KAREN LAND

My friend, Maureen (Mo), is preparing to take a pilgrimage.

I confess that I’m a little jealous - I wish I could join her. But mostly, I’m excited that she’ll soon be walking the St. James Pilgrimage Trail across northern Spain, something we’ve both dreamed of doing since we first learned about the spiritual journey while hiking the Appalachian Trail (AT)  in 1997.

St. James Way (The Way) is the pilgrimage route to the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in Galicia, where Saint James’ remains are believed to be buried. The Way has existed for over 1000 years, and was a key Christian pilgrimage during medieval times.

Traditionally, pilgrimages began at one’s home, setting off from the doorstep on foot or donkey, and ended at the pilgrimage site.

Last winter, deep snow and thick ice kept the fair-weather walkers off of my favorite hiking trail in Indianapolis. I could always count on running into one other diehard on the path though; a woman - wearing ski gaiters, pac boots, ice cleats,  and a down overcoat - moved in slow motion next to her arthritic Weimaraner.

One morning, as my pack of three dogs mingled with her hound, the woman and I struck up a conversation.

Within minutes, we discovered a connection of both place and purpose.

“It was always our dream to move to Montana after we retired,” the woman explained, as she rubbed her old dog’s ears. “Unfortunately, my husband and I weren’t in Kalispell very long before he was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. We stayed as long as we could, and then we decided to return to Indy to be close to family...”

Last Thursday morning when I sat down to my computer, multiple e-mails with the subject header, “Have you seen Melanie Gould?” filled my inbox.

The news was disturbing. Melanie Gould, a fellow Iditarod musher, was missing from her home in Talkeetna, Alaska, and had been since May 31st.

Very little information was provided in the articles, but one specific detail made my heart sink - Melanie’s 12 dogs were found at home alone. Like her friends who set up a Facebook page to coordinate information between the public and search teams, I couldn’t imagine Melanie leaving her dogs without making any provisions for their care - this was a very bad sign.

I felt helpless reading about Melanie’s disappearance from thousands of miles away at my parents’ home in Indianapolis. For two days, I checked the public Facebook page often, hoping for some positive news.

Even though Butler University lost last week’s NCAA Division 1 Men’s Championship, I’m still wearing

my favorite Bulldog t-shirt.

Go ahead. Make all of the wise cracks you like. There’s no denying this year’s final game was pure misery to witness; both Butler and U Conn had a lousy night. I’m not here to write a sports column, breaking the game down to worthless bits from my easy chair. Butler didn’t make the shots. Game over.

But I will admit that after the final buzzer, the game was far from done for me. I sat up half the night, feeling so horrible for the Mid-major Butler boys who worked their butts off to climb to the top of the bracket two years in a row.

You can’t help but want great things for exceptional people who push so hard. Butler’s loss reminded me of the pain I feel when I see an Olympic figure skater fall in the final performance or a dog musher scratch from the Iditarod or a marathoner fade just a mile from the finish line.

It’s difficult to find good postcards anymore.

Gas stations once were the place to them; a rack of postcards always stood just inside of every door. Nowadays because I pay with plastic, I rarely step foot inside of a gas station. But when I do go in search of a variety of local cards, I’m often disappointed.

Where have all of the postcards gone?