Travel local: Florissant Fossil Beds

Back with a new installment of Travel Local.

Today's location is the Florissant Fossil Beds National Monument.

Worth visiting? Yes.

Worth visiting more than once? Once is probably good.

Worth it for non-locals too? Yes.

Fees? $3-$5 for those 16 and older.

Pets? Leave the pups at home. They're not allowed.

Musical inspiration for the trek? Old Seasons, New Day, album by Switchfoot's Jon Foreman. (Free on NoiseTrade right now.)

The Florissant Fossil Beds National Monument sits about 35 miles west of Colorado Springs. Established in 1969, the property has been a site for scientific research since the 1870s and excavations for fossils continue today. You won't find dinosaur fossils, but you will see massive petrified redwood tree stumps on the grounds and tiny fossils from plants, spiders, insects, fish and seeds — and even fish vomit (the kids will love that!) — in the visitor center. In the late 1800s, researcher Samuel Scudder discovered that Florissant had more fossil butterflies than any place else in the world.

A one-mile hike will take you through open fields and past a handful of different redwood stumps, including the one pictured above. It's an easy rolling hike, but for those with mobility concerns, various stumps can be found right outside the visitor center.

One of the more interesting aspects at the Monument is the Fossil Learning Lab, housed in a nearby yurt. A park ranger manages the space, and will help you use microscopes and magnifying glasses to discover new fossils in shale from the area. (Our ranger was super chatty so don't hesitate to ask lots of questions if you have them.) Samples of different types of fossils set around the yurt help hunters identify what they find. The yurt's hours are random, so call before you go to make sure it will be open when you're planning to visit.

Other site activities include indoor historical exhibits, 1878 historic homestead grounds to visit (currently populated by a family of bunnies), and ranger treks — including free wildflower walks and twice-weekly yoga hikes.

I give the Paint Mines one and a half thumbs up, so my recommendation is to get out and travel local!

P.S. If you have a place around Colorado Springs or the state that you'd like me to visit and review, leave a comment and let me know!

Travel local: Paint Mines Interpretive Park

You know all those places you always mean to get to that are nearby to wherever home is for you?

And then 20 years go by, and you still haven't gotten to them?

I've decided to actually start visiting the places on my "tourist" list for Colorado Springs, the surrounding areas, and Colorado more generally — which is quite long, thanks to years of working at the Colorado Springs Independent — and report back here as to whether they're worth the trek or not.

Meet my new series: "Travel local."

We'll start today with Paint Mines Interpretive Park.

Worth visiting? Yes.

Worth visiting more than once? Yes.

Worth it for non-locals too? Yes.

Fees? Nope.

Pets? Leave the pups at home. They're not allowed.

Musical inspiration for the trek? The self-titled album by Tow'rs.

Paint Mines Interpretive Park is perhaps one of the coolest local places I've visited in many, many years. Owned and run by El Paso County, the Paint Mines are located east of the Springs, near Calhan, about a 40-minute drive from downtown. Your ride out will be punctuated by rolling hills, black and white cows, and if you're lucky, some pronghorn. That's about it.

Which is why the Paint Mines are such a surprise.

Park at one of two lots (the one closest to Calhan has a restroom facility), take a peek at the map to figure out where you are, and jump on the trail. Within a 15-minute hike toward what's labeled "formations," you'll start seeing out-of-place-looking rocks. Then large swaths of geological formations, including spires and hoo-doos. Colors in the rock range from black to white, and a whole variety of reds, pinks, oranges and yellows. It's stunning, really. (American Indians used the colored clay in their art way back when.)

Wander four miles of trails on the 750-acres — it's easy hiking, but bring hats, water and sunscreen. There is a distinct lack of shade out here. And leave the pups, bikes and horses at home; they're not allowed on the grounds. (Though we did see a guy hiking with a parrot on his shoulder.)

Right now, there are lots of wildflowers out and about the Paint Mines too, and I imagine with all the rain we've had, it'll stay that way for awhile. If you're so inclined, take your camera and plan to spend some time not just shooting the rocks, but photographing a wide variety of blooms too.

I give the Paint Mines two thumbs up, so my recommendation is to get out and travel local!

P.S. If you have a place around Colorado Springs or the state that you'd like me to visit and review, leave a comment and let me know!

What hiking Camelback taught me

There's a line in my last post on kayaking for my #41before42 project about how as I age I'm craving physical challenges more and more.

I was particularly struck by this when I stood at the bottom of Scottsdale, Arizona's Camelback Mountain, prepping to head up a mile.

Twenty years ago, you would not have found me at 7:15 in the morning, dressed in hiking gear with water bottle in hand all gung-ho to climb straight up a mountain. Honestly, you probably wouldn't have found me doing that even 10 years ago. (It was only about five years ago that I started hiking much at all.)

But a few weeks ago, on assignment for Adventure Girl during a press trip organized by the Scottsdale Convention and Visitors Bureau, I popped out of my guide's car at the trailhead and took a deep breath.

