The Happy Wanderers

More to Come....

2011-10-09T19:22:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I drove the Tioga over to a nearby RV park and did the final cleanout of the sewer tanks. Then I dropped by Costco to fill up the gas tank so I can tell how much we used on the trip. Still to do is the winterizing process where I blow out the water lines with compressed air. I haven't done that before, but I have two different people offering to teach me, so I should be good to go there. I'll try and update the blog readers on this process when I learn it.

Ciao.

Packing, packing, packing.

2011-10-06T14:26:00.001-07:00

Here's a thought for those of you who would like to sally forth into the great unknown in your brand new RV: LEARN HOW TO PACK! That's right, there's only so much room for your stuff in one of these aluminum boxes. You absolutely must pack effectively if you want to bring along everything you'll need on the road.

Our thirty-foot Tioga motor home is what they call a "basement model." That means the manufacturer has jacked the floor level of the coach up off the truck frame far enough to create a vacant space between the frame and the floor. This vacant space is then devoted to storage. Sometimes, it even runs clear through from side to side. Naturally, between the wheel wells is where you get the tallest lockers. Into these you can pack fairly large items, things like my galvanized tub in which I packed all the "wet" items like hoses, filter units, and hose fittings or the plastic tub for all the sewer-related items. In between these large lockers, in places like over wheel wells, you have several low-profile lockers. Into these I would store things like the drive-up blocks, a fiberglass ladder for adjusting the awing, and a set of folding chairs if the provided picnic bench seating looked too grungy. These low-profile lockers tended to extend from the left side to the right side of the coach.

I studied these various lockers for some time before I began to pack things into them. I'm glad I did. From what I saw on the road, many people don't do any planning at all. They simply stand five feet away and throw things into the lockers. When you have a compartment that is, say, fourteen inches high, twenty-four inches deep, and four feet wide, you want to make the most of that space in three dimensions. But when you just chuck items into the space, you end up with a jumble of goods that don't make full use of the height.

To counter this problem, I went to home depot and purchased heavy duty plastic tubs normally used for mixing mortar (photo top left). They measure approximately two by three feet. In my largest locker, I was able to fit two of these, one on top of the other, which largely filled the space, with enough room left over to fit extra oil, camp stove fuel, antifreeze, and a camp lantern standing up. In the bottom tub went the camp stove, the barbecue tools, a bag of charcoal, two 100-foot ropes, and the steel barbecue grill-top that we used when that essential item was absent on the RV park's barbecue fixture, which usually consisted of a large, rusty truck wheel laying flat on the ground.

Into the top tub went every gizmo and widget I could think of that would make my life easier in a pinch. Here you would find a level, a basket of WD40, light-weight oil, lock lubricant, Silcone sealant, etc. Also here was the 110v extension cord, the TV cable, the heavy rubber hammer for testing tire inflation, an axe, jumper cables, picnic tablecloth hold-down clips, plastic table cloth, and lots more.

Between the two tubs I stored the rubber-backed 4'x6' industrial carpet that I would throw down in front of the RV door (where allowed by the park). The carpet sitting on top of the first tub made it easy to slide tub 2 into place on top.

One locker I packed completely full of firewood. That, in retrospect, was a bad idea. Did you know that some states have a law against hauling wood in from other states? Well, I was duly informed of this fact when we were getting our tires changed in Minnesota. The tire jockey told us that it was like a $500.00 fine to do so. Needless to say, the firewood stayed at the tire shop for their next weenie roast.

One thing you need for stabilizing your RV are wooden blocks. These blocks go on the ground under the rear scissor jacks so the jacks don't have to extend as far. Mind you, more modern coaches often have built-in jacks and you don't bother with the wood. But if you do need these little gems, I found a great way to keep them organized. Since I wanted to keep my blocks in the rear compartment with the drive-up blocks, a compartment only about two feet wide and six inches high, I devised a drawer to put them in (photo right). The drawer is about 13" wide and six feet long and has a set of single-direction wheels mounted on the rear of the box and a handle on the front. Just pushing the blocks into the open locker would make it difficult to retrieve them when they had been pushed out of your reach. But with the blocks in the drawer I merely have to grab the handle, lift slightly over the lip of the locker, and pull it completely out until the wheels in back catch on the lip. I then set the handled end on the ground. Nothing could be easier. In the drawer, along with the blocks, I keep an army shovel, a kneeling pad in case the ground is wet or rocky when I get down to lower the scissor jacks, and the combination socket and handle that you use to lower the jacks. When I'm done with the drawer, I simply pick it up and roll it back into place in the locker. Very neat and tidy. And by the way, the army shovel came in very handy in Minnesota when I had to dig a hole for the tire jockey to remount the tire after the old one had blown out beside the freeway. Not sure what I would have done without that shovel.

So, that's all for now on the subject of exterior storage. The big thing to remember is to not only use all your width and depth in any given locker, but the height of the locker as well.

Home At Last

2011-10-05T17:52:00.001-07:00

Well, folks, the Tioga is finally back in the driveway, the home furnace is fired up, and Concetta is fixing dinner in her own earth-bound kitchen for the first time in five weeks. Wow! Five weeks. It's hard to believe we've been that long on the road. It just went by in a flash. The Tioga racked up just a tad over 7,000 miles and still runs like a top. We did lose a set of tires in Minnesota. But other than that bit of foolishness, not another thing gave us trouble. We wanted to take the coach on a dry run before our departure date, but it never came to pass. We never tried the water heater, the furnace, the air conditioner, the water systems, the sewage systems, the generator, or taken a shower in that swiftly disintegrating plastic enclosure whose flaws I gummed up with waterproof silicone and prayed.

To reward us for our blind faith, absolutely everything worked like a champ. Even the CD player that I had never tried worked for literally a hundred hours or more with our books on tape. We did burn out a couple of low-voltage lights. Both the on-board clocks gave up on the same day. And we came home with one running light dark out of the handful I replaced before we left.

At one point on a bumpy road in Missouri the coffee maker came lose from its moorings, tumbled out on the counter, and bounced to the floor. We just replaced it in its rack, loaded it with coffee, and brewed up our next pot of java.

For those of you who have been following the blog throughout, you know that I asked everyone what the little switch under the sink did. Flipping it on and off did nothing. I dismantled it before we left and shinned everything thoroughly. Still nothing appeared to come on when the switch was flipped. Finally, just a few days ago, I discovered the answer when Concetta was complaining about the heat in the kitchen. "There's a fan right over your head," I said. "All we have to do is crank up the vent lid and turn it on. The unit had it's own on/off switch on this particular ceiling fixture.

But as I performed the operation of getting the fan on line, it suddenly hit me that the designers of the coach were probably diabolical enough to put a second on/off switch for the ceiling unit down by the sink. I reached over and hit the curiously-located switch and, voila, the fan overhead shut off. Jeeze! To think I had even emailed the previous owner of the coach and asked him what the switch did. He didn't know.

So, it appears that we'll be keeping the RV for future adventures. I wasn't sure we'd adapt, but we not only adapted but enjoyed the experience immensely. I, for one, can't want to start planning the next trip.

For now, we're home. While we unwind, I'd like to finish out this blog with some things we learned that might help others in their adventures into the RV world. Until then, I wish you good food, good wine, and exciting destinations -- and a warm house when you come home.

Ciao.

