A Choice Not Taken

The other day while numbing through Facebook, I posted to my timeline “Looking for something to write about. Hit me…” The first response came from Nancy Nevin who recently enrolled in a writing class in Aspen, Colorado. She replied, “a choice not made.” This isn’t the first time she has prodded me to write. Last week I posted that I was sitting in a coffee shop in Virginia Beach watching a barista with a West Hampton soccer tattoo waiting on a man with a Manchester United knit cap, while I – an Arsenal fan – observed. Her post wanted me to describe the sounds and smells there; the conversation between opposing fans. Coffee shop encounters is a story for a later time, so for now I’ll fulfill Nancy’s request "a choice not taken.”

Back in the early 70s, my family used to pile into a beige, barge-like Pontiac station wagon and make our way from Chesapeake, Virginia to my Grandmother’s house in Greenville, South Carolina, some eight hours away. Five of us use make the trek: Mom and Dad in the front and me, my sister Gena and brother, Mike having full command of the rest of the vehicle as long as I didn’t look at, touch, or breathe near my sister. On one trip Gena actually asked my mother to “make Greg stop breathing.” Brotherly love at its worst.

Trips to visit Nana’s (my grandmother on my mother’s side) were, for the most part, happy family affairs full of southern fried chicken, scary visits to the basement to retrieve something for my grandfather, and slobbery kisses from three ladies who I remember as being known as the “Anties.” One of the “anties” had one leg shorter than the other that was corrected partially by a clunky black shoe with a four-inch sole. I still have nightmares of her limping my way with open arms and saying “give me some sugar, sweetie.”

One night at Nana’s stands out particularly over forty years later, I was maybe ten or eleven and was sitting on living room floor under the watchful and creepy eye of a mounted deer head that my grandfather shot. It was early evening, and the house smelled like most grandmothers’ houses: a unique combination of baby powder and decaying furniture with just a hint of bacon grease from morning breakfast. My grandfather sat in his leather recliner that farted with the slightest move while Nana roamed between bedroom, hall way and living room. I don’t recall where the rest of the family was, perhaps fleeing from the slobbery kisses of the aforementioned “Anties.” My grandfather was making small talk and asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up and I replied “archeologist.” Praise and interest from my grandfather was quickly shot down by negative comments from Nana that ranged from it was a dirty job, to I would be forced to live in remote villages, and I would never make a “decent living.”

Wow.

I felt deflated but was taught not to speak back to elders. I didn’t plead my case to dig in the dirt and explore the world. To pursue a “decent living” not measured by money but by passion. What would have happened if I spoke up and defended this boyhood dream? I chose to remain silent. I chose to take her ‘advice.” From that moment on, thoughts of becoming an archeologist were buried, so to speak. Even today, I’m envious of love reading stories in National Geographic about how people are discovering lost treasures but am more envious of the writers rather than the “diggers.” But then again, writing takes a lot of digging and exploration. Maybe that archeologist is still inside me, but today my tools are imagination and a keyboard rather than a trowel and a soil sifter. One thing I did learn from that fateful, one sided living room conversation in Greenville, South Carolina is to be careful what you say around children especially if talks turns to dreams, goals or passions. A quick, thoughtless remark can and does lasting effects. In short, chose your words wisely.

Money and Travel

I keep foreign currency in my wallet. Not much, five Euro. 500 Tanzanian Shillings (which is about $2 US), two pounds. It’s a pleasant reminder of places I’ve been fortunate to visit, especially when I’m paying for things that are a part of the suburban American lifestyle: Mulch at the Home Depot, dress pants at Banana Republic, coffee at the local bagel shop. Thumbing past color currency to find to find a dull green $20 US bill also reminds me it’s a big world out there. I know that’s no big revelation but as we go through life, much of it is happens in a relative small footprint of habitual boundaries like the local grocery store, the soccer pitch, office and home.

Breaking through those habitual boundaries comes with a price tag. I realize that. Often it comes down to the choices that we make. Admittedly, mulch, dress pants, and overpriced coffee aren’t “must haves” and do play a role in drawing those boundaries. Squirreling away money for travel is one way to break through. Being smart about what you spend money on is another.

For some, success means making as much money as possible, buying a big house and a fancy car. That’s all well and good but my father always said “different strokes for different folks.” For me success is defined by seeing as many places on earth as humanly possible and I get a taste of that success when I look in my wallet.

Live Simply?

Being in your early 50s in an interesting time. You tend to take stock of you life, look back at past accomplishments, past failures, and try your best to forget those dreams that fell by the wayside. In a minor fit of frustration, I texted a good friend who is also in his early fifties that "we should decide to live simply and retire." Living simply to me means cutting back considerably on material possessions, buy what you need rather than what you want, and focus more on the things that make you happy.

His reply to my text came the next morning where he posed the question: "where would you choose to live in the US? What about anywhere in the world." On the way to the bagel shop this morning, I gave his question a little thought and replied that I would purchase one of those micro-houses and plop it down near a college town for the vibe, amenities and admittedly, the sights. It has to be near a national park to satisfy my urge to get out and wander, and it must be fairly close to an airport with easy access to international connections so I can escape the familiarity of America. I gave less thought to the international part of his question because moving abroad would be too complicated on various levels. But I replied anyway that I would choose a small town an hour to two from London.

I've been an traditional suburbanite for my entire life calling the bottom right hand corner of the Commonwealth of Virginia home. And it's been a good ride. It's just that I've grown restless. While others my age may have their sights set on "free golf year-round at the Villages retirement community in Florida," I can't go that route. But then, do I want truly want the options I listed above? Probably requires more thought than 30 minutes at a bagel shop.

Worth the Investment

I admire people who have the passion to travel the world. Case in point, last Thursday I was in back to back meetings all day and had to escape the craziness just to catch up on a few things. So I packed up my laptop and my ever growing to-do list and made my way one block over to Red Star Tavern. I was approached by a friendly waiter named James, and we immediately began a conversation about craft beers, what he likes, the kind of beer he brews at home and how in Europe there are only a few beers to choose from when you at a restaurant or bar. As a high school senior, James traveled to Zurich, Rome and Lugano so he could relates to what I was talking about.

I told him about my travels to Germany and Switzerland and my plans to head to northern Europe later this summer. He began to tell me how he and his girlfriend were saving money for a trip to Thailand. As of now, they have $2,000 saved which should hopefully cover airfare. Best of all, he’s told me that they really didn’t have any definitive plans as to what they were going to do when they got there. James simply said, “We’ll figure that out when we get there.” In truth, this approach to travel is becoming more and rare what with over plan trip thanks to the internet. James’s plans for Thailand is what travel should be about: Exploration and taking oneself out of their comfort level.

When the bill came, the grand total for a couple of craft beers was a whopping $9.99. I gave him a twenty dollar tip with one caveat: He can’t spend that tip on crap. It needs to go in the “Thailand trip fund” and he must email me a picture of he and his girlfriend in while there. He’s immediate response was “holy crap.” A few minutes later, he dropped by and said he texted the receipt with tip to his girlfriend and she is so excited. Not excited as I’ll be when I get the picture of them together in Thailand.

Biking the C&O Canal

The town of Cumberland, Maryland has seen better days. Once home to the second largest population in Maryland, its downtown area turned pedestrian-friendly mall features far too many darkened store fronts with “for lease” signs; victims of a troubled economy and an unpredictable future. It was the Saturday night before Thanksgiving, and the streets were quiet except for a handful of workers fumbling with a tangle of lights in preparation for a holiday parade next weekend. I was with my close friend and fellow adventurer Barry Lawson, and we were in search of a cold beer and a hot meal before beginning our three-day bike trek on the C & O Canal trail which scribbles its way 184.5 miles from Cumberland to the Georgetown section of Washington, D.C.

