Tag: Tried it in Cville

Something about October makes me melancholy. The waning light, the dropping leaves. Back-to-school schedules, and the looming pressure to make happy holidays happen.

All I really want to do is bask in the honeyed light of late afternoon—that golden hour—and do nothing. Look at the sky, watch for hawks, wish upon a pumpkin that my husband will have turkey chili simmering on the stove when I get home (a girl can dream).

My friend Deb snapped me out of my autumn ennui with an invitation (“You’re doing this! Come on!”) to head to Scottsville, jump on a batteau—an old-fashioned wooden barge propelled by a pole-wielding captain—and cruise up the James River at sunset. 

I tried my lazy excuses (“It’ll be too dark!”; “I’ll be hungry!”; “Isn’t this supposed to be a romantic getaway for you and your husband?”), and Deb batted them away (“It will be light the whole time!”; “They serve charcuterie on the boat!”; [Eyeroll] “Yes, wildly romantic. Just come on!”)

Thank god for crackerjack friends like Deb and genius local businesses like the James River Batteau Company. Everything I ever wanted out of October—drifting along in the golden light, watching raptors soar overhead, having someone else make my dinner—I found in that dreamy two-hour cruise on a handmade wooden boat, in the candlelit company of lovely folks, on the sparkling James River. 

And who can be melancholy when there’s cheese, salami, and figs?

What

A sunset excursion on the James River.

Why

Because it’s a one-of-a-kind experience, lovingly hosted by two friends devoted to the tradition of batteau on the James.

How it went

Underestimating the traffic between Charlottesville and Scottsville (which made for pleasant marital squabbles up front, while I pretended not to notice in the back), Deb barrelled down Route 20, and we arrived at Canal Basin Square shortly after 5pm. A ruggedly genial young man—Will Cash, one of two Wills who run the company—directed us to a parking spot along the river. 

Domestic discord dissipated like mist in sunshine once we glimpsed the batteaux afloat on the glimmering water. Beaming at each other, Deb and her husband made their way up the little plank and onto the boat.

Will number one (Cash) manned the front of the boat, which was actually two boats conjoined—six guests on one, and five on the other—where he used a long pole to push the boat forward. In the back, Will number two (Smith) steered as he told the fascinating story of batteaux on the James: why and how they were used to haul tobacco; the industry’s reliance on the labor of enslaved and freed men; what life as “batteaumen” was like; and how the two Wills started their batteau venture.

We listened as we took in the views gliding by. An eagle flew directly overhead and perched on a rock upriver. Water bugs skimmed the surface, their ripples catching the light. A heron flapped past, settling with a croak high on a treetop. We didn’t see the bobcat chasing the fawn that escaped by swimming across the river, but an earlier group did, and Will number two told us all about it.

Aglow in the sunset, we anchored, and Will number one brought us sumptuous trays of meat, cheese, and fruit. Will number two played folk tunes (“James River Blues” never sounded so sweet), and we chatted with the Wills and other guests as if we were family on a picnic, only better (no family!).

Our time there felt suspended in the amber between day and night, present and past. When we pushed back downriver and docked in the dusk, I felt as calm and alive as the quiet current beneath us. 

The Wills run their daytime, sunset, farm-to-table, and private cruises between April and October. Bookings for 2024 will open January 1. I could see getting married on a batteau (I’ll let my husband know), or celebrating special occasions out there. What a first date! What an anytime date (Just ask Deb and her husband). 

Plus I’ve solved my “how to make happy holidays happen” problem: gift cards for James River cruises with the Wills.

James River Batteau Company

jamesrivertour.com

In the late summer (August) of my life’s autumn (61 years old), I heard about a University of Virginia singing group for people who can’t sing.

A little bell rang in my heart. 

“I can’t sing, and I work at the University of Virginia,” I thought, sweating my way across the Lawn, past the crop tops and tennis skirts, the backward baseball caps and butterfly tattoos, the Frisbee-catching dogs. “Maybe this group is for me!”

Like an idiot, I wrote to them:

Dear Virginia No Tones,

I can’t sing, and I’m 61, and a part-time staffer, not a student. May I sing with you? 

Ha ha, and all that. No, but seriously. 

Sincerely yours.

