From Sunsets to Storm Clouds

Yurts & Hand Pies

August 19th, 2019

I spent this past weekend staying in a yurt in Norway, Maine. And hiking. And throwing pies into wood-fire ovens.

Last month, at the Kneading Conference, I met a few people who were amused by my life choices. Some people looked at me with concern and trepidation. Some people just laughed and made jokes about how I lived in my car. Some people expressed authentic support. And then some invited me to come visit.

But, let me back up…to my arrival in Norway.

I jumped into the line prepping pizza for a community garden’s weekly pizza night. I met people who work and volunteer in the garden. We swapped adventure and experience stories. And I was invited to join in arts activity with youth the next day.

Somewhere in the midst of the community garden pizza party, my friend mentioned that they were planning a pizza night at home for Sunday. Firing up their oven…and I was invited to join…and throw some pies in the mix.

WOOD FIRED HAND PIES?!? Basically a dream come true.

So, Saturday consisted of foggy hiking…arts-ing…story-swapping…pie dough making (in a yurt). And then listening to thunder and watching lightning while falling asleep in a yurt.

On Sunday, I tackled one of my bigger trails and was ready to do more when I finished. “More” meant pie. Rolling, filling, pricking…that part was easy. Even tossing in random pizza toppings to make some savory hand pies (some of which we ate for breakfast topped with fried eggs). The whole day was a series of things that I knew and loved and enjoyed.

But then there was the fire.

How hot does it need to be?

How long do they bake?

Will they slide off the peel?

Flame or no flame?

How should I know??

Baking pie with wood fire was a completely new experience. So, I didn’t know…exactly. But I knew the proper cooking temp and approximate time. And I knew how dough reacts when it’s first exposed to heat. And I knew what happened when you put a loaded pizza crust in a wood fire oven.

Applying prior knowledge to this new situation (Vygotsky & accommodation), we were able to successfully bake some beautiful hand pies in a wood fire oven. And only one pie almost got stuck to the peel.
What doesn’t belong

August 17th, 2019
I have used Couchsurfing for years. Since college. Time and time again, I have found it to be an effective way to travel. It’s allowed me to develop some sweet connect with people, learn local secrets, and fill otherwise quiet evenings. Every time I set out to find a place to stay using the website, I ask several questions:
- Does this host have good reviews?
- Does this host have plenty of pictures?
- Is this host’s profile complete?
- Does this host include a decent description of the home/couch/etc?
The website, couchsurfing.com, has their own verification process that can “increase” the security of various stays. I don’t pay much attention to that since I’ve spent so much time figuring out my own way to read people. But this time…I could have done better.

Everything was great! It really and truly was a good experience – a blueberry farmer let me hijack his kitchen to make three blueberry pies and a pile of blueberries & cream hand pies for the crew of pickers he hired for harvest season. I met some folks from Arkansas, Tennessee and even Missouri (the town where I went to college!). Great people. Interesting conversations. I took off during the day to hike and spent the afternoon baking/reading.

With a plan to get up at 5 am to shower and head back down to Portland, I said “Good night” and “Thanks” and crashed pretty early. In my space downstairs.

My host was still awake…not quite ready to head to the loft upstairs. (aka – His Bed)

About fifteen minutes later, I think I hear him talking to one of the pickers…”You’re more than welcome to come upstairs…Mary Elizabeth.”

He wasn’t talking to a picker.

He was inviting me – a relative stranger who gave NO indication that such an invitation would be welcomed – to his bedroom.

It would be easy to skim past this interaction…completely ignore it and just tell you all about that time I made a bunch of blueberry pies and watched the sun set over a blueberry farm.

But this isn’t that simple. Or sweet.

It’s a narrative on the state of the world where I rack my brain trying to figure out what I did wrong…how I led him on…what I should have done differently…and then I tell myself that I’m overreacting to a simple invitation.

But I don’t think I overreacted. I’m still a little salty. Baking for people…traveling solo…having strangely deep conversations with relative strangers. Those are a normal part of my life.

Being invited into bed with a stranger.

That’s the thing that doesn’t belong.
Different sort of adventure

August 16th, 2019

We’re going to flash back for a minute.

