A Picture of Contentment

(I discovered this in my “to post” folder, long neglected because of computer drama. The weather has been much cooler since, and our hiking much more pleasant.)

One Sunday, despite the predictions of a heat index of 104ºF, Zach and I decided to go hiking. I had been longing to take a trip to my favorite hiking place— Pere Marquette State Park— for a while now, since we hadn’t been out there since January. The thought of the scenic drive there— a quiet two-lane highway wending between corn and soybean fields, past fruit stands with homemade signs saying PEACHES, through the tiny towns of West Alton and Grafton, and between the limestone bluffs and the glittering waters of the Mississippi River— sounded like it was worth it, even if the hiking was too hot.

As we scrambled to get our packs together, it occurred to me that we’d need dinner. Since we’re doing an Uber-Frugal Challenge right now, I figured that we shouldn’t cave and get Taco Bell on our way out. But I didn’t have any of the normal fixin’s for making a proper picnic dinner— no cheese, no olives, no tuna, no hummus. The idea of getting Little Caesar’s pizza crossed my mind. Five bucks for a whole pizza isn’t much, and then we’d have pizza! But when I ventured this idea to Zach, he said, “Don’t we still have some bread left? We can make peanut butter sandwiches.”

I balked. Sure, it was good homemade whole wheat bread, but I think it’s best when it’s fresh from the toaster, not eaten out of a backpack. I just wanted a pizza. Was it too much to ask to buy a pizza? Fortunately, there were no Little Caesar’s directly on the way, so it helped make it easier to assent to Zach’s idea and start making sandwiches. I put a ton of honey on mine, packed it up in Tupperware, threw it along with some trail mix into our packs, and we headed out.

The drive was everything I hoped it would be— I stared at the fluffy clouds through the rows of corn flickering by, spotted snowy egrets hunting for fish in shallow water, and smiled as we plunged through a brief rain shower. The hike was hotter than I expected it to be, with sweat dripping from every pore as I struggled up the hills after Zach. We slapped mosquitoes and dodged poison ivy as we hiked through the breeze-less forest, our conversation about the predominance of pawpaws in the understory punctuated by spluttering and smacking as we ran into yet another spiderweb.

By the end of the multi-mile hike, we were ready for some air conditioning. Fortunately, the park features a historic Civilian Corps lodge, and we had confirmed on a previous visit that you’re allowed to hang out in the great room and even eat your own food. Sweat literally dripping from us, we stepped into the icy room and found some seats by the window. We pulled out our sandwiches, Zach said grace over them, and we began to eat.

I had never tasted a peanut butter sandwich so delicious. It was warm and sticky, full of honey, with crispy edges because I’d toasted the bread. I ate slowly, gazing out the window at the Illinois River floating by in the near distance. The lodge’s great beams rose above our head, decorated with tapestries depicting the wildlife in this region. I looked at Zach’s glasses and saw the trees and the river reflected in them. We didn’t talk, concentrating on how delicious our food tasted.

When we finished eating, and just sat in our seats, looking out at the river, I was almost staggered by how content I felt. Just a few hours ago I had been whining because I wanted pizza, but now I had been stunned to silence by the perfect simplicity of a peanut butter sandwich, eaten with my husband in a beautiful place. How many other moments like this had I missed in my quest to find something to make me happy?