From rainy Richfield to rainy Ely

2011-10-04T16:05:00.000-07:00

Today we moved from one rainy city to another. In between, we saw some of the finest Great Basin desert country the West has to offer, all of it, incongruously enough, bathed in sparkling sunlight and unseasonable warmth.

All of our highways today were narrow, two-lane affairs which meandered from one tiny, one-horse town to another. We passed turnoffs to towns with names like Aurora, Sigurd, Oasis, Oak City, Holden, Hinkley, and Deseret, farming towns of which we'd never heard nor ever had an occasion to visit. Even the towns we cruised through at 25mph like Scipio and Salina seemed curiously stuck in an earlier time. We stopped in just one town, that of Delta, which proclaimed an interesting museum. Delta showed up on the itinerary an hour or so prior to the lunch hour so we thought it would be a good leg-stretching opportunity before we stopped for our sandwich and chips.

Much to our delight, the museum turned out to be so much more than a leg-stretching opportunity. Still, to view the museum from the street it certainly didn't look like much. In the front yard sat an old, woefully dilapidated frame house from the 1920s, the location of the original museum we later learned. Set well back from this house and the street was a sort of concrete block building with the entrance door barely discernible from where we stood. Since we'd seen the museum's road sign, we knew the entrance had to be back there somewhere so we set off to find it. Moments later we discovered the entrance hidden from view behind the 1920s house.

As you know if you've been reading this blog for any time at all, Concetta and I just love museums. For an hour or two we consider them just the finest entertainment you can have. The museum in Delta proved no exception. And, this time, our museum experience came with our own personal guide and interpreter. What could be better?

When we first entered we found two elderly ladies waiting to greet us. The older of the two, a one-time surveyor's wife turned docent, simply beamed at the prospect of showing two newcomers around her facility. We couldn't have been happier. The museum's collection runs to everything from rocks and minerals, to western art. From mining and railroading equipment, to a authentic example of a Japanese internment camp barracks. Everything was a bit crowded, but very artfully and tastefully displayed. LaWanna, our guide, reassured us that the museum collection, though it contained substantially more in its collections than we were seeing, was destined for a brand new museum building in the very near future. Certainly we should make time to come back and see it some day.

As it turned out, we thoroughly enjoyed the museum and LaWanna. I even got her to pose for a number of photographs. She good naturedly complied, though I suspect I was probably the one and only person who had made such a request. Several displays took my eye, but none more firmly than the switchboard that, according to LaWanna, was still in use into the 1960s. The reason that I was drawn to the switchboard was because my Dad spent much of his career at the Western Electric Company installing them. Can't you just hear all those switchboard operators in all those old black and white movies say, "Number pleeeeeeease!"

As usual I tried stumping the resident docent, LaWanna with some of the rustic antiques in the section of the museum devoted to more primitive tools and such. I pointed to a couple of ice saws and dared her to tell me what they were used for. Darn if she didn't know exactly what use was intended for the six-foot saws. I couldn't stump her at all. Pretty smart cookie, she was. I did find one tool that I couldn't identify (photo lower left). Oddly enough, they had two of them, as did Rick in Saguache, Colorado. Rick hadn't known what to make of the tools, either. I have included a photo of the sort of hook thingy here in case you know.

After the museum at Delta, we set out again, only stopping when we found a wonderful flat section beside the highway some miles out of town. The lunch spot came complete with a terrific view of the mountains to the west (photo below right). The rest of the day we just cruised, listened to our book on tape, and enjoyed the bedazzling array of cloud formations and as they scudded across the blue vault of the sky. Virtually no towns or habitations of any kind do you find between Delta and Baker, Nevada, so the scenery just had to do. Every once in a while I'd just have to stop and photograph the stunningly empty landscape. Everything felt so remote and untouched by humans, I just loved it. This particular stretch of road, Highway 50 from Utah to Nevada, has escaped my notice until this trip. Oh, I've been up and down Highway 50 in Nevada on numerous occasions, but east of Ely always looked like venturing a little too far into the wilderness for my tastes. On the contrary. This little stretch of real estate is just fabulously wild and beautiful. The towns, where you can find them, are full of friendly, welcoming folks who would like nothing better than to help acquaint you with their hidden secrets. I for one intend to take them up on their offer.

As we approached Ely, perhaps from a distance of fifty miles, we began to notice a tumult of slate-gray clouds piling up against the foothills and peaks of the Egan Range. After cruising in the soft fall sunlight of western Utah and eastern Nevada all day, the promise of rain in the very hours that we would be arriving and setting up in camp certainly did not excite us. Still, it looked ominously beautiful and we couldn't turn our eyes away.

Just as we suspected, just a hand-full of miles from the Ely KOA, the rain began in earnest. Great. Just what I wanted was to get soaking wet again. But, as fate would have it, this time the rain backed off to a half-hearted drizzle once we had checked in and were assigned our spot. Then, by the time I had put the front wheels on the blocks and hooked up water, sewer, electric, and cable TV, the rain stopped and the afternoon sun began to struggle through the cloud cover. Wow! The sun on the wet landscape, the voluminous storm clouds, the stark look of the sun-glinted distant peaks was too much to ignore. I grabbed the camera and disappeared for a half hour while I prowled around through the dripping sage and juniper trying to get the perfect shot of it all (photo below left).

Tomorrow we are faced with perhaps the longest day of our trip at just over 300 miles. We almost never attempt to drive more than 175 miles in one day, usually far less. Were we to drive more miles than that, we would inevitably sacrifice any opportunity to stop, be distracted by some interesting museum, park, antiques shop, or photo opportunity. Fortunately, much of the Highway 50 corridor that we will be traveling tomorrow we have traveled numerous times before in our exploration of America's first transcontinental artery, the Lincoln Highway. So tomorrow, we'll probably zoom right by Austin and Eureka, ignore the turnoff to the scenic 722 bypass, and turn our heads away when antique shops loom on the horizon. This is not to say that I'll be ignoring the inevitable photo ops, I know there will be some of those. But in all probability, I'll spend so much time driving tomorrow that I won't be sitting down with the computer to finish this particular saga tomorrow night. Hopefully, I'll catch up in a day or so be sure and tune it to catch the wrap up.

Until then, we wish you good food, good wine, and exciting destinations. Oh, yeah!

Ciao.

Under the wire -- Almost

2011-10-03T17:59:00.001-07:00

We just got into camp today in Richfield, Utah, ahead of the rain. Only problem, just getting to the front door does not get the plumbing and electrical set up, the sewer line run, and niceties like the TV cable connected. Those things, unfortunately, I had to attend to just as the clouds parted and a very determined downpour began. For a moment I thought that perhaps that I'd just get back inside and wait out the rain. But then I thought, what if it doesn't stop all night. So, I continued the setup and within ten or twelve minutes had finished and dashed back under cover. Back inside, I stripped off the soaking clothes, jumped into the shower, and minutes later was sitting all nice and comfy inside watching the rain pour down. Even though we had ended our day in a sort of anticlimax, certainly the rest of the day had been darn enjoyable.

Last night, we had not been able to locate a regular campground, the ones that come complete with picnic tables, barbecue facilities, and lots of elbow room between the RVs. Yesterday, Price, Utah, had been our afternoon target city and the only AAA recommended spot with regular RV hookups was an older motel on the fringes of town whose owners had set up a couple of dozen hookups behind the motel. This type of setup is never one of my favorites simply because they often seem to skimp on the amenities considered standard by more bonafide camp grounds. Still, once we had set up and connected, we soon discovered that it wasn't a bad place. It was certainly quiet and lacking in any traffic. Only one chap arrived after we did and, yes, he did take quite a long time to position himself. But after he settled down we didn't hear a peep out of anyone.