Days later my email dinged. My heart leapt. The No Tones had responded:

Salutations,

If you are receiving this email you or someone you know believes that you are a terrible singer. BUT you are in luck… The Virginia No Tones is UVA’s oldest and only a cappella group for the musically inept and you now have the chance to audition. ….Prepare a few minutes of a song (a cappella of course). Dancing is not required but encouraged…..Bring your best energy.…We look forward to being entertained.

Sincerely,

The Overlords

I took it all in. An audition. Dancing not required but encouraged. 

What in the name of Lady Gaga had I done? Compelled by some force beyond my understanding, I signed up. I showed up. And dear Lord forgive me, I sang.

What

Singing with others, in a funny, friendly, low-stakes way.

Why

Because belting out Brittany Howard’s “Stay High” while cruising on 250 with the windows down makes me so damn happy that I just want more of that in my life.

How it went

Poor Hala and Christian, the No Tones Overlords who endured my 15 minutes of aca-awful in the confines of Lawn room 44. 

“So I wanted to do something cool and funny and popular for you,” I said, pacing, gesticulating, and looking remarkably like Doc from Back to the Future. 

They smiled expectantly.

Then I launched into “Old Town Road,” giving it my best Lil Billy Ray Nas X. 

Crooning the first two stanzas, I added a cocky shuffle, as if I really were taking my horse to the Old Town Road and riding ’til I couldn’t no more. Then I forgot the words and started fake-rapping, the way my dad used to fake church-sing in the pew. “I got my horses in the back, my something in the something, uh, I don’t remember the words, but I’m singing any way-ay-ay.” 

Like a wind-up doll in a horror movie, I kept going. A Shirley Temple-esque version of “This Little Light of Mine.” A Julie Andrews-sings-from-hell rendition of “I Have Confidence” (from The Sound of Music). With luck, and time, Hala and Christian will wipe the trauma from their memory. 

No, I did not make the group. More than 50 people auditioned, and only 10 made the cut. The No Tones really are just for UVA students, and they really can sing, though their mission, says Hala, is simply to “Have fun and bring some joy and laughter to the community.”’

I did have fun! And I may have to crash their performances at Pancakes for Parkinson’s and Lighting of the Lawn. (Ha ha, no but seriously.)

If you, like me, long to inflict your voice on others and call it a song, please don’t bug the No Tones. They’ve been through enough. 

Instead, consider any combination of the following: 

• Open mic nights at The Local and Holly’s Diner
• Karaoke at Holly’s Diner, Dürty Nelly’s, or Rapture 
• Singing lessons at The Front Porch
• Auditions for real, grown-up choirs 

William Butler Yeats was no Lil Billy Ray Nas X, but his words are music to my tin (make that tinnitus) ears:

An aged man is but a paltry thing,

A tattered coat upon a stick, unless

Soul clap its hands and sing, and
louder sing

For every tatter in its mortal dress

In other words, take your voice to that Old Town Road and sing ’til you can’t no more.

By Greg Roberts

I first noticed the wooden cylindrical pod at the Ix farmers’ market. Weird, I thought. What is that thing? Some new age-y meditation tube? A hipster’s repurposed RV, like the ones I’d seen on Instagram during the pandemic?

A few weeks later I saw two seemingly sane people emerge from the pod in bathing suits, glistening and drenched in sweat. Two others seemed to be sleeping outside in large black buckets, eyes closed, heads back—submerged up to their necks in ice. Maybe they were in a deeper sleep than I’d imagined—like a coma—and maybe they weren’t so sane after all. 

Crazier still, I wanted to try what they were doing. I’d long been aware of research that showed extreme temperatures can be restorative for the body. World-renowned scientific scholar (and sometime thespian) Chris Hemsworth recently tested the theory in an episode of his show “Limitless,” swimming 250 yards in the frigid Arctic, in the winter. Heck, if Thor says it works, who am I to argue?

Note: Our regular columnist Mary Esselman “chickened out,” so her husband tried Fire & Ice and wrote this report.

What

A stint in an ultra-hot sauna followed by immersion in a tub of ice. Repeat three times. 

Why

I love cold showers and frozen margaritas, but my main goal was to prevent injury and restore my achy body. 

