Our Nation's Treasures

The Memphis Barbecue Festival: fun, food, drinks and drunkenness

2012-01-09T04:53:00.000-08:00

Most of the booths at the Memphis Barbecue Festival are pretty extravagantly decorated: bright colors, big letters, faux columns and facades, tables and chairs set up, even couches. Lots had people on the roofs, swilling beer and smiling down on passersby. The smaller booths were about 8’ by 10’ and some twice as big.

Mark, my husband, and I arrive at 2 p.m., just as the festival opens. We had been at the Civil Rights Museum, reading the interesting exhibits, arranged chronologically. However, we left just before MLK got assassinated because I got hungry.

Mark buys a beer, and before we have a chance to go deeper into the vendor area in search of food, we stop at the information booth to sign up for a tour of some barbecue booths.

I am so hungry, but the tour starts in 10 minutes, so we sit on the grass in the shade of a small tree not too far away and wait.

The first booth we tour is just on the edge of the showy booths, and it is boring: plain white walls, two lawn chairs, a cooler and a grill out back. That’s it. A 23-year-old first-timer, cooking with his dad, mans the booth. The younger gives us the science of barbecue: how wet the wood chips should be, ultimate heat to cook with, optimum airflow through cooker for proper combustion. One couple on tour leave before he finishes, but I find it all interesting.

The next booth, sponsored by Hogwild, a local restaurant, has more entertainment value. It’s fully ensconced in the party area and is properly decked in wide swaths of red, black and yellow with a big, smiling, pink pig head painted at the entrance, like Porky is welcoming us inside.

And what a welcome sight it is. Inside is a long table with coleslaw, baked beans and other food. Off the front hang signs with the Hogwild website and motto. We pass through to the grill in back, and I wish for celery, wings, a candy bar, anything I could grab from that table. But alas, none of it’s finger food. I am ravenous.

The jovial proprietor says we’re just in time to see the cook prepare some ribs for grilling. “But first,” he says, “go back and grab some drinks.”

I want to grab a plate and load up, but instead I pull a plastic Solo® cup off the stack and dispense a margarita from the mixer on the far wall. Mark takes a beer and leaves money in the tip jar in thanks for our libations.

Back at the grill we learn that Hogwild soaks ribs in a vinegary barbecue sauce, and just before they go on the grill, they get one of two spicy rubs, one sweeter than the other. The proprietor pinches a dusting of each into our palms for tasting, and Mark and I both think the flavor excellent.

With my margarita gone, I watch two guys apply rub and put ribs on the grill. Below the grill is a pan of marinade—the same that the ribs had been soaking in the previous 24 hours. In a heat box below the marinade burn charcoal and wood, creating a unique smoke that pipes to the closed grill, flavoring the meat.

When the cooks complete the demonstration, one invites us to take our fill from the food inside. No one hesitates. First I refill my margarita cup.

Mark loads a bun with pork. Even I, who rarely eats meat, get a bit of bun-less pork I’m so famished.

We take the stairs and sit at tables on the roof. Mark chows down. I fork some slaw and beans into my maw and rest. I was so hungry, yet now my stomach has a sharp, centralized pain that prevents me from eating more.

After two minutes of me just sitting there, Mark slides my plate in front of himself. “I intend to eat that!” He slides it back. I shovel in seven beans and give up. The guide is back to collect us anyway; the tour is over.

I had intended to use my press credentials (“I write a travel column syndicated to four papers in Southwest Ohio…”) to get us onto some rooftops for partying this evening, but my stomach hurts and it starts to rain. Not to mention that I finished my second margarita and now feel like napping.

We do try to wait it out, the rain and my drunkenness. The rain stops, but with little food in my belly, I still want to sleep.

Mark keeps me moving. We walk to the car and drive to Corky’s BBQ. Our food comes quickly: chicken, beans and slaw for me; ribs for Mark. Even though I’ve sobered up after that hearty meal, I make a dumb suggestion. “Let’s stop at TCBY,” which sells frozen yogurt.

We do. My stomach hurts again.

Catching fish and a suntan off the Georgia coast

2011-10-19T18:50:00.000-07:00

“Is it a stingray?” my husband, Mark, asked as I was pulling up my catch. Stingrays have a distinctive pull. I’ve mentioned in an earlier column that stingrays are the bane of the south sea fisherman because getting them off the hook is challenging: there’s always the chance they’ll whip their tale around and sting. We catch them frequently when we’re fishing on the salt-water creek Dad lives on in Georgia.

That afternoon Mark and I took the boat out, just us two, up the creek just a little ways from the dock. We’d seen minimal action there during earlier trips.

We’d been sitting in one spot for nearly an hour with no action when Mark commented that all we were catching was a suntan. Despite the lack of action, we were enjoying the heat of the early October sun and each other’s company.

A minute later, my line started twitching. Excited, I set the hook and stood to reel it in. Mark coached me, reminding me not to pull too hard or reel too fast. He and Dad have drilled into me that I need set the hook only once; I have a tendency to reel and jerk, losing my catch, likely ripping the hook from the fish’s mouth.

Mark asked if it were a stingray because they do put up a fight, as my catch was doing, but stingrays don’t pull on the drag, stripping line, and whatever was on my line was strong enough to do just that.

“I don’t know what it is, but it’s not a stingray,” I answered, adding: “I don’t think it is,” to ease my disappointment just in case.

Soon my catch was at the surface, and we saw the sun glint off the bass’s sleek, silver scales before it dove below. Within a minute I steered it to the net Mark held. He lifted it into the boat, and I gave a victory whoop. Mark got it off my hook and measured it: 22 inches. This sea bass—aka red fish—was the biggest fish I ever caught besides a shark.

Mark slipped the fish into the Igloo cooler with the frozen squid we always bring as back-up bait in case we run out of shrimp, which was not likely to happen that day.

I rebated with a live shrimp, cast out behind the boat into the honey hole where the bass had bit and let the weight take it to the bottom.

Forty minutes after the red fish bit, I borrowed Mark’s comment that we weren’t catching anything but a suntan. A minute after that I pulled in an 11-inch whiting, big enough to keep. Whiting are what we hook most frequently, even more than sting rays, and they make for a tasty dinner.

That suntan comment was our good luck phrase and 25 minutes later Mark made it again, and I pulled in a 17-inch flounder, which Mark had to capture with the net.

After he put it into the cooler with the other two fish, I said how I wished another boat would come by and the people on it would ask us if we’d had any luck so I could tell them about my two great catches, to revel in my victory. Mark shook his head and said that fishermen never reveal that they’re having much luck.

Five minutes later a small boat with “BAIT” printed on the side, with a phone number, slowed down as it passed, the only boat we’d seen all day. It was a crab boat, and the two young men on it, one shirtless, were on their way to collect from their traps set out further along the creek.

As they coasted past, the shirtless one asked, “Caught anything?

“Nothing but a suntan,” was Mark’s response.

I laughed out loud. The flounder flipped around in the cooler. Too far away to notice either, the crabbers nodded in commiseration and motored off. It’s our secret spot now.

The Establishment of an American Village

2011-09-15T18:36:00.000-07:00

In the 1840s failed crops and foul weather left Glarus, Switzerland, in tough times. Desperate to help their people survive, the Swiss government loaned families enough to travel to the New World and purchase land. The majority of the 193 who left Switzerland came to southwest Wisconsin, where they settled in a fertile valley with rolling hills, which reminded them of Switzerland. They affectionately named their new home New Glarus.
            My husband, Mark, and I arrived at the Swiss Historical Village in New Glarus just in time for the first tour of the morning. Eleven buildings of period furnishings arranged around a central yard comprised the village. Starting the tour with us was another couple with children and a woman with twin girls about seven years old and the twins’ grandmother. Those twins, with pale skin, light red hair and irises of barely blue, seemingly dazed out on something, stuck to their mother’s side like lint on a screen—as hard as our guide tried to engage them. Their languid manner and expressions of disinterest changing not during the 105-minute tour. The other children, a brother and sister about the same age as the twins, played on the lawn, occasionally checking in with their parents.

Our guide, an older gentleman, told us about the settlement of New Glarus. The Swiss government sent two scouts to America with an aim for St. Louis, Missouri. They were to purchase land, build cabins and generally get things organized before the would-be settlers left from their homeland. However, by 1845 St. Louis was quite the popular destination and land in and around the area was out of the Swiss government’s price range. So, the scouts pointed north, toward undeveloped land. In what would be southwest Wisconsin, they purchased 1,280 acres at $1.25 per.

The Switzerland group reached St. Louis, expecting their months-long journey, which had claimed six souls to that point, to be at an end, only to learn that their scouts had been there and left. The Swiss mix hired two more scouts to locate the original scouts, and eventually most met in the area of New Glarus. Some of the original group stayed in St. Louis because they could not afford to journey further.
            Our guide showed us the roster of passengers on the barge the settlers took from Switzerland. He focused in on one young couple, traveling with an infant. He proudly stated that those two were his great-great grandparents.
            Several more people had joined the tour by the time we reached the final building, the church. Our guide invited us to take seats in the pews as we looked all around. A large rope hung through the ceiling in the back, and, after our guide asked, one of the twins, after the mother plucked her off her hip, walked over to pull on it. No smile, no excitement or interest, and she couldn’t pull it at first; the bell it was attached to was too heavy. After a couple half-hearted attempts, the guide helped the twin toll the bell. The bell rang once, and the twin released the rope and started back to her mom. The guide looked at the rest of us like, “I am really trying.” He (and the mom) did convince her to come back and ring it several more times. With the momentum of the swinging bell, she could do this on her own. And, though she didn’t smile, her eyes lost that bored, dazed out look.
            A pump organ sat at the front of the church, and, wanting to demonstrate its sound, our guide asked if anyone knew how to play. No one responded. He asked again, looking at each of us, begging. I sighed and stuck my hand up, hoping my third-grade piano lessons would come back. It’d been probably 20 years since I had sat at a piano. I didn’t know what I would play, but I walked to the organ and sat on the stool with the spinning seat. My feet pumped the pedals and my mind drew a blank. Why did I volunteer? I thought, continuing to pump, Because the poor guide looked desperate and needed a break after working so hard to get a reaction from the twins. I put my right thumb on middle C, and plinked out the only song that came to me: “Yankee Doodle Dandy.”
            After the ending “mac-a-ro-ni” flourish, I swiveled around to great applause and wide smiles (though I don’t recall seeing the twins’ faces). As I scooted into the pew next to Mark he whispered, “I didn’t know you could play!” It was nice to learn I still held surprises for him, after so many years together. The melody was also a perfect, patriotic ending to a lesson in American history.

An Indiana Jones experience in an underwater cave: Part II

2011-07-06T10:28:00.000-07:00

Mark and I are in Belize in a group of eight being led through Actun Tunichil Muknal, known better as the ATM. It’s an underwater cave. On the dry second floor we saw Mayan pottery and a skeleton and skulls of sacrifice victims. Now we’re back in the water. Our guide, Oscar, leads us out a different way from which we came. It’s more challenging, more fun. At one point, to ratchet up the adrenaline, he has us switch off our headlamps. It’s not totally dark; we can sense faint natural light ahead. We all advanced the 30–40 feet with anticipation but without incident.

The next challenge, a jumbled rock, reminds me of a 3-D block puzzle, the kind with bunches of long pieces with chunks missing that somehow all fit together in a particular way to make a cube. The rock formation is the incomplete cube and our bodies are the next piece to fit.

We all watch Oscar fit himself through to see the best way to approach this. Mark, who’s next, and has a bit more girth and a foot more length to push through, looks at me uncertainly. Standing in waist-high water, he’s out of his comfort zone. He climbs to lay himself in front of the formation in bath-deep water, so that his left side goes through first, legs straight to pass through the shallow opening under the rock. He’s lifted from mid back to head and juts his left shoulder forward, bends his neck back and rotates his head left. Using his hands, he shuffles his body through—but not his head. With his body advanced, he twists left, pulls his knees up, sits on his haunches, and carefully rotates his head through the opening that’s just big enough for it, completely aware of the piece of 8-inch long, thin rock that sticks out and grazes his neck. He names this formation The Guillotine.

The Slide is next. The entrance to this cave slide is like that to any water slide: the top has an edged area maybe two feet square holding ankle-deep water. But, like the Guillotine, it’s higher than we are so we hoist ourselves over the edge from thigh-deep water. The entrance to the slide is through an arch—like a donut—with an inside diameter of roughly two feet. Oscar barely fits through. At Mark’s turn, he lifts his rear onto the edge, swivels, loses his balance and falls backward where the rest of us stand. He goes all the way under. I expect to see the panicked look when he comes up, but it’s not there. (Later he tells me he panicked momentarily but realized it was silly because he nearly hit his head on the bottom, meaning it wasn’t deep.) Mark steps up again and squats his unlimber body down for the approach. His legs tangle beneath him and he falls ungracefully on his rear before arranging himself properly. I zip right down. The top of the slide has an immediate twist to the right and then straightens out. It’s about five feet long. We all wish it were 10 times that.

We silently follow Oscar as he advances along a wall. It’s straight up and down, and the water is chest-high. The bottom of the wall slopes gradually to the cave floor, and most of us advance by a combination of bouncing along the low curve and swimming. Mark is tall so can simply walk along the curve. However, in an effort to get more of his body out of the water, he climbs higher on the curve until he’s nearly walking on vertical wall. But, of course, he can’t walk a vertical wall, nor can he grip it. He loses all physical contact and looks back at me with an expression I recognize from Looney Tunes cartoons. It’s not a look of panic or fear but is the exact expression Wile E. Coyote wears when he runs off a cliff chasing Roadrunner, when he is suspended in air, turns to the camera with his big eyes and crinkled brow and shrugs before falling. He’s resigned to his fate and realizes there’s nothing he can do to save himself. This is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen from my husband, but I can’t laugh at him—until he’s on dry ground.

Within a couple seconds, he sinks to rock before his chin goes under even. His expression changes from “I’m a goner,” to “Of course. What did I think was going to happen?” Now this (sudden change in perspectives) is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen from my husband. Mark hurries to catch up with Oscar.

It’s sad to see the light shining in from the entrance, meaning our three-hour trek is almost over. All of us but Mark can swim out, so Oscar leads Mark on a climb. The third step is too slippery for Mark and he crashes into the water. But soon enough we’re all out on the trail again, with an aim for the van and our packed lunches. What an adventure we’ve had. I’d do it all again. I’m not sure Mark would.

An Indiana Jones experience in an underwater cave: Part I

2011-07-06T10:12:00.000-07:00

Through the hourglass-shaped entrance, lushly dripping with vines and moss, we clearly see the cave’s second story. We also note how clear the water is that most of our group of eight must swim through to start our trek into the cave’s depths. Oscar, our guide, escorts Mark through the shallow river, over boulders and across a three-foot gap to a side entrance. They join the rest of us in chest-high water at the sloping left wall.

Climbing over and squeezing between underwater rocks, we advance into the darkness. The temperature of the air and water is mild, not uncomfortably cool. Near San Ignacio, Belize, Actun Tunichil Muknal, known better as the ATM cave, has interesting features besides water running through it: stalagmites, stalactites, draperies, and flowing limestone. Oscar points out some stone-dry draperies that have stopped growing. The difference is wetness. Limestone that is wet continues to grow.

Spiders scamper as we pass, and minnows swim the surface even as we’re deep in the cave. In our headlamps’ beams we see, floating in the air, sizable two-dimensional particles, like carpet fibers, and I wonder if we should be wearing respirators. Before we came to Belize, I read a review of this tour. The author wrote, “total Indiana-Jones experience that would never be allowed in the U.S.” That convinced me to take this tour. Mark’s mind wasn’t made up until a couple days ago. He’s uncomfortable in water.

After an hour traversing through depths to our shoulders, we climb to the second floor, which holds ancient Mayan pottery and burial chambers. We remove our shoes—but not our socks, to avoid leaving oils from bare feet. We’re not sure why shoes are prohibited. Oscar leads us past stone pottery, usually in sets of threes, and each piece itself sacrificed—or broken—in some way. The Maya broke some completely. Others simply have holes in their sides. We see several human skulls and even a full skeleton, that of a female teenager.

On this upper level we still climb over and squeeze between rocks, only without the benefit of shoes. Toes are stubbed, and as we cross what Oscar calls the Oochie-Ouchie section, my tender soles suffer.

The order of our single-file line changes somewhat in the upper portion of the cave because there’s no chance Mark will drown. But, after we stuff our sore feet, socked in orange cave dust, into our shoes, Mark’s behind Oscar again, and I’m right behind Mark. Oscar tells us where to place each foot on the rocks to descend to the lower level and then asks us to turn to the left for a big step. Looking down at Mark and Oscar, standing on a rock with my left foot, I step with my right and reach—and reach. I’ve lowered so far that my hip is even with my foot, right leg dangling in the water. I’m hesitant to jump down because I can’t see bottom, but logically I know it’s close.

Eventually our group is down, making our way toward the exit. Oscar asks us to turn off our headlamps. We can barely see light peaking in ahead. “We’re progressing from here with no light,” he tells us. Immediately, Mark turns to me and whispers, “Are you kidding me?” He’s all nerves now that we’re back in water. Reluctantly, he switches off his headlamp.

Cave Tubing in Belize

2011-05-11T11:51:00.000-07:00

I’ve seen unadulterated, absolute fear three times, all on the face of my husband, all when he was in or near water. The first time our relationship was new, and our canoe flipped in neck-high water.

The second time was on our honeymoon, rafting class III glacier water rapids in Valdez, Alaska. I thought he’d be OK since he wouldn’t be actually in the water, and class III is comparatively tame. I longed for rougher rapids but realized this is a compromise I must make if I wanted my new husband to be included in my adventurous experiences.

Laughing with each easy roll, I looked back to see Mark fearful again, hopeless of an escape. It was terrible to see him so uncomfortable, and at that moment I vowed to myself never to try to convince him to participate in a water-involving excursion again.

Fast forward 11 and a half years, and we’re in Belize, where I’ve lined up seven days of adventure, some involving water. But, remembering my vow, I’ve not pressured Mark to participate. Our second day-tour in Belize is cave tubing. Mark’s said he’s OK floating on a tube.

We and our guide, Jovaughn, carry our tubes and hike to the put-in for river rafting. The easy hike crosses the river three times—at about 40 feet across each time. The first crossing is shallow with a strong flow. A line is strung across, and we hold on to steady ourselves. Mark’s behind me. I’m not sure what he’s feeling now.

The second and third crossings are thigh-deep with a slower flow, easing Mark into the adventure.

Thirty minutes after starting the hike, we fasten our life jackets, walk into the clear slow-moving, knee-high river and plop into our tubes, rear-end first. Jovaughn distributes headlamps and lines us up: Mark’s in the middle with his ankles over my tube in front, straddling my back and tucked under my arms. Jovaughn is the caboose of our three-tube train and holds on to a rope connected to the back of Mark’s tube.

In the cave, moving at a relaxing pace, I feel fortunate that it’s just the two of us on the tour. During the hike out we passed groups of 10 and 15, and in the cave we encounter longer tube trains with raucous teenagers. Jovaughn, who’s more the engine than the caboose, keeps us from advancing with the noisy juveniles, and Mark and I truly enjoy the tranquility of drifting through, turning our heads up and all around searching out hidden finds in the cave.

The river makes several gentle turns in the cave and continues them once we exit. Being first, I see a sharper turn to the left approaching, where the river narrows in width and with faster water. I trust Jovaughn to navigate us through with ease.

However, the fast water pulls me to the outside where my tube gets hung on plant-covered rocks just below the surface and whips Mark and Jovaughn out in front. Now we’re all facing upstream. Before those two pull me across the rocks, before seriously scraping my bum, I release Mark’s ankles and unstick my tube. I turn to see how Mark and Jovaughn are getting on just as Mark’s face emerges from the river, sputtering water and wearing that fearful expression I’ve seen three times now. Somehow, he and Jovaughn separated and his tube flipped. I am scared for him. I don’t know how deep it is. Luckily, thankfully, he grabs his tube, which is now vertical against the bank.

Jovaughn paddles back and grabs the rope trailing Mark’s tube. Mark’s left arm hangs on to his tube and Jovaughn guides them downstream. For a full 20 seconds I watch Mark float with that fearful, helpless expression. To see him so scared is heart-wrenching. At a shallower spot where the flow ebbs, Mark remounts his tube, and I catch up. I hated that 20 seconds.

He needs to learn how to swim, for his sake as well as mine.

Easing in to the comfort of carpet

2011-04-21T11:26:00.001-07:00

Last week I wrote about my time in Guatemala in 1995, how I’d arrived via a one-way ticket with big dreams of gaining fluency in Spanish and then making my way to Brazil to volunteer in the rain forest. Never mind that the national language in Brazil is Portuguese.

From day one I longed for home. That first week at language school I latched on to a couple from Oregon, who acted as my surrogate parents. I traveled with them and others on weekends. The school provided copious outings or activities: observing Mayans looming fabric and practicing religious rituals, painting a local primary school—and playing soccer with the students there, delivering donated saplings to an indigenous community. I kept busy. Still, I missed home.

After five weeks I abandoned my save-the-rain-forest plan and made reservations to get home the next weekend.

A little after 11 a.m. on Saturday I arrived at the local bus station, the first leg of my journey. Though scheduled to leave for Guatemala City at 11:45 a.m., the bus did not leave until it had a full ridership—at 2 p.m. I waited with an American guy I recognized from the previous weekend’s travels. We grew hungry during the wait. He shared his peanuts, I shared my cookies. By the time we reached the city in the early evening, I was famished.

The place of lodging where I’d made reservations—an artsy, lofty place with purple shag and neon lights—was near the bus terminal. I dropped my bag and walked to a McDonalds counter at a mall near. I ordered, “McMenu numero cinco, por favor”: a chicken sandwich, fries and a Sprite, to go. I wanted to return to my room ASAP and ensconce myself in its luxury, unlike anything I’d experienced in six weeks: fluffy bedding, carpeting and heat.

In my room I set the thermostat at 75o, kicked my shoes off and walked around in bare feet; besides people, the thing from home I missed most was carpeting. I burrowed into my warm bed and ate dinner as I watched the Braves win the World Series, having beat the Indians in six games.

My trip home the next morning was interrupted by a long layover in Dallas. At the gate I sat next to a Latino about my age. Turns out, he had flown from Guatemala City on the same flight I had that morning. He was going to Dayton too. He worked for AT&T and was arriving for training.

During the flight I got an idea and searched him out on the plane and told him to wait for me when he got off. He did, and we walked toward baggage claim hand-in-hand.

When Mom saw us, I told her I'd just met him my last week in Guatemala. “His family is so poor. Together he and I can make a good life,” I said, “and you can always use help on the farm.” She quickly replied that “if he can get a visa, he can work anywhere”—besides on my farm, she meant but didn’t say.

That response was her only reaction, though she was quiet as we walked; I imagined her trying to digest this new situation. Her under-reaction was disappointing to me. I thought I’d really played a good joke on her, but she wasn’t freaking out like I’d expected.

Since she wasn’t giving me what I wanted, I came clean. Her relief was evident. But, she still took the Guatemalan home with us. Turns out the guy's rental car and hotel weren't reserved until the following day, so she offered him the spare bed.

So I was eased back into my usual reality: the hotel’s relative luxury in Guatemala and a Guatemalan in the comforts of home.

The next day the Guatemalan and I toured the Air Force Museum on the Wright-Pat AFB, which he loved (all men do), before I dropped him at the airport to pick up his rental car. Then a short drive home, where I stepped out of my shoes and enjoyed the thick carpet massaging my feet as I walked upstairs to my warm bed and a mid-afternoon nap. Oh, to be home.

Help fight homesickness

2011-04-21T11:25:00.001-07:00

Since last November I have sent care packages, one a month, to a random soldier or marine who is serving overseas, and not until recently have I realized the similarity in my situation more than 15 years ago and that of many of our overseas troops.

When I was 25 I spent six weeks in Guatemala attending language school. I was homesick—from the first day, when I spent the night in a grimy little room—at a boarding house? a hostel? somebody’s home? I never did know. I just stayed where my transporters dropped me, trusting that they’d collect me the next morning for the trip further west.

They did. Later that second day we arrived in the dirty town of Quetzaltenango and I met my host family. I was shown to my room, which was better than where I’d stayed the previous night, but it was so different from what I was used to.

Most homes in Latin America are built around a courtyard. My room had two doors: one led to a holding area for the propane tank used to heat water, which further led to the bathroom, and the other door led to the courtyard, through which I had to walk to get to anywhere besides the bathroom.

The mostly concrete courtyard had a tree growing here, green stuffs sprouting there, a dog lying in the sun, chickens pecking all around, cats up to mischief, an iguana seemingly content in his box and a parrot swinging on a bike tire hung by the kitchen window.

Still, I was homesick. I wrote postcards, two or three a week, to Mom, to Dad and stepmom, to aunts and uncles, to grandparents, to friends. I was trying to stay connected. However, the Guatemalan mail service was corrupt and nothing sent from the States got through to me. Nothing for six weeks. It was 1995, before cell phones and e-mail became popular.

I socialized and traveled around the country on weekends with other students at my language school. Yet, still, I was homesick.

At the start of my third week, a man from Virginia arrived at the school. He was twice my age, yet we got along great and hung out together all the time we weren’t in school. He was there only two weeks, left after my fifth, and after that I was just miserable.

I had traveled to Guatemala on a one-way ticket. My original plan was to spend 17 weeks there, then travel to Brazil to volunteer in a rain forest. The weekend after my new friend left, I thought, "There's nothing to say I can't go home." So I flew back to the States a week later.

These days I send toothbrushes, shampoo, cans of soup, and energy bars to our troops. My husband thinks the appropriate military branch is likely supplying what they need so questions my supportive efforts. My step-mom said, “It’s probably not what’s sent; it’s just that someone thought enough to reach out.”

When I heard that, I was transported back to Guatemala, lying on my flea-ridden bed (I closed both doors to my room in the mornings, but when I’d come home, they’d be swung wide and a cat [with fleas] would be lying at the foot of my bed.), writing my postcards home, wishing for some kind of contact. A postcard, a care package, a scribbled note. Just to know that someone at home was thinking of me would have eased or even erased my pain for a little bit. It would have meant so much, to know that someone was thinking of me.

Please do what you can to support our troops. Find where to send at www.AnySoldier.com.

Have a fun day canoeing. It’s that time of year.

2011-04-21T11:21:00.001-07:00

Back in 1998 when I invited my not-yet husband to go canoeing with me and my coworkers, he accepted without enthusiasm. Something like, “I guess.” We’d had three dates by that time, and I told him, quite seriously, that I expected to see a little more excitement if I ask him to do something with me again. Mark said he was happy to spend time with me but was not thrilled about canoeing. He can’t swim, he said.

Who can’t swim? Any animal can swim if you throw it in the water. I thought.

The Saturday came. On the way to Morgan’s Canoe Livery in Morrow we stopped at Mom’s Restaurant in Red Lion, where Franklin, Springboro and Lebanon converge. The place was crowded. Mark and I took the last table available, the booth next to the front window. The table was right next to the window with only one bench, looking out. So I scooted in next to Mark, and we ate side by side. He ordered biscuits and gravy and loved it. I cannot remember what I ordered.

Finally at Morgan’s that June day, I introduced Mark to my coworkers, he and I loaded the canoe with our sandwiches and sodas for lunch and off we floated.

A couple hours in, once it had warmed up, I was keeping my eye out for a good spot to flip the canoe, someplace deep enough that we would get completely wet for refreshment, deep enough that we could swim.

I was riding in the back and at the perfect place, I leaned left and over we went. I went under and came up in time to see Mark pop up, grabbing for our downed canoe. He looked terrified; I felt terrible. He couldn’t swim.

The water came to Mark’s chin, which is deep enough to be scary if you don’t know how to swim. I swam after our lunch floating in the current and returned to Mark, who, at that point, had no idea I had flipped us on purpose. The canoe was full to the top with river water, and I threw our lunch on top. We floated the canoe to the far grassy bank, away from river traffic.

