April Six Word Photo Story Challenge: “Reflect”

My home was just a dream.

I spent my junior year abroad at Oxford University in England when I was twenty. The ancient spires bewitched me. All the rest of the world was just a fantasy, I thought. This place of dreams and magic was the only true reality.

I intended to spend the rest of my life in Oxford. After one year back in America to finish out my undergraduate career, I’d be back in England to get my Master's and doctorate and, eventually, become a professor.

I even picked out a house for myself: a cute little cottage at the end of Rose Lane, right at the entrance to Christ Church Meadow.

One day, I was walking on the path around the meadow when I heard an old man say to his companion, “It’s been many years since I walked here.” He must have been a former student, and I took pity on him. I would never have to leave the meadow.

Now I’m thirty-eight. I never did go back to Oxford for my Masters, and due to poor health, I’m now unable to fly to Europe. It’s my turn to say, “It’s been many years since I walked in Christ Church Meadow.”

And how many more? Twenty? Thirty? Will I ever go back? I’m beginning to wonder if it’s the world that’s real and Oxford that was only a dream.

“Too Many Years,” The Old Man Said was originally published in Six Word Photo Story Challenge on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The grass isn’t always greener on the other side

On the first of April, my mom and I set off on a road trip from our home in Montana up through the Idaho panhandle and across iron-flat eastern Washington. Our destinations: Ellensburg and Wenatchee, Washington. Our purpose: finding a new place to live.

We might not actually be moving, and if we do, it wouldn’t be for another five years or so. We’re committed to staying at our current place for as long as our elderly horses are alive.

But I’ve been feeling restless. No, fearful. With my severe daily headaches, I want to be near a larger hospital when the time comes that my parents are no longer able to drive me to appointments. And it would be nice to have some friends. In my rural town of 1,000, it’s hard to meet people, and they don’t exactly share my political leanings anyway.

My Bipolar disorder lends itself to obsessions. Since I’ve been looking at houses for sale on Zillow — the same houses, day after day — I decided to go check out possible towns to live in now rather than wait until we’d actually be moving.

It just so happens that the route along Interstate 90 from western Montana to Ellensburg runs past one of the most beautiful vistas in America, the Columbia River Gorge.

The Gorge is an 80-mile-long river canyon that’s 4,000 feet (1,219 meters) deep in some places. By comparison, the average depth of the Grand Canyon is 5,280 feet (1,609 meters). Off in the distance, you can just see the peaks of the Pacific Northwest’s Cascade Mountain Range.

I had never stopped at the viewpoint overlooking the Gorge. I was always racing to Seattle, craning my neck out the window for a few moments to glance at the soaring cliffs but never once considering pausing to enjoy the vista.

This time was different. I wanted to get the lay of the land leading up to my possible future home and convince myself that there was something more beautiful waiting for me there than the dismal plains of eastern Washington.

Moreover, I wanted peace. I was rushing toward the future and I needed to pause, take in the scenery, and remind myself of who I really was: someone raised to enjoy nature and treasure experiences shared with family, not someone who hunched over computer screens desperately searching for a life different than my own.

My mom and I exited the interstate and parked the car. Rather than the typical “scenic view” pullout taking up little more than the shoulder of the road, a parking lot was provided and two long, winding trails led down to the edge of the cliffs.

I trudged slowly, careful not to fall. Already grumpy from the decidedly non-scenic views in Washington up to that point, how could I enjoy this vista when my headache was so bad from riding in the car?

I needn’t have worried. The Gorge was spectacular — much more so than if we had taken a minute to dart across the bridge, not stopping to feel the sun on our faces and let the breeze catch in our hair.

The water shone like a mirror, seeming perfectly calm from up here except for the wake of a tiny boat far, far below. The boat floated up to the base of the cliffs opposite then cut its engine, bobbing in place while the passengers, I imagined, stared up at nature’s majesty.

Lucky people.

What a fool I’d been never to have stopped here before.

Today the climate of central Washington is dry, with sagebrush ruling the plains. But millions of years ago this region was a humid landscape of hills and streams where forests thrived.

Then floods of molten lava began welling up through fissures in the earth’s crust, setting down layer upon layer of basalt. Over time, the Columbia River cut through the rock, forming the Gorge.

As I read this information on a sign at the viewpoint and looked out at the layers of old lava flows clearly visible in the cliffs across the river, a realization came to me. I was cutting through layers here, too.

First came my breaths. They were slowing, becoming calm like the water as I finally freed myself from the torture of Zillow and my screens.

Next came my thoughts. The hamster wheel — should I move? where should I move? should I move? where should I move? — was being replaced by my steady focus on the Gorge.

Then came the deepest layer of all. Would I really find what I was looking for at Ellensburg or Wenatchee? These vistas, though beautiful, were not the familiar white-capped mountains of my home.

I didn’t want those houses from Zillow. None of them had the “right” things. I wanted my own house, my own pasture, my own town, and my own trails.

I didn’t need to uproot myself to find what I wanted. I just needed to work to find a new angle on what I already had.