The reason for picking out Price on the map was many-fold. For one thing, I have a ton of relatives on my Mom's side living in and around Price. She used to keep track of them and I, unfortunately, have not. But I remember her talking about them and visiting them while my son, Robert, was a child. Dad and Robert and the local family members would prowl the deserts, stopping along the way to go prairie dog hunting. Someday I have to come back and try and re-establish those connections. In lieu of that future quest I wanted to drive the local roads, visit the local museums that I have known about for decades, and just try and capture those still vivid feelings I have for the place that Mon, Dad, Brother Cliff, and I first visited back in 1962 or so.

Today, Concetta and I had decided to spend the first half of the day doing museums, then head south, tour through the town of Cleveland where my maternal grandmother's brother lived fifty years ago, then head on south to eventually grab Highway 50 toward Nevada. The first museum we wanted to visit was known simply as the "Prehistoric Museum" on the map. The thing to keep in mind about Utah, and especially the territory south of Price, is that prehistoric finds, both paleo-Indian from thousands of years ago AND dinosaur-related from tens of millions of years ago are as plentiful as left-over hippies in Key West, Florida.

I have to tell you that most times I don't get overly excited about either of these topics. Museum displays that light my fire tend to be devoted to the historic rather than the pre-historic. I'd much rather look at accoutrements from General Custer's 7th Calvary or an old stagecoach from the Butterfield Stage Company. Still, I have to say that this pre-historic museum in Price is just about as good as museums get. I found myself actually getting excited about the paleo-Indian displays, especially the ones devoted to their crafts, which abounded on both levels of the museum. I especially liked a display devoted to teaching the viewer exactly what steps were necessary for turning a big block of obsidian "cobble" into a tiny, finely crafted arrowhead. I just starred at it for many minutes, trying to memorize as much of the process as possible. Some things don't photograph well and this display was one of those. But I'd love for you to see it.

Another display that just blew me away was the reconstruction of a Ute Indian pit house -- actually half the house. I just loved it. Obviously, American Indians were just darn smart people. This house was just perfect for keeping cool in the summer and warm in the winter without using a lot of lumber. I have included photos for you to see (above left). The structure is round and has supporting timbers of, I think, of something like juniper. Then they used a wattle and dab technique to bridge the gaps between the timbers. Over this they piled about five inches of dirt. This whole structure sat atop a round pit about two feet deep lined with stones. Everything looked very sturdy and weather tight and I expect that the home maintained a fairly constant temperature inside. Very, very impressive.

One of the things in which this particular museum specializes are dinosaur "footprints." Yes, you heard right. Because they mine for coal in Utah, coal miners often come across footprints of long extinct creatures in the coal strata. You can see from the photo at left that the museum has four of only six known stegosaur footprints in existence in the whole wide world. Incredible.

The museum contained two wings, one devoted to the paleo-Indians on two levels, and the second devoted to dinosaurs on both levels. We learned about arrow shaft making. We learned about basket making. We learned how to heard rabbits into a semi-circular enclosure set up in advance with a sort of fishnet made out of plant fibers, usually from a plant called "dogbane." We learned how the Indians would start a fire in a certain area, then tribe members would fan out and "herd" grasshoppers toward the fire. Then, when the fire died down, the Indians would collect the roasted grasshoppers, pound them into a sort of meal. With the meal they made tortilla-like cakes. These grasshopper cakes are very high in protein, we know now, and substituted for protein when animals could not be procured.

Our next museum lay six miles to the north in the little Utah town of "Helper." Wikipedia says "Helper is situated at the mouth of Price Canyon, alongside the Price River, on the eastern side of the Wasatch Plateau in Central Utah. Trains traveling westward from the Price side to the Salt Lake City side of the plateau required additional 'helper' engines in order to make the steep (2.4% grade) 15 mile climb up Price Canyon to the town of Soldier Summit. Helper was named after these helper engines, which the Denver and Rio Grande Western Railroad stationed in the city." I have an interest in the Denver and Rio Grande because my maternal grandfather worked as a bridge builder for them in, I believe, the 1920s. In 1924 I know the family was living in the town of Clear Creek west of Price because that's where my Mom was born, that being a very important event in my life.

I hoped that a trip to the museum would improve my education on the railroad and its history. Unfortunately, when we arrived we discovered that the facility is closed on Mondays. So Concetta and I set off down main street to look for any interesting photo ops. I shot the photo at right of a largely untouched art deco theater just up the street from the closed museum. I'm not sure if the 1935 film classic, "The 39 Steps," is playing there now, or whether the marque was made up in 1935 and they've never showed another movie since. Either way it was fun to see.

After our walk around Helper we had lunch on the edge of the Price River, then began our long trek south toward the town of Richfield, Utah. We did stop briefly in the town of Castle Dale to take in another museum which specialized in some very fine taxidermy. Their stuffed big (and small) game animals were so realistically done that at one point when I told Concetta to be careful, the bobcat she was bending over to look at was alive, she actually jumped back.

After Castle Dale, we sat back, put in our book on tape, and just enjoyed the desert scenery rolling by. Off to the south the rain clouds were building, but our immediate world consisted of a wondrous pallet of pastel colored skies, moody white clouds, and speckled sunlit hayfields. I was really hoping we'd make camp before the rains came, but you know how that turned out.

Anyway, tomorrow we're hoping to make the border crossing from Utah to our home state of Nevada and, if we're lucky, to the town of Ely on Highway 50. We don't have any cultural sites in mind at this point, but I'm hoping that something will turn up. Until then, we wish you good food, good wine, and exciting destinations.

Ciao.

Running for Utah, the edge of the Great Basin

2011-10-02T16:32:00.000-07:00

This morning in Grand Junction, Colorado, we awoke to the same sounds we fell asleep to, that of a legion of pet dogs, both tiny and massive, announcing that their human caretakers were still remiss in their duties, much as they'd been for the several hours before we turned the lights out. I kid you not. If you combined all the dogs we've seen on this voyage, in every camp site from Washington to Illinois, and from South Dakota to Colorado, they would not in their entirety add up to the menagerie present at the Grand Junction KOA yesterday. I thought at first we had wandered into a dog convention, since virtually every RV seemed to contain one to several. One traveler had set up, I'm sure with the park manager's permission, a dog grooming salon in the door yard outside her fifth wheel. I was dumbfounded! I swear that I saw everything from the tiniest hood ornament-like dogs to a pony-sized St. Bernard stroll by our windows. Most people out walking their charges had anywhere from two to four on leashes, the existence of which I was certainly glad for. Had all of these carnivores gotten loose at one time, I, as a non dog aficionado, might have been devoured before I could retrieve my shootin' iron. So it was that Concetta and I cleared out of Grand Junction this morning as fast as we could to put the barking din behind us. Our present camp in Price, Utah, seems to be entirely devoid of creatures, at least so far. Let's hope it remains so.