How it went

Immediately after signing up online, I received a text from owner Fabian Kuttner, with detailed instructions. First-timers go through a short orientation upon arrival, but Kuttner’s written, pre-visit instructions were helpful and reassuring, especially the breathing techniques.

I showed up nervous but determined. Fire & Ice manager Joe greeted me warmly and filled me in on the details. After putting my towel and water bottle in the changing room, I took a deep breath and stepped into the sauna, nodding hello to the folks already inside. The cozy space fits about eight people, with a wooden bench and seating for four on each side. 

Almost instantly, the sweat started to flow. The heat was intense, and not something to mess around with, as Kuttner had made clear. Everyone went at their own pace and stepped outside when necessary. It felt safe, and the vibe was relaxed. 

After about 20 minutes, I exited the sauna, rinsed off, and slid into the ice. I’m not going to lie: It was frickin’ freezing. It took all of my concentration and discipline not to jump out. The digital clock on the wall seemed to move backwards. After the recommended three minutes, and not a second longer, I climbed out. 

My legs were wobbly as I emerged, and Joe helped me get out of the tub. I entered the hell tube again and went straight to the back where the heat is the most intense, nearest to the coals.  My body was shaking, and I was a little lightheaded, which is a normal response, or so I’m told. It took a few minutes to thaw out, and the heat felt amazing. Before long I had completed round one. Just two more to go. 

After about 90 minutes I was done. I felt energized but relaxed, proud that I could endure the stress of extreme heat and cold, and hopeful I had decreased inflammation in my creaky, 57-year-old body. 

What I hadn’t anticipated, though, was the camaraderie of the experience. My fellow adventurers—a yoga instructor, a military analyst, a photographer, a UVA professor—were kindred spirits of sorts. The only other time I’ve had fascinating conversations with sweaty strangers thrown together in the confines of a heated cylindrical tube was on the New York City subway, but that came with fewer health benefits, and a lot more smells. 

Call me crazy, or call me Thor (I’ll take it), but I’m now a Fire & Ice believer. See you there!

Fire & Ice

thewholeman.org

I didn’t see the ocean until I was in seventh grade, when my friend Sallie (future homecoming queen) invited me (congenital nerd) to Amelia Island with her family over spring break. It was freezing and windy, and I had no idea how to get in or out of the ocean, so I just tripped along behind Sallie, a jangle of goosebumps, bones, and frizzy hair. Suddenly I was scraping the ocean floor in a spluttering swirl of shells, sand, and bubbles. I came up, crashed down, and crawled back to shore, where I forced a shivering smile as I watched two-piece Sallie and her little sister frolic in the surf like mermaids. 

So that was the ocean. No thanks!

Give me a calm body of water, and I’ll wade in (right up to my ankles, reluctantly). I love water. It’s just the staying alive part that gives me pause: “Oh, look at the Rivanna River, so pretty. (Still full of E. coli?) Oh, lovely Chris Greene Lake. (Has that blooming algae stuff gone away?)”

So when I saw the fliers for Elemental Experiences, offering excursions at Beaver Creek Reservoir that combined stand-up paddle boarding with mindfulness, I thought, “Hey, maybe this is my kind of water thing,” where I’m pretty sure I won’t die and maybe I’ll even learn to love it.

What

Finding balance and bliss on a paddle board in Beaver Creek Reservoir.

Why

Because I needed a gentle, guided, revenge-of-the-nerds water adventure.

How it went

We arrived just before 9am on an overcast Saturday and met Jessica Miles of Elemental Experiences. 

A personal trainer and paddle board instructor with an easygoing, confident style, Jess had everything ready to go—boards, paddles, water, waivers, sunblock, and a choice between an overstuffed, old-school, zip-up life preserver or a barely-there buoyant belt. Guess which one I chose?

My fit husband and graceful friend, lithe in their life belts, popped right up into standing on the wide, sturdy boards, while I, looking like an orange Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, opted to sit. Aside from a couple of kayakers and a small group of paddlers, we were the only ones on the reservoir, gliding toward the mountains. 

The breeze, the lapping water, the herons overhead—it was peaceful, yes, but actively fun. We chatted and joked, and when Jess showed me how to get standing, I wobbled my way up. It was easy! I was standing and paddling on a (pseudo) lake, on a summer Saturday, with my “trophy” husband and sporty friends. Take that, two-piece Sallie!