Thanks for reading, and thank you to the editors at Globetrotters (JoAnn Ryan, Anne Bonfert, Adrienne Beaumont, Michele Maize) for running a great publication.

I’m enjoying the articles for this month’s theme, “Scenic Vistas.” Kelly Benson writes about a destination on my bucket list:

Breathtaking Scenic Vistas Under The Galapagos Islands

And The Travelling Programmer’s photographs are spectacular:

Balancing Act: Conquering Kjerag’s Suspended Summit

A Life Epiphany at the Columbia River Gorge was originally published in Globetrotters on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

One year toward the end of July, as the calendar tipped toward both of our birthdays, my mom and I decided to take a trip to Glacier National Park in Montana. We would camp two nights at Apgar Village at the west end of the park and go on a guided wildflower walk, observing the briefest of blooms in their glory under the alpine skies.

The wildflowers weren’t the only thing out en masse. Tourists and their cameras were, too.

At first glance, as I looked through my photo thumbnails from the trip, I thought the above photo was of a beautiful waterfall cascading through the mountains. But it’s actually a road where waterfalls of tourists flowed, on and on and on, never stopping once the floodgates were opened in June or the start of July after the road was finally plowed out.

The tourists came from all over America, and overseas, too.

They came from flat places like Mississippi and Minnesota and the Iowa plains, quaking in their cars and driving over the center line in their haste to get away from the edge.

More likely, they pulled over with no warning and leaped out with their cameras, intent on getting the perfect photo.

My mom and I, too, stopped along the road for photos many times before we reached the top, contributing to the snarls of traffic that plague Glacier and many of our National Parks.

It was shocking to see how close the wildlife came to people. When we parked our car at the visitors’ center at the top of the pass, mountain goats were right next to the sidewalk. People scrambled to take photos. They couldn’t simply take a breath and enjoy the wildlife — and of course, I couldn’t either, or otherwise the photo above wouldn’t exist.

Does this mean I’m not fully human because I can’t live in the present, because I have to document every moment through a screen that mediates my reality?

Or am I more fully human because I’m making art and preserving the moment far beyond my faulty memory? Indeed, I have no memory of these meetings with mountain goats taking place, except for what I see in my photos.

My mom and I headed for the Highline trail, where we met up with our group for the guided wildflower walk. We stepped out onto a path blasted into the cliff face, a narrow way forcing nature to obey the human will.

Here the waterfall of humanity poured across the cliffs, across the meadows, through the “pristine” wilderness. Thankfully, most left nothing but footprints — I saw no trash at all— but they took.

They took photographs. They took the soul.

Perhaps it’s good to take the soul of this place. The many who walk here spread the word to others far and wide that we need to love Glacier, that we need to preserve this pure mountain waterfall that crashes down the cliffs through the pines.

What do the mountain goats take when they see the waterfall? I think they simply breathe.

You can’t see a mountain goat in Glacier without also seeing people taking a picture. Never.

It was like being in a National Geographic photoshoot, only I was seeing behind the scenes. I didn’t want to see behind the scenes. I wanted the finished product, the glossy image that was all my own.

Maybe that’s it. I don’t like to share.

In the photo above, the waterfall is a distant memory, a thread of silver down the cliff face in the background.

A purple flower, one from my guided walk whose name I forgot a minute after it was told to me, clings tenaciously to the slope — just like the bricks those people stand upon as they listen to our guide.

In a moment they’ll all whip their cameras out, crouching low to zoom in on the flower at hand. After all, it’s not real unless you take a picture.

Maybe my tone sounds judgmental, and it is. But on my camera roll, I find my own photos of wildflowers. Here’s a brave one growing in a crack that would have started with a raindrop, then a rivulet, then a little waterfall wearing it away the rock every time it rained.

I’m as guilty as all the rest.

When you’re in a place of such extreme natural beauty as a National Park, nothing about the experience is only yours.

If only I could have gotten a clean shot of this scene with the waterfall a tiny trickle in the background. If only that guy could have gotten his head out of the way!

But if it’s not somebody else’s head, it’s your own head, right? I had my mom take this picture of me looking out at Hidden Lake — which, naturally, doesn’t feature in the photo. Do we really think we’re that beautiful?

I’m ashamed to say that of all these photos of natural splendor, I keep coming back to the one of myself. How my hair curls in the wind. The icky acne on my cheeks. The pleasing curve of my nose and my serene expression (I don’t look that happy in everyday life).

The lake was a far more interesting subject than my head, as you’ll see above. Selfie backgrounds usually are. Yet we still feel compelled to take them. The human form enraptures humanity. It’s why the ancient Greeks carved statues, and why we push ourselves into nature today.

My portrait at Hidden Lake wasn’t enough for me. On the way back down the Going-to-the-Sun Road, my mom and I came upon a little waterfall that started as rapids in a river, then cascaded down some boulders into a rippling pool.

