by Karon -

Wandering Through Niwot

I have always loved exploring—little antique shops, small towns, the outdoors. Antique shops had a certain mystery about them because you never knew what you might find. I still have an old perfume bottle that I bought in an antique shop when I was eighteen. It was in a small lavender box with all the wording written in French. At that point in my life I dreamed of visiting Paris and that little bottle was sort of a touchstone for that dream.

Fast forward a lot of years, and I have traveled to many destinations (not Paris yet). Somewhere along the way, our dreams change and evolve, and so it went with Paris. Italy became my love. I’ve visited twice and would still love to live there. But for now, I am content with my current plan. A slow nomadic lifestyle.

I still love to explore. I have realized with this current stay in Arvada, Colorado, that much of my exploring involves being outdoors. Whether it’s walking through a new small town or visiting a state park, I love to be out in the fresh air. This week also brought a few chilly, rainy days. I happily spent a couple of days curled up with hot tea, books, movies, and a fire in the fireplace.

Even though it was overcast with a chance of rain, I ventured out one morning to the sweet little town of Niwot. It almost felt like stepping back in time. Massive Plains Cottonwood trees lined the streets, making the town feel like a place that had quietly stayed true to itself for a very long time. All throughout town were large hand-shaped chairs painted in unique designs that invited visitors to stop and sit for a while. Bronze bears and foxes peeked out from behind a bush here and there in the landscaping near businesses. Flowers trailed from baskets on streetlights and window boxes on storefronts. Niwot quickly became one of my favorite small towns!

Osmosis Art Gallery was one of my first stops in town. I loved the idea of osmosis… soaking up inspiration and creativity just by being in the presence of the art. The process seemed to begin before I even entered the gallery. There were all kinds of whimsical art pieces on the lawn, including two of the large hands that I had seen throughout town along with brightly colored whimsical birds and flowers. The gallery was full of eclectic art with everything from paintings, to pottery, to handmade soap and jewelry. Just the kind of fun, quirky gallery that I love!

As I walked into Wise Buys Antiques in the historic district, a bell chimed. I slowly walked through the shop hoping to find some little thing that I just had to have. I wanted to collect something from this little town that I had been so charmed by. I looked at the pink depression glass and thought of my Aunt Jewel. I think hers had been green. I was suddenly reminded of all of the delicious meals at her house as a kid. I love how just seeing an item can produce a sweet memory. I picked up a well-worn Nancy Drew book and flipped through it thinking of how I had loved to read these books when I was about ten. I wondered how many hands had held this particular book. I didn’t find anything that I could justify adding to the bins and suitcases I travel with and decided to wander on to the next shop.

My next stop before wandering back to my car was The Little Bird. Another great little shop! While browsing the unique clothes and gift items, I chatted with the owner about the pronunciation of Niwot and what had brought him to town. I thought about how this little town was really close to my perfect town. I found a little gift for a friend and then went back out into the cool air.

As I returned to my car, I thought about how at eighteen, exploration had looked like dreaming about faraway places and collecting little reminders of where I hoped life would take me. These days, I seem to find just as much joy wandering through small towns, noticing tiny details, and allowing myself to move a little more slowly through the world.

by Karon -

On the Road Again, Heading a Little North: Texas to Colorado Road Trip

So, I am on the road again after a three-week visit with my son and his family. I am heading out for about three months with stays in Colorado and New Mexico. I’m really excited because I haven’t been in Colorado for about 25 years and the longest I had ever stayed was about a week. This time, I will be there for five weeks! As I started out on this trip, my heart was full from time with my grandsons and the previous month with my mom.

A friend gave me this little ornament. We’ve been friends for about 25 years. She is traveling with me in spirit.

My first stop on this trip was a short visit with my sister who lives near Dallas. Time with people I love has become so precious to me. We didn’t do anything elaborate, just some shopping and lunch, and then a dinner with her and my niece. Even though the visit was brief, being with my sister feels restorative and grounding.

From there, I headed toward Palo Duro Canyon State Park to see the “Grand Canyon of Texas,” the second-largest canyon in the country. A large, dark cloud hung low in the distance and before too long, I found myself driving along the edge of it. I hoped I would get past the storm and find sunny skies, but the dark cloud faded into a sky that was completely overcast.

