I am not an adventurous person. I’m curious about the world, but staying alive is very important to me. Taking the subway in Manhattan can be all the thrill seeking I need.

When I met my second husband we were both already in our fifties. When he told me about some of his favorite trips – stalking Grizzly’s in Canada; sailing from Seattle to San Francisco with 25’ waves; and canoeing alongside crocodiles in the Zambezi River, it occurred to me that those three trips would tie for my perfect idea of hell.

About 15 years ago, my friend Melanie went on a safari with her family. She showed me the videos. There were a lot of people screaming and jeeps fleeing stalking animals. Everyone survived. But I decided after seeing that family video that being on a virtual safari was good enough for me. Not a huge loss as safaris have never been on my bucket list.

Until I met my husband. For some reason he was determined to feed me to the lions, I mean, go on safari. I told him the wildlife near our Connecticut home was all the safari I needed. Then we were invited to a close friend’s son’s wedding in Kenya and my husband, like Julius Caesar crossing the Rubicon, seized his moment.

“You can’t go to Kenya without going on a safari!”

My friend George once told me that his father died of encephalitis on safari. He was bitten by a Tsetse fly. He was 54.

“Which country?” I had asked.

“Kenya.”

My husband should have been a travel agent in his former life. He loves to plan, sending me multiple calendar invites, way too many for any human to read. I accept them without reading. It’s quicker.  Ditto emails. I’m a professional skimmer.  One day as I was skimming, I spotted the word “hippos” (plural) and the phrase “camping on the riverbank”.

I remember a zookeeper on a zoo tour once calling hippos the cute bad boys of the animal kingdom. Don’t let their come hither looks deceive you. One wrong move and they will take an arm or a leg. That email, I opened. My husband was recommending we stay in a camp on the riverbank to watch the hippos up close.

“It’s very secluded,” he gushed.  “We will have a lot of privacy and a great view of the hippos.”

My reply was concise. “Not happening.”

For some reason I continued to trust my husband after that. But a few weeks before we were due to fly to Nairobi, my son texted late one night:

Are you staying in a tented safari or will there be walls?

“Great question. Walls.” I nudged the man falling asleep in bed next to me, “Our camp has walls, right?” I asked.

“No, tented. It’s in the emails, Elena.” He mumbled before falling asleep.

I felt my stomach tense up. “Tented!” I carefully texted my son.

His reply? “My friends did that. The lions roared all night. They didn’t get any sleep.”

It occurred to me to be angry but in truth, I was relieved. I had the information. Now we just had to book the nearest hotel with walls. Problem solved.

I’m not exactly sure where the communication breakdown happened but fast forward a week and I’m asking my doctor for some Xanax and preparing to stay in a place without walls next to lions. And this was all before I learned about the Black Mamba snake- one bite and arrivederci.

Let’s just say that I didn’t expect to like our trip to the North Mara Conservancy, much less come back alive.

***

I had a question ready to ask as soon as I found someone to ask.

It took two short flights from Nairobi to the North Mara airstrip; a grassy field dotted with jeeps awaiting the next shift. Our two Masai guides Francis and Siparo wore traditional robes and beaten up open-toed sandals. I was wearing boots because I didn’t share in their Black Mamba death wish.

As we got into their Toyota Land Cruiser, I decided to come straight out with my burning question: Excuse me, but do you two carry guns?

“No guns, no spears,” Francis smiled from the driver’s seat, “Only God will help us.”

That was not the answer I was hoping for.

I probed more deeply until I felt better: They’d grown up on the land, been doing this for years and the animals thought of the jeep as a large nonthreatening object, like a tree. The animals were much more interested in finding prey, and they didn’t consider humans prey.

I relaxed a bit and looked around. We were surrounded by wide open grassy plains with the occasional tree and rolling hills in the far distance. The September sun was warm on my face. It felt good. I patted the Xanax in my pocket reassuringly.

We were dropped at the Serian Original Camp, agreeing to meet back up with our guides in the late afternoon. That felt great until they added, to see if we could find some lions.