Okay, well, enough of that rant. Today our goal was to leave Grand Junction on Interstate 70, a necessity for moving on toward Utah though, as you know, we always try and stay away from the Interstates. This time we needed I70 to get to the turnoff to the town of Moab, Utah, which lies south of the Arches National Park. Our intention was to skirt to the east of the Park, have lunch in Moab and stock up on supplies, then take a more westerly road, Highway 191, which skirts the park on the west side and drive north toward the Salt Lake City area.

Let me just say, that even though we had to skip the Arches area this trip, the country we saw as we drove to and from Moab was nothing short of stunning. Huge mesas of massive sandstone layers and interspersing volcanic layers stood out against the azure sky like rubies on a blue satin cloth. I stopped for photographs so often I think our average speed today was probably about 20 miles per hour.

Moab is a very interesting town. My earliest memories of Moab are derived from reading Edward Abbey's, Desert Solitaire in my youth. If you haven't read it, make it your goal to do so before you visit Moab. Abbey was one of the very first "vocal" environmentalists. He wrote many books on nature and man's misuse of it, Desert Solitaire being only the first. In that book Abbey is a park ranger stationed in the Moab area, though if I remember right, he lived in a mobile or travel trailer in the Arches National Park. His perceptions of the average park-using tourists were just wonderful, and made him an icon in the environmental movement overnight.

So, why do I bring Abbey up? Well, it's because Moab has become the outdoor adventurer's nirvana of the West. Everywhere -- and I mean EVERYWHERE -- you look all you see are twenty-something kids driving Rubicon Jeeps piled high with, bicycles, kayaks, and camping gear. Every other business proclaims that they are THE best place to sign up for your raft trip on the Colorado. There are ATV and Humvee tours to the back country in case all you have is a city-sized motor home and want to get out and tear up some real estate before you get back to the suburbs. Bike rentals, outdoor gear for sale, and adds for vacation packages are plastered everywhere.

And I was astounded to see how healthy everyone looked. Even the guy slicing Virginia Ham for me at the deli counter at Moab's "City Market" looked lean and fit, like he taught distance swimming or downhill skiing in his off hours. Most of the customers in the store appeared to be just taking a necessary break before they did their next 10 mile hike into the wilderness. The parking lot of the store was jammed with tourists, many driving rented motor homes. Two different couples I passed in the super market isles were speaking foreign languages, one I put down as Swedish, the other, well, my best guess was one of the ex-eastern block countries. Just exactly who comes from the old Soviet Bloc to go biking in the Utah desert? Well, if you take a look at Moab, you'll decide that it's probably lots of folks.

Anyway, I think if Edward Abbey wasn't already dead he'd probably have thrown himself off one of the arches the first time he encountered this modern onslaught of tourists. I can almost hear him -- I was probably 18 when I read his book -- and complaining that we're making the wilderness far too easy to access for the wildernesses own good. Man, back in 1968 he just had no idea, no idea at all.

Okay, enough of that rant as well. I don't want to discourage you from going to Moab and having fun, though I would surely pick an "off season" vacation if you can. Concetta and I thought that the Utah wilderness that we saw today was some of the most awe-inspiring yet. Personally, I just love those lofty mesas you see out here that tower above the valley floor, knowing that they rose straight up out of the surrounding terrain. I find it fascinating to note the different strata of rocks and sandstones, soft layers followed by hard layers, back and forth. It makes for some of the most interesting geology you'll ever see. And imagining the forces that were necessary to thrust those mesas skyward always makes me appreciate the awesome power of earth's internal mechanisms.

Speaking of mechanisms, I had a chance when we landed in camp this afternoon to photograph the drive-up ramp that I spoke of in yesterday's blog. If you haven't already caught the update, you might want to go take a look.

And while I'm on the subject of mechanisms, I was presented with a different sort of problem when hooking up the sewer line today when we got to our present camp. Let me say first that at every camp that offers "full hookups," you will find a sewer outlet next to your space accompanied by an electrical connection box and a faucet for your fresh water connection. The sewer is usually a four inch plastic pipe sticking out of the ground anywhere from zero inches to four or five inches. Those heights are best. Those heights allow you to use what I call an "accordion" unit, a contraption that is much like an old-time string of paper dolls, all hinged together, that you extend out from the coach sewer outlet to the standpipe in the ground. Unlike the paper doll metaphor, the "accordion" extends out in a steadily decreasing height so that it's highest next to the coach and lowest next to the sewer stand pipe. The interior of the "accordion" is rounded so your flexible plastic sewer hose snuggles right down inside and is held firmly. So, you hook up one end of your sewer pipe to the coaches' outlet pipe, one end to the standpipe on the ground, lay the whole thing in the "accordion," and you're good to go.

But if you find a stand pipe, as I did today, sticking out of the ground a good ten inches? Now your "accordion" is way to low at the standpipe end. I'm sure you know what they say about s**t running downhill. You just have to have a downhill slope to get things moving in the direction you want them to go. Of course, I've seen other campers who don't seem to care about this aspect of gravity one bit. Those are the guys who tend to lay their hoses right on the ground and then at the standpipe end the hose suddenly has to make a four or five inch leap into the air to do its job. I just shake my head trying to imagine just how that technique is able to completely clear the pipe before the pipe is stowed away in the coach.

Fortunately, the previous owners of this coach solved the problem of what to do when park owners don't know s**t from Shinola (as my Dad used to say) about how far above ground to construct their standpipes. Those previous owners bequeathed to me a couple of lengths of six-foot plastic home gutter material, the kind that's sort of U-shaped. I've only had to use them a couple of times but they are absolutely essential when you encounter the too-high standpipe problem.

In my basement lockers I have a variety of "containers" for storing things. For all the water-related gear I have a galvanized tub about thirty inches in diameter. For all the sewer related gear I have a rectangular plastic tub normally used to mix mortar for doing brick work. I think I found both at Home Depot. Today I dumped everything out of the containers, upended them next to the coach, and, along with some wooden blocks, used them to support a length of the gutter material. Since the galvanized tub was taller than the plastic tub, they formed a natural incline for the gutter material to rest on. That done, I installed the plastic sewer pipe, resting it inside the gutter, and voila! My sewer connection was at the right height for the standpipe, inclined perfectly to ease the flow of, well, whatever, and looked neat in the bargain.

So that's it for now. In future issues of the Blog I'll try and address other problems we've encountered and, hopefully, conquered. This trip is drawing to a close, unfortunately, but we've had so much fun that I predict that we'll soon be on the road again. Today we listened to some of our treasure trove of music from Wally World as we ate up the miles between Moab and Price, Utah. Two of the CDs I grabbed were America's greatest hits and Simon and Garfunkel's Bridge Over Troubled Water. Predictably, both albums contained songs about traveling. I think that we can safely assume that more travel is in store for the Happy Wanderers. Not sure when, and not sure where, but it's on the horizon as we speak and will hove into view before we know it.

Tomorrow we're going to kill a few hours here in Price before we hit the road and head west. It's reported that they not only have a prehistoric museum hereabouts for Concetta, but a railroad museum for yours truly. What more could anyone want? So stay tuned. We're not done yet, not by a long shot.

Until next time, we wish you good food, good wine, and quiet pets (Concetta told me not to say that last part).

Ciao.

Movin' on down, Movin' on down the road

2011-10-01T15:57:00.001-07:00

This morning Concetta and I arose to a wonderfully bright and clear morning in southwestern Colorado. The air was cool, but not so cool it required a jacket to be outside working on the RV. Of course, last night was a different story. 'Bout froze before we went and retrieved the comforter off the floor where it had fallen from the bed. Even with all the windows closed, we couldn't keep out the Rockie Mountain fall air, which is giving us fair warning of coming winter temperatures.

