Monarch Waystations: Creating Butterfly Habitats

*An article I'm working on getting published in my neighborhood newspaper. Prairie on! :)

All summer long I have been watching butterflies float from bloom to bloom treating my garden as a nectar smorgasbord. From the yellow eastern tiger swallowtail to the iconic orange and black Monarch. Sometimes they'll linger for minutes, other times for hours. All I have to do is to bring their favorite foods to the buffet line!

Following the purchase of our home during the polar vortex of 2014, my husband and I made the transition from a front lawn filled with grass to a garden oasis filled with edible food, native plants, and habitat for birds, butterflies, and other small wildlife (luckily the deer haven't followed suit - yet)!

At the top of the list was creating a Monarch Waystation. With a migration that stretches from central Mexico to southern Canada, monarchs need stopping points along their 2,000 mile journey to fuel up and to continue the survival of future generations. While adult butterflies can get their nectar fuel from a number of flowers, they can only lay their eggs on milkweed and the larva (caterpillar) can only eat milkweed. Similar to humans, as adults we can consume a variety foods, but as infants, we survive on a limited number of foods.

Perhaps in the past year, you have heard of the Cincinnati Nature Center's Milkweed to Monarchs Initiative in which free packets of milkweed seed were available for consumers at local businesses (i.e., Graeter's, LaRosa’s, REI). In May, when the White House unveiled its National Strategy to Promote the Health of Honey Bees and Other Pollinators, the Monarch was given specific mention with a plan to increase its overwintering numbers to 225 million by 2020.

Why the sudden notoriety? With experts estimating a 90% decline in the eastern population of Monarchs over the past 20 years, the overwintering population in Mexico hit its lowest recorded level in winter 2013-2014. Among the reasons for its decline is the significant decrease in milkweed availability. The organization Monarch Watch estimates that 2.2 million acres of potential milkweed, thus Monarch habitat, is lost in the United States every year. The loss is due in part to the conversion of land for development and agricultural practices and the increased efficiency of herbicides for non-crop plants.

The good news is that we can create flourishing habitats for monarchs, even in urban spaces! The organization Monarch Watch which developed the certifiable Monarch Waystation program recommends the following guidelines for creating a monarch habitat:

- Sun Exposure. Butterflies and butterfly plants need lots of sun; therefore, Monarch Waystations need to be located in an area that receives at least six hours of sun a day.

- Milkweed Plants. It is best to have at least 10 plants, made up of two or more species; however, a large number of plants (more than 10) of one species is sufficient.

-Nectar Plants. By providing nectar sources that bloom at different times, your Monarch Waystation can provide resources for monarchs throughout the breeding season and the migration in the fall. Some good native nectar plants include: black-eyed susan, coneflower, liatris, aster, joe pye weed, and goldenrod. 

-Minimize the use of pesticides. You don't want to have a dinner party and then accidentally poison your guests!

If you are able to meet the above requirements, you can submit an application for an Official Monarch Waystation, name your waystation, be listed on the national registry, and install an official waystation sign. My niece helped us name ours: Rosie's Monarch Resort! For more information, go to MonarchWatch.org. 

Autumn is a great time to get a head start on creating a monarch habitat. With mosquitoes and unpleasant temperatures at bay, you can take your time sowing seeds and/or putting in your milkweed plants. Of the 13 milkweeds native to Ohio, swamp milkweed and butterfly weed are the most commonly found in the nursery trade and are best in smaller garden spaces. Common milkweed will gladly take over, so choose accordingly. Regardless of which milkweed(s) you choose, they are all perennials and will eagerly return year after year without any pampering.

Keep in mind, whether you plant one milkweed or many, no effort is too small to have a positive impact!

Sources for milkweed:

Seed Packets: 

• Contact the Cincinnati Nature Center for free seed packets
• For larger quantities, order seed through Ohio Prairie Nursery or other native plant vendors. It's best to get locally-sourced seed.

Plants:

Local Native Plant Nurseries:

• Keystone Flora Native Plant Nursery (Cincinnati, Ohio)
• Go Natives Now (Lebanon, Ohio)
• Mary’s Plant Farm (Hamilton, Ohio)

Local Native Plant Sales:

• Cincinnati Zoo & Botanical Garden (at EcOhio Farm & Wetland) hosts multiple native plant sales spring through fall.
• Great Outdoor Weekend, September 26-27^th:  includes a number of native plant sale events including Cincinnati Nature Center and Cincinnati Zoo.
• Civic Garden Center Plant Sale: held the 1st weekend in May has a “Necessary Natives” booth.

Online:

• Monarch Watch (Milkweed Market) sells flats of plants in the spring, which can be ordered online at: http://monarchwatch.org/milkweed/market/

Organizations:

• Wild Ones: www.wildones.org and Greater Cincinnati Wild Ones Chapter Facebook group
• Midwest Native Plant Society and Facebook group
• Monarch Maniacs of Ohio Facebook group
• The Xerces Society

almost August, is it?

Okay, so it has been eons since I last sat down, pulled out the laptop with dying battery, and put to words the last many months. The idea of such is exhausting and near overwhelming.

Back in March, I spent a fateful weekend on a journey to Chicago. Stopping in Indianapolis to catch up with my best friend from grad school and then onward to catch up with my best friend from undergrad. Nothing quite like catching up with friends who have taken different routes since the days of becoming close, and then, falling right back into place.

The lingering thought from that weekend was - change. When asking my friend's husband if they were planning to fly or drive to Cedar Key, Florida for their vacation, he said, "In college we drove because we had the time but not the money. Now we fly because we don't have the time."

So true. Every day of vacation I have is accounted for before it's even accrued. Gone are the days of being able to spend weeks, months in a place to truly get to know it. Reading has taken the place of experiencing. Yearning has taken the place of doing (well, to the degree that I like to do it).

I pondered a remedy. How about working in the schools? Then I could have all the regular holidays off and summers too... which evolved into the thought of how about working in the schools with a travel company? 13 weeks in one place, onto the next. Lots of fun, lots of change, right?

While these thoughts were circulating a rather ominous one came to the forefront. Ubiquitous even. Modern day slavery. Human trafficking. Two months after returning from my human-trafficking-focused trip to Cambodia, suddenly, I was surrounded by the conversation chatter of "modern day slavery" "fair trade" "sex trafficking"... People I barely knew would approach me, inquire, share their story. I'd make the rare trip to church and it'd be the topic. In some ways, it culminated with an email. An email inviting me to apply for a fellowship with the modern day slavery movement. A 6-month unpaid fellowship south of San Francisco.

