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 -

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 -

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.

by Karon -

Anthony Chapel & Carillon Tower: A Solo Traveler’s Reflection in Hot Springs

The crisp morning air welcomed me as I approached Anthony Chapel, the true reason for my visit. Nestled among towering trees, the chapel exudes a serene charm that feels timeless. Its simple yet elegant architecture blends harmoniously with the natural surroundings, inviting visitors to pause, breathe, and reflect.

I lingered on the steps, noticing the delicate patterns etched into the wooden beams above. Sunlight filtered through narrow windows, casting soft, golden light across the polished wooden floors. Every detail, from the subtle arches to the carefully placed benches, seemed designed to inspire contemplation. The gentle hush of the forest wrapped the building in calm, making it easy to forget the world outside.

Nearby, Carillon Tower rose gracefully, its bells ringing at intervals, sending rich, sonorous tones echoing through the trees. The music seemed to ripple through the forest, vibrating softly in my chest. I closed my eyes, letting the sound and quiet settle over me, creating a rare, meditative pause in the day.

As I wandered along a shaded trail, I embraced shinrin-yoku, the Japanese practice of forest bathing that I first learned while living in Japan. The earthy scent of moss and fallen leaves, the dappled sunlight, and the whisper of branches overhead invited me to slow down and fully notice. I reached out to touch the rough bark of a tree, feeling its texture under my fingertips and grounding myself in the present. A spiderweb glittered with dew, and the intricate patterns of the forest seemed alive with quiet detail. Being here, near a place of such intentional beauty, I felt a profound sense of peace—a gentle reminder that some destinations are not just seen, but truly felt.

By the time I left Anthony Chapel, I carried with me not just memories of bells and trees, but a deeper appreciation for spaces that nurture reflection, serenity, and a connection to something larger than ourselves.

– Kari