The “C” and “O” of the C&O Canal trail stand for Chesapeake and Ohio even though the trail doesn’t touch The Chesapeake Bay or the State of Ohio, for that matter. However, it does stretch from the Potomac River (which dumps into Chesapeake Bay) into the “west,” which at the time was about where Ohio is today. The trail follows the tow-path mules plodded along while pulling barges on the canal. This was the primary means of moving goods in this part of the country in the early 1800’s until the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad eventually put the canal out of use. Today, many sections of the canal are nothing more than a wide, overgrown ditch, while others look as though they are ready to be put back in commission at a moment’s notice.

For our journey, we plan to cover roughly 60 miles a day with overnight stays in Hancock, Maryland and Harpers Ferry, West Virginia before making our way to Arlington, Virginia some three miles from the canal’s southern terminus in Georgetown. On our backs, light packs. Under our butts, mountain bikes. And in front of us, 184.5 miles of trail and a low pressure system spitting showers.

The trail started mere pedal strokes from the hotel parking lot and was easy going, flat and empty. Before long we encountered mile marker “184,” and we were on our way to “0.” The upside to mile markers is they tell you where you are. The downside is they tell you how far you still have to go. Luckily today, our goal was mile post 124.4 at Hancock, Maryland or about 60 miles.

For the entire ride, the canal or what’s left of it was off to our left. During a twenty-five year during the early to mid-1800s, laborers sweated, dug, and likely cussed their through dirt and rock to build the canal. Seventy-four locks (24 with lock houses still standing) were strategically placed along the route. The locks made navigation easier because the terrain undulates, and it’s a 605 foot elevation gain from Georgetown in the east to Cumberland, Maryland in the west. The locks made towing a barge uphill, through water, by grumpy mules almost bearable. Almost.

The scenery remained the same for most of the day: a straight flat path under a dwindling canopy of hearty trees. Leaves crunched beneath our tires. Calm winds whispered; the sky, a concrete grey and heavy with moisture. We were alone in our thoughts. It was meditation on the move.

After an overnight stay at the quaint path-side River Run B&B in Hancock, we made our way another 63 miles south to Harpers Ferry, West Virginia.

Day two followed close to I-70 where we were greeted with the constant hum of highway noise, but there were quite a few nice diversions along the way: At mile post 112, we coasted into Fort Frederick State Park whose stone fort served as Maryland’s frontier defense during the French and Indian War. Today, the park offers a boat launch, campsites, interpretive and educational programs. If you are up for a detour, there’s a 22 mile loop accessible at mile marker 76 which winds you through Antietam Battlefield. We skipped Antietam, because of a barrage of rain flanked us from the west.

We rode through pelting showers into Shepherdstown, WV and made our way to the Lost Dog Coffee Shop which we aptly renamed Soggy Biker Coffee Shop. We couldn’t enjoy the comfort of hot coffee, buttered scones and heat for long because it was pushing 4:30, and we still had twelve miles to go before Harpers Ferry. Approaching darkness and angry grumbles of thunder tried to persuade us to retreat back to the coffee shop. We ignored the warnings and slogged on.

I really looked forward to touring the historic town of Harpers Ferry which sits at the confluence of the Potomac and Shenandoah. Lewis and Clark began their famed expedition here. It was also the site of three civil war battles and countless floods, and home to John Brown’s raid of 1859, which was an attempt by abolitionist to start a slave revolt by seizing the United States Arsenal there. All I saw were dark, wet streets poorly lit by my battery-starved bike light. The last mile was the hardest: a relentless hill made all the more challenging when soaking wet, cold, tired and hungry.

We found Laurel Lodge B & B and approached the front door looking like we spent the last four hours lost at sea, without a life raft. The proprietor happily greeted us at the door and wasn’t a bit surprised by our appearance. He kindly showed us to our room and told us put our wet clothes in a bag so he could launder them which took me by surprise. We found a nice Italian restaurant nearby then returned to hot tea, freshly made cookies, and folded laundry. I was tempted to end the trip right then and there.

Morning came too soon and it was still raining, so we procrastinated over coffee, cheese Danish, and spinach frittata - a first for me and I’m hooked.

To be honest, the last day was a blur. Evidently, a mild case of hypothermia can do that to you. The remaining stretch was 59 long and sloppy miles biking through leaf-strewn puddles the color and temperature of ice tea. Stopping was a double edge sword. We used the time to refuel and stretch, but any stop longer than five minutes resulted in chattering teeth and muscle cramps. Turns out, Gortex had its limits.

I envisioned our arrival in Georgetown to be under warm, autumn skies where we would pedal victoriously into some an outdoor café and celebrate our ride with frosty beers, calorie infused appetizers served by admiring waitresses. Instead it rained like hell as we dodged commuters and horn-honking cabbies for the last three miles to Arlington. I kept my head down and unsavory words to myself and just pedaled like I’ve been doing for the past three days. A torrential downpour practically knocked off our bikes as we crossed the Key Bridge into Arlington. It was almost laughable. Almost.

Finally we pulled into Barry’s driveway, proud and dripping from our achievements. Would I do it again? No. Because of the bad weather and repeated muscle cramps? No. Life is about new experiences, good or bad. It’s what fuels the soul and makes travel rewarding come rain or shine.

WHERE TO STAY:

Cumberland, Maryland: Fairfield Inn & Suites. 21 North Wineow Street. Visit Marriot.com. or call. 1-301-722-0340.The C&O canal is right out the back door. Rooms start at $109 per night. Free continental breakfast.

Hancock, Maryland: River Run B&B. 7 South Taney Street. For reservation call between 9 a.m. and 6 p.m. EST - 301-678-6150 or email riverrunbnb@verizon.net. Overlooks the C&O Canal. Rooms start at $125 per night. www.riverrunbnb.com

Harpers Ferry, West Virginia: Laurel Lodge B&B. 844 East Ridge Street. For reservations call (304) 535-2886 or email :innkeeper@laurellodge.com . Rooms from $135 a night. www.laurellodge.com

Reaching Higher Ground

Eleven p.m. comes early, especially when you’ve only had three hours of oxygen-deprived “sleep,” hiked for five days prior to that, and lived on a diet of Cliff Bars, Gatorade, and Tanzanian porridge. But that was the time our climbing guide Nick told us to wake up and begin our push to the summit of Mt. Kilmanjaro. All in all, there were five people in our climbing party: me, two talkative and middle-aged guys from California who regaled us with stories of climbing Mount Shasta - in what was always a snowstorm, my good friend Buddy, and a high maintenance woman named Sharice whose complaints increased with every 100 feet in elevation gain.

All in all, there were five people in our climbing party: me, two talkative and middle-aged guys from California who regaled us with stories of climbing Mount Shasta -in what was always a snowstorm, my good friend Buddy, and a high maintenance woman named Sharice whose complaints increased with every 100 feet in elevation gain.

Kilmanjaro is a dormant volcano – thank goodness – and the highest point on the African continent, topping out at 19,341 feet. About 25,000 people attempt the climb each year and about half don’t make it because of varying degrees of altitude sickness where symptoms include nausea, severe headaches, dizziness, loss of appetite, shortness of breath, lack of sleep -- just to name a few.

Did I mention I paid good money for this?

Now it’s midnight, and we are assembled tent-side in the dark, dressed in our puffy jackets taking turns blinding each other with headlamps that would hopefully help us navigate the four thousand vertical feet to the summit which, according to Nick, will take about seven hours.

Ugh.

Hiking in the dark is kind of what you would expect: Kind of spooky; kind of exciting; at times, mesmerizing. Combine that with that fact there is half as much available oxygen than at sea level, and you have the makings for interesting evening.


This goes on from midnight until seven in the morning. Alas, the sun finally rises and reveals what looks very much like a lunar landscape, except for the patches of snow and receeding glaciers. The mood of the climbing party changes because we know we’re getting close. We stagger up to the rim of the volcano - Stella Point, elevation 18,800 ft – where we snack on Pringles and RedBull of all things, compliments of our guide. Would’ve been nice if he popped those open, say, maybe four days ago?