Camelback is similar in many ways to the Manitou Springs Incline. You first have to claim a parking space — getting there as early as possible helps, and weekdays are easier than weekends. There are two trails up: Cholla and Echo Canyon. My guide — one of the CVB staff who regularly hikes the area — had chosen the latter, a 1.2-mile trip to the summit. The beginning of this trail consists of railroad tie stairs and small rocks. Then there are two "rail" sections, where I had to haul myself up steep walls of rock while clinging to a metal handrail.

Once we got past the second rail, the hiking turned primarily to scrambling large rocks, a section where I wished I'd had my own "Camelbak" instead of my water bottle. (Thankfully I did have a nice hiking companion and a carabiner, so we hooked my bottle onto her pack when things got tricky. Of course coming down I wished I'd had my trekking pole. It would have helped my knees and given me more confidence to move a little faster.)

The big difference between Arizona and Colorado, of course, is the altitude. Camelback climbs 1,200 feet in a little over a mile, from 1,424 ft. to 2,704 ft. The Incline starts at 6,600 ft. and climbs about 2,000 feet in just under a mile.

But just because you might breathe easier due to the lower altitude, you still have to fight the heat of Arizona. And while we started hiking Camelback early enough that I didn't feel it on the way up, I did feel it warming on the way down.

Round-trip, the hike took us about 2 1/2 hours — and that included a 10-or-so-minute break at the top, where the views are stunning everywhere you look.

I have to admit, on this side of the hike now, I kind of feel about Camelback like I do about the Incline. I did it once, and that's good enough for me.

As I'm aging, I am finding myself more inclined to tackle new physical challenges, but I'm also finding myself less inclined to do them more than once because someone else thinks I should (or because I think someone else thinks I should).

Would I recommend Camelback if you happen to find yourself in Scottsdale?

Definitely.

Will you find me on that trail again?

Probably not.

But that doesn't mean I won't seek out a different one in the area. And actually, I think the McDowell Sonoran Preserve might be calling my name.

Kayaking, times two

If you've never kayaked, the first thing you should know is that your butt will be wet for however long you're out. As will be, most likely for a good chunk of time, your hands, your arms, your feet and your legs.

For that reason, the second thing you should know is that applying sunscreen regularly will save you the pain and peeling that I had for weeks. (And the weird ankle tan the burn has now turned into.)

But getting the full experience, even if it's the hard way, is part of the fun of trying new things. Right?

I didn't know when I developed my #41before42 list this year, and included kayaking on it, that I'd not only get to head out once so soon, but twice — and that I'd get to try two different types within weeks of one another.

Thanks to Visit Santa Barbara's #BrightenYourDay Twitter contest (yes, I won a trip through Twitter!), my first foray earlier this month was part of a three-day, two-night vacation that included a stay at the Fess Parker, whale watching with the Condor Express, a Funk Zone food and photo tour with Eat This Shoot That, dinner at Olio e Limone, and a half-day sea kayaking trip with Santa Barbara Adventure Company. [Note: Yes, everything we did was comped, but I would recommend any of these companies and excursions if you're traveling to Santa Barbara. My husband and I had a ton of fun throughout the weekend, and no complaints whatsoever. Except for having to leave. Neither of us had ever been to the city and we'll definitely return. He wants to try mountain biking in the area, and I'm now antsy to kayak the Channel Islands sea caves.]

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The only other person signed up for our half-day Santa Barbara kayaking adventure hadn't ever done this either, so as we each received our individual boat and water gear, our guides gave us some basic information about how to wield our paddles, and how to get into the kayak — always butt first, especially if you happen to tip over into the ocean. (Because if you fling your leg over first, you might just end up flipping over again. And no one wants two mouthfuls of salt water.)

And then we were off.

I spent most of my time for the first two hours way behind the group — until one of our guides told me to push the paddle as I pulled the other side back. Leverage, duh. It got easier ... and then harder as we caught a headwind and had to fight our way back in.

’Twas pretty fascinating though to navigate about farther than I anticipated from the shore. And to see sea lions and harbor seals and turtles and lots and lots of pelicans up close and personal. (Makes me super sad though about the oil spill that just happened in the area.)

We even kayaked under a catamaran boat. Reportedly the largest in the world. I was happy to just get through it without banging into the side. It was obviously a very expensive catamaran.

All in all, a fun excursion. We were both tired after. I'd wished I'd spent a little more time at the climbing gym beforehand, but really the worst bit was that nasty burn I got.

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Two weeks later, I found myself once again in a kayak. This time thanks to a press trip to Scottsdale, Arizona, courtesy of the Scottsdale Convention & Visitors Bureau — I was there on assignment for Adventure Girl (when my full trip post goes live there, I'll let you know).

Kayaking the Lower Salt River with Arizona Outback Adventures was a very different experience. The paddles and the life vests were the same, but beyond that, not much.

We shared kayaks. My partner, Brooke from World of Wanderlust, and I had to learn to maneuver our inflatable boat together. She, in front, did the lion's share of the paddling, while I, in back, was responsible for steering.