The camp last night, if you've been keeping up with the blog, is one we stumbled upon when we really didn't have any idea where we were going to tether for the night. It was sort of isolated and forlorn without any proximity to a city or even a small town. Most of the camp sites were empty, save the ones being occupied by full-time residents. I think only one other camper checked in for the evening, a nice old guy who had his sights set on the local "white-rump" antelope for his winter dietary needs. We had a nice chat while I was out wandering the grounds looking for promising photo ops.

But the thing I liked best about the isolated camp was, in fact, its isolation (see photo above right). I don't think I heard so much as a twig snap the whole time we were camped there. We were far enough from the highway to muffle those sounds, and all the permanent residents appeared to be off somewhere, at least I never saw one of them. The grandeur of the view was breathtaking. Only a distant arm of the Rockies, way to the west, and the endless sky full of fluffy white cotton gave you something to focus on. Otherwise, it was just miles and miles of sage and rabbit brush, framed by the pines and aspens of the RV park itself, as far as the eye could see. Like John said, "Almost heaven." Certainly better than our KOA tonight in Grand Junction where the barking of a myriad of yappy dogs is about to make me nutty.

We lingered longer over coffee this morning since we didn't anticipate stopping for any cultural activities today. All we had to do was make Grand Junction by a reasonable hour and the KOA would probably have a space for us. Actually, I'm glad we were just motoring, for the scenery today was perhaps the best we've seen on this trip. I know I keep saying that about every place we visit, but today we had the colossal mass of the Rockies to cross -- some of it at 35 mph. Naturally, since we had lots of time to enjoy the scenery we just sat back and marveled at the sweep of oranges and reds of the aspens through the deep green of the fir forests, the reds and creams, and oranges of the sandstone roadcuts, and, above everything, the wondrous vault of the sky filed with fluffy white clouds. It was just achingly beautiful.

Much of what we covered today seemed to be forests in transition. Little by little the aspens seem to be taking over from the conifer forest, probably due to fires and bark beetle infections. I'm always amused by the talk of protecting the forests in their "natural state" since their natural state has been ever-changing since the beginning of time.

The one "chore" we set out for ourselves today was to find a beautiful, unspoiled aspen grove where no other humans had taken up residence and stage our photo for the annual Christmas card cover (see above photo). This we did, though the steep and rutted dirt road I followed to reach said unspoiled photo spot had Concetta sitting on the edge of her seat at times.

We arrived in the town of Gunnison just about lunch time. As we cruised into the eastern edge of town the first thing my eyes fell on was a display consisting of a very early narrow gauge Denver and Rio Grande locomotive and string of freight cars. Attached to the train display was a large museum building surrounded by grounds full of all kinds of antique equipment. I rubbed my hands together. This was going to be a very GOOD lunch stop. So it was that I could hardly wait to finish lunch and dash across the highway to the promised land. This we did only to find out that the museum had closed for the winter...YESTERDAY!Now that was just not fair. It was so hot in Gunnison today that we were both in t-shirts, but the museum was closed for the winter. Sadder but wiser, we glumly walked back across the highway and, a short time later, motored out of town without trying to scare up any other form of amusement.

For the rest of the day we just enjoyed the scenery. I would have "enjoyed" it more if I could have taken more photos, but very few highway shoulders have sufficient space to park an RV, even temporarily. So, we just had to let all the magnificent vistas drift by the windows while we oohed and aahed from the comfort of our Captain's chairs.

You tend to think about a lot of things while you're motoring for hundreds of miles at a stretch. Of course most of the time we have a book on the CD player cranking away with what have proven to be some pretty riveting tales. But, when we're not listening to one of our favorite authors, I often think about how I could improve this type of adventure for next time, at least logistically speaking.

Take the drive-up blocks, the things you use to level the coach fore and aft so the refrigerator will be happy. Taking as my guide some battered hunks of wood I found in one of the "basement" compartments of the Tioga, I crafted a set of drive up blocks using some 2"x8"x8' lumber that had been treated against moisture. To construct a drive-up block I cut the 2"x8"x8' lumber into three pieces. I cut one at 48",one at 32", and the last at 16". Then I beveled one edge of each piece at a 45 degree angle. Once that was done, I stacked the three pieces one on top of the other with the shortest on top and the ninety-degree, unbeveled edges all lined up at one end. This resulted in a stair-step affair. Once all three pieces were screw-nailed together, I added a strong strap handle on the side of the longest piece at the balance point of the finished ramp. The handle allowed me to pick up the ramp with one hand which keeps my hands cleaner. You've probably already figured out that each step left a 16" area on which the tire could rest, which is all the room you need. And each ascension to the next higher level adds 1 1/2".

These ramps have worked splendidly. The only problem I've discovered is that when I have to put the rear of the coach on the ramps instead of the front, I really need four ramps for the four rear tires. I tried balancing the rear on just two, one on each side, engaging only one of the dual wheels. But that made me nervous that putting all the weight of the rear of the coach on one tire per side might actually damage the tire. So, for next trip, (you knew there had to be a point to this, right?) I'm going to construct a couple of two stage ramps, which will be shorter than the three-stage ramps by sixteen inches. This will make them easier to store. The shorter ones will easily fit in one of the smaller lockers.

The reason I've determined that I won't need four of the four-foot sized ramps is that normally when you have to level fore and aft, you really need different sizes left to right. Since that's true most often, I can just put the shorter ramps on the uphill side of the rear and the longer ramps on the downhill side of the rear, thus maintaining level both fore and aft AND left to right.

Now, if you followed all that, you probably should go buy yourself an RV 'cuz you're already in the groove.

Unplanned, Unexpected, and downright Wonderful

2011-09-30T20:02:00.000-07:00

Ever have one of those days when everything you did seemed to segway off the previous thing you did, though none of it was what you planned? Well, that’s precisely what happened today, our second full day in Colorado.

Last night, we landed at the Royal View Campground (named after the Royal Gorge of the Colorado) after wandering northwest out of Colorado Springs on Highway 24, which was the wrong direction, for some fifty miles. Then, as if tracing an inverted “V,” we drove back to the southeast on Route 9 to where it intersected Route 50, our original destination between Salida and Canon City, Colorado. The Royal View Campground occupied the land just south of the Highway junction and proved ideal since we really didn’t want to go any further.

When we started out this morning our intention was to drive east ten miles to Canon City and spend a little time looking for the John Denver CD that we had been wishing for most of yesterday, as well as a couple of books on tape. I figured that our best bet was to find a thrift shop selling used CDs since finding a John Denver CD in a store offering the latest in music might prove impossible. We also stood a decent chance of finding books on tape at such a store.

So, when we reached Canon City (photo above), we drove down the main street of the old part of town scanning left and right for thrift shops. To our surprise, almost immediately we saw one. Stashing the RV one block north under a spreading cottonwood tree, we walked back and found the shop. The clerk behind the counter gave us a cheery “good morning” as we entered and we drifted over to the books, records, and CDs section just inside the door.

