Don't Even Think About Climbing Up Here by Elizabeth Towles (win 10 ebook reader .TXT) 📕

this forest. Ladders provided the only access to these caves. We were told the Anasazi Indians probably constructed ladders much like the ones we were using, although made of wood native to the area; and that at night, they most likely pulled them in for the family’s safety. Five of us climbed into the first cave; I wondered if the Anasazi had been rather short of stature because even the shortest of our group had to stoop. Inside, along the walls, more pockets were dug out, like small sleeping compartments. I crawled inside one, and quickly backed out. I could only surmise that no one at that time had suffered from claustrophobia. Before leaving, I looked out from the cave’s entrance; this was eagle’s territory. Level ground appeared a long ways down. Back on the bus, I sank low in my seat, grateful for the comforts of my present world.

Known as an artist colony, Santa Fe spread out before us like a painter’s palette. Long, rambling, adobe-styled walls stood as eye-catching murals of art: rich tones of red, yellow, green, deep brown, and blues the color of the noonday sky. On a walk the next day, I spied ‘The Cat House,’ a small, square, wood building. A statue of an enraged cat with his back arched in defiance stalked the front entrance. Everywhere pictures of cats, dishes shaped like a cat’s head, bed linens with prancing cats, and even bedroom shoes with cat ears filled shelves. There was not one item that did not share a token connection with the feline society. I am not a cat lover, I prefer dogs; however, this cat house merited its ‘must see’ label. Loretto Chapel was next on the tour schedule. The story of the free-standing staircase in its sanctuary has been shown on TV; it still baffles engineers to this day. The legend goes that a carpenter appeared one day at the sanctuary after the nuns had exhausted every means to find a builder; no money to pay a worker. The stranger, alone, and with only a handful of tools, built the circular loft staircase. When finished, he called the sisters in to view the completed work. They were mesmerized by its beauty. They turned around to thank the carpenter, but, he was nowhere to be found—they had never even known His name.

During mid-summer of 2000, I went with friends to Germany, Switzerland, and Austria. Our plane landed in Heidelberg around noon and in very short order we were aboard a waiting bus and into nothing short of grid-lock traffic. I realized right away that bicycles were a favored way of transportation; they were everywhere you looked. At train stations, hundreds of them crowded the parking areas. And in spite of age predispositions, it was a common sight to see an elderly person pedaling with expertise in this maze of activity.

In Geneva, my education moved forward—in search of a restroom, and with no luck; someone in the hallway recognized my look of distress and led me to a door with the letters WC printed on front—WC. Water closet. Aha! Yet more surprises awaited me inside. When I flushed the toilet I jumped up immediately; the seat was moving, circling completely around. I left the room laughing, and laughing still as I took my seat at the table. I told no one; they, too, needed a good laugh.

In the twilight of early evening, our bus pulled into Lucerne. It seemed an island; water met my every look. Early the next morning, our tour started with a long walk under a wood-covered bridge. It links the many separate areas over wide stretches of water and is said to be several hundred years old. Our guide told us our timing couldn’t have been better. The city sparkled with statues, three to five feet high, of frogs, adorned with pearls, sequins, gem stones, and anything that could flash in sunlight. One lucky frog even sat on a motorcycle, showing off his traveling gear: helmet, wide glasses, and black driving gloves. The contest was in full force for the most alluring frog. I voted for all of them! We boarded a boat for a trip to Stanser Horn Mountain. During the ride my friends were having a grand time at a back table, giggling and carrying on—until they spotted me at the helm, my hands on the guiding wheel, the captain’s hat on my head—and the captain sitting to one side. Mouths froze in mid-laughs. I waved. They didn’t know the automatic pilot was on—and when I lifted both hands, they screamed. Grinning, the captain rose, grabbed the wheel and settled the hat once again on the rightful head. We all laughed then. When we arrived at Stanser Horn, we were told a special surprise awaited us in the back courtyard. We crowded into the area, gaping at the man on the porch. He held onto a horn that spilled down over several steps, the lower end rounded out like a swollen pipe’s mouth. He said it was an Alphorn and that its history dated back to 500 years. It was used to communicate in the early years, to call to the cows, and later became a special musical instrument for Switzerland. The horn was eleven feet long and required two years in apprenticeship. The speaker became quiet, looked out at us and shifted the horn toward his mouth. He took a deep breath, audible in the hushed silence. And then he BLEW!

On a bright Sunday morning, our bus arrived in Gstaad, a small city surrounded by mountains. Window boxes, overflowing with tulips, graced every building, and colorful flags of all shapes and sizes suggested a carnival atmosphere. Cows are revered here and given a family prominence with proper names. In summer, they are taken to the highest mountain for a retreat and closely monitored milk production. At the end of summer, the most productive cow, adorned with a floral chain necklace and a bell, leads the long procession of decorated cows in a march throughout the city. Gold cow rings are all the rage in the most elite jewelry stores; and yes, I did purchase one.

