Ultimately this means lots of tears and tantrums and a much higher than normal proportion of students forced to take the next year out to retake exams, reapply and generally reassess their lives. But for those who’ve been disappointed this year, take heed…your unexpected year off may just be a blessing in disguise!

Turn your time off into a constructive gap year and spend the next 15 months developing skills and gaining life experiences that will make you irresistible to admissions tutors and employers and open your eyes to a world of work and lifestyle choices you had never previously imagined.

From the point of view of a University admissions tutor a well planned gap year will demonstrate you possess the drive and determination to succeed at Uni, they understand that adventurous travels and experiences in the workplace will inform your opinions and ideas. You could even use your gap year to prove your passion for your chosen degree subject by engaging in relevant work experience or voluntary programmes. These all contribute to showing who and what you are all about and helping you to stand out of the crowd.

On another level though, a gap year involving travel and work prepares you for life at University better than any other experience. I thought it was instantly obvious in Freshers Week who had taken a gap year and who had come straight from school (and not just in the obvious ill-advised beard/tatoo/ethnic jewellery shit way!) and believe that generally those who’d done the former had a much more successful and well-rounded experience at University for it. Gappers make more socially active and adventurous students, tend to be more vocal and confident in their learning and are thought to be less likely to drop out after the first year!  In my own gap year I worked as a waitress and temped in a call centre before embarking on a six-month African volunteering adventure with The Leap and credit it for an amazing three years at University!

...by Christmas '10 you could be perched on a sand dune having the time of your life!

For those of you stuck becuase you’ve missed your place at University this year, I say: Turn misfortune into opportunity, take a leap and in a few months’ time you could be in Africa, Asia or South America with a team of new friends helping to conserve endangered animals, teaching children English or even building a new school or clinic for a community in need.

As I grew older, clouds became less magical. They became distractions, something to look at out classroom windows, indicators of wind or rain, and metaphors of anxiety or foreboding in any number of Victorian novels. Lately, though, I’ve become jealous of clouds, and so I’ve started paying attention to them again.

I remember, in middle school, learning about the different types of clouds, and falling in love with their names, words so expressive of form and weight. Cumulonimbus, voluminous and solid, the lofty cirrus, and the linear stratus, like streaks of white cotton candy swept with a broom across the sky.

Now, as I stare at clouds out the window of a bus, when I’ve escaped outside  during my break at work, or from a park on a day off, I think to myself that clouds are unparalleled travelers. They are shape-shifters and wanderers, always dispersing and rearranging, rising and descending. They move with the wind, practically one with air.

Clouds over Paris.

Did you know the study of clouds is called nephology? Clouds form because (and bear with my recalled seventh grade science here) water vapor is lighter than air (think of steam rising from a pot of boiling water), and so when warm air and water vapor mix, they rise. And as this “saturated” air rises, it cools as the atmosphere gets colder, and eventually the vapor condenses, and tiny water particles (either liquid or frozen, depending on their temperature) hang densely together in clouds. When the particles get too heavy, they fall, either as rain or snow or sleet or hail, or whatever other forms of precipitation tumble down to earth from the sky.

When I was traveling, I looked to clouds to tell the weather, to decide whether or not to bring a jacket or an umbrella, or whether it was really the right day to climb a mountain or a skyscraper, just to see the world wrapped in fog. And I rarely noticed that clouds are always different, because everything else was always different too. Even though I’ve spent most of my life solidly living in one place or another, I’m still trying to adjust to being “home” after a year spent traveling so freely. That’s where this cloud envy, began, I think. That, and perhaps, that clouds get to fly.

We do a lot of flying, nowadays, especially when we travel, and it’s become commonplace to be thousands of feet above ground in a rapidly moving metal cylinder with wings, so it’s no surprise, I guess, that clouds don’t hold the same place in our culture as they have in past ones. But when I think about how amazing it must have been to be the first person to fly through a cloud, or to fly above one, I get chills, just the way I do when I look out of an airplane window at a vista of clouds stretching as far as the eye can see.

Clouds at sunset.

A week ago I was in the Grand Canyon for the briefest of family vacations, and on our second (and final) day there, the canyon was nearly cloudless, just blue sky stretching from one end of the horizon to the other like a carefully painted ceiling, an empty, depthless dome. And I really missed them, which is why I’m writing about the clouds, instead of the canyon.