We hoisted ourselves from the deep water onto the bank; I set our lunch in the grass; we picked the canoe up, flipped it to empty the water and placed it on the river; I replaced our lunch in the bottom; Mark got in; I got in; and over we went.

I caught our lunch before it had floated too far and tossed it on the bank. We hoisted ourselves out of the river, picked the canoe up, flipped it to empty the water, and placed it on the river; I grabbed our lunch; Mark got in; I got in; and…over we went.

Thus far, I had been keeping my temper in check. This time I blew—though I didn’t yell at Mark directly, despite being angry with him for not balancing each time I got in. However, I was letting loose the expletives—and this was just our fourth date. I didn’t think that at the time though.

I grabbed our lunch before it had floated too far. I tossed the lunch on the bank and climbed from the water. Canoes floated past filled with boys about 10 years old, paddling slowly, jaws hanging, eyes wide, staring at me. I’m sure they heard nothing they hadn’t heard before. Perhaps they hadn’t heard all those words strung together so creatively. I shut up.

Hands on hips and with a sigh, I told Mark I needed to rest a minute; my arms were almost spaghetti after hoisting myself from the water three times and flipping the canoe twice already. Eventually, we picked it up and flipped it and I got in first this time. This time we were good—until the rapids farther downstream. The river was shallow there, thank goodness.

That evening after Mark had gone home, I thought about how much I was starting to like him. But, I honestly thought we’d just had our last date. Would he want to continue seeing someone who loses her cool as I had done?

You know how it turned out. He thought the whole thing—except the canoe capsizing—was funny.

Had he known I flipped us on purpose, the ending might be different. I didn’t tell him until we were married.

My tolerance for boors in Belize? Two days

2011-02-15T17:33:00.000-08:00

Have you ever attended a function and been stuck at a table with a braggart? Or flown cross-country confined next to Chatty Cathy—with pictures of her pet parakeets? You endured it because you saw the end. Once the evening was over or you deplaned, you’d never have to see the boor again.

Welcome to our first two days in Belize.

Flight delays get us in late, with just enough time to drop our bags and splash water on our faces before dinner. We’re staying at a small place where guests dine family style.

Molly, who arrived early that day, had already started her meal. She regaled us with her relaxing day by the pool, having staffers cater her glasses of wine.

She’s used to being waited on, not waiting for: When the driver who collected her from the airport asked if she’d mind waiting half an hour for another couple (us), she told him she intended to begin her vacation right away. Without apology, she tells us she refused to wait. Never mind that the transfer from the airport is 80 minutes. Thank goodness we arrived late.

She is a retired teacher from the Northwest wintering in Florida—“So this is a vacation from a vacation,” she boasts. When she leaves here, she’s off on a 12-day snorkeling cruise. Oh, she loves to snorkel. And ski too. She can’t walk well. Bad knees, she admits. But she can still ski. She loves to ski. Loves it.

Molly and Mark and I are all visiting Tikal tomorrow, across the border in Guatemala. Tikal is one of the largest sites of ancient Mayan civilization. The lodge owner tells us that we’ll leave at 6 a.m.

For the three transfers to Tikal, Molly perches in the passenger seat. She is nonstop talk with the drivers. Asking the names of each river we cross, of trees we pass.

In our four-hour transfer, we see several cop cars. “Po-LEET-cia!” Molly chirps. Each driver corrects her, “Po-li-SEE-a.” Molly repeats, “Po-LEE-cia” She drops the t sound but doesn’t change the accented syllable. And the next time a police car approaches? “Po-LEET-cia!”

To further impress us, she explains, “I spend a lot of time in Italy. My Italian creeps into my Spanish.”

Our driver, Edgar, leaves his vehicle in Belize; fumigation and inspection would take too long. So we walk across the border to a new driver.

Edgar hops in the passenger seat of the van. Molly protests. Edgar holds his ground, and Molly climbs into the front bench seat. I have the next, Mark the next, and there’s still another behind.

We take off, and Molly can’t settle, making a show of how awkward it is for her to sit somewhere besides the passenger seat. She asks if the middle part of the front, between driver and passenger, can fold down because she’s claustrophobic. Edgar says something in Spanish to the driver, the van stops, Edgar and Molly get out and Molly maneuvers into the passenger seat. Edgar shifts himself behind Mark.

Molly’s so satisfied, sitting up front. However, her discomfort is obvious again as she reaches all around. “Can’t this seat go back?” she calls. Edgar says it can’t. Molly harrumphs.

Our driver speaks no English. This lack of audience slows Molly’s chatter but she manages to engage him some: “Po-LEET-cia!”

“Po-li-SEE-a,” he corrects.

“Po-LEE-cia.” She ignores him.

At Tikal Molly hires a vehicle from which to tour the park. Mark and I hike it. We meet up four hours later for a meal, which is included for tour groups. Molly impresses upon us that she had to wait for us “for 40 minutes!” She likely tried to pay Edgar to take her back without us.

He convinced her to relax in one of the hammocks there to ease her wait. With a sharp turn of attitude, Molly says her rest “was wonderful!”

Tonight our lodge serves fajitas. On our plates sits a mound of rice surrounded by a stew of veggies and meat. Molly squawks to the proprietors, who are eating with us, “I thought we were having fajitas? This isn’t fajitas.”

“It’s the Belizean version of fajitas.”

Molly complains further, “It’s not what I expected.”

“I’m sorry. I should have told you that some of the dishes we serve are variations of what you’re used to.”

“It’s very good!”

I roll my eyes.

With a disgusted look on her face and tone in her voice, Molly continues, “This wine is NOT good.”

The owners tell her it’s from the same bottle from which she drank yesterday, about which she exclaimed only good. She seems unconvinced yet lets the subject drop.

Sitting next to Molly, the owners’ five year old coughs twice. “Is he sick? Because I can’t be sick for my 12-day snorkeling cruise. We’re going to all these different islands and ports, and I can’t be sick.”

Eying her child, who lowers his head and grins, the mother assures Molly, “This is a new development.” She looks at the father, who shrugs. “If he were sick, we wouldn’t have joined you for dinner.”

I remind myself that Molly’s here only half a day more.

Molly was tolerable for two days. She’s now a joke, a caricature of how many in the world view American tourists. Over dinner, we and the owners talk of Molly, relieving ourselves of the frustration and shared pain. It’s fun. For the next few days, the staff and drivers join the fun too. Molly made an impression.

At-home comfort in the Belizean jungle

2011-02-08T19:40:00.000-08:00

For nine nights straight we had ice cream for dessert. Sometimes with a piece of cake or brownie. I felt not the least guilty for the indulgence because each dessert capped an adventurous day’s activities, like hiking or riding horseback through the jungle, snorkeling, rappelling from a cliff, advancing through a cave in chest-high water or climbing ancient Mayan temples.

We were in Central America at the Belize Jungle Dome, a perfect, inland, rural location within driving or walking distance of all our activities. The Dome (an actual geodome) is intimate with five rooms, most of which are set for as many as four guests. Most do not stay as long as Mark and I. In our nine nights, guests stayed for two, three, four and even one night, though the proprietor told me that ordinarily the Dome does not accommodate one-night bookings. An exception was made in that case because it was a family of six reserving two rooms.

The proprietors of Jungle Dome, Simone and Andy Hunt, live next door, and one or the other ate dinner with us most nights, asking about our daily adventures and sharing theirs. They have two boys, 8 and 5. Three or four nights of our stay, the whole family joined us for pizza, barbeque chicken, stir fry, fish, whatever was served. They’ve flown a chef in a couple times to work with the Jungle Dome Latina cooks, and it’s obvious. All the freshly made dishes have a local taste with European flair.

Before guests retire for the evening, Simone or Andy confirms the following day’s activities: what time they are getting picked up, by which driver, what time they would like breakfast. For our free day, which I’d scheduled between all the action, I confirmed with Simone a relatively late breakfast and mentioned that I’d let it settle before doing yoga at 9 a.m. She asked if she could join me. We practiced on the large porch that fronted Mark’s and my room. It was like having a friend over, which made me feel even more at home.

Our free day was a Saturday so the whole family was about. Mark and I took to passing our ring in the front field. (I’ve mentioned our ring in previous stories. It’s like a Frisbee but is a ring, not a disc, and can be thrown accurately for greater distance.) Soon eight-year old Lucas joined us and quickly perfected the throwing technique. Lucas liked the ring so much, we left it for him.

One later morning Mark and Lucas passed the ring for 20 minutes, and little Aidan joined too, before Andy drove them to school. When the boys returned from school, we all walked down to the river than runs behind the Dome.

We’d earlier heard stories of Lucas pulling in loads of catfish. Lucas and David, a pleasant El Salvadorian staffer, cut pieces off a small fish for bait and then cast their lines. Aidan chanted in his made-up language and danced, or trekked around the corner in grass up to his shoulders and came back to tell us of his adventures with the werewolf and vampire he’d encountered. Or, he’d climb a tree or get dangerously close to the river’s edge before his dad would call him back.

Later Simone came to hang out. It was a perfect scene that I think we all wanted to prolong. But the bugs pushed our tolerance beyond the limit. Back to the Dome after an hour. We had to clean up before dinner anyway.

Belize Jungle Dome is a comfortable place made more so by owners Simone and Andy Hunt. The hired helpers made our experience tops too. I’ve mentioned David. He was so accommodating, making sure we were comfortable and safe. Once, he drove us and his wife to a local market. After perusing the offerings, we couples, like long-time friends, had a double-date lunch at a sit-down restaurant near.

We spent hours in the van with Albert, a friendly, freelance tour guide who took us to and from the airport and many of our adventures. Through him, we learned about Belize’s history, flora and fauna.

Also making us feel welcome our entire stay were Rocky and Dinero, the two dogs who hung out on our porch or laid nearby as we read by the pool.

Staying at the Belize Jungle Dome is like vacationing with friends. For a trip customized to your interests, e-mail the Hunts at info@belizejungledome.com. If your cruise ship is visiting, arrange a personalized day of fun at Albert_Garbutt@yahoo.com.

Food and fun at the Alaska State Fair

2011-01-24T15:42:00.000-08:00

Radio DJs across the state provide regular updates to how the pregnant pig is fairing. She’s a couple days overdue. Mark and I saw her in her pen at the Alaska State Fair, looking lifeless and laid out—almost belly up—on a bed of straw. Swollen teets exposed in two neat rows, she was HUGE, seeming eight feet long.

The day at the state fair in September was perfect: clear skies and temps in the high 70s.

Our fist stop was at a small stage outside the grandstand. A juggler/comedian pull kids from the bleachers to be part of his tricks. State fair stuff, but it was funny.

Pigs racing through a maze sounded crazy fun. The event drew quite the crowd, however, Mark and I failed to see any entertainment in it. The pigs, after all, were not aware they were racing and did not seem interested in progressing around the first turn let alone finishing the maze. We walked off in search of fair fare (i.e, food).

Most everything seemed so expensive, like major-league ballpark prices. Between us we got a buffalo sausage dog with mustard and onions, corn on the cob, crab cakes and crab bisque for $23. We accepted a free bottle of water from a politician who was handing them out to would-be supporters then sat low in one of three sets of bleachers in a grassy area on the border of the fairgrounds and waited for the lumberjack show. While eating, we gazed at the mountain range visible in the distance on this clear day. What a setting for a fairgrounds! We bet Alaskans take the scenery for granted.

Though this was our second time in Alaska, we’d never seen a lumberjack show, and we were excited to see it. The MC, 23 years old at most, carrying a microphone, walked from behind the temporary stage wearing red-and-black checked flannel and suspenders. He welcomed us and set a false rivalry by assigning each set of bleachers a local town, Wasilla, Anchorage or Palmer, and warmed us up by seeing who could give the loudest lumberjack yell. Mark and I had no idea what the lumberjack yell was.

“Okay Wasilla, three-two-one,” and the MC threw his hand out at them like he was showing a contestant what’s behind door number 3.

Seeming as if they had practiced, everyone sitting in the assigned Wasilla bleachers resounded a deep “Yo-hooooooooe.” Mark and I looked at each other laughing. Then it was Anchorage’s turn. The MC counted down and motioned to us all to yell. Still unsure, Mark and I stayed quiet while all around us folks shouted “Yo-hoooooooooe.” Again, we laughed.

At their turn, people in the Palmer stands yo-hoed too, and by the end of the show, Mark and I were yo-hoing with everyone else, like we were Alaskan, born and bred.

The MC introduced three lumberjacks, all as young as he and also donning the Brawny Man attire, and assigned them to Wasilla, Anchorage or Palmer, as we in the stands had been assigned. We rooted for our guy and booed the others. The jacks threw hatchets at targets, chopped and sawed logs and rolled them in water, climbed poles, carved figures, splashed and played tricks on each other and generally misbehaved, all the while exasperating the MC, who tried keeping them in line. So entertaining was the show, I wished for more when it ended.

Of course Mark and I toured the barns where, besides the pregnant pig, we saw cows, goats, sheep, fowl and rabbits. Other exhibits included painting, sketching, photography, flowers, baked goods and, of course, what I was most looking forward to seeing, the Big Alaskan produce: cabbage, pumpkin and gourds. The winning cabbage was the size of an over-inflated basketball wrapped in a couple layers of bubble-wrap, resting on leaves the size of pillowcases.

We ended the day with an equestrian show. Horses ran in circles as acrobats artistically hopped on and off their backs. Or, one fellow stood balanced on a running horse’s back while a beautiful performer stood on the fellow’s shoulders. It was all interesting for 10 minutes. We watched for 20, hoping for something different, but something different never came.

Two days past the pig’s due date, hundreds of miles to the northeast, we heard an update on her health. Now, four days after our fun at the fair, as we head into Denali National Park, in another part of the state entirely, the DJ announces that the pig has had her piglets.

Only in Alaska does a pregnant pig hold state-wide interest. Despite its vastness, Alaska’s a small state.

Four years and 59 stories

2011-01-05T13:34:00.001-08:00

I recently read Crossing the Gates of the Arctic by Dave Metz. The book details the author’s several-month trip on foot across northern Alaska. He faced cold, wetness and hunger. But the guy is an experienced all-weather camper and long-distance hiker so none of the hardships came as a surprise. I left a review of the book online and ended it this way: “The trip the author describes went off pretty much as planned, which makes for great travel and is a testament to the guy's intelligence and preparedness. However, it makes for a less than exciting book for us vicarious adventure junkies.”

I feel the same about my own travel writing: If I take a trip where everything goes off without a hitch, I wonder if I can squeeze an interesting article from it. I measure how exciting a trip I had by how many travel articles I get from it. My husband and I were in Texas for five days in 2009, and I wrote six stories from our experiences! That was a fun-filled vacation! On the other hand, we’ve been to more than 70 national parks/monuments/historic places, yet this is only my 59th travel story for the Chronicle, and less than half of those are about national park units.

Always our vacations are enjoyable. However, only sometimes are they exciting and worthy of writing about.

My favorite national park is Canyonlands in Utah. We visited in 2004. It was Mark’s favorite too until the next day when we drove into Arches. Later that week we crossed the state to Bryce Canyon National Park, and Mark changed his favorite again. But it doesn’t stop there: Mr. Wishy-washy could not resist the immense, unfathomable beauty of our final national park of that vacation and to this day calls the Grand Canyon his favorite.

We experienced more than 20 national parks on that 19-day adventure, and, despite the fact that many of the parks are our favorites and offered so much, I think I wrote only three articles: about Hubble Trading Post, Petrified Forest and a mule ride into the Grand Canyon. It was a great trip, full of beautiful things we’d never seen before, but besides scenery, not much out of the ordinary happened.

When vacations go perfectly as planned, there’s little to write about to keep readers’ interest. On trips, I physically push myself and test the line of safety because—as I mentioned in my review of the book—I’m a low-level-adventure junkie. And because I want to do something worth writing about.

If I weren’t writing this column, would I have jumped into the New River from a West Virginia rock three stories tall—which resulted in a huge bruise on the back of my thigh? Would I have gone on the jumpy kids’ ride at the festival in Atlanta—even though I’m frightened of falling? Would I have gone hiking in the spring rain in the rain forests of Washington state—when I knew the trails had not been maintained? And this is all within the past year!

In my 30s and younger I have no doubt that I would have attempted these stunts without provocation. Now that I’m in my 40s, it’s easy to bow out using age as an excuse. But, readers, I thank you for providing me the inspiration to keep challenging myself—in hopes that my experience will be worthy of words.

This month marks my four-year anniversary of writing this column. You can look forward to at least another 11 months—if I don’t crash and burn within the year.

The scare at Green Lake: Part II

2010-12-07T11:07:00.000-08:00

The boys make me uncomfortable. Who knows how long they have been up here before I got here, to Green Lake in Mount Rainier National Park? More than 20 minutes before, anyway, because I stopped at the trailhead and ate an apple and talked with a passing hiker before I started my ascent, and they didn’t pass in that time.

They’re not friendly like are most hikers I’ve encountered. And they don’t look like hikers, or experienced ones anyway, wearing sneakers and skinny jeans. And neither has a pack—no water, no food for this 10-mile hike?

After my quick glance across Green Lake, I retreat up the trail 25 feet, lean against a tree and eat my tuna and crackers, not sitting because the only place to sit is where they are. They’re not looking across the lake, not looking anywhere, just loitering at the water’s edge. What are they up to? Skinny lights a cigarette.

In 15 minutes I’ve finished my lunch and packed my trash. I look out at the lake a last time, and I look at the boys. They’re still just hanging out. Football is sitting on a low stump. Skinny is mindlessly flicking his cigarette and wandering a small area, about four feet by two, like he’s guarding a buried treasure. Although I’d like to sit for a spell to rest my legs after that climb, I think it best to give the boys the privacy to do what they came up here to do, so I amble back down the trail.

In less than a minute, as soon as I’m out of direct view, I start running, just in case what they want to do is ambush an unsuspecting hiker.

After five minutes I stop and put my hiking poles in my pack and take off again. I do slow when going down the natural, twisting staircases formed by exposed tree roots and when crossing the stream. This is the second time hiking in the park that I’ve crossed on a bridge that is a felled tree with the upside chipped off to be somewhat even and a rail at one side only. I cross slowly and carefully, with a slight lean to the railed side so that if I lose my footing, I don’t fall in. Once on soft earth, I’m running again.

What fun running down the trail is! I’m on the road in 25 minutes! Coming down I covered the distance 50 minutes faster than climbing! I am psyched! Stoked! My engines are burning! I want to run more downhill! But, alas, it’s a final, flat three miles from here to the car.

Still, I maintain a fast pace—mostly. I trudge the last 5–10 minutes as my adrenaline high has worn off. I am relieved to collapse in my rental.

I drive away from the park, and as soon as I get phone reception, I pull over and call my husband. I don’t even mention the boys and being scared.

I never gave those boys a second thought until I started writing this article. It was so odd, them not having a pack for food or at least drinking water. Maybe they had a tent set up out of view. Boys will be boys, and there’s no guessing what they were up to. I was scared when I started my descent, and that probably prompted production of adrenaline, which fueled my flight down the trail. That run initiated a runner’s high, my second ever but better than the first. I’m ready for another scare.

The scare at Green Lake: Part I

2010-12-07T10:59:00.000-08:00

When I got to my motel room yesterday after my challenging hike at Federation Forest State Park, I got in a hot bath and called my husband on my cell. I told him about the water hazards, the rain that increased in force throughout the morning, about my clothes being supersaturated and making me cold, about how, ironically, the rain stopped once my hike ended. I told him I was abandoning the following day’s plan to hike 9.6 miles in the northwest entrance of Mount Rainier National Park (in Washington state) up to Green Lake; I did not want to be at the mercy of Mother Nature. Then I hung up and soaked until my body temperature rose above what felt like 55 degrees.

Since I’m not hiking today, I take a leisurely start and check out of the motel after breakfast at 8 a.m. I’ll drive south along the western border of Mount Rainier National Park, meander among the small towns, wonder at the lushness of vegetation I’m sure this area sees every spring.

I cannot believe where I end up. With no intended destination or direction to follow, I am at the northwest entrance to Mount Rainier National Park, which is the start of the hike I was intending to take—prior to yesterday’s fiasco.

I park in one of the 16 allotted spaces, half of which are full, and get out. The couple in the SUV next to me take their bikes off the rack and prepare for an 18-mile round-trip ride to Carbon Glacier. That’s where I wanted to go originally, but I didn’t want to chance pooping out after walking 12 miles and being miserable dragging myself the final six.

I enter the visitor center and see that the hike to Green Lake is timed at 5 hours. It’s just after 10 a.m. So, I consider: I feel amazingly fresh, likely because I ended yesterday early and slept in this morning; I’m dressed for hiking—wearing boots, light-weight hiking pants and a long-sleeved thermal top; I have packable food for a mid-hike meal; and, it’s sunny! I’m doing this hike.

At the car I grab the half sandwich I brought back from dinner last night and walk the easy quarter-mile interpretive trail while I eat it. Just after 10 a.m. is early to eat lunch, but I need to fuel up.

Back at my rental I open the trunk, pull out my pack and stuff it with water bottles, an apple, a packet of tuna and crackers. While gearing up, I watch a couple fly-fishermen cast their lines into the Carbon River and reel them in empty. I could spend an hour watching and appreciating the art of fly-fishing—the adeptness of the wrist flip, the languid curve of the line once it’s cast—but now that I’ve committed to this hike, I don’t have a spare hour.

For safety reasons, before my hike I check in with the ranger and give her my license number. She assures me rescue efforts will initiate if my car’s still parked at closing time.

It’s 10:30 a.m. when I walk through the gate and along a paved road closed to traffic. In November 2006 the park flooded, receiving 18 inches of rainfall in 36 hours. The flood wiped out campgrounds, took out utilities and ultimately shut the park down for six months. This entrance has not been reopened to vehicle traffic—thus the gate—and soon I learn why.

The area is crisscrossed with streams and rivers. Running full and overflowing, these waterways buckled the road where they crossed. Sometimes it seems as if the earth burped in one spot, which raised just one side of the road four feet and ripped its edge a foot or two, but other sections look like the warped road was a piece of plastic melted in a microwave over the top of boulder-size popcorn popping. Bikers likely walk their rides through these sections.

Despite my freshness, memories of the previous two days’ hikes make me doubt the ease of this one. The three-mile hike out is level, but I dread the climb to Green Lake. Nor am I looking forward to the three miles back. But, the scenery is beautiful: old trees, thick vegetation, everything green. Same as yesterday in Federation Forest, only because today is sunny, the scene is fairytale-like and I wouldn’t be surprised to see gnomes darting among the moss-covered hillocks or a fairy reclining on a tree stump, drying her wings in one of the few rays that penetrate the canopy.

At the Green Lake trailhead I lean against a guard rail and eat my apple. As I’m finishing, another hiker joins me. He’s making the trek to Carbon Glacier. I tell him I’d personally decided that was too far. He encourages me to join him, but I explain that I just ate half my fuel supply and I’d still have 15 miles to go. He relents and continues east. I head up the rise to Green Lake.

Though I dreaded this climb, it’s not difficult. The exposed, red roots of trees next to the trail form steps in places.

Yesterday’s rains make leaves glisten, and the fallen wood is most beautiful: red like cedar though I’m not sure that’s what it is. The abundance is amazing. Rainier was designated a national park in 1899 or loggers would have decimated this forest long ago.

The 1.8 miles, plus a short spur to an overlook of a powerful waterfall, takes me an hour and a quarter, and with abundant energy, I burst onto the view of Green Lake. I’m spooked by two teenage boys standing near the water’s edge.

The football-player type wears a gray sweatshirt, Levis, sneakers and short hair. The other boy is skinny and wears dark-rinsed skinny jeans, the legs of which hug his skinny sticks down to his skinny ankles. He also wears a black T-shirt under an open plaid shirt and low-top, black Converse. His straight hair is swept over one eye.

I walk to the edge of the lake, sensing that I’ve surprised them too. I try to be cool, nonchalant, as I pass between them: “Wonderful hike, huh?”

Skinny responds with an unintelligible, “Hrm,” while avoiding looking directly at me. I take a cursory view across the water and get a chill—that has nothing to do with the temperature.

To be continued

Spring rains in Washington state dampen hiker’s spirit

2010-11-02T08:32:00.000-07:00

Mt. Rainier is the first National Park my husband, Mark, and I experienced together, 10 years ago. We drove in along a curvy road, shaded by leafy trees thick on both sides. After miles and miles of obscured views and no sunlight, a break in the tree-cover revealed the snow-capped mountain directly in front of us, looming so large Mark slammed on the brakes so we wouldn’t crash head-on into it. An illusion. Mt. Rainier was miles away. So breathtaking and unexpected was the scene, I’ll never forget it.

Unfortunately, yesterday, the first day of my solo hiking adventure, the mountain snuggled in amongst low-lying clouds and fog. It’s what I expected, visiting in springtime. In a mist that lasted all day, I hiked three trails in the National Park—which I had mostly to myself—through snow and over fast streams.

Today I plan an easy drive east along the northern border of the park to Crystal Mt. Ski Area just for the views. On the way back to my motel, I’ll stop at Federation Forest State Park for hiking.

The map shows that Federation Forest is small: two miles in length along State Route 410 to the north and the White River, at my estimate, 100 yards south. It looks like less than five miles of trails crisscross the area. This will be the perfect “easy” day between the 10 miles I did through snow yesterday and the 10 planned for tomorrow.

Plans change: I stop to hike at Federation Forest before heading on to Crystal Mountain.

In the visitor center I watch an hour-long program about Mt. Rainier before stepping out to the interpretive trail in a light rain.

After a looping half mile my jacket and boots have kept me dry. I decide to continue along the White River. The rain intensifies.

I’ve never seen such a thick forest. It’s a rain forest. I never consider going off-trail, but in this place, no one could. There’s no hope of progress off trail. Fallen trees and old wood rot beside ferns and flat-leafed, long-stemmed plants that grow from the ground. A thick, frost-green moss covers both fallen and standing trees and their limbs, like the “grass” from every Easter basket in the tri-county is stapled to every surface.

The spongy trail is pleasant in the steady rain—until the water hazards: stretches of 4–8 feet of unknown depth. The forest’s denseness makes getting around most of these impossible. I have to go through. My first two steps sink only an inch, but my laces are under by the next step. Automatically, the other foot steps forward to rescue the first, and it goes even deeper. Ugh. I’m in it now. This is quite the challenging hike, and I’ve probably come less than two miles. I’d rather hike through snow.

Up ahead, at the convergence of paths, is a white-roofed display of the park’s trails. I step under the roof at the same moment that the rain starts a heavier fall. The map shows that all trails circle back to the visitor center, so I continue in my original direction despite the rain.

Water hazards present themselves about every 50 yards, and at one place, a fallen tree blocks the path. These trees are old. I estimate this one to be five feet in diameter as, on its side, it is upper chest high to me. Again, the forest is too thick to make my way around either end, neither of which I can even see—this was a tall (now is a long) tree. Luckily, the tree took out some younger vegetation as it fell, and right next to it is a fallen tree of two-foot diameter. I step both feet onto the smaller tree, turn my backside to the big tree and hoist myself up. I swivel on my butt on the smooth bark and jump down on the other side—and see a water hazard just ahead. Ugh.

As I’m wearing rugged boots and my hooded jacket hangs to my upper thigh area, I’ve managed to stay dry except for my high ankles to just above my knees. But, now that I’ve sat and swiveled on a wet tree, my comfort has been compromised.

Finally, the end of the trail. Wait. What? “I thought all trails circled back to the visitor center,” I whimper to myself. I must have misread. This trail does end near Route 410. I consider taking the trail back for a flash of a second only; I’ve had enough water hazards.

As I’m crawling up to the road, I see a sheriff’s car coming fast from the east. I honestly consider flagging it down, but I don’t. I’m not that bad off.

