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.

And then there’s my roommate, an early riser, who likes to wish me good morning with romantic missives…

As someone whose mental health is based on finding some glimmer of hope, however faint,  I’ve drafted a list of things that Covid has been good for. It’s a short list.

Covid is good for dogs, cocktail glasses, pajamas and people with double chins and or great eyes. My mother once told me the top half of my face was better than the bottom half so I’m grateful that  face masks hide my worse half. Not such a great year for lipstick, but I don’t want to be Debbie Downer.

Not so close families do well in Covid. Here my friend Marc celebrated his 60th on Zoom with his extended family. They had not been reunited in over 15 years. You can see from these brief videos that Marc’s family was a bit hesitant about hitting Join. But with a lot of cajoling from the birthday boy, they did.

Covid is also good for people who work from home, and now realize their home can be wherever they want it to be. I know of people moving to Maine, Florida, California and London because they can. Have screen will relocate. People aren’t locked down physically by office jobs anymore. It’s a virtual world baby.

Covid is great for road trips. I’ve discovered that there are places I can drive to in America that feel plenty foreign. Foreign in an initially uncomfortable way, but soon in an ‘oh, this is kind of fun, good to challenge myself’ kind of way.

Take Prouts Neck, in southern Maine, for example.

I drove there with my pal Susan last week to visit our friend Lauren (all Covid compliant).

This is a place where everyone smiles and waves  as they cycle by, tan and glowing in their tennis togs or golf gear. What’s not to be happy about? Maine is gorgeous with its craggy coastline, long beaches and pine trees.

Why is everyone so skinny here? I ask Lauren suspiciously. Are they all on the Keto diet or something? Prouts people love sports, she answers. It’s summer camp for adults here.

And indeed, we barely saw Lauren’s husband Dan, whose family has been coming to Prouts pre-Mayflower. His  days are consumed with tennis, golf, fishing and boating…

What I loved about Prouts was how real it felt. These people know how to have fun – being with old (Covid-free) friends, enjoying the outdoors, eating copious amounts of fresh lobster, cocktails at sunset…

No one here is fancy. Dinners are potluck, everyone chips in. In fact, being fancy is looked down upon, which makes life refreshingly relaxing.

Prouts people live by the principle ‘ Do without, it won’t kill you.’ They are the the Scots of North America. Spending money is a sin, except when it comes to golf clubs, fishing rods or other sporting gear. Why buy a new lightbulb when there’s a flashlight somewhere in the house? Or better yet, go to bed earlier.  Why go to a wine store when you need loo rolls too (single-ply of course).  Sell by dates are for pussies.

Summer camp for Dan, Outward Bound for Elena.

Lauren gave Susan and me a tour of Prouts starting off with the beach club shop which stocks a few key items- tomato sauce and toilet paper –

then she took us to the golf shop, a fashion forward kind of place,

where I bought myself a fleece. Fleeces are a staple at Prouts. Leave your Missoni coverup at home.

In one day, we kayaked,

paddle boarded,

swam with seals (not exactly kosher), went boating, feasted on lobster, mussels and clams for lunch,

hiked the Cliff Walk,

biking from each activity to the next. My chariot (brakes nonexistent) …

When we finally returned to Lauren and Dan’s house in the late afternoon, Lauren suggested we go for a second swim in the bracing Atlantic. I told her I had to make an important call (ie collapse on my bed).  But it was a good exhaustion, especially now with all the bad news out there. It’s nice to escape albeit temporarily.

I’ve signed up for Outward Bound again next summer and want to also explore northern  Maine – places like Mount Desert, Kennebunkport, Northeast Harbor, Seal Harbor. Packing fleece, flashlight and a sense of humor.

July, 2020

The post Coping with Covid – Escape to Magnificent Maine, amongst other Ideas appeared first on Elena Bowes.