It takes bout another half hour to reach the summit where we gather for requisite photos and high-fives. It’s hard to imagine but all of Africa is below me, beneath the clouds. There’s no way to go any higher unless I climbed atop the congratulatory sign at the summit. I reached a new physical and an emotional high and am reminded that anything is possible if you put your mind to it. Now, it’s time to put my mind to getting off this mountain.

EAT

This is a good example - maybe a fair example - that there are intersting things "Around the Corner". With this post, I added the back story, that I hoped occured.

Just past Wakefield, Virginia on Route 460, there’s a sign outside a defunct restaurant that simply says EAT in big red, formerly-lit letters, each one a good two to three feet high. I first saw the sign while driving back and forth to Hampden-Sydney College back in the early 80s. Even then, the business had been long closed. However, the sign is there today as constant reminder to all who pass to EAT. It doesn’t offer any particular suggestions on cuisine, when or where; it just reminds you to EAT.

Somebody somewhere made a conscious decision to order that sign. I can’t help but wonder about the thought process and the discussions that may have transpired during that process. I envision a 1940’s era husband and wife sitting in a kitchen around a red Formica table strewn with sketches, budget sheets and price quotes for the sign that would one day appear outside their burgeoning restaurant as a beacon for all who travel through south central Virginia.

“Honey,” the husband says in a soft southern drawl, “I’ve been workin’ the numbers and there ain’t no way we can afford the word DINER out front. D…I…N…E…R. It’s just too many letters, just too expensive.” So with sharpened pencils and plenty of paper, the couple set out on jotting down alternatives. “Let’s see…FOOD. That’s four letters, but still too expensive,” the husband says.” “DINE. Still four letters and a little too fancy for this part of Virginia” After a few minutes the wife has an epiphany that would alter the cuisine scene for the entire area. EAT. Simple. Succinct. And best of all, within budget. Their eyes meet. She beams with pride at providing the solution, and he is reminded why he loves her so much. They hug, and a sheet of paper with the word EAT scrawled across it is taped to the Frigidaire. An era has begun.

Shortly thereafter, the couple stands in the parking lot -- arm in arm as each letter is hoisted in place. E. The excitement builds. A. Now, we’re talking. T. They kiss. The sign is finally in place and people from all around drop in to EAT. Just like the sign says. One day, I’m sure the couple received a bill from a sign company that said something along the lines of “Construction and Installation of E—A—T. Three red, lit letters at $50/ea. Total $150.” Please remit within 30 days.” I find this quite amusing. I wish I had a copy of the bill.

Next time you’re on 460 heading west, make sure you bring along a candy bar, pack of crackers or something. When you drive by, slow down and pay homage. Do what the sign says. EAT. And, somewhere a couple will be smiling knowing that their sign is still working today.

The Long Hard Climb - How Adventure Based Counseling changed a young man’s life.

It's not too often you get to write an article about the great work of a great friend, Bob Callahan. This also appeared as a cover story in the Virginia Beach Beacon in 2005.

It’s the summer of 2002. A dark-haired, wiry, fifteen-year old boy stands at the base of Seneca Rocks in West Virginia. “Barry”, not his real name, is a little out of breath from hiking up the popular West Face Trail which winds through the pine forest and rhododendrons of this wild and wonderful state. He drops his pack and begins to retool, which is climb-speak for making the necessary preparations for a multi-pitch climb. Off go the clunky hiking boots, and on go the sleek, gummy-soled climbing shoes. He meticulously lays out the carabineers, ropes and other climbing hardware like a doctor preparing surgical instruments for an appendectomy.

There are four other boys in the teen’s climbing party along with three experienced adult guides. When one of the guides asks who would like to go first, Barry declines and chooses to go last. He wants to see which routes the others choose so he can learn from their mistakes. It’s a long way from the climbing gym back in Virginia Beach where “topping out” is a manageable 32-foot route on an artificial climbing wall. Just the A to B portion of the infamous Old Man’s route here at Seneca is about 150 feet. The summit itself is a dizzying 900 feet straight up.

Barry feels confident, but he knows getting to the top will take more than individual strength and determination. He will have to put his trust in others, specifically the fellow climber who has him “on-belay”. This means Barry will be secured by rope to another climber and in the event he slips, it will be the sole responsibility of the other climber to make sure he doesn’t fall.

This level of trust is foreign to Barry. His life has been pockmarked with incidents that have conditioned him not to trust adults. He’s been in foster care since he was 10. Now at 15, he’s terribly rebellious, has a short-temper and is on the hunt for someone or something on which to take out his frustrations. Today, it just happens to be a huge chunk of Tuscarora quartzite.

Barry is part of a unique group of climbers with Encompass Adventures, a Virginia Beach-based company which specializes in Adventure Based Counseling (ABC). His foster parents requested that he be assigned to the program through the Family Assessment and Planning Team of Social Services. They hoped getting him involved in this type of counseling could, in some way, exorcise the demons of his past and improve his seditious attitude.

Encompass Adventures is owned and operated by Bob Callahan and his son Shawn. I caught up with them at their offices in an unassuming office park off London Bridge Road in Virginia Beach. Maybe the word “office” isn’t the most accurate description. Sure, there are two computer desks up front and the requisite copy machine, but just behind the door in the back is a cavernous garage full of mountain bikes, kayaks, and climbing gear. It’s every outdoor adventure-junkies dream garage. The only thing that’s missing is a Star Trek transporter room capable of whisking you away to the wilderness location of choice.

Today, like most any other day, Bob is sporting Tevas, running shorts, and a short-sleeve polypropylene shirt. He looks a little out of place sitting behind a desk, and he will be the first to tell you he’s more comfortable paddling local waterways, searching for elusive check points in orienteering competitions, or simply running through the woods with friends. He doesn’t look or act like he’s 50. Sure, there are a few random flecks of grey in his goatee, and his face shows signs of wrinkles from a life spent outdoors. But, he’s built like a 30-year old athlete: slim, fit, tan and well toned. By far, his greatest attribute is his full-throttle, youthful exuberance and a generally infectious attitude about life.

Bob explains that the concept for Encompass Adventure’s ABC program was created originally back in the 70’s when he worked for the Juvenile Court System. At the time, he referred to it as “wilderness probation,” and he has been involved in this noble profession ever since. Aside from the difference in names, the program concept is basically the same. “Adventure Based Counseling engages youth in a variety of outdoor adventure experiences as metaphors for developing everyday life skills,” Bob explains. “For example, if you are in a tandem kayak and you’re not paddling in synch, it’s hard to get to where you want to go. There’s a lesson to be learned there.”

The Encompass Adventure program is best suited for at-risk kids who are either in foster care, on probation, struggling with school or substance abuse, or suffering from low self esteem, low self confidence, or ADD/ADHD. Encompass Adventures is the only locally-approved vendor by the Criminal Justice System to operate an ABC program. There is arduous application and approval process, and the program’s strict guidelines are housed in an official-looking binder a good two-inches thick. Kids are assigned or referred to the program by the court, social services, schools, doctors or mental health organizations.

Dawn Barron, case manager team leader with Division of Mental Health Substance Abuse for the City of Virginia Beach, says that Adventure Based Counseling is an excellent way for kids to develop self esteem, learn a lot about themselves and interact with others. They’re outdoors having fun, enjoying new experiences and don’t realize they are learning important life lessons at the same time”

The ABC groups that Bob and Shawn run consists of two age groups, 8-12 and 13-18. Group sizes range from six to eight kids. Upon entering the program, the kids draft a personal goal contract (PGC) and responsible behavior plan (RBP). These two documents outline attainable goals and expected behavior during the course of the program. Each week they participate in “action-based activities” like biking, kayaking, or trips to the climbing gym as well as monthly wilderness outings to places like False Cape State Park or the Shenandoah Mountains. The program then culminates in what Bob likes to call a "peak" experience -- a wilderness outing of significant challenge to the group. In year’s past this has included climbing Longs Peak in Colorado, kayaking in Florida, and hiking the Appalachian Trial.