At a shady spot by the shore, we anchored the boards, and Jess led us through simple stretches and breathing exercises. Bobbing gently on our boards, we did a body scan, feeling the water tickle our fingers and feet (or was that a snake?), listening to the sun-warmed hush all around. By the time we lifted anchor I felt like a water baby, born to paddle (though I still looked like a Teletubby, born to terrorize toddlers). 

As we explored the far end of the reservoir, I realized how restorative this experience had been for my inner seventh-grader, giving me the soothing beauty of nature, the company of friends, and the accomplishment of getting my feet under me on the water. More than two hours after we’d launched, we returned to shore feeling exhilarated, relaxed, and the best kind of tired. 

What’s next for this newly brave nerd? Maybe Jess’ outdoor Bollywood dancing (but my bad hip…) or her yoga hike (but the ticks…). Or another Beaver Creek paddle, where I can “come into the peace of wild things,” as Wendell Berry says, and “rest in the grace of the world,” and be free.

Elemental Experiences

elementalexperiences.net

Some say the world will end in fire (thanks, Canada), / Some say in ice (running through the wireless veins of Chat GPT). / From what I’ve tasted of CODE PURPLE haze / I’d say we’ll all go down ablaze. / But if we dodge existential dread / And visit the Botanical Garden of the Piedmont instead, / We’ll romp in shady, leafy glee / And wind up hopeful as WALL-E.

I’ve been contemplating mass extinction lately, no idea why. The doomsday stuff piles up in my head even when I’m just driving home from the grocery store on an early summer day, not even listening to the news, just head-bopping along to a Harry Styles song (can you get more carefree than “Watermelon Sugar”?).

So there I am, singing the wrong words off-key (but also worrying about Ukraine), when I see the sign for the Botanical Garden of the Piedmont, and it beckons to me, like Merlin from Arthurian myth. How many times have I driven past barely noticing the place, or thinking, “Huh, looks like scrubby brush and a lean-to to me?”

Not this time. I pull over, park, and, crunching along the mulched path, I enter a little green glade. I see paths into the forest, a rough-hewn birdhouse, a garden shed, and Hobbit-like benches. My body softens into the breeze rustling the branches around me. I start down a trail, looking for fairies, when I spy, at a child’s eye-level, a twiggy, hand-painted sign that says: “Sit. Relax. Watch Birds.”

Fairies do exist! And so, it seems, does an arboreal antidote to apocalyptic angst: the Botanical Garden of the Piedmont.

What

A woodland utopia right down the street from Charlottesville High School.

Why

Because for free, from dawn to dusk, in the heart of the city, lies a storybook secret garden, just waiting to be explored. 

How it went

Since 2008, community members have worked to transform the east side of McIntire Park (bordering the John Warner Parkway and Melbourne Avenue) into a space for environmental education, restoration, and recreation. Only a small part of the nearly 15-acre site has been developed so far, with plans underway for an amphitheater, canopy tree walk, pavilion, and more, but already there’s so much to see and do.

I’ve gone three times now, and each time I’ve noticed something new—a tree that loops up and down like a question mark; a heart-painted stone nestled in a groove between branches; a LOOK UP sign by the side of a stream. Once I joined local artist Robert Kamide and some folks building cairns, stacks of balanced rocks. Another time I happened upon a clearing where kids sat (and played) on tree-stump stools while a JMRL librarian told a tale. 

On my last visit I was floored to find, where a week before I’d seen only weeds, a labyrinth, with this hand-painted sign at its entrance:

A labyrinth is not a maze.
A maze is designed for you 
To lose your way;
A labyrinth is designed
For you to find your way.

Yes, the place is magical, alive with surprise and thoughtfulness, like the wide, wood-chip-covered trails (for those averse to ticks, poison ivy, and forest friends that even Merlin would avoid). 

“Botanical garden” is such a formal, science-y term for a place that feels like an enchanted nature park. But as if through osmosis, the garden makes “science” feel like an adventure, a gambol, even a brush with the sacred. Go for a butterfly walk or an arts program. Volunteer. Or just wander over and take to heart John Muir’s words, chalked on the garden’s blackboard: “Of all the paths you take in life, make sure a few of them are dirt.”