Clouds give the sky texture. They move and change. They’re shape shifters, storm warnings, moon garnish. A friend asked me recently, if I had to choose between stars and clouds, which would I pick? And though I chose stars (imagine the night sky without them, or, the real crux of the matter, the day without the sun) I’m so relieved the question was hypothetical. When it comes to weather forecasts, I prefer cloudy, to cloudless.

For the past few weeks, I’ve envied clouds their freedom, their nebulous existence, their perspective on the planet. I’ve spent an embarrassing amount of my free time staring aimless out of windows and upwards over tree branches and telephone lines, thinking silently to myself That one is a wolf, that one a bird. The other day I even, somewhat upsettingly, saw a skull.

Clouds before a storm.

But the truth is, of course, that clouds don’t move, form, or disperse on their own—they rise with warm air, move with wind, and fall when they get too cold, and too heavy. In that way, maybe, they’re a lot like I’ve been this past year, or a lot like the way I feel I’ve been. There are important differences, I realize, when I look at myself more closely. I wander where I want to, when I’m able, and I stay in one place because I choose to, one of many choices I have that clouds don’t share.

The more I think about clouds, then, and the more I write about them, the less envious I feel. Today, I lie back in the grass, enjoying the late summer heat, musing on the northward-headed hurricane, and the rain its clouds are carrying, and I no longer see the clouds above me as laughing travelers, mocking me for my heaviness, for my inability to fly. Instead I see a dog, a tree, a face in profile, and I feel a sense of lightness, of my spirit, like so many droplets hanging densely together, lifting away from the earth, even as I am anchored, not so mournfully, now, to the ground.

After a spectacular wedding in our home state of New Hampshire, my- gasp!- husband and I opted to do something a little unusual for our honeymoon. Instead of our usual “grab our bags and figure it out when we get there” style, we decided it was high time that we indulged in some of the more luxurious aspects of Europe…specifically, France. “We live right across the border,” we said. “We can just take the train,” we said. “Besides,” we added for emphasis as we purchased our tickets, “we only get to honeymoon once!”

And with that attitude, we were off! We took the high-speed train, called the ICE in Germany and the TGV in France, from Frankfurt-am-Main airport to la Gare du Nord in Paris. Upon arrival in our hotel room on the Champs-Élysées, we found two bottles of champagne, two champagne flutes, and a tray of chocolate-and-coconut-dipped strawberries waiting on the bed, fluffy robes in the closet, and a 24-hour room service menu waiting for us. After a long day of flying and train-riding- during which we were delayed by a bomb threat- the overwhelming luxury of our hotel was the perfect choice. We wasted no time in ordering a sumptuous meal, drawing a bubble bath, and popping the first cork (no, that’s not a metaphor!).

Married!

While we only opted to spend a little time in Paris, we made the most of its honeymoon options. The Eiffel Tower has a restaurant that serves gourmet four-course meals with wine and champagne, and if you time it just right- around 9 PM in the middle of August- you and your dinner date are clinking glasses as the sun is setting. There are also many tour companies that cater to the honeymoon-tourist crowd, and for a price it’s possible to get tickets to events and venues that ordinarily sell out too quickly. For us, this meant that our Eiffel Tower dinner was followed by a late-night show at the infamous Moulin Rouge. Don’t let its reputation fool you, however! While the shows at the Moulin Rouge would be considered racy in the States, they are unremarkable- the major draw is the venue’s name.

The remainder of our week was spent in Reims, which is a short train ride away from Paris out of Gare de l’Est. Reims is famous for two things. The first is that it is the heart of the Champagne region, so each year it hosts wine tasters, tourists, and prospective buyers, all coming for the bubbly white wine. The second is that it houses the enormous Gothic cathedral in which the kings and queens of France were coroneted, and as both Nick and I had studied the cathedral in our high school French classes, it was a must-see.

There are fewer hotel options in Reims than in Paris, for a variety of reasons, but we picked a place that was within a few blocks of a great pedestrian mall with shops, gourmet restaurants, and, of course, the aforementioned cathedral. Through a company called Grape Escapes, we booked a private tour of some of the champagne houses in the area- complete with tastings, of course- and a driver to take us there. As an afterthought, we chose to visit the spa across the street and bought 75-minute hot stone massages for ourselves. After all, it was our honeymoon! More on the champagne tasting to follow, when I have the time and space to describe it.

In the end, when we took our train back to Kaiserslautern, we agreed that the whole trip had been the perfect choice: France really does know how to do honeymoons. Of course, this is dependent on what the honeymooners in question can afford, and a cost-heavy trip like this one was- for us- a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The price tag was entirely worthwhile, however. Paris and Reims exceeded all of our expectations  in the honeymoon department, and I’m sure even travelers seeking a luxurious week off will find the same.

