by Karon -

A Day Trip to Kingston and Gananoque, Ontario: Revisiting Memories and Discovering New Charm

I took a day trip across the border to Canada, revisiting Kingston, Ontario—a place I hadn’t seen in about forty years. The last time I was there, I was with a friend who was moving back home, and I remembered it as a quaint little town with a population of around 57,000 in the mid-1980s. Today, it has grown to about 133,000, and while it’s no longer the small, quiet place I remembered, it was still a fun and fascinating visit.

Kingston is known as “The Limestone City,” a nickname earned after a devastating fire in 1840 destroyed much of the town. When it was rebuilt, most of the new structures were crafted from durable local limestone, giving the city its distinct and elegant character. It was also the first capital of Canada, rich with history and charm, home to several UNESCO World Heritage Sites, including Fort Henry and the Rideau Canal, which links Kingston to Ottawa.

For lunch, I stopped at Lone Star Texas Grill, a Mexican restaurant housed in a beautifully remodeled old fire station. It was the first Mexican food I’ve had since leaving Texas in September—a little taste of home in the most unexpected place. Afterward, I wandered downtown, browsing shops and strolling along the waterfront. Kingston now has a vibrant energy—more bustling than nostalgic—but still full of character and warmth.

On a whim, I decided to stop in Gananoque on my way back. It’s a smaller town, just a short drive away, with the cozy feel I had been missing in Kingston. The main street is lined with quaint shops, and I came across a couple of beautiful old churches. One, in particular, caught my eye—St. John the Evangelist Roman Catholic Church—a striking stone structure that almost looks like a castle.

The church’s story is fascinating. The parish was founded in 1846, and the current building was constructed between 1889 and 1891, designed by Irish-born architect Joseph Connolly. It’s a wonderful example of Hiberno-Romanesque architecture, with intricate stone carvings, conical towers, and a patterned slate roof in green and black tiles. Inside, light streams through stained glass windows crafted by the Daprato Statuary Company of Chicago and New York. The church is officially recognized under the Ontario Heritage Act for its remarkable craftsmanship and well-preserved design.

Before heading home, I crossed through the Thousand Islands region, a breathtaking stretch where the St. Lawrence River flows between Canada and the U.S. I took a short drive through Wellesley Island, one of the larger islands on the American side, and stopped for a quick look at Wellesley Island State Park. The air was crisp, the water calm, and a few trees still held on to their golden leaves. It was peaceful and quietly beautiful—a perfect ending to a full and memorable day.

— Kari

by Karon -

Three Beaches Within 25 Minutes of Sackets Harbor

Beaches are definitely one of my happy places. I love to walk in the sand — to feel it shift beneath my feet and connect me to the earth. On coastal beaches, I’ve always loved looking for seashells and driftwood. But here, along the lakeside shores near Sackets Harbor, I searched for heart-shaped rocks instead. I only found one, but the walks were peaceful and grounding — the kind that clear your mind and fill your soul.

During my stay, I visited three beaches within about twenty-five minutes of Sackets Harbor. The days were cool and sunny, perfect for slow walks and quiet reflection. Each beach had soft sand and gentle waves, with beautiful sand dunes edging the shoreline. The dunes were covered with tall grasses and old wooden fences that swayed and creaked softly in the breeze. Behind them, trees painted in shades of gold and amber framed the horizon, their autumn colors glowing in the afternoon light.

One beach had a long line of rocks brought in to prevent erosion — a rugged but beautiful contrast to the smooth sand. A few of the beaches had benches along a path that ran parallel to the water, inviting you to sit, listen to the waves, and watch the light dance across the lake. In some spots, the forest reached all the way to the beach, where roots tangled near the sand and the air smelled faintly of pine.

And then there were the seagulls — another surprise. I had always thought gulls belonged to the sea, yet here they were, soaring over Lake Ontario, their calls echoing softly across the water.

Walking barefoot in the cool sand felt like coming home to myself — a simple act of grounding, of reconnecting with the rhythms of the earth. Even though I only found one heart rock, I left each beach with a sense of calm and gratitude. These quiet, lakeside moments reminded me how peace can be found anywhere — sometimes just twenty-five minutes away.