I start my walk east along the road. My situation is not desperate enough to stop a sheriff in his duties, but I do wave down a Washington State Parks truck when it comes at me. It was the state park that put me in this condition.

The driver pulls over and, rather than roll the passenger-side window down to talk with me, a 40-something Asian man shifts to Park, gets out and walks around his vehicle, looking at me with concern, like I might collapse. I ask if I’m walking in the right direction and how far it is yet. He says it’s about a mile and asks if I want a ride. Boy, do I want a ride, but I’m not as pathetic as I must look, not bad enough to get in a vehicle with someone I don’t know.

I take off with an actual spring to my step; only a mile to go! A quarter mile further and the rains reach a higher gear still. Thank goodness I’m wearing my light-weight hiking pants. Wet jeans are the worst.

I turn my back to cars speeding by so as not to be met with a face full of spray. Soon I realize though that the backs of my legs had been dry. Now they’re wet. And cold.

However, my body, zipped into my jacket up to my chin, is generating too much heat. I unzip from the bottom and remove my arms from the sleeves but keep the hood up and walk with it open like a cape. Two minutes later I feel like I’ve wet myself. I look down to see that the wet line on my hiking pants has crept as far north as my crotch. By unzipping from the bottom, I made vulnerable my only remaining dry area. UGH!

Oh, and I find out what’s more uncomfortable than wet jeans: walking more than a mile with supersaturated undies bunching up at my behind.

Finally, finally! I see the mailbox for Federation Forest, about a half mile beyond where the ranger said it would be.

Still, mine’s the only car in the lot. I sit in it for a minute to catch my breath before backing out of the space, not even happy to be here because it offers me no relief from my wetness.

All plans to visit Crystal Mountain are off. It’s back to the motel for a hot bath and a call to Mark.

As soon as I get on the road, the rain stops—completely. However unbelievable, it’s true. I sigh and think, “Wow. What a day I’ve had.” And I notice the time. It’s not even noon yet.

Eggtoberfest—Not all it’s cracked up to be

2010-10-27T10:23:00.000-07:00

On the infield at the Atlanta Motor Speedway is where Eggtoberfest is taking place. We arrive just after noon Saturday.

Mark’s wanted a Big Green Egg since this summer. According to the manufacturer, it’s the “world’s best smoker and grill!” But it’s expensive. We didn’t want to pay $1000+ for the cooker and necessary Eggcessories. Mark learns of Eggtoberfest, coinciding with a trip we’ve already planned, where demos are sold at a 29% discount. He reserves one before we leave Ohio.

Upon entrance, everyone gets “goodie” bags filled with coupons; wild-game-and-fish cook books; little Big Green Egg Christmas ornaments from 2007 (we went last month); spicy meat rubs; and Big Green Egg hand towels, T-shirts and commemorative pins and patches.

A couple race cars speed around the track the entire five hours we’re there. Wow, are they loud.

About 70 tented cooking booths are set up, each with at least three Eggs, and if we pass at the right time, we can sample what is cooked. “At the right time” is key, because samples run out quickly. We taste potato soup, sausage, bruschetta, prime rib, salmon, pizza, zucchini, spaghetti squash, a pasta dish and chicken wings. Together, that sounds like a lot, but the samples are tiny.

While we wait for a father/son team’s wings to cook, the father tells us he has had his Egg for one season only, just learned about this Eggtoberfest and decided to participate, a fun way to spend the weekend.

Lots of people must have felt the same because it seems just more than half of the booths provide samples for paying guests. Families sit in folding chairs under their tents, sometimes kids run around, and they cook their lunches on their supplied grills but provide nothing for attendees.

Some booths are peopled by producers of rubs and BBQ sauces, and they cook a steady supply, and cooking demonstrations are scheduled each hour at the stage. But, overall, it’s a letdown.

The musical entertainment is good. One guy, a songwriter, collaborated with Brad Paisley and Jamey Johnson and sings those hit songs plus others. Only about 10 people stand or sit in front of the stage, so we get a quality, semi-private concert.

The cards we received upon entrance say there’s a kids’ “of all ages” area so I take advantage. I don’t go in the bouncy house. At birthday parties for nieces and nephews I enter and throw kids around, which they love, but I think it wise not to do that with strangers’ children. So while Mark hangs back at the concert, I stand in line for the bungee/trampoline jump with about eight kids, none of whom stand taller than my bellybutton.

The contraption is like a slingshot: bungee cords hang from two poles about 25 feet high and attach at the hips to a harness the person wears. The person jumps on what looks like a trampoline but it’s not bouncy, just fabric stretched out.

The operator asks my weight and attaches all the bungees to my harness. I start jumping and wish I had about 40 more pounds on me because getting a good push-off is tough: The bungees are holding me up. Eventually I get in a rhythm of up and down and after five or eight jumps I start a backflip. At the top of the jump I start descending at just half past rotation. I’m head-down and can only see the white sky. I scream. I pull with everything I have on the bungee cords to keep from falling on my head, but of course I finish the rotation before I land. My feet hit off center, and I start in a horizontal direction. I could really get moving this way as the bungees are situated to control vertical movement, not horizontal, but there are people and machinery in front of me, and, I assume, kids and their parents still in line behind me. And Mark too as he’s come over to watch.

I rein my movement in to a mostly vertical plane. I achieve some height in several more jumps and do two more backward flips—with no screaming—before calling it quits. My biceps are as fatigued as I’ve ever experienced, from pulling down on the bungees at my sides—in a fruitless effort to keep myself from falling. Although I’m breathless with exertion and from anxiety, I’m glad I did it.

Mark and I go hang out in our car and wait to pick up our Egg. Cooking stops at 3 p.m. to allow Eggs to cool before pick up, scheduled to start at 5 p.m. However, the line doesn’t move until an hour after that! Tired of sitting, I walk up the line of 40 or so vehicles in front of us. As expected, most are from Georgia, several from Tennessee and one each from Virginia, North Carolina, and Kentucky. I talk to folks in a truck from Ohio, up near Canton. They give me their cell number and agree to transport our Egg if it doesn’t fit in our Saab.

It fits perfectly buckled into the front seat. I ride home in the back with the accompanying Eggcessories. My car still smells like grilled chicken.

Flying penguins? In Georgia?

2010-08-03T14:20:00.000-07:00

“There’s a pink one!” I shouted above the noise from the motor.

The previous morning, Dad, my husband, Mark, and I had set out from Dad’s dock on the Georgia coast with an aim for catching enough fish to make paying for our licenses worth it: $48 apiece, including tax, for a year.

Our first day, on Dickerson Creek, we weren’t having much luck, but when Dad tried to start the motor to move to a different locale, we learned the battery was dead. Dad simply wrapped some sort of string—maybe leather—around something on the motor and pulled, and it belched to life.

We motored back to the dock, then Dad drove into town to buy a new battery, I took a nap, and Mark took a shower.

After Dad had returned and installed the new battery, he and I went fishing without Mark, who opted to stay at the house and watch golf as he’d already cleaned up.

While Dad and I were out tooling along the waterways, he brought my attention to these pink birds that hung out in the trees, roosting with the wood storks. This was his 11th summer in Georgia, and he’d never seen them before. I suggested that they may be juvenile wood storks, but he didn’t go along with that. He pondered what gave the birds their pink color.

We saw at least two or three pink birds with each grouping of the white wood storks but always outnumbered despite the fact that wood storks are a threatened species—meaning not quite endangered yet.

So, the next day, with Mark in the boat, as we motored to a fishing hole, I sat on the bow of the 18-foot Shoal Cat, looking back at the men, who both sat looking forward.

“There’s a pink one!” I shouted over the motor while pointing as a group of wood storks and three pink birds flew low in the sky behind the boat.

Mark’s head made a quarter turn to look in the direction I pointed. Then he thought better of it and faced me squarely and said, “No, there’s not.”

“Yes. It’s a pink one! One of those pink ones Dad and I saw yesterday!”

Mark shook his head and refused to look. I really wanted him to see.

Dad, who couldn’t hear Mark, shouted loud enough to be heard over the motor: “You know, I guess it’s the shrimp or maybe even the krill they eat that gives them a pink color.”

Now, knowing I wasn’t trying to fool him, Mark turned to see the group flying away. He turned back to me and said, “I thought you said ‘penguin,’ and I wasn’t falling for that one.”

“Penguin?” I said, and then I laughed. “I said ‘pink one,’ not ‘penguin’.” I laughed again.

Penguins flying across the sky on a hot August afternoon in Georgia. That is pretty hard to believe.

Rafting West Virginia’s Whitewater

2010-07-14T10:07:00.000-07:00

Balancing on the edge of the raft, floating in a calm section of the New River in West Virginia, I gaze longingly at the huge, nearly white, cubic rocks that border the river on both sides. I love scrambling over rocks. Our guide says we can slip in the water to cool off.

I’m doubting getting out. I wonder how difficult it will be to get back in the raft. Plus, even though the temps are in the 90s, I’m cool enough since running the Class III, IV and V rapids involves lots of splashing. But, Tim goes in. So I do too.

The night before, Tim, my 19-year-old nephew, and I spent the night in a “rustic cabin” at River Expeditions. The cabins sleep a crowded six or a comfortable four if two don’t mind the upper bunk. Before turning in, we relaxed by the pool and, at the table in front of the cabin, ate a dinner we’d packed from home and played cards until we couldn’t see.

After a few minutes floating in our lifejackets, Tim pulls himself up and into the raft with the slightest effort. Our guide motions me to the back of the raft. With no warning, this ponytailed hill-billy bends and, in one motion and with one hand only, grabs onto my lifejacket at the shoulder and pulls me out of the water as easily as a loosely rooted weed, slinging me halfway across the raft. So fun!

Soon our guide tells us we’re approaching a spot where two opposing currents meet to create a vortex. He invites us to jump into the convergence and be “flushed.” Being sucked and held under water doesn’t seem appealing to me, but Tim's up for it, so I am too. I jump only a few feet out into the river from a rock only a couple feet above the roiling surface. The sensation is not scary but comforting: A ribbon of water curls across my right shoulder, down my back, around my waist and trails off my right hip, like a soft embrace. Then the force gently nudges me forward out of the spin, and I pop up. Our guide counts; I stay submerged for 7 seconds. Tim’s down for 10.

We paddle leisurely to the next rapid and learn that the New, one of the few rivers that flow north, originates in North Carolina. Another oddity of the New River is its name. It’s not new at all. It’s the second oldest river in the world—behind the Nile.

The rocks along the river’s edge—some as large as cabins—do open occasionally to a sandy bank where we pull out for lunch. The guides lay out sandwich fixins, chips, bean dip and fruit and remind us to drink plenty of water.

After a quick cleanup, we’re back in our rafts headed up river to a rapid named the hot tub. After crossing it, we turn and paddle back into it, right side and front first, just where Tim and I are stationed. The power and roll of the water is awesome. The side of the raft is sucked under and Tim and I lean towards the river. Just as I’m wondering how we’re going to avoid being pulled in, the rapid releases—and then sucks the raft down again. Over and over. Balancing for my life, holding on to my paddle, I shout to Tim, who’s wearing a big grin, “How long do you think we’ve been here? Like 5 minutes?”

“About a minute,” he yells back over his shoulder.

That’s the difference in perspectives 21 years makes.

Finally, our guide directs us to wait at ready, and at precisely the right time, orders, “Forward one.” Then “Back. Back. Back,” and we break from the rapid’s hold.

Tim’s the first to volunteer for another optional jump—from a rock about three stories high. This is something I would do when I was younger, I think. But I’m not old yet. I slip out of the raft too.

Tim is first, maybe five or eight people in front of me, forging the climb up the rocks. Happy to climb, I follow the wet footprints as well as I can before sliding off the face of a rock and scraping my lower leg. It’s a hard fall, and someone asks if I’m alright. “Yeah,” I answer and continue my way to the top considering that I may be too old for this kind of thing any more.

At my turn to jump, I approach the edge and look down, This is a lot higher looking down than looking up, but I’ll be fine. Bunches of people have done this safely before. I am almost to the point of perfectly psyching myself for a successful jump when a guide yells up, “Let’s go! Come on!”

With no further thought, like reminding myself to hit feet first, I limply step off and fall like a rag-doll. Somewhere about halfway down, my mind comes across the “stay straight” check, but it’s too late. I hit the water, SMACK, in a left leaning, almost seated position.

As I sink deeper into the river, I’m surprised—and relieved—the pain isn’t excruciating. However, as my descent slows and reverses, the pain registers, and I emerge from the water at full scream. Thank goodness for my lifejacket. I float, squeezing my eyes shut a minute before the pain recedes enough that I can move my legs. At my raft, even through the pain, I enjoy the amusement-park-ride-likeness of my guide pulling me into the raft.

I roll up my board shorts over the back of my left thigh. A woman says it looks like a bluish purple spider web, I guess where my veins exploded on impact. Back at camp when I look, it’s pink. A couple hours into the drive home that night, I ask, “What’s it look like now?” Tim’s jaw drops, his eyes widen and he covers his mouth. All he can say is, “Ohhhhhh” and kind of laugh.

The bruise will be my reminder that I might be too old to do some of the thrilling things I did in my 20s and 30s. Undoubtedly, that belief will fade with the bruise.

Made in Oregon

2010-07-06T06:59:00.001-07:00

In May I capped a solo hiking trip to the Northwest by staying with a friend in Oregon. After three days, I said goodbye and drove my rental to the airport for my morning flight home.

Thank goodness I left with plenty of spare time because I used every minute of it.

My boarding pass printed out at the airline’s kiosk, I retrieved a luggage tag for my one bag and dropped it to run through X-ray and be conveyed through to loading.

Not in a hurry, I window shopped before queuing up for screening.

After showing the security guy my boarding pass and ID, I proceeded to the screening conveyors. I pulled two plastic gray bins from the stack and into one placed my GORE-TEX® hooded jacket; my shoes and cell phone went into the other, and I pushed them on their way through screening behind my day pack. Then, in socks, I proceeded through the walk-through X-ray. I passed without incident and turned to retrieve my shoes etc. from the conveyor. A guard holding my day pack asked if it were mine. I said it was.

“You have a couple jars of jam in here that we can’t let you through with.”

Ugh. Earlier at a Portland mall my friend and I visited a store called Made in Oregon, where I bought the jams: one for Mom and one for my mother-in-law for Mother’s Day. And, what made me feel stupid was that my friend had just told me about something similar that happened to her with BBQ sauce as she lay over at the Memphis airport.

“Gather you other belongings and I’ll escort you out,” the guard said to me. “Maybe you can catch your checked bag and stick them in there.”

If only I hadn’t shopped for 10 minutes, I thought.

My suspicions were right: My bag was long gone. The lady at the baggage X-ray suggested I ask a ticketing agent for a little box and check the jams as another piece of luggage. Again, I had my doubts at the possibility.
I explained my predicament, and the ticketing agent said, “That’ll be $25.” The jams themselves were only $13 so I passed on that solution.

Dejected, I walked to screening. I asked the security guy checking my boarding pass and ID if he liked jam. He did, he said, but was not permitted to accept gifts from travelers. Another security fellow heard me and said he’d be happy to dispose of the jams for me (wink-wink). I pulled them from the bottom of my day pack, and the big jam fan saw that they were from Made in Oregon.

“Why don’t you return them there,” he said, pointing behind me to a Made in Oregon store, “and buy them back at the store that’s after screening?”

I loved that idea!
Even though it was a food return—and the store doesn’t take food returns—and I didn’t have a receipt, the lady at the counter processed my return because of my unique circumstance.

Satisfied that the simple solution seemed to be settled, I strode to screening a second time. Oh, wait; actually, at that point, it was my third time. Once again, I removed my shoes, jacket and cell phone. And again, after I passed through the personal X-ray, I saw a security guard with my day pack. Into a phone she spoke: “Supervisor to line 7.” My shoes, phone and jacket were held back, and people behind me were diverted to other lines.

What now?

The supervisor arrived within seconds, and I heard “spent casing.”

Several years ago Dad gave me a spent bullet casing to use as a safety whistle when hiking alone. Blowing across the casing like a bottle opening produces a loud, high whistle. I’ve wondered how wise it is to travel with it, but it’s gone through screening several times. That was the first time a screener honed in on it.

Eventually the rest of my things came through, and a guard, the supervisor and I met—with my pack—off to the side. As the guard scanned the contents of my pack with a special wand, I told the supervisor how ironic this all was because recently published in The ASA Newletter (Applied Science and Analysis, Inc.) was an article I’d written on passenger profiling and the unreliability of screening technologies.

My pack passed the guard’s inspection, he handed me the casing and ran the pack through X-ray one more time.

Cleared for takeoff, I gave the supervisor a business card as he’d expressed interest in reading my article. With my phone in my pocket and my jacket and pack on my back, I hustled to Made in Oregon to re-buy the jams. Too bad the store didn’t sell whistles. I’m getting rid of the casing.

Dog sledding with champions

2010-05-25T05:30:00.000-07:00

Know who Mitch Seavey is? Since 1995, eight times he’s placed in the top 20 in Alaska’s Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race. He won in 2004. Last September I trained some of his dogs.

Well, OK. I didn’t train them, per se, but I was part of their training. I sat on a wheeled, six-seater “sled” that a team of 12 dogs pulled around the Seavey training grounds.

After dropping Mark at the docks in downtown Seward, Alaska, for his deep-sea fishing trip, I arrived at Seavey’s site 20 minutes early. It’s back a gravel drive. Two small wood-slatted shacks sit in a clearing, behind which is a dense, green forest—like a jungle. Such lush vegetation isn’t what I had pictured for Alaska, even in September. The barking coming from the jungle is quite raucous, and intriguing: pure eagerness without a hint of malice or suspicion, making me—and all the other guests who are there early—want to tramp through the jungle to get to the dogs.

Soon enough, a young man gathers the 23 of us waiting guests and splits us into three groups and we follow on the short path back to the barking. The dogs are not barking for us but are voicing their willingness to pull to the drivers unhitching dogs that hauled the last batches of guests around.

On a quarter of an acre, by my estimate, are 86 dogs and their shelters. Each dog is chained to the upper, short end of a pivoting metal rod that stands about four feet tall, allowing them to run around their own house. The houses are simply plastic 55-gallon drums laid on their sides and propped on lengths of 2-x-4’s at both ends to keep them off the ground. Most dogs are active, trotting around their drums, watching the lucky dogs getting hitched to pull, wishing they were going too. Dogs close enough to the action are standing at attention, ears perked, tails high but still, seemingly so interested in the activity of the driver connecting the harnessed dogs to the main pull.

The driver explains that he’s pairing inexperienced dogs next to veteran dogs so that the newbees can learn from them. He also explains that mutts make the best sled dogs. We guests had in mind the sturdy huskies. The mutts look like they have a bit of husky in them, but they appear quite more lean, similar to how muscular sprinters compare to long-distance runners.

As the driver puts each dog into its harness, it’s obvious which are veterans: They flip their front legs, one at a time, into the harness as the driver holds it out. We can imagine them thinking, “OK. I’m in. Fasten this thing and let’s get going. COME ON!”

Other dogs are hesitant, not knowing what to do, and the driver must pick up each front leg and guide it through. The dogs, once in their harnesses, either pull the driver to the sled or are easily led. One, however, seems frightened about the prospect of pulling: ears down, curved back, tail between his legs. Once hooked next to his experienced partner, he seems to loosen up.

The driver takes his spot behind us and, before ordering the dogs to leave, tells us the harnessed dogs that are barking are fairly new to this. The experienced dogs know to conserve their energy.

A tangle of trails leads deeper into the forest, and the 11 dogs deftly follow their leader’s last-second commands: “ha” for left turns, “ghee” for right. Some inexperienced dogs jump the main pull—so that they and their partner are pulling from the same side— and we stop every 3 or 4 minutes so that our driver can correct that. Others have an odd, sideways gait that he says they grow out of.

The ride lasts 20 minutes before the tour continues on to the puppies. Just 18 days old, they don’t have much personality and would rather stay by their mom than be handled. Bummer.

A small stage is next to the puppy area, and upturned pieces of wood serve as audience seating. Most of us stake a stump and watch Robin model gear. Robin, a champion lead dog, has this cushy job now because her paw was injured in a collision with a moose—though she runs occasionally with a young lead dog for training.

You know how some dogs, usually small ones, proudly wear sweaters and hats while others seem embarrassed? Robin was in between, depending on what she was modeling. She was good with the booties and the torso wrap worn to keep dogs warm during the race. But the hat made her hang her head and show her big puppy-dog eyes—literally! The hat was a joke. Racing dogs don’t wear hats. Male dogs do wear wraps to keep their penises warm though.

A driver takes 15,000 booties for 16 dogs to be in the Iditarod. That many wear out in 1000 miles. The booties cannot be made of more durable material because dogs sweat from their paw pads.

I love the show and regret that I have to cut it a couple minutes short because I have tickets to Fox Island for lunch and kayaking this afternoon. I can’t miss the boat.

An easy drive south our first day in Alaska

2010-05-25T05:26:00.000-07:00

We spend most of our first day in Alaska driving south on the Seward Hwy. Just south of Anchorage, the highway runs between ocean to the west and mountains to the east. These mountains are not snow-covered, but to the north we see mountains blanketed with snow. They seem to emerge from the middle of the sea.
Each several-mile segment along the highway offers a hiking opportunity. Mark and I stop for a short hike along a Boy Scout rock trail.

Obviously, few people take the trail; the tall mountain weeds are thick and tough to get through in some areas. We forge our way in and hike to a spot overlooking the highway we just traveled. Up a little dried mud path, past some boulders and young trees, we climb and scramble and slip over rocks: my favorite type of hiking. But the afternoon is wearing on and we have far to go yet.

At Beluga Point we see no whales breeching, but one traveler whose scope is trained to the east lets us look through it to see a mountain goat and her two kids, just white specks to my naked eye. A Harley rider from Michigan, who’s riding north, tells us the Alaska Wildlife Conservation Park, just a little further south, is worth a visit.

We pay $10 apiece to drive through. A small caribou herd grazes; a stinky porcupine roots around; a black bear is being bored; moose, adults and youngsters, lie lined up along the fence; and an owl, an elk and an eagle do what they do. The lone action in the park is in the grizzly-bear encampment.

The three bears have 18 acres to roam, but lucky for us, two, a brother and sister, are hanging out at the homestead: a little cabin with a pond out front. She’s sunning herself behind the cabin, belly-down on a huge log, chin out, eyes closed, limbs dangling. It’s like the entrance fee pays for tranquilizers for all animals except Brother Bear. He’s playing in the pond. We can see a stump barely sticking up from the water, and he is just to the side of it jumping on all four paws on what we assume to be a branch he’s trying to break off. He’s enjoying himself and putting on quite a show. But we have far to go yet.

I drive to give Mark and break, and soon we’re right behind a tour bus. Great. Seriously, great because it slows us down and I can enjoy the scenery. (Mark’s resting.)

Mountains abut both side of the highway, and the glaciers among them are more plentiful the further south we’ve come. From what I see in my side mirror, the ride north is going to be even more spectacular.

Are circuitous routes an airline industry ploy?

2010-05-25T05:17:00.000-07:00

It’s never made sense to me why a flight costs less the more legs to it there are. Mark and I weathered two layovers on a recent trip to Anchorage, Alaska: one in Atlanta, one in Seattle. Making two stops cost $100 per person less than making only one stop. The cost of a direct flight was so prohibitive that had we chosen that route, only one of us would have made the trip. It was that expensive.

Why flying multiple layovers doesn’t make sense—

1. The more layovers, the more chances the airline has to lose the bag.

2. We got drinks and snacks on each leg, sometimes twice, and though the expense of 15 peanuts and a Coke is minimal, the cost multiplied by a million travelers adds up.

3. Flying the close-to 450-pounds that equals Mark, me and our luggage to superfluous airports has to carry a cost.

4. We earned frequent flier miles for each leg of the trip. The more free travel earned, the less profit for the airline, I would think.

5. Personnel had to check us in—scan our boarding passes—each time we got on a plane. Baggage handlers had to unload and route our checked bag (one great big bag for the both of us). It’s my understanding that airlines charge a (what I call) annoyance fee for each bag checked and prefer folks

o make reservations online

o use the Internet to precheck-in up to 24 hours prior to flight

o collect their boarding passes and baggage claim numbers from kiosks at the airport

All this, I presume, is so that use of employees is minimized. So why program in multiple legs of a trip and the resulting overuse of personnel when a direct—or more direct—flight would minimize that employ?

Where is the efficiency in this? What’s the advantage? Honestly, I can think of no reason that every effort isn’t made on the part of the airlines to get folks to fly direct. It seems like such a money saver, but I’m surely missing something. They wouldn’t prefer we take multiple flights to reach our destinations simply to inconvenience us. Would they? If anyone can enlighten me, I’d love to hear from you. libbi@elizabethevansfryer.com. I will share thoughts in a future article.

The San Antonio Stock Show & Rodeo: What a Ride!

2010-02-02T04:44:00.000-08:00

The San Antonio Stock Show & Rodeo is a two-week event that every year draws prime entertainers from across the States. The rodeo performers may not be the best, but every night afterwards is a free concert by the likes of Alan Jackson, Taylor Swift, or Montgomery Gentry. Mark and I schedule our flight and make reservations to see the Goo Goo Dolls. However, we realize a week before we are to leave that I have scheduled the remainder of our trip based on the belief that the Goo Goo Dolls are performing a day earlier than they actually are. Mark calls and has our tickets changed with no penalty. But, instead of the Goo Goo Dolls, we see Stars of Texas, the most no-name performers of the two weeks. Mark has heard of one of the four.

Mark is confused over whether the venue is the Alamodome or at the AT&T Center—or even if there’s a difference between the two (there is). Also, because of my earlier confusion with the dates, we have to collect tickets at will-call, and there is a mix-up, which delays us further. But we do get to the show in time to see the last five riders in Mutton Bustin’, where youngsters ride sheep.

The sheep are sheared so as to leave a ring of wool across their shoulders for riders, ages 5–9, to cling to. Some kids fall off right away, some bawl, some simply get up and walk away and some ride from one end of the ring to the other, beginning atop but ending aside the sheep. Really fun to watch.

After that, fellas with names like Waylon, Heith and Tuf buck around on broncos and bulls and rope and wrestle calves. The ladies race their steeds around barrels. There is even an intermission during which about 10 teenagers chase as many calves around the ring. The object is to get a rope around the calf’s neck by any means possible and pull or coax it across a line. Calves are surprisingly stubborn, and most can’t be reasoned with, we can see.

Each event is as fun to watch as the next, and the announcers for the entire show add their own humor. There isn’t a bad seat in the house. Plus, the evening ends with a concert. Totally worth $25 a seat.

We have so much fun that, once back at our hotel, we jump online at the complimentary computer center and make reservations to go to the rodeo the night before our flight home.

Our last night, after a couple days exploring Big Bend National Park and the afternoon driving across LBJ’s ranch, we drive into town and to the AT&T Center in time to pick up our tickets and see the entire rodeo.
The evening ends in a concert by Brooks and Dunn. I’m not that familiar with their music, but I do recognize several songs. True entertainers, they sure put on a show worth watching. We feel lucky that they’re playing on this, our final night in Texas.

Texas's I-10 to LBJ Ranch

2010-01-26T08:14:00.000-08:00

To get back to San Antonio in time for the rodeo tonight, Mark and I leave Terlingua, Texas just after 6 a.m. Terlingua is outside the western entrance to Big Bend National park.

Mark’s driving, and once on I-10, I read to him from our handy AAA roadmap the distances between cities: 125 miles to Ozona, another 35 to Sonora, and Junction is 55 miles beyond that if he wants to push our luck. He ignored my suggestion to fill up before we got on the highway. Who knows if these towns marked on the map will even have filling stations?

Before we left on this trip to Texas, my dad warned of the desolation: lots of highway with no towns and not a lot to see. Halfway to Ozona, with Mark in control and my fill of viewing cactus and tumbleweed, I tilt the seat back and nap.

