What’s the next step when you’ve already created an award winning travel blog?

Would you keep going with more of the same or take an enormous risk and create a print+digital magazine to complement their blog?

Many people would stick with the first considerably easier option of  staying with the tried and true.

But for Craig and Linda Martin, who created the Indie Travel Podcast back in 2006 to document their travels and help other independent travels find their way, sticking with the tried and true was never an option.

The Martin’s might have put down their backpacks and settled back into New Zealand life but no way are they settling into an ordinary life.

They been busy making the Indie Travel Podcast even bigger and better by increasing the number of articles onsite, developing video as well as podcasts, creating a line of ITP products, and working on launching a print+digital travel magazine.

Sounds like a lot of hard work but having meet Craig and Linda earlier this year, I can tell you that they have the talent, the energy, and the enthusiasm to pull it off.

The Indie Travel Podcast magazine, due to be launched on September 1st, will feature all the best features of their award winning website. Like the website, the magazine will focus on providing the independent, budget conscious, adventurous traveler articles on interesting, off the beaten track destinations, practice advice on living the independent travel lifestyle, and reviews about books and blogs worth reading.

I just spent the morning reading an advanced digital copy of the first issue of the Indie Travel Podcast magazine and I wasn’t disappointed.

The lead article on the Kachin Independence Army in Burma by Tim Patterson and Ryan Libre and a photo essay of Lagos by Lola Akinmade balance nicely with guides to discovering the best of Tonga and finding tapas in Seville. Regular columnists provide practical advice for woman travelling solo, keeping healthy, and travelling digitally. Plus there’s an interview with round-the-world traveler Gary Arndt, book reviews, blog reviews, a world festival calender, and a number of city and location profiles.

Looks like a winner.

You can see for yourself by signing up for a free digital copy of the first issue of the Indie Travel Podcast magazine.

Be warned though. Once you’ve seen it, you’ll probably end up subscribing. That’s what I’ll be doing this week.

I have a shirt.

No, wait, that’s rather vague. I have lots of shirts. When I say, “I have a shirt,” though, I am talking about one in particular. My traveling shirt.

This shirt is brown, a kind of dark mottled brown. It has a bit of a boatneck, but not overly wide, and almost no collar. It’s long-sleeved, and fits me just the way I like: slightly loose, unconfining but ever-so-flattering. Its hem hits just around my hips, the way I like, no riding up to show my belly button when I’m putting luggage overhead. The not-so-wide boatneck is also the way I like: covering my lower neck against in-flight chill but not pressing against my throat.

Recently I noticed little holes, made either by mouse or moth, down near the hem, ruining ever so slightly the nice modest feeling I get by having my tummy covered. I saw those holes and sat down with my shirt in hand, suddenly saddened by the passage of time and envisioning the loss of this, my favorite traveling shirt, the way I imagine beautiful women might view the sight of crow’s feet or gray hairs. Of those I have plenty, and couldn’t care less, but my shirt is a testament to something more.

I couldn’t say when this brown piece of fabric became my traveling shirt. There’s a lot about it I couldn’t tell you: what size it is, what brand it is, where it came from. I believe my mother picked it up 20 years ago in a consignment shop for about two dollars, but can’t be certain. During some random closet purge a couple years later, I adopted the shirt. I don’t even think it’s cotton – it dries too unwrinkled, for one thing – which makes it fairly unique among clothes that I choose freely.

It was always comfortable, one of those shirts I dug through the wash for because I didn’t feel like wearing anything else. It was several years before I noticed that I chose this shirt, almost without thinking, before every single flight. While on the road I fretted before overnight train trips or that extra domestic flight or 15-hour bus ride, wishing my shirt were clean and un-smelly enough to wear.

I think it started to turn into a comfort blanket. Inside this shirt, wherever I am, I am at home in myself. At ease with the world.

