A Man Becomes His Attentions

Fernbrook Resonance

I step off the trail and onto a fallen tree to break the rhythmic leaf-crunching sound of my pace.  It’s a tree that ten years ago was still standing when I last visited this peaceful and natural space.  

Same trail.  

Same tree.

Same season.  

Ten years later.

Standing motionless in mid-forest on a chilly overcast day, I begin an extended time simply absorbing the setting.  It’s a blended canvas of grays, browns, and greens… and a cacophony of sounds.  Winds rustle the few stubborn leaves still clinging to trees.  Ravens’ caws come from all directions.  Acorns randomly plunge to the forest floor.  When the wind is silent, a trickling stream across the ridge is heard.  After a while, squirrels resume their foraging, unaware of my motionless presence.  I’m no longer an intruder; I’ve been welcomed by the forest.

Eventually, my legs go numb and I need to move.  My water bottle jostles as I shift my stance, bring unnatural sounds into the cacophony.  I’m suddenly aware of the muted sound of jet engines 30,000 feet overhead.  Boot leather creaks as movement returns to my feet.  When I attempt to capture the moment, my camera clicks, but I know full-well that no two dimensional image can capture this multi-sensory experience.   

Alone in an overcast woods, just one week before Christmas, has been unabashed ruminative solitude. 

Some come to the woods for its cleansing and thought provoking silence.  Today I’ve been bathed in its thought provoking resonance.

Delirium Dethroned

I’m guilty too often of declaring something as ‘the best’. 

As in, ‘that was the best movie I’ve seen in years.’

Or this past October, ‘the best World Series ever.’

And about a year ago at the Union Jack Pub, I emphatically declared Delirium Tremens to be the best beer I’d ever had.

Yes, Tremens was delectable, but what really forced the pious declaration was its uniqueness.  It was exclusive – only available in the most refined establishments.  Served from a white bottle, wtih pink elephants on the label.  And its name blatantly flirted with the addictive nature of alcohol, similar to Marlboro doing something as bold as marketing “tar and phlegm” smokes.  [By the way, have you seen the Dr Pepper commercial that declares its latest product as not-for-women?  That’s some bold advertising.]

But when I recently saw Delirium Tremens listed on the menu at my local movie theater, the bloom instantly fell off the rose.  The best beer in the world had gone Hollywood – and sold its soul to the devil.  Can’t blame them for grabbing the cash, but damn it, I’m now going to have to find a new best beer.  Snob that I am, I certainly can’t be declaring Tremens as the best when it’s soon to be available at a convenience store near you.  Where’s the uniqueness in that?

The interim “best beer ever” now hails from North College Avenue in Indianapolis, where I recently sipped a $26 glass of Brasserie DuPont Foret Organically Produced Saison.  Good luck finding that one in your local grocer.

The Regulator

From the sixth floor, the view is surprisingly Hollywood.  Not quite as bureaucratic as I was expecting, considering I’m in the Virginia Insurance Commissioner’s office.   Floor to ceiling windows allow ample sunlight to spill upon the large, glistening table we’re gathered around. 

As our group is waiting to meet the newly appointed commissioner, in walks a short, casually dressed woman who I assume is tasked with refilling the ice bucket or adjusting the thermostat before the grand entrance of the guest of honor.  But then people start introducing themselves to her.  Turns out, she’s Madam Commissioner. 

I’ve regularly been communicating with the commissioner’s office for many years, and had perceived it as a paper-cluttered, bureaucratic dungeon of flickering florescent lights… and full of no-nonsense stodgies.  But after shaking off my initial misperception of the new top dog, I found her to be quite likable and charming, as was her supporting cast.  And their office space was much more contemporary and Spartan than envisioned.  It had the feel of a prominent law firm rather than a government regulator’s office.  I was rather impressed.

Thankfully, insurance is governed by the states; not the feds.  So a visit to the state commissioner’s office is the top rung of the authority ladder.  It’s the equivalent of a legislator visiting the White House.  Or a nerd having lunch with Bill Gates.  Or a shortstop being summoned by Bud Selig. 

Today was a respectful introductory visit of shaken hands and thumbnail sketches.  Our group’s hope was that the new commish now will have faces and brief stories in mind as she regulates us.  And of course, today also reset my own impression of regulation – at least that segment which affects my career most.

