A recent New York Times Fashion & Style article explores the trajectory of the sport given the cultural craze. From Staten Island to San Francisco, sales of kid-size recurve bows have more than quadrupled this year!

Whether you have a Robin Hood fan, a small Cossack (a kid into ancient weaponry) or you just love fun, free, urban family activities, you’ve got to check out the Golden Gate Park Archery Range in San Francisco when you’re visiting the city. It’s a beautiful and well-maintained piece of park real estate, near the beach. It’s easy to park and accessible by public transportation. It’s always open for folks with their own archery equipment. If you’re looking to try it out as an activity, you can swing by the nearby Archery Pro Shop, where you can sign up for lessons, rent or buy bows or investigate other equipment. You can also buy bows and arrows on-line.

Many folks first try out the sport at summer camp. My kids got a taste of it at Camp Mather, the San Francisco family camp, located near Yosemite, that is beloved by many city families. The setup at Mather was low-tech and we had a blast. We invested in bows and arrows and started learning about the sport.

The next summer on a visit to my in-laws’ home in a somewhat rural area on four acres on Washington State’s Olympic Peninsula, we built our own archery range. We bought a bale of hay for $8 at a local Feed Store and my kids made a target out of a giant poster board.

You do need space and oversight. Archers need to be at least 5-6 years old or have exceptional dexterity and listening skills. The range etiquette is vital, as safety is paramount.

On a recent, glorious, fall afternoon, with perfect pumpkin light, we made a family outing to the range in Golden Gate Park. There were quite a few free targets. Three other parties were there and the mood was genial. One guy handed out cards for another range down the coast near Pacifica, wanting to make sure we all knew about it (archery buffs are quite passionate about their sport).

There are often Community College and other classes held at ranges, so check out local options. We spent about an hour; all shot a few rounds, and the kids left with smiles across their faces and rosy cheeks.

There are the famous routes to Coit Tower where one can catch a glimpse of the Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill, and the now famous Mosaic Stairs in Golden Gate Heights. Although not as crowded as say, Lombard (the crookedest street in the west), these top stairwalks can be bustling.

Instead, grab Adah Bakalinsky’s stairwalk bible, now in it’s 20th edition, and explore some of the more quirky areas. The book offers up the popular routes, but many of the stairways highlighted are tranquil spots, used only by locals and known only to a handful of people. Most walks take no more than an hour and string a number of staircases in a neighborhood together, with informative descriptions of the history, architecture and flora and fauna of the area.

Together, families can explore the nooks and crannies of this great city. My family often decides on a route and picks a restaurant or café in the area to make our ultimate destination. Avid hikers, we love to take our boys on treks outside the city, often inspiring them with treats or the prospect of counting banana slugs. Some days however, we just can’t get out of town, but want an outdoor activity that feels like a hike. Then we reach for our stairwalk book and pack a few snacks and layers of clothing.

One time it was dumping rain and each with an umbrella in tow, we geared ourselves up for the urban adventure. With each stairwalk we discover unique and unusual surprises, including hummingbirds, caterpillars, amanita muscaria mushrooms, blackberries, glorious flowers in bloom, secret cottages with magical gardens, never-before-seen views, maniacal exercisers and even a friendly kitty who followed us for blocks.

Most of these walks can be accessed by MUNI or BART (public transportation) and all can be great activities for out of town guests and spry grandparents.  Many walks include benches or vista spots where one can catch one’s breath. These stairwalks are particularly great options when kids are portable, either in backpacks or frontal carriers. Take photos of your stairwalk and add them to a Flickr pool.

Here are a few of our recent favorites:

Telegraph Hill: The popular Filbert and Greenwich Street staircases leading up to Coit Tower.

Highlights: Gardens full of roses and irises and trees filled with the loud and colorful wild parrots and views of the Bay Bridge. At the top visit Coit Tower!

Begin the walk at: (down) Telegraph Hill Blvd and either Filbert or Greenwich streets; (up) Sansome Street at Filbert or Greenwich.

Upper Market: The Saturn and Vulcan stairways lead through the residential neighborhood above the Castro district.

Highlights: Quirky cottages where residents share a stairway with no street access and views of the city streets below. Look for a giant statue-less pedestal.

Begin walk at: Levant Street near Lower Terrace.