That first day we left at sunrise traversing the North Mara Conservancy, 80 thousand acres of protected land that border the Serengeti Plains. Only ten other camps had access to this unspoilt, untamed slice of nature. After seeing an abundance of animals … giraffe, gazelle, elephant, it was time for the main attraction and I’m not trying to be funny. The lion sat in the distance, surveying his kingdom, mane wild around his face. I’d never been so happy to be a tree.

After dinner my husband and I were escorted by a staff member carrying a stick and a flashlight to our tented suite. The ensuite tent had running hot water and electricity. There was no WIFI. If we were attacked in the night we’d have to scream.

The zippered tent was built on a platform and had a porch overlooking the Mara River. The rushing water lulled me into a surprisingly deep slumber.

The next day, after a sunrise drive Francis and Siparo set up a table and chairs for us and then laid out a sumptuous buffet on the hood of the jeep- juicy melon, peaches, fresh squeezed juice, homemade granola, jam, toast, hard boiled eggs, and steaming coffee. After making sure nothing was stalking my granola, I began to eat. And somehow eating outside by a stream, shaded by a huge tree was magical.

By sundown cocktails, I was sold. For three days I didn’t think about emails, Instagram, the news, President who? I became obsessed with spotting animals with my binoculars. My world was only the gorgeous landscape and its inhabitants. Fascination trumped fear- learning about animal behaviour- the hierarchy, survival of the fittest, elephants are unpredictable, lionesses do the hunting, giraffes prune all the trees, hyenas are the garbage collectors.

I asked a lot of questions, not about things like how much sedation would stop an attacking buffalo, but questions I wouldn’t normally ask, like: How long will that cub live with its mother? Why are the wildebeest, zebras and gazelles grazing so nonchalantly?

Aren’t they worried about being eaten? How fast can a cheetah run? And even – without a thought for my own survival but purely out of curiosity – Where do the black mambas live?

I even stepped out of the jeep with Siparo, going on walks, keeping a lookout while Francis drove the jeep slowly nearby.

There’s nothing like walking in the wild, my senses were on high alert, noticing every footprint, every rustling in the grass or creature in the distance.

I can’t tell you how relaxing it is to get absorbed in another world, a vital world that is untouched, by man and has its own natural order. My kids texted me after a few days to see how I was doing, was I okay?

I looked around. I was doing okay. I was better than okay. I was stimulated and awe inspired. I had challenged myself at 63 and confirmed that not only was staying alive important to me but so was living.

October, 2025

The post I Have Begrudgingly Become an Adventure Traveler in my 60’s – THIS IS WHAT I’VE LEARNED. appeared first on Elena Bowes.

“Cool,” I said.

My kids had gone to camp nearby and I had always heard it was stunning. Stretch then described how his family loves to congregate, siblings, grandparents, kids, pets.

“If there isn’t enough room, we just bunk up, set up tents on the lawn or the kids sleep in my father’s boat. It’s crowded but fun,” he enthused.

The idea of going to a big family gathering was never my favorite idea. But maybe if I had my own shoreside bungalow and could pop in and out of family events at my discretion, that could be okay. But the idea of everyone living in one small space together? That was horrifying. I parked it in that it’s just a first date, you’re not marrying the guy corner of my brain.

Firm boundaries were all I knew. Until my father died, family holidays meant separate housing for each family subgroup. As a child I knew when my father came home from work, he was not to be disturbed. He needed time to relax, read the papers, have a drink alone with my mother, and until I was about 11, dinner alone with her too.  My family liked its privacy.

Fast forward 8 years and I married Stretch. I have now become a part of Stretch’s all-inclusive happy family who loves to hang out. In caveman days they’d all be sitting around the campfire laughing and maybe throwing a few rocks (they’re quite sporty), and I’d be the weirdo hiding in the cave, maybe drawing a few hieroglyphics on the wall.

My single friend understood my dilemma. She emailed me one day after I’d gone on a complain-rant, When I meet men, I almost panic thinking about their lives/ways/agendas and how my ‘somewhat strongly set’ ways would sync up with theirs. I imagine a second, new marriage has even more challenges than a first as you enter an already formed being and with separate families.

And to make matters even more complicated, Stretch’s family is really nice.

“Don’t you hate that?” my therapist asked me. “Nice people, the worst.”

“Exactly,” I nodded. “I can’t even hate them.” Then we both laughed.

