Magrilless

We are in the “we have to do it now or we’ll never get to do it again” phase of Chambana life. This is our last summer here, so anything we like to do or anywhere we’ve wanted to go, we’re trying to cram it all in. In that spirit, we went to Clinton Lake yesterday for a hike. We found this trail in early March and really enjoyed ourselves: it has topography! So back we went to have another care-free day outdoors.

This is the lake. This is the view we had pretty much the entire trail the first time we came here. Except less green stuff, of course. But there were nice lake vistas at every turn.

Not so anymore. The aforementioned green stuff has choked out any view of the lake except that first scenic overlook. This is now about what the trail looks like for 12 miles.

Lovely. But a lot of green stuff. A lot. This is apparently not a maintained trail. In March the trail was easily followable: trail in the middle with some little plants on either side. This time around there were a couple spots where we had to trust that Eliza was accurately following the real trail. (She’s short. The waist-high foliage that droops obscured the trail for us, but she’s below the droopage point and so just went on full-bore.) And here I am with our most indispensable piece of trail equipment: the stick.

It kept us from walking through tons and tons of spiderwebs. Instead we only walked through tons. And Bill says I was constantly throwing spiders back at him by swinging the stick. But still, the stick was appreciated.

Did I mention this is not a maintained trail? Here’s a bridge along the trail. Or it was. Once.

I know this picture is terrible; the dog pulled my hand as I was taking it.
So I’ll tell you, it’s a bridge, on it’s side. The part you can see is the hand railing.

Not that we didn’t have a good time. It was an adventure. A hero’s trek. And the highlight of the week for at least one of us.

On a certain street on my bicycle route I often see the same walkers out every morning. We wave, they walk on, I pedal on. There is one woman, however, that displays a bizarre behavior: she walks backward.

When I first mentioned this to Bill, he suggested maybe she’s sort of cross-training. Walking backward uses different muscles than walking forward. Maybe Tuesday and Thursday are her walking backward days of her everyday exercise schedule.

This woman, though, is not the cross-training type. She’s not the power mom in her spandex and sports bra pumping her arms as she books it down the sidewalk. Neither is she the elderly woman in her trainers and leisure suit enjoying her well-kept body late in life. This woman is in her 60s, always wears a navy blue trench coat and an allergy mask, and always carries a Schnuck’s cloth tote bag and umbrella with the pointy thing on the end like a cane. She walks very slowly and carefully (granted, I would too if I couldn’t see where I was going). She’s always on the same side of the sidewalk and doesn’t turn around for driveways or cross-street crossings. She has puffy, dark eyes and keeps her long brown hair loose but inside her coat. But she seems cogent, lucid, with-it. She obviously recognizes me now, although she doesn’t wave or smile back at me.

I’m very curious why she walks backward. She doesn’t really welcome interaction, though, so I’m left to my own conjectures. Maybe it’s an exercise in trust: “A higher power will tell me if I’m in danger; I can trust said higher power to keep me safe even if I can’t see where I’m going.” Maybe she has some muscle ache that only acts up if she’s going forward. Maybe there are hidden cameras capturing people’s reactions and broadcasting us to the world at large?

On Sunday, Bill’s research group (and their significant others) was treated to a baseball game in Chicago: White Sox vs. Red Sox. It was a mild summer day, although it felt hot hot hot with the sun beating down on us for 3 hours. We were rooting for the Red Sox (of course), and we thought we had it in the bag when after the first two innings we were up 3 runs to 0. But, sadly, it wasn’t the Red Sox’s day, and the White Sox beat us out 6 to something. (Hey, give me a break. At least I was paying enough attention to know who won.)

Bill and Gretchen cooking

our good friends Tiffany and Tyler cooking

the action: Red Sox up to bat

And, alas, we didn’t have the cash for extravagancies like peanuts and cracker jacks. We stuck with the essentials: beer and hot dogs.

Until someone gets poison ivy. Or poison oak. Or poison sumac. Or something.