One Headlight

Cresting a hill along Hamilton Station Road a couple miles from my office, a one-headlight car is stopped in the opposite lane.  Flashers are on.  I come upon it too quickly to safely slow down and assist.  So I pass the disabled car then see the problem.  A wounded deer lies roadside.  Its head is up and scanning, but limbs are twisted.  A bit grisly.  I spin around at the nearest driveway and return to the scene.

The young woman inside is in tears and frantically tells me she doesn’t know what to do.  Having been in her situation four times in my life, I was more than qualified to advise her. 

She feared the deer - or part of it - was still lodged under her car.  And that blood was everywhere.  But neither was the case.  The damage looked to be ornamental, not structural I tell her.  Safe to drive on.  What about the police, she asked.  I told her I’d make the call. She’s good to go.  My last calming advice was that deer collisions in Virginia are quite common. 

Welcome to the club.

I then summon the police to send out the hit squad.   A reminder for me that commuting 75 miles a day is not without risk.

Montpelier Hunt Races

Traveling down Constitution Highway in Orange County after spending the past several hours basking in the splendor of the Montpelier Hunt Races, I began thinking of the benefactors who’ve paid it forward so folks like me could enjoy such opportunities. 

First are the founders of my employer – a 160 year old company that has a long history of giving back to the community.  Neighbor helping neighbor has always been our business model.  Being a major sponsor of the event, and donor of the purse for the third race, we employees were afforded rail-front, infield vantage points to take it all in.  Free food, estate tours, and VIP parking had me living large.

Second are Montpelier’s most famous residents - James & Dolley Madison.  They were not the first owners of this magnificent property, but they were the ones that showered it with historical significance.  James, the intellectual one, was known as the father of the constitution.  From the comfort of Montpelier, he pondered more deeply about our republican form of government than any other Founding Father.  Dolley, seventeen years younger, brought charm and vibrancy to the dinner conversations at Montpelier, and was the first First Lady.

Third is Marion DuPont Scott, the most recent private owner of Montpelier.  Her love for the estate was a profound one, eschewing even a Hollywood lifestyle for the majesty of Montpelier and the horses that were such a natural part of rural Virginia.  In 1934, she founded the hunt races that continue to this day.   With the Blue Ridge Mountains on one side of the course and Madison’s palatial home on the other, the races are a real visual treat.  As her life was winding down in the early 1980s, she had preservation and public use on her mind bequeathing Montpelier to the National Trust for Historic Preservation. 

Missouri Crossroads

At twenty miles per hour, the windows are down and my seat belt’s off.  There’s a wake of dust behind me.  For two hours, I’ve had Missouri’s leaf covered Glade Top Trail all to myself.  It’s a beautiful road wending narrowly atop the Ozarks.  The hills are alive today.   It’s peak foliage season and the weather is perfect.  I’ve again stumbled upon one of life’s gems. 

Seek and ye shall find…   Or as Thoreau puts it in one of my favorite quotes, “Rise free from care before dawn, and seek adventures.”

Missouri, to me, is a crossroad.  Lately, a disaster crossroad of tornados, ice storms, and hurricane remnants.  But it’s also a cultural crossroad.  Seems the south and the west meet in Missouri.  Cowboy, redneck, and bible belters coexist here.  A few of the folks I came to see on this three day trip to Branson – both of whom are Missourians – agreed vehemently with my perception.  They were impressed by my one sentence digest of their state. 

My ride along Glade Top Trail was a fantastic way to start my morning, but was in sharp contrast to late last night.  On very little sleep, I transitioned from beer drinking Cardinal fan in a pub full of Missourians, to a quiet introspective seeker of geographic enlightenment high in the Ozarks.  Perhaps the stark transition from left brain to right brain produced the whopping headache which turned into the only negative aspect of my fantastic morning.  (OK, perhaps too much pub last night was the culprit.)  Regardless, a little head discomfort can’t diminish the great memories I’ve captured in the Show Me state.

I developed a liking for Missouri (and the Cardinals) long before this trip.  Now though, having cruised its byways and cheered with its fans, that relationship has been kicked up a notch.  