Mt. Davidson: Covered with eucalyptus forest, Mt. Davidson is the highest point in San Francisco at 927 feet and the site of the controversial mammoth Easter cross. In 1997, the cross was purchased for $26,000 by The Council of Armenian American Organizations of Northern California, which placed a bronze plaque at the base memorializing the victims of the 1915 Armenian genocide. Sadly, there are often beer bottles and trash around the place since certain locals take advantage of the isolated park.

Highlights: Views of the city, a real sense of wilderness, blackberry bushes, wildflowers and the cross at the top! It can be muddy in the rainy season, so wear good hiking shoes.

Begin walk at: The bus stop (at the junction of Dalewood and Lansdale) and head up the unsigned but obvious trail.

Granted, Americans, in general, partake in way less “holiday time” than our European counterparts, but is it really true that smartphones and instant gratification through technology are wiping out such a colorful and beloved tradition?

On a recent trip to Bodie State Historic Park, my camera battery died. Such a picturesque place, I was kicking myself, but luckily I had gotten a few shots and still had my non-smartphone, phone camera.

We went into the gift shop and postcards were 45 cents. I decided to get a few, I usually have my kids send them to grandparents and perhaps their own friends, part writing exercise, part ritual. This time I wanted to send one to a family whose dog, (named Bodie, after a ’90s trip together to Bodie) had just passed away. We had created a laminated memorial to leave at the cemetery as a tribute. I thought it would be nice to also send them a postcard.

I have sent postcards from all over the world. I know my dad has an entire file folder of them and I’m sure my mom has them scattered around her apartment, hidden on bookshelves and in piles. Pre-World Wide Web, in the era of aerogrammes (remember those?) postcards were a quick and easy way to say, “I’m thinking of you” or “Here I am in the fabulous place,” sharing a bit about your adventures.

It was always a fun task to buy stamps in unusual places, mail them in foreign mail boxes and know that your missives were en-route to folks you care about. It seems like Facebook updates are often boastful, unedited and on occasion, jealousy provoking. Not always, not so much with close buddies, but sometimes peeking into someone’s life (who is at best tangential to yours) seems a bit voyeuristic.

I’m certainly guilty, I love posting pics, but I worry that we are sacrificing a quality experience, kind of like what the slow food movement is to fast food. I certainly like to see who goes where and what they choose to photograph, but I write about travel and really am genuinely interested in any destination. I just worry that postcards will disappear, and with them, not only a terrific art form and a document of places and time, but also a cherished travel ritual.

I’m no music expert, most of my response to music is visceral and associative, but I do know that if the Beastie Boys had been a fad, they wouldn’t have lasted as long as they have.

As I blasted their latest album with car windows open,  to pay homage to the fallen Beastie (Adam MCA Yauch) who passed away from cancer earlier this month, my kids cringed as Mom reminisced semi-publicly. I tend to hate when I pass another car with thumping music blaring, always muttering, “Yeah, I like that music so much” to myself. OK, so forgive me…

I was thinking about the concert they played at Madison Square Garden with Run DMC, the kids clothing store on 10th street, in my hood, owned by Beastie Boy Adam Horowitz’s mom Doris, cheekily named “Gee The Kids Need Clothes,” and dancing till rivers of sweat poured down my back to Brass Monkey, No Sleep Till Brooklyn and others at loft parties, clubs and friend’s homes.

Greenwich Village (and NYC in general) is no stranger to walking tours. I remember parting the crowds to get a cupcake from Magnolia Bakery, a shop featured on Sex in the City, or even wedging through the clumps of tourists snapping photos of my everyday haunts, places where the famous and infamous had worked, lived, partied or died. Once, while soaking in the Communal Russian Baths, in the East Village, a woman pulled out a camera because John Belushi had come there frequently to cleanse himself after his binges.

There is now a suggested self-guided Beastie Boys walking tour, including many of the places important to their life and career. It includes a loft where much of the magic took place in the early years of Beastie Boys rise from punk kids to Rap icons. The corner of Irvington and Ludlow on the Lower East Side is on the itinerary, where the cover for their second album, Paul’s Boutique, was shot. Today there is a restaurant called Paul’s Boutique in honor of the album.

A memorial is currently drawing mourners at 69 Avenue A where Yauch and the Boys recorded the album Polly Wog Stew.