Next, we toured Mozart’s birthplace in Salzburg. The most treasured item in the building is Mozart’s first violin; it is encased in a thick glass enclosure. I barely escaped with my life after clicking a picture; I was spotted and reprimanded heatedly—and although they spoke in German—I did hear the words, “Oh, just an American,” spat out as they walked away. I shared the picture with everyone on our bus!

Our next stop was Oberammergau, located in Germany’s largest nature reserve. The staging of the PASSION PLAY pulls in millions of people from all over the world. The legend is told that a Black Death plague threatened the area in 1632; and in spite of securing the walls, the illness found a way in. The people asked God’s help, vowing to stage a pious play to ‘THE SUFFERING AND DEATH OF OUR LORD.’ The plague ended and the play was staged the next year. It is performed every ten years.

Vienna was our last destination. The unforgettable music that I wrote about earlier was played by a twenty-one-year-old Russian, Anton Sorokov. His instrument is valued at two million dollars. It was a gift from the city, bestowed on him when still a teenager, for his exceptional talent. The violin is dated 1647 and is, of course—a Stradivarius.

Late in November of 2005, I traveled with a church group to Italy, Greece and Turkey. Our first stop was Venice, a city built on a number of islands in a shallow lagoon. Its future is questionable, threatened now with flooding and pollution. On the second day, we rode by water-taxi to a main island of Venice where no cars are allowed. Crowds gather daily in the massive Square at St. Mark’s Basilica, taking pictures, eating a catch-up snack, and…people watching. Undeterred by throngs of people with roaming feet, hundreds of pigeons prance boldly, bobbing their heads in constant search of dropped food. Boldly indeed—even to the surprise of a fellow traveler when one plump-breasted creature took a liking to her head and on landing, nestled down for a long rest…. Alertness must be practiced at all times: statues become suddenly alive, sending my heartbeat up into my throat—until I realize they are real people, disguised, and merely a part of the island’s entertainment for tourists.

On the first morning in Greece, a tour guide stepped inside our bus. “Welcome to the land of the Bible,” he said. It was a statement that grew in truth as we ventured deeper inside Greece. It is a land where centuries-old olive trees sit hunched and knotted, like aged warriors bent by time and wind; and as I walked along well-worn paths, I could only wonder on the long-ago footsteps, and a history that hid in plain sight. Greece proved to be a place of great diversity: metropolitan cities at a glance, yet poverty in areas that appeared trapped in an earlier time period; unearthed, archaeological biblical sites that defied adequate description, and cafes that were filled with only men.

Ephesus was a full day’s tour. Deteriorated buildings stood like skeletal forms, hinting of a once excessive grandeur. Facilities with public latrines bore evidence of privacy being an unknown privilege, and signs of a religious influence, the drawing of a fish, existed alongside a pagan proclivity: a large footprint pointing the way to a nearby brothel.
Our final destination in Greece was Patmos, an island that rises upward, and upward, seemingly into the clouds. We rode a bus, traveling in long twists that curved higher and higher to the Grotto where St. John wrote the last book of the Bible—Revelation. After leaving the bus, it was still farther on, a very steep climb before reaching the cave site. On the way down, with my breaths coming in gasps, my hands out to possibly check a misstep, I decided that people back then obviously aged in a different way: St. John was a ninety-six-year-old man when he lived in this place, and I was a person of…well, much less than that; and I felt every year of my age. How had he done it?

I wanted to continue with my travel notes, but my mind seemed hung up on St. John and the matter of age. Each time I settled on a place to write about, there it was again, the age thing, stepping into my way. Truly, how had he done it? I finally came to the conclusion that was probably the whole point of it—a wonderment, really—to carry home!
I was now ready to tell of my cruise adventures. My computer was still on…and waiting. An icon, in the lower right hand corner of the desktop, hummed an email alert. I clicked Open; it was from FACEBOOK—URGENT NOTICE. The body of the message read that due to a recent surge of data activity on the Travel Map Link, a malfunction had incurred, rendering the map site incapable of receiving any new data input. When a solution is found, users will be notified. THANKS, then signed, THE FACEBOOK TEAM.

I leaned back, my hands poised momentarily just above the keyboard. Then in a rush, I sat straight up, clicked on the Create Mail button, clicked on the To option, chose my daughter’s email address and typed only seven words—MY MOTHER TAUGHT ME NEVER TO BRAG! I clicked Send.

Word Count: 3898