The truth is I like them a lot. And I’m kind of social. But I’m also an introvert. I need my privacy to refuel. Oh, it’s confusing. In the interests of marital bliss, I want to rethink what I thought was a given, what I can accept and what I really can’t. The key to resolving differences of opinion, I’m told, is calmly talking through issues. Early and often, as Stretch says.

Thirteen assorted members of Stretch’s family recently gathered outside Boston for Stretch’s nephew’s high school graduation. It wasn’t like the nephew’s school was down the road. Planes, trains and automobiles plus rain boots/galoshes and several layers were required to attend the rainy outdoor ceremony.  I thought back to my graduation at the same school 43 years earlier. Only my mother came.

The majority of Stretch’s family, including yours truly, were staying in an Airbnb in Manchester by the Sea promisingly called Villa Fiori.  It sort of looked villa-like from the outside, but as soon as you entered, the house had a spooky feel. Maybe it was the angel with black eyes staring down at us from the living room wall or the human-size safe in the kitchen, or the multiple doors that said Do Not Enter or the dark creaky nineteenth century hallways.

There were rooms upon rooms, all a bit musty and old-fashioned, and an attic that I only got the courage to visit on our last day.

There were lights that flickered when they weren’t supposed to and the sound of a ghost dog yapping in the middle of the night. Our brother-in-law and his labrador Buckner were sleeping in the attic.  Both heard this dog that was not Buckner and commenced a midnight search of the house.  Nothing. Then I found the pair of fake eye lashes glued to our bathroom shelf.

Goodbye introvert. All of a sudden I was sitting around that proverbial campfire with zero need for alone time.

The manager of the house came by to introduce himself.

“Hi I’m Don,” he said bounding in the front door. “I always thought this house would be great for a murder mystery party,” he said jovially, gesturing with his arms at all the different rooms you could hide in.

I flashed a look at Stretch’s son Will and niece Kristin who were just as jittery about the house as I was.

“Hah hah,” said Will nervously, “we even thought there might be a ghost.

“Oh there is,’ Don said. “Her name is Winnifred.”

We all sat up to attention.

Winnifred?! Which room?!?

Don then pointed to the far corner upstairs, the exact room in which Buckner had uncharacteristically cowered the day before, causing Will to change bedrooms.

“Just read the guest book,” Don said.

“Guest book?!?” we said in unison.

Don pointed to a notebook on the hall table.

“Yeah, it’s all in there. Winnifred likes the right side of the bed. And she’s a friendly ghost so nothing to worry about.”

I wondered how you knew which was the right side. Didn’t it depend on your perspective? Facing the bed. Laying in the bed. Each had a different right. This was too big a decision to leave to an error of perspective. Then again, I was never going near that room so it didn’t matter.

I certainly saw the benefits of togetherness at Villa Fiori. And I’m coming round to the perks of convivial chaos (in my head that’s the world people with no boundaries live in).  Ghosts or no ghosts.

Writer Arthur Brooks’ refers to a 2008 study looking at happy versus unhappy people: “What Do Happy People Do?” To put it simply, they are social. The scholars found that, on average, “very happy” people socialize on 11 more occasions a year with relatives than unhappy people do. They also socialize more often with neighbors and friends.

No wonder Stretch’s family is so happy. I’m wondering if socialising with my pug Josephine counts. Baby steps. And I’ll always draw the line at sharing my office or bedroom.

Stretch’s rugged brother-in-law, and Buckner  stayed in Winnifred’s room for one night of the trip.

Talk about BRAVE.  I slept a little easier knowing they were protecting us from Winnifred. I just hoped he picked the correct “right” side of the bed.

June, 2023

The post Rethinking Family Traditions in the Name of Second Marriages appeared first on Elena Bowes.

My feet is my only carriage. So I’ve got to push on through

Ten things I learned on the Camino:

That there are a myriad of ways to tackle the Camino, and it’s best to speak to a specialist to choose the route that’s best for you. We used Camino Ways …

That before boarding that plane, someone- thank you Jef in the green –

needs to map out the daily walks on All Trails – Sometimes those Camino seashells are hard to spot, not to mention decipher …

That making a bad weather call and joining our motley crew a day late was the right move

But when the sun came out there was no place I’d rather be..

