"The Lonely Trail" Frogs and Toads

It was getting late as the sun aimed for the sea in the west. The weekend was quickly coming to a close. I suddenly had the urge to escape to one of my favorite places - a hidden canyon whose trails knew me well - a place I felt I could walk blindfolded and still see.

Only two hours remained before stars awoke to gaze down on a nocturnal world. Soon after I had left my car and was upon the trail - I started to sense something strange - something odd. Perhaps I should be saying - I sensed my lack of senses.

Here I was - late in the day - at a time when all nature opens her lungs and fills the air with life, with song, whether it be the beautiful whistle of a bird, or the chirp of a cricket - it is the song of nature.

My mind swirled with the thoughts of the day gone by and it was this day that led me to this escape - this canyon whose trails knew me well.

I looked high into the sycamores' crowns - its branches cradling a sleepy sky - but where were the birds - their songs, their chatter. A voice within me suddenly stopped me to say, "Listen, it's a Wren Tit." "No," I said. "It can't be. That's a Towhee no doubt." For that moment I could hear.

But soon I started to look inward again - thinking over the day's events. The day was in a large way, a sad day, but in another way - it was a day of beginning. A day of strengthening bonds. The canyon sounds were drowned out as tears fought their way out of eyes and into the the cool air - now rushing down the hillsides to greet me at the canyon bottom. I actually felt this coolness, but something too was missing here. These early evening breezes always greet the traveler with a potpourri of scents - smells of drying spring and summer grasses, of hillside fennel, of creekside willows and mulefat. it is the smell of nature which always pleases me and surprises me at my ability to smell so many scents.

I noted in my journal at the send of my hike how I missed the feel of the soft earth under my boots and the color of the sunset. My emotions were too wound up to allow my senses to come alive.

On the trail, let go and let nature sink in.

Pink Skink

THE PINK SKINK

By Philip Schanberger

Narrated by Carol Corone

All rights reserved. © ApplePieBrasil

I once had a pet skink whose color was pink.

Now that’s quite unusual, wouldn’t you think?

He had a long tail that was bit by a mink,

so he dragged it around, complete with a kink.

Two Wings, A Couple Prayers and Some Sleepless Nights to Paradise

It's been a long strange journey - someone once wrote or perhaps sang. But the phrase kept coming back to me everytime I put my head down somewhere to sleep. Ever since we pulled out of Gilbert, Arizona on our trek to Southern California, something new popped into the picture trying its best to rattle the nerves of a tired troop of folks embarking on a serious move in life.

We rolled out of Gilbert late in the morning, way past the original plan of 4am. It was fortunate for two young boys that procrastination was a very large part of our follies - especially that Saturday morning. As I closed the car door and reached for the keys, one of Thiago's best friends raced into the driveway on his bike. Thiago lowered his window screaming, "Rylan, Rylan."

After some discussion back and forth on the plans for the trip, a goodby was tossed back and forth, while I studied Junia's eyes. A pool of tears had formed in each eye and I knew where her thoughts were. Rylan was one of Thiago's dearest friends and the reality was that they would soon be separated by thousands of miles.

We drove west under a warming sun. Already into triple digits, I was anxious to see and feel the coastal paradise of San Diego. We finally arived in San Diego close to sunset.

A call to 411 for the hotel address yielded a strange destination. We located the address after circling several blocks of one-way streets and looked at each other as we pulled into the parking lot of a shoddy looking hotel. At the very least, it would mean a hot shower and a bed to all cram into, but something kept telling me that we were not supposed to be at the Harbor View Inn. A small child peered out from a top story window and I kidded the little ones that she was a ghost that haunted the hotel. Junia walked down to the check in desk fronting a busy downtown street. Lucas raced past her and into the street as we all screamed for him to stop. Inside the smalled crammed lobby I was startled to see the little ghost girl waiting. I wondered how could she be in the lobby so fast. After quizzing the receptionist, Junia determined that we were in the wrong place.

In the parking lot I phoned at least three Holiday Inns with each one responding that they did not have our name on the reservation list. Finally, one hotelgave me a central number to call. Bingo, we confirmed that we had reservations at one of the hotels that I had previously called.

We drove into the Holiday Inn Harbor View around sunset. Gathering two baggage carts, we loaded up all ten bags and additional backpacksa and carry ons. I thought about my family's trips across the US and how good it was to hit the bed each night we stopped after hours of driving. I recalled that the hotels were Holiday Inns or Howard Johnsons.