I got the idea that I had to have my picture taken with this waterfall. My mom protested, but I scrambled over boulders like I had done as a little kid. In just a few moments, I reclaimed a long-forgotten piece of my personality — the daring, adventurous side, the girl who loved to run outside and breathe in the freedom of the mountain air.

Without a waterfall to photograph, we would have driven past that spot without getting out of the car and I never would have felt the lichen beneath my fingertips nor heard the wind whistling through the pines.

I’m grateful for my camera. I’m grateful for the opportunity to take photos.

I like how the photo of me turned out — a nice blend of human and nature. I still get to be vain and look at myself, but my head doesn’t take up the whole picture so I can still see the beautiful waterfall.

And the best part about that spot? No other tourists had discovered it. At least not that day.

This article is in response to the Globetrotters March monthly challenge — “Waterfalls.”

March Monthly Challenge — Waterfalls

I recommend these stories by Brad Yonaka and Jewel Allen, who write about two spectacular waterfalls:

• The Pristine Beauty of Angel Falls
• The Smoke that Thunders

Watching Waterfalls in Glacier National Park was originally published in Globetrotters on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I’m riding a train to the Highlands. Outside the window, miles of snow-covered mountains fly by. The sky is white. There is a feeling of rawness inside me that’s hard to describe.

After having my heart broken by a boy who led me on but ultimately told me he didn’t want me, I decided I would reclaim my independence and go off on a grand adventure: graduate school in Scotland.

Ironically, it’s one of the most romantic countries in the world. Two hundred years ago, Sir Walter Scott wrote of castles, towers, ruins, and lochs. Poet Robert Burns penned the lines,

Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands forever I love.

My university belonged to the lowlands of the coast, singing the song of the sea, but I felt pulled to the Highlands as well. In February I finally had time to go.

I disembarked from the train at Pitlochry, a quaint town famous amongst tourists as the gateway to the Highlands. Stomach rumbling, I made my way to the High Street in search of a meal — and found no open restaurant, grocery store, or corner mart.

Panic set in after many trips up and down the streets. I was in a place I didn’t know, out in the cold, and had hours before I could check into my hotel.

Emotional issues often had the power to knock me down, even when I traveled to towns made of gorgeous stone like Pitlochry. I was struggling with undiagnosed Bipolar disorder and had no clue.

But I was young and still retained that ability to bounce back like a rubber band. After what seemed like hours, I found a souvenir shop that sold packets of Scottish shortbread cookies, the kind you might find in an American grocery store at Christmas time.

I snatched one up greedily, hardly waiting until I was out the door before I tore into it. Now I was ready to explore for real.

I marched down winding lanes and through snowy fields until I came upon the River Tummel. There, to my surprise, I found an old iron suspension bridge made just for walkers. According to the information sign, it was built in 1913.

For some reason, its age startled me. I didn’t know they built such bridges for walkers back then. I don’t know why I should have been so amazed. The age of the suspension bridge for cars was in full swing.

I considered whether or not to cross. I’m scared of bridges. The concrete bridge over my home river, the Clark Fork in northwestern Montana, was built in the early 1900s. When our yearly county fair is in full swing, it’s so crowded that we must park across the river from the fairgrounds and walk across the bridge. I always stare over the edge into the water, convinced that at any moment the bridge will fail.

Here, though, the information sign made the footbridge seem like such a core part of the experience of Pitlochry, I didn’t want to miss it.

I stepped onto the worn iron flooring. The bridge was bouncy! That made it fun to walk on, but my heart was still in my throat by the time I reached the opposite shore.

The bridge spit me out next to a line of cottages. When I turned into their lane, I caught sight of a couple walking in front of me. Immediately, my mind flashed to the date — February 14. Valentine’s Day.

So far I hadn’t felt alone in Pitlochry, but because of that silly holiday, now I did. I was filled with an aching longing for what I did not possess. My breaths felt sharp, as if my chest had been opened to the bone.

In the cottages, I found a land of enchantment — Scotland in the winter, with brown stone walls, snow-dusted roofs, and evergreen trees outside the dainty white doors.

But in that moment, I focused on the dark side of solo travel. The lonely walks. The empty hotel rooms. Listening to other people talk and laugh while I looked at vacant chairs across the table.

Travel is a gateway to feelings and parts of our imaginations that we wouldn’t explore in our everyday lives. It’s not all positive, though. That Valentine’s walk in Pitlochry made me feel stripped down to the stark truths of life.

But in travel as in everything, we have a choice in how we perceive things. Mentality often dictates experience.

As indicated by this road sign pointing south to Perth (where I traveled with my university rowing team) and north to Inverness (home of Loch Ness), I had a choice. Would I have a positive or a negative mindset? Would I dwell on my loneliness, or would I embrace the wonders of Pitlochry?

I chose to be positive. After all, a mountain was waiting for me.

One of the reasons I came to Pitlochy was Ben Vrackie, the “Speckled Mountain.” I’d read that it was a gorgeous hike through Scottish woodland and open moorland. The view from the top was said to be spectacular.