— Kari

by Karon -

Finding Peace in Sackets Harbor: A Month on the Shores of Lake Ontario

After months of planning, sorting, and saying goodbye to so many things I once called mine, I’ve arrived at my destination for the month of October — the Village of Sackets Harbor, a charming little gem nestled along the shores of Lake Ontario in upstate New York.

This lovely village of about 1,300 people feels like it’s been tucked away from the rush of the world. It’s quaint and quiet, with tree-lined streets, historic homes, and a harbor that glimmers in the morning light. Everything here is walkable, and each path invites you to slow down and notice the small, beautiful things — the sound of leaves rustling, the scent of woodsmoke, the cool whisper of fall air.

I’ve been walking every morning since I arrived. I begin my day at the harbor, just as the sun lifts above the water, painting everything in gold. Some days, I wander through town, and others, I take the trail that winds through the historic battlefield. There’s something grounding about starting the day this way — moving, breathing, being part of the quiet rhythm of the village.

The best part of being here is time with my daughter, Amy, and her family. My two grandsons are here — lively, curious, and full of wonder — and they fill my days with laughter and joy. Being near them feels like a gift, one I don’t take for granted.

And then there’s fall — my favorite season. When I arrived, the trees were just beginning to turn, and I knew that soon the whole village would be dressed in red, gold, and amber. I could already feel that shift in the air, that whisper that says, slow down, savor this.

For the first time in a long while, I don’t have things hanging over me — no closets to clean, no papers to sort, no boxes to pack. I’ve done all of that. Now, I have the luxury of time — time to walk, to stretch, to eat well, to read, to create. I have mostly been writing and taking photographs… lots of photographs.

I brought along some art supplies, tucked carefully into my car before I left. Here, surrounded by beauty and stillness, I finally have the freedom to explore and create without hurry or distraction.

In this quiet little harbor town, I feel a peace I haven’t known in years — the kind that comes not from doing more, but from finally doing less.

by Karon -

Travel and Stereotypes: Seeing Beyond the Lines We Draw

One of the quiet gifts of travel is how it invites us to see the world — and one another — with softer eyes. We all carry ideas about places and people, shaped by stories we’ve heard or assumptions we’ve never questioned. Sometimes they’re harmless, almost humorous. Other times, they build invisible walls that keep us from really seeing.

Growing up in the South, I imagined the North as a world of city streets and hurried footsteps, where winters stretched on forever and people weren’t especially friendly. And I know some northerners picture the South as a land of front porches and drawls, where everyone drives a pickup and waves to strangers. The funny thing is — there’s a bit of truth in all of it. Winters do stretch on up north, and in the South, most people really do wave as you pass by, often from behind the wheel of a truck. And the truth is, many northerners aren’t overly outgoing at first — but once you start the conversation, they are kind, helpful, and genuine. Stereotypes often start with a seed of truth — they just fail to tell the whole story.

But stereotypes fade quickly when your feet touch the ground.

I remember my first visit to upstate New York — expecting noise, traffic, and the shadow of New York City. Instead, I found quiet farmland, red barns, rolling hills, and winding country roads. The air smelled of hay and woodsmoke. I passed old farmhouses with porches full of pumpkins, tractors resting by the fields, and church steeples rising above little towns. It felt familiar in a way that caught me off guard — like finding a reflection of home in an unexpected mirror.

And yes, I still say y’all. It slips out naturally — soft, warm, and full of welcome. It’s part of my rhythm, part of where I’m from. But what I’ve learned is that the sound of belonging isn’t tied to a region. It’s found in the kindness of a smile, the comfort of shared laughter, the ease of connection between strangers.

The South isn’t all one thing, and neither is the North. Both hold beauty, complexity, and contradiction — city lights and quiet roads, tradition and change, rough edges and grace.

Travel has a way of peeling back the surface. When you take the time to listen, to linger, to look past what you thought you knew, the world grows softer and wider. You realize how much of it — and how much of us — is shared.

We are all far more alike than we are different. And the more I wander, the more I believe that the real journey isn’t just about miles or maps — it’s about learning to see with open eyes and an open heart.