About four-five weeks ago.

I was in North Carolina. There was a beach. It was hot. I hung out on the hot beach and read. A lot.

Then I figured, “Let’s mix things up a bit!”

So I downloaded Bumble.

(cue shocked gasps)

I decided that it would be fun to connect with some new people and just, ya know, try something different.

I went out with five guys.

Each time, I was very honest about my situation: “I’m currently wandering! North Carolina is just a stop along the way…let’s have fun!”

And it was fun! I discovered a semi-secret beach down a sandy trail. Found the best fish tacos and the most extensive beer list on the island. Went kayaking.

And I met a guy from Ohio.

Twice.

Over the past several weeks, we’ve kept in touch…a lot. He likes communicating (and I don’t). He’s great at talking about his feelings (and I’m not). He likes thinking about the long-term (and I’m basically living in my car).

So now I’m going to Ohio. Not for hiking…not for bread…not for any typical adventure that I would pursue. But this is most definitely an adventure.
Acadia Adventures

August 15th, 2019

I disappeared into Acadia National Park last week and I have absolutely no regrets.

It’s a busy season on the island, so finding a place to settle down and use WiFi was quite the challenge. And to be perfectly honest, I didn’t really want to do that. There was too much to hike. (If you keep up with my photos on Instagram or Facebook…just a warning: there’s still more to come.)

The hiking in Acadia is pretty different from what you typically find in Tennessee. There’s a LOT of change in elevation. I love that…but I am also incredibly challenged by that. Hiking five miles in east Tennessee is nothing compared to hiking five miles along trails in Acadia. I finished every day completely exhausted, but eager to do it all over again the next day!

One of my favorites was North Bubble. It’s not the highest summit or the most popular trail (but it is pretty well-traveled). Somehow though, it wound up on my list. The night before, I mapped out my route – starting at Jordan Pond, heading up North Bubble and then looping up to Conners Nubble and coming back down to summit the South Bubble. My bag was stocked and ready to go.

And that morning, I didn’t even stop to make coffee.

I got to the parking lot and immediately took off along the trail. I started working my way around a few “mosey-ers” who were working their way around the pond.

Then things picked up…and I headed up. And up. And up.

I beat everyone to the summit.

Then I sat down and cried.

Crying on mountains and in the midst of trees is not unusual for me. The woods have always been a safe space…that’s where I go to deal with all of the feelings that get overwhelming in normal circumstances.

Leaving Nashville hasn’t been easy. There are days when the relationships that I’ve left seem too big to carry. And there are days when I think about packing it all in and going back.

Then I look ahead…and I look around. I stop to consider all of the stories that have unfolded over the past five (?) weeks. The people I’ve met and the challenges I’ve faced and the moments of peace that I’ve experienced. I don’t know what’s next and I’m not completely sure what’s behind…but I’m just really glad that I’m “here.”

It’s like summiting a foggy mountain. You can’t really see the whole picture…but you know that what ever is out there is breathtaking. And you celebrate that you get to experience this tiny piece of it.
One Month Later

August 8th, 2019

These are a few of my favorite (Nashville) things…

On July 8th, with EVERYTHING piled in my car, I went to breakfast with my roommate (breakfast tacos). I drove back through town to pick up coffee from my favorite place and cookies from my favorite place and make a deposit at the bank. Somewhere along the way, I realized that my bike rack was not going to do. So I abandoned the bike back at “my old” apartment.

After what seemed like an eternity, I finally left Nashville.

To put it mildly, the emotions were mixed.

I was excited for a new adventure and eager to not be in Nashville. But at the same time, Nashville has all of the best people…the ones who put up with my occasionally ornery nature, the ones who understand how much coffee I need to function, and the ones who know when to leave me alone (or not).

And…I didn’t really have a plan. And I like plans.

Looking back on the past month of “not having a plan,” I don’t think I could have planned things any better if I tried! All along the way, new opportunities have presented themselves…because I’ve been open to them!