Of course, I didn’t account for the fact that it was winter! It would be dangerous to try to reach the summit without special gear. Still, I figured I could make it a little way up the slopes.

I set off, still feeling a little wistful. My reward for leaving the romantic couple behind to their Valentine’s Day was finding a romantic inn to have all to myself.

Gosh, I was cold. And hungry! The comfy dining room in the old inn (founded 1695) was just what I needed.

I sat down at my own little table, stripped off my outer layers, and ordered an orange juice while I waited. My meal, when it came, was a delicious meat pie that warmed me up from the inside out.

I relished every bite. Not once while I sat there did I feel lonely.

After I ate, I was excited to hit the road again. The February afternoon was beautiful and I had Ben Vrackie to climb. And after that, I’d be heading to the ski town of Aviemore the next day.

The solo traveler always has more bridges to cross, more sights to see.

Thanks for reading, and thank you to the editors at Globetrotters (JoAnn Ryan, Anne Bonfert, Jillian Amatt — Artistic Voyages, Adrienne Beaumont, Michele Maize) for running a great publication.

Joel R. Dennstedt dreams of the quintessential wooden footbridge:

A Bridge to Ecstasy

Burnout Devil attends a unique festival in Turkey:

Defying Gravity: Using Rope like a Bridge

Solo Crossing a Scottish River on Valentine’s Day was originally published in Globetrotters on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I love the sea. Its endless waves touch a longing for infinity in the human spirit that the buzz of modern culture just can’t reach.

After my undergraduate degree, I decided to study the Classics (ancient Greece and Rome) at the University of St. Andrews in Scotland.

The small town sits on a promontory that hugs the North Sea, whose cold waters reach the U.K., Denmark, Norway, Germany, the Netherlands, Belgium, and France.

On January 22, 2009, I bundled up against the chill and stepped out onto a long, straight beach just as St. Andrews was preparing for evening. I’d like to share that experience with you.

Note: these photos were taken on a low-quality digital camera. I hope the grandeur of the setting will make up for it.

The beach began at the 18th fairway of the Old Course, where lucky golfers from around the world teed off if they’d won one of the rare tee time slots, or if they belonged to The Royal and Ancient Golf Club.

Ancient indeed. The game of golf was invented at St. Andrews around 600 years ago. Imagine medieval noblemen and laborers struggling over the wild Scottish dunes with their clubs and leather balls.

Even Mary, Queen of Scots played. She was “accused of playing golf at Seton Palace after her husband Lord Darnley was murdered in 1567, when she ought to have been in solemn mourning.” (Wikipedia)

Turning away from the golf course, I stepped out onto the wide North Sea sands. A few groups of walkers were still out at this late hour. I was alone.

I usually found myself alone here, often in a wistful mood, but today I was glad for the solitude. I wanted to think, to dream, to soar.

Shadows played across the sand. I looked like a circus performer on stilts, tall as a mountain.

In a way I was. I was young and strong, on the university rowing team. Chronic illness had not yet come to me, as it would later in the decade.

By that ancient sea I was as mighty as a god.

Low tide left the sand slick and flat. Earth mirrored sky, sky mirrored sand. The world was a kaleidoscope of blue, gray, white, and tan.

Patterns danced upon the sand. In some places the unceasing tides had carved snakelike ripples, packed so firmly that my shoe made no imprint when I walked upon them.

In other places, the sand was smooth as silk, forming delicate waves that seemed to flow from an artist’s brush.

I wanted to be that artist, or better yet, the writer who created such a world. Back in town, I liked to perch on the cliffs above the sea with notebook in hand, trying to write a novel. So far, my pages were blank, but that dream could never die.

Out on the sands now, I returned my gaze to St. Andrews. The waves were becoming wild. To the left, I saw a tanker ship out at sea. As I’d discovered, many ships ran this route. Oil rigs mined the sea bed to the north off the coast of Aberdeen.

I didn’t like to see the ships. They didn’t belong in this environment of timeless ocean and medieval town. I hated to think of the viscous black oil pumped up through pristine water, an accident waiting to happen.

But oh, the medieval towers of St. Andrews were beautiful. For how many centuries had the waves pounded those shores as people looked out at ships upon the water, willing them in to a safe mooring?

The evening temperature was dropping. The wind whipped at my hair, leaving tangles to be combed out later. In spite of the weather, though, I was smiling.

A crazy idea entered my head. I wanted to touch that freezing water, feel it caress my bare skin. I took off my shoes and socks, then strode toward the sea, faster and faster.

The water hit my ankles, more gently than I expected. I didn’t go in far — just far enough to say that I’d waded in the North Sea in winter.

But that infinite, ancient sea touched me deep within. I was but a small speck on its shores, a tiny moment in time as I stared out upon it, trying to comprehend the mystery of humanity’s place in the universe. The sea holds the answers, but I didn’t understand.

Over the dunes at my back, the setting sun hid behind a cloud, and for a moment, the world went dark. It was time to go home, back to my rental house with the unpleasant roommate and the dinner of peanut butter and crumpets that awaited me.