El Puppy- a huge, living sculpture of a pooch in front of the Guggenheim Museum

The day started at the museum with just enough time to enjoy a very neat exhibit featuring 300 years of American art.  It was funny to see so much americana in a land that felt far away from home, but when wasn’t I surprised by Spain?  Keep in mind that the Guggenheim is a contemporary/modern art museum, so they are known for featuring art as innovative as the structure itself.  My favorite piece was this room that had five television screens playing different surreal situations all linked by mixed noise music.  Very trippy and engrossing.

After an uneventful lunch, Amy and I sat along the river bank, reading ‘The Little Prince’ aloud to each other while we waited for our afternoon walking tour of the town.  Something about the city made us feel right at home very quickly and I soon realized that I dreaded having to leave after only one short day.  I don’t know if it was the whimsy of the city reflected in the Zubizuri footbridge, or the fight between the obvious transition of a predominantly urban, industrial city to a more touristic zone, but Bilbao held that sparkle of curiosity I’ve come to love in cities.

Our tour of Bilbao consisted of walking through some of the most historic neighborhoods and important architecture.  I remember walking through Plaza Nueva and thinking about how different the city felt compared to Barcelona- it was akin to the difference between pistachio gelato and raspberry; the same basic elements that make it delicious, with a completely unique twist.  Also, the basque language, which was very present, is entirely different from Spanish and Catalan- all I remember how to say in basque is food related, go figure.

Plaza Nueva

Casco Viejo was another fascinating neighborhood, famous for its medieval architecture and the maze of colorful streets, bars, and shops that tempted even the most thrifty study-abroad student.   It is easy to see why so many imaginations have been captured by Bilbao and why it is obviously one of the top 10 places I would like to return to and explore more in depth, when my student budget isn’t quite so modest.

The VIP Grand Hotel Lisbon, courtesy of http://www.splendia.com

At the hotel, Kevin sits alone at the dinner table for six. He’s from Scotland and he’s never been to São Tomé before. We don’t know this, though, when we first sit down with him- four of us to fill the table up better. He is quiet, he eats quickly but at the same time he eats slowly and spreads his food around and studies it. He doesn’t look up.

The three Portuguese guys and I are talking about something, anything, I don’t remember what we’re talking about. One of the waiters comes and asks us if the last seat is taken. We don’t understand him (even though he is speaking Portuguese). He repeats himself, this time in English. Kevin responds. “No,” he says.

Time to work my charm.

Of course I love the fact that being bilingual exposes me to other cultures. It allows me to get inside other people’s worlds, to better understand them, to empathize with them. Yet something that I love almost as much as that is the ability to serve as a global connector with people that don’t speak each other’s languages. Sometimes when I am by myself, I become nervous about speaking Portuguese, even though I speak just fine. If I’m surrounded by a group of people who all speak fluent Portuguese I can get a little nervous- “what if they don’t understand me?” and “what if I pronounce something wrong?” cloud my conception of my own language ability. But when I’m surrounded by Portuguese people as well as people who don’t speak Portuguese, it’s when my language skills really light up. Suddenly I feel confident and fluent. I can express complex ideas rather easily.

Five minutes go by and I realize that if no one speaks up for this man then no one will. Perhaps it was only my assumption that my Portuguese friends spoke English and chose not to talk to him- it turns out that they don’t speak a word. “You speak English?” I say to the man catty corner to me. He looks up and smiles. “Yes,” he says.

“Where are you from?”

“Scotland.”

“What is your name?”

“Kevin.”

And that’s about as far as I get in knowing Kevin, but perhaps as far as I need to go. Instantly, we have something in common that no one else at the table has- a mother tongue- and in foreign countries, that works wonders. Of course, Kevin and I spend a solid 30 seconds trying to figure out what Kevin does for a living, and when I finally say “oh, ok, sorry, I understand now,” I actually don’t (a mother tongue, but not a mother pronunciation, I suppose). So I have no idea what Kevin is doing in São Tomé but I do know he’ll be off-shore a lot of the time, that he doesn’t have to speak Portuguese to do the job and that it’s his first time in São Tomé but he has been to Equatorial Guinea before. That’s a good start, right?