Unfortunately, though the thrift shop had a few CDs, both music and books, there were no Denver CDs and their collection of books on tape trended toward evangelical subjects, not really our cup of tea. So, we went back to the sales clerk’s desk and asked if her local library had an area where they sold books and CDs, much as our Carson City library does. She looked at us and wrinkled her nose. “Gee,” she said, “I’ve only been to the local library once. I really don’t know.” Not a reader, we decided, though we personally can’t even imagine such a state of being.

Our original quest thwarted, we decided to check their electronics section for any interesting cameras. They had no cameras, but I did manage to stumble over what I thought might just be the find of the day: a vintage, almost ancient-looking Lionel transformer for electric trains. I had never seen this particular transformer before, for it was capable of supplying not just a fixed current to your trains and accessories, but a widely variable current. I haven’t had time to do any research, but I’d say this transformer is as old as the Lionel company. It cost me all of $7.00.

After leaving the thrift shop we set off down main street looking for anyone who might have the CDs that we desired. At first we had no luck, but soon we stumbled over a used book shop. Thinking perhaps that we had hit pay dirt, we rushed inside. The proprietor, who only reluctantly put down her paperback novel, in response to our inquiry about books on CD, walked us back to the shelf where, I swear, she had more used books on TAPE than I’ve seen in years. She said, “If I have any they’ll be here.” With that she turned abruptly and hurried back to her novel.

Fortunately we did find a few books on CD hidden beneath the dozens of books on tape. Okay, job one accomplished, though I must confess that the price the lady wanted for the three books we chose made us gulp a bit. She probably needed to pay the rent that afternoon.

That left John Denver.

Continuing our walk down main street, we had tried a couple of other stores without success when we came upon another thrift shop, this one, unfortunately closed. But as we stood there contemplating the closed sign in dismay, the sales clerk appeared from inside, unlocked the door, and told us that she really wasn’t ready to open yet but if we’d like to come in we were welcome. “Great,” we said together, and hurried inside.

The clerk had hair dyed the color of Cabernet wine, but was pleasant enough and extremely friendly and helpful. She led us over to a rack full of CDs and Connie spent several minutes browsing through them. Meanwhile, I let my eyes drift around the room to see if the store contained anything I might be interested in buying. “Have any cameras?” I asked.

The purple-haired girl pointed to a shelf behind the register. “We have these,” she said, and reached up and pulled one off the shelf. The camera she brought down was a Kodak Brownie 2A, probably just under a hundred years old, in what I took to be absolutely brand new, unused condition. The camera came with its original instruction booklet AND price tag, both in mint condition. I think you’d have an easier time finding a sabre-toothed tiger in J.C. Pennys during the Christmas rush. A bright orange store tag announced the price: $20.00.

“Will you take $15.00?” I asked, never happy unless I can bargain. She had, just at that moment, picked up the phone to talk to her boss and she asked him. Then to me, “Yes,” she said, and the deal was forthwith struck. I hadn’t found John Denver, but our quest for him was beginning to net me some very nice collectibles. I could do this all day.

However, we actually couldn’t do it all day if we wanted to make any miles before dark. So, we traced our way back to the truck, first stopping at the library which we serendipitously strolled right by, and checked to see if they had a sales shop like our library in Carson City. No luck there with Mr. Denver, either.

Once on the road we made good time and just before lunchtime pulled into Salida. Almost immediately we stumbled over another thrift shop, but our luck there was no better than before – with one big exception. The owner suggested we try the local Walmart. I had my doubts about finding such outdated music at a store that specialized in staying up with all the newest trends, no matter how silly. But we went anyway since we needed a few groceries.

Once we had collected the list of supplies we headed over to the music section. It didn’t take long to see we were in trouble there. I found a “John Denver” divider where his CDs might have been located once upon a time, but in his designated space rested a fist-full of Def Leppard CDs. Evidently someone either couldn’t read, or had a playfull sense of humor.

For awhile we thumbed through the various artists looking to see if John had been misfiled by the same undereducated clerk who filed Def Leppard in Denver’s spot, but no luck. Finally, we sighed and were about to walk on when we spotted a rack full of really OLD names in the music business. Names like Simon and Garfunkle, Bread, America, Gladys Night, Willie Nelson, were all represented among host of other old artists. We started frantically thumbing the oldies but still no John Denver. We were about to give up when Concetta suddenly yelled and thrust her arm skyward in triumph. She had found the one and only John Denver tape, his greatest hits.

When we left Salida it was with the expressed purpose of finding the prettiest spot we could find near the highway and have lunch (photo 2). So it was that just scant minutes later we were parked underneath a canopy of quaking Aspens, just walking distance from a icy-cold Rockie Mountain stream, and were kicking back over a sandwich and a cup of coffee. We looked at each other and, almost without words, we knew it was going to be a very unpredictable day.

My intent for wanting to go south out of Colorado Springs was to visit the tiny town of Saguache that my mother had introduced to me back when I was a child. My mom’s father, James Franklin Jones, grew up in Saguache and his uncles were two of the earliest residents and business owners in the town. I didn’t have a really good reason for wanting to go there, but I just felt that Mom would want me to. The town lies quite a bit south of our eventual intended route west, which will force us to backtrack a bit, but I just felt it would be worth it. I also wanted a chance to photograph the headstone of my great Uncle, Benajah Stubbs, who fought in the Indian wars of 1864 and who was, I knew, buried in the Saguache cemetery (third photo from bottom).

If we had gone for the scenery alone, the road to Saguache would have been worth the drive. We had to surmount a pass of over 9,000 feet, which made for slow going, but the easy coast down on the other side was a dream and afforded us vistas that only the Rockies can provide. Since Saguache is only 45 miles from Salida, we were soon there. I told Concetta that my primary aim was to stroll around the town a bit, take some photographs, and soak up some of the tiny Colorado town’s atmosphere. We parked the RV on a side street in the shade, grabbed the camera, and were off.

Moments later we stumbled into a junk shop on main street and met Rick (seated guy in pink hat). Of course we didn’t learn his name until an hour had gone by. Almost as soon as we entered his shop, Rick said in an unmistakable New York accent, “you guys take your time and look around. I’m going to the post office. You guys are in charge. You can look in any of the cases you want.” And with that he was gone. Concetta and I looked at each other, shrugged, and began our search for treasure.

Before long, more folks appeared in the shop and we gave them the same instructions. Before Rick returned we had pretty much covered every aspect of the antiques and collectibles that the shop had to offer. Truly, I had seen things in there that I had never seen anywhere else. I later told Rick that if I were in my pickup and not the RV I’d just have to take some of his treasures home with me.

As you probably know from reading this blog, I like to try and stump experts on antiques. This time I had seen the perfect object that I knew would stump Rick. Out in his back yard he had a device used by railroad builders to ensure that the track remained a consistent width, rail to rail. They have a special tool for this task and I had spied one in Rick’s side yard. Turned out I was right, he didn’t know what the tool was used for and I scored a big hit with him. Then it was Rick’s turn. He showed me a measuring device that I was not able to identify. “Used by lumbermen for measuring cut timber,” he said, with a big smile.

We went back and forth this way for the next few minutes, forming that special bond between lovers of antiques that only they appreciate. Finally, letting him know we just had to get on with our walking and picture-taking, I asked if I could take his photo. “Sure,” he said. “Most people tell me I look like Peter Falk,” and he proceeded to act out a passable impression of Peter. I have included his photo so you can be the judge. Rick is, in fact, a sort of new age John Denver. He came to the Rockies sixteen years ago and never left. He's living in a tiny town with just five hundred residents. Quite a change from New York.