I clambered up, leaving the North Sea behind — for today.

Now the sky was my sea and my sand, the waving brown grasses that grew on the dunes.

Here was the Old Course again — more fairways, more greens — and here was the story of the birth of golf. How, for example, a 1457 Act of the Scottish Parliament banned the game because too many soldiers were playing it instead of practicing archery.

But I was still entwined in a different story — that of the North Sea on a winter evening, and me walking alone along its endless sands.

St. Andrews, Scotland: A Winter Evening By the North Sea Shore was originally published in Picture This on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Have you ever written a thriller? I haven’t. But this week I have to write one for an NYC Midnight short story contest.

NYC Midnight contests give you a genre for your story and two other items you have to include.

In the 1000-word story contest two summers ago — my first attempt at an NYC Midnight contest — I was given Drama (genre), an arts and crafts store (setting), and a jalapeño pepper (object).

I came up with a story called Heat.

It’s about a Mormon bride who has just run away from her wedding at the Temple in Mexico City and entered an arts and crafts store still in her wedding dress.

She has blundered into an art class, where the women are painting fruit and vegetables. Of course, she wants to leave immediately, but a sultry Mexican woman convinces her to stay.

She ends up painting a jalapeño pepper while staring at this woman and feeling some sexual attraction.

At the end, her mother enters the store ready to haul her back to her wedding, but the bride rises triumphantly and deliberately spills paint all over her dress, finally breaking free of the identity she was forced into all her life.

This story won me entry into the next round (which I wasn’t able to participate in due to anxiety). As you can see, the categories they give you offer infinite possibilities for creativity.

This year, my 500-word Romance called The Girl With the Lemonade Hair won me entry into the second round, in which I happily conquered my anxiety but unhappily had to write a Horror story, which is so not my genre.

That story, When the Blood Runs White, didn’t advance to the third round because I didn’t really know what to do with it.

This time I have to write 2500 words, the longest fiction story I’ve attempted in a long time. My genre is Thriller, my subject is “a boundary,” and my character is a marine biologist.

I wasn’t too excited about that last one! Luckily the marine biologist doesn’t have to be the main character. She’s going to be my protagonist’s girlfriend.

Contests like these are a great way to exercise the imagination. If you’re looking for a way to have fun and work on your fiction writing, check out NYC Midnight. They have contests of varying lengths year-round, including flash fiction and screenwriting.

I Get to Write a Thriller This Week was originally published in The Daily Cuppa Grande on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

May 2007. George W. Bush was President (again) and Sandra Day O’Connor, the first woman justice on the United States Supreme Court, had retired the year before.

I was about to graduate from the University of Pennsylvania. My mom had come out from Montana a week early so we could take the train from Philadelphia down to Washington, D.C. together. She had never been and was eager to tour the city.

Going to D.C. was like a homecoming for me because I had been there several times with my dad, somehow always walking at least fifteen miles in a day, even when I was in eighth grade.

Washington, D.C. was the first place I ever visited on the East Coast. My dad, a physicist, took me along on one of his business trips. We ended up at the head of NASA’s house, where everyone wore tongue-in-cheek pins that read, “Yes, I am a rocket scientist.” They gave me, the only kid, one too, just for fun.

This time, my mom and I were in town just for sightseeing. Our first stop was the White House. Tourists can get amazingly close to the President’s residence, with only a fence and a small lawn separating the house from Pennsylvania Avenue.

In the 1800s, Presidents used to invite any citizen who attended their Inauguration into the White House afterward. This practice, as you might imagine, eventually backfired.

After President Andrew Jackson’s Inauguration in 1829, a horde of 20,000 people descended upon the White House, tracking in mud and forcing President Jackson to flee to a hotel. Aides finally lured the mob out with washtubs full of orange juice and whiskey.

Back to 2007. As dusk descended upon the city, the Lincoln Memorial glowed in the distance, with the statue of President Lincoln in his chair in the center, especially bright.

Inside the memorial, quotes from Lincoln grace the marble walls:

Four score and seven years ago our fathers bought forth on this continent a new nation conceived in liberty. — Gettysburg Address, November 1863

The Lincoln Memorial was only 41 years old when Martin Luther King Jr. delivered his famous “I Have A Dream” speech from its top step, declaring:

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character. — The March On Washington, August 1963

I got the distinct feeling that D.C. was different from other cities. Every other city belonged to their current inhabitants and to people who had lived there before. Tourists were merely guests.

D.C., however, belonged to everyone. Despite the political machinations that went on there, its gleaming white architecture signaled that it was a place of idealism and hope. All the best of America had been poured into its soul.

When I voiced this thought to my mom, she agreed, saying it was exactly what she was thinking. She was upbeat during that trip and we didn’t argue at all. Perhaps D.C. brought out the best in us as well.

Looking at this photo, I can’t believe how young my mom was. She’s still young today, only 63, but here her hair is a rich brown, not gray. Her arms are muscular and strong. Now she suffers from degenerative disc disease and can’t move her arms without pain. I find myself wishing that the mom in the photo could come back to me.

