Adventure On

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Posted on February 6, 2024 by Deborah Hutti

Though it would have been much easier for the four of us young girls to decline the offer, it was an opportunity that gave us pause. There we stood pondering. Thinking. It was as if we could feel the birth of an adventure. We were experiencing that moment that feels like it’s moving in slow motion. As if we were standing on the sideline knowing that in a blink, the tenure of our plan would be exploding into something much different than we originally thought. It became a time when talking less meant understanding more. We were barely blinking as our eyes looked from one to the next. And with four ever so slight nods, we knew that we were all in.

Adventure on.

We didn’t cheer. We didn’t yelp. Perhaps because we were equally as afraid as we were excited. We were going into the unknown. A place we liked but feared. Which at age thirteen, was pretty much a norm with every situation. But this time it felt a bit different.

We packed pretty much in silence – speaking only to affirm that someone had grabbed something the others may have not. Flashlights. Hammocks. Netting. Canteens. Rope. Knives. Matches. A flare. We knew there would be no heading back for missed items. Darkness would prevent that. And communication with the rest of our group would be severed by whatever wilderness was between us and them. This was pre-cellphone. So we were just being about our business as we sorted through our need versus our wants.

Within what seemed like minutes, but was more likely an hour or two, we were off. We trudged into and through the woods until we found eight suitable trees to hang four barebones hammocks. We set up the sleeping arrangements and quickly created a centralized rock-fenced campfire, put our canteens somewhere nearby and unpacked everything we had just stuffed into those duffle bags. The food we brought could only be described as well less than sub-standard on the nutrition scale. Potatoes wrapped in tinfoil thrown in a fire. S’mores. Maybe apples. Popcorn.

As darkness approached, we settled into those hammocks, threw the netting over us, and speaking for all four of us, were frightened out of our minds from sunset to sunrise. We prayed our flashlight batteries lasted until the light of morn.

Just hours later, we hopped out of those hammocks like four victorious warriors. Though our bravery was due to our inability to return in darkness to the nearby lodge, we convinced ourselves that we had lived a confident night rather than a fearful one. Regardless, we have always rearranged the details of this story to fit a champions’ narrative.

The march back to our origin was filled with chatter. We did it. It was over. Now what.

That’s the thing about adventures. They have beginnings. They have endings. And for me, there is always the hope of what is to come with the next adventure. It is the time after the end of the previous adventure and before the start of the future one that is most interesting.

Without a doubt, there can be a feeling of uneasiness. Which I describe as a free falling, not knowing where or when or how I will land. Will I have another adventure? Do I still have great adventures waiting for me? There is that big vast unknown. I know that I must welcome whatever lies ahead, but I am always a little hesitant. A little resistant. A little scared. Scratch that . . . a lot scared.

But that’s the thing about adventures. I do believe they are endless. Certainly they come in different shapes and sizes and durations. I can see that they are not meant to last forever, and I have a feeling that I’m supposed to experience lots of different types of them throughout my life. Again, adventures always include walking into that giant unknown.

An adventure in my life has just closed. It was one of the greatest adventures of all time – filled with the unimaginable and the incredible. There were moments of great perplexity coupled with moments of unbridled joy. My mind and my body were constantly put to the test in ways that I was rarely fully – if ever – prepared.

It was an experience that God graced me with and I only hope that I met the challenge. With adventures, I never know. And I truly hope that I can once again experience such joy, exhilaration, excitement, contentment, and exuberance in a future adventure as I did with my previous one.

I have such great hope.

Always wanted to know what adventure my dad was on in this photo! Looks quite exciting!

A Poem As Lovely As a Tree

Posted on December 29, 2015 by Deborah Hutti

I have never met a tree that I did not like. In fact, there is something about them that takes my breadth away. The budding in Spring, the flowering in Summer, the color bursts of Fall, and their barren branches throughout all of Winter – all stages amaze me. Simple, complicated, tall, small, evergreen, deciduous, alive, dead – I like them all.

Though I do not live in the heart of a forest, I am fortunate to have a south facing bedroom window that overlooks the woods. Every morning and night, I take a peek at the trees – just to see what is happening. Yet, the time spent double-checking those trees twice a day for 30+ years still hasn’t helped me with my general tree knowledge. I have no idea what type of trees are out there – perhaps oak, or maybe maple, possibly walnut. I’m just not sure. Dendrology isn’t my forte.

I know much simpler details. I know they have grown. I know there are young ones and old ones. I know their noise, and I know their quiet. I just like them, all.

Growing up in suburbia America, my family had their fair share of trees. There was the token large tree in the front yard, the evergreen trees that lined the house, and the three or four trees strategically planted in the back yard for shade. As a child, I absolutely abused those back yard trees – climbing, building, hacking, pushing, breaking. I did everything to those trees, but appreciate them.

Now, I do.