We’ve been to Turkey together, and Russia. To Australia and France, Singapore and Scotland, Canada and Kuala Lumpur. I would board a plane, all luggage and bags just where I wanted them to be, a notebook, pen, and reading material in my small carry-on backpack. Myself loaded, as always, with eager curiosity. In my shirt, I could revel in the coming travels, enjoy the airline food, write notebook pages full of wonder and observation. Tired and sticky as we landed, I still felt, with my shirt on my back, not only prepared but joyful.

Usually when essays are written as odes to clothes, or pens, or pets, they are eulogies. Usually one of these items is lost or even deceased and the writer reminisces on what it meant to them.

This isn’t one of those … yet. My shirt is still around. I just pulled it out of the laundry basket yesterday, hung it up, marveling at how it comes out unwrinkled and soft and strong every time. And then I noticed the little holes.

They could have been made by the washing machine. But a number of my other shirts, those mostly new, have holes in the same place. There is some creature in our house stealing little nibbles of my clothes, both those uncared for and those well loved. Tiny little bits of my favorite shirt never made it to that last plane ride.

Sitting on my bed, holding the sturdy softness of this loyal brown shirt, I realized it’s been almost 15 years now since I began donning the humble fabric for every single flight, laying it grudgingly aside only when I was very pregnant and it wouldn’t cover my belly anymore.

All things pass, as we all know. When we started life together, my shirt and I, I was a stubborn, feisty teenager eager to discover the world, willing to throw myself headlong into almost any experience. I was going off to college, and from there to who knows where, taking with me the sense of wanderlust engendered by my love for the Montana wilderness and my odd childhood as daughter of a Soviet ex-pat, and woken through my family’s few months living in the Soviet Union.

Now I’m married, with a toddler, tied to house and cats and garden, just as stubborn, just as eager, but saddled now with more responsibilities. The shirt has seen it all.

I’ve met and discarded studies and lovers, but the shirt I’ve never considered giving up, nor have I put it aside in favor of something else when preparing to board a flight. I view its damage as akin to that of an aging relative, some loved and relied-upon travel partner. I don’t want our relationship to die; I want to take my shirt more places, to Patagonia and North Africa, to Jordan and Syria and Kenya and Iceland, to Antarctica and the Gobi Desert.

Please, I whisper to it, hang around a little longer.

The mottled brown of anonymous fabric, whose sleeves end barely past the wrist, just the way I like, has become part of my memory, the fabric of my own life. Aging and broken, it is one of the few strands weaving together my adventurous youth, my even-keeled present, and, I hope, a future full of both.

Glacier National Park has enough hiking trails in it to keep you lost (in contemplation if not in fact) for days, even weeks if you like. Some of my happiest teenage days began before dawn on summer mornings, frantically packing a lunch with the prospect of 10 to 14 hours of putting one foot in front of the other, in pursuit of a hidden lake high in the mountains, or a seemingly unreachable peak. To some, that might sound like drudgery. To others of us, bliss.

And to so many more, it speaks of a luxury of time and energy that tourists can rarely afford. Which is why Glacier, with its rare gift of space and accessibility, is such a fitting destination for those desperate for a sniff of the wilderness, but lacking the free time to go trekking. It also means that there are short walks ideally fitted to families with small children. Or those with whining children. Or those with whining adults, for that matter.

Two of the most popular hikes in Glacier are designed — by nature or artifice — to appeal to any travelers encumbered with either lack of time, or young companions with short legs.

The hike to Avalanche Lake is probably the most popular in the entire park. That means it’s heavily used, but somehow doesn’t feel crowded, even though you are never without people the entire two miles into the lake. The hike has its drawbacks — people are one, but the most noticeable is parking. While the trailhead is served by two ample parking lots, these are completely packed by midday, partly because the Avalanche Lake trail shares its head and parking with the even more popular Trail of the Cedars, a smooth paved circle through a dense forest of cedar and cottonwood, accessible to almost anybody.