We decided to go on a tour of the U.S. Capitol Building, which I hadn’t done on any of my previous trips to Washington. I don’t think I was even aware that just anyone could walk beneath the Capitol dome.

All you had to do was wait in line. The tour was completely free.

Inside the Rotunda — the room underneath the Capitol dome — we found shining marble floors and huge paintings with scenes from American history. Several groups of schoolchildren were touring the Capitol, but the Rotunda was so vast that they didn’t bother us.

I looked up in awe at the ornate carvings and neoclassical pillars. The dome was completed in 1866, just after the Civil War. Construction on the building began as far back as 1793, with the cornerstone laid by President George Washington himself.

Ever wondered what’s on the inside of the Capitol dome? It’s this painting called “The Apotheosis of Washington” completed by Constantino Brumidi in 1865. The painting depicts George Washington rising to heaven in glory. It’s a bit ostentatious for a President who refused to be buried underneath the Capitol, even though a space was built there for that purpose.

Here’s a closer view. My photo is upside down (from the President’s view), but if you look towards the top you can see George Washington flanked by female figures representing Liberty and Victory/Fame.

After our tour of the Capitol, my mom and I headed up a leafy green street and found ourselves at the Supreme Court building. I didn’t take a picture, but it’s a gorgeous neoclassical structure modeled off a Greek temple, with white marble pillars and monumental bronze doors depicting historic scenes in the development of Western law.

Visitors can just walk into the building when the Court isn’t in session. There wasn’t even a line, so we went right in.

After viewing the Courtroom, where the nine Justices listen to arguments and pass judgment, my mom and I noticed a corridor off to the side. At the end were stairs leading to the floor below, with a sign reading, “Cafeteria.”

Since it was lunchtime and we were hungry, we went down. We found a small, bright room with just a few booths and tables. Other visitors didn’t seem to know about this place — there was only one other family eating at a booth near ours.

We had a pleasant lunch, marveling at our find. Perhaps employees of the Supreme Court ate here. It was an exciting thought.

As we chatted, the older woman from the family at the other booth stood up and walked across the room to put her tray away. As she passed by our booth, I glanced up at her face.

“She looks familiar,” I said to my mom.

“Yeah.”

We thought nothing more of it — not, that is, until we finished our lunch and went upstairs to the Supreme Court gift shop. Filling the shelves next to the magnets and the pencils shaped like gavels was copy after copy of a book called Sandra Day O’Connor, with a photo of the Justice on the front cover.

“Look! It’s her!” I exclaimed. “That’s the woman from the cafeteria!”

Indeed it was. Sandra Day O’Connor, hero of feminists the world over, who later in the day would receive a police escort through the city, had eaten a humble lunch right alongside us.

Thanks for reading, and thank you to the editors at Globetrotters (JoAnn Ryan, Anne Bonfert, Jillian Amatt — Artistic Voyages, Adrienne Beaumont, Michele Maize) for running a great publication.

Lunch in a Secret Supreme Court Hideout was originally published in Globetrotters on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Something leapt out at me when I was doing research online for my upcoming trip to Italy. Coming up in 2025, not 2024. I know, I’m planning way early, but it’s my first overseas voyage in sixteen years and I’m excited.

I got a bit turned off by those online travel blogs, though. They were all recommending the same thing:

Interacting with locals.

Chatting with locals will help you to understand their way of life, and what is important to them. — The Williams World

This will give you a much more authentic and immersive experience than simply following a pre-planned tour or itinerary. — Lokal Travel

Whether you stay at their home, spend a weekend with them, or even chat over a beer, you’ll be opening yourself to a more intimate and genuine experience of your destination. — Frommers

Quotes like these make me stop and think about why I travel.

I’m a bit mystified when people write that the best part of traveling for them is meeting local people. When I read about someone riding a bus with chickens under their seat and children in their lap, and enjoying it, I feel left out, like I’m doing travel wrong.

You see, when I travel, I keep to myself, except when I’m traveling with a companion. Sure, I’ll interact with food servers, or people who work at hotels, museums, and shops, but that’s about it.

I do treasure my interactions with those people. I feel like I’m touching some small slice of the soul of the country. But I don’t want to take the interactions any further.

As an introvert, I don’t like going up and beginning conversations with people I don’t know. Interacting with people is stressful, not a pleasure. This is true in my hometown as much as when I travel.

I know I’m missing out on getting local tips and insider information, but I’d really rather take my chances and glean what I can from the internet and guidebooks.

I also know many people will think I’m missing out, and I’ll be encouraged to change my ways so I can get a richer experience.

But I think my travel experiences are rich as they are. I’m just looking for different things.

Appreciation of architecture, for one thing. Time in museums. Contemplation of landscapes. Learning history. Self-growth.

For me, the mind expansion, change of world view, and processing of what I see always occurs in the inner world, not the outer. Talking to people just muddles the wandering that I need to do in silence.