I questioned the signs. Questioned moving across the country without the background of what the fellowship expected. I was in the middle of moving to a new place, moving in with my twin sister and being so excited for this chance to reconnect after so many years. I was in the midst of a slow to recover fractured foot bone and coping with a plausible underlying diagnosis: a connective tissue deficiency. And was boarding a plane to the Congo, round 3 with Operation Smile.

The deadline day, I responded to the signs. I submitted my application. My closest colleagues were aware. My coordinators were aware. My immediate friends were aware. With a years worth of living crammed into one month, I was just going through the motions. Checking another item off the to-do list, one that carried with it, much anxiety.

I scaled back. Put my prized, loved furniture for sale on Craigslist. Smaller items on ebay. Gave away clothes to friends, even the coveted shoes. Traded my daily morning mocha for tea. Relinquished 6+ boxes of books to Half Price Books. Added dentist, doctor, and vaccinations to the line up, appreciating at least the facade of insurance coverage. Went through a round of interviews.

Within the hour of leaving for the Congo, I got the email. No fellowship for me, not this time. The 11th hour arrival of my application kept the positions I had been seeking at bay, they had already been filled. What remained were positions not suited for me. I was in all honesty, relieved. My 3rd trip to the Congo proved to be the antithesis of the previous two. Emotionally exhausted. The high I felt on day 1 in meeting the little boy who had been named after me 2 years prior had been depleted by day 3. Every day and every face, though, worth the exhaustion.

Returning home, I was so happy to see my boyfriend, Kris. Happy to see that black cherry chip was still Graeter's flavor of the season. Happy to be where I am -  both in a state of mind and geographical being. Happy. Happy in the knowledge that change is lurking. Maybe it has already happened.

Robbie's home & celebrating!

Detox tea.

It’s what my friend Robbie is drinking right now. He returns home with tales of fun day and nighttime adventures, staving off a hangover until 4:25pm with a continual flow of lucid-inducing beverages. Circumnavigating tales of a likely blackout, an opportune bathroom journey, caring friends and serendipitous meetings.

My remedy – a detox tea beverage. With his ever smiling and grateful way, he always accepts. He knows you can’t detox away the fun. 

Where's the silence?!

My mind is stretched like a near-to-popping balloon. Disorganized. As if a recipe box tipped over, displacing all the tidy note cards to the kitchen sink, and then in one fell swoop tossing them back into the box, closing the lid, and pretending outwardly that all was well inside. Neatly compartmentalized. Calm.

My bedroom, my office, my bookshelves, the front of my refrigerator door, the array of post notes trailing in my wake have never given the impression of organization. Outwardly. But inwardly, my mind, I have prided on being as put together as a well-tended recipe box.

Not today. Not yesterday. And probably not tomorrow.

“God moments.” That’s what my writing friend calls my more-than-coincidence encounters of late. I don’t know. One minute I like to think that yes, this is God speaking. And inwardly, I think I know it is. But I’m not sure how I feel about God. Or maybe I don’t want to call him God. Maybe I want to give him a different name or a different essence. Whatever it is, these encounters of late I can only contribute to something greater than myself. Something equally, if not, more stubborn than myself. This essence wants to have a conversation with me everyday if not all day. I almost want to (and I have) blame it for the rare spare hours I’ve had at work of late. Today at work I spent noon to 5pm waiting on patients who never came. My boyfriend is in another state this week, preoccupied with family; my twin sister is on a meditation retreat, also in another state; and my best friend who I consult in times like this, is on a silent retreat. All the while, I seem to have endless amounts of time to think with a mind that’s far from silent.

Slavery: A Timeline that Continues

History isn’t my forte. So when I heard the name “William Wilberforce,” my first thought was, “Ah, yes, an 18^th century American President!” UHRR – wrong answer. No, apparently, William Wilberforce was a Member of Parliament circa the late 1700s. Right time frame, wrong dude. Sigh.

Now Mr. Wilberforce, as I’ve come to learn, wasn’t the typical political fuddy-duddy of the era, in the I-fancy-wearing-silly wigs-and-sporting-a robust-potbelly -way. No, he was a game changer. And with the support of fellow political abolitionists like Thomas Clarke, William Wilberforce became a notable force in turning the tide of slave trade. Breaking the triangular tide that flowed from Africa to the West Indies to Great Britain, the tide that brought Britain its chief import during the 18^th century. For 15 years, Wilberforce presented Parliament with the truth – via 3+ hour soliloquies, petitions of upwards 1 million signatures, and law proposals upon law proposals encouraging the end of Britain’s role in human trafficking. Parliament relented after 15 years, but didn’t fully concede until 26 years after Wilberforce initially presented them with the truth – completely abolishing slave trade with the passing of the Slavery Abolition Act of 1833. Penniless, William Wilberforce died 3 days later.

This knowledge, I acquired, not from tired history books or internet sleuthing, but rather, from going to church. A church I had not stepped foot in for over 18 months. A church I’ve only been to a handful of times. A church professing a religion I have been vacillating with for most of my adult life.

Earlier that Saturday morning, my alarm woke me before sunrise. I had signed up to help with the Run For Shelter 5k Run/Walk event, which was a fundraiser for Transitions, an organization that provides aftercare programs for survivors of sex trafficking in Cambodia. Two months prior, I had gone with Transitions to Cambodia to engage in the work they were doing on the ground floor. I came back feeling empowered, yearning to help. I shared stories with friends and colleagues, posted Facebook articles about human trafficking, signed up to sponsor a girl, wrote a piece for my employer's newsletter, and volunteered for events to bring awareness and financial support to Transitions' and their mission. As I dressed for my volunteer position at the event registration table, adorning four layers of clothing and spare tissues in my pockets, my mind kept iterating - "It's Saturday. You should go to Crossroads Church tonight." Random. I haven't been there in 18 months. Whatever, pushing it to the back of my mind.

The event went well. I met up with my friend Linda who had gone with me on the engagement trip. Chatted briefly with the founders James & Athena Pond. Everyone was excited that I was out of the orthopedic boot I had acquired whilst traveling in Cambodia - broken foot bone the first day in. Afterwards, I visited briefly with my twin sister who had vaguely remembered the morning event. Onwards, I went to my boyfriend's place, summarizing the morning events (minus the bit about church). He was going to catch up with friends for dinner at the Comet, a neighborhood eatery specializing in the best cheap burritos. He encouraged me to come but I felt more inclined to stay in and take some time for writing. As I left his place around the hour of 4, the thought returned, "Why not go to Crossroads Church today. If you leave now, you'll make it there in time for their 4:30pm service." Alright, alright. I succumbed to my mind's persistent coaxing.