After leaving the junk shop, Concetta and I walked around town a bit, just photographing some of the older houses and commercial buildings, finally ending up back at the RV. There was just one place I still wanted to see in town – the print shop. As some of you may know, for just under a decade of my life I worked as a printer in an old-time print shop in Carson City. Our equipment back then was a mixture of old and new. The new handled our modern offset printing. The older equipment tended to be castoffs from the local newspaper and harkened back to the days when printers either handset individual letters in a “chase” to print newspaper columns, or set entire lines and paragraphs using "hot type cast from molten lead.”

The Saguache print shop (yellow building), as I well knew from earlier visits going back to 1962, still used the old fashioned hot type and individually-set type just as Mark Twain had done in Hannibal, Missouri in the late 1840s. As I told the owner when I walked in, I just came here to "smell" the place. A vintage print shop has a smell found nowhere else, a mixture of centenarian oak type cases, special inks, acrid solvents, gear oil, and the dust of decades. It can’t be duplicated in modern shops. I loved it thirty-five years ago when I was a printer and I love it still.

The owner, Dean (standing in front of yellow building), and I spent the next half hour talking printing and reminiscing about printing in days gone by. Dean’s shop probably hasn’t been measurably altered in the last 100 years. He has type cases that go back even further than that. I wandered the shop as we talked taking pictures and asking questions about his business. Dean good naturedly put up with me and actually seemed to be enjoying himself. But after thirty minutes Concetta, who had gone back to the RV, called me on the cellphone. “Where the heck are you?” she asked. I knew it was time to go. I'd had a great time, but I was burning daylight. I asked Dean to come out on the porch so I could take his photo. I could tell Dean loved his work, just as I had loved the printing business. He told me that he usually worked alone, most often seven days a week, putting out the local newspaper. I knew he'd never get rich, but I envied him.

When I finally got back to the RV I noticed immediately that for the previous two hours I’d left the lights on. Still, the trusty Ford fired right up and we were off on our next quest – to find the cemetery. As the sun sank toward the mountainous horizon, Concetta and I soon found ourselves on a windswept hillside looking for the headstones of the Stubbs family, three of which I immediately found, as if Mom were guiding me all the while, I thought. Two of the markers had been made simply out of wood and had been sandblasted almost to illegibility by the wind. Benajah’s, made out of stone, had weathered better. Trying to remember what they had looked like when I saw them fifty years ago, I snapped the photos, hoping that something of the writing on the wooden ones would show up.

Then, the photographs captured, we were on our way again. It had been a long, but oh so fruitful day filled with weird and wonderful people, wildly successful treasure hunting, and the beautiful scenery of the high Rockies. We only had one more task to perform: find a place to park for the night. Based on advice we heard in town, we tried two different locations without success. Resigned to driving into the twilight hours, we started north again in the direction of Salida. Incredibly, as if someone was still guiding our steps, we quickly ran across a tiny, almost deserted RV camp just a dozen miles from Saguache. We rolled in with daylight to spare, enough, in fact, for a few photographs of the vistas outside the RV windows (second to last photo). Before the dust had settled, we were hooked up, dinner was cooking, and, once again, everything was right with the world. The final photo is of Concetta, plotting our trek for the morrow.

So, until next time, we wish you good food, good wine, exciting destinations, interesting people in your life, and, when the occasion is right, a John Denver CD to sing along with as you motor through the Colorado Rockies.

Ciao.

Rocky Mountain High

2011-09-29T16:51:00.000-07:00

Back in 1962, when I was about 13 years old, my Mom took up the hobby of genealogy. She had inherited a large box of old family photos, most without any identification, and had come to the conclusion that she'd have to make it her life's work to find out who those folks were and where they had lived their lives. Thus began our annual pilgrimage to a whole list of tiny, largely obscure towns in Utah and Colorado; towns with names like Clear Creek, Skofield, Colton, Salida, Canon City, and, most memorably, Saguache.

You might think that a thirteen-year-old would have yawned, crawled onto the nearest horizontal surface, and gone to sleep. Not me. Not hardly. I was immediately enthralled by all the old cemeteries my mother wanted to visit. I watched with eager anticipation as sleepy gold rush towns would hove into view around bends in the narrow, two-lane highway. I scanned the horizon for signs of vintage vehicles I could photograph, ancient head frames that would mark the location of long-dead gold mines, or rusty railroad tracks curving their way along the river bottoms. In short, I was immediately, and, as it would turn out, forever hooked on western history. BIG TIME!

My parents were not wealthy folks in the 1960s. To accomplish these exotic vacations (at least I saw them as such) my dad had to borrow a travel trailer, probably about a sixteen footer. It was white and aqua marine blue and was pretty darn cute as I remember with it's varnished interior woodwork and diminutive cooking area. I think Dad traded use of the trailer for a parking spot in his yard, since the owner had no room to store it on his own property. The biggest problem with the tiny trailer was, as I remember, that it only had sleeping accommodations for Mom and Dad. Cliff and I were banished to the bed of the pickup truck each night. I don't think we really minded, since we had each other. Plus, I suspect that it seemed reckless and adventuresome for two kids 11 and 13, which served to heighten its appeal. Most of the time the weather was mild, though I do remember waking up one morning to find my sleeping bag covered with a light dusting of snow.

Because it would have been pretty uncomfortable for the four of us -- Mom, Dad, brother Cliff, and me -- to ride in the cab of his '56 Chevy truck, Dad hit on the idea of having Cliff and I ride in the back of the pickup as well as sleep there. Naturally riding out in the open would have been pretty hot and uncomfortable, so dad fashioned a camper top out of aluminum to protect us from the sun. The sides only extended down about a foot from the roof which afforded us unsurpassed views of the surrounding scenery. To provide Cliff and me with a place to sit, he purchased on old Studebaker bench seat from a local wrecking yard and affixed it to the bed of the truck with its back against the cab.

From the beginning Cliff and I would ride back there, isolated from any parental influence or control, and watch enthralled as the wild west rolled by. Well, actually my brother would often nod off with the rhythmic rocking mile after mile, but I would sit transfixed, obsessed with soaking up all the western vistas I could.

I'm telling you this story because Concetta and I are now in Colorado, the historic stomping grounds of my mother's father's people and the destination of the aforementioned family vacations nearly a half century ago. Colorado has, since the tender years of my youth, felt like coming home. My family criss-crossed these mountains and valleys in that old white Chevy pickup, towing that borrowed travel trailer, until Mom had mostly fulfilled her research goals and then we quit. Of course by then I had gown "too old" to be going with my parents on vacation, anyway. But I never forgot. Not by a long shot.

Now Concetta and I are camped on route 50, part way between Salida and Canon City, and right in the thick of my mother's favorite ancestral haunts. I can feel her with me as I type this, looking over my shoulder, encouraging me to explore it all again, breath it in as we did together so many years ago. I feel a tremendous need to hold that history in my hands, rub my fingers over those century-old gravestones as I did back then, walk those streets and capture it with my camera. Yes, I'm back and I think the spirits are with me.