We drove home along the same scenic route, listening to Steely Dan and still enjoying the air conditioning. It was a perfect day.

~~~

Audiofeed!

Insomniac Folklore! Wallace (the sheep), Adrienne, Tyler, me, Joshua, and Amanda. (Photo by Emily)

This year, after three years of wanting to go, Zach and I finally managed to make it up to Champaign-Urbana for the Audiofeed Festival! It’s basically the phoenix that rose from the ashes when Cornerstone Music Festival disbanded, and I was super-excited to see some people and bands that I hadn’t seen in four years.

Hanging out with friends! (Emily is second from the left.)

Being not in tourist mode, I completely forgot to take any photos. Fortunately, my friend Emily had a camera and was willing to share some snapshots of the good times! All the photos in this post are hers. (Check out her blog here— it’s awesome.)

Zach and I were only able to go for two days, so we drove up on Saturday morning through spatters of rain. When we arrived, the weather was cool and cloudy— perfect, really— and our friends from Insomniac Folklore welcomed us. The “St. Louis Edition” of the band, as I like to call it (comprised of three people who live in Nashville and two to three who live in St. Louis), is basically one big family. Explaining our relationships can be confusing: “I went to school with Adrienne and Amanda. Adrienne married some weird guy from Portland named Tyler. Tyler had a friend named Zach, and I ended up marrying him. Adrienne and Amanda’s brother-in-law plays the accordion. Oh, and that’s Wallace, our sheep. He’s from Iowa.”

We set up our tent near our friends, securing our rainfly tightly. We didn’t even have time to walk around the grounds before we ran off to see our friend Kevin Schlereth play. Insomniac Folklore immediately followed him, playing a “daytime” set of happy songs. I don’t play much violin anymore, so it’s always awesome to be able to perform with these guys. 

After the show, Zach and I wandered the grounds, noting the different tents: the discussion tent, the hard music tent, the softer music tent, the big music venue, the impromptu stage, the Goth stage, the children’s tent, the hardcore tent (separated from everything else). We ate some sandwiches from a food truck, listened to some other bands, manned the merch table, and discovered “artist hospitality,” which provided the artists with free snacks and drinks all day. They also felt us a huge meal of burritos at dinnertime. I felt like a rockstar flashing my gold wristband to gain entrance to the pavilion!

Emily managed to get a good picture of us!

Unfortunately, Zach and I were both exhausted that day, so we went to bed at 10:15. Yes, we are fuddy-duddies. But we were fuddy-duddies who got enough sleep.

The next day we awoke to the sound of pouring rain, and I realized that I probably should’ve packed something with long sleeves. Adrienne lent me a hoodie so I wouldn’t freeze, and Zach and I took a midday detour to Walmart to find him a long-sleeved shirt, which was well worth the three dollars we paid.

Since it was so rainy and cold, the whole festival was a bit subdued, but it was fun to hang out. I chatted with random people as we put on makeup side by side at the mirrors. Zach and I worshiped and took communion from an Orthodox priest at the Goth tent (called the Asylum). We were invited to someone’s tent for free chili, and one of the people at Artist Hospitality set aside slow-cooked pulled pork and a bunch of sides just for us.

Insomniac Folklore also played a children’s show on Sunday, which included songs about climbing mountains, sewing clothes, and singing around a campfire. We also sang our hit single, “Listen to Your Parents and Don’t Trust the Government."

We love children's shows!

I sat at the merch table for a couple hours, watching people of all ages and fashions walk by: little kids in bright colors; teenagers dressed as ninjas; punks with tattered patched clothing and tight pants; goths with theatrical black outfits; hipsters with whip-top haircuts and big glasses; hippies with long dreadlocks and bare feet; young people wearing plain jeans and t-shirts; parents with strollers and babies with huge sound-canceling headphones; old people, some conservatively dressed and some outlandishly. Some people speed-walked past, others strolled. Some rode skateboards, bicycles, or even a unicycle. The air thrummed with the sound of the bands competing for earspace. 

On Sunday night we played a “nighttime” set of darker songs at The Asylum, amid clouds of fog-machine smoke. Then I tromped up to the main stage and watched the Flatfoot56 show, standing at the edge of the circle pit with three inches of mud squelching up around my army boots. My back was hurting a lot by this point, preventing me from throwing myself into the mosh pit. I still got covered in mud, though, so I felt like part of the experience. After the last notes faded, I slogged out of the mud, changed my clothes, found my way back to our tent, and collapsed in a heap. 

On July 4th, we got home in the afternoon, and I slept for four hours, watched fireworks, and slept another eight hours. It was an intense two days, and I still feel like I’m recovering from it, but it was a great introduction to this new festival that I hope will become a tradition with us.

And in the meantime, I already have a running list in my head of things to bring next year: Zach’s unicycle, juggling balls, sidewalk chalk, a heavy winter coat...

~~~

Camping!

The view from our campsite

Failed group selfie #1

On Sunday morning, Zach and I did something we haven’t done since September 29th, 2014— we went camping! Yes, I know it’s strange that a couple people who camped every night for almost five months straight would go for a year and a half without sleeping under the stars... but actually, maybe it’s not that strange. 

Failed group selfie #2

The trip was the suggestion of my brother Christian, and since my sister Mary was also in town from California, and since Zach is now often getting two days in a row off (which is AMAZING), we were able to swing it. We packed Christian’s car to the gills and set off for Pere Marquette State Park, a family favorite for hiking.