The activities that create the most dynamic learning for the kids are the ones where they have to give up total control and trust another person or peer. “Rock climbing, especially multi-pitch climbing is all about trust,” Bob explains. “When you have a kid on belay, he is putting his trust in you that you will help see him to the top.” Climbing is also about setting a goal for yourself and working to achieve it. Bob admits that for most people looking up at a summit can be a bit intimidating. Either it looks too hard, too far away or simply just impossible. But again, there is a lesson to be learned here. “Achieving something you think is impossible is a major self discovery event. Helping kids put that experience into a metaphor they can take home and use has always been one of our top responsibilities.”

Back on Old Man’s route, the long, hard climb continues for Barry. A third of the way up, the teen enters a sketchy part of Seneca Rocks that will test his skill and mettle – a technical traverse across the rocky wall on the west face of the north peak. His inherent stubbornness is put to good use, and he conquers the traverse. His pent-up anger serves as fuel for muscling his way up the remainder of the climb. After about an hour he summits. The teen, Bob, Shawn and the other climbers sit on the dining room table-size summit, enjoy the view, and revel in their accomplishment.

Barry’s journey of self discovery began at the foot of Seneca Rocks. In many ways, it was a turning point -- an opportunity to experience something new; to start the difficult task of putting his trust in others; and in a symbolic gesture, climb away from the troubles of his past. He went on to kayak at Cape Canaveral, hike the Appalachian Trail, and shoot the rapids in West Virginia.

Barry readily admits that he is the complete opposite of how he was before the Encompass outings. Today, he’s applying the knowledge and confidence he gained for other endeavors, and his summits now take on different forms. They include finishing high school, getting a college degree in criminal justice, and hopefully, sharing his positive life experiences with others. __________________________________________________________________

Is there a Doctor in the House?

The article below appeared as a cover story in the Virginia Beach Beacon back in 2005. It was an interesting assignment and the opportunity to meet a remarkable woman

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Oberta Jurgensen sits in her wheelchair in the living room of the house she has lived in for over 50 years. The mid-day sun shines through the front window making the white lights on her Christmas tree hard to see, but it accentuates the sparkle in her eyes; the glow of her smile. However, ninety-three years of life have taken its toll on her body, with the past few months being perhaps the hardest.

She suffers from long list of ailments: Congestive heart failure, severe osteoporosis, high blood pressure, a respiratory ailment called COPD which is similar to emphysema, and constriction of the esophagus which prevents her from swallowing, thus the feeding tube below her colorful night gown. When she speaks her voice sounds like it’s emanating from underwater, but this doesn’t prevent the stories from flowing. She tells of how she and her father took the “work train” from Alberene to Schuyler, Virginia, so she could pick up here graduation certificate; how her sister “died right there in the church pew on Father’s Day,” and how at 15 she gave her sick mother three doses of pure apple brandy a day which was prescribed by a country doctor and supplied by a local moon shiner.

Over the past few weeks, she’s been telling her stories to a welcome and much needed visitor considering her medical condition; a bright, kind-hearted, forty-two year old doctor by the name of Dr. John Patterson. It’s safe to say that Dr. Patterson is a rarity in the field of medical care because he still makes house calls.

According to the New England Journal of Medicine, 40 percent of all doctor–patient visits in the 1930’s were house calls. By 1980, that number declined to less than one percent. And as the home care business grew in the 1990’s the number of house calls by doctors continued to drop. To the best of his knowledge, he is the only doctor in Virginia Beach who brings his practice to the people. Most of the patients he visits live in Pungo, but a few live along Shore Drive, in Thalia, and near the resort area.

Oberta’s granddaughter and primary care giver Kimberly Garnes thinks “it’s wonderful to have Dr. Patterson come out and see her. She couldn’t have stood being dragged back and forth to a doctor any more because it’s just too stressful. It makes her blood pressure too high.” Getting elderly who are infirm and often bed bound into a doctors office is one of the many challenges families and primary care givers face.

“It’s really sad,” explains Dr. Patterson. “There are people I see now who have not seen a doctor in years because they couldn’t get out and see one. They end up having an illness that puts them in bed and unless the patient can physically see the doctor they can’t get the care they need. It’s very frustrating.”

It was frustration with the high volume, high-stress nature of corporate medical practices that led Dr. Patterson down the path – or, in this case the occasional dirt road – of becoming a country doctor. “Many doctors are getting disillusioned with the regular office practice and with the process,’ says Dr. Patterson. “Big offices are about volume and lose the personal touch.”

He has experienced both sides of the fence. Before going into practice for himself in June of 2002, he spent eight years with a large practice where he saw on average 30 for 40 patients a day while at the same time seeing his income drop by 40%. Today, he gets to spend more quality time with his patients which number between eight and ten a day.

All in all, Dr Patterson takes care of about 500 patients compared to upwards of 2000 for a doctor in a typical practice. Of that 500, roughly 100 are home-bound patients like Oberta. Half of his time is spent with these patients, the majority of which are in their 80s and 90s and suffer from a variety of ailments like Parkinson’s, high blood pressure, heart problems, and dementia. Medicare insurance pays for most of the services associated with a house call, and the balance is covered by other insurance plans the patient may have. For Medicare, there is a separate fee schedule for home visits which takes into account for time and travel.

“There are a lot of advantages to making a house call,’ explains Dr. Patterson. “Family medicine is knowing as much about the person as you can. You get a whole different level of insight by going into their homes. You see how people interact with them; how they are cared for emotionally and physically; and the cleanliness of the place.”

Susan Vierra, a veteran nurse of over 30 years is extremely grateful that Dr. Patterson entered their home and their lives and credits him for saving the life of her 89 year old father who suffered a stroke back in May. “I’m sure my father would not be here today if weren’t for Dr. Patterson taking the time and effort, and believing he can make a difference. And he made a big difference. Some people were ready to write my father off after his stroke, not Dr. Patterson. She refers to him as “one of a kind” (which he probably is) and commends him for his “intelligence, his bed side manner, and for being such a compassionate human being.”

While she’s happy her father is alive and doing well, she is extremely frustrated with entire Medicare system. She has to fight tooth and nail to get a hospital bed covered by Medicare despite the fact she is saving the system thousands of dollars by taking care of him at home. She’s quick to point out that Dr. Patterson also has to “jump through a lot of hoops to get paid for the service he provides.” When Dr. Patterson is not making house calls, he sees patients in his house in Pungo which sits on 75 acres. A narrow gravel road slices through the trees and leads to small wooden bridge that extends over a moat-like body of water in front of the home. A late model, brown Jeep Liberty is parked out front. The license plate reads: “CNTRY MD.”

The spacious front room, which would be normally reserved for the living room is a his combination examination room and office. While most practices spend thousands of dollars to make their offices look homey and inviting, Dr. Patterson’s place is that way naturally. There’s a large portrait of his wife taken in high school on one wall. Book shelves are lined with everything from children’s books, to medical books to a book about basset hounds, of which Dr. Patterson has four. A skeleton stands quietly in the corner.

“This is the kind of set up I grew up with in Philly,” explains Dr. Patterson. “Our family doctor at the time operated out of his basement and made house calls. Now, everyone is so enamored with this type of arrangement.” However, running a doctors office out of a home has its advantages and disadvantages.

On the upside, he’s able to spend quality time with patients and keep his overhead down because he doesn’t have to support a big office. On the down side, it’s just him. What’s more, the medical climate has been somewhat tumultuous over the past five years. “What you are paid is fixed,” explains Dr. Patterson. “It’s decided by Medicare and the pay out hasn’t increased much over the years. On the other hand, fees are skyrocketing and the only way you can make it a traditional practice is more volume. I survive because I have no overhead.” Case in point: In just three short years, Dr. Patterson’s malpractice insurance has gone up ten fold, from $1700 the first year to $18,000. Dr. Patterson thinks that many doctors could wind up doing what he’s doing or just leaving the field of medicine.

