It is day one in Fakarava and already things are not going well. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I was going on a seven-day cruise through the Fakarava & Marquesas in French Polynesia with just a phone and a drone.
We launched our canoe when the wind was against us. Starting at Crystal Geyser in southern Utah, we planned to end near the confluence of the Green and Colorado Rivers. We struggled to move forward. At the stern, Rudy kept the canoe on course. “Have you been in these conditions
In wine speak, the cycle of life for the vine begins in the spring. The vineyard starts to come to life as bud break approaches after laying barren and dormant during the winter. It is a new beginning and a new vintage and signals a time when I am ready
When you visit a garden at the beginning of the summer growing season, and then again in late fall—and it’s equally beautiful—you know you’re on to something special.
It ain’t dying I’m talking about, it’s living. I doubt it matters where you die, but it matters where you live. Robert Duvall as Gus McCrae, ‘Lonesome Dove’ It was living that I was after. A need to feel awake, energized…alive! So, I returned to Arizona. The pandemic has taken
After relocating from suburban Chicago to the Denver metro area, my husband and I embraced our geographic location by taking frequent winter road trips into the nearby mountains. From our Front Range home, we could easily reach most of Colorado’s prime ski destinations after driving just a handful of hours.
Isolated off the coast of Cape Cod, shades of yellow blanket a small island 36 miles out to sea. More than three million Narcissuses have been planted throughout the 48 square miles of what many consider to be one of the most beautiful islands in North America. The annual Nantucket
Our bright yellow 4×4 grinds higher up into the Sierra Madre Mountains. The high peaks rise like jagged green jewels above Puerto Vallarta, Jalisco, Mexico. Under a canvas canopy cover I cling to my vinyl seat, inhale sharp mountain air and wonder about lunch.
“Duck,” I shouted to my son, who pedaled his blue-colored cruiser bike a few feet behind mine. I’d rounded a corner on the dedicated cycling path and ridden into a curtain of Spanish moss hanging from an ancient oak. The lacy light green moss brushed my forehead, but given his
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