As I drove the 20 minutes to Crossroads, I contemplated my role with Transitions. What more could I do at this point? What should I be doing? A couple weeks prior during my first writing class with Women Writing for (a) Change, I had shared my short story about my journey to Cambodia with Transitions. One woman had recommended that I share the story with Oprah's readers. Submit the story to O magazine - It might be just the story they're looking for! Might get in, might not. Wow, to have Oprah spreading the word about Transitions! Wow. Think what that could do for sex trafficking, for Transitions! Oprah, the One with the Golden Touch! Ecstatic by the idea, I searched online for how to do this. The more I read, the more discouraged I became. How does one even go about submitting a story? Who do I send it to? Is there a certain format? Oh wow, I don't think this is it. I don't think I can do this. My story probably isn't good enough... The self-deprecating thoughts marinated, circulated, populated as my tires crossed the threshold into Crossroads’ parking lot. As I entered Crossroads expansive complex, one glimmering, hopeful thought leaked through, "Well, maybe, you can..."

I sat down. Lights dimming. Opened the weekend brochure. The topic: Sex trafficking. 


Woah. My mind - silenced. The room - silenced.


Somewhat spooked but intrigued, I listened. I learned. Wilberforce. An abolitionist. 15 years of rejection. I reflected. The fight isn't over. Slavery in the 21st century still exists. There are more slaves today than were seized from Africa in four centuries of the trans-Atlantic slave trade (National Geographic). 


Modern day slavery needs its abolitionists.I looked down at my volunteer Run for Shelter shirt, still on from the morning event, and I realized, this race isn't over yet.

Sipping Coffee in a Cocaine Culture

According to Google Images, the Salt Cathedral of Zipaquira makes for the optimal Kodak moment. Erected hundreds of meters below the surface in the tunnels of a Colombian salt mine, the functioning Roman Catholic Church is considered one of the most notable achievements of Colombian architecture. I went to the Zipaquira salt mines and all I got was a picture of the men’s restroom. 5 tiny, white urinals lined up against a white wall.  The epitome of a porcelain cathedral in the eyes of the photographer – a Kodak moment brought to me by my boyfriend, the consummate jester.

Months prior, while my close friend Mindi basked in the Guatemalan sun, her freckled skin connecting the dots, I cursed chapped lips, a third misplaced set of gloves, and the never ending gray skies and traffic delays of Cincinnati in February. The groundhog, of course, had seen his shadow.  Growing up in New Orleans, Mindi couldn’t empathize with the misery of an Ohio winter but her timing was flawless.

“Why don’t you visit me for Easter? I’ll have a week off from teaching.” She read my mind.

Unfortunately, kayak.com, my ticket search engine of choice did not. Airline access to Guatemala City precipitated near $1500 versus $500 to Bogota, Colombia. Mindi loves to travel. I love to travel and my boyfriend Kris, who had yet to meet the effervescent Mindi, especially loves to travel. So let’s meet up in Colombia we decided.

Unfortunately, Mindi’s one-week break from school wound up being long term (Guatemala doesn’t quite have teacher unions like the U.S.), and so the Three Musketeers became 2 – Kris and me. Packing our best Spanglish, to Colombia, we went for a near 3-week foray!

Salento, Colombia was the Google Image for best, quaint-I –wish-we-could’ve-stayed- here- forever village! Save for the progressive recycling bins, it seemed like time stood still here. An ATM machine that only worked part time. A billiards hall where only men trespassed. An ice cream parlor where a carved out cantaloupe overflowed like a volcano with sweet, succulent delights. The nearby Cocora Valley, a hiker’s paradise, where tall wax palm trees begged to touch the sky. The town square bedecked in traditional colonial architecture with the church at the head, the park in the middle, and the sundry shops and restaurants surrounding, a place where one had many tempting options for refuge during the brief afternoon showers. An open village culture where curious locals despite the language barrier chatted through their open windows and encouraged rides on jeeps through the sloping countryside – even if it meant precariously standing on the back bumper, white-knuckled hands holding tight and simultaneously laughing and cringing with each pothole bump in the unpaved road.  A quiescent place that we nearly missed because we fell asleep on the night bus en-route.

Manizales, Colombia was the Google Image for best, are-we-on-an-unstable-volcano-or-the-moon? Everything goes down better with coca leaves we realized whilst summiting the Nevado del Ruiz volcano – embracing the local remedy to avert altitude sickness. (Yes, coca tea is derived from the plant that brought the world cocaine. Only side effect I noticed was the constant attention of my bladder).  My bright pink scarf whipped at me as I stood capturing pictures of the windswept, ashen gray landscape; the volcano peak reminiscent of a disproportionately large anthill. Only seismic instruments could detect the rumbling of the volatile earth beneath my feet. Yet miles below, we could enjoy the soothing warmth of the Manizales hot springs courtesy of the volcano’s fiery personality. Miles surrounding the city, the volcanic ash enriched the soil encouraging Colombia as a hub for damn good coffee.

La Guajira, Colombia was the Google Image for best place to get food poisoning. It was beautiful. And remote. So remote that less than 10% of Colombians have ever step foot on this stunning juxtaposition of ocean meeting dessert. Like lava flowing into a glacier. So remote that it took a flight into Santa Marta, a Caribbean coast city, from there a 6-hour bus ride to Riohacha, the last town of “civilization”, spending the night in a hostel with the appearance of a German fortress (it actually may have been), hiring a native to drive a 4x4 jeep through the desert to Cabo de la Vela, a serene seaside hamlet where we slept in hammocks for the night. Onward we went as the sun emerged the next morning to a simple docking point where we boarded what appeared to be a dinghy. Into the defiant waves, we crawled for 3 hours along rocking waves. The saltwater piercing our eyes and slapping our faces like blows from prizefighters.  At last, we reached our remote destination – Punta Gallinhas on the La Guajira Peninsula, the most northern point of South America. A sparse, arid destination home only to goats and the indigenous people – the Wayuu. A people who have obstinately ruled the land for centuries, removed from Colombian authority. So remote and removed from Colombia that Spanish is minimally spoken and understood here.  So remote that when Kris and I got sick with food poisoning (or something equally unpleasant), we turned to a Red Cross volunteer who shared with us not only his penchant for remote dwellings but also good drugs to make our digestive systems happy again – preparing us for the audacious return route to civilization.