RIP Adam Yauch 1964-2012

We drove through Yosemite a few weekends ago. It was packed with summer travelers and waterfall gawkers. The major falls are glorious, and fuller than they have been in years. New, smaller falls have even appeared much to the delight of park goers.

As we drove through the park, out past Mono Lake, we were stunned by the high water levels and snowy peaks in early July. We laughed, thinking that we could even cross-country ski in some spots above 7000 feet.

Record snowfalls this winter and heavy unseasonable rain in summer have made conditions epic for nature lovers but also hazardous.

Yosemite is drawing crowds, and visitors to the park should exercise caution while viewing the many falls and swollen creeks and rivers. Since June, there have been at least two people confirmed dead and two missing and presumed dead. The park has banned water rafting on the Merced River until the flows subside to their normal levels.

My son and a group of friends made the trek to Wapama Falls, a wonderful hike which wraps around the Hetch Hetchy reservoir. The photos were astounding, but just days later a Doctor and a friend, both experienced backpackers, were swept away by the torrents when crossing a small footbridge.  Sobering for the folks who took my son, who in hindsight, were fearful of the awesome cascade.

As we made our way back to the Sierras, we stayed at a friend’s house near Kirkwood Ski Resort. I took a short walk, alone, down to the “creek,” heretofore a tiny trickle, where as toddlers, my kids frolicked. At nearly 8,000 feet in elevation, the mule ears were just sprouting and snow patches still remained in early July. I decided to cross the creek and make a circle. Quickly I aborted my attempt. This repeated several times as the current was just too treacherous. I realized I was on my own and if swept away, it would not be a good scene.  I finally found a reasonable crossing point, and with numb legs and feet, made my way to the other side. Not only is the water higher, but it felt colder.

A recent article by Jane Brody in the New York Times Science section offers simple, but useful tips for both beach and mountain water fun. So get out and enjoy the majesty, but respect the elements and have caution!

Sand between my toes, melting popsicles, chlorine-y or salty hair, ripe tomatoes, fresh corn, eating outdoors, thunderstorms and fireflies—a few of my East Coast childhood summer memories. The idea of fireflies, or lightning bugs, as they are sometimes called, is just so charming, and in some ways a symbol of a simpler time. No iPhones or email, no TiVo or Internet, just a bug catcher and a jar….

Fireflies are everywhere this June. My kids listen to about 10 songs, as much as I try to curate their musical tastes, they’ll have to discover their own style. One of their favorites right now is Fireflies by Owl City. It’s a sweet song and the lyrics are very uncontroversial. My husband is also hooked on an old TV series called Firefly dubbed an America Space Western, by those in the know. Add to that, a great little restaurant, Firefly, in San Francisco, that we love…and then I came across this New York Times article about fireflies drawing hordes of tourists in Tennessee. This was the antidote to fast-paced modern life I needed to read about.

Apparently, there is a light show every night at this time of year in Elkmont, Tennessee near Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Folks gather at a trail head with camping chairs and wait for the Mother Nature’s ritual performance. Called “mind-blowing,” “a silent symphony” and likened to the aurora borealis or a solar eclipse, this is no small show.

You don’t have to be a science geek to enjoy the spectacle. Elkmont’s firefly population is the largest in the Western hemisphere. So thick are the masses of bugs that you have to carve your way around them. There is concern that all the attention will cause ill-effects for the bugs. But for now, the two-week annual engagement is sold out…or at least feeding visitors’ need to enjoy natural phenomenon.

Triporati’s South Pacific expert, Stanley has spent much of the last 30 years traveling, crossing six continents overland and visiting 212 of the world’s 245 countries and territories. That puts him right up there as one of the world’s most traveled people.

As much as he’s traveled, he returns to the South Pacific again and again and considers it his favorite area, which says a lot about the appeal of the place. His book is full of the practical advice you’d expect from any good guidebook, but Stanley’s decades of experience in the region give this volume a special appeal. He knows the people, he knows the territory, and he knows how to share it with his readers. This make him the ideal guide to get you started on your journey.

Me? I can’t make it to Tahiti this year, but next month I’m going to Fiji. And I’ll be carrying Stanley’s new Moon Fiji Handbook with me when I go. This one is in its ninth edition, and I’m getting started in my pre-trip preparation.