Dr. Patterson believes the advantages outweigh the disadvantages. “The fun thing about this, he explains, is there’s nothing complex or technical about it. Most of the time it’s me and the patient. It’s simple and straightforward”

Spending quality time with the patients has resulted in close relationships and a few unexpected perks. Over the years, he has received fresh eggs, fruit, baked bread, and pies from his patients. The real satisfaction for him comes from knowing that he his making a real difference in the lives of others, building a successful practice and simply doing what he loves to do.

Oberta Jurgensen offers up sage advice that apparently Dr. Patterson is following. “You make your life like you want it to be. If you want to live a happy life, you can be happy. A lot of people don’t realize that. Ain’t that right?”

Geocaching in First Landing State Park

 

 

This must be what the Amazon feels like, I say to myself as I wipe a stream of sweat rolling down my cheek.  A chorus of insects shrills constantly as I slowly make my way down a spur trail in First Landing State Park, in Virginia Beach.  I wouldn’t say I’m lost; misplaced might be better description.  Maybe I’m just a tad delirious from the heat and three mosquito bites and counting. I chose to try my hand at Geo-caching on one of the hottest days of the year.  For those who don’t know, Geocaching is treasure hunting activity where you use a GPS device to seek out hidden containers of trinkets and goodies.  At this moment, I wish my GPS would point me in the direction of a told cold one and air conditioned comfort.  But I’m a man on a mission and a little heat and -- make that four mosquito bites and counting -- won’t deter me from my quest.

 

So how did I end up in First Landing State Park armed with GPS?  Thank the Department of Defense, the Internet and Santa Claus.  Here is the abbreviated story:  Back in the day, the DOD created a satellite navigation system for the military that was made up of a network of 24 satellites.  In the 90’s, the government made the system available for civilian use, and a new hobby was born. Then along comes the Internet and increasing numbers of everyday folks like me with handheld GPS units. (I got mine as a stocking stuffer.)  As a result, sites like geocaching.com were born;  a web portal that hosts more than one million active caches, close to thirty of which are in First Landing State Park.  Here’s a little history lesson:  First Landing State Park got its name because it is the site where the English settlers “first landed” before sailing up upstream to Jamestown. Kudos to them for finding the new world, sans a GPS device. 

 

Today, I’m in search of the Long Creek cache which is located at N 36° 54.641 W 076° 03.125. I plugged these coordinates into my GPS before venturing out, and now I find myself alone in the woods, peering down at the tiny screen of my Garmin E-Trex which is communicating with at least three satellites thousands of miles above my head.  What will they think of next?

 

At the park’s parking lot off Shore Drive, I’m about .6 of a mile away from the Long Creek cache. A little black triangle on the GPS screen shows the direction in which I’m heading. A thick black line points to where I want to go. Occasionally, the triangle drifts from the line like a drunk attempting to pass a sobriety test.  I crunch my way over dried leaves and baked dirt as I make my way down the aptly named Bald Cypress Trail. Grey beards of Spanish moss droop from towering trees wading in a swamp.  Within a few minutes, I’m .47 miles away. The cache is somewhere off to my right, but I stay on the trail knowing that it circles back when I reach Long Creek. I’ve been at this for about 20 minutes and haven’t encountered a soul. That’s one of the great things about this park. Although it’s the most visited state park in the Commonwealth of Virginia, finding solitude is not hard to do among its 2,800 acres. Finding the Long Creek cache, however, is turning out to be quite the undertaking.

 

At around 400 feet way, I venture off the main trail into truly, uncharted territory. I’ve hiked and run in this park countless times, but I am being led into a section that I’ve never been to before. It’s really not much of a trail. Weeds, samplings and thorny things grab me, trying to make me one with nature. Alas, I find myself in a sandy clearing at the base of a hill. Ok, maybe it’s more like a wooded sand dune. I slowly make my way to the top and I’m greeted with a gentle breeze and a sweeping view of Long Creek. In the distance, two lone kayakers carve their way through water; a park version of an evening commute.

 

Before you know it, I’m 70 feet away, then 30.  Now, it’s 7. No wait, now it’s 14 feet.  Either the GPS is having trouble talking to the satellite or the cache is strapped to a squirrel. I walk gingerly, as if I’ve stumbled upon a mind field.  Before you know it, I’m a mere five feet away.

 

Then-- lo and behold-- behind a tree and under a scattering on pine needles rests a small Tupperware container about the size you would use for leftover lasagna. Discovering it is a lot finding the last, overlooked Christmas present.  I slowly pop open the lid, but there are no trinkets inside, just a small note book filled with page after page of  handwritten notes from fellow geocachers who have been to  N 36° 54.641 W 076° 03.125.

TKS writes: “I guess I took the long way, but it was fun.” 

Lawsome 97 sends greetings from Buffalo.

Bob C. says “Good placement, great bushwack.” 

And, the “punkinator was here again.”

 

A few of the notes are scrawled in illegible handwriting and some are just downright faded. On the inside cover, I see that the cache was first placed  back in September of 2005, and a note references “Roaming Leon” who has the “ travel bug to go out west.” Unfortunately, I’ve wandered all this way without a pen, so I am unable to sign this unique and well- hidden guest book.  However, I hope to return eventually and leave little words of wisdom like it’s a good idea to leave the “tracks” function of the GPS on and know the coordinates of where you parked your car. The sun is beginning to set, and now another adventure begins.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Local Browns Backers Association

The following article was a freelance assingment for The Viginian-Pilot Beacon back in 2005.

Cheryl Workman props her injured leg up on a nearby chair, takes a drag from a cigarette, and proceeds to describe the unique décor of her family room at home. “I don’t have the pictures with me today, but my living room is done in Cleveland Browns. It’s got orange walls, brown carpet and there’s Browns memorabilia all over the place. We even have Cleveland Browns refrigerator.” But the love of the Browns doesn’t stop there. She offers to reveal a tattoo of a Cleveland Browns helmet emblazoned on her back side, but luckily it’s the same design as the one clearly visible on her husband Rick’s beefy bicep. Rick and Cheryl are just one of about 50 die-hard, rabid Cleveland Browns fans huddled at Tango’s Tavern for NFL Draft Day. Tango’s is located in a fairly generic looking strip mall on Pembroke Boulevard, just off Independence Boulevard and a good 9,908 football fields southeast of Cleveland Browns Stadium. “This is nothing today,” says Ed Miller, president of Chapter 42 of the Tidewater Browns Backers Association, or TBBA for short. “During the regular season, this place is sheer pandemonium.” He points his finger to the floor, draws an imaginary line, and references a far wall that is emblazoned with large red letters that spell out O-H-I-O. On it hangs a Buckeye’s 2002 NCAA Football Championship poster. “From here over to there, on any given Sunday during the season, this place is packed with Browns fans. It’s incredible.” Ed hails from Canton, Ohio, home of the legendary Pro Football Hall of Fame, and has been president of the TBBA chapter since 1999. Currently, they have a roster of about 110 members. Ed says that “the Cleveland Browns has one of the largest sport fan bases in the nation. No matter where you go, you’re bound to find one in just about every city.” Ed started the Browns Backers of Sand Hills in Pinehurst, North Carolina back in ‘94. A quick check of the Cleveland Browns website says there are 40,000 registered members world wide in places like Kenai River, Alaska, Perth, Australia, and Misawa, Japan. The goal of today’s gathering in Virginia Beach is to watch the draft, enjoy the company of fellow transplanted Ohioans, and recruit more Browns Backers. Membership dues for draft day were reduced to $20 person or $35 a couple. Normally, they are $25 a person or $45 a couple. Ed explains that “along with the camaraderie, you get a T-shirt, discounts on sports merchandise, email updates, a newsletter, and the ability to buy tickets to the ‘Dawg Pound.’ We go to Cleveland as a group at least once a season, and we have an end of the season banquet. Hopefully, this year it will be a Super Bowl party”. By the way, the Browns have never been to a Super Bowl. Dave Stauffer, another Browns Backer and this season’s TBBA secretary, is quick to point out “we did win the NFL championship in 1964 before they had the Super Bowl. Beat the Colts 27-0.” Aside from rooting for the Browns on Sunday and the Ohio Buckeyes on Saturdays, the TBBA raises money for the local Polar Plunge, the Mayflower Food Drive, The Ronald McDonald House and Cleveland Browns Foundation which raises money for Cleveland area youth. During lulls of the televised draft show, vice president Rick Vollmer seizes a microphone and begins quizzing the crowd on obscure Browns trivia. “How many times has Cleveland shut out the Steelers?” Four. “Which one of these running backs has not lead the Browns in rushing and receiving in the same season?” Leroy Kelly. “During their career which quarterback never had a 300 yard game passing for the Browns?” Gary Danielson. For the folks gathered today, these answers come as easy as “What did you have for breakfast?” Ed and Rick are talking football next to the Browns Hall of Fame Wall at Tango’s which emits an eerie orange glow on the nearby pool tables. Other than the obvious sea of orange, the wall sports a painting of the signature “dawg” and two lists, both of which are scrawled in black magic marker. One list is that of famous Browns Hall of Famers and the other is that of not-so-famous past presidents of the TBBA. Ed proudly announces that they renewed 50 members and signed up 10 more today. He’s optimistic about the TBBA and the Browns franchise in general. He speaks of the Browns as if he is part of the team, which in a way, he is. “We are looking for a big year this year. We were 4-12 last year. I’d be happy if we were 8-8. We have a new coach and a new GM. We’re entering a new era.” For information about joining the Tidewater Browns Backers Association, contact Ed Miller at 404-6028 or email him at spikeandmel@netzero.com. Tango’s Tavern is located at 4668 Pembroke Blvd.