The return. Boat. Bus. Plane. Train. Car. From La Guajira, Colombia’s biggest secret, to Cincinnati, my home. From the gray, cabin fever days of February - to Colombia’s volcanic peaks and valleys of green – to home on a sultry, June morn, Friday 3am. Final Google Image? A visage of smiling exhaustion, strolling into work 4 hours later, a cup of damn good coffee in hand – Colombian.

a return to writing! :)!

I use to be brave. I use to want to save the world.

Now. I just want to be happy. I want to find value in me.

2 weeks ago as I wrapped up a speech therapy session with a little boy, Jeremiah, age 3½ with significant language delays, his mother interrupted me as I explained to her that one of his goals was answering yes/no questions appropriately, interjecting, “He says no because he’s bored. He doesn’t like your books; they’re boring. In fact, I’ve been observing you with him the past couple weeks and I don’t feel like you’re connecting with my son.  I’ve been thinking to call and change therapists. I just want the best for my son, and you’re sweet and all, but these books they ain’t connecting. You ain’t connecting.”

So. Out in the hall. Situated between the parent observation room, the restrooms, the waiting area, the elevators up to the speech pathology floor - the traffic center of the department, I stood, nearly mortified. Ok, I was mortified. Thinking, oh gosh, I hope the clinicians who’ve just met me, who’ve been sorority-girl-like - snubbing me because I’m the “new” girl, my bosses who sort-of know me more by reputation, these parents – parents who may someday have me as therapist, and oh, what about little Jeremiah… hope they don’t hear what this mother is saying to me – about me… oh gosh, I wish this conversation was transpiring in a vacuum…

Face ablaze, voice calm, I responded, “Ok, it sounds like Jeremiah doesn’t respond well to books. (Though defensively my mind is reeling. My books are fun. My books are awesome. Why, last week we read Going on a Bear Hunt and then we actually went on a bear hunt in my therapy room! That. is. fun!) Perhaps we could move away from our more literacy-based approach to a more play-based approach. It sounds like that’s what his previous therapist did and perhaps what he’s more accustomed to and comfortable doing. (Inwardly reflecting – and that is why this 3½ year-old doesn’t know how to hold a book, to look at it from front to back, turn pages left to right…! Not to mention I’ve only been working with him for a couple weeks – can’t expect a child to have the same level of rapport with someone they’ve met 3 times versus someone they saw for a year who played games with them…!) And in the end, if we’re not making progress, then we can certainly look to moving him to another therapist.”

Mom was agreeable to returning for their regularly scheduled appointment in a week. I was agreeable to exchanging my much-loved books for toddler toys.

That was Monday 10am. A couple hours before, I had opened my work email to read congratulatory notes from my colleagues.  Colleagues who had worked with me before I had transitioned to a new site within the department, my present site, a couple weeks prior. Congratulatory remarks for my mentioned name in the company-wide (a company of 11,000 employees) Outpatient Comment Report. Due to positive feedback from families who I worked with, I received the welcomed nod in the report regarding my positive interaction with families.

Yet, despite this high acknowledgment from parents and the hospital, in the course of a couple hours, I was wallowing in self-imposed thoughts of clinical inadequacy. I couldn’t separate my professional thoughts of, “Hmm, I need to educate this family on the value of literacy,” from my personal thoughts, “I have failed. I have failed Jeremiah and his mother.”

These thoughts just kept festering. Festering. Festering. Festering like an unattended fruit fly infestation.

Then yesterday, my mind bluntly said, “I don’t want to save the world.”

Trying to help people backfires. Backfires are painful. It hurts too much to deal with them.

This morning, my soul bluntly said, “This isn’t you. You are brave; you are passionate. Go to church. I don’t care if you have a broken foot and an awkward orthopedic boot, get outside, go for a walk. Think and express with Mother Nature. Sign up for a writing class. ”

Don’t seek validation from others; seek it from within. Write your personal journey.

So here I am. Writing. Hopeful, smiling – happy.

Serendipitously, the Spring writing class with Women Writing for (a) Change commences this Tuesday! :)

Human trafficking: My journey to cambodia

There are those of us who go on vacation, enjoy the sunshine and tranquility – and then there are those of us like me who go on a trip and return with an orthopedic boot souvenir!  My fractured 5^th metatarsal (think outside foot bone) journey began in Cambodia. However, the purpose of my journey to Cambodia began years before that.

My story begins 3 years ago with my first big stint abroad working as a speech therapist in Maputo, Mozambique. It was there at the Mozambique-South African border that I first encountered human trafficking. Due to my visa, each month I traveled to the border to get my passport stamped and typically traveled onward to pick up my snail mail that was delivered to a post box in a small town shopping complex. Thus was the ritual for 12 months.  As efficiency wasn’t really a concept that existed in this frequently civil war torn country, the border process was a slow, very much people-observing process. I began to notice patterns at the border. Buses filled with Mozambican men traveling to Johannesburg, South Africa to work in the gold mines. “Government enforcers” who could easily be bribed to bypass the border hassle. Stray dogs. Trash. People balancing gardening tools, schoolbooks, cartons of eggs, passels of clothing, pots & pans, furniture, small children, anything on their head with the relative strength of an ant carrying a maple leaf.

Then there was the curious collection of girls and women being transported across the border. And as time passed, the more of the latter I saw. In time I learned that the reason for the age 34 life expectancy in Mozambique stemmed from what was being witnessed at the border. The men employed as miners crossed the border with income, but also with AIDs. And the women in the overcrowded single-gender buses were the victims of the “entertainment” industry – many coerced into sex slavery by their families or situational circumstances.

When I returned home to the States and accepted a position with Cincinnati Children’s Hospital, moving me to Cincinnati, Ohio, I discovered an organization that too had recently become a Cincinnati import – Transitions Global. A nonprofit organization that was combating what I had witnessed at the African border crossing – sex trafficking of young girls. While calling Cincinnati home, Transitions’ heart is in Phnom Penh, Cambodia where they have established a comprehensive aftercare program for girls between the ages of 13 and 19 years old who have been sexually trafficked, exploited or abused. Having a success rate near 80% of reintegrating girls into Cambodian society without being re-exploited, this aftercare program has demonstrated unprecedented success relative to “similar” programs.

Traveling with a team of nearly 20 people from the U.S. in January, I had the opportunity to engage in Transitions’ work. Ironically enough, the 2 of us from Cincinnati wound up with foot injuries – mine the first day exploring the ruins of Angkor Wat and the other woman bumped and broke her pinky toe the first night in her hotel room! Though the Cincinnati contingent was hobbled, we still had an absolutely fantastic trip! Who knew that Cambodians believe the more steps there are the closer they are to Buddha - yet the concept of elevators is a seemingly odd phenomenon. In the course of 2 weeks, I saw one elevator and it read “out of order.” (I still used it, and yes, to my knowledge it worked.)