— Kari

by Karon -

A Fall Road Trip Through the Adirondacks: Wandering from Wanakena to Lake Placid

It was one of those golden autumn mornings that practically invites you to wander. The sun was bright, the air crisp, and the promise of color called me north toward the Adirondacks. I set out with a thermos of tea and no particular schedule—just the hope of seeing fall in all its glory.

The drive itself felt like a moving painting. The road wound through forests brushed in every shade of amber, scarlet, and gold. My route took me through Tupper Lake, then on to Saranac Lake, and finally to Lake Placid. Each turn seemed to reveal a new masterpiece—sunlight spilling through maples, lakes catching the color of the sky, and mountain ridges softened by mist.

Somewhere along the way, a small roadside sign caught my eye: Wanakena Church. Something about it whispered, stop here, and so I did. What a treasure that detour turned out to be.

Wanakena was like stepping into another time—a sweet little riverside community with quiet charm and a sense of peace that wrapped around me like a favorite quilt. The church stood about a block off the river, humble and lovely, surrounded by trees just beginning to turn. Nearby, a single building held a store, a library with bookshelves and patio furniture on the porch, a small deli, and even a post office with a large moose waving from the steps. It made me smile.

I spoke with two women sitting by the river’s edge—friendly, open souls who shared stories about their village. They told me about the footbridge that crossed the river to a pond and a labyrinth for walking and contemplating. I crossed it, and for a few moments, I felt that quiet sense of awe that comes when you stumble into something unexpectedly beautiful.

Back on the road, I stopped in Saranac Lake, parking near a small park where the river winds just behind the town. I wandered through streets lined with shops and old brick buildings, then lingered by the water, taking in the reflections of autumn on the surface.

By the time I reached Lake Placid, the afternoon light had softened to a honeyed glow. I didn’t have much time left—just enough for a short drive around the lake, a few quick photos, and a promise to myself to come back. Lake Placid was a gem, shimmering with beauty and charm.

The drive back was quiet, except for the steady whisper of tires on the road and the hum of contentment in my chest. The trees seemed even brighter in the fading light—like the world was saying one last brilliant goodbye before winter’s rest.

by Karon -

Lighthouses of the Great Lakes: Following the Light North

It was probably a couple of years before this trip that I first realized there were lighthouses on the Great Lakes. Growing up in Texas, lighthouses belonged to oceans and far-off coasts — not to the freshwater shores of the north. But now, with the road stretching out ahead of me and a wide lake shimmering on the horizon, I’ve learned that light finds its place anywhere it’s needed.

On the last stretch of my drive — after leaving Erie, Pennsylvania, and before reaching Sackets Harbor — I decided to stop at a few of these lighthouses and see them for myself.

My first visit was the Barcelona Lighthouse in Westfield, New York. Built in 1829, it was the first lighthouse in the world to be fueled by natural gas — a remarkable idea for its time. The stone tower stood quietly against the blue sky, its door locked, the grounds peaceful and still. Even though I couldn’t go inside, I stood at the base and imagined the keepers who once climbed those stairs, tending a flame that guided travelers safely to shore. There’s a calm strength in places like this — reminders that guidance doesn’t always need to shout; sometimes it just shines steadily through the years.

A short drive farther brought me to the Dunkirk Lighthouse, one of the oldest lights on Lake Erie. This one was open, and I couldn’t resist the challenge of climbing to the top. The metal spiral staircase wound tightly upward, each step creaking beneath my feet. My heart beat faster — not just from the climb, but from the height. I’ve always had a little fear of heights, though I try to face it whenever I can. Over the years, that’s led me over America’s scariest and highest bridges, across long pedestrian walkways, and now, up this tower overlooking the water.

At the top, wind whipped across my face. The lake spread out like a silver sheet, endless and alive. For a moment, fear and awe were the same thing. I thought about all the keepers who had stood here before me, watching storms roll in, trusting their light to cut through the darkness.