First Time Visitation – Travel Marketers Gift to Humanity.

Admittedly, the headline for this blog might come across a little highfalutin. As a marketer who knows the personal transformations that can happen during travel, I am on a mission to introduce and encourage people to visit new places and experience new things. The important word here is “new.” I am perplexed that many people tend to travel to the same place year after year. There is an explorer in all of us. Find him or her.

Perhaps it’s time to redefine travel.

One of the definitions I came across said travel was “going from one place to another, as in a trip.” By this definition, going to the grocery store for a carton of milk is travel. Travel is -- and should be -- much more than that. I think it should be defined as “a journey from one place to another where you are constantly showered with all things new to the point where it changes you as a person and alters your outlook on humanity and the world.” Clearly my attempt at penning definitions will not threaten Merriam-Webster in anyway, but here is my point:

Life is short. It’s a big world out there. And, most of our lives are spent in the “familiar”. Same commute. Same local store for the aforementioned carton of milk. Same office building. Same computer. Same. Same. Same.

And guess what? Travel marketing is chocked full of the same, same, same. One more time for effect: “SAME.” How many times have we seen an ad featuring a sandy white beach, palm tree and a couple in matching white bathing suits? Or, a shot of a generic hotel room? I could go on and on. It’s no wonder that many people go to the same place year after year. If you want new visitors to your destination, hotel or attraction, you must know what makes them tick. Connect with them emotionally. Find ways to fuel their wanderlust. Help them find that explorer within. Show them that travel can-- and will-- transform their lives for the better.

The rise – and potential fall – of ad re-targeting in the digital space

Being in the advertising biz, it’s no surprise that I spend a lot of time on the Internet; researching, watching, reading, sharing, blogging, and often shaking my head. One of the reasons for my frustration is the overuse of “retargeting” in the digital space. I’m a big boy, so there’s no reason to chase me down after I’ve visited a site, simply because I didn’t do what you wanted me to do while I was there. I can make my own decisions.

Quit stalking me.

If I want to visit your site again, let me make that decision. Re-targeting is annoying and affects brand perception. Bear with me a moment: What if we applied the concept of retargeting to the real world? Let’s say you stroll into a shoe store at the local mall but don’t buy anything. In the real world, you simply move on with your life. But if the store adopted the same kind of “retargeting” found on line, a person would be waiting by your car in the parking lot trying to sell you shoes. When you pull into your driveway, the same person be sitting on your porch stoop blathering on about how “shoe X” will make you a sports demigod. He’d be in your closet, behind the shower curtain, and crammed in the refrigerator crisper; all the while hell bent on hawking shoes. In the real world, a restraining order would be, uh, in order.

How would you feel about that store? Would they be on your short list for your next pair of shoes?

“Digital restraining orders” are available if you choose to delete your cookies on a regular basis which I do. But invariably days pass when I don’t, and the stalkers emerge in the form of 300 x 250s, 728 x 90s, takeovers, etc. Advertisers insist that they are doing you a service because they are serving ads for things in things that interest you. Serving is one thing. Chasing me down in the digital world is another.
I know, marketers tend to use whatever means necessary to move the “move the proverbial needle” for a client’s business. Over targeting/ over stalking just might move the needle in the wrong direction.

Dial it back. And, I just might do whatever is you want me to do.

Vacation Planning ain’t what it used to be. Is that good or bad?

I struggle with how the vacation experience has evolved in the digital age. There is an upside and a downside to knowing practically everything about a hotel, destination, attraction, or restaurant prior to visiting.

First, the downside: Knowledge can have an inverse affect on adventure.

Back in the early 70s, my parents owned a 21-foot long Winnebago that our family of five crammed into for our annual summer vacation. Leading up to the trip, my mom used to write (pen, paper, stamps, the whole shebang) to tourism offices, campgrounds, parks requesting information for our upcoming trip. Each manila envelope that arrived in our mailbox as a result of her request gave us a sneak peak at what might lie ahead. I use the phrase “sneak peak” because color brochures and park maps back in the day only showed so much. Your imagination filled in the blanks. Or, you just approached the trip with a very open mind; with little or no preconceptions of what was over the river or through the woods. For the most part, each place we rolled into was a true surprise. We didn’t have the “luxury” of viewing multiple videos, reading traveler reviews or looking at a thousand pictures of every nook and cranny of the place. It was all new. And, many of my fondest memories were the result of my mom’s inaccurate map reading which lead us to places that I still hold dear to my heart. GPS wasn’t there to save the day, and we were better for it.


Now the upside: The digital age allows us to find places we never knew existed, and that fuels wanderlust.

“The world at your finger tips.” I know the phrase is greatly overused, but it’s true. A computer brings out the explorer in all of us. It’s no surprise that the most popular browser goes by the same name. Like most folks, it’s how I plan my vacation these days. I’ve soared over Google Earth, perused a gazillion photo galleries, and read countless traveler blogs all of which have vastly increased my “to do” / “to visit” list. In planning recent trips, I’ve found on line- - and visited in person -- WWII bunkers in Germany, a mind-blowing floating opera stage in Austria, waterfalls in Zion, a country store south of Charlottesville, Virginia, and an Arsenal Football Club friendly pub in Philly, just to name a few. On line, “a thousand places to see before you die” can quickly turn into “a hundred thousand places to see before you die.” All you need is time and money, which brings up another benefit to digital vacation planning. These days, most of us are time strapped and budget conscious. Doing your due-diligence for an upcoming trip is just plain smart.


So how do you preserve the adventure that “old school” trip planning offered, but still gather enough digital intel to make wise decisions?

Don’t over plan. The joy of travel is discovery. In person. Learn just enough online, but save room for mystery, adventure and yes, getting lost. The parts of a vacation you’ll remember will be the experiences and the places that are truly unexpected. There are few surprises in life. Travel -- by it’s very nature -- uniquely affords the opportunity for these moments to happen. Try not to spoil it.

Looking into the eyes of the past.

