 I ever spent. For the past three years, that guitar has been my therapy. Slipping to the basement to strum for twenty minutes cures a lot of ills.
After all that strumming though, I’m still not very good. I consider myself – at best – a hack that needs to keep his strumming confined to basements. I continue to struggle with certain chords, and more-than-occasionally I can’t get the right pressure on a fret which leads to bothersome buzzing sounds.
However, with the windfall of a 25 year service award from my employer in my back pocket, I decided to use a bit to purchase a new guitar this past Saturday morning. It went quick. I walked in; test drove three guitars and was walking out with my new Fender California Series acoustic fifteen minutes later.
Upon first strum of this new beauty, I called into question my aforementioned counterpoint. The sweet emanating tone and the smooth action on the fret board were remarkable. The chords I’d been struggling with had just gotten easier, and that bothersome buzzing sound nearly vanished. I’m definitely still just a hack that needs to stay in my basement, but I now have a little more confidence and may someday soon bring the new ax upstairs.
Though I still believe that old Picasso doesn’t need the best brushes to produce great art, I can’t deny that quality tools can have a positive impact on improving the craft.
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 My brother, the civil engineer, is working in Afghanistan reconstructing the devastation. Years of bombing runs and IEDs have taken their toll on the infrastructure - things he’s particularly adept at building. Koran burnings and soldiers on shooting sprees haven’t done much for the peace process. The destruction will likely continue which means job security for my brother, I suppose. I admire his courage and willingness to go, but I sure don’t envy his sacrifices.
The other day I was digging through some old pictures to post on Facebook - memory jarring images to give him a chuckle. It brought back memories of some of the adventures we got into that surprisingly seemed like an episode of MTV’s Jackass.
Under the cover of darkness, we’d drive around the city in an old Plymouth looking for bushes to dive into.
We built go-carts out of scrap lumber and old lawn mower wheels, hoping they’d hold together on their maiden downhill voyages.
We played murder-ball for hours with our neighborhoodlums, usually ending when a bone snapped or a fight broke out.
We built bike ramps, higher and higher as peer pressure mounted. You can only imagine what we attempted to jump over… and crash into.
We stole golf balls from the driving range at night and then hit them toward targets in the park during the day.
And my favorite…a friend’s dad gave us his collection of 45 old vinyls. Putting them to the best use energetic teenagers could think of, we threw them skyward as hard as we could and watched their erratic descent until they shattered explosively on neighboring roofs or the asphalt street.
Idiotic things for sure, but probably no different from what most young kids growing up during the ‘70’s in America got into. Roaming around with time and energy to waste led to some jackass antics. But we did them because we had the freedom to do so. In the United States, it’s easy to take our freedom for granted. In Afghanistan, my brother has temporarily traded in that freedom for income and the opportunity to put his skills to work. I hope it works out for him and he’s home safe soon. Tags: afghanistan, freedom, jackass, sacrifice
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I make a wrong turn and don’t realize it. The sun is nowhere close to showing itself, so nature’s compass is unavailable. When I enter barren Gila Indian reservation lands, my wrong turn becomes obvious. I plug in my GPS and it keeps re-calculating me toward dark thin roads that just don’t feel right. After several miles ignoring it, my GPS and I finally get in sync and we’re off toward the San Tan Mountains near Queen Creek.