We stopped first at the Olin Nature Preserve in Godfrey, Illinois, which I had never even heard of until I spotted a listing in the Great River Road tourist guide. This parcel of private land, open to the public, is a lovely place to hike, featuring a series of interconnected trails that feature oak woodland, views of the Mississippi River, small picturesque streams, and little waterfalls. If you’re looking for a leisurely day hike in the St. Louis area, I highly recommend it!

Beaver Falls

Before anyone asks... no, I'm not pregnant. I'd just eaten too many croissants that morning.

Next we drove to Pere Marquette, and hiked the longest loop of trails available, tracing the well-worn (and very muddy) paths that we’ve been hiking since we were kids. It’s still my favorite hiking spot in the St. Louis area. 

I had never actually camped at Pere Marquette before, but it turns out the sites are quite nice: we found a secluded spot on a hill underneath some locust trees, with a picnic table, a water pump, plenty of flat spaces for tents, and a tennis court about a hundred yards away. (Not to mention the Lodge just a two-minute walk away, which has a very nice restaurant.) All this for $10 a night! 

Our brand new tent (we killed our old one on the PCT)

We set up our tents, played tennis for a while, made a gigantic bonfire, cooked brats and marshmallows, and chatted until stars spangled the sky. That night I laid down on my slightly-deflated sleeping pad and stared up at the stars twinkling through the mesh.

I had forgotten how much I missed sleeping under an open sky. 

~~~

And Other Random Things You See in Illinois

On the way to Chicago to catch a flight to Europe last year, I saw a boxy peach-colored church along the highway. It was named “The Friendly Temple of God in Jesus Christ.” 

Am I the only one who gets an image of robe-clad Levitical priests with censers loudly greeting people and handing out bulletins?

~~~

A 20-Mile Stroll to Pere Marquette

For months now, Zachary and I have been talking about walking to Pere Marquette State Park. We kept on deciding against it, mostly because we’d need some willing victims to meet us for a picnic out there to justify the walk, and also because the summer weather is not the greatest for a twenty-mile jaunt. But yesterday, with a cloudy autumn sky, a chilly breeze blowing, and my brother and mom interested in a picnic by the river, we found the perfect time.

We left around 9:30 from my parents’ house, which was marginally closer to our destination. After a mile of walking along a busy street and through a strip of fast-food joints and gas stations, we turned to the left, skirted an industrial district, and found ourselves on a wide open country road.

For a couple hours we rambled along the roads by cornfields and farmhouses. We even saw two bald eagles wheeling far overhead, cackling to each other in metallic-sounding chuckles. Eventually we reached the Golden Eagle Ferry, which (for $3 a head), bore us across the Mississippi River to the banks of Calhoun County, Illinois. 

The roads in Calhoun County are narrow, tortuous, and full of steep hills, winding us through forests, along sweeping empty hillsides of harvested barley, and past peach orchards, mansions, trailer homes, and roadside stores that sell sorghum molasses by the quart. Our road took us through a neighborhood on the spine of Calhoun County, where the land fell away on either side, showing us broken woods and farmland to the right, and densely-wooded countryside to the left that obscured the rivers and marched up to the bluffs where Pere Marquette resides. (Unfortunately, I considered it too much work to dig through the backpack for a camera at this point, so I have no photos of that.)

Next our road plunged downward, and within a couple hours we found ourselves walking on the shoulder of a highway that delved through the heart of the Two Rivers Wildlife Preserve, a wetlands habitat reserved for migrating birds. We saw few birds, but  discovered a storm of grasshoppers. When we walked in the grass to avoid getting hit by cars, hundreds of grasshoppers, large and small, bounded out of our way.

Our final road in Calhoun County looped around a neighborhood by the waters of the Illinois River, where all the houses stand on stilts. As Zach and I walked, two friendly dogs ran over to check us out, and we chatted with their owner, a middle-aged woman in a floral print dress, standing on the stairs that led up to her house. She was curious about the backpack, and we told her that we were walking to Pere Marquette from St. Charles. Her response was, “Why?”

We crossed the Brussels Ferry, walked along a shoulder of the busy road for a while, then took to the bike trail that led us to the park. We were now racing my brother and mom, and managed to arrive at the picnic area about five minutes before they did. We laid down on the concrete and let out sighs of relief (in between me incessantly yelling, “Boo-ya!”). The walk, from start to finish, was a bit more than 20 miles.