Over a three day period in July of 1863, Gettysburg Pennsylvania was the site of the largest number of casualties during the Civil War. Around 50,000. No typo there. Roughly 10,000 died during combat, another 30,000 wounded (of which probably died shortly thereafter) and then the remainder captured or missing. All of that over three days. Yesterday afternoon, my son and I toured the visitor center where you come face to face with the images and relics of battle. There were the requisite guns, sabers tents and clothing but what caught my attention the most was a collage of photos of soldiers who died in the battle. Images of young men dressed in their military uniforms; their names and hometowns written under their pictures. Some of the soldiers looked stoic while in others wore the face of dread and fear in their eyes. Naturally, no one is smiling. Life in the 1860's was tough enough. Add to that a horrific battle and you have hell on earth in a place called Gettysburg.

Back in Estes

Being in Estes Park, Colorado a few weeks ago brought back fond memories: As a twelve-year old, I remember peering out the window of our Winnebago motor home as we inched our way up Trail Ridge Road; my brother, sister and I us ooo-ing and aahing at the scenery which was immediately followed by my mom telling my dad… “Earl, keep your eye on the road.” My father loved the mountains. My mother loved the beach. We visited both as we grew up and had a blast no matter where we went.

Not-so-fast forward some twenty-four years later, and I’m back in Estes. This time with two goals in mind: Spend time hiking with my good friend Barry and scattering my dad’s ashes in the Rockies. He passed away three months prior to this visit from complications from Parkinson’s, dementia, two broken hips and 40 years of hard work. A little of dad is on the top of Hallet Peak in Rocky Mountain National Park.

Thirteen years after that, I returned with my son on our first of many national park visits. We stood at the edge of Bear Lake and I pointed to the summit of Hallet and said Pa-Pa was up there. He smiled, but his attention quickly turned to hiking around the lake.

Today, I walked on water.
Bear Lake was frozen.
Dad was on Hallet.
Part of him up there.
A lot of him in me.

Lights Out.

It happens when I'm driving at night or walking through a lit parking lot. A street light will go out. I don't know why. It just does. Just the other night, three street lights shorted out in my presence: Once at an intersection, and the others times in the parking lot of the recreation center and then on the drive home.

Zap. Poof.

The lights come back on eventually, but I don't know why they go dark in the first place. It's a common occurrence that happens about six to ten times a year. Three times in one night is a record. Truth be told, my dimming "skills" don't go unnoticed because my wife and son have witnessed these incidents.

When it happens. I look to the sky and say hello to my father who passed away some 13 years ago. I've adopted it as a sign that my he is checking on me. Street lights have no particular significance with my father. They were not a part of his life. He didn't pass away because he crashed in to one. I've simply chosen to associate these occurrences with him. It triggers me to remember that he was important part of my life; to take a second out of the day and just say hi. At first "lights out" was odd, now they are comforting.

It's a big world, after all.

Nothing like starting a blog post with the obvious:

It's a big world out there.

Unfortunately, many of us limit ourselves to our own little sliver or to places that we have been before. Mind you, there is comfort in the familiar but experiencing new places stimulates the mind and feeds the soul. And the clock is ticking.

Most of our lives are spent going to places familiar: To work. The neighborhood grocery store. The mall. The gym. And it doesn't take long before it all looks the same (because it is) and you feel nothing. So, when the opportunity arises because you have the money and / or the time, explore. Find your inner adventurer. Discover the joy that lies in the unknown.

I do find it surprising that at many people go to the same place on vacation year after year: a house at a lake, Disney world for the gazillionth time, etc. But hold your horses, these travelers are quick to point out that each experience at that place is different. OK, I will give them that much. However, I am of the opinion you need to "double-size it" as often as you can. The experience should be new, AND the place should be new.

Admittedly, most of us don't have the time or the money to jet our way across the pond and wander among the hamlets of rural England or explore the lagoons of the Caribbean. That's fine. Then, seek out the "new" closer to home. Cross places off your list and move on to the next one. Some experiences will be better than others. But you will never know if you continue to go to the same places.

It's ok to run.

Peter Howes, aged 66, was an avid runner who logged 20 miles a week. Yards from the finish line at the annual Thanksgiving Day 10-K Turkey Trot in Virginia Beach, he suffered a cardiac arrest and collapsed. Luckily, several fellow runners came to his aid including nurses and a cardiovascular specialist. A tragic incident with qualified medical professionals nearby. What are the odds of that?

Mr. Howes was rushed to Sentara Virginia Beach hospital where he underwent surgery and remained in critical condition for more than a week. He died on December 6th.

I recall seeing at least four news articles about Mr. Howe's collapse and subsequent hospital stay. The last headline read: "Va. Beach runner who collapsed at Turkey Trot dies." Unfortunately, people die every day. Evidently, the local media found it newsworthy that he collapsed while he was - God forbid - running. It was as if the primary message conveyed in the headline and article was "Mr Howes was asking for it," or "look what can happen if you go out and run race!" Maybe they should have just crafted a headline that read: "If you run, you will die."

Admittedly, I am an avid runner. I was saddened by the loss of a fellow runner and frustrated by the media coverage. Where are the news headlines that read: "Overweight and sedentary man dies after years of 5,000+ a day caloric intake." Or, "Three pack a day smoker collapses at the food mart passes away." No, we can't single out those who abuse their bodies. That would be insensitive. They can't help it if they eat like an ox or smoke like at chimney. It's society's fault. Blah, Blah, Blah.

Runners are, for the most part, very fit and very caring - as demonstrated by the fine people that came to his aid. Runners are doing their best to fight time and gravity; doing their darnedest to stay healthy for themselves and their loved ones. Let's recognize their ongoing achievements and commitment to fitness rather than their last race.

A Different Way to DC

Last week, my thirteen-year old son sent me a text about taking Amtrak to Washington, D.C. to attend a MLS soccer game. I’ve never traveled by Amtrak or attended a professional soccer game, so naturally I decided it was a good idea. In the past, I’ve had the pleasure of springing last-minute vacation plans on my son; most recently a 48-hour heads up that we were traveling to Big Sky country. So, I figured it was his turn.

The closest train station to Virginia Beach is tucked off of Warwick Blvd. in Newport News, a town once known primarily for its ship building prowess, but tends to make the news these days for random gang murders and drug arrests.

The Amtrak station itself is a boxy, beige colored building whose interior has the style and personality of a well-worn DMV office. Twenty or so black, airport gatestyle chairs take up the majority of the waiting area. Two Amtrak employees chat amongst eachother behind thick bullet-proof glass which could use a good squeegee. With tickets in hand, we found a seat among our future fellow travelers. Nearby, an overweight and farsighted woman does her best to decipher a crumpled crossword puzzle while others stare into space sipping coffee and waiting for, I hope, the proverbial “all aboard,” which by the way, never comes.

My son and I decide to wait outside when an Amtrak bus (who knew they made such a thing?) from Virginia Beach spilled about 40 travelers curbside. The bus driver quickly birthed luggage of varying sizes and shapes from its belly. Duffle bags, roller suitcases, beach umbrellas and surprisingly, two brand new white Styrofoam coolers which contain either freshly caught Virginia Beach seafood or human body parts. I pray for the former. A sunburned man in an orange tank top accompanied by two girls clad in pajama bottoms and t-shirts quickly gathers up the coolers, straps them to a luggage carrier and hurriedly heads in side. Perhaps this is a common occurrence, because I’m the only one who notices and thinks it odd. But then again, this is Newport News, and maybe it’s best to look the other way when encountering suspicious behavior.


A quick word about zone boarding, at least as it applies to the Amtrak Station in Newport News: Nowhere on your ticket does it tell you if you are to board from zone A, B, C, D, etc. When I saw the zone signs along the track, I inquired from one of the attendants behind that translucent bullet proof glass as to which zone I belonged, and she told me I was in “zone D” because “that’s the way we do it.” Turns out, everyone was assigned to zone D that morning. As the train backed into position, the procession of travelers shuffled quietly trackside; bags and children in tow making their way to down to “zone D.” It had that eastern-European, cold war refugee feel to it. I fully expected to see elderly women in babushkas clutching chickens and dreams for a better future but instead, here comes suspicious cooler guy.