The girls. Despite their history, they acted like any other teenage girls. Happy, sad, excited, screaming (“squealing” I have ascertained is a primary communicative function), giggling, and giggling, and giggling. Hello Kitty. Justin Beiber. Skinny jeans. Bedazzled purses and nails. Despite their inward bruising, seeing my rainbow-colored foot, they took to me like mother hens – clucking over who was going to get my pizza, grab my displaced crutches, paint my toenails shades of purple, persuade me to consume fried beetles, and help me navigate my ailing body up and down.

Early on I met “Molika.” Like my older sister and my twin sister, she was happiest while painting and drawing. Leading up to the trip, I had collected art supplies from my friends and family and it was so rewarding to see her eyes light up at the sight of oil pastels, her own sketchbook, and new colored pencils and paintbrushes. During a True Body Project activity, a program developed to empower the girls, I sat next to Molika as she drew a beautiful picture of a tree. A tree with stretching roots and many branches indicating how she felt – feeling strong but with room to grow. Another girl drew 2 trees – one big, one small – and expressed how before she came to Transitions she felt like the small tree – minimally noticed as if forgotten – but now she was the big tree – strong and loved.

Some have asked me – What did you hope to accomplish in such a short time? My best answer is – Just to be with the girls. To be with them and to show them that we love and care about them. The rest fell into place. One night we found ourselves teaching the girls sign language as a way of breaking through the language barrier. With one bilingual person to translate the meaning of the signs initially, we suddenly found ourselves with a similar vocabulary - discussing our feelings, dreams for what we want to be when we grow up, our favorite animals. Who knew I’d be using American Sign Language (and crutches) in Cambodia?!

Without a doubt, the trip to Cambodia reminded me of the disturbing and ongoing struggle with modern day slavery. Thinking of its omnipresent manifestation into our society from the sweatshop factory workers to the boy soldiers is heartbreaking and overwhelming. Yet seeing the nature of Transition’s work and similar organizations gives me hope. But the girls I met on the trip have given me the most hope. They have in many ways seen the darkest side of human nature, yet they have not given up; they continue to push on and persevere. They are truly survivors.

Close to home facts:
• It is estimated that there are between 12.5 and 27 million people currently enslaved in various forms of bondage.
• Approximately 600,000 to 800,000 victims are trafficked worldwide every year.
• Currently, in the United States, the FBI and UNICEF estimates that there are approximately 300,000 American underage girls that are vulnerable to sex trafficking.
• The average age of girls who enter into street prostitution is between 12 and 14 years old.
• According to the United Nations, sex trafficking brings in an estimated $32 billion a year worldwide. In the U.S., sex trafficking brings in $9.5 billion annually.
• Nationwide, Toledo, Ohio is ranked #3 for child sex trafficking and slavery. By state, Ohio is ranked #5.


How to get involved:
Visit Transitions Global website to learn more about the organization, inquire about an Engagement trip, and/or Sponsor a girl (I'm sponsoring Molika!). Contact me if you have any questions or are interested in getting involved with what Transitions is doing here in Cincinnati!

Hello 28!

Year 28 is off to a GRAND start... because I am getting published! The book, entitled TRAVEL MEANS FREEDOM, is coming out 12/22/2011 (hopefully) just in time for Christmas. I submitted a short story about my volunteer travel with Operation Smile in DR Congo and it was selected to be published in the book! Proceeds from the book will benefit the charity: water (NGO bringing clean and safe drinking water to people in developing nations).


Want to check out the organization promoting the book? Buy a copy?
http://wegetthere.com

2011 - the night cap.

My boyfriend Kris would say that 2011 was the year of the pastry (he likes pie; it’s the only thing I can make). I would say it was the year of the weddings. 7 weddings. Meaning next year might be the year of the baby showers. Weddings took us from Put-in-Bay to Wisconsin, from Lafayette to Maria Stein. I now have no excuse to buy a dress for ten years.

I experienced my first Paw Paw Festival. Athens, Ohio. Paw paw ice cream, paw paw beer, paw paw salsa, paw paw soap, paw paw clothing, paw paw cheese, paw paw raw, paw paw clad people, and the paw paw-razzi capturing it all. I had no idea paw paws had so many facets! Nor do I have any idea how to describe what a paw paw tastes like. A cross between a mango and apple or a banana and a pina colada? Looks like a green potato. Delicate like a kiwi.

I had my first collegiate commencement speech. The memory still flares up the ‘ol anxious nerves. The Speech Pathology Department at Miami University, my alma mater, asked me to speak at their graduate school ceremony in May. I couldn’t think of a good enough excuse to say no, and so quivering teeth, legs, mind and all, I spoke about my experiences as a speech pathologist -from departing on a plane bound for India the night of my graduate commencement to present-day working at a pediatric hospital, a place where my patients call me “fun-size” (and their dads “king size") and refer to the hospital as “Mia’s house” – and learning and loving my job every step of the way. Even when my smiling 3 year-old patients with their speech problems sound like cursing adults…”b*tch” for “fish” or “f*ck you” for “thank you.” Smile and nod and hope they’re not handing out my business cards.

It was the year of traveling to countries with questionable motives. New Year’s in Jamaica… the summer equinox in Colombia… No, I am not, to my knowledge, involved in any cartels of any sort. Unfortunately, my new passport only reads these 2 countries. Hopefully my trips in the coming year to Cambodia (with Transitions Global) and Uzbekistan (with Operation Smile) don’t put me on the CIA’s radar. Oh, just googled top drug countries and looks like I should just stay home – U.S. tops the list for world’s largest consumer of cocaine, heroin, and marijuana! (Disclaimer: My only drug of choice is caffeine – mocha-style on Monday mornings, extra whip cream, please. J).

The best books I read this year were “Little Bee” by Chris Cleave and “Ishmael” by Daniel Quinn. I’m still reading the latter and have been for a while but still believe it’ll be topping the list for its thought-provoking writing. These fine literary gems, they have my thumbs up. (To be honest, they were probably the only books I got close to finishing...)

This month marks my 28^th year of living. Looking forward to what my 28^th year and 2012 will bring. Hopefully a more living-in-the-present state of being, greater confidence, continued compassion, smiles & giggles, and a keener sense of purpose.

your life in 3 words.