Driving through the flat stretch of the Texas Panhandle, everything feels wide open and almost unchanging—and then, almost without warning, the land drops away. Pulling into Palo Duro Canyon State Park, it feels like stumbling onto something unexpected. The canyon opens up in layers of red and orange, stretching out farther than you think it will. It’s quiet in a way that’s hard to describe—no rush, no noise, just space. I noticed how the canyon looked a little different every few minutes. Almost as soon as I arrived, the rain began.

What stayed with me most wasn’t just how big it is, but how steady it feels. There’s something grounding about being there, like the canyon has been doing its thing for a very long time and doesn’t need anything from you. I stood there, taking it in—the stillness, the openness, the feeling of being small in a good way. It’s the kind of place that gently reminds you to be present, without forcing it.

Then it was on to a quick stop at the Cadillac Ranch. This is something I’ve wanted to see if I were ever passing through—and here I am. I really didn’t know much about it—just that there were old Cadillacs nose down in the ground that had been painted.

Seeing it in person was even more fun than I expected. The cars are completely covered in layers upon layers of spray paint, and people were out there adding their own colors and messages, so of course I added a little paint of my own too. Even though it was 42 degrees with a light rain, there was a connection with the other visitors. We shared cans of spray paint, took photos of each other with the cars, and laughed with a group of four men on motorcycles who were out in that unexpected weather. Those brief connections with strangers make my time on the road feel a little more connected.

I later learned the installation was created back in 1974 by an art group called Ant Farm, and the Cadillacs are buried at the same angle as the pyramids of Giza, which somehow makes the whole thing even quirkier. What I liked most was that it isn’t meant to stay the same—the artwork is constantly changing with every traveler who stops by.

My day of travel ended with an overnight stay in Trinidad, Colorado, and dinner at a Tex-Mex restaurant that was a little different from the Tex-Mex I’m used to.

After a bit of sightseeing the next morning, I started the drive toward Arvada, where I’ll be staying for the next couple of weeks.

By the time I reached that stretch of the trip, it felt like this first leg had already given me more than I expected—time with people I love, a reminder to slow down, and a few moments of quiet that seem to stay with you long after you leave. Not a bad way to begin three months on the road.

by Karon -

A Slow Morning in Fredericksburg, Tx.

Some days aren’t meant for plans.
They’re meant for wandering — for walking slowly down familiar streets, noticing the things you might otherwise pass by.

This week, I found myself doing just that in Fredericksburg, letting the day unfold one small moment at a time.

The morning light hit the buildings along Main Street just right, casting long shadows across the sidewalks. The town felt quieter at this hour, as if it was still stretching awake. A few doors were just beginning to open, the soft sound of shops coming to life spilling into the street.

Walking through a small town on a sunny morning has always been one of my favorite ways to explore. Even here, in a place I’ve been many times before, everything felt a little new — as if I was seeing it again for the first time.

A small shop window stopped me in my tracks. Bunnies tucked among soft florals, pale pastels layered carefully, each detail placed with intention. It was simple, but beautiful in a way that made me pause a little longer than expected.

A few doors down, another window caught my eye — leather boots and Stetson hats. I could almost imagine the familiar scent of leather, the kind that lingers in a good boot store. Classic, unmistakably Texas.

I found a bench and sat for a while. The air still held onto the cool of the morning, but the sun was beginning to warm it. Footsteps echoed lightly along the sidewalk. A couple passed by, walking hand in hand, their pace unhurried. I caught myself wondering about them — how long they’d been together, whether this was home or just a visit, what their story might be.

More people began to appear, one or two at a time. A quiet rhythm was building.

I stopped for a chai tea and stayed longer than I had planned. It was the kind of pause that didn’t need a reason. I just sat there, people-watching. I found myself doing more of this these days — allowing space for small moments to be enough on their own.

The busyness of being a mother and teacher felt far away in moments like this.
There was space to notice. To sit. To stay.

And then, I got up and continued on — a little slower, a little more aware, carrying the quiet of the morning with me.

by Karon -

Halfway Up Enchanted Rock: A Sunrise Hike in Fredericksburg, Texas

An orange glow was beginning to peek over the hills as we approached the entrance to Enchanted Rock State Park. After two months of getting used to temperatures in the 70s along the coast, the morning air in the 40s felt downright cold. Despite the chill, we began our pre-sunrise ascent up the granite mountain.

My niece Mary is an avid hiker, and we had made a simple plan. She would continue all the way to the summit while I stopped about halfway up to sit on the rocks and take photos as the sun came up. I had a feeling the halfway point might be the perfect place to take it all in.