When I set out on this adventure, that was my goal – be open to opportunities. Because of this, I’ve met new people and gone to new places and learned how to eat a fresh lobster! I hiked in four new states and I made a pie with blueberries that I picked and I dove into a lake after practically bathing in flour for several days (Kneading Conference…it’s what we did). I discovered a beach full of snails (SNAILS!) and ate a cannoli sitting on a bench in Boston and I survived a slightly questionable bite (still not sure what that was all about). I did yoga in a park and I’ve gone days and days without showering.

I have a vague notion of where I’ll be and what I’ll be doing “next”…but from what I’ve learned so far, less planning is better.
A Pie-ku

August 4th, 2019
She grew the rhubarb
I picked fresh wild blueberries
Then I made a pie
M.E. Latch

At the Kneading Conference, I met someone named Mary Elizabeth (RIGHT??). She lived on a small island not too far from Acadia. She invited me to come visit.

A normal person would probably not follow through with this. But I’ve forgotten what “normal” is. So, I maneuvered a ferry system that only mildly stressed me out (see last post) and made it to the island. As we entered her home, she pointed out the rhubarb on the kitchen table and mentioned that she had picked it from her garden.

I know two things about rhubarb: (1) it doesn’t really grow down south and (b) it belongs in pies. So naturally, I mention this to her. She responds that they used all of the strawberries. I shrug my shoulders, scratch my head…and then I ask about the blueberries.

If you wander around the island enough, you will find berries upon berries upon berries. I woke up the next morning and made dough so that it would have time to chill. Then, I went on a berry hunt. Eventually (I was concerned about invading private property…but no one seemed to mind…and there were definitely enough berries for everyone), I found the right spot.

And it was SO right. The space between the road and the woods was covered in blueberries. I had to step gently. An older gentleman passed by and asked if I was making a pie. How did he know?!?

I slowly worked my way down the road – put a berry in the bucket, eat three, put a berry in the bucket, eat three…

The gentleman came back by and told me that there were more berries at the end of the road.

THE END?!? This road ends?!?

At the ocean. The road ended at the ocean. I sat and ate some of my berries before turning around to go make this pie.
(Please be assured – I did not eat the pie by myself. The pie was enjoyed as dessert following a dinner of freshly caught wild lobster…yes, I had to be instructed in the proper method to eat the lobster.)
Ferry Boat Newbie

August 4th, 2019

During a trip to the other Portland several years ago, I had a minor fiasco with public transportation. I found myself on the opposite side of town from “home” after the main bus lines shut down for the night. After hopping on and off everything possible and spending an uncomfortable amount of time at a sketchy bus stop on the corner of “my phone is dying” and “there’s a creepy man just up the road,” I finally made it back…about four hours before I had to brave it all again to get to the airport in time to catch a flight.

There are layers of added complications that go into this but we can stop there and summarize: I get a little angsty with public transportation.

I love that public transportation exists and I am comfortable using it when I fully understand the system…when I have all of the information and I feel like I’m in control.

That was not the case with the ferry boats in Maine.

In a sort of “comedy of errors,” I was on the phone with three ferry companies, one police department, and possibly an alien spaceship before figuring out where to park and how to catch a ferry. And even then, I wasn’t sure about the parking situation…so I just walked into the police department and had a lengthy conversation with the fellow at the front desk. He was very understanding when I gave him an Arkansas address.

I’ve just started letting people know, right out of the gate, that “I’m from a land-locked state and ferries are a foreign concept. Help me!!” It’s a great conversation-starter.

(In case you’re wondering: I parked behind the police department/city hall…with a permit in my windshield. And I walked the 3/4 mile down to the ferry boat. One of my calls to this particular ferry company determined that I could, indeed, pay on board and that they took plastic. There were two crew-members on the boat and one of them, based on his accent, was undoubtedly a native Portlander…he did confirm this. The ride was short and painless and I arrived at my destination in one piece. And breathed deeply for the first time all day.)
Portland…ish

August 2nd, 2019

Portland is a city…or something like it. There are busy roads and quiet roads. There are piers and ferries and islands. There are coffee shops and breweries and bakeries.

Parks. Grocery stores. AirBnBs. Suburbs. Buses.