Indiana Potholes

After only three hours sleep, I’m off to do some barefoot hiking.  Unfortunately I left too early.  The darkness hides everything except the asphalt of I-74.  I want to see as much of Indiana as possible with my limited time, so I exit at Brownsburg to stall while the earth rotates.   I zig-zag through town on this very quiet, drizzly Sunday morning.  Parking lots are empty and neon signs turned off.  When the sun comes up twenty minutes later it creates a rainbow; the pot of gold seems to be exactly where I’m headed – Falls Creek Gorge near Attica, sixty five miles west.

For thousands of years, Falls Creek has been flowing over sandstone in the hills outside Attica.  Eddying has formed depressions known as potholes in the creek bed.   This unique geologic feature is now a protected preserve governed by the Nature Conservancy.   Getting to the potholes though, takes some risk.  Falls Creek runs just ankle deep as it skims over the smooth and slippery rock of the creek bed canyon.  To see the best potholes, your only choice is to kick off your shoes and wander upstream.  

As I’m capturing images of the potholes with feet submerged, it hits me that no one knows my whereabouts.   Uncharacteristically, I forgot to leave details with anyone.  I’m eighty miles from my hotel room and all alone.   My cell phone has no bars.  My next appointment is not for another ten hours.  If I turn up missing, it’ll be a long time before they find my rental car in the woods of western Indiana.  Ah, but these are the risks, even when unintentional, that spice up life.

I guess I could have stayed close to my Indianapolis hotel today and taken in a museum.   And left my shoes on.  But nature was calling.  Barefoot hiking to the potholes, alone in the woods of western Indiana, made for a pretty spicy day, and I’m glad I took the risk.

See More Here: http://www.youtube.com/user/KoppenhaverOutdoors?feature=mhee#p/u/0/fFoHPFOVMyA

Flight 5861

Looking out my window at the crest of the Blue Ridge, I’m taken aback by how close it is.  Normally, takeoffs out of Dulles clear the Blue Ridge by much more than this.  A few seconds later, we start a u-turn back toward the airport.  Me and a few other geographic nerds realize something is wrong.  Suddenly, I’m worried like a son-of-a-bitch.  We’re way too low and flying slow.  Are we gonna make it back to the runway, or am I about to become a news item?  This flight has gotten real serious.  Shockingly, others don’t become aware of the situation until the landing gear drops down. 

About the time it does, I spot a squadron of rescue vehicles with their lights flashing.  I still don’t know what’s wrong with the plane but at least I know we’ve made it to the runway.  After the most anticipated landing of my life, and while being chased down the runway, the captain explains that there’s smoke in the cabin.  We make it to the gate and disembark, so ending some of the more tense moments of my life.

Five hours later, I finally arrive in Indiana by way of a different plane and different captain.  I’m frazzled, hungry, tired, and ready for a cold beer.  What normally would have been an easy travel itinerary turned into a twelve hour fiasco.  A memorable journey, to say the least.   To the airline’s credit, as I was returning from my after-midnight dinner, my Blackberry dinged.  It was an extensive apology from headquarters. 

My wife asked if I still like flying.  I told her I continue to trust the system, but hope this little misadventure takes care of my bad luck karma for a while.

Fingers crossed.

The Perils of Running

A few strides in and I’m having trouble seeing.  Mist inconveniently has covered my lenses.  Through the dark wetness, I trudge on.  In two weeks I’ll be running a 5K race.  I need to strengthen myself despite these inconveniences.  But the inconveniences continue.

Halfway through my run, darkness conceals the mud streaming across Valley Avenue.  I don’t see it and plunge in.  Both feet are now covered in muck.  At the next street crossing I catch the lip of the curb and down I go.  Completely down.  Hands and knees down.  Humbled and embarrassed, I stand up and trudge on again, searching for excuses.  I’ve never fallen in all my years of running.   Did the extra weight of mud alter my stride?  Was it misty glasses?  Or did the recent earthquake shift the height of the curb?  My head is down as I ponder, and suddenly a low hanging branch twacks the side of my face.  What the fuck else can go wrong?  I’m Emmitt Smith on fourth-and-goal.

My knee is throbbing, my palms are bleeding, my pride has been shattered and I’m limping.  I contemplate calling it quits, but don’t want the inconveniences to defeat me.  A second wind kicks in.  I’m reaching my goal at all cost.  A mile later, that’s exactly what happens. 

Despite the string of challenges, I’m strengthened.  Not just physically, but more so mentally.