I enjoy the quiet they bring – not in terms of sound, but in terms of life. There is something about walking through snow covered trees in the middle of winter – alone. It is more than quiet. It is calm and peaceful – two sensations that are normally difficult to achieve simultaneously but easy for me to find with winter trees. They offer no words of wisdom. They speak only metaphorically. But for some reason their calm and peaceful quiet always provides a crazy-fun adventure.

I enjoy how they depict time – their uncanny ability to show me the circle of life in just a short twelve months. With trees, I am reminded each year of how life moves from green to brown to bare to rebirth – a microcosm of the human lifespan. From them, I am reminded that time is more than hours, days, weeks. Time = seasons. Not sure why I like this thought: I just do.

I enjoy what I have learned about anticipation. I anxiously await the blooming of the Bradford Pear trees that ring my college campus in Spring, and the show of color in the back yard woods each Fall, and even the gloomy bark-only look of those same trees in Winter. I believe I enjoy the time of anticipation nearly as much as the time of arrival.

I know that in my wonderings about trees that I have certainly learned a little. I have learned that there is beauty and majesty in most everything, that the world right outside my back window is utterly amazing, that the simplest of objects can cause the most complex of thoughts, that I clearly have way too much time on my hands, and am thankful that I do.

Happy New Year

A Very Decorated Tree at the Missouri Botanical Garden

Nature and History

Posted on January 11, 2015 by Deborah Hutti

The view was nothing shy of spectacular. And it was certainly not what I had expected to see. I stood quietly with my companions for what can be described as more than awhile – with only the steady clicks of our cameras interrupting the silence.

The day was ending with evening approaching much more quickly than any of us desired. Soon our tour would be over, and the six of us would be headed back from whence we came. Thankfully, from beginning to end, the weather had kindly cooperated, offering us a smattering of sunshine, wind, clouds, and rain. Eighty degrees and balmy would have been ideal, but autumn is a season of surprise when it comes to outdoor conditions, and we were prepared.

In the last of the moments, I still had not come to terms with the landscape surrounding me. The cliffs were more than beautiful; the water calmly lapping their edge. A lone bird was swirling back and forth, seeming to have no particular destination. And it was quiet . . . so quiet.

I thought I was going to see something quite different. In fact, I was most positive that the experience was going to be one hundred and eight degrees away from what the experience actually was. Part of my quiet was due to my inability to quickly move from my past expectation to my current reality.

I knew that to visit this site meant that I would be stepping on ground where many – too many to count – had died before me. I just didn’t know what to expect. World War II started and ended well before I was born with every subsequent generation since June 6th, 1944 having chronicled the horrific battles that transpired on and near Omaha Beach. All six of us had studied the history well in preparation. But, it absolutely did not prepare me.

I saw magnificent colors in the water swells. I saw green, moss-covered cliffs with auburn, crimson, and turquoise hues. I saw a blue and white-painted sky with moments of gray pushing towards shore. I saw serenity, peace,and calm. I saw majesty.

I listened as our most reverent tour guide spoke about lost lives on Omaha Beach. He mentioned those who scaled the cliffs in twenty minutes and survived both the climb as well as enemy fire. And he mentioned those who did not survive. He described the men who exited their boats and headed towards sure-death on the beach. He described the deafening sounds of that day, as all sorts of explosives were launched from sea to shore and shore to sea. The more he spoke, the more I realized that all the ground around me – as well as the tiny piece beneath my feet – held the memory of the death of many. My heart ached – and still does ache – for all of those who died in pursuit of freedom for others including me.

Yet, when I looked out towards the horizon, I saw beauty. In fact, the nearby rock formations were mesmerizing. Likewise were the sandy shores and the surrounding vegetation. Here and there were tiny cottages, some vacant, some inhabited, all that clearly had stunning views of the Omaha Beach of today. There were many memorials to those who had fallen in service to their country seventy years earlier, all of which were impeccably landscaped and maintained. A scenic coastline, serpentine road cut through the hillside, bringing visitors like me to see and experience the history of the area.

I must admit that I still have not come to terms in any way with Omaha Beach’s unbelievable beauty juxtaposed with the reality of the heightened degree of suffering and death that occurred in the same place.

Perhaps the generations that follow me will offer greater clarity and understanding of how we, as humans, can come to some understanding of the balance between nature and history. I know for me it is something that I will ponder for much time to come.

The Cliffs of Omaha Beach

A Few Words / Lots of Photos

Posted on October 27, 2012 by Deborah Hutti

I have been blogging for a little more than a year – and usually I find a photo that, for me, generates 1000 words. I am stepping outside of my box a little. Following are five videos – of varying length – with lots of photos, a little music, and very few words. Not sure why I have changed the format for this post, but I hope – for those visiting my blog – that one photo, one minute, one moment generates many, many thoughts, ideas, words. (Please note: This attempt is my first in terms of using video. All suggestions would be welcome!)