Christian and Mom arrived with picnic gear in hand, and I limped over to greet them.

“So, we going to do any hiking?” Christian asked.

I looked at Zach. Zach looked at me. We both shrugged.

So we went hiking.

Simply Magic

Two days ago, after getting up late and taking way too long to make a healthy lunch (why do celery and onions take so long to soften? Honestly!), I asked Zachary what he wanted to do on his day off. I had just gotten my paycheck, and we were ready to blow some dough.

“Let’s go to Pere Marquette,” he said.

And so we blew some dough on gas, packed a lunch, loaded up a backpack, and hit the road. We listened to Jonathan Coulton on the way up, leaving the city behind and winding along the highway beside the Muddy Mississip’, which sparkled blue under the clear October sky. At Pere Marquette, we hiked up the blue trail, watched the sun on the confluence at McAdam’s Peak, and hiked to the other side of the bluff, finally settling down to eat at Flag Pole Lookout. After we finished our summer sausage sandwiches, Zachary pulled out his copy of The Fellowship of the Ring. We sat on a stone wall with the sweeping wooded countryside beside us, and he read to me. As the air grew chillier, I donned my jacket.

We were so caught up in the story that by the time we realized we should hike back, the sun had already slipped below the horizon. We hiked the couple miles back to our car in the dark, looking at the black tree silhouettes against the rainbow-glow of sunset on the western horizon.

On the way home, we ate caramel sundaes at McDonald’s and listened to Bach’s cello suites, and once we got home, Zach continued reading Lord of the Rings to me until midnight passed and his throat was sore. We made it to the end of Book One. 

Some days are simply magic.

Ten Thousand Ticks and Maybe More

Well, can't say they didn't warn us.

I’m sure you’ve all been waiting with bated breath, hanging off the edge of your chairs by the skin of your teeth, for this blog that chronicles the exciting events of Zach’s and my 13-mile hike at Giant City State Park!

No? Oh well, I’m going to tell you about it anyway. (Read Part One here.)

After Zach and I camped the night, we crawled out of our tent into a “misty, moisty morning.” A blanket of gray clouds smothered the sky, making us wonder if the promised thunderstorms would come. Everything was still wet from the rain the night before. 

We packed up the tent and tossed a couple water bottles, some trail mix and PBJ sandwiches, and a two-liter of water into my spiffy new backpack, which I was eager to try out. (My verdict at the end of the day was overwhelmingly positive: it felt less like I was carrying a backpack and more like I had just gained 20 pounds of fat on my back.) Then we were off to the Red Cedar Trail, despite the campground host’s warning of rugged conditions and ticks.

The trail ran through typical Midwestern forest: youngish maples, oaks, and other hardwoods with lots of underbrush on rugged, boulder-strewn ground (there were never any cedars, incidentally). The trail was a bit rocky, but easy to follow— at first. It didn’t take long before it delved into thick undergrowth, and we soaked the fronts of our pants wading through the rain-soaked foliage. Still, the sun came out and a cool breeze rustled through the forest, making a pleasant hike despite our struggling.

We crossed some pretty streams on our path, which ran over beds of sandstone.

The trail also ran alongside several picturesque fields.

I look at these photos and remember that the trail was pretty. I have to remind myself because most of the experience on the trail was pretty awful. It wasn’t just that we were fighting through underbrush or wading through waist-high grass the entire time. It wasn’t just that the trail took an unmarked turn every few minutes that had us hunting a 100-yard radius in search of a blaze. It wasn’t even the fact that we missed a turn and trudged down a mile-long detour in armpit-deep grass.

See the trail? Yeah, me neither.

It was the ticks.

We were about four hours into the hike when we noticed them. At first we just found a stray one here or there, crawling on our pant legs or arms. We flicked them off and continued hiking. Then we started to notice they were showing up more and more. Then I pulled up my pant legs to check my ankles, and found a family of ticks camping out in my leg hair. I squawked and plucked them off, tossing them into the grass. 

With growing horror over the next hour, we discovered that the grass and underbrush we were wading through was swarming with these little bloodsuckers. And when I say “swarming,” I’m not exaggerating. There was a plague of them in those woods. For the final three hours of the hike, Zach and I stopped literally ever 100 yards to pluck a dozen ticks off our pants and ankles. We did a more thorough search every 40 minutes or so, where we pulled them off our kneepits, necks, and underwear lines. We’d walk and I’d see three huge ticks latch onto Zach’s pants as he walked in front of me and swarm up his legs at an alarming rate. Sometimes I asked him if he wanted to stop for a break, and he’d say, “No, let’s just get out of here!” 