I’m hoping the park doesn’t have gates that only open at designated times. If so, I’ll be forced to sit and waste precious time. But this is the wild (and open) west. No closed gates out here. I’m the first one in at about the time the first touches of light are beginning to temp hikers. In a land of diamondbacks, scorpions, coyotes, and jumping cactus needles, light is especially important when hiking this unknown territory. Back east, I’d feel comfortable hiking blind-folded, but in Arizona, I’m a fish out of water, and less brazen than normal. With only a handful of hours to explore, my plan is to get just a taste of the foothills; to meander the trail’s lower elevations up close with the Saguaros, Chollas, Creosote, and the undulations of the mountains. But a reachable shoulder was calling. With a little heart pumping effort, I quickly switch-backed my way up the Goldmine Trail to a gap in the mountain affording an open view north toward Chandler. Here I sat for a while catching my breath and enjoying the cradled feeling of this mountain. It was a view that brought home my impression of the Phoenix metropolis. The sprawl here is overwhelming; a seemingly unending grid of walled-in, planned communities and chain franchises. But very nearby and in all directions are escapes like the San Tan Mountains with open gates and easy access. Phoenix is a fine mix of congestion and solitude, all amid the backdrop of spectacular scenery. For years I half-jokingly said I’d love to move to Arizona for my mid-life crisis. Having spent the last several days wandering this spectacular state, my feelings have only grown stronger. A state with iconic and timeless enticements like The Grand Canyon, Sedona, Monument Valley, and Canyon de Chelly, in addition to countless other surprising geographic and cultural amenities would be a fine place to cause and have a mid-life crisis. Don’t you think?
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The gentle jostling of the railcar as it traverses the high plains of northern Arizona is very relaxing, but I can’t quite relax. In less than two hours, our train will arrive at perhaps the world’s most ancient and spectacular wonder and I’m searching maps for options to best take advantage of my priceless, limited time. I’m a lucky man. This will be the third time in my life I’ve visited The Grand Canyon: once as a young child, once as a guiding parent, and now as a self-indulgent, unencumbered adult. This time though, the excitement is more mature; more introspective.
Arriving in mid-winter, the crowds will be minimized. Snow covered outcrops and viewpoints won’t be overrun with skittish young boys and their worried mothers, or large groups of ranger-lead tours. Choosing to walk briskly away from the depot along the rim trail should thin the crowd with each passing step, eventually leading to moments of solitude at the world’s most impressive outcrops. The old couple next to me on the train won’t have the strength to wander out to where I’ll push myself. The weather looks to be perfect as well: fifty five degrees, clear deep blue skies, bright snow patches on the ground, and just a gentle breeze… all of which will only add splendor to this much-anticipated experience. The color explosion about to hit my eyes and viewfinders should be mind-blowing. The time I’ll spend at this humbling place will be limited, and so, each second will be cherished; burned into my memory. The camera will inadequately capture sterile images and I already know that words will be unable to describe the experience I’m about to have. So I won’t even try. Tags: arizona, grand canyon
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 My feet tingle as we make our way down the final stretch of trail. This particular stretch wends along the edge of Oak Creek, one of the more famous creeks in America, and the creek in which my feet were soaking just a few moments ago. The refreshing coolness of the famous waters after three hours of hiking thru the red dust of Sedona has made for a lingering tingle. Not only are my feet aglow, my mind is too. The last three hours have been as visually stimulating as any other in my life. The geography of this place is mind blowing. The sights from high above at Eagles Nest viewpoint were some of the best I’d ever seen. But the visual treats weren’t done.
After a hearty Mexican lunch in the heart of Sedona’s commercialism, Route 89A heading north brings the sights we had been viewing from on high, up close and personal. For ten miles the road intertwines with the meanderings of Oak Creek, hemmed in by steep and vibrant canyon walls. Silenced by the impressive beauty, there wasn’t much conversation in our car. The uniqueness of the landscape – nearly fictional in nature - took extra concentration to comprehend. I’d put these ten miles up against any other in a highways & byways beauty contest. To re-use my over-used cliché, 89A is one of life’s gems.