That blister pads and poles are essential,

not to mention waterproof boots, wool socks, a sunhat, cash, battery charger and an open mind..

That the best conversations happen on the road

And since I walk a lot faster than my beloved Stretch those conversations were not with him

That I don’t like pinxtos, but love Catalan artichokes

That it’s good to get out of your bubble (for short periods), as long as there’s hot water, clean rooms and people to laugh with

And that I still don’t like the Beegee’s

The Camino delivers. At the end of each day I felt a mixture of exhilaration, exhaustion and peacefulness. I left my laptop at home and barely checked emails. There was a real sense of connection and community on the trails. Strangers were constantly wishing us a Buen Camino and vice versa. It felt freeing to be so switched off from the day to day grind and at the same time very focused on spotting those seashells, figuring out our route, lunch and getting from Point A to Point B each day. It was kind of like being on a very long treasure hunt. Who knew what was around the next bend.

The post Say Yes to Adventure, Camino di Santiago appeared first on Elena Bowes.

I lie, this is only one of the places- as we’ll be changing hotels (‘hotel’ seems generous) every night.

Stretch peppers most mornings now with statements like-

You’ll need to get mountain gloves as the mornings will be quite chilly.’

Has anyone ever heard of mountain gloves? Or …

“We should pack rain ponchos.”

Sadly, I know what that is, and the visuals are making me weep. From liner socks to clothes that wick to heel balm, this trip is anything but sexy.

This morning, Easter Sunday, a day of celebration or at least relaxation, I was just pouring my first cup of coffee in the kitchen- planning on bringing it right back to bed to start my daily meditation and journaling ritual- when I got distracted by Stretch who was busy trying on his latest purchase- a complicated and ugly backpack.

“So, you see it has these belts in the front, one by your waist and another by your chest to distribute your weight evenly” he explains as he snaps various buckles like a flight attendant in my kitchen.

I nod sleepily. He’s kind of blocking my way to the stairs and thus my bed.

“And then…” (He’s now taking the backpack off, walking to the sink, turning on the tap and filling a huge aqua-colored sac within the backpack with tap water) “There’s this nifty section here where you can store water. And another here where you’ll keep your electrolyte cocktail.”

Generally, with Stretch when he’s on a nerdy roll like this, I nod a lot, don’t ask any questions and try to exit the space quickly and subtly.

“You’ll need to take your bathrobe off”

“What? I ask.

“It’s too thick. This is your backpack. You need to try it on.”

Readers, I am wearing a luxurious la Perla nightgown and a thick warm terrycloth bathrobe and Ugg slippers. Not a hiking outfit in any size, shape or form.

“I am not taking off my bathrobe,” I say imperiously, moving past him with speed, Josephine in tow.

My morning zen has been shaken by this man I married. We are in some ways very different people. Do opposites really attract? Some days I wonder.

Postscript-

I just came back from an Easter day hike. Stretch said we needed to train for Spain. He told me the hike was 4 miles with ‘some elevation.’ Dear readers, if there’s one take away from this blog, never ignore or underestimate the word ‘elevation.’ We just climbed gargantuan boulders, the size of meteorites. Maybe they were meteorites.

One of these rocks had a chain to help you pull yourself up. I kid you not. I would have turned around but that was even scarier. Have you ever tried sliding down a boulder? Stretch always does this- takes me on a loop hike where the only thing to do is move forward. On the way home I asked him how much ‘elevation’ we covered. “1200 feet, the same as climbing up the Empire State Building. You should be proud of yourself” I would be if I wasn’t so tired.

So, on this celebratory exhausted note, Happy Easter! I hope you all had a great Easter with zero elevation. And if you know of a nice hotel along this Camino thing, please email me pronto.

April, 2023

The post Notes on Easter Day appeared first on Elena Bowes.

Tucked away in a horseshoe-shaped canyon surrounded by giant red rocks. Mii Amo (which means journey in a Native American language) is set on 70 acres of private land surrounded by endless protected park. Known for its vortices (energy fields) Sedona attracts top alternative therapy practitioners. So, if you like seeing a psychic every year, or perhaps have a numerologist on speed dial, or are going through a serious life change then this place is for you. Actually, even if you’re a New Age sceptic, the hikes are so stunning, the treatments so nurturing and the food so deceptively nutritious and tasty that you’ll still want to visit. There’s a state of the art gym, bike trails, swimming pool, in short plenty to do. Or you can just read a book by the fire.