I bring up this situation today because you think that when you travel, you will always be the foreigner- that you will always be the person finding a new friend to tag along with, to learn from. But sometimes, even when you’re not at home, you are that new friend. Sometimes you bring enough of a taste of home for people to trust you, even when you don’t know anything about each other. I realized that Kevin was like me- on his own to São Tomé. I don’t know how he showed up at the hotel because I don’t remember much English being spoken at the airport. But he got there. I realized that, if I didn’t speak Portuguese, I would have been just like Kevin- a little bit lost, a little bit uncomfortable, and feeling particularly alone.

He left early, saying “nice to meet you” and breaking free as quickly as possible to return to his solidarity. About 20 minutes later I headed back up to my room in the elevator. Deep in the back corner, he was inside. I greeted him and he started to exit the elevator as I got in. “Kevin, don’t you have a few floors left?” I asked him as he was walking out, noticing that the number “4” was lit up on the panel.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, going back in.

When we reached the second floor, I started to leave. He followed behind me. “Two more floors to go, buddy,” I said to him, laughing.

“Oh yeah,” he said, and started to laugh, too. He stepped back in and the elevator doors closed.

Iide Plains

…Continued from…

Day 4:

We are up by 5:30, out of the tent by 6, and still are some of the latest sleepers in tent city.  Breakfast is warm muesli with extra raisins.  Tea gets me where I need to be.  We pack up and out and are rewarded with another beautiful day, climbing up and down peaks; I think we stood on top of five total mountains that day.   At 1pm, we reach a junction where we have three choices: stop for the day (X), continue on to Honzan Hut by Iide Peak for another 1.5 hours (X), or drop our packs, move water and lunch into our strap-off top packs, and do a quick up-and-back of Dainishi-san, the highest peak in the Iide Mountain range at 2,105 m.  The weather is beautiful, and despite Ellie’s blisters, morale is high, so it’s an easy decision.  We decide for a long day, and are enjoying a lunch of sausage and cucumber at the peak by 3pm.  By 4:30, we are back at our packs, fill up on water from one of the many mountain springs (of which we don’t have to filter!!) and are heading towards Iide.

At one point, the trail widens and flattens, and we find ourselves walking through almost a Kansas plains like scene, tall grasses swaying drowsily in the evening sun.  At sunset, we are on top of Iide, where we find a small Jizo shrine and the wind picks up.  We layer accordingly and start hiking towards the Honzan hut.  Instead, we find a sweet little spot protected by a rock wall that shelters us enough from the crazy windstorm we have all of a sudden found ourselves in.  Dinner that night, a highlight: tortellini, sun-dried tomatoes, and a pesto sauce.  Hot water to warm our bellies inside and out.  I fall asleep to the tent rocking in the wind, almost too toasty in my bag, by 7:45.

Day 5:

Tuesday is an early day.  Ellie’s watch goes off at 4:45am to catch the sunrise.  It’s cloudy, and we lollygag around until we see the sky start to pinken.  Even with the murky horizon, though, as far as sunrises go, this one wasn’t half-bad.  We eat breakfast and watch the night turn into daylight.  We start down to the car, not realizing the trek we have in front of us.  By far, the hike down is beyond difficult.  The sky starts to spit on us, the wind abates not, and even with gloves on, my fingers are stiff and cold.  Rather than dropping in elevation suddenly, this trail takes us down and then up another mountain, down and then up again.  Over and over. My knees ache, my entire body hurts, and my mind is so focused on where to place my feet, that the whole process is entirely exhausting.  The trail turns so bad at points, we cling to roots so as not to slide off.  At other times, the route is so technical that I pack up my poles and clamber up and down rocks and tree branches at 70-85 degree angles, handholds becoming as important as placement for my feet.  We pass thickets of bamboo, old-growth beech trees, pink barked birch trees, and see a couple snakes slithering away from our approaching footsteps.

After walking endlessly, not finding the junctions we expect to on our map, the river below finally comes into sight, and even the constant downhill is a welcome relief – knowing that much sooner we’ll be on flat ground.  We reach the icy, gushing water at about 4:30pm, a full and exhausting day’s hike from starting peak.  We fill up on delicious, chill river water, zapping it with the SteriPen to ward off against any nasty bugs.  The trail along the river evens out, though it is thick with overgrowth.  Finally, we arrive at the car a little before 6pm; it’s almost dark.  After a much-needed and thorough bath at the onsen, soaking our weary bones, washing away 4 days worth of grime and sweat and dirt, we drive to the nearest town, fill up on greasy, delicious tonkatsu (though all we both wanted was a hamburger), drag ourselves to the car and manage to find an empty, quiet rest stop on the way to the highway. Dead and blissfully asleep by 10pm.