If you were to pick 3 words for which you want your life to embody, what would they be?

Mine - compassion, joy, cognizant

Hair Personified

(a fast-write from today's class)

Patricia is one of those women you cannot identify by her hair. Some days it’s copper ringlets; other days sleek, flowing to the shoulder ebony; then a fro of fuzz, cropped-close like a poodle recently to the barber. Her ever-changing hair wardrobe I could only liken to the shoe closet of some American women. Her hair, an extension of her personality – vibrant, and at times, unpredictable.

Due to my pediatric clientele’s desire for decorating my carpet office floor with play dough, I met Patricia early in my days working at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital. Patricia often surfaced just as I was finishing up for the day, her timing seemingly impeccable. My trash bins she would empty, my decorated floor she would look upon, smile, laugh and shake her head knowingly. It was her accent barely discernible in her laugh that alluded to a background beyond the cleaning duties she held at the hospital. A native of Ghana, Patricia came to Cincinnati by way of her husband, a Ghanaian man living in the States. Friends and family were dispersed throughout the country, but here in Cincinnati, was where she was raising her immediate family.

Having a slight infatuation with Africa - the people, the natural, raw beauty of the landscape, the culture, the way of life and colorful dress – Patricia and I got on well. Quite well. She was observant to the hints of African incorporated into my daily life – the fabric of my computer bag, the dangles from my ears, the swatch of cloth in my hair, or the rare African-printed skirt. For Christmas, she betrothed me with a necklace from Ghana – a myriad of earth-toned beads culminating into an African-continent-shaped stone. A stunning cherished remnant from the Dark Continent, well loved and worn.

In March 2010, having known me 6 months, Patricia remarked one evening, “I would like you to be my sister-in-law.” Thinking that she was being generous with her words, I merely laughed in response.

Then in June 2010, during a therapy session, I heard a knock on my office door. Believing it was the child’s father coming in, I opened the door. But standing before me was not the child’s father, but rather Patricia – early to work that day. As my patient, a 6-year-old boy with severe ADHD and his father watched on camera from the observation room, Patricia explained her presence – with little regard for the audience that was witnessing this conversation unfold.

Patricia: “Maria, Maria! Remember how I said I wanted you to be my sister-in-law? Well, I spoke with my brother who lives in Ghana. He is very excited to marry you. However, I thought it best if he send pictures so you can see how beautiful he is. He wanted me to give you...”

Nodding towards my patient with the door still half-open, I interrupted, “Thank you, Patricia, that was very thoughtful of you. However, I am in with a patient. Let’s catch up later.”

She handed me a large, poster-size envelope postmarked from Ghana.

Shocked, I wrapped up the session as calmly and coherently as possible. The child, ever inquisitive and clever in distracting me from speech therapy, inquired about the person at the door. I briefly explained that she was “one of my friends”, a term I often used to refer to other patients. The father, thankfully tactful or forgetful, did not ask further regarding the intriguing conversation he had likely overheard.

The next day remembering the contents of the Ghana-postmarked envelope, I opened it and curiously retrieved what had traversed an ocean and many weeks to get to me. Enclosed were 2 photos. One, a life-size picture of an African man’s head, perhaps even blown-up to be larger-than-the actual size of his head. The other, another blown-up picture this one depicting an African man clad in traditional-African garb. He looked as if he had taken a bed sheet, wrapped it around his body toga-style, and secured it to his frame with one simple knot. He stood against a car, weathered, with simple open sandals adorning his feet. He looked to be a man – stoic and regal.

Ironically, his identifying feature was his hair. Unlike his sister, this man had hair that was static through the fashion trends and changing seasons. His hair all black, save for a patch above his head – this patch of hair was a sharp contrasting pigment of white. An identifying feature that had earned him the nickname “Snow.”

So what’s next for the couple – one with “snow” colored skin, the other with “snow” colored hair?

The consulted Magic 8-ball reads, “Ask Again Later.” ;)

the finish line

“When will I be able to run again?” I asked.

(Laugh). “If you’re standing in the middle of the road and there’s a car coming, then you can run,” responded my physical therapist.

--

My foray into running began as a little girl growing up in cornfield-clad Maria Stein, Ohio. Running down the road, pursuing my cousin’s car as it disappeared into the distance, my legs moving in sync with my waving hand. My cousins, the daughters of my mother’s twin sister, often visited in the summer. At some point it became tradition that as their wheels went down the road, my feet followed suit. Often barefoot along the road, hot with bubbling asphalt, the air stagnant with summer heat, I chased dreams and cars.

Then in middle school my cousin and my twin sister joined cross-country. Wanting to choose a path different than my twin, I became a cheerleader. Being hailed a “rah-rah” by my older sister did not sit well with me nor did practicing gymnastics unsupervised in the family backyard sit well with my sprained body, so by high school, I joined the cross country ranks. I became one of the few familiar with the 5k metric equivalent for 3.1 miles. One of the few who liked to “run for fun.” One of the few who saved up to buy not CDs or new clothes for school but rather a new pair of New Balance running shoes. As a scrawny teenager weighing in just under 100 pounds, standing at almost 5’2, my short legs and bony appendages, never garnered me athletic accolades. My twin sister, 6 inches taller, had the legs for running. She could actually sprint. I chose instead to go the distance.

College came along and I continued to lace up my running shoes. The purple stripes on my favorite pair of shoes faded into shades of grey, the navy and yellow N insignia for New Balance wore off and fell away, duct tape bandaged talking holes, and the shoe treads underneath became smooth, but I kept running. I sprained my knee ice-skating, but kept running, downgrading a trained-for marathon to a half-marathon 4 weeks later. I dislocated my right kneecap playing ice hockey but still walked the hilly streets of San Francisco 3 weeks later, racking up nearly 20 miles in one day whilst loosely abiding by physical therapy recommendations. I acquired a stress fracture in my left foot, wore an orthopedic boot for a month, removed it the day before undergraduate graduation, wore heels down the aisle and then spent 2 months traipsing around Europe a good portion on running feet. Through the aches and pains, swollen joints and ice packs, I played intramural soccer, took up rugby, spent days hiking, and kept right on running.

Then August 9th, 2009 I crossed the finish line.

I had been home but 3 weeks from Africa just in time for a close friend’s wedding in Columbus, Ohio. To the church ceremony and the reception thereafter I went. Shook it all about with the Hokey-Pokey, stepped in tune to the Electric Slide, and got down with the Chicken Dance. Kept the fun going at a bar afterwards with my cousin, dancing with her flatmate and friends until, as some say, “I literally broke dance.”