Being a flatlander from back east, a day that included a 6,000 foot gain in elevation from Phoenix to the northern plains of Arizona didn’t come without complication. I first noticed troubles when gasping for air while hiking in Sedona. At Eagles Nest, 4,100 feet above sea level, the sun was blistering, burning my skin and lips through a cloudless sky after just a few moments of exposure. Pasty white boys who live in a florescent lit, sea level world should be careful when in Sedona. Three hours later and three thousand feet higher up in Williams, the altitude complications became even more elemental. Simply breathing, even while relaxed on a couch, took extra effort. About every ten breaths I’d have to force an extra deep inhale to keep pace. But adjusting to the altitude was a very small price to pay for spending time today high in the sky; in a world far different from life back east.
As the day was winding down, I felt the primal urge to sit on a bar stool. Allison was content to be left alone at our Inn ( previously a brothel, by the way) to begin editing the 145 pictures we’d taken throughout the day. Bar stooling with a Lumberjack Golden Ale while looking out the window at historic Route 66 was an ideal spot to reflect upon one of the better days of my life. 
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 I step off the trail and onto a fallen tree to break the rhythmic leaf-crunching sound of my pace. It’s a tree that ten years ago was still standing when I last visited this peaceful and natural space. Same trail. Same tree. Same season. Ten years later. Standing motionless in mid-forest on a chilly overcast day, I begin an extended time simply absorbing the setting. It’s a blended canvas of grays, browns, and greens… and a cacophony of sounds. Winds rustle the few stubborn leaves still clinging to trees. Ravens’ caws come from all directions. Acorns randomly plunge to the forest floor. When the wind is silent, a trickling stream across the ridge is heard. After a while, squirrels resume their foraging, unaware of my motionless presence. I’m no longer an intruder; I’ve been welcomed by the forest. Eventually, my legs go numb and I need to move. My water bottle jostles as I shift my stance, bringing unnatural sounds into the cacophony. I’m suddenly aware of the muted sound of jet engines 30,000 feet overhead. Boot leather creaks as movement returns to my feet. When I attempt to capture the moment, my camera clicks, but I know full-well that no two dimensional image can capture this multi-sensory experience. Alone in an overcast woods, just one week before Christmas, has been unabashed ruminative solitude. Some come to the woods for its cleansing and thought provoking silence. Today I’ve been bathed in its thought provoking resonance. Tags: fernbrook, nature conservancy, solitude
: Stony Point, VA
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I’m guilty too often of declaring something as ‘the best’. As in, ‘that was the best movie I’ve seen in years.’ Or this past October, ‘the best World Series ever.’ And about a year ago at the Union Jack Pub, I emphatically declared Delirium Tremens to be the best beer I’d ever had. Yes, Tremens was delectable, but what really forced the pious declaration was its uniqueness. It was exclusive – only available in the most refined establishments. Served from a white bottle, with pink elephants on the label. And its name blatantly flirted with the addictive nature of alcohol, similar to Marlboro doing something as bold as marketing “tar and phlegm” smokes. [ By the way, have you seen the Dr Pepper commercial that declares its latest product as not-for-women? That’s some bold advertising.] But when I recently saw Delirium Tremens listed on the menu at my local movie theater, the bloom instantly fell off the rose. The best beer in the world had gone Hollywood – and sold its soul to the devil. Can’t blame them for grabbing the cash, but damn it, I’m now going to have to find a new best beer. Snob that I am, I certainly can’t be declaring Tremens as the best when it’s soon to be available at a convenience store near you. Where’s the uniqueness in that? The interim “best beer ever” now hails from North College Avenue in Indianapolis, where I recently sipped a $26 glass of Brasserie DuPont Foret Organically Produced Saison. Good luck finding that one in your local grocer. Tags: beer, delerium tremens, snob
: Kernstown, VA
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From the sixth floor, the view is surprisingly Hollywood. Not quite as bureaucratic as I was expecting, considering I’m in the Virginia Insurance Commissioner’s office. Floor to ceiling windows allow ample sunlight to spill upon the large, glistening table we’re gathered around.
As our group is waiting to meet the newly appointed commissioner, in walks a short, casually dressed woman who I assume is tasked with refilling the ice bucket or adjusting the thermostat before the grand entrance of the guest of honor. But then people start introducing themselves to her. Turns out, she’s Madam Commissioner.