But for locals and people in the know, the way hipper attraction is far out in the bowels of Brooklyn. Dyker Heights draws more than 100,000 visitors each holiday season to ogle the over-the-top home decorations.

The beyond extravagant tradition began in the ’80s on 84th street. It seems one neighbor annoyed others with her lawn displays so they tried to top her. Giant Santas, more reindeer than you can imagine, enough toy soldiers for an army and just as many candy canes and snowmen join the legions of blow up characters and mind boggling lights. It’s Vegas style glitz but still relatively homespun, at least in origin.

The cost for the homeowners must break the bank in electricity alone. To get a chance to take it all in, make your way to Dyker Heights in Brooklyn from 83rd to 86th streets between 11th and 13th avenues. There are even tours that will set you back nearly $60, but for that you can rent a car, hail a taxi or bundle the kids in their pjs, take a thermos of hot chocolate and take a drive. You won’t be disappointed. The decorations stay up until early January.

I recommended places on the Yucatan Peninsula for her to visit in her off time, such as the Colonial city of Merida, Tulum, Lake Bacalar, Uxmal or Valladolid near the Chichen Itza ruins.

A recent article in The Economist, entitled Tourism in Mexico, Can’t keep them away, began with “Sun, seas and severed heads.” Mexico, a country that counts on tourism dollars, has had a miserable couple of years, first with the swine flu, then the ongoing drug wars. More than 30,000 people have died in the last four years.

Despite this dreadful spell, tourists are still flocking south of the border. Lured by deals, however, visitors are spending less than they did a few years ago. Places like the Yucatan are considered as safe as France, so European and American tourists don’t seem deterred by the bad press. Most of the violence is centered near the U.S. border, although it has hit elsewhere, including Acapulco, which these days mostly caters to Mexican tourists. Even Chiapas, home to the Zapatista rebels, has turned it’s armed campaign into big bucks, as some of the hottest souvenirs are now Subcommandate Marcos shirts and chotckes.

Mexican tourism authorities are optimistic about a few new highways under construction and research is being done on how to cater more to “Los Baby Boomers,” as aging travelers are looking for different experiences than previous generations of retirees. Officials are also planning to beef up the nightlife, looking to Egypt for some insight. Nighttime sound and light shows at the pyramids may inspire Mexican ruins to maximize their attraction.

The mountain bike trails from the top of Sun Valley’s fabled Bald Mountain (9150 feet elevation) wind through meadows, switchback down sheer slopes, weave through pine forests, and really get the adrenaline flowing. We were cruising (or rather, braking) down eight-mile-long Warm Springs Trail because the friendly fellow who sold us tickets for the gondola to take us to the top sized us up and said, “Take Warm Springs Trail. You’ll see when you get up there that you have two choices, Cold Springs and Warm Springs. You folks want Warm Springs. It’ll be a lot better for you.” Then he grinned and said, as if questioning our resolve, “Cold Springs is not for the faint of heart.”

I would say that mountain biking on a ski mountain by definition is not for the faint of heart. Hence, the slow, careful progress of our party of five.

It’s not a stretch to say that one of us could easily have flown off the mountain over the three hours we made our way down. The widest part of the trail was about two feet, most of it was loose rock with the occasional boulder and gnarly tree root, and hairpin switchbacks took us down the steepest sections.

We were novices. At one point when one of us picked himself up from a minor crash and brushed off his skinned knees, a more experienced biker who stopped to help commented merrily, “If you aren’t bleeding it ain’t mountain biking!”

Even though we took our sweet time and stopped for lots of breaks to make sure we didn’t lose anyone, we saw few other bikers and felt we had the mountain to ourselves. And when we stopped we could appreciate the stupendous scenery over Idaho’s Sawtooth National Forest.

The wildflowers on the open slopes near the top dazzled us with their pinks and purples and yellows and blues, but as we descended and entered a forest burn zone we came upon a scene “straight out of the ‘Wizard of Oz,’” my friend Lee said: wild hollyhocks as far up and down the slope as we could see. In 40 years of mountain hiking (probably 200 years collectively), none of us had ever seen a wildflower show so spectacular.

When we reached the bottom, bruised, dusty, fingers locked in a claw grip and forearms aching from squeezing the handlebars, we all marveled that we had made it.

“Heck, I’d do it again,” George said. “But not tomorrow!”

The next stop was the Jacuzzi.