I have lived near the sea my entire life and never tire of its beauty. The life it attracts is in constant flux. I may see a fisherman or two, maybe three, who stand alone, silent, absorbed in their thoughts, waiting for a tug on their line, seemingly content either way. Perhaps a boat is sailing or a cargo ship is edging out of sight. Birds may be scurrying on the sand searching for food just below the surface or flying above and diving suddenly when fish are seen. Perhaps it is the sky that catches my eye for several moments. But it is the sea, the beautiful sea that captivates my mind and heart.

The first hours I ever spent in Paris were inside a bustling station after an all night voyage by train. It was during my college days and my budget was extremely limited. I knew just enough French to order a simple breakfast and shortly afterwards the waiter arrived with three or four warm croissants and a frothy, steaming cup of café au lait. The new sights and sounds enthralled me, but paled in comparison to the exquisite pleasure upon my tongue. I recall devouring all the croissants but hopefully refrained from licking the bottom of the cup.

When completely sated, I asked for the bill. After paying, a large percentage of my money for the entire day was spent. (It had not occurred to me to ask the prices beforehand.)

But when I think back to those croissants and café au lait, I almost taste them still.

During a road trip,  from San Francisco to Vancouver, I almost by-passed Mount St. Helens. This was about ten years after its catastrophic eruption and the event was not in the forefront of my mind.

But the Welcome Center beckoned and I drove in.

Even after a decade, the apocalyptic sights were in evidence. Acres and acres of barren earth bared trees stripped of living bark and leaves. The trunks seemed haphazardly arranged on inconceivable planes. What had been lakes were now dry beds. Colors were mostly muted, gray.

But the earth was beginning to heal.

Wildflowers were growing amongst the silver limbs of the fallen trees.

The Copper Canyon is actually a series of canyons in Mexico that can be visited by train. The tracks extend from Chihuahua to Los Mochis, and it takes about fifteen hours to complete the journey from end to end.  A number of years ago I traveled this rail and took several weeks exploring the area.

I visited the small towns and learned of their history. Fortunes had been lost and a few gained in pursuit of precious ore.

Since I had been raised on films in which all the cowboys talked and looked more or less like John Wayne, I wasn’t expecting to see men, south of the border, wearing cowboy hats, boots and spurs.  But this was horse country and in Chihuahua I quickly adjusted to the local ways.

One of the many highlights, was my stay at the Sierra Lodge in Cusarare. The lodge lacked electricity, but there was no lack of comfort. Kerosene lamps were adequate, a wood burning stove kept the room warm at night and the meals were delicious.

There were many marked footpaths in the surrounding area and a walk to the nearby falls and town could easily be followed. But hiking the mountains without a guide was ill-advised. I had the good fortune to hire a local man from the Tarahumara tribe, an indigenous people who are renowned for their ability to run great distances.  I was told he knew the paths as well as anyone around. We set out toward a distant river with continuous ascents for most of the day. There were exquisite views with every moment and our language barrier did not restrict us from communicating along the way.  After many hours of difficult terrain, I was relieved to know that after lunch, our return would be upon a well worn path, only a few kilometers away.  But we discovered that an unexpected flood made this option impossible and had to return on the same trail we came.

We set off again the following morning, to see a painted cave, but this time I made sure the round trip was only a fraction of the previous day’s.