It felt good to be out in nature on a cold morning watching the day begin. Enchanted Rock is such an iconic part of the Fredericksburg area. Each year hundreds of thousands of visitors come to climb this massive dome of pink granite, which formed more than a billion years ago. Rising about 425 feet above the surrounding terrain, the rock stands at 1,825 feet above sea level — a bit of a contrast from my recent morning walks along the flat beaches of Rockport.

Sitting on a large boulder about halfway up, I thought about the Big Tree in Rockport and how I am drawn to natural things that have survived through centuries. Standing in their presence makes you pause. You can’t help but wonder about the stories they could tell if they could talk.

And sitting there watching the light slowly spread across the Hill Country, it struck me how brief our presence is in places like this. People come and go, taking photos, climbing to the summit, and heading back home by afternoon. Yet the rock remains — silent and steady — having witnessed centuries of change. There is something comforting about that kind of permanence in a world where so much of life feels temporary.

I looked down and could barely see the structure where we had started. My legs felt strong and steady, and the climb up had seemed surprisingly easy. I really wanted to continue to the summit, but I knew the descent on the granite could be slippery, and my shoes weren’t really the type I needed for it.

I quietly wondered if I was truly being logical and practical — or if it was my old fear of heights creeping in. The climb down had always been the scariest part.

I decided I would come back another day after buying more appropriate shoes. For now, I settled back onto the warm granite and turned my attention to photographing the amazing scenery around me.

As the sun slowly rose above the hills, the granite around me began to glow with soft shades of pink and gold. Early morning hikers appeared as tiny silhouettes moving across the dome above me. The Hill Country stretched out in every direction, rolling layers of blue and green fading into the distance. It was quiet in that way early mornings often are, before the crowds arrive and the day fully begins.

After a while I spotted Mary making her way down from the summit. She was full of energy and stories about the view from the top. I was happy for her and just as happy with my decision to stay where I was. My morning had been exactly what I needed — a quiet place to sit, watch the sunrise, and take it all in.

Sometimes the most meaningful moments aren’t found at the summit, but halfway up a mountain, sitting quietly on a warm piece of granite and watching the day begin.

Mary’s picture from the summit.
by Karon -

From the Coast to the Hill Country: Leaving Before You’re Ready

As I drove past Boerne, I began to see the hills. I almost felt I was seeing the area for the first time (even though we lived in this area for years). The hills looked hillier. Maybe it was the contrast from being by the sea for two months. I was struck by the thought of how we grow so accustomed to the things in our daily life that we don’t even see it anymore. Being more observant is a gift that comes with this nomadic lifestyle. I feel more awake and in tune with my surroundings.

The drive had seemed long, but I was now in the last hour. I thought of how I had not really been ready to leave Rockport. I had hesitated to begin packing as if that would delay the inevitable. There was a painting class coming up that I really wanted to take at the end of March. There was a volunteer opportunity at the Little Theater starting in a few days. I never made it over to the uninhabited island for shelling. I didn’t take a boat tour. How had I let these things slip by? I had packed and loaded anyway.

I have discovered with travel there are always things left undone. The more places you explore in one area, the more you realize you want to do. I found this in Vicenza. I found this in Japan. The more you learn and really live in an area, the more things you uncover that tourists miss. Somewhere along the way, maybe while I was living in Japan, I began to slow down. To really explore the hidden and off-the-beaten-path kind of places. No, now that I think of it, I think it may have begun in North Carolina with the little coastal towns.

Whenever it began, I really developed a love for just driving to a destination with a few things on a list to see and then meandering through the town and stopping when something caught my eye. Many times it would be something that I just absolutely had to photograph.

Now I am beginning a month in Fredericksburg. I will spend time with my mom. Take her outside and talk about the trees beginning to bud out and the birds. We will decorate a little for Easter and have some quiet meals together. I will structure in time for me as well. Time to walk on Cross Mountain. Maybe I will get a temporary membership at the gym. I will try to find a couple of opportunities to listen to live music. Maybe I will even brave that alone. Meandering through some art galleries is a must. And hopefully the wildflowers will start blooming while I’m here.