I’ve regularly been communicating with the commissioner’s office for many years, and had perceived it as a paper-cluttered, bureaucratic dungeon of flickering florescent lights… and full of no-nonsense stodgies. But after shaking off my initial misperception of the new top dog, I found her to be quite likable and charming, as was her supporting cast. And their office space was much more contemporary and Spartan than envisioned. It had the feel of a prominent law firm rather than a government regulator’s office. I was rather impressed.
Thankfully, insurance is governed by the states; not the feds. So a visit to the state commissioner’s office is the top rung of the authority ladder. It’s the equivalent of a legislator visiting the White House. Or a nerd having lunch with Bill Gates. Or a shortstop being summoned by Bud Selig.
Today was a respectful introductory visit of shaken hands and thumbnail sketches. Our group’s hope was that the new commish now will have faces and brief stories in mind as she regulates us. And of course, today also reset my own impression of regulation – at least that segment which affects my career most. Tags: insurance, regulation, richmond
: Richmond, VA
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 Traveling down Constitution Highway in Orange County after spending the past several hours basking in the splendor of the Montpelier Hunt Races, I began thinking of the benefactors who’ve paid it forward so folks like me could enjoy such opportunities. First are the founders of my employer – a 160 year old company that has a long history of giving back to the community. Neighbor helping neighbor has always been our business model. Being a major sponsor of the event, and donor of the purse for the third race, we employees were afforded rail-front, infield vantage points to take it all in. Free food, estate tours, and VIP parking had me living large. Second are Montpelier’s most famous residents - James & Dolley Madison. They were not the first owners of this magnificent property, but they were the ones that showered it with historical significance. James, the intellectual one, was known as the father of the constitution. From the comfort of Montpelier, he pondered more deeply about our republican form of government than any other Founding Father. Dolley, seventeen years younger, brought charm and vibrancy to the dinner conversations at Montpelier, and was the first First Lady. Third is Marion DuPont Scott, the most recent private owner of Montpelier. Her love for the estate was a profound one, eschewing even a Hollywood lifestyle for the majesty of Montpelier and the horses that were such a natural part of rural Virginia. In 1934, she founded the hunt races that continue to this day. With the Blue Ridge Mountains on one side of the course and Madison’s palatial home on the other, the races are a real visual treat. As her life was winding down in the early 1980s, she had preservation and public use on her mind bequeathing Montpelier to the National Trust for Historic Preservation. Like a lot of things in life, attending the 77 th running of the Montpelier Hunt Races was possible due to several generous benefactors. Those that have paid it forward – here today and at other times as well - are not lost on me. How about you? Tags: hunt races, montpelier, pay it forward
: Orange, VA
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 At twenty miles per hour, the windows are down and my seat belt’s off. There’s a wake of dust behind me. For two hours, I’ve had Missouri’s leaf covered Glade Top Trail all to myself. It’s a beautiful road wending narrowly atop the Ozarks. The hills are alive today. It’s peak foliage season and the weather is perfect. I’ve again stumbled upon one of life’s gems. Seek and ye shall find… Or as Thoreau puts it in one of my favorite quotes, “ Rise free from care before dawn, and seek adventures.” Missouri, to me, is a crossroad. Lately, a disaster crossroad of tornados, ice storms, and hurricane remnants. But it’s also a cultural crossroad. Seems the south and the west meet in Missouri. Cowboy, redneck, and bible belters coexist here. Buffalo wranglers and hog farmers share property lines. A few of the folks I came to see on this three day trip to Branson – both of whom are Missourians – agreed vehemently with my perception. They were impressed by my one sentence digest of their state. My ride along Glade Top Trail was a fantastic way to