A few days later, I made my way north to Tibbetts Point Lighthouse, where Lake Ontario meets the St. Lawrence River. The tower, built in 1854, still houses one of the few working Fresnel lenses on the Great Lakes. The lightkeeper’s cottage now serves as a visitor center, and the air smells of river mist and open water. Standing there, with waves splashing against the rocks, I felt something quiet settle inside me — a kind of peace that comes from knowing you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

I’ve learned that there are more than 200 lighthouses along the Great Lakes, which together stretch nearly 11,000 miles of coastline. During my stay here, I’ve visited three of them, each with its own quiet story and view of the water. I plan to stop at one more when I begin my next journey.

This journey of seeing the lighthouses has become more than checking places off a list. It’s a reminder that courage is built step by step — one stair, one bridge, one risk at a time. Light has a way of leading you forward, even when the climb feels uncertain.

by Karon -

Walking Through Faith: The Ark Encounter

Some places can’t be described — they have to be felt. The Ark Encounter in Williamstown, Kentucky, is one of those places. It rises from the landscape like a vision — massive, majestic, and humbling — built to the exact dimensions given to Noah in the Bible. Standing before it, you can almost imagine what it must have been like to see such a vessel being built in ancient times, a symbol of faith, perseverance, and hope against all odds.

The sheer size of the Ark is astonishing. Over 500 feet long and towering more than seven stories high, it’s nearly impossible to take it all in at once. As I stood at its base, I felt small — not in a diminishing way, but in the way that reminds you how grand faith can be.

Walking inside feels both historical and spiritual. Each level of the Ark is filled with intricate displays, models, and exhibits that tell the story of Noah, the flood, and the world that was. There are detailed recreations of living quarters, workshops, and animal enclosures — each crafted with care and reverence. You can almost hear the echo of hammers and rain, the whisper of prayers for safety and survival.

What struck me most was the depth of information. It’s not just a visual experience but an educational one — exploring the science, archaeology, and historical evidence that points to a global flood. There’s so much to take in — timelines, geological findings, cultural stories — all woven together to support the biblical account. It’s both mind-expanding and faith-deepening.

When I stepped back outside and looked up once more, sunlight spilling over the vast wooden frame, I felt both grounded and uplifted — as if I had just walked through a living testimony of faith. The Ark Encounter isn’t just a monument to a story; it’s an invitation to reflect — on belief, on resilience, and on what it means to trust when the world feels uncertain.

by Karon -

Forest Giants at Bernheim: Whispers Among the Trees


There’s something magical about chasing trolls across the country — the kind that don’t live under bridges, but rather rest peacefully among trees, reminding us to slow down, listen, and reconnect.

My second troll visit took me to Bernheim Forest in Kentucky, home to the enchanting Forest Giants — part of artist Thomas Dambo’s worldwide series. Over sixteen thousand acres of trails, ponds, and whispering pines, Bernheim feels less like a destination and more like a sanctuary.

The Forest Giants at Bernheim Forest, created by Danish artist Thomas Dambo, live quietly here. Crafted from reclaimed wood, they stand as guardians of the forest — enormous, gentle, and wise in their stillness. There’s Mama Loumari, resting protectively among the trees, her hand cradling a piece of earth. Nearby are Little Elina and Little Nis, her curious children, full of wonder and mischief.

This time, it felt more like a hunt to find the trolls. Even with a map and signs posted near the sculptures, I got a little turned around and had to backtrack a few times — but that only added to the adventure. Each twist in the trail brought new anticipation, a childlike excitement that made finally spotting the trolls feel all the more rewarding.

The two-mile trail that winds between them feels like a storybook come to life — each turn revealing another glimpse of artistry and imagination intertwined with nature. Children laugh, couples pose for photos, and solo wanderers like me pause often, just breathing in the beauty of it all.

As I walked beneath the canopy of oaks and maples, I thought about the balance between strength and gentleness — how these wooden giants, though silent, speak volumes about sustainability, creativity, and our connection to the earth.

I left Bernheim Forest with a full heart and the quiet reminder that art and nature are often speaking the same language — we just have to listen. The Forest Giants Bernheim Forest trail is more than a sculpture walk; it’s an invitation to notice the whispers among the trees and the calm that comes when we let ourselves slow down.