Of course there have been times when I’ve gotten lonely and wished I knew how to form a closer relationship with locals.

In January 2009, in the middle of an emotionally tough year as a graduate student in Scotland, I took a trip to Dorchester in Dorset, southwest England.

My destination was Maiden Castle, an Iron Age hill fort out in the countryside. Rather than being a “castle,” it was a vast network of earthwork fortifications dug into a massive hill with a flat top.

I spent a happy day there striding around in the cold wind, imagining the lives of the people who had once inhabited the hill. When dusk began to fall, I returned to Dorchester and my attic room in a small, historic hotel.

For once, I didn’t enjoy the solitude of my room. My loneliness from Scotland hadn’t gone away.

Ironically, Dorchester was the inspiration for the fictional town in Thomas Hardy’s Far From the Madding Crowd. I was indeed far from the crowd that night.

I went out to wander the darkened streets. After a few turns down empty lanes, a group of local lads tumbled out onto the cobblestones, talking and laughing.

I followed them discreetly, wishing I could join them. I imagined striking up a conversation and spending the evening with them.

But no — I didn’t know how to do it. So I went back to my hotel and turned on the TV to a documentary about elephants.

I was sad in the moment, but in hindsight, I’m glad I didn’t befriend those boys. As I watched TV, I wrote down the thoughts that had gone through my mind as I walked on Maiden Castle. The atmosphere of the place, the greatness of ages gone by, fictional people who might have lived there.

I still cherish that journal entry, which became part of my first book, a novel set in a fictional Iron Age on a hill fort much like Maiden Castle. The name of one of the elephants in the documentary even became the name of one of the characters in my book.

I hesitated to write this article because I know so many of you love talking with locals when you travel. It’s part of your immersion in the culture, a source of joy, a big reason why you travel.

But I’ve decided that it’s not for me. I’d rather keep to myself and focus on my own travel goals. We all have different traveling styles, and this is the one that works for me.

Thanks for reading, and thank you to the editors at Globetrotters (JoAnn Ryan, Anne Bonfert, Jillian Amatt — Artistic Voyages, Adrienne Beaumont, Michele Maize) for running a great publication.

I Don’t Chat With Locals When I Travel was originally published in Globetrotters on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Snow pounded against the windows, swirling in the wind. I couldn’t see beyond a few feet, much less the fields and mountains across the road. I was glad the house protected me from the storm’s savagery.

The season’s first big storm should have come earlier — in December, or November, dumping enough snow on us that it would take weeks to melt.

But the weather this winter has been steady at 32–36 degrees (0–2C). Perfect for walking outdoors, not so much for building the mountain snowpack that we’ll need to fill the rivers in spring.

It looks like we’re in for another scorching summer just like last year, and the year before. How about where you live?

We Finally Had Our First Big Snow Storm of the Year was originally published in The Daily Cuppa on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Between my usual health problems, traveling around taking photos of Montana towns, and getting excited for future trips, it’s been an interesting 2023. Plus I got a new dog!

It’s my third year on Medium and by far my most successful, if you look at the bank account and my number of reads.

Most importantly, I’m more satisfied with what I’m creating. I’ve become a travel writer, combing through old photos and learning how to construct a compelling narrative.

My top-earning story of all time came in June of this year. “I Was A Love-Slave In The Caribbean” is a travel-memoir combo that’s still earning me a pretty penny, if you can believe it. I’m glad I was able to turn a bad experience into a good story.

If you go to your Stats page, scroll down to Lifetime, and sort by Latest, you can see your own top-viewed, top-read, and top-earning stories month by month. Views are not the same as reads! Views come when someone opens up the page, reads are when they spend at least 30 seconds there. Reads are what you want.

Here are my most read, or top earning, stories month by month.

January

January is so flat and boring in Montana (now that I can no longer ski) that I can’t remember what I did this month! But on Medium, it marked the beginning of a major shift in the type of stories I write.

Before, I wrote mainly opinion pieces and history articles. Now I began to include a more personal perspective, dipping my toes into travel and memoir pieces. My January top earner was one of the first, if not the first, travel pieces I ever wrote.

Sometimes we Americans do things that come across as utterly outlandish. I don’t know, though. Dressing my puppy as a pumpkin for Halloween feels perfectly natural to me!

10 American Customs That Baffle Visitors

February

For a brief while, I was obsessed with the ChatGPT and AI art conversations going around on Medium. I made some AI art that I loved, but looking back, these stories are my least favorite. They don’t have the personal touch that I focused on for the rest of the year.

ChatGPT was fed massive amounts of data in order to be able to hold coherent conversations. Like a nervous undergrad on exam day, it’s bound to regurgitate some of what it was taught.

If You Write With ChatGPT, You Might Be Plagiarizing

March

I had severe respiratory issues in February and March and barely stood on my own two feet, so I was thinking a lot about health.

Desperately wanting to get out in the world and disappointed that my mom and I had to cancel our planned trip to Portugal because of my chronic headaches, I wrote about how I could still “travel” within a mile of my house.