start my morning, but was in sharp contrast to late last night. On very little sleep, I transitioned from beer drinking Cardinal fan in a pub full of Missourians, to a quiet introspective seeker of geographic enlightenment high in the Ozarks. Perhaps the stark transition from left brain to right brain produced the whopping headache which turned into the only negative aspect of my fantastic morning. (OK, perhaps too much pub contributed.) Regardless, a little head discomfort can’t diminish the great memories I’ve captured in the Show Me state. I developed a liking for Missouri (and the Cardinals) long before this trip. Now though, having cruised its byways and cheered with its fans, that relationship has been kicked up a notch.  Tags: fall foliage, mark twain national forest
: Rueter, MO
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 After only three hours sleep, I’m off to do some barefoot hiking. Unfortunately I left too early. The darkness hides everything except the asphalt of I-74. I want to see as much of Indiana as possible with my limited time, so I exit at Brownsburg to stall while the earth rotates. I zig-zag through town on this very quiet, drizzly Sunday morning. Parking lots are empty and neon signs turned off. When the sun comes up twenty minutes later it creates a rainbow; the pot of gold seems to be exactly where I’m headed – Falls Creek Gorge near Attica, sixty five miles west. For thousands of years, Falls Creek has been flowing over sandstone in the hills outside Attica. Eddying has formed depressions known as potholes in the creek bed. This unique geologic feature is now a protected preserve governed by the Nature Conservancy. Getting to the potholes though, takes some risk. Falls Creek runs just ankle deep as it skims over the smooth and slippery rock of the creek bed canyon. To see the best potholes, your only choice is to kick off your shoes and wander upstream. As I’m capturing images of the potholes with feet submerged, it hits me that no one knows my whereabouts. Uncharacteristically, I forgot to leave details with anyone. I’m eighty miles from my hotel room and all alone. My cell phone has no bars. My next appointment is not for another ten hours. If I turn up missing, it’ll be a long time before they find my rental car in the woods of western Indiana. Ah, but these are the risks, even when unintentional, that spice up life. I guess I could have stayed close to my Indianapolis hotel today and taken in a museum. And left my shoes on. But nature was calling. Barefoot hiking to the potholes, alone in the woods of western Indiana, made for a pretty spicy day, and I’m glad I took the risk. SEE MORE HERE: http://www.youtube.com/user/KoppenhaverOutdoors?feature=mhee#p/u/0/fFoHPFOVMyA  Tags: falls creek, nature conservancy, potholes
: Attica, IN
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 Looking out my window at the crest of the Blue Ridge, I’m taken aback by how close it is. Normally, takeoffs out of Dulles clear the Blue Ridge by much more than this. A few seconds later, we start a u-turn back toward the airport. Me and a few other geographic nerds realize something is wrong. Suddenly, I’m worried like a son-of-a-bitch. We’re way too low and flying slow. Are we gonna make it back to the runway, or am I about to become a news item? This flight has gotten real serious. Shockingly, others don’t become aware of the situation until the landing gear drops down. About the time it does, I spot a squadron of rescue vehicles with their lights flashing. I still don’t know what’s wrong with the plane but at least I know we’ve made it to the runway. After the most anticipated landing of my life, and while being chased down the runway, the captain explains that there’s smoke in the cabin. We make it to the gate and disembark, so ending some of the more tense moments of my life. Five hours later, I finally arrive in Indiana by way of a different plane and different captain. I’m frazzled, hungry, tired, and ready for a cold beer. What normally would have been an easy travel itinerary turned into a twelve hour fiasco. A memorable journey, to say the least. To the airline’s credit, as I was returning from my after-midnight dinner, my Blackberry dinged. It was an extensive apology from headquarters. My wife asked if I still like flying. I told her I continue to trust the system, but hope this little misadventure takes care of my bad luck karma for a while. Fingers crossed.