The trail became a breathless nightmare, excruciatingly slow because of the tick-plucking rest stops. I began getting phantom tickles all over my body, making me jerk and scratch and freak out at anything that looked remotely tick-sized.

When at last we stumbled up to the end of the trail, I was covered in rashes and scratches, hot and breathless, still picking ticks off my legs. I wondered how humans had managed to survive on planet earth this long. Still, it was a good opportunity to ham it up for a few photos.

Zach and I both took long showers, and I picked off six tiny red ticks that had attached to my ankles. On the drive home, I found two more crawling around, and when I got home, I picked off another one. Do you ever want to become hyper-aware of every sunspot and mole on your body? Then hike in tick-infested woods for seven hours.

On the way home, Zach and I agreed that we would not be hiking the Red Cedar Trail again. But I said, “This is going to be an awesome blog.”

~~~

Camping, Giant City State Park, Illinois

On Wednesday after lunch, Zach and I decided that we did not just want to sit around all day. He had Wednesday and Thursday off, and our original plans to hike on the Katy Trail were thwarted by flooding and the threat of thunderstorms. We poked around on the Internet, and finally decided to throw our camping gear into the car and head out for Giant City State Park in southern Illinois. It has a 12-mile loop trail called the Red Cedar Trail that we were eager to check out.

The drive took us about three hours with traffic, during which we listened to Simon and Garfunkel’s greatest hits. I never remember how much I love the plain cornfields and tiny run-down towns of Illinois until I see them again: they are more familiar to me than most of Missouri because of our frequent trips through them when I was a kid. This drive was particularly beautiful because threatening dark blue clouds gathered in the sky, but a strong evening light fell on the wheat fields, turning them a vivid yellow-white.

It rained a bit on our car, but by the time we reached the park, it let up, leaving behind a cool breeze and a lovely rain-washed night. We checked in with the campground host, a woman in her 50s with a voice reduced to ash by cigarettes. As we petted her fluffy longhaired terrier, she told us about the area. 

We told her we were planning on hiking the Red Cedar Trail. She looked at us sharply over her glasses and said, “I do not recommend that trail. The maintenance guys haven’t gotten out to clear it, so it’s overgrown and hard to follow. And there are lots of ticks.”

Zach and I looked at each other, and we silently agreed we’d be trying the trail anyway. The longest trail besides that was a two-mile stroll.

For eight bucks, we got a nice little campsite with a fire ring and a picnic table underneath some fir trees. As we were setting up our tent, our neighbors from the next site over asked if wanted some brats. My mommy taught me to never turn down free food, so we gladly accepted. 

Soon we were seated at their picnic table underneath a tarp in case of rain, with fragrant citronella candles burning. The guy’s name was Dave and the girl’s name was Carol. They were both special-ed teachers from the Chicago area. We chatted with them over bratwursts and sautéed peppers about their plans to take a cross-country trip and our plans to hike the PCT. As we talked, the forest around us grew dark and the flicker of the candles grew brighter and brighter. After a great conversation, we bid them goodnight and retreated to the tent.

It was sticky and warm in the tent because of the humidity, and I slept on top rather than under our sleeping bag. I slept decently that night, drifting in and out of sleep to hear rain pattering on our tent— and later to hear Zach waking up with a pinched nerve that gave him severe pain in his arm. After that I listened to him slip into a shallow sleep. 

I listened to his breathing for a while, then turned my attention to the outside noises. In the distance, two owls hooted back and forth to each other. I tried to think of how to explain the rhythm of their hoots. I came up with “hip hip hooray” and “stop, drop and roll” before I remembered that the barred owl is said to call, “Who cooks for you?” That was it.

I listened to a whip-poor-will joining the nighttime chorus. The whip-poor-will calls at Buford Mountain were soft and a bit haunting; this one sounded like he was cussing out the owls. 

After a while, I heard the strangest owl call: it was loud and droning. I listened to it, trying to figure out what kind of owl this might be. After a full minute, I abruptly realized it wasn’t an owl— it was a mourning dove. Morning had come. 

A 12-mile adventure was waiting for us.

And so were the ticks.

~~~

Coming soon… part two of the exciting saga!