by Karon -

Ellicottville – A Hidden Gem in the Hills

I only spent one night in Ellicottville on my drive south from Sackets Harbor, but it left a lasting impression. Tucked into the rolling hills of western New York, this little town feels like something out of a storybook — charming streets, historic buildings, and a comforting small-town warmth that makes you slow down without even realizing it.

Walking through the downtown, I was struck by how everything felt intentionally quaint yet lived-in at the same time. Cozy cafés, little boutiques, and the soft bustle of locals going about their day created a rhythm that was both calming and inviting. I could easily imagine spending hours wandering these streets, discovering tucked-away corners and enjoying the subtle details that make a place feel like home.

The surrounding hills hint at adventure in every season. I only glimpsed them briefly, but I could see why people come here to hike, bike, ski, and snowboard. There’s a sense of possibility in the air — whether it’s a crisp autumn morning or a sparkling winter day, these hills are calling for exploration.

Even though my visit was short, I could already picture returning for some of the town’s seasonal events — the Fall Festival, the Ellicottville Championship Rodeo, or the magical “Christmas in Ellicottville,” when the streets glow with lights and the scent of pine and hot cocoa drifts through the air. I’d love to be here for one of those celebrations someday, to experience the town’s joy and community energy fully.

In that single night, Ellicottville managed to leave its mark — a combination of charm, adventure, and quiet reflection that stays with you. It’s a town that makes you want to linger, to return, and to explore every little corner. I may have only touched the surface, but I know there’s so much more waiting, and I can’t wait to see it again. 🌿

by Karon -

Fall Fun with Family

Fall has a way of bringing joy in the simplest of moments, and this October, I got to experience it in full with my daughter Amy and her family. My grandsons are amazing — curious, playful, and absolutely adorable — and spending time with them felt like a warm hug from the season itself.

We started the month with a trip to the apple orchard in Mexico, New York. The crisp air, colorful leaves, and scent of ripe apples made for a perfect autumn day. The boys ran between the trees, searching for the best apples, while I wandered slowly, soaking in the quiet beauty of the orchard. Of course, a few apples made their way into our bags — sweet reminders of a day well spent.

Halloween brought even more excitement. We went to Boo at the Zoo, where the boys giggled at the decorations, met costumed characters, and soaked up the festive fun. Then we headed to Halloweenville in Sackets Harbor — a charming event filled with Halloween fun, laughter, and community spirit. Watching them explore, marvel at pumpkins, and admire the displays made me feel like a kid again.

One of my favorite moments was seeing them in their school’s Halloween parade — so proud in their costumes, waving to family and friends. Their smiles were pure joy, and I couldn’t help but think how lucky I was to be there for it.

No autumn is complete without apple cider donuts, and we found the perfect ones at Burrville Cider Mill. Warm, sugary, and perfectly spiced, they were the ideal treat on a chilly fall afternoon.

Some days were quieter, and I cherished those just as much — walks on cool afternoons, cozy meals out, and playtime at home. I even got to see the grandsons in their Halloween costumes again, full of energy and imagination.

Amy and Corey are doing a wonderful job raising these little sparks of joy. Being there with them — sharing in simple pleasures and the magic of the season — reminded me once again that family, laughter, and love are the truest heart of fall.

— Kari

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