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 I’m on a two day insurance marketing trip with a new employee, showing him the ropes. We’ve traveled from the top of Virginia to the bottom. New guy has an adventurous side. He’s willing to wander downtown, forgoing the chain restaurants near the interstate. The Horseshoe Restaurant on historic Route 1 in South Hill is a former blacksmith shop. In the ‘30’s the blacksmithing ended and a horseshoe-shaped lunch counter was installed. Our waitress is a good marketer, convincing me to order dessert – which I rarely do. The brown sugar pie turns out being one of the finest meal endings I’ve ever had. Amazingly good. I’m so smitten that when I return to my hotel room, I Facebook-like the restaurant and write a 5-star review for TripAdvisor. In the morning as I’m checking out, a couple from Hampton is hoping to check in. But the hotel is booked. They’re refugees evacuating ahead of Hurricane Irene. I give them obvious advice: keep heading west. We too chose to head west to avoid the crush of other refugees. We chart a course directly through the recent earthquake epicenter in Mineral. We pass countless fallen chimneys and cracked veneers. Main Street in Mineral is a sea of scaffolding, traffic cones, yellow tape, and braced walls… and other gawkers like us. We stop at the Lake Anna Smokehouse for barbeque, hushpuppies, and a chance to hear from the locals. Our young waitress excitedly tells her story, one she’ll be recounting for years. Everyone on the east coast now has an earthquake story. I arrive home tired, take my wife out to dinner, then hit the couch. Time to start watching 24/7 coverage of Hurricane Irene. It’s an exciting time to be an insurance guy.
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Coffee
The alarm is set for 4:20, but my bladder wakes me at 3:58. Close enough. Time to get packing. My youngest is scheduled to move into her dorm at 8:00 a.m. . She’s a first-year, and I’m about to become an empty-nester. For the two hour ride to Charlottesville, I seek the comfort of a warm cup of coffee to soothe my anxiety.
Bottled Water
It’s mid-morning and all the loot has been lugged up to my daughter’s new third floor home. I’m walking back to her dorm after re-parking my car at Scott stadium. Across the road a boisterous guy is tossing free bottled water to anyone interested. I am. I give him a head nod. He chucks one, the condensation glistens in the sun as it flies across University Avenue. It comes up short and I’m expecting an explosion, but the plastic holds. It one-hops off the asphalt. Shortstop-like, I snag it left handed without bobble and hoist it high in celebration. Chucker gives me a thumbs-up and our transaction is complete.
Dr. Pepper
It’s mid-afternoon. The fine-tuning of room arranging is done - pictures are hung and lamps plugged in. Everyone’s light-headed from the exertion and a lack of food. A turkey sandwich is about to be devoured. I’m a hundred twenty miles south of the Mason Dixon line and disappointed that the restaurant doesn’t have sweet tea to wash down my sandwich. I settle for Dr. Pepper, which was invented in Virginia, some say. Turns out to be a good substitute for the sweet tea I’m craving.
Lemon Tea
Forty five minutes from home, I have the urge to delay my return. Once home, the reality of a shipped off daughter will really set in, so I exit at the New Market rest area. Buying a drink will kill some time. I’m no longer in the mood for a sweet drink, but everything in the vending machine is sugar packed. Another flying water bottled would be nice, but the closest alternative is a sweetened lemon tea. Turns out to be a bad substitute for the water I’m craving.
Ayinger
I’m home, and the reality has definitely set in… as has the reflection. And my favorite place for reflection is my back deck. An Ayinger’s Octoberfest makes the deck an even more reflective place. The day has gone well. We couldn’t be more proud of her. She’s in good hands and I know she’ll be fine. My wife and I will be too.