Even though I really wasn’t ready to leave the coast and I loved my time there, I am learning that I rarely leave a place because I am finished. I leave because it is time. And each time I go, I begin building a small rhythm in the new place — a favorite walking path, a cozy coffee shop for chai tea, a few quiet rituals — knowing that before long I will feel the tug to move again. Perhaps the ache of not being ready is simply proof that I was fully there. As I top a hill, the cross on Cross Mountain comes into view.

by Karon -

Standing in the Shade of The Big Tree

A quiet visit to the oldest tree in Texas, where history, endurance, and imagination meet.

Have you ever seen a huge tree and instantly known it would have been the perfect tree for climbing when you were a kid?

Walking under the low, sprawling branches of one of The Big Tree’s offspring at Goose Island State Park in Rockport, TX, was one of those moments. Standing in the shade of massive branches stretched out like the tentacles of an octopus, I was in awe. Some branches are propped up with wooden supports, while others reach outward, seemingly defying gravity.

And this is only an offspring.

The Big Tree is surrounded by a rustic wooden fence, protecting her from the many visitors who come to see her for themselves. Her trunk measures more than 35 feet in circumference, and she stands 44–45 feet tall. I wished I could stand beneath the 89–90-foot canopy and touch the bark of this over 1,000-year-old tree. From what I have read, some believe the tree is closer to 2,000 years old.

I circled the enclosed tree, capturing every angle with my camera. Then I sat on a nearby bench, letting the quiet settle like a soft blanket around me and listening to the birds chirp and call across the branches. I thought about what I had read of the Karankawa, who held ceremonies beneath the tree, and the Comanche, who used this land as a gathering place. There are stories of pirates using this very spot as a secret rendezvous. Over time, the tree has also silently witnessed darker chapters of the past, including hangings and other grim events I won’t describe here.

Its strong trunk and outstretched branches stand as a testament to endurance—the kind of strength that has survived dozens of hurricanes, floods, droughts, and wildfires. Standing in the presence of something that has lived for centuries and weathered so many hardships is humbling.

On my second visit to The Big Tree, I brought Ryan and my three grandsons. They went straight to the first tree on the property and climbed into the wide, low branches as if they were walking on solid ground. I couldn’t resist taking photos of their adventures. Later, we imagined building a treehouse in those enormous branches and even drew a picture of our family in it. That day became a memory I will always cherish.

Standing there with my grandsons, watching them explore and imagine, I felt the full weight of time—centuries of storms weathered, histories witnessed, and life continuing in the branches above us. The Big Tree isn’t just a tree; it’s a quiet keeper of stories, a reminder of endurance, and a place where generations can pause, play, and dream.

by Karon -

Exploring Rockport, Texas: Art, Nature, and Stillness by the Sea

So, where have I landed for an extended stay? I’ve landed in the small coastal fishing town of Rockport, a place I’ve dreamed of living in more than once. The town has a slower pace and a small-town vibe that matches what I am craving right now. Slow, quiet walks on the beach, the hiking trail, or even through town all invite me to reflect and slow down. And so far, that is just what I have done. After a few weeks of preparing, a few months of traveling, and the busyness of the holidays, I knew I would be ready for a pause.

One thing that I love about Rockport is the art scene. For a small town, it has a big artistic presence. It has several art galleries, an art makers market, and the Rockport Center for the Arts which is “a multidisciplinary arts hub” and is not something you would expect to find in a little fishing town. It actually features local and national artists and always has a variety of offerings from gallery exhibits to events and education. The town is also home to quite a few very talented artists. And then there are the murals … with their beachy, artsy vibe. You might say that art is the heartbeat of Rockport.

I’m sure there are others who would say that fishing is the heartbeat of Rockport. Quite honestly, I think that fishing might be the main reason most people come to Rockport. I’m not really very interested in fishing, but I have photographed the bait shops and fishing boats many times. And actually, I probably have photographed them every time I’ve been here. The same colorful bait shops are always here welcoming me back. It’s kind of grounding to see things remain the same over time. I love to just walk along the marina and look at the many and varied boats. There are a couple of sailboats that I recognize from one visit to the next – the Gypsy Pirate with its skeleton crew and the Irish Rover with its mermaid figurehead. Friendly reminders that some things remain the same, but just age with the weathering of time.

I suppose another group of people might consider nature the heartbeat of Rockport. There is the quiet draw of the sea, the nearby state park, and the many waterbirds that call Rockport home—or, like many people, are winter Texans. And then there are the outdoor activities like hiking, kayaking, paddleboarding, boating, birdwatching, beachcombing, photography, dolphin watching… and that’s all available here in town without mentioning nearby opportunities.