I awake about 90 minutes and 120 miles later and start chatting. Mark’s terse responses clue me in that he’s not quite his laid-back self. I see the low gas light illuminated.

“You didn’t get gas in Sonora?!”

“It wasn’t right off the highway, and I couldn’t remember how far you said the next town was. I thought we could make it.”

“You ‘thought’? Do you still think we’ll make it?

“The light came on about 50 miles ago. Signs say Junction’s about 25 miles further.”

That’s not an answer, but now I’m in the same mind as he is: Maybe we’ll make it, maybe we won’t.

After 4 hours and 40 minutes on the road, Mark exits the highway into Junction, Texas and fills our 12.5-gallon tank with 12.3 gallons of gasoline. He jokes, “We weren’t that low after all.

Into Johnson City about 1 p.m., we stop to tour the LBJ ranch.

Mark and I watch the introductory film, an engaging video tour of the place that LBJ and Ladybird made for TV in 1963, before forging the bridge across the water that fronts the 2,700-acre ranch. Lyndon Baines Johnson, our 36th President, grew from humble beginnings.

Buffalo graze in the fields. A show barn has a horse, a bull and a calf in pens. A sign reads “Don’t touch animals,” but they walk up to their respective gates when we pass, and I can’t resist.

The visitor center loaned us a CD about LBJ’s life that we listen to as we drive the ranch. He was the oldest of five, graduated high school at 15, worked a couple years and then went on to college like his mom wanted. He worked all during school too.

Impressed with what LBJ had made of himself, we return the CD and aim south. Despite the stop-and-go traffic, we arrive in San Antonio in time to clean ourselves up and go out to eat before the rodeo.

At Grady’s BBQ patrons place their orders before sitting, yet a waitress delivers the food. We order. Mark can’t pass up the special “Bucket of Beer.” Five bottles for some ridiculously low price.

We choose a booth, and just after we sit, the waitress sets in front of Mark a little metal bucket full of ice and four beers. She unceremoniously places the fifth bottle on the far side of the bucket, almost like an apology, and leaves.

Mark pulls a bottle from the ice, twists the cap off, takes a swig, grabs the lone bottle and shoves it down into the ice as far as it’ll go.

I wrinkle my brow, pondering the presentation. “You’d think that if they have a special on a bucket of beers, then they’d have bigger buckets to fit all five beers. Or, she could serve you the beer that didn’t fit; twist the top off for you, like it was meant not to fit in the bucket.” Mark sees my point.

After our imbibing, he hands over the keys, and I drive us the two miles or so to the AT&T Center. We are early enough that we can inspect the fair area. Not much going on this late in the day. I buy a cone of frozen custard, and we walk next door to our seats in the Center.

What a satisfying ending to a five-day whirlwind vacation: a rodeo that ends with a concert by Brooks & Dunn. We just sit back and relax now.

A day of hiking in Big Bend National Park ends most perfectly

2009-11-04T05:06:00.000-08:00

The best echoing I’ve ever encountered is in the Santa Elena Canyon in Big Bend National Park in Texas. Mark and I hike 1.7 miles in along the U.S.-side of the Rio Grande. At the end of the trail, the canyon walls are only 25 feet or so apart. I shout “Ruth,” and listen to it bounce back and forth. “Bruce” is another good name for echoing.

The Rio Grande isn’t as grand as we had anticipated, at least not at this time of the year. This area gets about 10 inches of rainfall annually but frequently floods because it lacks soil to soak up the rain. The rainiest months are July, August and September.

A fairly easy hike is across the desert to Mule Ear spring. Appropriately named, the rocks stick up, are pointed at the top and are perfectly spaced and slightly curved in toward one another to resemble the ears of a horse. In my opinion, they are not tall enough for a mule’s ears.

The spring, about the size of a big hot tub, is an invigorating temperature for this desert heat—even in February—and clear. Two frogs sit at the edge, and two jump in. Mark and I wonder how many cowboys stopped to refill and refresh here at this ideal oasis.

Surprisingly, this desert has many springs, or, if not springs, nice, moist areas that the leafy, green trees spotting the desert make evident. Trees require more water than cacti, which is why deserts are not full of trees.

The hike to Mule Ear spring—our third of the day after the hike into Santa Elena Canyon and our early morning, 2 miles round trip to Burro Mesa Pouroff—pushes me to my poop-out point. I sleep the half hour drive to Chisos Basin visitor center plus another 20 minutes in the lot while Mark reads.

Somewhat refreshed, in the visitor center we ask for advice for how to spend our last few hours in the park. I tell a ranger we are thinking of hiking the Window trail. She says that both the upper and lower Window trails are 4–5 miles and asks if that’s what we have in mind. I tell her we’d hiked more than we’d planned that morning, 9-plus miles, but I say yes, that’s about what we were looking to do.

I imagine her sizing us up and deciding we don’t have 4–5 miles left in us; she suggests the Lost Mine trail at 2.4 miles. It’s her favorite hike in the park, she says. To me, 2.4 miles sounds perfect.

Mark drives the mile to the Lost Mine trailhead. He loads the backpack with water while I read the trail guide. “Pack some energy bars too,” I tell him. “It’s 2.4 miles, one way.”

The trail guide suggests the tired attempt the first mile only. I consider this. However, after a mile I feel strong enough for another 1.4-mile climb. We pass a man resting who tells us “It’s worth the effort.”

The trail is steep, and with more than half a mile yet, I am not sure anything could make this effort worthwhile: My lungs are burning and my legs feel as heavy as cinderblocks. Mark tramps ahead, which motivates me to, if not keep up, at least keep him in site.

Finally, at the top the trail flattens and opens to a lookout. I collapse on a rocky outcropping, out of breath and gumption. Looking at my surroundings, I realize the climb was worth it. The panoramic view is spectacular this clear day: the reddish-brown mountains across from us, the views to the left off to distant peaks, huge rocks jutting out all around, the comfortable, refreshingly light breeze. I’ve never been more perfectly rewarded.

This has been the most unique hike for our ultimate day in the park. I understand why it’s the ranger’s favorite. Despite the climb, it’s my favorite now too.

First day in Big Bend National Park is a bust

2009-10-29T05:15:00.000-07:00

Hundreds or even thousands of years ago, Native Americans, before trying to conceive, would pray at what is now called Balance Rock at Big Bend National Park in Texas. Well, I don’t know this for fact, but it’s a reasonable assumption. The rock, bigger than a stand-alone freezer, is supported at one end by what looks to be a giant penis. I find no literature to confirm my suspicion about Indians praying for fertility, but the symbolism is hard to miss.

Mark and I almost miss Balance Rock because he zooms past its access road on our way out of the park. “Hold on! Turn around!” The day is still fresh enough as the sun has not yet met the horizon, but Mark is less than excited to witness more of what the park has offered so far: desert, desert plants, and the Rio Grande. This late afternoon, Balance Rock is a welcome change.

Our day starts excitingly. A javelina is rooting roadside as we drive into the park this morning. A javelina looks like a small wild boar but is more closely related to hippopotamus. They are about two feet tall at the shoulders. A roadrunner crosses our path too. Texans call roadrunners paisanos (pie-SAH-nos). Along a trail, Mark sees a snake.

Unexpectedly to us, Big Bend’s desert is loaded with botanicals: prickly pear cactus, yuccas, juniper trees, even patches of grass. More than 1000 species of plant.

We make the customary stops at visitor centers, eat our picnic lunch at a trailhead and take several short hikes.

One hike along the Rio Grande to a slot in a canyon passes a Mexican selling carvings and felt artwork. A ranger told us that we would likely encounter this muchacho. It wasn’t so much a warning, but she encouraged us to ignore him as he should not be on the U.S.-side of the Rio Grande. I look at the man’s wares but buy nothing.

Near the end of the trail, at river’s edge, we are serenaded from the Mexican side by a man we also expected, thanks to the heads-up from the ranger. According to sources, he’s a bit loco. Loco or not, his voice is lovely. The highlight of the day so far.

The Rio Grande here is neither deep nor wide. Mark, in his Gortex boots, wades out atop the rocky bed.

The Rio Grande is absent in other parts of the park where it usually runs during rainy season. The wettest months are July, August and September. Cracks in this February’s dry riverbed are 4–5 inches deep.

Our first day in the park ends with a hike at the Balance Rock area. We hope the southern and western parts of the park, which we’ll explore tomorrow, offer scenery as interesting. The eastern side of Big Bend has been a bust.

Friendliness overcomes desolation in Marathon, Texas

2009-10-11T19:45:00.000-07:00

Driving in Texas near the Mexican border, Mark and I are stopped by a uniformed officer with a German shepherd. The dog sniffs around the exterior of our car and the officer visually scans the back seat, which is a mess of snacks, jackets, magazines and sunscreens. Neither finds anything suspicious. We confirm that we’re U.S. citizens when asked, and I suppose we seem rather harmless because he takes our word for it, doesn’t ask for IDs.

Westward ho! Our destination is Big Bend National Park.

At 6:45 p.m. we arrive in Marathon, population 455, the town nearest the north entrance to Big Bend. Neither of the two motels here have vacancies. The next town west is more than 30 miles away, and who knows if it has lodging? The last intersecting road was 55 miles east, and there was a little motel, but we really don’t want to backtrack 55 miles and then in the morning drive it west again plus another 30 miles into the park.

The proprietress at the later motel we check in Marathon must recognize the desperation on our faces and calls a friend. Whew! The friend leases us a place in the little neighborhood for the night.

We’re mighty hungry, and it looks like the only place we can purchase food, besides a small grocery, is a bar packed with locals. Mark and I sit at the bar and order every dish they are serving that night: pulled pork sandwich, wings, and quesadillas. He gets a beer, I get a cranberry juice, and we talk with the twenty-something bartender, Matthew, who’s lived in Marathon for 10 years.

I ask what he does for fun in such a small, isolated place. “Lots,” he says. “The young people meet for game night once a week, I’m in a band.” At this, I wonder what venues they possibly could play, so far removed from anywhere. “We go hunting sometimes.”

“With a gun or bow?” I ask.

“With guns.”

“So you own a gun?”

Matthew shrugs and shakes his head. He stammers as if embarrassed, like he has to hunt with his pump BB gun while his friends blow game away with bazookas: “Well, not…well, just the basics—a rifle, a shotgun and a pistol.”

Someone from the other end of the bar shouts an order, and Matthew busies himself filling it while Mark and I look at each other wide-eyed and grin in disbelief. The basics? I guess it’s true: You don’t mess with Texas.

Remembering the Alamo and other historical places

2009-10-06T11:51:00.000-07:00

Remember the Alamo? Neither did I until we visited. We buy audio tours for $5 apiece. I’d have wanted to read everything if we didn’t.

Supporters from many states arrived to help defend the fortification. Even Rhode Island, Vermont, New Jersey and Maryland all sent one man. Ever optimistic, the Alamo defenders never gave up hope that reinforcements would come any day; sadly, every last white man died. But the Mexicans spared most women and children and the few fighting black men.

A woman whose leg had been injured in the battle walked 75 miles to deliver news of the defeat. The Mexicans were defeated soon after the Alamo, and Texas gained its independence—for 10 years until it joined the United States.

In San Antonio Mark and I brush up on our knowledge of the Alamo and attend the rodeo before driving west.

After an early afternoon picnic at Amistad National Recreation Area, we drive halfway across a dam just for the view. We don’t go all the way because the other side is Mexico, complete with border guards. The crossing is not at all busy; no car passes in either direction the few minutes we are on the dam.

I would love to cross the border, just for the experience, but, alas, we did not bring our passports, now required for entry into Mexico.

So on westward. Our destination is Big Bend National Park, smack-dab in the middle of Nowhere, South Texas, but for a diversion we stop at Seminole Canyon State Park and take a guided hike 1 mile into the canyon to a rock shelter with pictographs, dated to 4,000 years ago.

From a park brochure “Seminole Canyon received its name in honor of the U.S. Army’s Seminole-Negro Indian Scouts…. The scouts protected the West Texas frontier from marauding Apache and Comanche bands between 1872 and 1914. Known for their exceptional cunning and toughness, no scout was ever wounded or killed in combat, and four earned the prestigious Medal of Honor.” The four earned their medals after rescuing their captain, a white, from his band of about 75 captors. Four vs. 75, and they all survived!

The guide leads us past certain plants and cacti and tells us how the canyon inhabitants made use of them in the exhausting heat, a heat that is obvious on the canyon floor this February afternoon. It’s so hot I find it difficult to concentrate on what the guide is saying. It’s hard to think of anything besides the heat and how to escape it. I consider plopping down and rejoining the tour on their climb out of the canyon, but the shelter with the paintings is only about 100 yards further, and that’s the nearest shade as well.

A line of pictographs runs the entire length of the overhanging rock. They are of a resin of mineral pigment in animal fat or in urine and painted with fibrous plant leaves. Supposedly, these are some of the best examples of rock paintings in the world.

The guide says that scientist continue to learn more about people who lived there. For instance, weather continually unearths petrified poop! Adding a certain chemical to the rock-hard poop brings it back to “live” poop—with the smell and everything, our guide tells us—and the poop gives hints as to what the people ate—seeds and such.

Once we start our climb out of the canyon, we catch a bit of breeze, enough to energize Mark and me to separate from the group and take a side trail for an additional mile or so. Our curiosity of what the other side of the canyon looks like overtakes our thirst but we are, as we say, “bookin’ it” because we don’t have water. I am reminded of the horses I rode when I was young. The horses may have been only limping along and may have sweated through their saddle blankets, foam at the corners of their mouths, yet once reined toward the barn, when they knew their service would be over once they got there, it was tough to hold them back.

I feel like one of those horses now, hurrying to the car and water. When will Mark and I learn to take water with us, even for short hikes?

Catching dinner considered successful day of fishing

2009-07-15T10:59:00.000-07:00

Monarch butterflies migrate to Mexico in the fall. Early last October when Mark and I visited Dad, where he lives with my step mom on the coast of Georgia, we took the boat out and anchored at the mouth of a creek right in the monarchs’ southerly path. We pulled whiting from the sea and marveled at the monarchs flitting past. In a band 10 yards wide and from about two feet to eight feet above the water we witnessed a constant stream of butterflies. We estimated 800 to 1,000 butterflies flew by in three hours. Not many, but some, landed in the boat for a couple seconds’ rest. It felt magical being in the midst of the monarchs' natural pattern.

This year I suppose we were too late because there was no definite band of butterflies, just a few here and there flitting across the expanse of the bay.

Other things kept our attention.

Dad says, paraphrasing Forrest Gump’s philosophical aphorism, “When you fish in the ocean, you never know what you’re gonna get,” and that was surely the case on our first day fishing.

Mark fished the bottom while Dad float fished (with a bobber). I chose not to fish until it seemed worth my while. Right away Dad pulled in a trout, and Mark commented on how pretty a fish the trout is, long, thin and silver with dark spots on its upper half.

We were close to a small island rimmed with oyster shells, not much more than a sandbar. We let out enough anchor rope for the tide to carry the boat near, and I hopped out and combed the beach, looking for anything interesting that may have washed up.

Not finding anything out of the ordinary, I returned after 15 minutes and learned that Mark had caught a whiting, and a big one at that. Whiting, a mild, tasty fish, must be at least 10 inches long to keep; anything over 12 inches we consider big. Whiting are silver and not as thin as trout; they have no remarkable spotting or coloring.

Dad had switched to bottom fishing, and since fish were biting, I joined the men and tossed my line in with a shrimp for bait. Within a couple minutes I landed a redfish, also called a sea bass. Redfish are notch fish, meaning they must be bigger than a certain size to keep yet also smaller than another size. The notch for redfish is 14–23 inches. The one I caught was small but not too small.

Dad and I each caught a whiting, and both were too small to keep. Mark reeled in two sting rays, which are the bane of the south sea fisherman. They are fun to catch because they put up a fight, but getting them off the hook without getting stung can be tricky. Dad has suffered two stings, which did draw blood and were most painful. Submerging the stung body part in hot water eases the pain somewhat, but the true healer is time—five or six hours.

The day ended successfully. All-in-all, the three of us brought in eight fish species, a one-day record for us: flounder, croaker, skate, and shark, besides the trout, whiting, redfish and stingray from earlier.

One or two of us pulls in a decent size shark each time Mark and I visit. I caught the one this year: 18 pounds, my biggest catch of anything ever. We froze the filleted shark to bring back to Ohio. Mark’s brother makes a tasty marinade for grilling. Because of the mercury content, we don’t want to eat shark more than once a year.

Besides the shark, the fish we didn’t toss back into the sea were enough for dinner that night. Catching a meal is so satisfying—as is eating fresh-caught fish.

A duck farm in northern Indiana

2009-06-29T19:51:00.000-07:00

“That makes it sound like they assemble ducks from pieces,” Mark says because I call the place the Culver Duck Factory. The company’s website gives the name simply as Culver Duck, not Farm, not Factory.

The PR guy, whom I contacted after our visit, says he prefers farm: “The word factory has gained a lot of negative press and is pushed by different groups to spin a bad light on what we do.” Culver Duck doesn’t piece together ducks; the place processes them—15,000 a day.

Tuesday after Memorial Day we arrive for our privately escorted tour with Tim.

On the way to one of several barns on campus, Tim tells us the company sells about 3.5 million ducks a year, mostly to Chinatowns across the United States. Ducks are processed at six weeks, like chickens, but spend less than 24 hours of those on site. The ducklings are sent out to surrounding Amish farms on the day they’re hatched, straight from the hatchery.

Baby ducks are born every workday, and before the tour takes us to the new arrivals, we pass a crate with seven or eight deformed or damaged baby ducks dying. Tim says that they’ve never had a healthy hatch rate better than 80%. Wild eggs hatch near 100% if weasels or another egg lover doesn’t find them and if they receive proper care from the mother duck. The eggs at Culver Duck, Tim tells us, are refrigerated for 3–8 days before they are incubated. Incubation is 28 days, nothing more, nothing less, which makes planning for hatchings quite easy.

In the back of the barn are stacks and stacks of crates, and I don’t even realize they are full of new hatchlings until we’re right up on them. Their quiet cheep, cheep, cheeps don’t give their location away. I hold one as Tim tells us that they are 100 per crate, and the baby jumps onto my chest and, like a kitten might, scoots over my shoulder. Luckily Mark catches it before it falls to the ground. Who knew ducklings could climb?

Ducks have little sharp points on their beaks that, at Culver Duck, get burned off right away when they are born. Tim tells us that ducks are carnivores, and bully ducklings can peck away at a more mellow one causing enough damage that many babies gang up and kill it—and THEN EAT IT!

Ducks at different stages of development are housed in the research barn, where feed and other variables are changed to try to produce a more optimal duck.

In the breeder barn are pens of ducks and fluorescent lighting overhead. Lights come up at 5 a.m., and most of the mommas lay their eggs then. Ducks produce one egg per day, six days per week. “Even ducks take one day a week off,” says Tim. Negotiated by the duck union? I forgot to ask.

We pass a wastewater lagoon, and Tim says all their water is treated on site and is used for field irrigation. The field is cut for hay once a year.

In the egg-sorting barn, lights shine on a tray of 30 eggs, and some are transparent. We see the inside of one is mostly purple, the color of a blood blister. These see-through eggs are infertile and are culled, as are any cracked, double-yolked, small, or imperfect eggs. The whole place carries a general bad smell, but here it’s almost unbearable.

Tim offers to let us see the entire operation: the stunning, killing, bleeding and plucking, but I decline. We do see ducks herded from a truck down a narrow path, at the end of which is the stunner and conveyor line, which carries the ducks, hung upside down, into the plant where they meet their deaths.

The tour took an hour, and before we part, Tim gives us directions on how to prepare duck; I tell him that I have eaten duck once, but it was greasy. He says people don’t know how to prepare them; they cook them like chicken, but that’s not the best way. He also hands us each a stick of duck jerky.

As we pull from the lot, Mark, chewing on his jerky, admits that the tour was interesting. I agree and am happy he thinks so. Picking alluring options for our long weekend up north was challenging.

96 laps, 128 cars, 2 dazed drivers and an ambulance

2009-06-14T11:59:00.000-07:00

Before the main event, a couple old beater buses loaded with kids race around the 3/8-mile track at the Kalamazoo Speedway where Mark and I sit high in the grandstands this Sunday of Memorial Day weekend. The MC, high in a tower somewhere, is non-stop talk:

“Lines are short at concessions, get your hotdogs before the race starts.”

“Who out there saw the race today?” meaning the Indy 500. “Who likes Junior? How many Jeff Gordon fans?”

“It’s Shelby Carlisle’s 17th birthday today. Happy birthday, Shelby.” On and on. Very small-town.

The two bus drivers are actually in the first race, so at 7 p.m. they stop to jump in their own speedsters.

Soon the late model cars are lined up, two by two, eight or nine rows.

The cars look much like the race cars that Dale Junior and Gordon drive: sleek and low, all surfaces covered by sponsors’ names. They start circling the track, and after three go-rounds, the flag drops. Wow, it’s loud. A man a couple rows down wears earplugs. Smart.

Oh! There’s a wreck. The yellow flag is waved, and cars must keep their places as they circle. Nobody’s hurt, but a tow truck does have to pull the car away. The checkered flag flies again, and the noise is over the top.

A tower on the other side of the track displays a lap counter, and after 25, we think the race is over, because every car exits the track. But now the lap counter is a timekeeper counting down from 10 minutes.

The MC talks up concessions again, and every couple minutes he announces how much of the 10 minutes remains. He asks, “Who traveled more than 5 miles to get here? 10? Are there people who came from more than 25 miles away? How about 50?” He stops there. At 300+ miles, Mark and I may have come further than anyone.

With a couple minutes left, a car drives onto the track and into pit row for weighing. And before the 10 minutes has expired, all the cars—even one that wrecked—are back on the track. After the weigh-in, they line up in the order that they finished the first 25 laps, and the whole thing starts again.

After 75 total laps the winner is awarded $5000, and the MC climbs down from his tower and interviews him. He’s a local and has won this race several times

The MC announces that the Euro cars will race next: 200 laps at 128 cars on the 3/8-mile track.

Did we hear right?

Yes, he says it again—128 cars at once—and continues with the rules: if cars wreck or stop, they sit where they lie; other cars do not continue their circling but come to a complete halt until the driver of the dead car safely exits the track. It’s almost a demolition derby.

From the opening between turns 1 and 2, a seemingly never-ending caravan of four-cylinder junkers begins to wind around the track. Most are decorated, their numbers spray painted on their sides. One black Toyota has an MIA flag flying from the back window area, one has a tire painted yellow and secured squarely in the middle of its top, a teddy bear rides the back bumper of another.

The cars stack five-wide, and the flag drops. After only a couple laps one jalopy stalls at the inside near turn 3. The officials give the driver a couple minutes to try to resuscitate the car, but eventually call for a stop. Lights placed on the outside fence coming out of each turn and one in the middle of each straight-away flash red, and the 127 remaining cars screech to a stop. Of course there’s some bumping.

This happens again and again, and by lap 96 the track is littered with 10 or 12 cars, and bumpers, tires and various parts from the other 100. Two drivers have walked away dazed, and one needs a stretcher.

As we wait for the ambulance, the MC tells the crowd that the cars will race in the other direction after 100 laps. This is crazy.

As much as we’d like to, we don’t see the remaining 104 laps because we have reservations 50 minutes east on the coast of Lake Michigan and need to be there by midnight. It’s been so much fun; we might be back next year.

Transport back in time in a dream car

2009-06-01T17:50:00.000-07:00

On our way to Michigan Memorial Day weekend, Mark and I stopped to stretch our legs at Snook’s Dream Cars museum in Bowling Green, Ohio. Snook’s is just a couple miles off the highway and looks like a 1950s service station from the outside. We’re the only ones here besides the lady who collects our $6 apiece to enter, so our original thought is that the place is a dud. But contrary to our initial impression, we find the place fun.

Bill Snook is quite the collector and not just of cars. The first room is filled with old pinball machines, carnival games, and slot machines—and most are playable. Mark gives me a penny and I slide it into a small gallery and get 10 shots with a little gun to try to knock down 10 metal tabs. The game has no flash—just wood and metal—but it’s fun. It takes me four shots to get the hang of the gun, which requires some force to fire, and I hit only two tabs. On to the roulette wheel.

The top of the machine has the colors with a coin slot next to each. I choose my color, pull the lever, but lose. One of several old nickel slot machines is calling anyway.

My first nickel gets nothing. My second pull lines up two lemons and I get two nickels back. I’m even. If I were in Vegas, I’d probably quit, but since I’m “gambling” with Snook’s money that the lady gave me from the till, I pull a third time. I hit the jackpot! Not literally, but that’s what it seems. Three lemons result and nickels pour from the machine. I take the winnings to the front—because there’s no gambling in Ohio. Snook’s gets all the loot.

I could spend the afternoon playing with another person’s money, and there are about 10 more machines to try, but I have returned my coins and Mark is already looking at the cars.

In the back I see Mark’s hands are deep in his pockets. He says it’s all he can do not to pop the hoods and look at the engines.

The place is pristine. Not a speck of dust anywhere, and the cars all shine like new, but they’re far from it. Nearly 30 cars make up the collection, from a 1921 Model-T Ford (black, of course) to a 1966 Pontiac GTO. Each car has next to it a sign listing year, original cost, current worth and how many were manufactured originally. My favorite is a 1954 Kaiser Darrin 161, which I have never heard of nor seen before. I really like the color—a soft mint ice cream. The accompanying sign says the paint is not original. It’s still my favorite though. I like the 1966 Mini Cooper too, as cute as a bug. Mark can’t pick one favorite, maybe the GTO.

We end our visit with a walk through the workshop, where an old truck is high on a hoist, and a car is parked in the other stall—with the hood up for Mark to take a peek at the power.

Snook’s Dream Cars museum is easy to get to: from I-75 north, take a right off exit 179 onto Route 6. Turn left at the next crossroad, County Home Road. Snook’s is on the right. Enjoy yourselves. And don’t worry about change for the pinball machine; Snook’s has got you covered.

Shenandoah National Park

2008-11-11T13:02:00.000-08:00

To get to Shenandoah National Park, we drove east on I-70 through Ohio, West Virginia, Pennsylvania and Maryland to Virginia. The changing trees along the way were so pretty. In early October most had not yet changed, but among the hills of green were gold, orange, and red in small bunches Not shades of these colors, just the one hue of each, like a paint-by-number picture.

When we finally turned south off the major east-west interstates onto a state route in Maryland, traffic slowed to mostly stop within the first mile. As we crawled along, we passed tables of crafts and knick-knacks and junk lining both sides of the street. We were passing through on the day of the little town’s festival, and it seemed the whole tri-state came out on that beautiful early afternoon. Cafes offered outside seating, and I volunteered to get out, run ahead to a pizzeria and buy us some lunch. Mark wasn’t keen on that idea—and he had all our money.

In the second mile of our crawl, 20 or 30 minutes in, we stopped just before a kettle corn stand on Mark’s side. We agreed we needed kettle corn so I hopped out while Mark dug in his pocket for cash. At Mark’s door I grabbed the five ones he held out for me, ran across the street and up the embankment to the stand. They saw me coming, and a few steps before I got there I ordered“large!” I handed over the ones and the lady handed over the large bag of carmelly popcorn. I turned and saw that traffic had started its crawl. Down the grassy embankment, across the street, around the car and in. As slick as that, we had our snack for the rest of the trip.

A few handfuls of corn and 2 hours later, we were at the park. One north-south road 105 miles long, Skyline Drive, runs the length of Shenandoah National Park. The road runs along the top of the Blue Ridge Mountains, and part of the Appalachian Trail runs through the park. Entrance cost $15 a car, but we showed our National Park pass, collected the park brochure and drove in.

The park has 75 pullouts for overlooks down on farms and ponds or towns and rivers to the west, and hills and trees to the east. Trees are the draw to Shenandoah, and October is the busiest time of the year. Trees in Shenandoah seemed not as pretty as those on the drive out, and its more southerly location meant that we likely visited a week or two too early for the full blown colorfest.