It took us a good 15-20 minutes to find parking the day we decided to take family (including our 2-year-old son and 5-year-old niece) up Avalanche, our own fault as we arrived near noon rather than by 10 as we had planned. But once shoes were laced and water bottles stowed, the wait for a spot didn’t matter.

The attraction of Avalanche is mostly in its short distance (2 miles each way), but this wouldn’t matter if the end destination weren’t breathtaking on its own. People like me usually scorn such overpopulated, short walks, which means we miss out on the sight of the Rockies rearing steeply from the shores of Avalanche Lake, silent and still at the end of the 2-mile trek. The waterfalls rushing thousands of feet from the rocky peaks echo across the narrow valley.

And all you have to do to absorb what Glacier Park has to offer is walk a little further around the edge of the lake, out of reach of most visitors sitting on the pebbly beach, and breathe.

It was easy taking the 2- and 5-year-old up to Avalanche Lake. While the repetitive hills can be strenuous for children or those out-of-shape, my husband turned it into a game for our niece, challenging her to race him up to each rise and promising the chocolate from our packed lunch when we reached the lake. She loved it, and earned the proud title “Ellie the Mountain Goat,” which goes to show that any kid can thrive in the outdoors if you put a little work into it. Even our 2-year-old son hiked the first mile before passing out on my back in the Ergo carrier.

Aside from galloping children, you don’t, in fact, see any mountain goats on the walk to Avalanche Lake. For that, you need to go further, all the way up precipitous Going-to-the-Sun Road to Logan Pass, where a wind-blown boardwalk leads hundreds of visitors through a high mountain meadow to a lookout taking in the view that defines Glacier’s title “Crown of the Continent” and plunges down to a blue waterway aptly titled Hidden Lake.

Logan Pass is subject, again, to parking issues. It’s not so much a problem if you get there before 10 in the morning, but afterwards the best bet is to circle around slowly and wait when you see someone getting ready to leave (politeness never hurts, either).

This is where you’ll see mountain goats, tons of them. Rambling all over rocks and cliff faces, living at nearly 7000 feet above sea level, they appear to tourists to be amiable, nimble, fairly approachable creatures with an envious life in the mountains and wildflowers. But then, we don’t see them in wintertime.

The boardwalk up to Hidden Lake overlook is often called “easy,” possibly because it’s a trail built slightly aboveground, with steps to take the hiking out of hiking. Personally, I always find walking up stairs more irritating and harder on the knees than just tramping uphill with my boots on the ground. With the number of visitors, though, the boardwalk does cut down on erosion.

The overlook is 1.5 miles each way, and you’ll run into many people unused to physical exertion gasping over the last bit of the saddle that brings them around the mountain to the views on the other side (the picture shown here was taken from near the overlook). The hike that’s really worthwhile, however, is the one 1.5 miles further along than the overlook, down to Hidden Lake itself. The path, now gravel rather than boardwalk, winds along the shoulder of the mountain before dropping abruptly into several knee-straining switchbacks that bring you down to the valley floor in no time flat.

Even a little overcrowded, and even with the annoying buzz of a sightseeing helicopter once in a while, this is one of my favorite places on earth. Hidden Lake, cupped between rugged mountains of dizzying height, pristine, silent, bordered by meadows of beargrass and paintbrush flowers. Continue a little further around the lake, splashing through a minor stream, and you finally get that rare thing in this world: silence broken only by nature.

I love it because it’s a place I can practically drop into in passing, inaccessible to most people because they won’t make the effort. While sitting on a boulder on the shore, eating my sandwich, I looked longingly at the top of Mt. Reynolds, which I’d climbed one summer in high school. Someday, I promise myself, I’ll live here again, and my kids, when they’re old enough, will know the deep peace brought by scaling that mountain with hands and feet.

