A man of peace, but not the prize

Random thoughts in war and peace
The news hit me today in the CNN newsroom like the blast of a bomb. I had fully intended to go visit her after my return to Atlanta this week. Now, I will never see her again.I will never hear her infectious laugh again. It made my husband Kevin’s bursting laugh seem demure.
I probably never would have had the journalism career I have if it had not been for Anita. My resume landed on her desk somehow, and she wanted to hire me on the national copy desk. I will be forever grateful to her for having faith in me.
Anita fought cancer for many years. Thursday night, she lost the battle. She left behind a beautiful daughter, Kc, who will now have to navigate life without the nurturing of her mother.
Tomorrow, I journey to San Francisco, to be with another strong woman in my life — my aunt, my father’s little sister. I grew up calling her Phoolpishi, which means aunt of the flowers, her bloom faded with years of physical suffering.
Like with Anita, her cancer is back with a vengeance. Like Anita, she is strong. A fighter like I could never be.
She has endured and survived and is still with hope.I did not get a chance to see Anita again. Not on this earth anyway. But I will see my Phoolpishi tomorrow. And when I do, I will hear Anita’s laugh surround me, fill me with warmth like an old English hearth on a bone-chilling day.





This summer, another crop of interns spent time with us at CNN, working in various departments from the CNN Wire to Headline News. Chelsea Bailey was one of them.
Young, bright, smart, personable, curious. Chelsea has all the qualities to make a great journalist. Most of all, I appreciated her eagerness to learn and her verve for life.
She reported and wrote about all sorts of topics — from a vial of killer Ted Bundy’s blood helping to solve cold cases to Florida fishermen catching a massive shark. She helped me report one my stories about a group of devout Hindus suing a restaurant for having served them meat.
At other times, she was part of the wires team, updating daily stories or gnashing her head to come up with a new angle to the heat wave report.
Always, she approached her assignments with a big smile.
I taught a magazine writing class at UGA last semester and discovered the incredible rewards of working with young people who want to take up my profession, especially in a time when print journalism is undergoing a zillion changes. I miss teaching now. So when Chelsea and Molly Green showed up from the University of North Carolina this summer, I found an added dimension to my days at work, and relished it.
Working with Chelsea made me see journalism with fresh eyes. She helped energize me, inspired me to carry on.
Thanks for all your hard work, Chelsea. I will miss you. And I know you will shine.





On the last day of our vacation, we get back in the car — after two days in Denver — and head back west on a scenic drive towards Boulder. Back on winding roads with magnificent vistas.
We decide to pull off the highway in Rollinsville, hoping to grab a sandwich and something to drink. We are not sure about the tiny town at first. There’s an antique shop and a place called the Stage Stop. “Serving hicks, hippies and bikers since 1868,” says the sign atop the door. There are paintings on plywood on the walls and hardly anyone in the place.
We dare to go in to check out the lunch menu and are pleasantly surprised. Pulled pork and chicken salad sandwiches. Home made potato chips. Garden salads. We order and wonder about the place; ask the young waiter what it’s all about. Soon enough the owner shows up.
His name is Patrick Schuchard and for years, he taught art at the University of Washington in St. Louis. When he’d had enough, he and his wife, Carol Crouppen Schuchard, moved out here — this was where his father used to bring the family for vacations when he was growing up.
They live in a nearby town called Eldora but have a studio here. And the Stage Stop.
The building was originally the Toll Gate Barn for the Butterfield Stage Coach Company that ferried people across the continental divide through the Rollins Pass. Schuchard loved the civil war-era wooden building with its rough hewn post and beam timbers. He bought it, restored it and turned it into a cafe, bar and dance hall where artists like Judy Collins, Three Dog Night, Dave Matthews Band and others have graced the stage. This part of Colorado was hippie central once, Schuchard tells us.
Les the bartender stands before the old bar and tells us how the place was haunted. He has heard ghosts whispering.
Schuchard says two women once walked in and told him that many years ago their great uncle had hung himself in the basement of the building. Not a comforting feeling. But then again, the place was also a butcher shop in one of its many incarnations.
He shows us around the place, tells us of his dreams and ambitions for this unlikely establishment. He points to the oldest building in town, gives us history. Stephen Stills still has a house around here, Schuchard says.
He convinced a chef from a Boulder restaurant to come out here to cook. He wanted sophistication.
“We’re not trying to o nostalgia here.” he says. “I could have made it a very Western place. But I’m trying to make a peculiar brand of beauty.”
We are fascinated with the art on the walls and inquire about Schuchard’s work. Soon enough, we are inside the studio filled with his and his wife’s art. All of it seems surreal in this town, tucked away in the Rocky Mountains. I am glad we stopped.