I’ve been here two weeks now and haven’t done much more than settle in, walk, and breath in the salty air. This pause feels like a huge exhale. I know I am blessed to be able to embrace this nomadic life, which allows me to travel slowly and to pause when I feel the need, allowing me the space to listen to my inner voice and trust myself. For this brief pause, this is my home base.

Have you ever paused in a place that feels like home, even for a little while?

– Kari

by Karon -

Saying Yes to the Things That Scare Us

Some moments in life arrive quietly — a story we hear, a sentence that lingers, a spark that nudges us toward something braver. For me, that spark came while driving to my next stop on this journey, listening to a podcast featuring Shonda Rhimes — the brilliant creator of Grey’s Anatomy. She shared how, even after all her success, she realized she had been living small. She often said no to opportunities — interviews, speaking engagements, events — because she was shy and preferred to stay home.

Then she made a decision that changed everything: for one year, she would say yes to the things that scared her. Yes to showing up. Yes to being seen. Yes to growth. That commitment not only transformed her life but also inspired her to write her book Year of Yes. By the end of that year, she had become a different person — more confident, more open, more alive.

Listening to her story, I felt such a connection. In many ways, this new chapter in my life is my own version of saying yes. It was scary to sell nearly everything I owned, leave behind what was familiar, and begin life as a nomad — traveling full time and not knowing exactly what each next stop will bring. But it was something I had dreamed about for years.

And honestly, saying yes to the things that scare me isn’t new. I’ve carried a fear of heights for as long as I can remember — the kind that makes my stomach drop on even a third-floor balcony. Then one year, my son gave me a journal-style book all about feeling the fear and doing it anyway. It was the push I needed.

Slowly, I started choosing courage on purpose.
I went ziplining over a river in the mountains — absolutely terrifying, yet somehow exhilarating.
I drove over the “scariest bridge in America” with knuckles so tight I’m amazed the steering wheel survived.
And in Japan, I inched across a shaky rope bridge I nearly talked myself out of.

None of those moments erased my fear of heights. But each one reminded me that I’m stronger than the voice that says don’t.

I think many of us go through life doing what we’re supposed to do — checking off the boxes, following routines, and putting off the things our hearts quietly long for. We dream of adventure, creativity, or change, but fear whispers all the reasons why we shouldn’t take the leap.

For me, this journey is about courage and trust — saying yes to the unknown, yes to new places, and yes to becoming who I’m meant to be. Every time I choose to step forward instead of step back, I discover a little more freedom.

And maybe that’s the quiet beauty of saying yes: we don’t have to become fearless — we just have to become willing.

by Karon -

A Sweet Stop in Rochester: The Charlotte–Genesee Lighthouse & Savoia Bakery

As I continued my journey south through New York, I made a short stop in Rochester — a visit that beautifully blended history and local flavor. My first stop was the Charlotte–Genesee Lighthouse, standing where the Genesee River meets Lake Ontario in the Charlotte neighborhood.

Built in 1822, this sturdy stone lighthouse is the oldest active lighthouse on the U.S. side of Lake Ontario. It’s remarkable to think it has been guiding ships for more than two centuries — first lit by whale oil lamps, later upgraded to a Fresnel lens in 1853. Climbing its 42 steps to the lantern room, I paused to imagine sailors depending on that steady light. From the top, the panoramic view of the lake and harbor was breathtaking — calm, expansive, and quietly powerful.

The lighthouse still stands thanks to the dedication of the local community. In 1965, a letter-writing campaign saved it from demolition, and today it’s lovingly cared for by the Charlotte–Genesee Lighthouse Historical Society. It remains open to visitors — a beautiful reminder of Rochester’s maritime past and the importance of preservation.

Before leaving town, I stopped at Savoia Bakery, a Rochester favorite since 1929 — and a spot recommended by Corey. The moment I walked in, the air was rich with the scent of freshly baked pastries and Italian sweetness. The glass cases were filled with colorful, old-world treats, each one as beautiful as it was delicious. I picked out a few pastries for the road — soft, buttery, and just the right touch of comfort for a traveler heading south.

It was a quick visit, but one that captured so much of what I love about travel — a glimpse of history, a taste of local tradition, and a reminder of how small stops can leave lasting memories. 🌊🥐

— Kari

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