Lots of bicyclists pedalled up Skyline Drive that Saturday. They all seemed to be going north; maybe it was a race. One pedaller sat atop a unicycle, traveling uphill!

We stopped to hike part of the Appalachian Trail and spotted a young deer nibbling bark from a tree. Mark wanted to see a bear, and one gentleman we passed, a long-distance hiker, said they were aplenty along the trail.

That section of the Appalachian ended at Byrd Visitor Center, and across from Byrd, to the east, lay the Meadow: acres of blood red, glowing in the early afternoon light, interspersed with bits of yellow grass and several scrawny, scraggly trees. Mountains backed the scene. Looking from the Visitor Center, we wondered at the cause of the vivid color. Upon hiking into the Meadow, we saw the stalks, about 18 inches high, with leaves from bottom to top, which had changed into their striking fall colors.

The only exit from the park besides the ones at mile markers 0 and 105 is at mile marker 32, which is perfect for those entering from the north entrance midafternoon. About 15 miles west of the park is Luray, where we had reservations at Days Inn.

The southern 60 miles of the park offered nothing that the northern 30 didn’t. Shenandoah National Park is too much like Ohio to thrill us, and as cliché as this sounds, getting there was half the fun.

Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore

2008-09-04T14:31:00.000-07:00

Labor Day weekend we set our sights on a beach.

In Indianapolis we stopped at a BBQ festival for lunch. We arrived before 1 p.m. so saved a $5 per person entrance fee. On stage a band played, and the sound system was excellent: at every booth and lemonade stand in the small park, we could hear them well.

Feeling we’d scoped out the area enough to know where we wanted to spend our food tickets, we queued up and bought 21 for $30. All 21 tickets, that’s $30 plus the $8 for parking, bought us a half slab of ribs, a chicken breast sandwich, an order of potato salad, one of cole slaw and a small lemonade. Outrageous! But we enjoyed the lovely day, sitting in a patch of shade and listening to the band. Later that evening Kenny Wayne Shepherd was scheduled to perform. As much as we would have loved to ear-witness the guitar prodigy, we didn’t stay; our main aim was the beach.

Cruising up I-65, we saw a billboard advertising Fair Oaks Farms Dairy, 80 miles ahead at exit 220. I told Mark to wake me when we got there.

The place was right off the highway. Two barns sat adjacent to the parking lot. We walked behind them to a kids’ play area with a long, rectangular pillow of air on which they jumped, a wall with hand- and footholds they used to climb to the top to ring a bell, a track around which they rode mini John Deere tractors and small rails on which they rode a choo-choo train.

Beyond that beckoned a third barn. Mark and I walked in the door and down a short hall to an open doorway with a sign reading “Quiet please. Birthing in progress.”

Inside, sure enough, behind curving glass, under glaring lights, a cow, with birthing end pointed towards us, was pushing out a calf.We barely had time to register what we were seeing when she was pulled to her feet and out the back. Her bag was so big it was about to bust. A cow at milking time carries between two and four gallons. This mom was holding three times as much it seemed.

Another cow with a fresh calf lay in an adjacent enclosure. The calf wore the same white triangle on her forehead as her mother and the same white circle on her chin. We watched a couple minutes as she tried to stand: straightening her back legs and struggling to raise herself onto her front ones.

Before leaving Mark and I, of course, ordered ice cream. Vanilla and chocolate were out. It’s a good thing Mark and I both wanted butter pecan. After a pint, we drove north to the beach.

At Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore, we walked onto Porter Beach. The clear waters of Lake Michigan and the crowd at the late hour surprised us. To avoid all the people, we decided to hike to Cowell’s Beach in the morning.

The park literature said we’d likely share Cowell’s with boaters who moored off the shore, but assured us we’d be of but a few who hike the two miles to arrive by foot.Along the mostly flat trail we hauled a double folding chair, our soft-sided cooler filled with water and a cloth Kroger bag with crackers, energy bars, a magazine and two books.

Arriving at 10 a.m. we shared the sands with two parties whose boats were anchored in close. Three hours, six bottles of water and some food later, we climbed the dune to the trailhead and turned to take a picture: parties from more than 50 boats now enjoyed the shore.

Parking was premium at all the beaches that afternoon, so we woke early on Monday and climbed Mount Baldy for a final view-from-on-high of the lake. On top of the highest dune in the park, we looked down on empty Baldy Beach and felt lucky to have the area to ourselves.Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore: the best natural beaches close to home.

Key West is Cool

2008-08-03T07:26:00.000-07:00

People born on Key West call themselves Conchs, and folks who’ve lived on the key for at least 7 years may refer to themselves as Freshwater Conchs. However, because the cemetery is so little, only native Conchs may spend eternity there.

Mark and I learn all this and more while enjoying the Conch Train Tour. The tours last 90 minutes and leave every hour, so that means at least three trains, really just trolleys, are congesting traffic on the small island at any one time. Plus, thrown into the mix are at least three more from another tour company that offers 90-minute tours. The locals get annoyed but have come to accept it as a price to pay for, as Jimmie Buffet says, “Livin’ in Paradise.”

Our first night on the island we eat at Margaritaville, Buffet’s restaurant on Duval Street, the busy street with lots of surf and souvenir shops and restaurants. My mahi mahi is dry, but the music during dinner is good, all Buffet songs, and the margaritas are excellent.

Our second night we choose a less-crowded location for dinner than the popular Duval Street: We walk back the boardwalk from the docks and settle into a seaside, wooden booth at Turtle Krawl, a large restaurant that’s barely half full. We prefer the laid-back environment of the boardwalk to the laid-back, sensory overload of Duval Street.

Every evening the sun sets is a celebration on the west edge of Key West. The sun setting at the far edge of the ocean through billowy clouds is quite pretty, but also people crowd around street performers doing tricks for tips. A thin, athletic-looking man walks on his hands and bounds upright, one guy’s dog walks to people holding dollar bills, and she lightly chomps the money and carries it to drop in a hat; the owner tells semi-corny jokes the whole time. The best we see is a guy who juggles fire while riding a unicycle who tells funnier jokes. He opened his act by telling us he’d be juggling “not five, not six, but THREE” fire sticks. We speak with him after the performance. He has his college degree in finance but prefers the easy-going lifestyle of Key West and says he makes a good living earning tips each evening.

If either of us could juggle well or ride a unicycle, Mark and I might consider a move too. Key West is cool.

Adventure begins in Puerto Vallarta

2008-07-19T08:01:00.000-07:00

This is the first travel story I ever wrote. It was published in the News Record, the University of Cincinnati’s school newspaper in 2002.

“Get me on the next plane to a warm place,” I told a travel agent one harried Wednesday morning. The following Monday afternoon, I unlocked the door of a sixth-floor, oceanfront room in Puerto Vallarta, on the brown Pacific sands of the Mexican Riviera.

Expecting nothing more than a relaxed break, I ended up with a whetted appetite for adventure.

I stayed at a tropical, botanical, all-inclusive resort. All-inclusive means daily activities like volleyball and snorkeling and even evening entertainment are included in one price. Most important, all meals are included too. I didn’t have to go into town and dine alone.

A stage was on the pool deck, and while I ate, I saw a show. The comedies were mostly physical because hotel guests spoke different languages, and the dances were sub-Vegas quality; the girls didn’t kick as high, but they were just as pretty.

One day, the activities hosts and hostesses pulled people, mostly teenagers, off the beach and out of their lounge chairs so they could practice for a show that evening. There were some true thespians and comedians. The amateur show was the best of the four I saw.

The beach was public so vendors came with their wares. I bought a set of five little ducks carved from marble for $5, at least two Mexican blankets for close to $20 apiece, and a silver necklace-that tarnished-with a globe charm for $10. A thin, blue wrap-around skirt I got for $5 is still one of my favorites.

Downtown Puerto Vallarta offered streets and bridges, modern jewelry and T-shirt shops, as well as squat, misshapen trees that must be 300 years old.

Off the main strip, up into the more residential area are doctors’ offices, and I even saw a tortillaria, a store with an hombre pushing cornmeal paste into the top of a siphon-like device. Onto a conveyor popped tortillas of about an eight-inch diameter.

My favorite part of the Puerto Vallarta trip was meeting a family from Argentina.

The first day, I went to dinner late so I would not be so obviously solo, or sola as they say in Mexico. I sat at an empty table but was soon jointed by a 15-year-old boy of Latin descent. We exchanged greetings and then I met his 18-year-old and 10-year-old brothers and his parents. I had taken their table. They welcomed me into their tribe.

I accepted their invitation to go into town with them that night. What a fun time.

We went dancing and bowling and dancing again. Back at the hotel, the 18-year-old kissed me on the cheek [I was 24], which surprised me since he did so in front of his parents. Later I realized the kiss must be the Argentinean custom since he and I danced together most of the night.

It was a remarkable experience and so easy to schedule. One Wednesday I was so stressed and uptight, but the following Wednesday I was two days into a trip I will never forget.

That was a great vacation, the beginning of my travel lust that I have satisfied going on 15 years now. That blue skirt I bought on the beach back in 1994? I wore it to work last week; it’s still one of my favorites.

Te Apua, New Zealand

2008-06-16T05:57:00.000-07:00

We’re in Te Apua, New Zealand for a two-night stay. Mark and I take in the local attractions at a leisurely pace the full day we’re there.

Te Apua is home to the visitor’s center for Fjordland National Park, and after breakfast we ride our bikes there to see the introductory film, even though we’ve already visited the park, and we buy a magnet to add to our collection.

We walk to a bird sanctuary where one of two takahe is in the open so we get a good look. The bird is oddly shaped, almost spherical, with peacock-blue feathers underlain with dark purple. The beak is orange as are the legs and big-taloned feet. At the turn of the 20th century, the takahe were thought to have gone extinct. However, in 1950, while hiking deep within Fjordland National Park, a doctor rediscovered one. Today 200 takahe are thought to be roaming the wild. The male we see is about half the size of a large turkey.

And speaking of turkey, New Zealanders don’t eat it nor do the Europeans on the tour. All whom we ask about it respond in kind, similar to how I would respond if a foreign visitor were to exclaim, “You mean you don’t eat squirrel?!” Some may have tasted it, but it’s more of a game bird to them. And though not quite as plentiful as squirrels are in Southwest, Ohio, wild turkeys do roam all over New Zealand, both the north and the south islands—because no one eats them!

We take the afternoon boat across the lake to the Glowworm Caves. A powerful, noisy stream runs through the cave. Mark and I, in a group of 14, cram into a tiny boat and are instructed to stay quiet so as not to disturb the worms. The boat carries us to the grotto where hundreds of tiny spots of blue glow far above our heads, like constellations.

To me it seems unreal and I wonder if this is like a carnival attraction. Surely, the operator has secured a blue light to the actual cave ceiling and built a drop ceiling into which holes are poked at random to let the light shine through. I think we’ve been had.

However, further into the cave the points of light are on the cave walls, and the boat carries us close enough that I can blow on one. It moves! And from the light of an adjacent worm I can see the original worm squirm around. The hungrier the worms are, the brighter they glow—to attract insects. I blow on (disturb) several more worms before Mark scolds me with a nudge.

We bike back for dinner, and after dinner that night, Mark and I ride into town to the cinema. The posh theatre sells candy but not popcorn, and the movie has an intermission to allow folks to come to the lobby for wine. Fancy.

After biking back for our second night at this camp, we lie side by side in our sleeping bags, glad that we have to set this tent up only once more.

New Zealand's South Island

2008-06-16T05:26:00.000-07:00

People sit in their own, self-dug spas on Hot Water Beach on the Coromandel Peninsula, where geothermally heated water bubbles up through the sand. By the time we get there, every square foot of beach is claimed, but people are friendly and invite us into their pools.

We hole hop, wondering if one will offer something different from the others. Some are more boil-y, and some are too hot for more than a touch from us, though little kids sit submerged with plastic shovel and bucket, fruitlessly digging to the source.

The country’s tallest peak is Mt. Cook, or what was originally named Mt. Aoraaki by the Maori, meaning peace and clouds. On the way there from our hot baths, our driver pulls off the road to let us snap shots of the snow-covered peak; he says it’s usually cloud-covered. It is magnificent.

Our camp that night is a rustic one with a single outhouse but the best view. We erect our tents riverside across from Mt. Cook, which reaches into a still-mostly-clear sky.

In Dunedin we tour the unimpressive Cadbury chocolate factory the next day before traveling on to Fjordland National Park and Mt. Cook.

Only one road leads into Fjordland, and to reach the end takes hours, but it’s worth the time. My bike and I are dropped along the way, and I glide downhill around hairpin turns 10 miles to meet the group at the marina of Milford Sound. The curvy switchbacks would be thrilling to tear around, I’m sure, but I’m careful since I’m biking alone.

We all take a 2-hour ferry tour of Milford Sound. Bottle-nosed dolphins breech around the boat, staying with us for 5 minutes. The captain says they appear for only about 10% of the cruises. He also says he’s never seen the water more calm. We all feel blessed to be here on this unusually clear spring day.

The cliff faces, the waterfalls, the sun-bathing sea lions, all are special, and upon disembarkation from the ferry, some describe the experience as spiritual. Mark and I are less moved, but we are the oldest in the group and have likely borne witness to more amazing and existential natural phenomena. We hope New Zealand brings us more.

Hocking Hills, Ohio

2008-05-27T19:47:00.000-07:00

Hocking Hills State Park in Hocking County is just a couple hours northeast of Southwest Ohio. Six geologic areas comprise the park, three clustered in the north and three close together in the south.

In mid April we rented a cabin for the weekend and, with Mark’s sister and niece, arrived Friday mid-afternoon, via I-71 and State Routes 56 and 664.

Eager to stretch our legs, we parked in the lot off 664 across the street from a visitor’s center to Old Mans Cave. We saw lots of out-of-state plates, from Michigan and even Utah and California.

After a couple minutes of looking, we found the trail heads to the Upper Falls, the Lower Falls and Old Mans Cave behind the visitor’s center. The short hike to the cave, actually a stone recess, was nice on the comfortable April day, and the look at and walk through the cave was so surprising to me because I had never seen anything like that in Ohio. My sister-in-law commented that it seemed more like Tennessee.

The map of our first hiking opportunity on Saturday, Cantwell Cliffs, showed an area of the trail called Fat Woman’s Squeeze. We all laughed, wondering what that could be. The beginning of the trail, narrow stone steps between two rock faces, gave us our answer.

At the bottom of the narrow steps, the trail split: One fork led directly down and the other into a stone recess. I led the way into the recess, climbing over rocks and boulders or squeezing around them. I looked back, and no one had followed me.

I continued in my chosen direction and crossed the trickling stream and waited for the others where the forks converged; I do believe the others had a more difficult, steeper descent.

The mile-plus hike was pleasant with many stream crossings and large fallen trees we had to go over or under.

The next attraction, Rock House, is the park’s only true cave. Unique, as it is open on both ends and at several placed along its length, the cave is about 50 yards long. The short hike to it makes this one of the most popular features of the park.

Within a couple miles of our cabin is Conkle’s Hollow. We walked the paved path back to a lower falls past a couple small, stone recesses along the trail.

A light rain began as we made our way to the car.

In our cabin, while we waited for the rain to let up, we enjoyed a lunch of leftover lasagna and broccoli Mark had made the night before. We watched a movie we’d brought with us. Our cabin had a small TV with a DVD player. The rain never let up, so we decided to call it a day and nap, play cards and enjoy the hot tub.

On Sunday we returned to Conkle’s Hollow and, in the rain, hiked the 2.5-mile rim to the upper falls before turning south to visit Cedar Falls and Ash Cave, both offering diverse features and scenery. Cedar Falls is one of the top three prettiest waterfalls I’ve seen and the short hike to it one of the prettiest I’ve taken.

If you go, a Google search will return places to stay. Our cabin with two beds, two baths, kitchen, and hot tub cost $189 per night (Old Mans Cave Chalets, 800-762-9396). We brought a veggie steamer, a lasagna pan, and some spices from home and stopped at Wal-Mart 8 miles east of the park for groceries. There’s a Kroger on the way in Circleville on State Route 56 in Pickaway County; we wished we’d have stopped there instead. The park’s just 20 minutes east.

Biking along the Waikato River in New Zealand

2008-04-24T10:37:00.000-07:00

Our guide describes several choice activities for today. We decide biking the path along the Waikato River is preferable to shopping. A young woman from England, Claire, thinks so too and joins us.

We assumed a paved path, but in New Zealand, paths and trails must mean the same thing, because this one is rough with curves, rises and dead drop-offs in some places.

Along one section, flat through woods, I spot something bright red among the brown undergrowth. It’s a mushroom with a white stem and yellow specks on its red dome.

We see thistles and other wildflowers too. In places, we can see the unbelievably beautiful, unpolluted water of the river, New Zealand’s longest, running at near capacity due to the rains.

Riding my bike, I have some close calls even though I get off and walk the most perilous sections of the trail. Just a couple miles in, and I have psyched myself out so that I don’t trust myself to ride more than 20 feet or so without dropping the toes of one foot to the trail for a feel of solid ground. This, of course, slows my progression, though Mark and Claire have powered on.

The trail splits: up a hill or around it? I take the level option and am on schedule to lean over and touch my foot to the ground. I lift my foot from the pedal, lean left and expect to catch myself on the tall, bending grass. However, the grass is bending over the precipice of a steep, grassy drop-off; there’s no solid ground on which to get my footing!

Realizing this, my mind warps, figuring the best way to fall. Forward or backward? Backward seems obvious, even though that means I have to twist my ankle somewhat to turn myself, as, at this moment, before my left foot has hit ground, I’m in a more favorable frontal approach to the fall. Mind still working at nanosecond speed , I know I do not want the bike on top of me, so I lift my right leg and push the bike in the opposite direction, which ultimately helps Mark find me.

With a push of the bike and a slight twist of my left ankle, I fall headfirst, back down, down the embankment. The back of my head strikes a significant bump, and I’m glad I’m wearing a helmet.

I come to rest, heels over head, 8-10 feet down, but I’m fairly comfortable on a bed of thick grass, not on any stickers or thistles.

To get back up to the trail on my own will take lots of effort, especially with a sprained ankle. And honestly, the angle is so steep, it may be impossible. So I scream as loud as possible, not for Mark by name, but a true scream, because I know I can scream louder than I can yell anyone’s name. “EEEK!” Pause, waiting for reply. “EEEEEK!” Still nothing “EEEEEEEEEK!” Now I’m kind of freaking out. EEEEEEEEEEEK!”

I’m going hoarse. “Surely they’ll stop and wait for me to catch up sometime and realize I’m not coming,” I rationalize. “EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!”

After almost a minute of screaming, from a distance to my left I barely hear, “We hear you!” Relieved, I lie in wait.

Fifteen seconds later, a little louder: “Where are you?!”

“I’m here, I’m here. I’m not hurt too bad though,” I add to alleviate any concerns.

A bit later, “Let me know where you are!” and minutes after that, a frustrated “Where are you?” only this time from my right.

Unbelievable. He took the path up the hill. Just like him though. Without fail, Mark chooses the worst traffic or directional option in all situations: If there’s a lane that’s not moving, we’re in it.

Less than a minute later, five or six since my spill, a flushed Mark looks down on me over the edge of the trail.

My rescuing knight takes ginger steps sideways down the slope, trying to find secure footing. He slips! But catches himself. Three or four feet down, he finds a grassy knob of earth on which to secure his left foot. I lean up, he leans down, grabs my arm and pulls me up to the trail, where Claire has joined us on her bike. Mark ran all the way.

I hug him and thank him, grateful he found me yet knowing it would have been a couple minutes earlier had he chosen the correct path. But that’s Mark, bless his heart.

Auckland, New Zealand

2008-03-29T19:05:00.000-07:00

While we wait for our luggage, we watch a beagle, which I assume to be a drug-sniffer, walk amongst the bags of fellow travelers. The dog is small, even for a beagle, and wears the official vest of the Auckland Airport.

After sniffing one bag, the beagle sits, and his handler asks the woman to whom the bag belongs if she has brought any fruit into the country.

(Fruit?)

She shakes her head. Still, the handler asks permission to go through her bag. He pulls out an apple, and the woman is obviously embarrassed. Mark tells me he saw the sniffer find two oranges while I was in the ladies’ room.

With our luggage, we make our way through customs toward the exit. I’m gathering my things from the x-ray conveyor when Mark, just behind me, gets stopped. A fellow asks him, “Deed ya uhnderstand the deeclaration form ya feelled out on the plane before y’ landed?” Mark says he did, and the man tells him matter-of-factly that the x-ray of his luggage shows that “ya packed boots, bu’ ya deen’ dehclare theem.” Mark picks up on my “I told you so” through my sigh and eye roll; I declared mine.

Mark’s bag is pulled from the conveyor, the boots are removed, and the soles are caked in dried mud. The man tells Mark he could fine him NZ$200, which is a bit less than $200 American. But thankfully he doesn’t. What he does do is take the boots for a complete cleaning/decontamination while we wait: about 10 minutes.

It’s morning in Auckland, New Zealand, a complete 18 hours ahead of EST, so we’re ready for bed, but we vow to stay up until 8 p.m., the trick to avoiding jet lag.

After dropping our luggage at our hostel and showering, the first attraction we investigate in Auckland, one of the largest cities in New Zealand, is the Sky Tower. It’s the tallest building in the southern hemisphere at more than two tenths of a mile tall (that’s nearly 1070 feet). Instead we take the elevator to the observation deck and can see the city, the Tasman Sea and three grass-covered volcanic calderas. Supposedly, there are 48 volcanoes in the area. While we’re observing the landscape, we see two folks bungee jump from the top, higher than the observation deck, but at NZ$195 per plunge, it’s too steep for us.

From Sky City we ride the free shuttle to Kelly Tarlton’s Antarctic Encounter and Underwater World, where we read about the adventures of Scott, Amundsen and Shackelton, the three main explorers of Antarctica in the early 20th century. A train takes us through the icy area where penguins dive and waddle. A 10-gallon aquarium is thick with pastel-colored seahorses, buoying above and hiding within the faux kelp. Eels, shark and a stingray swim in the larger pool. One ray is as big as the circle at the top of the key of a basketball court. I never knew they could grow so large.

We’re shuttled back to town and stop for pizza on our walk back to the hostel, then ice cream. Mark gets the national flavor, Hokey Pokey: vanilla with tiny toffee bits.

Tucked in by 6:30 p.m. listening to the radio and reading, we put out the lights at 7 p.m., relieved that we didn’t conk out earlier.

Sunday morning we’re up early for a bus to the zoo. We see the nocturnal, flightless kiwi, like a furry coconut with chicken feet and a hairy bird head. Its long beak has nostrils on the end since it hunts for food by smell. More birds we see are peacocks with their showy plumage on display and the kookaburra, about the size of an eagle but quite less grand. Its feathers look like unkempt, dirty hair, like he just got out of bed after a fitful sleep. The zoo is home to kangaroos, elephants, and apes, but surprisingly no crockadile.

By mid afternoon we’re at the Auckland Museum, which is huge. One could spend five hours here learning about the Maori, the native peoples of New Zealand, and then ascend to the second floor for natural history and on to the third for New Zealand’s war history. We learn that the Maori are skilled carvers, young people go through a right-of-passage ceremony, the chiefs of the villages live in the house with the most intricately carved façade, and town meetings are held at the chief’s residence. That’s all we have time to learn; we’re tired.

These two days in Auckland have allowed us to get acclimated to the time. In the morning we begin our 19-day tour to see what both the north and south islands have to offer. We’re ready.

Dry Tortugas National Park

2008-03-23T08:17:00.000-07:00

Dry Tortugas National Park was originally composed of 11 small keys 70 miles west of Key West, Florida. Hurricanes over the years have decimated four of those, but this February our explorations are limited to the main island, Garden Key, because terns are mating on the surrounding keys, and we don’t want to interrupt.

Ponce de Leon named the keys Las Tortugas because of the number of turtles there. “Dry” became part of the name when it was discovered that none of the keys offered any water.

We and about 50 others arrive by commercial boat through rough seas. Mark and I managed well enough, but many, many of our mates did not fair so well. But we are secured to the dock now and disembark to an immediate tour of Fort Jefferson, which basically encircles almost the whole of Garden Key.

Fort Jefferson was built in the mid 19th century to protect the shipping channels of the Gulf of Mexico, however, construction was halted in the later 1800s because of advancements in weaponry; a brick wall, no matter how fortified, will not withstand repeated batterings from high-power cannons.

The fort looks pretty complete, and it did serve as a prison. Dr. Samuel Mudd is the most notorious prisoner to serve time there. Mudd set the leg of President Lincoln’s assassin, broken when he jumped from the balcony to flee the theatre after issuing the single gun shot. Dr. Mudd denied complicity, but nevertheless was convicted.

From the top of the fort we see the smaller Long Key and Bush Key. The surrounding aqua water, through which we see coral colonies, takes our breath away, it’s so pretty. While we linger over the view, our history lesson continues.

At the height of its population, when the fort served as a prison, Garden Key was home to more than 1000, mostly men, most set up in tents. The military officers had more permanent abodes of stone, some of which still stand on the grounds. At this time scurvy, which is caused by lack of vitamin C, became a problem, and within a relatively short time, the epidemic claimed 80 lives.

To overcome monotony on the key, some men sang and danced, played instruments or acted out plays. During the time of the scurvy outbreak, one of the commanding officers asked these men to perform for pay as a means to end the epidemic. The paying audience consisted of military men mostly. However, even passing ships would stop for a show. The key became the Las Vegas of the Gulf of Mexico, and the performers earned enough money to purchase significant quantities of Key limes from Key West to provide the lifesaving vitamin C the island occupants so needed. Among the 80 lives claimed were those of every one of the island’s nurses. Therefore, an appeal was made to Dr. Mudd, who helped bring the epidemic to its end and thus earned himself a pardon after serving two years.

We really enjoy learning some seemingly obscure American history, and after a lunch of sandwiches, potato salad, chips and cookies on the boat, we walk to the small beach for snorkeling (me) and reading (Mark).

Winds are high, and high winds are not conducive to snorkeling. However, I stay out about an hour, swimming along the fort wall, which, we’re told, offers better opportunities to see sea life. The waters here are crowded—not with fish but with other snorkelers. Orange and burgundy sea plants undulate with the waves, and a couple interesting fish swim among them, but I’ve experienced better snorkeling.

Away from the fort, 30 feet or so off shore, sea grass and dull coral offer hiding spots for dull-colored fish. I follow them, swimming back and forth, because I’m sure not to bump into anybody as I’m the only swimmer out here.

On the beach Mark hands me a towel, and I give him my score of the site for snorkeling: 5 on a scale from 1 to 10. A woman next to us asks if I saw the sting ray. If I had, the score would bump up a point, but, alas, I didn’t.

We leave Garden Key at 2:30 p.m., and the seas are still rough. I don’t know how everyone fares because I curl up and nap the two and a half hours back to Key West, ultimately glad that we had a chance to visit another of our nation’s treasured National Parks.

Vieques Island, Puerto Rico

2008-03-05T17:49:00.000-08:00

Just after 5 p.m. we got into our room in Esperanza on Vieques, an island of the eastern coast of Puerto Rico that until 2003 had been occupied by the U.S. Navy so it’s relatively undeveloped. That evening we maneuvered kayaks into Mosquito Bay for a bioluminescent tour.

Bioluminescence is the phenomenon that makes fireflies glow. In the bay the bioluminescence is produduced by organisms called dinoflagellates. Any time they are disturbed, they light up.

We paddled out about a quarter mile in the bay in darkness broken only by the faint light of the moon, secured our boats to the guide’s and jumped out to swim. Well, Mark didn’t. He doesn’t swim. He was pretty scared for his first kayak paddle despite the fact that the water was only about 5 feet deep and if he stood flat-footed on the ocean floor, the moonlight would have glanced off his shoulders.