Now, I’m in the mood to think of happy things, like getting out of my chair and trying to find joy in the wider world again. Imagine!

Redefining Travel for Disabled People

April

In April, the weather started to warm and I finally got out of the house for a short trip to a nearby town.

While enjoying the soul-opening springtime, I scrolled through old photos and wrote my first story for my new favorite publication, Globetrotters, which had just accepted me as a writer.

I had barely stepped onto the trail when I found moss in abundance, colonizing every surface — trees, rocks, earth — in its eagerness to soak up the moisture that blesses this forest.

The Beauty of Montana’s Hidden Technicolor Rainforest

May

With the good weather in May, I got out walking a bit, going to the ball fields with my parents and my dogs, Casey and Max.

I couldn’t stop thinking about travel. At the time, I still wanted to go to Portugal in the near future, so I researched and wrote this story about the Portuguese Camino.

Life is passing me by. I’d rather go to Portugal and have to rest in a hotel every afternoon than not go to Portugal at all.

My New Obsession With The Portuguese Camino

June

June was a tough month. My dog-of-a-lifetime, Casey, died at age 14. He had a very short illness, thankfully, and didn’t suffer.

On Medium, though, I had my best month ever, thanks in most part to this story about my relationship with a boy who turned out to be gay. He played with my emotions for his own gain and I really was a slave to him.

My jealousy shamed me, but I couldn’t outrun it. I couldn’t detach my love from the worst parts of myself.

I Was A Love-Slave In The Caribbean

July

I barely went outside in July because it was so hot and bright, which was not good for my headaches. I shifted to the exercise bike, but it didn’t keep my fitness up like walking did.

My top earner this month was another memoir, this time a reflection on my struggles in middle school that still carry over into today.

After Ashley moved away, I felt further away from people. It was like I was looking at life from a distance — something I still feel today.

Why Did I Change So Much From Fourth to Fifth Grade?

August

I celebrated my 38th birthday this month with a picnic in the mountains. A few days later, we adopted a Chihuahua, Leia, who promptly escaped in the scorching heat and frightened us for several days before she returned safely home.

My last major memoir story of the year was about an issue I’ve struggled with for a long time — the fear of my parents aging and dying. Here, I wrote specifically about my mom.

I need her. But I can’t have her forever. I don’t know if I can survive being all alone.

My Mother’s Hands Frighten Me

September

In September, I went on an overnight trip with my mom to Philipsburg, Montana, part of my quest to take a photo of every town in my home state.

I had visited another town, Thompson Falls, in the spring, and found a photo of the dock where I almost drowned in middle school. My story about it was my top earner for this month.

I had a moment of pure panic. The river was about to take me. My muscles were barely strong enough to keep me afloat, and no one was looking in my direction.

Shadows in the Water

October

This month, I enjoyed getting out to different towns and the Montana countryside to see the fall colors. My mom and I took a trip to Sandpoint, Idaho, for some Christmas shopping.

On Medium, I had admired the quality of the photo essays in In Living Color for awhile and wished I could write something similar. So I worked at it. Lo and behold, my Winchester story became my first photo essay to be Boosted!

Whenever I’m in a cathedral, I wonder what minds dreamed it up, how their spirits stretched to allow them to believe that people belonged in the highest points of the universe.

When I Went Inside Winchester Cathedral, Gothic Burial Place of Jane Austen

November

As the November frost settled over Montana, I decided to try something different — writing a couple short stories for Imogene’s Notebook. This scared me a little. I hadn’t written fiction for some time and whenever I tried to get started on a novel, I failed.

I was so proud when my second story got Boosted and did better than I could have dreamed. In 2024, I hope to have the confidence to continue writing fiction.

One day during a Caribbean cruise, when Lydia had felt too unwell to go ashore, she lay on the bed in their cabin and cried. The urge to travel burned as brightly in her as ever, yet it was too late.

She Wasted Her Life or She Won It

December

In November, I had taken a day trip to the glorious Mission Church in St. Ignatius, Montana, which I hadn’t visited in many years. The gorgeous Renaissance-style art inside didn’t disappoint.

It’s fitting that my final top-earner for the year was published in Globetrotters. I really pivoted toward travel stories in 2023 and expect to continue pursuing that passion in the year to come.

It’s hard to equate the glorious art of the Mission Church with the culture whitewashing of the school. Spiritual places are complicated — vessels of the light, but also of the darkness.

An Old Italianate Church on a Montana Indian Reservation

So there it is. My list of the most-read articles of 2023. A mix of travel stories and memoirs represents the interest readers have in my writing.

I want to thank you all for reading, commenting on my work, and giving me the support I needed to have my best-ever year on Medium.

Thank you!

I hope you all have a great 2024.

Thanks to Anne Bonfert for the inspiration to write this story. Anne’s list from 2023 is here:

A List of My Most Read Stories in 2023

A List of My Most Read Stories in 2023 was originally published in New Writers Welcome on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.