Bewildered as to why suddenly my bottom was on the floor and everyone else was dancing on two feet, my hand traveled to my left knee. What I felt was even more perplexing. My kneecap had gravitated out of its socket and was resting on the left side of where my knee should have been. Gripped with pain and impending shock, I could not get up. I could not walk. Two men whose names I did not know transported me to safety. One making way for me in the drunken crowd and the other, a rather slight fellow, carrying me. A cab was called and I was whisked away with my cousin to the emergency room of the Ohio State University Hospital.

There in a patient room I sat alone save for a team of medical students and doctors peering at my wayward knee and me. The state of my knee and the state of my dress (fit for a wedding) provided a puzzling picture. The doctors wanted to call in an anesthesiologist to put me under while they pushed the knee back into its socket. Unfortunately, quite sober, I was computing dollar signs in my head for the expense and suggested a local anesthetic instead. The doctor reported it wouldn’t give me the pain relief I sought.

So alas I asked, “Can’t you just push it back in?” Incredulous looks exchanged. Everyone thought I’d taken a crazy pill. Especially when they realized I was being serious. “How long would it take? How long would the pain last?” I inquired. “It would be extremely painful but the pain wouldn’t last long,” one reported. “Well then, let’s get on with it,” I stated.

One well-meaning (but foolish) individual offered to hold my hand during it. I warned him that I would likely break it. Instead, I gripped the wheelchair’s arms; knuckles white, and followed the Lamaze instructions of a sage doctor. “Breathe in through your nose and whistle out your mouth.” And this I did as an audience watched my kneecap being pushed back into its rightful place.

Aware of my pain medication sensitivity (and cognizant of the astronomical inflation of medication in hospitals), I relented to only taking one Motrin after the ordeal. As I had crutches and a leg brace at my parent’s place from my last knee dislocation 3 years prior, I refused to acquire another set. Instead, I left the hospital, my left knee well wrapped in ace bandage, hopping on my good right foot. Without crutches and poor upper body strength, I managed to navigate a flight of stairs and a pair of friendly cats to the refuge of my cousin’s bed where I slept for a couple hours before driving myself the 2 hours home to my parent’s place. Not wanting to worry them, I waited until they had gone through their typical Sunday morning ritual before calling them, letting them know that my crutches would need to be found in the next couple hours, dusted off, and placed where I could reach them upon opening my car door. And per request, hours later, I found them and my father waiting for me as I pulled into my parent’s driveway. My father knowingly shaking his head.

To be continued...

30 Hours in Mumbai

26/11. 9/11 but in India. On the 26^th day of November, 2008, Pakistani-based Muslim terrorists lay siege to Mumbai, India’s financial capital. Ten coordinated shooting and bombing attacks, killing 173, wounding 308. Well-equipped gunmen singled-out individuals with American and British passports. To be killed or taken hostage. Not a good day to be at Leopold Café, a popular restaurant for foreigners. Not a good day to be an American in Mumbai.

--

For 2 days, I had travelled by bus from Maputo, Mozambique to Johannesburg, South Africa to catch a flight to India for my friend Sangeetha’s wedding. I had met Sangeetha as a student at Miami University where we had both pursued graduate degrees in speech-language pathology. I was now working in Mozambique; she was planning to find work in her native country of India. But first, she was to marry an Indian doctor from Calicut, India. An arranged marriage that she had welcomed.

No stranger to flying, I had minimal anxiety regarding the impending flight that would take me from Johannesburg to Dubai to Calicut. Even as I watched a crew of Emirate airline attendants attempt to process my e-reservation, my anxiety level registered at 0. Their conversation in a foreign tongue did not faze me. It was when the looks on their faces began to appear frantic and when I heard a brave soul utter to me, “Do not worry, ma’am, we’ll get it sorted” that I realized this was going to be no quick check-in. Then I was pulled aside and calmly told that for whatever reason, my individual ticket had been cancelled. There were no empty seats on the flight. I had no ticket to India.

I was told that I could go to a travel agent but one outside the airport or go online to book a flight. Either way there would be a 2-3 day delay. “Was my flight urgent?” they asked. Odd question, no one travels for 2 days from one foreign country to the next to wait days in that foreign place before departing on a flight to another very foreign place. In addition, I had convinced an American friend to come to our mutual friend’s wedding. She had never left the States. Quite hesitant initially, she finally conceded when I told her I would be waiting for her at the airport and would not leave her side for the duration of the journey. Interpreted urgent or otherwise, I did not have days to get to Calicut, India. I had hours. Tick tock tick tock.

The Emirate airline advice I disregarded. Instead, I walked from one airline desk to the next inquiring, “Do you have flights to India? How soon can you get me there?” I had gone through nearly the whole alphabetical line of airlines (Alitalia, Ethiopia, Kenyan, Qatar) until South African Airways put my fears to rest. They could get me to Calicut through Mumbai. A 15-hour layover both ways. I would miss my American friend’s arrival but I would make it in time for my Indian friend’s wedding. I had one hour to get word to my friends, go through security, and board the plane bound for India. Within 8 hours, I would be in Mumbai. I had little time to prepare. Tick tock tick tock.

The Mumbai international airport is not one of comfort. Due to its proximity to the Pakistani border and the strained relations between the neighbors, police were everywhere. Their eyes everywhere. I left. Upon entering the night heat, I was met by an onslaught of Indian businessmen looking to make a deal. I bartered with a taxi driver, but paid too much. Wound up at a hotel, where again my fair skin and American passport, made me pay too much.

The next morning, still a couple hours into my first Mumbai 15-hour layover, I embraced the chaos of the city. With a hotel staff member, I went in search of a SIM card for my phone so domestic calls (within India) could be made. My friends thus far knew little regarding my whereabouts, only what they could glean from the frantic email I had sent before my hasty departure.

Getting a SIM card in India, I quickly realized was no minute task. Closely following the hotel staff member, my passport in tow per his request, we weaved from one shantytown to the next. Inquiries placed, copies of my passport made, money exchanged. We walked on. After hours of curious perusal by onlookers, I acquired a SIM card. My first foray into Mumbai’s streets, a few blisters to sport and once white shirt now quite dusted, but not much worse for the wear.

I traveled onward to Calicut, meeting up with my friends, having a week of great fun and further intrigues: sitting in the second row for my friend’s marriage ceremony sharing space with the other 1500 guests invited, shopping for saris, tasting dried coconut by the street side, giving free “English” lessons to inquisitive villagers, seeing the countryside by train, exploring the backwater region by boat (as if in Venice), and trying to interpret the characteristic Indian “head bob”, in which Indians actually communicate by way of bobbing their heads.