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 At the end of this swampy island where I stand, it’s a hundred degrees. The humidity is stifling. Insects are buzzing. Rotting crab line the shore. For a ship full of Europeans in 1607, it was this very point – Black Point – that was their first glimpse of the island where they would make landfall in the new world. Though prior European adventurers had reached the new world, Jamestown was the first successful colonization - the seed that took hold. To say the least, it wasn't easy for the boatload of people attempting to colonize. Two years later, 80% of them were dead. Today, other than the rotting crabs, Jamestown is alive and well and part of a triangle of history that draws millions each year to the middle peninsula of southeastern Virginia. A cobbled road 30 miles long through a thick forest connects the three corner points of Yorktown, Williamsburg, and Jamestown. I came here with my kids once long ago and was more concerned with keeping them entertained than history. Today though, it's just me. Hence, I've parked my car at the very end of the cobbled road and walked another half mile through woods to the tip of the island in hopes of feeling the starkness of 1607. Under the watchful eye of a massive perched eagle, I wander the shore as best I can amid the reeds and muck. The heat and the time of day have kept other visitors away - it's just me, the eagle, and Black Point. And 1607. The number permeates my thoughts. More than 400 years. It's a blip on the radar of world history, but for Virginia and America, it's about as far back as you can go. In a modern world with Madison Avenue infiltrating our consciousness with thoughts of the present and future, it's been healthy to take a look back in time today. To think about the sacrifice of coming to such a far off and unknown destination. To smell the swampy, brackish waters and feel the oppressive heat. To imagine the effort necessary to carve comfort out of the overwhelming hardship of this place, and the journey to reach it. For some, Jamestown is just another brown sign; a generic history marker. Perhaps wandering the air conditioned visitor's center and watching a movie are all they get. Or a visit to the impressive, though contrived, re-created village near the parking lot. But to truly understand Jamestown, nothing is more authentic than standing in muck at Black Point during a 100 degree heat wave and trying to think of survival, let alone comfort. Tags: 1607, black point, jamestown
: Jamestown, VA
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 Imagine a cookie sheet 30 square miles in size laid atop the mountains of West Virginia. At a 4,000 foot altitude, it cools rather than bakes. That’s the basic geography of Dolly Sods Wilderness. Sounds idyllic, however, it has a brutal history. In the 1900’s, during the lumber boom, Dolly Sods’ virgin timber was clear-cut and the undergrowth torched. During WWII it was pummeled with mortar shells by pilots in training. Chopped, burned and bombed - Dolly Sods has been abused. But in the 1960’s, awareness of its geographic uniqueness became apparent. The preservation wheels started rolling and it’s now a federally protected wilderness area. This morning, I couldn’t contain a yelp as my car leveled off onto the Dolly Sods plateau. After twenty years of curiosity fed by the likes of National Geographic and Backpacker magazines, I had finally arrived. But it wasn’t easy. Three hours of curvy driving dodging deer, dump trucks, and forest service road ruts made for an interesting ride, adding to the charm of Dolly Sods. An SUV should have been the vehicle of choice, but my 12 year old Volvo with 156,000 miles on it performed like a champ. In an instant, I was amazed by this place and immediately aware of the powerful way wind and water carves the landscape. From the small parking area, it was a short walk to the precipice – where the plateau dropped steeply to the valley 2,000 feet below. The outcroppings were innumerable, and the views stunning. I could have spent my whole day on the edge, but the interior was calling. I headed west on a washed out trail across a high plains sea of blueberries and huckleberries. A handful of fresh-picked fruit was impossible to resist; like Dorothy walking through the Poppy field. The interior felt more Western and Canadian than Appalachian. Trees were weather-stunted. Others were in clusters, rather than the pervasiveness typical of the East. The altitude thwarted the summer heat, and brought a touch of dizziness when I stood up too fast. Dolly Sods is the big sky country of the east. After a few miles, I crossed Red Creek and its tannin-stained waters. Here, under a stand of spruce trees and upon a moss softened seat, I took a long break. Alone, up high, and beside a trickling stream - as peaceful a resting place as I’ve ever experienced. Before leaving Dolly Sods, I spent another hour back on the edge, Sitting ruminatively with legs dangling, Staring out over the valley, Enjoying the altitude, Lingering in the moment, At one of the coolest places I’ve ever been. I chose a different route home, completing a circuit, along equally curvy roads. The temperature soared as I descended in altitude. Back to reality… but now with one less item on the bucket list. Life, as always, is good. 