Day 6:

Drive home.  Mentally and physically prepare for the return to “real” life.  The happenings, images, and occurences of the past several days already receding into dreamy memories – a haven, a hiatus from the daily grind.

Attributed to: K. Hurley

Lately I’ve been reading up on some of the latest news regarding Cuba. I was very elated to find out what may happen in just a few short months or years (who really knows), that has the potential to impact travelers immensely. Mainly, the American travelers have been restricted from touring the island for years, but things may change. The restriction may become “loosened.”  Meaning, they may be able to travel there again. For most travelers, they will be very much excited about venturing back into Cuba.

One thing’s for sure, that if you do plan on being one of the many travelers that are going to pour into the country, please, make sure you check out the crème de la crème.

La Habana, or Havana as some of us know it to be, has a night life that will blow Miami away. They have the music, dancing, venues—the perfect night life for those in search of a good time.

Looking for a museum-type atmosphere? Well then look no further! Trinidad has exactly what you need. They are known as the museum city by the sea!

And lastly, the city that is rich in culture and will have you wanting to learn more about history… Santiago de Cuba. The beautiful city has architecture, artifacts, and tells a great story that will keep you on edge.

At the end of the day, there is more beautiful culture that you will run into over that way. The food, the people, the beaches, and much more is awaiting. The ban hasn’t been lifted yet, but when it does, I’m sensing there will be many Americans that will flood the country with tourism. Hope to see you over there.

Fingers crossed!

Safe travels

Of course, for Amy and I getting into our own adventure never proved to be that difficult.  We enjoyed a quiet, traditional dinner at a restaurant that had cider flowing out from huge wooden kegs:  Imagine standing up and trying to catch cider streaming out of the wall towards your face, with quite a bit of pressure behind it, in a polite sized glass.  I liked the city immediately.

Later that night, the two of us met up with our new friend, and the three of us explored the cities ‘pintxo’ scene.  Okay, so tapas are pretty well known as a Spanish eating tradition; well, pintxos (or pinchos, in Spanish) are their Basque cousin.  They are more substantial in size, usually come on a slice of bread, and encourage social drinking, as the tradition is to flit from bar to bar, drinking cider and picking out a pintxo or two.  

After a visiting a few of the local establishments, Amy and I were giggly, and our new friend probably thought we were crazy when we suggested gelato as our late night chaperone back to the hotel.   As I said before, it was cold in San Sebastian in March, and we were shivering.  But as on previous chilly trips (see my Granada piece), Amy and I headed straight for a scoop of gelato to end our night.  Enjoying our frozen treat, while huddled on a cold stone bench by the stunning Playa de la Concha, I suggested that we take a dip in the frosty water- how much colder could we get, really?

Amy declined the polar bear dip, but our new friend went right along with me.  We left our jackets and pants with Amy on the sandy beach, and ran into the water like two goofy kids on a Sunday afternoon.  Except it was late, cold and dark.  Did I mention how freezing it was?  Feeling completely refreshed and ready for bed, the three of us said goodnight, and Amy and I crawled into our hotel bed.

San Sebastian was filled with the clash of political angst, a mysterious history, and delicious food all set on a gorgeous stage created by the sea.  The morning before we left the city to return to Barcelona, a few of us early birds from our study abroad group went on a hike along one side of the bay.  Water crashed upon rocks and rain sprinkled down in the early morning.  An artist created giant metal sculptures that peppered the coast line and played with the colors of the surrounding waves.  You couldn’t help but feel impressed at the simple beauty of the city as we settled in for the long bus ride home, remembering our weekend adventure.

But I love road trips, and I have ever since I was old enough to drive a car myself, when the radius of my possible adventures extended suddenly so much further from myself than my own two legs could have carried me.

There’s definitely a road trip culture in America, born of our pioneering past, lines of wagons pushing forward to new frontiers, the famed wide open spaces upon which our country was built and peopled. That tradition has grown and evolved, no longer comprised of horse drawn wagons but formed instead of VW vans, motorcyclists, RVs and Airstreams, and fueled by writers like Jack Kerouac, Hunter S. Thompson  and films like Thelma and Louise.

I drove across the country twice in college, once from west to east, and once from east to west, and those trips are among my fondest memories from those four years. Whenever people in Europe asked me where they should visit if they came to America, I always told them that they should take all the time they could, rent a car, and drive from one coast to the other. And they’d say to me, “Really? Not just New York and LA? Maybe Miami, D.C., or San Francisco?”