I avert my eyes and help a older woman squeeze a four-foot wide suitcase through a two-foot wide train door. Luggage size, weight, or content are of no concern. Security is non-existent. If it can fit through the door, it can come along for the ride. Once we boarded, I was pleasantly surprised how roomy the train car was as compared to the claustrophobic confines of most airplanes. The isles, seats, windows and overhead compartment where twice a big. We had power outlets, tray tables, leg room and a snack car. We quickly found a couple of seats, stowed our backpacks and out of habit, I reached for seatbelts that didn’t exist. Fine by me. Also, there was no need to power down electronic devices, store tray tables or listen to flight attendants drone on about various exiting options.

We slowly pulled away from the Newport News station. The train swayed gently back and forth as we clickity-clacked our way down the tracks. Passengers did what passengers do: read, sleep, or cautiously navigate through conversations with total strangers about past and future travels. One lady was on her way to a business meeting, a young man was off to visit his father, and two teens the size and evidently the appetites of NFL linebackers waited impatiently for the snack car to open.

Between Newport News and Richmond, it appears that the major forms of industry are farming, manufacturing, and fencing in rusty machinery. These random monuments to industrial demise include gutted cars, extinct harvesting implements, and oddly shaped twists of iron and steel that, if plopped down in front of office buildings, would make fine works of art.

Train travel does allow one to take note of your surroundings. For me, traveling from Newport News to Richmond has always been in a car, where the view is always the same: A narrow strip of cracked concrete chock-a-block with cars and trucks, weaving through a trough of shrubs and trees. The only respites being exit ramps leading to convenience stores packed with over priced goodies and stressed out drivers. I find myself growing tired of the familiar to the point where I stop seeing things -- or even looking for things -- that might be of interest. A drive to work is a drive to work. The traffic looks the same. Buildings are just buildings. I arrive but don’t remember journey. It’s only when I get off the beaten path, travel to someplace entirely new that I become more aware of my surroundings. The search for new is the recognition of my own mortality. It’s a big world out there, and I want to see as much of it as possible before time stores the suitcase in the attic and announces it’s time to board at Gate Pearly.


After about an hour into our trip, we emerge on the open plains of the Richmond airport - pun intended - where our train’s power cut off twice, affording us a lovely view of planes taking off and landing. I commented to my son that an incident such as this would have dire affects if we were traveling by plane. Luckily, we powered up and made our slow approach to the Shockoe Slip area of Richmond and Main Street Station. Shockoe Slip earned its unusual name from the creek that once flowed through it. "Shacquohocan" was the Indian word for the large, flat stones at the mouth of the creek, and "slip" refers to the area's position on the canal basin where boats loaded their cargo.
One thing you notice as you inch your way to Main Street station – and I do mean inch – is the many dark red brick buildings that greet our arrival to the capitol of the Commonwealth. These buildings once housed the likes of Lucky Strike cigarettes, American Cigar Company and other titans of tobacco. The name “Lucky Strike” is spelled out in large white vertical letters on a non smoking, smoke stack. How appropriate.
If there was ever for the train to reduce speed to 15 miles per hour, the stretch between Main Street station and Staples Mill Road is not the place. Creeping along at this pace allows you to to get a close look at the tattooed underbelly of Richmond. Cinder block walls, cargo trains, and support columns are tagged with brightly colored, illegible graffiti; their bulbous letters communicating some kind of message to some type of audience to elicit some kind of response. Maybe “Rosetta Stone” will release graffiti language software that will help with the translation.

The stop at Staples Mill Road is quick, less we get tagged by spray paint yielding bandits. We pick up speed, and the scenery north of Richmond changes for the better. We enter tunnels of green and slice through corduroyed fields of crops. On occasion, I peer out the window to see the front of the train peeking around upcoming corners. Overall, the ride is smoother now. Maybe I’m just getting used to it. I liken it to traveling at 30,000 feet in an airplane but much nicer, roomier, although much slower.

We travel smack down the center of North Center Street in the quaint little hamlet of Ashland. A few, brightly colored Victorian homes whizz by the window. I pray that hoop-skirted ladies holding Parasols and waving kerchiefs will welcome our arrival. Instead, we stop at an empty station. No one gets on, no one gets off. Maybe that’s what keeps Ashland the way it is.

By far, the best train stop on our journey is the town of Fredericksburg. Home of countless civil war battles, George Washington’s childhood home, and a historic downtown mere steps from the train station. Having a station in right in the heart of town is not uncommon. Main Street Station in Richmond, Union Station and DC are two examples. However, there’s a sense of arrival here. Because the track leading intoto the station is elevated, you are provided with an inviting panorama of the town. There is activity here. I see people strolling down shaded, brick sidewalks, stopping to peek in windows or chat with town folk. Two spires poke through the Fredericksburg skyline, one of which belongs to the Circuit Court building which was designed by the same architect of St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York City and the Smithsonian Castle in Washington, D.C. The town oozes history. If only I had time to hop off, explore and take a whack at a cherry tree.

We invade Quantico, a military installation along the Potomac River. I later learned this sprawling campus is one of the largest U.S. Marine Corps bases in the world. “OohRah” to that.
It’s also the site of the Marine Corps Combat Development Command and HMX-1 (the presidential helicopter squadron). The United States Drug Enforcement Administration's training academy and the FBI Academy are also located here. And, now I’m here. But hardly anyone else is. No troops marching in formation; no FBI cadets scaling walls and shooting bad guy silhouettes; no tanks rumbling over dirt hills. All I see are two camouflaged solders standing sentry along a quarter mile section of fencing that’s topped with glistening razor wire. I suppose they keep the cool stuff hidden from the curious eyes of Amtrak passengers. As we pull out, I see two large helicopters parked on an adjacent runway. From a distance, they look like large black insects sunning themselves.

We retreat from Qauntico where the tracks begin to hug the banks of the Potomac River as we head toward to Alexandria. To be honest, I really didn’t have a sense as where I was, other than south of Washington DC. I did a Google map of the area and was surprised to see that practically the entire Potomac River belongs to the state of Maryland, not Virginia, Stand on the shores of the Potomac in Virginia, put your big toe in the water and bam, you’re in Maryland. At the very least, they should share ownership.

Before too long, I catch a glimpse of Interstate 95, east coast’s main clogged artery, off to my left. The track snakes its way under the beltway and approaches the Alexandria station. High rise condos stand sentry to this gateway to the nation’s capitol. Each condo probably contains the population equal to that of small town but chances are no one really knows their neighbors. It’s one of the disadvantages of city life: being close to everything doesn’t necessarily mean being close to anyone. Nearby a metro train gobbles up and spits out commuters, an act that’s repeated thousands of time throughout the DC metro area.

The familiar skyline of Washington D.C is here before we know it. The Washington Monument serves as a bold explanation point for our arrival at the nation’s capitol. It’s been four long and very interesting hours. Arriving in DC by train is a lot like riding the monorail into the Magic Kingdom. Both are theme parks in their own way. Disney is a celebration of imagination; DC a celebration of freedom, democracy and occasional corruption. Disney has Cinderella’s castle, DC has The Capitol and The White House. And, both areas have their share of Goofies.

Everywhere you look: white granite and stately columns. There are signs that proclaim “department of this” and “department of that.” You feel AND fear the power. "Lights out" was as we enter a tunnel just outside of Union Station. We emerge and see tracks everywhere. The conductor announces that we have arrived at Union Station. But for me, it was more about the journey.

After I returned home, people asked me about train travel and whether I would do it again. I answer with an emphatic yes. But I would want more time to get out and explore the towns along the way. There was a young man on our return trip who spent three long days traveling from Flagstaff, Arizona to Newport News, Virginia. Not the way to do it. The way I would like to do it is to find an interesting route, preferably out west, and have the freedom to hop on and hop off whenever and wherever I want.