Direction [or lack thereof]

Don’t worry, Mom. I staged this photo (much to the concern of gaping-mouthed motorists on the campground road.)

When I was seventeen, I attempted a three-hour drive to visit my sister at her college in Big Rapids, Michigan. I had little to no highway driving experience, and at that time, there was no such thing as readily available GPS navigation (yes; I realize this ages me). I possessed a wrinkled map and the echoing words of two parents telling me what to do when I got to the big, scary intersection of US131 South. Aaaaand, I got lost. So lost that I had to call home from a gas station 20 miles out of my way and, in tears, admit defeat.

When I was 27, I went on a holiday/work trip to Vail, Colorado and tackled my first downhill skiing experience. After mastering the bunny hill (sort of), I bravely ventured down the easy side of the mountain, adhering loyally to the green diamond symbols along the way. Inexplicably, they turned into blue diamonds. How the–? And then, oh shit, a BLACK diamond? Luckily, I saw a blue turnoff out of the corner of my eye and got back on the intermediate slopes, making my way down the mountain somewhere between green and blue diamonds.

Twenty-plus years later, you’d think I would have learned from this series of misadventures. But life likes to throw a pile of doodie to me every now and again. Today’s mishap: thinking I was taking the “easy” mountain bike trails at Alafia River State Park, and somehow finding my way onto the intermediate and advanced trails. Which. Never. Ended. One second I was looking at the friendly green circle around the “Happy Trail” marking, and the next, I was on “Twisted Sister.” I’ll let you decipher which one was the easier trail. Considering my first major accident in life was at the tender age of ten and involved a bicycle and an exposed tree root in the driveway (and 50+ stitches at Grand Haven Hospital), you’d think I would be more inclined to avoid mountain biking, wouldn’t you? (Don’t answer that.)

Thus, after today’s harrowing 3-mile excursion through Florida’s finest rooted, sandy, narrow, branch-ridden, Spanish-moss-overhanging pathways of death, I practically kneeled on the grass and kissed the ant piles when I emerged from the woods.

Yeah. (Office Space, anyone?) Extreme mountain biking is not for me. I may seek out more happy trails in the future, but in moderation–and preferably, with a map (and/or a glass of wine) in hand. Funny that someone so directionally challenged would take on a lifestyle of such exploration. I’ll chalk it up to the miracle of GPS navigation.

Speaking of exploration, I am entering week six of my freshman year of snowbirding with Junebug and the kitties. We have been bopping around Florida since Thanksgiving, living in the most interesting and majestic Florida habitats: prairies, sprawling marshlands and pinewood flats, and Gulf coast waterfront. And at this moment, I reside in the beautiful open lands of Alafia River State Park, where tiny green marsh sparrows sing from their windy perches on cattails and barred owls call from the trees. And one of my favorite sounds in the world: the calls of the sassy little common gallinule (“mud hens,” as my sister and I lovingly refer to them).

We have camped in Elberton and then Waycross, Georgia, where my trusty little space heater and my heated mattress kept me and the kitties warm and cozy all night. We spent two weeks in Fort De Soto, a stone’s throw from the Gulf of Mexico, and just a hop, skip, and jump for me to drop the paddleboard into the clear, salty water. We experienced children and dog-barking sensory overload while making the mistake of staying at Hillsborough River State Park for a weekend near Christmas. We reveled in the open prairies and cacophony of frog calls from the wetlands all around our site at Colt Creek. Then more time at Fort De Soto — a different site, with even better water access and where I paddled almost every single day among the white pelicans, sheepshead, stingrays, and bonnethead sharks that scurried away beneath the sea grasses as I and my board cast our shadows below. And now, Alafia River. Where the mud hens call and the mountain biking trails kick [your] ass.

I’ll head back up to Tennessee shortly, meandering along the way at Georgia lakeside campsites where my fire will roar and my grilled veggie flatbreads will fill my belly. The kitties have been spectacular during this trip, and I can confidently say that this lifestyle works for us, for now. As long as I have internet, my kitties, and a healthy inventory of oak-aged Cabernet and Chardonnay, I am liking this.