Then it was back to Mumbai for my second and final 15-hour layover. This time, though, I had a personal tour guide – my friend Sheila. We first met in Maputo, Mozambique where we had arrived within weeks of each other, became friends, and then her hometown of Mumbai beckoned her back to India. With a phone and her number, we got in touch. We had a good half-day to catch up and to see the city – tourist sites and all.

It was now March 2009. Nearly 4 months since the Mumbai attacks or 26/11 as the Indians referred to it as. The targeted sites, many tourist spots, were part of the tour. We passed the Taj Hotel by rickshaw, where 167 perished. We walked past Leopold Café where 10 had been murdered. Bullet holes still blotted the front.

Being here felt so surreal, so eerie. It wasn’t a feeling I welcomed. I walked on picking up my pace. Then from the corner of my eye, I glimpsed an Indian gentlemen sprinting across 5 lanes of traffic. His eyes set on me. My heart stopped. My feet stopped. What the….

“Ma’am! Ma’am! Stop! Stop!” I couldn’t move. One lane of traffic separated him from me. “Ma’am, ma’am! Please stop!”

Now a couple feet.

Tick tock tick tock.

“Ma’am, will you be in my Bollywood movie?” What?!

“We could make a good deal. You be in my Bollywood movie? Yes, yes?” I was speechless.

“We make big money.” Blank look. Mouth agape. Speechless.

My images of the Mumbai attack – fear, trails of blood, panic, ricocheting bullets, horror – diminishing into a montage of shaking hips, stiletto-dancing women. Absurd. Unlikely.

As my ability to form sentences seemed impaired, my friend intervened.

“No, no, she doesn’t want to be in your Bollywood movie.” No. No. No. Indians are well known for their persuasive skills and persistence and the clashing of these two Indians was no exception. My heart was still pounding.

Bollywood dreams dashed, we managed to escape into a bakery with a distracting array of chocolates and sweet confections. My friend quickly forgot the incident. I did not.

I sat on the plane that night, homesick for a land I had not seen in many months, and one I would not see for many more. I was homesick for a place where upon entry I would pass through the line for “nationals” not for “foreigners.” I was homesick for a place where my nationality and fair skin garnered few second glances.

I was homesick for a place where I could just be.

Getting directions from dogs

I get lost in parking lots. Not just the I-walked-out-of-the-store-and-now-can’t-find-my car lost, but the I’m-in-my-car-driving-laps-around-the parking-lot-because-I-can’t-find-my-way-out lost. Whenever I go someplace new (or well, okay, to be truly honest, familiar places as well), I factor in an extra 30 minutes to account for all the one-way streets I’ll likely drive the wrong way down before serendipitously finding myself on the right one. My maps are “outdated.” My compasses forever “misguided.” And a GPS always next on the to-purchase-NOW list.

However. Born and raised country girl, there is one place I never get lost. Outside. In the woods. My own 2 feet walking down Mother Nature’s highway.

In the woods, I always find my way. Well, 99% of the time.

---

A year before World Cup fever hit South Africa, I decided to explore the country myself. I had 4 weeks to get from Maputo, Mozambique to Cape Town, South Africa. With no car, public buses and my 2 feet were my primary modes of transport. My mission was to hike with the sun’s calendar. As the sun ascended and descended in the sky, I hiked, carrying on my back a small parcel storing water, granola bars, cell phone, and a rain jacket. I ambled along the ocean coastline waters, scaled the mountains, trampled through the grasslands, and trekked beneath the canopies of virgin forest.

One journey brought me to a former horse farm. Given the winter season, I was the only guest that day. Upon inquiry, a woman of great-grandmotherly age gave me a faded map marking the trails in the local region. The map, very primitive in appearance, hadn’t been used reportedly in nearly 10 years. Nonetheless, I took a look at the clear sky, the picturesque landscape of rolling hills blanketed with grazing horses, and headed down a path to the treetops beckoning me in the distance.

When in hike, I quickly lose myself in thought, surfacing only for nature curiosities like a beaver dam or a bubbling creek that needs transversing. Any concept of time passage quickly lost. Hours, miles, and landscapes had elapsed when I came to a clearing in the woods. First I noticed a flock of sheep in the distance being gathered in, then a small furry critter scurrying for refuge beneath a stunning fuchsia color of a flower, and lastly, above, the foreboding dark clouds that had rolled in, without pause, filling the sky.

I calmly turned around following my footsteps back into the woods. First, came a cold drizzle. I trekked on. Then the wind picked up. The trees howled. I trekked on. Then blocks of hail began to fall. I tightened the hood on my rain jacket and trekked on. The sky grew darker. The forest blackened. I trekked on. The earth beneath me began to suck at my shoes. I lifted my feet higher and trekked on.

Then I realized I was lost.

The trek stopped. I pulled out my map. It was of little use. All previous landmarks were being washed away; it was too dark to make out north from south or east from west. So I turned retracing my previous steps looking for familiarity. None.

Calm was becoming fear. Where was I? What to do? Where to next? What if…?

Then I saw two dogs. Wild dogs. They saw me. Thinking (hoping) that the dogs would possess superior directional skills than my own at this moment, I walked toward them. I followed them into a clearing, but not recognizing the area, I left the dogs and returned to the woods. The dogs followed me. But they kept nudging me back to the clearing. Alas, I relinquished my lead and followed them. Out in the open, I was subjected to the wind, the cold, and the harsh rain. More than once, I thought I had lost them. But they always waited, their eyes searching for mine, until I caught up.

Alas, we came upon a camping area, deserted for the season. The dogs led me to a small building, one that seemed fit for collecting park fees and doling out hiking maps. I entered the dry space, searched for an identifying name for the location and found one among the brochures and maps strewn about the floor. Using my cell phone, I contacted the couple I was staying with, provided my whereabouts, and waited for their pickup. As I surveyed the campgrounds, I quickly noted that my company had since left. The dogs were gone from sight.

---

Back at the home, the storm continued to rage on, through the night and into the many hours of morning. I slept little. Neither the rare hot shower nor the warm home-cooked meal could warm me up. The mere thought of being still stranded out there in the elements, in a storm that I later learned blew off rooftops and took down power poles, kept me shivering. Out the window, I kept looking. The dogs never returned.

---

However, I returned. I returned to the woods, continuing my quest, exploring the world on foot. However, added to the parcel that comes with me, often comes a dog. A dog for that 1% of the time that I get lost.