The sign-up sheet said “No Testicles Allowed.” It was my friend Steffi’s idea. She asked if I’d ever been on an all-female camping trip. I hadn’t.
Camping in the snow requires its own set of skills. My friend, Alexander, who is planning to hike from Canada to Mexico next year, decided he ought to practice them. My friend Michelle and I tagged along.
It just so happened that the Pi Day of the century occurred over spring break: March 14, 2015, or 3/14/15 — the first five digits of pi.
Not everyone got to play in the snow when the ice struck Chapel Hill. I, for one, was stranded on the other side of the country. Raleigh-Durham International Airport’s closure left me with a 20-hour layover in Los Angeles.
For being open to the public, trails and mountains aren’t frequented by a very diverse crowd. On the way to climb at Sauratown, I noticed that the carpool consisted of me and seven men — six of whom were white.
Dead ladybugs filled the cracks. They’d sought warmth on the sunbaked stone, only to freeze when night fell.
Professional rock climbers Tommy Caldwell and Kevin Jorgeson are currently climbing a smooth, 3,000-foot sheet of granite in the dead of winter.
Like many, I returned to my hometown for Thanksgiving. Like many, I saw family and caught up with old friends. I am still pretty close with my buddies from high school, so we made a point to see each other. The troops rallied for a reunion at the SweetWater Brewery in downtown Atlanta. Afterward, we had dinner in a sleek underground restaurant complete with a bar, old arcade games, a bocce ball court and food better than my aunt’s famous Thanksgiving spread.
The trip began with a last minute rerouting; the Blue Ridge Parkway was closed.
I write to you from a tent made of quilts.