I have traveled to many lands but nowhere have I seen the landscape change as rapidly or as often as it did on our road trip through Wyoming.
I see the Tetons in the rear view now, white peaks contrasting against blue sky, as the highway winds downward into flatter lands formed of earth as red as Georgia clay. We drive into DuBois, a true cowboy town where the main road is dotted with a few eateries and shops and an old sign that says “Homestead.” We poke our heads into an antique shop filled with old spurs, bits and colorized photographs. We eat burgers at the Cowboy Cafe. They are big enough to fill the belly of any hungry ranch hand.
We keep driving, not knowing where we will sleep tonight. Through the Wind River Reservation, past cows and even elk, and into Lander, where a mean wind whips through a main street that feels empty. This is an old mining town. It was the westward terminus of the “Cowboy Line” of the Chicago and North Western Railway. This is “where rails end and trails begin.”
I close my eyes and try to imagine this place as it was a century ago.
There are plenty of dude ranches nearby. I am told that’s a source for tourist dollars these days.
We keep driving. Into an abyss of nothingness. Nothing we can see but sagebrush and rolling hills in the distant. There are stretches of highway where we do not see any trailers, ranches, animals. No signs of life anywhere.
It’s a strange feeling for me. I would not want to be alone here, I think.
It takes several hours to reach Rawlins. We think about staying there but keep moving. I can’t stand the melancholy of a another town past its prime hanging heavy on every corner.
We turn right onto Highway 287, which will take us back into Colorado. It is evening when we reach Fort Collins. Downtown is bustling in this college town. People are spilling out of cafes and restaurants. I hear one man discussing Jean-Paul Sartre’s brand of existentialism.
We had come from nothingness into being. Or was it the other way around?





We drive out of Yellowstone through the south gate. For a few moments, the drive seems, well, boring compared to the visual feast that was before us all day long. But then, the highway bends and offers a glimpse of the peaks that form the Grand Tetons. Jagged mountains that rise a mile high from the ground, like gothic cathedrals reaching skyward.
We check into our cabin — The Willow — at Dornan’s Spur Ranch in Moose, Wyoming. My colleague, John Branch at CNN’s National Desk, recommended we stay there. He worked there once after he fell in love with the Tetons and could not bear to leave. The cabins are rustic but modern. And the best thing is the vast wine shop that rivals any in Atlanta.
Here’s what Dornan’s says about its wine:
“We know what you’re thinking… how did a family of hardscrabble pioneer homesteaders end up operating one of the finest wine shops in the Rocky Mountains?
Like most things around here, the story starts with Granddad (JP Dornan), and his mother(Evelyn). While she was the “official” homesteader, she chose to spend much of her time in sunny California, leaving her son to “prove up” on the property. While traveling back and forth, JP befriended many of the wine families in California, who were then (1930s and 1940s) just getting their businesses started. Their families and our families have remained close over the decades, and enjoying fine wines has become a Dornan family tradition.”
I am in heaven as I buy a bottle of Malbec, get comfortable in the restaurant and watch the sun set behind the Tetons.
The next morning, we begin the day early with a hike at Taggert Lake. Half the trail is still covered in snow. There are places where snow shoes might have been useful. We see a coyote but no bears.
We have lunch at the beautiful Jenny lake Lodge, where everything is just right. Even the butter is artfully carved in the form of a moose.
Jenny Lake is perhaps the most scenic place at the Tetons. Unlike the much smaller Taggert, Jenny is not frozen. The waters shimmer under the shadows of the towering peaks.
Another hike in the afternoon and then the drive back to the lodge. We decide to stop in and see the famed Jackson Hole ski village. On the way, we spot a moose off the highway, camouflaged perfectly in a boggy forested field.
For dinner we head into Jackson for an elegant meal at the Snake River Lodge. They have things like wild boar and elk medallions on the menu. Kevin orders the buffalo pot roast. I try a pork shank cooked in duck confit. How utterly decadent.
Our wiatress, Brandy Borts, says she came to Jackson 15 years ago and never left. My friend, John, will probably understand why, I think. I think it’s beautiful here but I am too much a lover of urban jungles to make a go of it in Wyoming.
Brandy says she loves to ski, can’t get enough of the landscape. So she works hard as a waitress so that she can stay.
Alas, we cannot stay. We have to make our way back to Denver soon.