If you enjoyed this reflective journey, you might also like my post about Anthony Chapel and the Carillon Tower in Hot Springs.

— Kari

by Karon -

A Weekend in Clarksville, Tennessee

Sometimes, the best parts of the journey are found not in faraway places, but in the warmth of familiar hearts. My Clarksville, Tennessee travel story began with a visit to this small city wrapped in southern charm—where I spent a few sweet days visiting my dear friend, Teena.

Teena and I first met years ago, teaching side by side in Japan. The world felt vast and new then, yet somehow, in the midst of that adventure, we found a kindred spirit in each other. Time and miles have passed, but that connection—built on shared stories, laughter, and art—has never faded.

Now she teaches in Tennessee, bringing her same gentle spirit and creativity to a new place. Seeing her again was like returning to a piece of my own history. We slipped easily back into conversation, as if no time had passed at all.

One evening, we went to a local winery for a tasting. The air was soft and golden, the kind of evening that makes music sound even sweeter. A talented singer filled the space with a strong, soulful voice that seemed to echo through the vines. It was one of those moments where time slows—when the world feels both grounded and wide open all at once.

The next morning, we had brunch at Yada’s in historic downtown Clarksville, where the air still holds the stories of old brick and ironwork. The food was fresh and colorful, served with that easy southern friendliness that makes you linger over coffee a little longer.

Afterward, we wandered into the Art Guild, where sunlight streamed across a beautiful mix of local art—paintings, pottery, and pieces that spoke of hands that still love the craft of making. I always feel at home surrounded by art—it’s like stepping into a language I know by heart.

We spent the afternoon exploring Lucille’s, a sprawling treasure trove filled with antiques, books, crafts, and forgotten things waiting to be rediscovered. Every booth felt like a tiny story. The café there served the most refreshing strawberry basil lemonade—bright, fragrant, and perfectly balanced between sweet and tart.

We ended the day the way all good visits should end—with a meal made by someone who cooks with love. Teena’s husband made barbecue that filled the evening air with smoky comfort. We sat and talked as the light faded, grateful for good food, friendship, and the kind of easy joy that comes from being exactly where you’re meant to be.

Before I left, Teena—true to her generous heart—handed me two loaves of her homemade pumpkin bread. “One for you,” she said with a smile, “and one for your daughter in New York.” She never lets anyone leave empty-handed, and somehow that gesture captured her perfectly—thoughtful, giving, and full of warmth.

Clarksville may have been just a stop along the way, but it felt like a homecoming—a reminder that connection and kindness are the true landmarks on any map. If you ever find yourself planning a Clarksville Tennessee travel weekend, I hope you’ll slow down long enough to feel that same sense of welcome.

— Kari

by Karon -

Bathhouse Row, People, & The Pancake Shop – Reflections on Hot Springs

After the tranquility of Anthony Chapel, I wandered down Bathhouse Row, captivated by the historic architecture and the stories embedded in each building. The elegance of the facades, the weathered bricks, and the soft curves of wrought iron details spoke of an era when Hot Springs was a premier destination for wellness and leisure.

The warmth of the town was not only in its springs but in its people. Strangers greeted me with easy smiles, and conversations flowed effortlessly, leaving me with a sense of belonging even as a visitor. There’s something profoundly comforting about a place where friendliness feels natural, not forced.

Breakfast at The Pancake Shop, a cherished local institution celebrating more than 85 years of serving the community, was a delightful pause. The aroma of fresh pancakes mingled with a faint hint of coffee, and the cheerful hum of conversation made the room feel alive. Sitting at the counter, I watched locals greet one another like family, sharing jokes, news, and laughter. The simple act of enjoying breakfast here became an experience of connection and warmth, a quiet celebration of history, hospitality, and comfort.

Exploring Hot Springs reminded me that travel is as much about the people and small moments as it is about sights. The combination of history, architecture, and genuine friendliness made this stop unforgettable. Even as I moved on, I carried with me the soft, lingering impressions of laughter, bell tones, and the comforting aroma of a pancake breakfast that felt like a hug for the soul.