My interest in Mii Amo was first peaked when I heard that Melissa Biggs, founder of  Indagare, has visited this spot almost every January since she launched her successful premiere travel company in 2007.  So about six months ago I signed up for Indagare’s Insider Trip to Mii Amo in January, 2023. As D-Day approached, a Mii Amo coordinator sent me the menu of spa options. While Mii Amo has plenty of conventional treatments, – straightforward massages, facials, wraps – it was the more out there ones that caught my eye. Chakra Balancing, Soul Consciousness, Past Life Regression, Reiki Healing, Hypnosis. When in Sedona …

A few days before my flight to Phoenix, I got another email. This time listing the 40-odd women who had signed up for the trip. I scanned the list and didn’t know a soul. Dread replaced excitement. There was more news. Our guest speaker Elizabeth Lesser, one of Oprah’s favourite spiritual thinkers and the author of several books as well as the founder of the Omega Institute in upstate New York, had gotten sick at the last minute and couldn’t come. A last minute alternative was found. Plus snow was forecast in Sedona. And of course, it was the warmest January in New York on record. So much for escaping the snow.

There were a few more hiccups when I checked in. Mii Amo had literally opened after a two year renovation the day we arrived. And not everything was as it should be. People were grumbling about that and about Lesser not coming. I heard one disgruntled guest say,

It’s like signing up for Elvis and getting John Denver.”

But even with these setbacks, Mii Amo’s unique setting, warm, talented staff and fabulous cuisine, plus the group dynamic made it a great trip. While I was nervous about going solo, I soon relaxed. At dinner the first night I sat across from a gorgeous woman who told me she had co-founded a huge tech VC.

Jesus, I thought, that’s not really my conversational forte.

But it never came up again or if it did, it wasn’t to boast but to discuss the struggles of juggling a career with being a single mother. The women who attended this trip weren’t there to discuss their own so-called achievements or their children’s/husband’s achievements. They were there to talk about the stuff that really mattered, the struggles we all face in this up and down thing called life.   People let their guard down at the daily group sessions and beyond, speaking honestly about their fears, stresses, hopes and challenges.   Some came to heal from a trauma, others wanted to set intentions for the year ahead. Everyone’s story was unique.  Generally, people were active in the morning and then attended talks and had treatments in the afternoon.  Meals were fun with my new buddies. We tooled around in sweats or bathrobes. This was no fashion show. By day four when it was time to go home, I felt fully refreshed and focused.

In Elizabeth Lesser’s excellent book, Broken Open,

she writes about when she spoke at a conference full of scientists and tried to get them to really talk to one another about what mattered to them. One conference attendee  had been so inspired by Lesser’s ability to get the group to open up that she later wrote a poem and sent it to Lesser who published it in her book:

When They Revolutionize The Cocktail Party? By Marilyn Sandberg

“Hello, what are you afraid of?”

Death

Me too

When you hear a Mahler symphony?

No, when I wake up in the night.

Me too

Nice Meeting you

Same here

The same honesty happened on this trip. Pretences dissolved, strangers smiled, new friendships were forged in a matter of days because of the trusting, open nature of the group.

I think Mii Amo makes an ideal girl’s trip, whether its with 40 or 4.

Every morning before my hike I walked over to the dimly lit Crystal Grotto for a sacred ritual led by a healer named Kim.

 She instructed us to walk barefoot around this circular space with its earthen floor and domed ceiling,  a pedestal of petrified wood and quartz crystal in the center. She told us to decide instinctively where to sit based on where we thought we were on our life’s journey.  Then Kim would approach each of us individually, ask us to stand with our eyes closed  and she’d waft some burning sage around us.

Let these red rocks cradle, nurture and ground you.”

Then we’d meditate for a bit. It’s easy to be cynical. But it’s much more rewarding to smell the sage, wiggle your toes in the sand and set your intentions for the day.

February, 2023

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