And as I shook my head, arguing for our national parks and great plains, I realized that road trips are a reflection of the way I understand my country, and its culture (its many cultures). Road trips are a reminder that America is not simply its coasts, or its cities, but all the small towns and lingering wide open spaces which fill so much of the maps, painted Red and Blue come election

From a stop in Grand Teton National Park.

time, maps that seem to open up the further west you go, stretching out, reaching toward the Pacific.

Road trips help to remind me that travel isn’t simply about where you’re going, geographically speaking—it’s about what you’re traveling through, the places, lives and cultures you’re moving through, the emotions you’re experiencing, the memories you’re forming.Sometimes I wonder  if I’d feel differently about road trips if I’d been born on the left coast. If I’d feel, through some kind of right-handed, leftward-headed bias, that I’d already reached the end, the destination. Maybe I’d view road trips differently, as a way backwards, a way into the past.

I’ve been reading Hemingway’s novel The Sun Also Rises, part of which is set in Paris. At one point, the narrator, Jake Barnes, is taking a bus along Boulevard Raspail on the left bank, and he notes to himself that he always ignores part of the bus ride because it makes him feel “bored and dead and dull.” He imagines that it is “some association of ideas that makes those dead places in a journey,” and this says something important, I think, about the way we relate to our surroundings, the way our memories and experiences shape our experiences of the world around us.

I walked up Boulevard Raspail every morning when I lived in Paris. My favorite boulangerie was off one of its side streets; I ate at its cafes, and shopped at the open air market by metro Raspail. For me, that part of the bus ride wouldn’t have been dead space at all. It would have been a trip through a bit of the world I was familiar with, a place I’d come to know a little.

If you think about them the right way, road trips give you the chance to build this kind of familiarity

On the (wrong side of the) road in Scotland.

on a large scale, to trace a moment in your life along a map for a distance of hundreds and hundreds of miles. The trips I’ve made at 19, 21 and 23 may be repeated when I’m 44, 57, or 70. And road trips make me welcome that possibility, make me daydream about crossing the country in an Airstream in my 60s, when I’ll be able to look back and think how different the world is, and yet how the same.

At this point, it’s obvious that I think too much about these things, and it’s likely because I overanalyze the “meaning” of everything, that I was excited when my sister and I decided,  to drive, instead of fly, to Michigan for our father’s birthday last week. In terms of Great American Road trips, Rhode Island to Michigan isn’t a long journey, and we had to do it fast, going there and back (more than 12 hours, each way) in just over 72 hours, much of which was spent on interstates, a different kind of culture entirely from the “small town America” I advocated to my friends in Europe.

Instead of passing directly through things, so much of where you are and what you’re passing by is filtered through those brown signboards announcing local attractions, monuments, museums and national parks. But tired and cramped as I was throughout the trip, I want to say that this is just another way in which road trips can mirror your life: you’re on a highway to somewhere, presumably somewhere you want to be. But all along the way there are choices, exits you can take, stops to make. And at the end of the trip (be it through the American west, or through your twenties, or what have you), I promise you’ll look back upon your journey more fondly if you pull off the interstate at least once, not just to refuel, but to see something or to do something, or just to to be, for a few moments, somewhere you’ve never been before.

We set up camp and decided to drive the park.  Unfortunately, the long road that gives access to many of the points of interest was open to the shuttle buses only.  Because we are traveling with dogs, we could not all go.  We drove the one road we did have access to, however, it was under construction which made it difficult to drive on.  We soldiered on an got some great scenery photos.

We headed back to camp and decided I would take the shuttle so at least one of us could check out the sites at Zion.  When riding the shuttle you get a recorded message that gives you a little information about each stop.  I didn’t get off at every stop, but enjoyed a 2 mile hike at the Temple of Sinawava.  The paved trail runs along a river which several people were enjoying a cool swim in.

There are also 2 other entrances at Kolob Canyon and Lava Point that we did not visit.  We only experienced part of what Zion has to offer.  If you plan on visiting, I suggest visiting the web site not only to plan the areas of the park you would like to visit, but to check out their road construction schedule to avoid any inconveniences.  Also, if you plan on visiting in summer make sure you wear sunscreen and bring/drink plenty of water.  If camping isn’t your style, they have a beautiful lodge within the park and several places to stay and things to do in nearby Springdale.

We can see why the park is called Zion.  It is a very majestic and regal canyon park that offers many activities no matter what your interests are.