Streaks of light slid down my arms and fingers as I kept them moving in the water. The bioluminescence is obvious but the organisms producing the light are invisible. Like the lightning bug’s light, the dinoflagellite’s glow extinguishes in two or three seconds.

Mark, with a view from above in his kayak, said it seemed I had a neon green aura when I kicked my legs wide as I swam. He said I look like a ghost. According to NationalGeographic.com, each gallon of water in Mosquito Bay holds about 750,000 dinoflagellates. So when I swam, Mark was seeing millions and millions of dinoflagellates lighting my way.

Dinoflagellates even lit up in the water in Mark’s kayak, he said.

After a surreal half an hour, we rowed in, each paddle stroke illuminated. Fish zipped along near the surface, leaving a neon green jet stream.

The tour operator told us that the dinoflagellates use bioluminescence as a defense mechanism: They light up fish that are looking to dine on them so that predators of these fish can see them to eat before the dinoflagellates themselves are eaten. It sounds reasonable, but research returned nothing to back up this claim.

I don’t care why they do it, I’m just glad we had a chance to see a bioluminescent colony before the dinoflagellates go extinct.

There are two dinoflagellate colonies accessible from Puerto Rico. The best, most populated is the one we visited because no motorized boats tour the bay. Tour companies offer glass-bottom boat rides to a colony off the southwest coast of the main island, but pollution from boat motors is destroying the dinoflagellates; the tour companies are putting themselves out of business.

Swimming with dinoflagellates, even seeing them in the bottom of your kayak as Mark did, makes for a more memorable, first-hand—and fingers and legs— experience, I think. And no guilt.

If you go, go natural.

Inspecting New Species on the Georgia Coast

2008-02-06T14:25:00.000-08:00

My dad and step-mom retired to the Georgia coast in 1999. They live on a salt-water creek that leads to a river that leads to the ocean.

Mark and I trek down once or twice a year, and each trip introduces us to a species we’ve never seen before, or at least never seen before in the wild. By our first trip this year, we had tired of the porpoise breaching in pairs, the blue heron, the wood storks.

However, last May when we were up a creek, a six-foot gator crept through the tall grass of the marsh and slipped silently into the water. That was the first for us though Dad said he sees them frequently.

Shrimping season is from September through December, and the most interesting creatures come up in the shrimping net. The net is seven feet in diameter with lead weights around the circumference. To cast the net, Dad stands on the front, flat part of his 18-foot Shoal Cat, a simple fishing boat with an Evinrude. He holds the net by rope pulls in its center in his left hand, places one of the weights between his lips with his right, and then grabs the edge of the net a semicircle away from the weight in his mouth. With a twist of his body, a fling of his right arm, and a rightly timed release of the weight from his mouth, the net flies out and lands in a nearly perfect seven-foot diameter. Shrimping is prime in three or four feet of water, and after about 10 seconds the weights reach bottom.
Then Dad gathers the net by the pulls. Most often we get shrimp. One out of five casts yields a bonus.

We’ve gotten toad fish, which looks just what it sounds like and is small enough to hold in your hand. We often get crab, and getting them to let loose the net is a challenge. Our biggest take was a black gar, which was a first for Dad even; they’re usually green. A gar is about a foot and a half long and thin, almost cylindrical, with a snout and a tail.

Some of the shrimp we net we eat, but more often we shrimp for bait.

One afternoon last October Mark and Dad were catching little yellow tail along the bank of a creek, but I was having no luck. And it was hot, so I jumped in and floated around.

The men ran low on bait and asked me to take them to the other side of the creek to net some shrimp, rather than start the motor up. I gladly pushed and pulled and maneuvered the boat over to the other side. Dad started casting the net, and I floated away.

Dad’s fifth or sixth throw landed a baby puffer fish. Having never seen one, I swam over, careful to avoid his casting. A little larger than a 25-cent gum ball, it had spines, but Dad said they’re just bumps of skin. I brought it into the water with me so that I could see it deflate, but the men had enough shrimp and wanted to go to the other side of the creek where the fish hid among the limbs of the fallen trees.

Puffed up, the fish floated, so I just threw the baby puffer fish, then tugged the boat to it, then threw the fish and tugged the boat to it again until the four of us were at the other bank.

The current carried the boat, and I divided my time between pulling it to avoid a scrape with fallen trees and playing with the baby puffer fish.

I did stop molesting it long enough that, after about 20 minutes, tiny bubbles came slowly, one at a time at first out of its protruding fish lips. After about 15 seconds and a final, bubbly, underwater exhale, it deflated to about the size of my thumbnail and began to swim down. I wanted to see it inflate so touched it just before it was out of sight. In no time at all, it was big as a gum ball again.

I continued to play with it, tossing it and swimming to it, but eventually leaving it undisturbed so that it would deflate again.

I think the baby puffer fish knew I wasn’t a threat because it deflated in only five or 10 minutes this time. I fought the urge to grab it again—I’m sure it was tired of me. But once it was Chiclet-size, I could no longer resist. I reached after it but too late; it swam too deep in the sea to see.

Yellowstone National Park

2008-01-20T11:44:00.000-08:00

I wake up and look over to Mark in the single bed next to mine. On his stomach, cocooned in his comforter, he is looking at me. “It’s pretty cold,” he says.

Does he think I haven’t noticed? “It’s FREEZING! How long have you been awake?”

“Just a couple minutes.”

“Why haven’t you turned the heater on?” which would require him getting up.

“I’m fine,” he answers with mock innocence.

Knowing that Mark can wait me out and wanting to start our first full day in Yellowstone early, I throw back the covers, and the coldness steels my breath. I recover, hustle to the heater, turn it on, grab my bag and run to the bathroom, which has its own heater.

Yellowstone is our nation’s first National Park, established in 1872. Its 2.2 million acres holds the world's largest collection of geothermal features, with some 10,000 mudpots, fumaroles and hot springs and more than 200 active geysers.

On this clear, September day we aim north then west, stopping frequently to hike. Our first unique site is a wall of perfectly stacked, gray, stone cubes that we learn is basaltic rock, or cooled lava.

At the Mammoth Hot Springs area, near the entrance from Montana, we see an area of cascading shelves of white, like a frozen fountain only 100 times bigger than any fountain I’ve ever seen. In this area can be deposited up to two tons of limestone a day! Turning south, we get to the Norris Geyser Basin, which smells of sulfur and is the most geyser-active area of the park.

Since the west side of the access road is closed due to a controlled burn, we reverse direction back to the cabin.

We’re hoping for a good vegetable tonight at the village restaurant. Only one a day is offered. Last night was carrots and tonight is squash. We opt for fish and chips.

The next morning Mark and I, with lots of others, go on a ranger-led walk around the Old Faithful area and then take off on our own to see further points. The area around Old Faithful is chock full of geothermal features and many geysers that erupt more frequently. Mudpots bubble and steaming pools beckon for a soak though I never dip my toe in. Visitors are warned never to leave the boardwalks that surround the geothermal areas because the ground may be only a thin crust above boiling hot springs. Also, one may encounter a concentration of toxic gas. That morning, the geysers we see erupt are Anemone-big and little, Plume, Lion and, of course, Old Faithful. Old Faithful Geyser blows up to 184 feet high, every 80 minutes, roughly. Eruptions can last from one to five minutes.

We wait nearly an hour for Bee Hive Geyser, which blows twice a day, before deciding to leave, but as we circle the boardwalk, I notice its indicator gurgles. In 15 minutes we are rewarded with its full eruption, which I find most spectacular. Most geysers erupt out of holes nearly level with the ground so their spray is wide, like through a fire hydrant. Bee Hive’s blow is through a feature that looks like a large bee hive so its stream seems more forceful, like through a firefighter’s hose.

Further west we stop for a picnic lunch and watch buffalo. Through binoculars, Mark sees one limping badly. At our next stop, I inform a ranger of the injured bison.

We see lots of eruptions today and would like to go further west in the park, but smoke is too thick, so we drive back to our cabin and hike to Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone. Yellowstone got its name from the yellow rock walls of this canyon into which the Yellowstone River falls twice—109 feet at the upper falls and 308 feet at the lower.

Our final day we park at different spots on the access road and watch for wildlife. We tour museums and Visitor Centers we hadn’t visited before, and we hike to solitary geothermal attractions.

Back at our cabin, we nap and shower. At 6:50 pm Mark puts our name in at the village restaurant. We wait only 10 minutes, our shortest yet. However, like every other dinner we’ve had, the food lacks flavor.

The eats at Yellowstone stink, but you can’t beat the attractions.

Off the beaten path on the Olympic Peninsula

2008-01-19T05:43:00.001-08:00

Having been to rainforests in Costa Rica and Ecuador, which are really just jungles, I am surprised, impressed and a little awestruck with the beauty of the trees on the Olympic Peninsula. Washington State is home to the only rainforest on the continental United States.

After our ferry ride from Seattle, our first hike on the Peninsula in Olympic National Park is up Hurricane Ridge to see the foggy view of Puget Sound and Canada. The mile-and-a-half path is up, up, up. Mark and I set off at a quick, steady pace, resting once or twice and make it in 35 minutes. A thick, gray cloud is fast approaching from the north so I get a few shots off with my camera before it blankets the sky.

For some reason, the two-and-a-half-mile hike to the hot springs from Elwa Station takes a lot longer and seems much more strenuous though it is mostly flat. It’s known that many people bathe in the springs, but at the trail head a ranger posted a notice: bacteria levels in the springs are high due to stagnant water—and dirty bathers, we presume.

Further west into the Peninsula is Sol Duc hot springs with cabins and a small restaurant—more of a concession stand. We order burgers and sit at a picnic table by the thermally heated pool where a couple youngsters swim.

After eating, we hike a short trail to some unremarkable falls before heading back east to Port Angeles.

On our return we stop at Crescent Lake midpoint ranger station with the Salmon Cascades. No fish, let alone salmon, though there are deer so tame they practically pose for pictures. From the station we hike a mile-and-a-half trail to some pretty falls with a good 40-foot drop.

Back at our motel in Port Angeles, we clean up and go out for dinner. We find the uncrowded Carmichael’s, with good food, friendly service and meal-ending, complimentary, homemade cookies.

The next morning we drive lazily east so we can catch the afternoon ferry across the Sound to Seattle.

On our way, we stop at a state park at the Northeast of the Peninsula with a lighthouse at the end of a spit. The beach is easy to walk on with packed sand and gravel-sized, smooth gray rocks.

Everyone walks to a different beat, and while we pass some people, others pass us. A woman and her teenage son walk with us a bit. They say they have enough provisions for us if we want to accompany them to the lighthouse, which they say is five miles out though it doesn’t look that far. But when nothing but sea surrounds the destination, the distance is deceiving. Since we have to catch an afternoon ferry to Seattle, we decline and reverse direction.

Though we don’t have time to hike five miles out and then back again, we do have time to explore the peninsula further. We see a sign for The Olympic Game Farm, which sounds like it’s worth a visit.

The Olympic Game Farm is like a zoo with roaming animals—except for the lions and tigers and a rhino in cages. The grizzly bears, behind electric fence, are our favorites, and the bunnies hopping around with yellow, pink, white and purple hair are adorable. Mark doesn’t like the llamas near the beginning of the path that stick their heads into our car, sniffing out treats. The zebras we happen upon next aren’t at all interested in what we might offer them. Just before exiting, we drive through a field of buffalo and deer. The deer are different from what we’re used to. These deer are a pale cream color, and their fairly new-born bambis have long, white eyelashes. So cute.

We drive through twice. Then we stop at a casino for lunch and a bit of blackjack before our boat departs.

In the late afternoon, Mark drives our rental onto the ferry, and we nap in it for the 30 minutes east to land, dreaming about the fun, full day we just had.

A visit to the Olympic Peninsula is worth the ferry fare across Puget Sound if you make it as far west as Seattle.

Petrified Forest National Park

2007-12-15T11:24:00.000-08:00

Petrified Forest National Park in Arizona is bisected by I-40 and is the passageway to the great Painted Desert. Our first stop is the visitor center where we see the introductory movie about the park. Petrified Forest has one of the best geologic and fossil records of the Late Triassic in the world, and paleontologists find new fossils, including new species of plants and animals, each year.

Eager to see in the morning light the Painted Desert, which beckoned late yesterday as we drove east on I-40, we hike the easy 1.2 miles trail along its rim. The desert could be one of the natural wonders of the world, it’s so beautiful with its striations of oranges, pinks, reds and beiges.

We hike five of the seven maintained trails in the park, the longest of which is two miles, past petrified trees and wood, blooming cacti and Indian ruins and petroglyphs.

My favorite trail leads among badland hills of bluish bentonite clay. When I was little, my family took a trip to Badlands National Park in South Dakota, and for 25 years I have held on to the memory of how the colorful hills looked so beautiful and fragile with their layers of greens, pinks, reds, blues and browns. The whole landscape looked as a sand sculpture, like any touch or jostling would destroy the perfectly layered colors. Now, here I am, walking among hills just like those in the Badlands! I feel giddy, like I just locked eyes across a crowded room with George Clooney. Cautiously, I reach my hand out to touch the blue-gray surface, and it isn’t fragile; it’s a rock, after all. I smile and look over my shoulder at Mark, who isn’t nearly as awe-struck as I.

We stop in a visitor center at the far south of the park to read about the early explorations there, then eat a late picnic lunch at a table under a tree before aiming northward.

Roads are few and far between in this section of the country, and I look up from the map in time to see a road to the left to Nazlini, Arizona, a town on 27 before Chinle, our destination. So with a squeal of the tires, Mark manages to cut over, and we head north, hoping it’s the right road.

About 10 miles in, a shepherd herds a flock of sheep across the road while we wait. Just beyond that Mark slows because three cows are grazing just along the side. Past the halfway point, the road becomes unpaved, and we have to stop for four horses and two new colts crossing. We enjoy the unique experience, wondering if pigs or chickens or goats will delay us another short time. We’re trying to get to Hubble Trading Post before it closes for the day.

Hubble Trading Post in Northeast Arizona is the oldest operating trading post in the Navajo Nation and is a national historic landmark. Mark and I arrive just 15 minutes before closing and expect something grand, but it’s just a little, old, stone-and-mortar building. Inside isn’t especially nice either; behind the counter upon which the cash register sits are boxes of Bubble Yum and Tootsie Rolls as well as other standard gums and candies. It reminds me of a Sunoco or any service station, like we just filled up and stepped into the station to pay.

We pass into a side room with hand-woven blankets on display for sale. One is $8,995! The others are way overpriced as well. Back in the main room, one entire wall has slots filled with different size moccasins. We look for a pair for my cousin’s one year old, but they are out of that size. We leave Hubble Trading Post thinking that it really wasn’t worth the hurry driving there, but we agree that visiting Petrified Forest National Park makes today the best of the trip so far.

Congaree National Park

2007-11-24T06:27:00.001-08:00

Mark and I leave Cincinnati after the morning rush on Friday to get to Congaree National Park in time for the Owl Prowl that evening. Congaree, in Columbia, South Carolina, is the largest contiguous area of old-growth, floodplain, hardwood forest left in the U.S.

Within Congaree’s forest are more than 20 trees that hold the record for their size within their species. However, in the darkness, split only by the limited illumination of our red-bulb flashlights (so as not to disturb the wildlife), we can see nothing but the wide bases of the bald cypress trees that are most prevalent in the forest. What Mark nor I have ever seen before are the Cypress knees: little wood cones that grow from the roots of the trees. A boy on the tour, about 12, says they look like stalagmites. That’s a great comparison. Why the knees grow is not clear. To help the tree breath? To provide stability in the moist soil? Congaree is a Native American word meaning “scraping the bottom of the boat.” Those knees were likely the scrapers.

The park ranger tells us that the moss line five or six feet up the trees is the height of the water line the last time this place flooded. The park floods about 10 times a year, and since the elevated walkway we are taking is covered during the floods, people tour the park via canoe or kayak.

The wildlife we experience on the Owl Prowl, in the darkness and the light rain, consists of a millipede, several yellow and black spiders called orb weavers and a barred owl; we don’t see the owl but hear its call: “hooo-ee-hoo.”

When we take a 10.5-mile hike our final day in the park, we encounter more impressive animals.

Because the gate’s not open this early morning, we park in the after-hours lot and hike the half mile in, Mark in the lead to save me from any webs woven over night. In the park we climb the steps to the elevated walkway and aim to the distant reaches of this 22,000-acre park.

Soon after exiting the walkway, we encounter a two-and-a-half-foot water snake lazily curving down the transparent, brackish Cedar Creek, a feeder of the Congaree River.

Not much further, Mark turns and quietly asks for the camera. I hand it over and see the barred owl, so named because of the dark, vertical stripes on its chest, sitting on a low branch of a tree not 25 feet ahead. Mark snaps the camera on, and the owl lowers his head and alights; Mark misses the shot.

As we are first in the park, there are no human sounds to scare animals, and
birds of all sorts are singing, and woodpeckers hammer away high on dead trees. This October morning is comfortable though we wish we wore long pants as the trail is overgrown and several times we have to find the least troublesome way around a tree that has fallen to block the trail.

Just beyond our owl sighting, Mark spots the tiniest of brown frogs on the forest floor. That Mark spotted him is amazing because he’s little and the exact color as the fallen leaves.

About a quarter ways in we stop for water and energy bars. Mark and the backpack are mummified in spider webs, so I unwrap them both to get to the goods. Resting, I notice a wooly wiggler on Mark’s leg: the fourth unique creature so far.

Just after I zip the wrappers and bottle into the pack, from our left we hear what sounds like a horse whinnying, only much louder, lasting much longer, not dropping in pitch as it ends, like a whinny does, and tinged with an element of fear. I imagine an attack on whatever emitted the screech/howl. Mark looks back, and we greet each other with eyes wide, unsure what to do.

We pause briefly before forging on, and just 10 seconds later, Mark turns and whispers “Pigs!” and points ahead to the right. I glimpse a black boar, a descendent of the pigs brought here in the 1800s for game, slip deeper into the forest.

Ahead is another fallen tree, and we are looking to find an easy way around, when a little red boar startles 20 feet ahead, like we flushed him out, which I guess we did. Mark jumps too; we are so close, the pig scared him. It is the color of cinnamon and the size of a rotund border collie.

After collecting ourselves, we approach the fallen tree. I pass Mark and walk to the left to investigate the ease of getting through, and we hear “grrr-r-r.” I turn and calmly walk away so as not to provoke a chase. Mark says, “Get behind me! I don’t know what he’ll do, but I want him to do it to me instead of you.” I step behind and search the ground for limbs to beat the attacking boar off my husband.

We hold our ground for a minute before deciding to go ahead.

By trail’s end, we are lucky enough to have had six pig sightings, most two pigs together. The red one was the smallest and the largest we saw was about the size of a fat German shepherd. Most were dull black, and one of those had a white stripe across its shoulders.

Back at the visitor center, I tell the ranger about our adventures on the trail while Mark hikes out to get our car.

Sitting outside the center waiting for Mark, I see a little green lizard on a thin branch. I’ve seen one before, but nearly everything else Congaree has offered us has been a new experience.

The turtles and copperhead are bonus wildlife that didn't make it into the story.

Jelly Belly Jelly Bean Factory, Fairfield, CA

2007-11-13T17:53:00.000-08:00

Today I bought $12-worth of jelly beans. Sounds like a lot, but they’re not just any jelly beans; their Jelly Belly “The Original Gourmet Jelly Bean” jelly beans. I became a big fan of the Jelly Belly bean after Mark and I made a stop at the Jelly Belly factory in Fairfield, California for a fun tour of the facility.

The Jelly Belly Candies factory is about an hour east of San Francisco. Tours are open to the public and begin every 15 minutes, approximately, from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. daily. Factory workers and the candy-making machines get weekends off, but on those days TV screens set up strategically throughout the facility show the operations.

Once we stepped through the door of the place, we were in the gift shop, which was large and open; there were no walls to confine shoppers. We wandered over to test our free tastes of Jelly Belly’s new Rock candy: irregularly shaped chocolate chunks covered with a thin candy coating that reminded me of the coating on those malted candies sold at Easter time that look like robin’s eggs. We neither one cared much for the Rock candy.

The Rock candy counter was at the bottom of the stairs where we congregated for the next tour. We were each given hats that we had to wear while on tour in the food-making factory, California State law. We walked up the stairs and the tour began.

The upstairs is also open, and from that height we got great views of the Jelly Belly portraits, all mosaics done with Jelly Bellies: Princes Di, a young Queen Elizabeth, Benjamin Franklin, Larry King and, of course, our jelly-bean-loving, former president, Ronald Reagan.

Our guide led us through production—a level above—so we could see the whole operation. Not every flavor is made every day—that day the whole place smelled very cherry—but we could see canvas bins full of yellow, blue and pink beans waiting to be bagged. We learned that Jelly Belly jelly beans are flavored naturally, and that it was in the time of the Great Depression when candy shaped like crops—jelly bean, candy corn, caramel zucchini—became a mainstay. (That last one’s a joke.)

The 40-minute tour ended at the hoppers, where we saw the light, sugar coating being spun onto the beans. This area was where the Belly Flops were weeded from their more perfect siblings. Belly Flops are misshapen beans that, while they taste perfectly good, do not pass muster to receive the designation of a jelly bean.

At the end of the tour, participants received a complimentary, 100-count bag of mixed Jelly Belly jelly beans.

Before leaving, Mark and I shopped and sampled more in the gift shop, where bushel baskets held bags of different combined flavors of the candy beans. We selected two 2-pound bags of mixed Belly Flops: one to take home and one to eat during the rest of the week we vacationed in California.

Along the counter were the different flavors with helpers handing out free beans for the tasting. I tasted buttered popcorn, the number one best selling flavor, and loved it.
The two or three times a year I buy Jelly Bellys, buttered popcorn is the standard flavor I get, along with Tuti Fruity if it’s available. And I usually experiment with a third flavor because the people at Jelly Belly are coming up with new ones all the time. Today I got vanilla bean. It’s no buttered popcorn, but it’s pretty good.

Campobello Island

2007-10-20T05:57:00.000-07:00

About 8:15 a.m. Mark and I cruise across the Roosevelt Campobello International Bridge linking Lubec, Maine—the easternmost town in the United States—with Campobello Island in New Brunswick, Canada. A serious-looking Canadian border guard surveys our passports before letting our vehicle pass onto the island.
Campobello Island is where President F.D. Roosevelt spent the summers of his childhood.

His parents, James and Sarah, first visited the island with one-year-old Franklin in 1883. Since 1964, the Roosevelt cottage and all the grounds on Campobello Island comprise the only International Park in the U.S. or Canada.

The island Visitor Center isn’t yet open. It’s not due to open until 10 a.m., and Canada is an hour behind EDT. So that’s almost three hours to wait. We drive on instead to the Roosevelt Campobello International Park, and the center here opens at 10 a.m. too. With more than two and a half hours, we choose to hike to the shore along Friar’s Walk, an easy trail across grass, into some woodsy, bushy areas, where Mark finds a wild blackberry bush with almost bursting fruit. He says they’re not as sweet as he likes though.

The coast is really pretty, with rock walls jutting out into the calm water, and pine trees having managed to root in the stone.

Mark snags more berries on our return trip but finishes them before we enter the Visitor Center and see a 15-minute film about the Roosevelts and how they summered on the island.
Originally, the Roosevelts “camped” in a cottage that sat next door to the large house now termed the Roosevelt cottage. The house was built in 1897 for a woman whose will offered the house to Sarah Roosevelt for a bargain price of $5000. When Sarah died, she left the “cottage” to FDR and Eleanor, and they and their growing family spent summers there from 1909 to 1921.

The house, with a modest interior having specific references to early American colonial architecture, had neither electricity nor telephone. The running water for bathing, cooking and cleaning was pumped from the well by windmill or gas turbine—if no wind—to storage tanks in the cottage’s attic. From there, gravity fed the water through the pipes. A horse and cart daily delivered drinking water from a nearby spring.

The “cottage” is 119' long and 33' wide with 76 windows and seven fireplaces. There are 34 rooms, 18 of which are bedrooms! Six are bathrooms.

After the informative introductory film, a guide escorts us and another couple around the property.

Of course, the grounds are covered with soft, thick grass and plenty of flower gardens. The lush flowers of red, fuchsia, pink, orange, yellow and cream that grow in a hedge that borders the driveway are especially beautiful.

Behind the house is a view to the ocean, and Mark and I imagine what it would be like to eat breakfast there on the veranda every morning, wondering if the Roosevelts ever tired of the view. We can’t image they ever would.

The Maine Shore

2007-09-24T17:05:00.000-07:00

Which state has more islands than any other—5280 to be exact? Hawaii? No.
Alaska? No.
It’s Maine. Mark and I plan to tour the parks along the coast this week of Labor Day.

Our first stop the morning of our first, full day in Maine is Owl’s Head Lighthouse. We arrive before 7:30 a.m. yet see that the lighthouse is gated, and the gate is locked. Behind the lighthouse is the keeper’s house, and the keeper and his little schnauzer come out as Mark and I wander around taking pictures. The keeper invites us up to the top of the lighthouse even though it has been closed to the public since 9/11/01.

We have a clear view from up top this September morning and see a couple sail boats in the bay and a big clipper ship passing right in front of us heading in from sea. We thank the keeper and walk down the small stone steps, Mark almost tripping over the dog.

Our next stop is Fort Knox, built “during a period of tension between the United Kingdom and the United States over issues about the Canadian border. The intent was to defend the Penobscot River and Bangor, Maine” (Wikipedia.org). However, the place never saw any action, and in fact, its granite construction is—and will forever be—incomplete. Still, the fort is huge, so big we get lost wandering amongst its three levels of secret passageways, looking through the canon sights aimed out to the water.

After a picnic lunch and more than an hour at Fort Knox, it’s east to Acadia National Park, the first national park consisting entirely of donated land. As always, the first stop is the visitors’ center, where we see the day’s final showing of the park’s 15-minute introductory film. Then a ranger helps us with a park map, some trail guides and an Acadia National Park newspaper, all so we can plan our visit.

Acadia is in Bar Harbor, Maine, and the quaint, main street in Bar Harbor is packed with gift shops, surf shops, tourist offices and restaurants. We have reservations close for two nights. The first night Mark and I dine al fresco while listening to a jazz band. He has a steak; I enjoy a green salad with walnuts and raisins and a cup of lobster bisque.

We start the next morning on the Southwest Harborside. At Echo Lake Beach we park to hike the Beech Mountain trail. Though it’s up a mountain, it is only a 1.4-mile loop, so we decide not to encumber ourselves with water bottles.

The trail is marked moderate but it borders on strenuous and is littered with rocks the size of grapefruits and watermelon to refrigerator size. I don’t like climbing the metal rungs somehow sturdily fastened to the mountain, but I either go up them or go back. So I climb.

We are relieved to reach the top, and this eagle’s-eye view of Echo Lake Beach, where we stood less than an hour before looking up at where we’re standing now, is awesome.

Continuing the loop, we see the parking lot not too far away. Finally at Beech Mountain parking area, we are relieved the climb is over—before realizing our car is in the Echo Lake Beach lot. A bit thirsty, we continue on in what we think is the right direction and pass a couple with a map, who tell us we’re way off. Rather than backtrack, we aim in another direction and get lost.

We find the trail and get lost again and then refind the trail, admit defeat and head down the trail we headed up three and a quarter hours and about six miles earlier, meaning we have to climb down the ladders that I didn’t enjoy climbing up, clamber over rocks and brace ourselves for the steepness of the descent. We try not to think about how hungry and thirsty we are.

Finally at Echo Lake Beach lot, we collapse into the car and rest, doors wide, and each drain an Aquafina. It’s not even noon yet, and we’re nearly spent.