But for now Hidden Lake is just enough, and even Avalanche Lake keeps me grounded. Even if you’re unused to hiking, or don’t have much time, or have small children in tow, these hikes are worth it. They will remind you, if you give them a little time and effort, who you are, where you are, and why these wild places are necessary to us as human beings.

Tucked into the Ozark forest just outside Eureka Springs, Arkansas is an architectural treasure of wood and 6000 square feet of glass – the Thorncrown Chapel.

Faith-based travel is one of the popular activities in Eureka Springs, along with the arts, alternative healing and Harley riders (it’s a very unique little town.)

My own spiritual preferences tend to the quiet and reflective, so the famous local Great Passion Play outdoor drama under a 67 foot tall Christ of the Ozarks statue isn’t really my style.

I love the Sainte Chappelle-inspired Thorncrown, though.

Opened in 1980, it’s set into the surrounding trees in a thoughtful way by University of Arkansas architect E. Fay Jones, who studied under Frank Lloyd Wright at the Taliesin Fellowship.

Jones called his creation “Ozark Gothic,”  but it soars 48 feet upward in the most fresh and modern way.

Sitting inside, you feel as though you’re in a lovely treehouse (and since we went at the end of the day, there were no crowds to mar contemplation.)

In between a 1901 spa treatment or maybe a antiques and craft fair in Eureka Springs, make time to pull off the road and enjoy some peaceful thinking time in this beautiful spot.

(Thorncrown Chapel is open daily from 9:00 AM to 5:00 PM. It is located on Highway 62 West three miles outside of Eureka Springs. There is no admission fee, but donations are accepted.)

California’s Sonoma County, an hour north of San Francisco, might be known as a place dedicated to the growing of the grape and the making of first class wines. But it’s also a place dedicated to keeping the spirit of Charles Schulz and his gang – Charlie Brown, Snoppy, Linus, Lucy, Spike, and Peppermint Patty – alive and kicking …the ever moving football.

Planes come and go from the Charles Schulz Airport just outside of Santa Rosa. And at the Charles Schulz Museum and Research Center visitors are exposed to the inner workings of the man who created Charlie Brown and his gang.

Built in 2002, two years after the artist’s death, the museum draws fans from around the world who want to spend a little time with the irrepressible Snoopy and hapless Charlie Brown.

It’s quite a sight. Life size statues of Charlie and Snoopy great you at the door and welcome you into the museum. Inside, you’re greeted by staff who give you a map and discuss the best way of experiencing the museum.

From there it’s a short step to the Great Hall and a visual display, created by Japanese artist Yoshiteru Otani, that provides an understanding of exactly how prolific an artist Schulz was. Covering the whole west wall, the 17 by 22 foot image shows the ever optimistic Charlie Brown running toward Lucy as she holds the football (and we all know what happens there!) From a distance it looks like any other Charles Schulz comic but get closer and you’ll see that the work is made up of 3,588 two by eight inch ceramic tiles, each one featuring a different Peanuts strip.

Amazingly, these comic squares only make up about one-fifth of the total 18000 Peanut strips that were created.

Upstairs, there are displays covering Schulz’s work before the advent of Charlie Brown and his gang. There’s also a re-creation of Schulz’s studio, complete with his drawing board, cluttered desk, and bookcases.

Two auditoriums, one with a constantly running video featuring Charles Schulz’s widow discussing life with ‘Sparky’ and the creation of the museum and research center, and the other running various different films featuring Charlie and the gang.

Once you’ve finished touring the museum, head across the street to the Ice Rink built by Schulz in 1969 and have a coffee at the Warm Puppy Café. The café was Schulz’s lunchtime hangout. Every day he’d head here for a tuna salad sandwich and cup of tea.

Located at 2301 Hardies Lane in Santa Rosa, Calif., The Charles M. Schulz Museum and Research Center,  is open every day but Tuesday. Admission: $8 (adults), $5 (children, students, and seniors), and free for kids under 4. For more information, call (707) 579-4452 or visit www.schulzmuseum.org.