Of course, our excursion here was more of a float than the workout of Santa Barbara. We had to keep ourselves out of the occasional weeds and rocks, but mostly we got to chat and watch the stunning Sonoran desert landscape go by — which included herons and eagles and redbirds, and (the coolest thing ever) a herd of wild horses.

Our guide told us that one side of the river was the Tonto National Forest, and the other, where the horses were, was reservation land. I could have sat and watched those horses for hours. It's just not something you see everyday, or even once in a lifetime.

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So as I check kayaking off my birthday list, I ponder why I put it on there in the first place.

I think it's because I've always felt drawn to large bodies of water. I'm not sure why, but there's something about them that's both powerful and serene. Cool and salty. Comforting and cleansing. Being able to sit upon the sea or float along the river ... it's magical.

When it came to these two trips, the emphasis during my time at sea was primarily physical, which I have started to crave more and more as I age. And I certainly slept well that night.

My time on the river though? Being able to mostly let go of a physical focus allowed me to connect deeper with myself, with a new friend, and with the landscape and larger world around me — the types of connections that I believe are the true work of my heart these days, whether though writing or teaching yoga or just daily living.

It also brought to mind a passage from Terry Tempest Williams' book Red: Passion and Patience in the Desert:

Inside this erosional landscape where all colors eventually bleed into the river, it is hard to desire anything but time and space. Time and space. In the desert there is space. Space is the twin sister of time. If we have open space then we have open time to breath, to dream, to dare, to play, to pray to move freely, so freely, in a world our minds have forgotten but our bodies remember. Time and space. This partnership is holy. In these redrock canyons, time creates space — an arch, an eye, this blue eye of sky. We remember why we love the desert; it is our tactile response to light, to silence, and to stillness.

The time and space partnership is holy. And so too, I think, is time spent in a small boat, atop a mighty water.

I have a feeling if the opportunity calls again, I'll be back.

Paris, on hold

I had planned to come back to my blog after two weeks traveling in France and write about the trip. Post a few of the hundreds of photos I took. Share the total number of miles my husband and I walked (a lot). But I came back to the sad fact that my almost-18-year-old orange tabby cat Tai was dying — and so France, and the details of it, shall wait. My brain is not there.

I'm not sure where my brain is. Perhaps protecting itself? This morning I went to Target. I didn't take a written list, and in my grief, I spent an hour and half wandering every aisle of the store in the hopes that I would remember why I was there. Toilet paper. Check. Sponges. Check. Wrapping paper for a good friend's birthday gift. Check.

Paper towels? Nope. A card for the same birthday-celebrating friend? Nope.

Kleenex? Yes. I did remember the Kleenex. Thankfully, because we're completely out after days of crying.

Grief is a weird thing. It comes and goes. Sometimes like slow ocean waves. Sometimes like a flood. And the tears rush in and rush out the same such way. (Hence, the all-important extra-soft Kleenex.) Sometimes it pushes you forward to go, go, go. And sometimes, even standing up from the couch feels painful. Grief cares not where you are (in the car, at a party, in the shower) or what you are doing (wandering Target). It sets its own priorities for releasing itself.

And so, I know I cannot ignore the Tai-sized hole in my heart. But perhaps as the days pass, I can fill it with more memories than tears.

***

Below you'll find what I wrote earlier this morning to tell friends about my dear Tai. Rest in peace, my sweet baby.

Tai (June-ish 1996 to April 3, 2014)

Tai. My-Tai. Sweet Potato Tai. ’Tato-Tai. Punkin’. I can’t even list all the names our little Tai picked up over the years.

G and I adopted this sweet orange tabby from the former Humane Society facility in February of 1997. The vet thought she was about nine months then and she’s spent the last 17-some years growing old with us. She was my first cat ever, our first pet as a couple. And within a day or two of adopting her, she got really sick. Like slept-23-hours-a-day, we’re-not-sure-she’s-gonna-make-it sick. We tried numerous medicines. The third one finally kicked in, and neither one of us had ever seen so much snot come out of a tiny sneezing cat. (We’re pretty sure that the bathroom in our rental house never really recovered.)

Over the years, we learned that she loved cheese, any kind. Open the fridge and pull out a plastic bag of shredded cheese, and within seconds you had a cat next to you. She even somehow knew when we had a brick of cheddar or a plastic container of feta. She adored small squishy balls and fabric mice. She’d pick them up and wander around the house making squawking noises with them in her mouth. She also was particularly fond of chasing and pouncing on beams of light, dozing in sunspots, and snuggling under “Tai Tents” that we’d make by bending our knees up under the bed blankets.

She was never much of a lap-sitter until a few years ago; from then on, it was hard to keep her off of us. She was our first cat, and our oldest, but the third we’ve had to say goodbye to over the past two years. I can’t say how much I miss her already and I just hope she meets Lexi and Bailey somewhere over the Rainbow Bridge.