Finding enough strength to depress the gas pedal, Mark drives us to Pretty Marsh, our picnic lunch destination, however, there’s not a marsh in site. But the coastal location is pretty, and we sit at a wood table and eat our sausage, cheese and crackers undisturbed. After lunch we stop along a beach to see the natural sea wall, a bunch of rocks jutting into the ocean. The sea is going out, leaving many small pools in its retreat, undoubtedly filled with tiny sea creatures. But we are too exhausted from our earlier hiking fiasco to investigate them much.

In our room before 2 p.m., we shower and nap before heading to Main Street for some shopping, pizza and ice cream our final night.

Acadia National Park kicked our butts but the kitchy, cool Main Street of Bar Harbor heals all wounds.

Belterra Resort & Casino, Indiana

2007-09-09T19:13:00.000-07:00

We entered the glass doors and walked into the grand rotunda with the colorful, intricate carpeting. Check-in was to the right, a gift shop and finer stores were to the left, and we encountered a café and nicer restaurants when we followed straight ahead.

We weren’t in Las Vegas or Atlantic City, we were in Belterra, Indiana at the Belterra Casino Resort and Spa, only 50 miles from the I-75/I-71 crossing of the Ohio River.

While normal room rates at Belterra are over $100 most nights, the resort offers a $60 discount on Monday and Tuesday nights if you show your Kroger Plus card. Mark flashed ours upon check-in.

We arrived at 2 p.m. and were hopeful that the room might be ready then, but we were disappointed. Jerri, the clerk, reminded us that normal check-in is from 4 p.m. to 6:30 p.m. but that we were welcome to check back before 4 p.m. to see if the room were occupancy ready.
So we checked our two bags with the bellman and went exploring.

Our fist stop was the gift shop just to see the prices. Some gorgeous silver necklaces were only $15 a piece. I asked Mark to pick his favorite, and it was my favorite too, but it was so impractical.

“What could I wear that with?” I asked seriously.

He paused briefly, then replied, “With your wedding dress.” It was that fancy. I didn’t buy it.

The gift shop offered more practical items as T-shirts, sweatshirts, ball caps and short-sleeved baseball jerseys.

On our way to the casino, we passed The Aquarium, a nice restaurant with a hostess. I asked her if we needed to make reservations for dinner, and she shook her head no.

Then we noticed a line forming at a counter. The signs advertised the Champion’s Club. Joining the Club is free and allows people to get comped for time they play or money they invest in gambling at Belterra’s casino. Mark and I weren’t eager to begin losing our money in the slots or at the tables so we joined the cue. As we neared the front of the line, I saw another sign saying that joining the Club entitled new members to free buffet dinners. That’s a bonus.

After we got our comp cards, we boarded the boat, where the casino is located. The river boat, which never leaves the dock, has two levels of gaming, each with a free soda fountain at one end and a deli counter at the other. The lower level has mostly slot machines with only six gaming tables while the main level has more than twice as many tables plus plenty of slots.

At 3:15 our room still was not ready so we chose to explore the spa area.

On the second floor of the hotel is a workout room with free weights, weight machines and cardio equipment including a stepper, two stationary bikes and two treadmills. The separate men’s and women’s facilities have lockers, showers, hot tubs and saunas. The room supervisor asked us if we’d be interested in massage or specialty bath services they offered: Shiatsu and therapeutic massage, exfoliating and herbal baths, plus others.

The beauty salon, under separate management than the hotel or casino, offers haircuts, styles, dyes, facials, manicures, pedicures and even permanent makeup. I made an appointment to receive two services the next morning, to coincide with my massage, and then we went again to check our room’s readiness.

At 3:50 p.m. Jerri told us, “20 minutes.” We needed to sit after hours of exploring so we wandered across the hall to the chandeliered lounge and sat on a cushy couch.

Mark read a paper while I worked a crossword puzzle, and at 4:20 p.m. I checked the room’s availability. Still no go. I asked if someone could bring us the key cards when the room was ready, and at 4:30 p.m. Jerri politely handed them to us. We collected our bags from the bellman, and up to floor seven we rode.

After a bit of freshening up, we returned to the main floor for our free dinners—the best buffet ever, in my opinion—and an evening of gaming.

After losing almost $100 between us, we decided to retire to our nice room, where I bathed in the Jacuzzi and Mark watched baseball.

The next morning Mark slept in while I took advantage of the workout room before my treatments and massage.

I thought I’d have to wake him in a couple hours when I was finished, but he sat waiting for me as I floated from the best massage ever: told me he hit it big playing Let It Ride and had the where-with-all to quit while he was ahead, enough to cover my massage and manicure.

Belterra. Good gaming and great pampering: a vacation close to home.

A Mule Ride into the Grand Canyon

2007-08-29T06:47:00.000-07:00

The day before our scheduled mule ride down Bright Angel Trail in Grand Canyon National
Park, we weighed in. We both registered under the 200-pound limit, though Mark just barely.

The clerk gave us leather pouches for carrying water on our ride, ensured that we had hats and long-sleeved shirts to wear and informed us to meet in the corral the next morning.

We arose early to snag some breakfast, and at 6:45 a.m. we met Jack, a wrangler, in the park corral. After a 25-minute safety talk, Jack sized the nine of us up and partnered us each with a mule whose personality he felt meshed with what little of our own that Jack could decipher in our as-yet short time together.

I sidled up to my match, Buttermilk, a tall, blond mule with a nearly white mane. Mark, who had never been on horseback or muleback before, was partnered with Pistol, a thick-in-the-middle, cantankerous mule. Jack made the match reasoning that Mark looked big and strong, like he could handle a mule of his own mind. He gave Mark what he called a “motivator”: a thick rope with a knot in one end. Mark was to swing that hard into either side of Pistol to keep him moving.

Out of curiosity, I asked if the mules ever got a day off. Dryly, Jack responded that the mules had no union so were seven-day-a-week trekkers. More seriously, he explained that, with experience, he and the other wranglers can tell by sight which mules might need a day off, simply by watching them in the corral each morning.

Around about 8 a.m. we set off down Bright Angel Trail. Jack and his mule headed our caravan and another cowboy concluded it, just behind Mark and Pistol. I rode in the middle of the pack.

About a quarter mile into the steep, switchback, dusty trail, Jack stopped and asked if anybody had any concerns so far. I commented, “Already, Buttermilk has stumbled a couple times and even fallen to her front knees one time. Already,” I emphasized. “Are you sure she’s up for this trail today?” I was a little worried because most of the trail was straight, dead drop off to one side or the other.

Jack assured me that Buttermilk was ready for the task, and I respected Jack’s expert opinion.

Continuing down the trail, hikers stepped aside to let us pass as mule trains have right-of-way, and we stopped four miles in at Indian Gardens. There we could dismount and rest in the shade, fill up our water bottles and go to the bathroom.

Mark and I sat on the dusty ground in the shade, and he told me that he swung the motivator
hard on Pistol a couple times. “Now,” he said, “all I have to do is lift it up, then Pistol sees it,” and hurries right along.

Shortly after our stop at the Indian Garden oasis, we reached the ultimate, what made putting up with our stubborn, clumsy mules worth it; we were peering down at the sediment-filled, churning, Colorado River that ran a hundred feet below. I wanted to venture out onto a firm yet unsupported precipice jutting from the cliff to have Mark take my picture, yet he begged me not to do it. He reminded me that my balance is about as good as Buttermilk’s; one false move, and I’d be a goner. So we meandered back to our mounts, settled into the saddles and rode back to Indian Gardens for a box lunch in the shade.

Afterwards, with our mules aimed up the trail, the ride was steadier, and we could more fully enjoy the grandeur of the canyon.

By the time our mules trotted into the corral, the sundial read 3:30 p.m. We were happy the ride was over; our rumps being sore.

With plenty of water remaining in our flasks, we drank as we ambled to our car. I smiled
to myself watching Mark, a little bow-legged after spending so many hours on fat Pistol.

Thank goodness our motel, just outside the park, had a hot tub. We soaked good and long that
night.

The Appeal of the Big Apple

2007-08-14T16:58:00.000-07:00

I wrote this story 10 or more years ago. It’s about a trip I took in September 1993, five years before I even met Mark, my usual traveling partner. The final two paragraphs are recent additions.

“See those buildings? Those are the second and third tallest in the United States.” My brother Mike was giving me my first tour of New York City. He lived in Chester, NY an hour upstate.

We went to the top of one of the World Trade Towers and took in the hazy view of the city. Another tourist took our picture with my camera and the rest of New York in the background.

At the American Museum of Natural History we learned about Asian and African cultures before we broke for lunch at an Indian deli. Mike had a veggie burger in a pita while I had curry chicken with brown rice and yaal, an Indian vegetable.

Having only half-filled our daily knowledge quotient, we went back to the museum. Rodents, mammals and bears. Aquatic life and the evolution of humankind. The museum was the most complete of any I’d ever been in. We ended with a movie about the rain forest.

In horrific 4 p.m. traffic we drove to Little China where Mike bought two silk scarves for my sister-in-law and we ate dinner.

We have good Chinese food around here, but I figured Little China would have better. Mike had a seafood “nest” with shrimp, scallops, two types of squid and conch. I had sautéed, sliced conch with snow peas and carrots. The conch, which I’d never eaten before, tasted mild but was tough; it was like chewing rubber. Both types of squid were chewy too but tasted different, between fish and lobster. I didn’t like the squid.

We got rid of the bad taste by stopping at Hagen Daas for ice cream before the Broadway show at 8 p.m.—Miss Saigon.

Reservations we didn’t have, and finding parking proved difficult. So, at 7:55 p.m., a block away from the box office I bounded from the car and ran to get tickets. On that Friday night, minutes before show time, the two remaining seats were not near one another. One was $50 and the other $65.

Running, Mike rounded the corner at 8:03 p.m., and I gave him the news. We decided to forego the play, walk around Broadway and experience the Big Apple.

Mike passed a homeless woman who managed to pique my interest: she wasn’t asking for money but wanted to tell me a joke. I couldn’t pass that up. Though I don’t remember the joke, I know I laughed. She then asked for money, and I couldn’t refuse.

I caught up with Mike, and, after some New York cheesecake, we found the car.

The homeless woman notwithstanding, I saw fewer weirdos and crazy fashions than I expected. The most memorable thing was the traffic: impatient drivers who over-honk.

That was then.

Today the towers are an obvious nonpresence, but the appeal of the City is as strong as ever. The American Museum of Natural History is still the best. Little China is still thriving. (A friend from college who lives in Brooklyn says it’s about to overtake Little Italy.) Indian and Chinese restaurants still abound. And traffic is still bad.

If you are looking for a place to visit not too far from home, don’t’ let events from 9/11 scar your perception of “The City that Never Sleeps.” New York City has something to interest anyone.

The Hawaiian Island of Oahu

2007-08-05T13:04:00.000-07:00

Nearly every event in Hawaii has dancers and not just hula girls, but big, muscular men shakin’ their Polynesian booties. The best place to watch all this is at the Polynesian Culture Center on the north coast of Oahu. I think all the male dancers are from Brigham Young University-Hawaii football team. Dark and well-built, moving fast with fire; they’re as hot as the flames they throw. The young women are pretty too.

The Polynesian Culture Center is an amusement park without rides. Each of seven Polynesian Islands, Samoa, Old Hawaii, Tahiti, Fiji, Tonga, New Zealand and Marquesas, has its own area with a small museum and arena where Polynesians tell stories and share their histories.

Another attraction along the north shore is Waimea Valley and Adventure Park, like a big rainforest with animals and lush vegetation. Here we see a little gray and brown goose called a nene, we watch brave men dive off cliffs and we play croquet in the rain with a couple we meet from New Jersey.

In the center of Oahu is Dole Plantation where Mark and I stop on our return to Waikiki Beach on the southeastern coast. From the gift shop I buy a sun-catcher, Maui Potato Chips and a fresh-cut pineapple—like nothing Mark and I have ever experienced before.

A bite into a nearly glowing yellow piece of fruit—like sunshine—is like breaking a dam to a sweet, cool river of juice. It overflows my mouth and drips off my chin. After our first bites, Mark and I look at each other with grins and wide eyes. Unbelievable. We’re in the Garden of Eden. We’ve reached nirvana. This pineapple is it; we are experiencing the ultimate, the apex of our taste adventures.

Between us, we eat the whole pineapple in the front yard of the gift shop, surrounded by the peeling trees, each layer of bark revealing a different shade of orange, green, yellow, brown.

After eating our pineapple, we go out to see the mother-land, the pineapple plants that delivered the delicate treat we just delighted in. For $4.50 apiece we can enter the big hedge-maze, but mazes scare me, so instead we watch the carp in the pond. They are so plentiful it looks like there’s no water, just fish slipping along on other fish.

Though we don’t want to mar our remembrance of the pineapple, we are hungry by the time we get back to Honolulu so stop at Hard Rock Café for a bite before the show. We are staying at the Beachcomber, where the running performance is Magic of Polynesia with John Hirokawa. The show is wonderful with young male and female dancers besides the magic. All these dancers are as good looking as the first we saw.

The next day we visit Bishop Museum and Botanical Garden in downtown Honolulu. Charles Reed Bishop founded Bishop Museum in 1889 to honor his late wife, Princess Bernice Pauahi Bishop, the last of the royal Kamehameha family. The museum contains royal family heirlooms and Hawaiian and Polynesian artifacts.We learn poi is made from taro root; the nene, the goose we saw at Waimea Valley, is Hawaii’s state bird; the Polynesians discovered Hawaii by navigating the Pacific Ocean in canoes using the stars; strychnine is not a concoction of chemicals but is a tree native to Hawaii.

Another tree common to Hawaii is the lipstick tree. It grows in different colors. I bend a leaf from a tree and apply the stuff. It’s orange—not my shade, but rubbing it off completely proves impossible. I wish I’d chosen a pink hue.

Mark drives us east to Sandy Beach, just up the coast from Hanauma Bay. I heard that Hanauma Bay has the best snorkeling, but snorkeling in December—even in Hawaii—is too cold for a native Buckeye, and Mark doesn’t swim.

Big waves crash close to shore at Sandy Beach. We watch the local surfers and any other nut who dares a wade.Two men with bikini trunks and no surfboards, obvious foreigners, venture out into the ocean but keep getting knocked down by waves. One man gets up repeatedly, only to be knocked down again—in mid-calf-high water. While he is making his way in, a lifeguard runs out to help this man’s friend, who is having a hard time. The water is really powerful. When the lifeguard gets to him, two local surfers are already on either side. By the time they get him to shore, he looks exhausted. The sea is rough, yet the two surfers run back out to catch the next wave. Locals, obviously.

I guess surfing is its own form of dancing, probably started by the Polynesians. Surfers or fire twirlers, I’ll watch any of them dance in Hawaii.

A Classic

2007-07-25T11:35:00.000-07:00

This entry is from my other blog, www.MyLostSummer.blogspot.com. It will be in next week's Franklin Chronicle (and the other newspapers it's syndicated to). I thought it appropriate because lots of people will be decluttering rooms next week as the weekend is Franklin's community-wide garage sale event.

This weekend I worked at de-cluttering my dressing room. I pulled a box from the corner and sorted through papers and pictures, change purses and key chains, allotting things to the appropriate pile: recycle, garbage, keep. On top of all the mishmash in the box sat, roughly folded, my favorite sweatshirt off all time. I haven’t worn it probably since the turn of the century.

I got it in 1989, my second summer in Maine, the summer after my freshman year of college. A big, royal blue shirt with not-too-tight cuffs and a bottom that looked gathered but hung straight. On the front in white iron-on in all caps, the shirt advertised MAINE. It was not too soft and not too full and fluffy. It hung on my shoulders just right and was the perfect weight to wear year round. I’m wearing it in three quarters of the pictures taken of me in college. In the fall I wore it with jeans to cross campus. When the weather turned cooler, I wore a turtleneck under. Even with a turtleneck, my sweatshirt wasn’t too bulky to fit a fleece jacket over top for really cold weather. When I drove myself and some friends to Florida the spring just after graduation, I wore it with shorts. I also wore it with shorts when my roommates and I (and everyone else on campus) took to the streets to celebrate UD’s win and a guaranteed spot into the NCAA’s Sweet 16 in 1990.

In fall 1995, homesick and lonely, the shirt offered me comfort while I slept in it my first night in Guatemala, where I stayed with a host family for six weeks taking language instruction from a local school. In summer ‘96 it kept me warm during the cool nights on Inishmore, an Aran Island off the southwest coast of Ireland. Late in ‘94, I wore it over a thermal and under a coat on my chilly hike up Cotopaxi, the world’s highest active volcano, located in Ecuador. I could continue and list every vacation I’ve taken from the time I got the shirt to when I stopped wearing it because I took it with me everywhere.

Its royal blue has faded to a less regal shade. The MAINE lettering is now barely visible. I cut the cuffs off about a year before I retired the shirt because they were so frayed. The collar has lost its shape, like its been stretched over too many heads--or one head too many times. But it was my favorite, and getting rid of it is hard. So many memories are wrapped up in that shirt, yet I know throwing it away will not be like tossing the memories of my experiences.

Spend the next weekend hiking in a state park or go to a festival at least a two-hour’s drive away. Wear your favorite jeans or a just-right baseball cap and make your own experiences. No shirt required.

Colorado’s Great Sand Dunes

2007-07-11T17:21:00.000-07:00

The parking lot is overflowing. Barefooted families picnic in the sand, men throw Frisbees for dogs to chase and young girls sleep in the sun. On the lower dunes, young children lie on their sides and roll to the bottom. Some ride plastic sleds. Higher up people-watchers sit and watch the scenes below. Higher still are trekkers with an aim for the top taking a rest.

My husband, Mark, and I are in southern Colorado at the Great Sand Dunes National Monument, one of the most awe-inspiring national beauties I’ve ever seen. A ranger at the visitors’ center spoke on the difference between a Park and a Monument. It’s an involved definition. Please see http://www.nps.gov/grsa/wahtsthediff.htm to learn for yourself. (The Great Sand Dunes area is now a National Park.)

The highest of the ever-changing Great Sand Dunes are over 700 feet, and daredevils on their snowboards-turned-sandboards are beginning their descents to the bottom, zigzagging down the dunes. Mark and I plan to hike to the top. After climbing several dunes we collapse for a rest. My camera case is around my neck, unzipped, and without my realizing, my $230 zoom-lens camera falls out into the sand. I take the last four shots on the roll and listen to the auto rewind grind the film into its canister.

Even though hundreds of people are here, the expanse of the dunes make us feel solitary. The peacefulness sooths my burning ire of getting sand in my camera. This Sunday before Labor Day, we each have our own section of the dunes to enjoy, and there’s still plenty to go around. Mark and I sit in the sand watching little boys slide down the steep lower dunes at break-neck speeds while their mothers recline with a book and enjoy the early September sun. We watch young men carry their boards ever higher to the peaks of the equally steep upper dunes and then “surf” down.

After a 10-minute rest, Mark and I hike up the next couple dunes, yet the top seems no closer. We give up our goal of the summit and head down. Mark sweetly offers to carry the camera case so that I can have some fun running down the steep sides. I brought a plastic garbage bag to try as a sled, but it doesn’t work. I really was looking forward to sledding, but running down the dunes is surprisingly fun too.

The Great Sand Dunes are in southern Colorado straight down SR 17 in Mosca, which means fly in Spanish—though we didn’t see a single insect. The park has lodgings at more than $100 a night. Alamosa, 14 miles south on 17, has less expensive lodging opportunities. Mark and I have reservations at a Bed and Breakfast in Moffat, a small town 30 miles north of Mosca, for about $60, which includes breakfast the next morning.

No matter what you pay for a chance to see and experience the Great Sand Dunes, it’s all worth it.

The National Cherry Festival

2007-06-05T16:55:00.000-07:00

If you can find just two days to get away this summer, make sure these days are between July 7 and July 14 and drive up to Traverse City, Michigan on the shore of Lake Michigan for the National Cherry Festival, which is a week-long celebration of everything cherry.

Underneath a huge tent at the main entrance to the festival is all the cherry booty: fresh cherries, cherry turnovers, cherry jam, cherry jelly, cheesecake with cherries, chocolate covered cherries. Everything you’d expect. But besides these traditional cherry standbys are cherry-pepper jelly, spicy cherry mustard, hot cherry salsa and big gumballs that look, smell and taste like cherries.

The one cherry concoction I expected to see but didn’t—cherry wine. In fact, the whole cherry festival, one of the nation’s top 10, is alcohol free, which makes for a nice family atmosphere.

The festival has more to offer than just cherries. Different days offer different activities. At the beach two-person volleyball tournaments start at 9 a.m. and end at 5 p.m. the festival’s first day. The four-person tournament plays out the following day. The Blue Angels and friends, including F-16s, the Stealth Bomber and several Red Baron-type planes perform. A new speed record may be set at the Big Wheel races—just for kids four and under.

Several years ago a record was set in the cherry sundae category. Boy scouts assembled 510 feet of vanilla ice cream with cherry sauce and whipped cream. An official from Guinness World Records was there to record the event, and as soon as the sundae was finished, the scouts divvied it up, and on-lookers ate their shares.

Though a record-shattering event like the one described previously can’t be expected every day, some fun events occur throughout every day of the festival. One of these is the fishing. It’s not a contest, is not for lake fishing and is limited to those under 12. An area fishery supplies hundreds of live fish, and for a price, young ones can land a catch. Don’t miss the expressions of success and surprise on the faces of the really young. Older kids seem less excited with their catch. Fish are donated to an area zoo for feeding fish-eating animals like seals and polar bears.

Performers are there daily too. Mark and I enjoyed watching Just Joe juggle his swords and breathe fire. I did not like so much when he swallowed a five-foot-long circus balloon and then popped it—while still in his throat. I hope Joe didn’t have any trouble passing that.

One guy was made up like a mime, but he did more of a Tai Chi flowing movement than any mime-type work. I wasn’t sure what the point was, but he performed in front of the “Got Milk?” booth, so I had a sample—not of plain old milk—but of root beer milk, which tasted just like the final drippings of a root beer sundae.

If you don’t care for milk, don’t worry, food booths abound with the standard festival fare of meat sandwiches, soda and bottled water.

Go for the fun, not for the food.

Word count: 524

Pike's Peak in Colorado

2007-05-18T17:37:00.000-07:00

The curvy route to the 14,110-foot apex of Pike’s Peak is 19 miles. Each mile is represented by an animal that lives at that elevation. The animals are pictured on the mile markers. Mark and I bet on what animal would represent the final mile. I take mountain goats and all things similar. Mark goes with small rodents.

The representative for mile 19 is a pika—not a rodent but close. It’s in the same family as hares and rabbits. Mark wins the bet.Snow is on the ground this early September weekend though the warm sun is melting it to mud. At the top, Mark and I hop out and change into hiking boots, which are in the trunk of our rental. Dressed in shorts and sweatshirts, we step lively over to one side of the Peak for a look, scramble past the tourists to the other side, snap some photos and hightail it back to the car. Whew, is it ever cold.

Though Mark won the 19th mile bet, I have other bets I’d rather win. We are on our way to Cripple Creek, Colorado and black jack.

In Cripple Creek we gamble for a couple hours and only lose $10.50 before we head to our stop for the night in Canon City, Colorado in the middle of the state.

The next morning we drive west to Salida to the cemetery to hunt for my great-grandpa’s grave, but the graveyard is so big, we never find it, but I’m glad we stop in Salida. Downtown is north of Route 50 and is the only town for miles around, so if you’re near Salida and mealtime is approaching, stop in.

We fill up our tank and tummies and turn south on 285, which turns to 17, to the alligator farm/fish hatchery. The place is a working hatchery but has become commercialized due to the novelty of alligators in Colorado. Because of the natural springs, the water stays a certain temperature year round, warm enough for alligators. They were originally brought here to eat the fish guts that hatcheries naturally produce.

For $5 apiece Mark and I enter and see snakes, geckos, caimans and alligators. As a money-making ploy, an employee literally shoves a baby alligator at Mark and takes his picture. We don’t buy though.

Outside is a show. An alligator wrangler ropes one of the large reptiles, none of which is eager to participate, and he drags it up to land and sits on its back and demonstrates how to get the mouth open. And some fool people sit on the animal’s back and open its mouth, and their wives or friends take pictures for posterity. I consider myself a risk taker, but no, thank you.

After our fill of the fishery, we aim south toward Mosca and the Great Sand Dunes National Monument, one of 10 National Parks we plan to visit this trip.

The dunes appear out of nothing and nowhere. They are one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen in the way of scenery. These are so much more than the Sleeping Bear Sand Dunes in Michigan. Those dunes are nice yet spread out while the Great Sand Dunes in Mosca, Colorado are enormous dune upon dune upon dune upon dune.

I have so much to say about them, I don’t have room here. Check next column for the follow up.

Colorado Springs

2007-05-06T07:32:00.000-07:00

A roadside sign read “Welcome to Quinter, Kansas,” from United Methodist, Presbyterian and Catholic churches. The last on the list is the “Drunkard Brethren.” Mark and I think it’s a joke. We don’t stop in Quinter, just drive through on I-70 on our way to Colorado Springs, the true beginning of our western dream trip.

The Olympic Training Center is our first stop in Colorado Springs. We kill time in the gift shop while waiting for the next tour. I buy a reasonably priced red knit T-shirt. On the front in loopy script is “U.S. Olympic” and printed beneath is “training center.”

The tour begins with a short film on past champions and current athletes-in-training. When the lights come up, our guide speaks, but we can hardly hear due to rain pounding the roof. Our group leaves the theater and sees that it’s hailing, hard. Because a significant part of the tour is outside, it is canceled.

Not sure if the bad weather would ever let up, we leave for our next stop: the Pro Rodeo Hall of Fame. On our way, we have to pull over—partway under a tree—due to hail.

Lights are out and streets are awash, but we make it without too much delay. I enjoy the Rodeo museum. Besides displays of riders, other notables get their billing, including announcers, promoters, clowns and bulls. I am not particularly interested in museum art, but the pictures, paintings and sculptures in the Hall of Fame are tasteful and well placed.

After more than an hour in the Hall of Fame we find it is raining harder than ever as we started towards the Air Force Academy. It’s Parents’ Weekend, and everything is crowded. We stop at the bookstore, which is more than a bookstore. It’s a museum giving information on duties of cadets and upperclassmen, on what life on campus is like and on the history of the Academy. We thought we would eat at the cafeteria on campus for a cheap meal, but then remember that it will most likely be crowded due to Parents’ Weekend. We decide to check into our motel, then go to dinner.

Bumper-to-bumper traffic on I-25 south is slow to stopped. On the radio we hear that the exit closest to our motel is closed due to flooding. We exit the highway earlier; we have a good map of downtown.

The outskirts of town aren’t that well mapped though. We want to drive through Garden of the Gods but can’t find it, so give up and drive on to our lodging and dinner.

Determined to see Garden of the Gods, we set out early the next morning. The sun is up and the birds are singing though we never expected such nice weather after yesterday’s torrents.
To get to the Garden, the map indicates a right turn at the crossroads just beyond the high school. Since it didn’t work either of the times we tried it the day before, we take a left instead and come across the park entrance. Entrance is free, and we drive through twice because the Garden is so spectacular with its red rock formations. We hike a little, but just a little because we are on a schedule.
We had just 15 and a half days left to explore the rest of Colorado and four other states. Pike’s Peak, just up the road, is our next intended stop.
On the way to Pike’s Peak we see signs for Manitou Hot Springs and so stop for a self-guided tour.

Manitou doesn’t offer much. Dwellings carved out of the mountain side are open for touring through, and we aren’t sure if they’re original, but we doubt it. The requisite gift shop is on site—with a small information center/museum.

Manitou Hot Springs is worth a stop but not much time. We have reservations in the center of the state for this evening and so have to keep moving.

St. Louis

2007-04-24T12:57:00.000-07:00

The plan is for Mark to drive from our place in Cincinnati to St. Louis. After visiting the Arch and the Anhauser Busch Brewery, I will drive to Hays, in middle Kansas, for the first overnight of our 19-day trip through the American west.