When I first arrived in the city, I felt “okay.” I wandered around and found myself down near the water. Being near an open body of water always makes me feel…small. But in a good way.

I’m reminded how great the world is and how small I am, in comparison. But how wonderful is it that I get to experience this greatness?

Small in a good way.

I think that’s the conclusion I came to with Portland. I wandered around on my own most of the time – finding WiFi to work, seeking out interesting beers, hunting lighthouses and urban trails.

But at one point, in my wandering, I heard someone yelling at me from a car on the street. Though I only know a handful of people in the city, one of them drove by…and truly saw me.

Portland is trying very hard to be a big city (complete with “gentrification” and everything that goes along with that)…but there’s something comforting in having someone holler at you from a car window…or knowing the guy that’s making your pizza.
Three Weeks + Seven States

July 29th, 2019

Three weeks and seven states have passed since I left Nashville.

I’m not sure if it seems like more time or less time than that…hours, days, weeks, states, trails…they all start to run together. As much as I try to capture each moment, it’s hard! And maybe I’m not sure I want to “capture” the moments…because when I obsess over capturing, I forget to savor.

That was one of the best parts of the Kneading Conference & Bread Fair. I spent the better part of the last week surrounded by people who obsess over bread and baking MORE than I do. They talked about types of flour and sources of flour, ratios and conversions, brick ovens and SO much sourdough (sourdough scares me).

I rolled out rye dough and I threw a pizza in a wood-fired oven. I watched people swoon over their baker crushes and I learned from people who appreciate the relationship between a baker and his/her oven. I grabbed random breads – from naan to baguette to rye – off plates at every opportunity. And I almost bought a French rolling pin because it was BEAUTIFUL.

The days were full of hustle and bustle (chasing down random tools and speaking the magical language of baking)…but the nights would slow down. They were cool and quiet. You could still catch a whiff of the wood fires and the breads. We were all exhausted and covered with flour. But those nights were glorious. Over beer or hot wine that sat in someone’s tent all day, we’d talk about life.

I’ve often said that hikers are the best people…and I believe that. But bakers can be the best people, too.

Hikers appreciate the highs and lows of life. They appreciate the work it takes to get to one breath of beauty and they know how to use that breath of beauty to fuel the work that follows. They know how to be slow and steady and intentional in their movements. They fully engage all of their senses with their environment.

Bakers are exactly the same. They will work for hours to perfect a loaf of bread…one loaf. They will invest time and energy and resources into finding the “just right” ratio. And when all is said and done, that loaf of bread is a breath of beauty. And that one breath fuels them to do more. They are willing to take time and give time. And their senses are fully engaged. They feel the dough. They smell when the bread is ready. They listen for the crackle of a baguette crust.

Bakers and hikers are the best people and it is an honor to know them.
Hot & Humid

July 23rd, 2019

If you haven’t been keeping up with weather patterns in the northeastern pocket of the country, you might not know that a killer heat wave just moved through the region.

Indian Head Mountain (Catskill State Park – NY)

And by “killer heat wave,” I mean that it felt exactly like Tennessee.

From the weatherman to the host at my campsite, I was warned that hiking in the Catskills would be hot and humid. And, I suppose, if you’re not accustomed to this sort of weather, then the heat and humidity might knock you for a loop. But I’ve spent the past few years hiking in and around Tennessee. Through snow…and rain..and humidity…and heat. There isn’t a whole lot that will stop me.

And as I hiked, I was constantly reminded that hikers are truly the best people. Growing up in the south, we were taught that Yankees (basically anyone north of Arkansas) were rude and inhospitable and just weird. But when you’re out on a trail, no one really cares.

I asked directions from people…and they asked directions from me. We made recommendations and swapped stories. Comments were made on the humidity and the rumbling thunder. And we all made our way, dodging chipmunks (SO many chipmunks), along the trails.

The heat wave broke Monday afternoon. A slowly storm rolled in (after I gave it the evil eye for several days)…and I hiked to a waterfall in the rain. By the time I finished I was slightly chilled and soaking wet. But joyful.

Sanderson Brook Falls (Chester Blandford State Forest – MA)