Head Above Water

I woke last Sunday, yawned and said, “lets go to the ocean.”

An hour later—-without plans, expectations, or a particular destination in mind—-my husband and I were in a rented compact with an East Coast guide book.

Before turning the key in the ignition, we quickly flicked through the guide book, a childhood chant on our tongues: “Where, oh where, oh where will we go? Where will we go? Nobody knows!”

The book settled on page 70: Westport, Connecticut. A seafood pub address was listed. We plugged it into the GPS system and were on our way.

Flying down the interstate, the city clung to the landscape for a surprisingly long time. The outskirts were particularly grim, yielding acres of industrial waste, fields of high-rise public housing projects. But soon the natural world took hold again. Yellow stalks of marsh grasses extended upwards towards a rabbit-gray sky. Springtime buds dotted the gnarled twists of ancient branches. In an hour’s time, we were in Westport. Birdcalls and the gurgle of the Saugatuck River were the loudest sounds around.

We strolled the town, side-by-side, un-rushed, natural, talking. We did not have to compete for breathing space, nor shout above the roar of the city. No one asked us for our spare change nor shit their pants in front of us. No one was arrested. The dodgiest rodents around were squirrels.

We lunched at the Riverside Tavern, where we dined on sea creatures and grilled sandwiches of fancy cheese. Manhattan has a way of making everything else seem cheap.

We walked along the shore of the Long Island Sound, the soles of our feet rejoicing under the squish of unpaved earth. I put my palm in the cold water and held handfuls of slimy seaweed just for the feel. I took pictures and stole shells. It felt good to see the sky again.

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We’ve been working a lot lately. Like most young people we’ve met who live in NYC, Shaun and I both hustle second jobs (the ones we do after our regular office 9-5 gigs) just to stay afloat—-book selling (me) and freelancing (Shaun). This, in addition to the creative projects we’re involved in. We finish work close to midnight each night, eyes tired and twitching, often with a long subway commute home still in front of us. I miss my own husband. I miss my bed. New York is aging us, introducing a bitter world-wariness that’s difficult to keep at bay. This city is not a sustainable place. And escapes like this one are necessary to keep the shreds of ourselves we love the most alive.

Pub & Hike

I have a few itineraries up my sleeve, all of which are guaranteed to deliver a perfect day. There’s the Sick Day Matinee, where you call in sick and go see a daytime movie by yourself (use sparingly). There’s Bike to the Beach, which includes ample reading, swimming, and a popsicle. There’s Night Baking & Podcasts (baking apple pie or date cookies while listening to This American Life or Radio Lab are my favorite combinations). There’s Farmers’ Market & Frisbee; Fish Tacos & a Museum; and Forget the Laundry & Write. Last but certainly not least, there’s Pub & Hike.

While all of the itineraries make me smile, the Pub & Hike does more. It keeps me sane. If I don’t escape the city with Shaun at least once every two months or so, I begin to turn strange. I need to be away from the entire world. Or rather, I need to fill my senses with a world that I feel most connected to: a world of rivers, trees, and great sweeping landscapes.

On our hikes, I like the smell of mud and the sound of Shaun’s hiking stick tapping the ground with each step. I like lunchtime on the trail, sitting in the hollows of rocks and reading beat-up old paperbacks, retrieved from the crumpled depths of my backpack. I like the sting of wind and the warmth of the sun. I like the way my limbs tingle after 10 miles, like alkazelser fizzing in my veins.

Perfect hikes end inside a warm pub. There, Shaun and I take off our hats and gloves. Our hair stands up, crazed with wind and sweat. Our cheeks are rosy and our noses are running. The world is glowing in that love-struck way. We order hot toddies to warm up. We eat shepherds’ pie and spit a slice of pecan pie for dessert.

A few Sunday’s ago, to celebrate my birthday weekend, Shaun and I scheduled a little Pub & Hike in Cold Spring, New York. The village of Cold Spring is only 50 miles north of Manhattan but is an entirely different world. Best of all, its just over an hour away on the Metro North train line. Little Stony Point State Park, where most of the trailheads for the area’s hiking are located, is a short walk from the train station – the locals are happy to point you in the right direction.

For our hike, we chose Mt Taurus. The trail was rigorous. The weather was very windy, but mild and sunny. We saw massive birds of prey and from the mountain top, watched the longest train we’ve ever seen snake its way along the Hudson River below. After the hike, we dined at The Cold Spring Depot. The entire day was exactly what I needed.

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Towards the end of the trail, we came across the ruins of a Cornish estate. I’ve yet to investigate the history of this place, but it was fun to poke about in. It was haunted for sure.

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What is your itinerary of choice? What are some things that you do just for you?