We leave at 6 a.m. and make it to the arch by 12:30 p.m., thanks to the time difference. Before we cram into the little car to the top, we tour the Lewis and Clark museum below the arch. Journal entries from their expeditions are posted—complete with misspellings, which adds to the authenticity.

The trip to the top of the arch takes four minutes in a small car the size of a golf cart, only enclosed, for five people. The fit was tight for Mark at 6’ 4”, me at 5’ 11”, two large, athletic-looking young men and their petite female companion.

The day is beautiful and so is the view from the top, but we are on a schedule, and there’s only so much to see, so we snap some pictures and head to the Anhauser Busch Brewery for a free tour.

The tour lasts an hour and begins in the gift shop. We pass a Clydesdale colt grazing in the entrance yard on our way to the stable. The Clydesdales’ have an air-conditioned stable cleaner than most college dorm rooms. We are greeted by a Dalmatian taking it easy in the cool barn.

After the stable we see a short film concerning production and distribution of final goods. The next part of the tour is up a couple flights of steps to overlook the production area. The guide says it will be several degrees hotter than at ground level. Already too sweaty, I pass and rest on a bench while Mark continues the tour.

Down from the overlook to the production floor, the group passes me, and I hop up next to Mark, eager for the product tasting.

Finally, we enter an open area with tables with pretzels, an unmanned soda fountain, and an area with alcoholic drinks and bartenders. Mark gets a small cup of Bud Lite, and I get some hard lemonade. Mark’s next taste is of Killarny’s, and I sip some Sprite to dilute that lemonade since I am driving next. Then I decide to try 180, the new drink that’s high in caffeine; being wide-awake while driving in St. Louis traffic is a good thing. Only halfway through the 180, I get a terrible pain under my breastbone. Mark and I leave right away.

I am in too much pain to drive and am glad free samples of the alcoholic beverages were limited. Otherwise, Mark may have imbibed a bit beyond his bounds. Fully sober, he stays behind the wheel and aims us west to Kansas City, where we plan to stop at Arthur Bryant’s Barbeque for dinner. We saw Arthur Bryant’s featured on the Travel Channel months earlier and thought this the perfect opportunity to try it.

We get to KC right at dinner time, and the signs on Interstate 70 direct us to take exit 3C to get to Arthur Bryant’s. We find it on the corner of 18th and Brooklyn. It doesn’t look like much and is in a poorer area of town, but as expected, the food is great.

I get half a barbeque chicken and Mark gets a thick, barbeque pork sandwich. Complete with fries and sodas, it costs just over $20. On the wall is an old, signed picture of Steven Spielberg, Cate Kapshaw and Sally Field eating there together. There is one of President and Mrs. Carter too, and most recently, Emeril Legassi.

Around 10 p.m. we stop at a Motel 6 just east of Hays, Kansas, the exact halfway point between Cincinnati and Colorado Springs, where our western adventure will really begin. We didn’t do much more than drive, but this first day has been exhausting.

Tuskegee Institute National Historic Site

2007-04-11T10:07:00.000-07:00

Way down in Alabama is Tuskegee Institute National Historic Site, which sits on the campus of present day Tuskegee University, a school established in 1881 by the state of Alabama to prepare newly freed people and their children for self-sufficiency. As an off-shoot of the Tuskegee Institute National Historic Site is the Tuskegee Airmen National Historic Site. Over 1000 proud, African American pilots trained at Tuskegee to fortify the U.S. war effort. The war was the Second World War when segregation yet ruled the nation.

Mark and I have limited time since we’re meeting the family this late afternoon in Destin, Florida for some fun and relaxation, but I do want to get an hour’s worth or so of knowledge about something at Tuskegee.

Like always, our first stop is the Visitor Center, which sits just outside the gates leading onto the Tuskegee campus. I see there is an entire museum dedicated to George Washington Carver, who came to the school to head the Agricultural Department in 1896, having earned his masters degree in Botany from Iowa State Agricultural College, now Iowa State University.

“George Washington Carver…” I recall from second grade, “he invented peanut butter.” In the George Washington Carver Museum is where we choose to spend our time.

The museum is a little larger than a basketball court with the right third dedicated to Tuskegee’s history. A theater and a bookstore are also off to the right. However, the left two-thirds of the large room is crammed with displays of Carver’s findings, inventions and discoveries and even his artwork.

Interested in nature from a young age, Carver became known as the plant doctor. It seemed anything he touched would thrive. He collected soils and extracted the pigments to develop paints that interested several commercial paint companies. The paints were used on the Tuskegee campus and throughout the area.

He wrote bulletins for distribution to farming families, instructing them in the ways of crop rotation, deep planting, use of natural fertilizers and recipe variations.

And who can forget Carver’s extensive work with the peanut? The museum has copies of Carver’s lab books on display and some of the ingenious uses he developed for the legume: foods for humans and livestock, medicines, dyes, beverages (peanut lemon punch, anyone?), cosmetics, soap, diesel fuel, insulating boards, linoleum, and the uses go on unbelievably.

He also developed uses like this for the sweet potato, sand and even the burlap sack. Carver was a recycler before the word “environmentalist” even came into the American lexicon.

George Washington Carver is one of our nation’s true early innovators, and a short visit to Tuskegee Institute will introduce you to and flabbergast you with how much he did with so little.

Majestic Mt. St. Helens

2007-03-18T09:24:00.000-07:00

Mt. St. Helens is just 40 miles or so into Washington from Oregon, and we want to visit now, 26 years after its May 18, 1980 eruption, because who knows when it might blow its top again?

The road into Mt. St. Helens from I-5 has three main visitor centers and a couple other learning centers too. At the first visitor center, Mark and I peruse the informative museum and see the 25-minute movie about the eruption. When we leave the visitor center, I stand to hear a ranger program while Mark buys water from a kiosk there.

Mt. St. Helens is the first and so far the only mountain that has erupted laterally. It was quite a surprise to geologists, who thought volcanoes could only erupt out their tops. The ranger shows us a rock about the size of a T-bone steak that the eruption blasted 17 miles traveling at a speed of 670 mph! The eruption wiped out the top 1300 feet of the mountain and flattened 229 square miles of forest. We learn that Mt. St. Helens is continuously active today, billowing up molten lava at a rate of a dump-truck load every 5 to 10 seconds. At that rate, the mountain will rebuild to its pre-eruption mass in about 40 years.

The visitor center was constructed to give a good view of the mountain, yet our view is obstructed by ash—from the eruption 26 years ago—blowing around. People with trailers are warned not to go to the top because winds are up to 75 mph!

About halfway up the access road, we stop at the trailhead for the easy hike along Clearwater Lake, which was formed after the eruption dammed a stream. True to its name, the lake’s waters are clear and so blue. A large boulder sits in the middle, and timber lines the edges of the lake, all resulting from the eruption. We see a carcass on the trail, guessing that it is an elk’s.

Just a quarter mile up the road is the Hummocks trailhead. We are not particularly interested in seeing the hummocks, or small hills, that resulted from the eruption: we know what hills look like. Yet we want to give the wind time to die down so that we can hike up top, around the mountain. The ranger told us there was a dangerously narrow strip of rock to traverse; I’m always up for thrilling.

The Hummock Trail is moderate, but we make it strenuous as daylight is running out, and we are anticipating the final hike. In the car on the way to the last visitor center and the trail around Mt. St. Helens, I realize I pushed myself too far on the last trail; my legs are shaky. Wind is significantly less than what it was earlier in the day, but gusts are still fairly strong we notice when we get out of the car at 4:55 p.m. in time to tour this final visitor center before its 6 p.m. closing.

From the patio outside through the yet ashy air, we can barely see the eruption, the lava oozing out of a single point to the right of the caldera, like foam pouring over the sides of a beaker during a chemistry experiment gone bad. Inside the visitor center, Mark looks at the displays while I listen to a ranger program. It is the same information I got from the other program upon entering the park.

The unique display in that final visitor center concerns animals and how or if they survived the eruption. Some insects survived; few fished survived; nothing else did. But of course in the 26 years since, all species have made the mountain their home again.

We decide since we have no snacks, it is still a bit windy, the day is late, my legs are fatigued, and the trail is slightly dangerous, we will skip the hike around the mountain.

We give one last look to Mt. St. Helens, with reddish brown ash from the day’s winds covering the snow. Majestic.

A Winter Day in Delaware

2007-03-12T04:15:00.000-07:00

Over Presidents Day weekend I had a book signing in Newark, Delaware. My oldest brother and his family live there, so I stayed with them. This picture is from the Hagley Museum Website.

Early Friday afternoon my sister-in-law collects me from the airport and drops me at Hagley Museum while she runs errands. Hagley is the site of the DuPont gunpowder works. The DuPonts amassed their fortune on the foundation of gunpowder manufacture, and this is where it all started in the early 1800s. The 235-acre park includes restored mills, a workers' community and the DuPont family home and gardens.

The museum is two floors of exibits, and I am the only visitor. I see what the downstairs has to offer before stepping out the back exit—a step back in time.

My first sight is the icy Brandywine River lined with 10 or so three-sided buildings that in the early 1800s were used for separate steps in the process of making gunpowder. The irregular rooms, open to the river, are small, 12-15 feet across, and the walls of gray stone are about eight inches thick, to contain an explosion should one have occurred.
I cross from the museum straight to the lookout over the bend in the river and realize that Delaware’s weather is just as Ohio’s this mid February, with snow fall covered with thick ice. I don’t fall, but I walk gingerly.

I shuffle along among the bare trees behind the stone shacks leaving no footprints on the ice to mar the tranquility of the scene. The river’s surface is frozen thinly near the bank, and though I’d like to take a closer look, I dare not as I’m alone this afternoon. One slip, and I might be MIA for hours as no one knows exactly where in the park I am.
My time in the frigid weather reminds me of a time 10 years ago or more when I hiked some snowy trails at Caesar’s Creek, along State Route 73 near Waynesville, and found it so peaceful then. I’d forgotten how nice hiking—or simply visiting a park— in the winter is.

After I pass the last stone building on the river, I take the icy bridge to the road, cross and climb into a wooded area following deer tracks that must have been left before the icefall. I’m hoping they will lead back to the museum, where my brother will meet me when he gets off work.
About a quarter mile into the wood, it hits me that a deer would likely not have an aim for the museum. So I turn back to the road.

Walking on the paved surface for just a couple steps, I realize that walking on ice-covered snow is lots more fun. I cross to the river side and meander back to the museum in time to meet my brother, and I tell him how much I enjoyed being the sole visitor to Hagley that afternoon.

While Hagley Museum was interesting, focusing on early American industry, and the grounds were pleasant and refreshing, the point I want to make with this story is that we are lucky enough here in Southwest Ohio to experience the four seasons and also lucky enough to have parks close to where we live, and just because there’s snow on the ground should not keep you from enjoying them. You’ll awaken new senses visiting a park in the winter. You’ll see new things with the leaves off the trees. You’ll feel that instant of refreshing coolness deep inside when you breath the brisk air. You’ll experience solitude as perhaps the only visitor to the park.
Oh, wait; I’ll be there. See you after the next snow.

Death Valley National Park, California

2007-02-25T13:14:00.000-08:00

The hottest, driest, lowest place in the U.S. is appropriately named Death Valley, which sounds like a particularly unappealing place. But Death Valley National Park has a lot to offer and is surprisingly diverse. We stay two nights, which is the minimum required to experience all the park has to offer.

Summertime temperatures can reach more than 120 degrees F and the average annual rainfall is less than two inches, but we are here in November, with temps in the 80s, and when we leave our lodge the morning of our first full day in the park, random raindrops scatter the area. The spitting lasts two minutes or less.

We drove into the park via the southern entrance from Nevada the day before and stopped to hike at the Salt Flats, Devil’s Golf Course and Badwater. The average evaporation rate at the bottom of Death Valley is 150 inches a year. Considering the park only gets 2 inches of rainfall, you can understand that it’s pretty dry.

The Salt Flats used to be a body of salt water. Now it’s just what its name says: flat land covered with salt. From the road, the flats seem to stretch a couple miles to the mountains, all covered with salt crystals, which crunch under my shoes and leave tracks. Mark doesn’t walk out as far as I do. At not quite a mile, by my estimate, I stand still so the crystals no longer crunch. I have never experienced a silence like this: no computer hum, no traffic, no rustling leaves, no gurgling water, no chirping birds. Complete silence. Like I’m in a vacuum. It’s almost eerie.

Devil’s Golf Course is like the Salt Flats only somehow the earth clumps up under the salt.

Badwater is flat with salt and also a little water. But it’s bad water; a cowboy crossing the valley to the California Gold Rush led his horse to the rank water, but it refused to drink. That’s how this place got its name.

At Artist’s Palette, the most colorful area of the park, we drive in amongst the blue and red rocks and wait for the sun to set before a nice dinner at the restaurant at Furnace Creek, where we stay for the night.

The next morning after breakfast and the spitting of rain, we drive back south and hike the four-mile Gower Gulch loop plus the half-mile option to Red Cathedral. We hike the last couple miles along the gulch bed, and towards the end we make precarious climbs down what, if the water were running, would be waterfalls, one with a 10-foot drop or so and a couple other smaller ones.

After a rest we drive north and stop to walk the mile long Salt Creek interpretive trail with hopes of seeing pup fish, one of the few species that can survive in that briny water. We do see minnows. Or are they little pup fish? A dragonfly touches down briefly on the water’s surface, and we see a worm too, what is actually a fly larva. The plants, just green sticks branching off another, are called pickle weed. We chase tiny lizards from the trail.
Further north we hike to the Ubehebe Crater and the smaller unnamed crater Mark and I call the baby Hebe. On our way, a coyote crosses the road. Mark slows so I can get a picture. The animal walks towards our stopped car. If the door was open, he’d jump in. He is looking for a handout.

While driving along, Mark spots a tarantula in the middle of the road. We stop and get out to take pictures.

Just like we planned, we’re at the sand dunes in time for the sunset. We walk barefoot in the warm, loose sand before Mark gets stickers twice and we decide to put our shoes back on.

We sit at the top of a dune waiting for the show, but a thick cloud obscures the whole western horizon so we miss our sunset. Still, we sit more than an hour, playing tic tac toe in the sand or people-watching through the binoculars.

Our lodge tonight is just up the road. We have dinner at the place there and then enjoy the nightlife just outside: a cowboy playing the zephyr and the guitar and singing in his yodel-y voice. He’s really good.

Death Valley National Park. So full of life. Who knew?

Crater Lake National Park, Oregon

2007-02-15T08:06:00.000-08:00

I thought that I had gazed upon everything beautiful in nature as I have spent many years traveling thousands of miles to view the beauty spots of the earth, but I have reached the climax. Never again can I gaze upon the beauty spots of the earth and enjoy them as being the finest thing I have ever seen. Crater Lake is far above them all. – Jack London, 1911

Mark and I are less enchanted when we arrive through the north entrance to Crater Lake National Park one late afternoon in early September.

The sky is the colorless haze it often is this time of year. Just where the north access road meets Rim Road, which circles the lake, is a pull off with a short climb to the overlook.

We know this will be the highlight of our Oregon trip. We’ve seen pictures and read accounts, and our anticipation of finally viewing the wondrous, glorious, unbelievably blue beauty of Crater Lake is almost satisfied.

Yet we’re disappointed.

“Huh.” A simple acknowledgement is our reaction to what is arguably the most beautiful natural thing on earth. Smoke from a forest fire to the west has settled in over the lake, marring our initial view, squashing our expectations, reneging on the guarantee of blow-you-away beauty the National Park Service promises visitors. Wizard Island, the small caldera formed from a volcanic “burp” is to the west,

and all the way over to the east is an island called Phantom Ship, and it is about the size of a pirate’s ship with spindly trees sticking up to pass for masts.

We can see a thicker layer of gray moving in from the west so drive east around Rim Road, trying to outrun it. We stop frequently at lookout points, but it’s all the same: smoky. But the smoke offers us a unique view of the Phantom Ship, which looks menacing, like it’s just breaking through the fog of early morning, en route to an attack.

We exit out the south and hope tomorrow gives better views.

We arrive in the park just after 8 am and drive to Rim Village, park and walk out to the rim of the lake. Indeed, the smoke has cleared and we’re rewarded with a jaw-dropping view of Wizard Island.

Driving north along the western rim, we stop to read about the fire. It started in July from a lightning strike. Since it started naturally, the Park Service is allowing it to burn out naturally, but they are monitoring it. Natural fires are worthwhile because they clean up the dense underbrush, which steels nourishment from the soil. If it had started from a campfire, the fire would have been doused.

At Cleetwood Trailhead, we park and hurry down the steep, mile-long trail to the water’s edge and are the last two admitted on the 10-am bout tour. Our captain eases through the lake, stopping at waterfalls or rock formations while another ranger gives commentary. Crater Lake has no tributaries running into or out of it, which is why it’s so clear. It holds the world record for clarity: 142 feet. The height of the water varies only a few feet per year due to snowmelt and evaporation.
Finally at Wizard Island, Mark and I disembark and hike a mile that circles the caldera to the top. We are intent on the steep trail as we only have an hour, however, we frequently look out to the lake in awe of its magnificence. The beauty of the clear, blue water brings tears to my eyes.

Finally at the caldera’s rim, we sit on some dead wood and have a picnic lunch before heading back to the dock. Several people swim, and I consider it until I dip my toes in. Too cold for me. On the return trip, the captain circles the phantom ship, which, up close and in the clear, doesn’t look so menacing. We go by an orange outcropping of rocks called Pumice Castle. I almost expect a royal figure to step out and wave.

Back at Cleetwood Trail, we all unload and make the laborious tramp up the trail. In the car, Mark and I aim east, as yesterday. This afternoon we turn back a seven-mile road to The Pinnacles. We don’t know what to expect.

Pointy, formations, which look like hardened, gray sugar, stick up from what was a river bed and is now overgrown. How did they form and what are they exactly? We don’t know, but we’re glad we made the drive back here as in all our travels, we’ve never seen anything like them.
We end the day by sitting in on a ranger program and visiting the small museum, where we see what British author Jack London said about Crater Lake (see above quote). On this day, clearer than yesterday, we both agree.

Two More Redwoods Pictures

2007-02-09T04:26:00.000-08:00

See post below for an account of our day in Redwood National Forest--with more great pictures.

Mark is standing at the base of an upturned Redwood tree. Massive.

This lighthouse sits on the California coast at the north end of Redwood National Forest. Mark took this picture the night before our day in the park described below. We had dinner at a crowded seafood restaurant just before this was taken. By the time we got out, I thought we'd missed the good sunset, but I think the light in this picture is just amazing. This is probably my favorite picture from the whole trip.

Redwood National Park

2007-01-24T11:52:00.000-08:00

“Pepper,” I warn as I hike in the lead on the trail. That someone dropped a bright, yellow-green banana pepper from their lunch is the only explanation for the pepper as it’s a tropical fruit and we’re in Redwood National Park, which lies along the northern California coast.

Our tramp along the easy Ah Pah trail reminds me of the walk we took late yesterday afternoon just as we entered the park from Oregon.

“It’s a slug,” says Mark, who’s following behind. He aims the camera at it, and I notice another slug up the trail. Mark scoops the second slug onto a dry leaf and carries him back to be in the picture with the first one.

We watch them a few seconds, struggling in opposite directions. Mark says, “Those two probably spent all day yesterday trying to get away from each other.”

Redwood National Park is not short on trails, but we decide to stick with trails to the west, towards the coast, as the inland trails all seem similar—very easy through forests of redwoods. We choose to follow the Ossagon Trail because it leads through four separate ecosystems: forest, prairie, dune, and ocean.

On the early, more inland sections of the trail, each step gives a little as we’re walking on a bed of dried pine needles. Further in on the cushy, level land, we see clovers as big as the palm of a hand.

Yesterday afternoon we stopped at the Visitor Center and saw the intro tape that informed us that the pinecone from a redwood, the tallest tree in the world, is the size of an olive. They are not littering the trail as we had imagined, but Mark finds one, and we laugh at its tiny-ness.

Further along the easy trail, I spot a red frog. He shyly hops into the big clover, which easily hides him. Then I see another one! And Mark spies a newt! He blends in so well with the sticks.
After three quarters of a mile, the trail drops steeply for nearly another mile before leveling out to prairie on the way to the coast.

Just before the trail opens up to the beach, we pass some wild blackberry bushes and see a heron or some other long-necked bird perched high in a dead tree.

We walk out to the upper beach, and I sit to empty sand from my shoe. Mark hikes onto the crest of the dune, before it slopes off to the ocean. We didn’t see a person the whole hike down, yet two fishermen stand at the shoreline tossing their lines into the sea. Their truck is parked on the beach.

Fog obstructs our view out to sea. Disappointed, we turn back after a short rest. At the berry patch we select the plumpest blackberries within easy reach. Mark laments that we don’t have a bucket. As he picks berries from the bush, he sees a bright green, little frog that seems less shy than the red ones I saw in the forest. He simply sits as we reach all around picking the plump fruit.

On the way back, we pass a young man on a mountain bike, maneuvering down the steep trail that we are climbing. Near the trail head, on the almost bouncy forest floor, we tell a couple about the blackberries near the end, apologizing that we’d eaten those within easy reach.

We stay in the park until early afternoon, sticking with easy hikes since we're worn out from the climb up Ossagon Trail. At Elk Meadow we picnic and hike to a waterfall before returning to Oregon. Redwood National Park is one of my favorites.

Elizabeth (Libbi) Evans Fryer is a nationally published writer who specializes in heath & fitness, travel and business writing. Her first book, My Lost Summer, about her recovery from a coma when she was a teen, is available at www.lulu.com and at Lake Jewelry.

An American Castle in California

2007-01-14T15:03:00.000-08:00

Hearst Castle in San Simeon, on the western coast of California, was a place to which celebrities-of-the-moment were invited by William Randolph Hearst, who amassed his fortune as a publishing tycoon. With this fortune he created in the early twentieth century what is today one of the largest historic house museums in the United States.

The mansion is a 28-year collaboration between Hearst and Julia Morgan, not his wife or mistress, but his architect. She previously had designed structures for Hearst’s mother, Pheobe, and in 1919 Hearst hired Morgan to lay plans for something on his land that would be more comfortable than the platform tents guests stayed in at the time.

So with the ideas of Hearst, Ms. Morgan devised four houses to comprise the 90,080 square foot castle: Casa Grande, Casa del Mar, Casa del Monte and Casa del Sol. Collectively, these structures have 56 bedrooms, 61 bathrooms and 41 fireplaces.

But Ms. Morgan’s architectural skills weren’t limited to luxury residential structures; she also designed the pools and the gardens as well as the workers’ camp and the animal shelters.
Hearst Castle had a zoo with free-roaming animals from antelopes to yaks. Caged animals included cougars, chimps, macaws, among others and even an elephant. In 1937 financial difficulties started for Hearst, and he donated most caged animals to area zoos since he could no longer afford construction of their shelters, maintenance of their special diets and salary of the full-time, on premises vet. Many of the free-roaming animals remained though, and even today you might see zebras grazing along coastal Highway 1 near San Simeon.

Tours of this State Historical Monument began in 1958, a year after the property was donated to California. A visit to http://www.hearstcastle.com/ lets you see a touch of what you can expect. Five tours are offered, but the Experience Tour is recommended for first-timers.
For $14 each, Mark and I purchased tickets for the 105 minute castle tour plus a 40-minute National Geographic movie concerning construction of the grounds, complete with vintage clips from the 1920s and 30s.

The tour began with a short bus ride up the hill while period music played. Once we all unloaded into the garden area, our guide listed some rules, like indoor flash photography is prohibited as is walking off of the carpet indoors.

I don’t remember other rules because I wasn’t fully listening. I was taking in the view of lower San Simeon and the Pacific coastline.

From our tour group’s vantage point we saw a postage-stamp-sized pool down below. Our guide told us that it was the water treatment system for Hearst Castle designed by his architect, Julia Morgan, who earned her degree in Civil Engineering from UC Berkeley. The small town of San Simeon uses it still today.

After winding our way through the esplanade and gardens with year-round blooming flora, we passed the gorgeous outdoor pool with near surroundings of marble sculpture and far surroundings of mountains and coast.

The first structure we entered was Casa del Sol where we saw a relatively modest guestroom and bath letting out into a sitting room. I use the terms “relatively modest” when comparing it to rooms in the Casa Grande through which we also strolled; Morgan designed Casa Grande around so many extraordinary Spanish, Flemish, Roman and other European antiques, artworks and collectibles. Hearst amassed a vast and impressive collection that included classical paintings, tapestries, religious textiles, oriental rugs, antiquities, sculptures, silver, furniture and antique ceilings.
Before our bus trip down the hill, we passed the indoor pool housed in its own structure. The only thing making it less spectacular than the outdoor pool was lack of a view.
If traveling to western California to a locale north of Los Angeles and south of San Francisco, don’t miss out on this tour of a lifetime. If you do, like Katharine Hepburn, you’ll regret it.
Ms. Hepburn wasn’t aware of the luxurious amenities and wasn’t interested in camping. She declined an invitation to the castle from Hearst himself. She was never asked back.
To see more pictures of Hearst Castle, please visit http://www.ournationstreasure.blogspot.com/.

Word Count ~700

Meteor Crater in Arizona

2007-01-06T18:28:00.000-08:00

I am confident that after a year of reading "Hints on Health" you have achieved or are on your way to a fit you. As my two main passions are staying in shape and traveling and last year I wrote health topics, this year the column articles will take you along with my husband, Mark, and me as we visit Our Nation’s Treasures.
When you read “Nation’s Treasures,” you likely think of National Parks, like Yellowstone, the Grand Canyon, Acadia, and I’ll take you there, but some of our nation’s treasures are on private lands or are managed by individual states. We’ll stop to see what’s offered in these places too.
A picture will accompany each article, and if you want to see more, simply visit my blog, http://www.ournationstreasures.blogspot.com/. On the blog I will post each article that appears in the paper along with several pictures of the highlighted treasure.
Our first stop this year is Meteorite Crater off I-40 in Arizona, between Winslow and Flagstaff. A kitschy gift shop and an RV park mark the exit, the only development for miles in both directions on the highway. The crater is just south of the interstate at the end of a straight road through desert.
At the crater, Mark shells out the $12 per person fee for us to enter, and we roam the museum a couple minutes while we wait to catch the 9 a.m. show about the history and discovery of the crater.
We learn that in the late 1800s a fellow working for the government determined the crater to be the result of volcanic activity. However, the crater showed no evidence of volcanic ash or rocks so in 1902 a man named Daniel Barringer devised a theory: the crater was the result of a meteor colliding with the earth. And this time there was proof.
In fact, on display in the museum and open for touching, is, at 2 feet in diameter and 1400 pounds, the largest of the three main pieces of the meteorite that created the crater. The other two pieces of the 150-feet-in-diameter meteorite are in museums in Chicago and New York. This meteorite, and all meteorites, is mostly iron, a scant 7 percent nickel with trace amounts of “other.”
We learned that a heavenly body of this type that hits the earth is called a meteorite. While it’s still up in space, it’s called a meteoroid and once it hits our atmosphere, we call it a meteor. We learned that asteroids are minor planets, and comets are masses of gases.
After the film, Mark and I and eight others accompany a ranger out for a one-mile rim walk. The crater is so big: 4000 feet (three quarters mile) across and 550 feet deep. I find it interesting that the crater used to be 700 feet deep. How did it lose 150 feet? Wind erosion.

In the 1950s astronauts trained in the crater for their eventual moon landing. In 1964 a Cessna crashed into the side. The two pilots within, simply curious to see the crater, both were injured but not fatally.
After the rim walk, Mark and I finish our tour of the museum and walk out to the observation deck and look through scopes trained on tunnel openings, the astronaut model planting the American flag at the floor of the crater and the wreckage of the Cessna .
Daniel Barringer, the first to come up with the meteorite theory, worked at the site for 27 years so gained rights to the land. It’s still in the family.