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 Just before the end the road, three orange cones divert me toward a mown field serving as the parking lot for the crowd that's come to see Ricky Skaggs & Kentucky Thunder. It's been more than twenty years since I last saw Ricky, and ever since, I've declared his show in the '80's to be the most entertaining concert I'd ever seen. I should be excited, but my enthusiasm has been quashed. Perhaps the end of a trying work-week has not yet been expunged from my core. It's Friday, and instead of being in tune with an evening of great music, I'm uncomfortable, being too much of a task master, and feeling out of sync with the evening. But time is a great healer. Thirty minutes after parking, I'm sinking into a folding chair with a can of suds in hand and finally starting to become one with the cool atmosphere around me. Since the early 1800s, people have been coming to Orkney Springs to relax and partake in the town's curative waters. In the 1960's, this remote pastoral setting became the backdrop for the Shenandoah Valley Music Festival which, to this day, continues to bring high quality acts like Ricky Skaggs to its humble and intimate stage. It's a unique venue tucked in a serene mountain valley, and Orkney's healing powers have begun working on me. Complete contentment is a rare feeling. It seems often to be hovering nearby, yet rarely captured. But I caught it tonight during the second chorus of Cajun Moon. All was right. The music was flawless. The heat of this mid-summer day had abated. The company I was with were all smiling. The mountains surrounding us framed the venue in a beautiful and peaceful way. I could not think of anything else that would have improved the moment. What more completely defines contentment than that? For the rest of the weekend I kept thinking about that moment. And the night full of great music from such a historic venue in the peaceful and healing Orkney Springs valley.
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 In the Florida Keys, I took the road to insanity… On a map, the turn off of Overseas Highway at Little Torch Key looked like an architect’s drawing for a set of stairs. The map also showed the road ending near open water in the National Key Deer Wildlife Refuge. Such uniqueness was irresistible. This had to be explored. After just a few minutes of driving though, insanity began setting in. As I drove, civilization gave way to desolation on this narrow road. Through emptiness, the stair-stepping ninety degree turns became unrelenting. Even knowing the number of turns on this road didn’t help. The monotony caused me to lose track, convincing myself I turned far more times than were on the map. The road surface itself became unnerving too - washouts created hidden dips testing my car’s suspension and spontaneous swerving ability. And when I finally reach the end? … Disappointment. Access to the open water’s edge was through a swamp. No way to get there without slogging through the muck and battling a swarm of mosquitoes. Regardless, overcoming the insanity and staying the course on this side road - if nothing else - satisfied an odd curiosity of mine. To break the monotony of my return to civilization, I challenged myself to avoid using my brakes. With no other drivers on this crazy road, I drove the tangent line and accelerated into curves, shaving ninety degrees down to sixty. My brake pads were thankful and the challenge provided a return to sanity. This wasn’t the only road I followed to its terminus in Florida. U.S. Route 1 runs from Fort Kent in Maine all the way to Key West. I picked it up outside of Miami and drove until I reached 1 Duval Street in Key West. With the number one in your address, you’re the end of the road. My room for two nights was steps from the water’s edge on the furthest Key you could drive to. But unlike the road near Little Torch I was far from alone. Key West was teeming, even in the hot off-season of late June. The congestion, the heat, and the end-of-the-road mentality made for some seediness, but that’s what I was expecting, and for a few moments, even participated in. Singing along with the band and dancing at Sloppy Joes after some Land Shark lagers is not normal behavior for me. But when in Key West… The ends of the roads in the Keys over the past few days have been rather unique experiences. “No Outlet” signs will never be viewed the same. 
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koppenhaver's journal
EARLIER ENTRIES