We drive into Yellowstone on winding roads between towering snow banks. The east entrance will close at 10 a.m., we are told, because of the risk of avalanches. I stare upward at the white slopes and wonder when they might come crashing down.
I grew up hearing about Yellowstone but somehow, I never made it out here. Then in 2009, I wrote a story for CNN about Audrey Peterman’s crusade to get more minorities to visit America’s national parks. I learned about people like Shelton Johnson, a park ranger at Yosemite, who tells his mostly white visitors the tale of the African-American cavalry regiment, known as the Buffalo Soldiers, who protected the land and toiled to build trails and roads.
Later, I was taken with Ken Burns’ series on America’s great parks. Nowhere in the world are places of such monumental beauty maintained and presented to the public as they are in this country.
I knew I had to begin my journey somewhere. I chose Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons.
We are not disappointed.
At our first stop: a grizzly bear.
Then the smell of sulfur from the myriad bubbling pools of the acidic water that can scald you to death. here are more geothermal geysers in Yellowstone than anywhere else on Earth. Not sure how the buffaloes seem to roam so close. They leave plenty of evidence behind.
Old Faithful, was, well, faithful, spewing steamy water skyward shortly after its appointed time. It is not the largest of the geysers but it goes off regularly so tourists flock to the site.
The Grand Canyon at Yellowstone rivals its more famous sister in Arizona. The Yellowstone River crashes hundreds of feet downward in majestic falls and over the centuries has cut patterns and crevices into the rocks.
I marvel at the majesty of this place only to be told that the most breathtaking scenery still lies ahead.
We leave Deirdre’s house early in the morning. We have a long way to go.
We drive up Interstate 25, stop in Buffalo and then, Sheridan. It’s Memorial Day and the town is shut down. Even the J.C. Penney is closed. There’s a steady drizzle and I keep hoping that any moment, the sun will poke through the clouds. But not looking good today.
We think we might have lunch before the long drive ahead and step into the only place open: The Sheridan Palace Restaurant. A great big bear skin adorns the wall behind the cash register. The waitress is frantic. Why did they have to display the “Open” sign so prominently today. It’ a holiday for God’s sake. Who are all these people hungering for eggs, bacon or maybe a hamburger served with a mountain of fries?
It takes way too long to get our omelette. Then we begin the climb upward. We have to cross the Big Horn Mountains to reach Cody, home to the greatest museum in the West, save, perhaps, the Getty in Los Angeles. We drive higher and higher and then, the white stuff begins to fall and we are in the midst of a winter wonderland. Yes, winter, on the last day of May, when in Atlanta, my garden has already started to burn up without regular watering.
The white is majestic. I am not accustomed to such scenes. Kevin grew up in upstate New York. And even to him, the snow is amazing at this time of year. We step out of the car and marvel at the snow banks. They are almost as tall as me.
At Shell Falls, we walk down icy steps to gaze at a scene worthy of National Geographic. Torrents of water gushing down a snowy canyon. I kiss the cold stuff and we are on to Buffalo Bill.
At the museum, I marvel at how the pioneers lived. How there were colored folks here, besides the native Americans of course. I have to admit I did not know that much about the colorful life of William Frederick “Buffalo Bill” Cody; that he received the Medal of Honor in 1872 for service as an Army scout. I gaze at a woolen suit worn by Annie Oakley, stitched finely enough to make the House of Chanel proud. There are rooms and rooms filled with native American pottery, bead work, baskets and blankets.
If you ever have a chance to visit this museum, do so. It’s a treasure.
We head west to the Absaroka mountains, through the Shoshone National Park and arrive at our mountain cabin. We eat trout in a dining room warmed by a wood stove, in front of another bear skin on the wall. Tomorrow, we must get up early for Yellowstone.