As you're probably aware, Concetta and I try each day to not only cover enough miles to get us back to Nevada sometime before the snow flies, but to "accidentally" stumble over some cultural activity that we will find mutually rewarding and, more importantly, educational. Today, since we had chosen the wrong road and headed west when we should have been heading south, we happened upon a site that I have been intrigued with since I was a youngster and would run across images of it on vintage postcards. It's called Manitou Springs and as far back as 1908 it has been a popular tourist destination for motorists, both cross-country and in the Denver/Colorado Springs area.

I sort of knew it would be a tourist trap, but what the heck, we were right there. The gate price was fairly reasonable at $17.00 (senior rate), the achingly blue skies and the vibrant red sandstone cliffs looked inviting, and, just ahead, the promise of ancient cliff dwellings beckoned. We paid our money and drove in.

Just inside the first turn we discovered that the parking lot was NOT built for thirty-foot mobile homes, but had tiny diagonal parking for equally tiny cars as far up the hill as we could see. Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, I u-turned our beast and parked it back near the entrance where the ground was level and the refrigerator would be the most happy while we were gone.

Incredibly enough, when we had hiked up the parking lot hill for several hundred feet, we arrived at the cliff dwellings to find a sixty-five-foot charter bus parked with its nose headed outbound. I looked around. There didn't seem to be enough room to u-turn a large SUV let alone something as large as a charter bus. I couldn't resist. I walked over and asked the driver if he somehow was able to levitate his coach to make that 180 degree spin. He just smiled.

Concetta and I actually enjoyed the cliff dwellings, though if you're interested in seeing the finest of such ancient dwellings you should visit instead the Mesa Verde plateau in southern Colorado. Though comparatively small, the Manitou folks had a pretty thorough set of explanatory markers as you toured the ruins, which made it very educational and fun. We even found the Museum/Gift shop pretty informative. Naturally, you have to be careful anytime somebody combines the words museum and gift shop, however they really did have some interesting pottery and paleo-Indian skulls to see in between the dozens of racks of trinkets. I wasn't tempted by much of their tourist wares, but we did manage to snag a couple of CDs, one of John Denver instrumentals, and one of Indian flute music.

After our adventure at Manitou Springs, we set off on Highway 24 (we should have been on Highway 115) and enjoyed some magnificent vistas as we crested the Rockies near Pike's Peak and dropped down into the evergreen and Aspen-choked canyons on our way to Canon City. It was so beautiful I could barely keep my eyes on the road, a fact that Concetta insisted on pointing out throughout our drive. The aspens are all golden and the evergreens are as deep green and vibrant-looking as we've ever seen. With John Denver tunes melodically strumming in the background, it was a drive that I hope to replay in my mind for years and years to come.

So, here we are. We didn't make it to Canon City (pronounced the Spanish way as if the n has a tilde above it -- thus, canyon) As we dropped over the summit on first Highway 24, then Highway 9, we came across this nice little campground as we intersected with highway 50. They have full hookups, they have a nice level piece of ground so I don't have to use blocks, and they have WiFi. Pretty much all a person needs in this world. Concetta has just dazzled me with a chicken and rice dish, I've had a nice vodka cocktail, a glass of wine, and if the world ends tomorrow I'll be content.

If it doesn't end, I wish you good food, good wine, and, above all, exiting destinations.

Ciao.

Rocky Mountain High -- Colorado

2011-09-28T17:04:00.001-07:00

Well, no Rocky Mountains yet, just the eternal prairie. Actually we can't even SEE the foothills of those towering peaks here in space 10 of the Limon, Colorado, KOA. Everything in every direction is as flat as the proverbial pancake. They do have a nice breeze blowing, thankfully, since it's been hot-hot-hot today as we drove across the final miles of Kansas and eased into John Denver's old stomping grounds. Speaking of Mr. Denver, did you know that his real name was John Deutschendorf, Jr? Still, Denver or Deutschendorf, Concetta and I were doing a lot of humming of Denver tunes as we rolled up highway 40 this afternoon. We hadn't counted on making it all the way to Limon, but the fates were with us today. Not only did everything go pretty smoothly, but we benefited from the time zone change which gained us an hour at the Colorado/Kansas border.

You've probably noticed, at least the three of you who are regularly reading this treatise, that entries have been a bit sparse since we entered the state of Kansas. Since there are no KOAs on Route 36, we were totally dependent on the mobile device. But I suspect that Virgin Mobile has no cell towers or whatever makes my mobile device work, since all the way across we had no connectivity. I guess it's possible that Homer Simpson is running the Virgin Mobile operation and he just fell asleep, but no firm evidence as yet. I haven't tried the mobile device now that we're in Colorado, so the jury is still out on whether Homer's influence will extend beyond Kansas.

So, what did you miss? Well, you missed the intrepid travelers visiting the fabled geographic center of the United States. That's right, there's patch of grass full of picnic tables, park benches and an American flag atop a stone monument that occupies that one-and-only point in the United States of America which, were you to have something to balance a uniformly sliced piece of the U.S. upon, would be the balance point. The point was established in, if I remember correctly, 1940. At that time they optimistically built a motel right on the edge of the little balance point park thinking, as most of us would no doubt, that multitudes of folks would be beating a path to see this balancing act in progress.

I guess, if you believe the literature, the site was never as popular as the world's biggest ball of string, or the baby rattlers as so often advertised on roadside attraction signs back then. Consequently, the motel folded and the Geographic Center park rests serenely in the shade most days as cars rush by unabated on Highway 36, their occupants completely oblivious to what they're missing. Should you want to go, you'll have to travel route 36 and look for signs for the town of Lebanon. Take your lunch and spend a quiet hour. It's a nice place for listening to the sounds of silence. I think the crunching of my lunchtime Sun Chips was the loudest sound I heard there.

Last night we slept in Prairie Dog Town, a wonderfully kept state park near Norton, Kansas. Concetta found it in the camp book and it sounded like just our sort of place. As much as we liked our camping arrangement in the Marysville city park, we discovered once we'd gone to bed that the night was filled with train sounds. Near ceaseless train whistles and the clickity-clack of train wheels went on, literally, all night long. The next morning, when it was time to leave, we discovered that just a block or so away from the park -- you won't believe this -- were NINE railroad tracks arching through the city. I assume that the tracks were not all main lines but a staging area for building trains. Oh, well, win some, lose some.

So Prairie Dog Town turned out to be perfect for a short-term or long-term camper. Everything was kept very clean and orderly and, except for a few muted voices at one point, I didn't hear another thing the whole time we were there. We had a nice site in the trees, easy to access with the RV, and we even had an opportunity to sit outside and have a pre-dinner cocktail before the bugs found us and told their friends. The park didn't have a sewer connection for each camp site, but the general-use dump station near the entrance was very easy to use. In just a few minutes we had dumped the tanks and were on our way.

But the question was, which way to go. If we continued on Route 36 that headed right across Kansas and Colorado all the way to Denver, we didn't see any camp sites listed, public or private. So, we decided to head south on route 383 from Norton, then catch Route 40 toward, well, Denver as well, but on Route 40 we could stop at the KOA in Limon. The route we chose was somewhat circuitous, granted, but we were hoping to avoid any contact with Interstate 70 and maybe discover an out-of-the-way gem of some sort.

And we did. The best point of interest we stumbled over today was the town of Wallace. In the 1800s Wallace was a vitally important point on the overland stage route as well as being located near Fort Wallace which figured prominently in the Indian wars of the 1860s. Even General Custer had occasion to spend time in the Fort Wallace area in the mid 1860s. As fate would have it, Concetta and I decided to spend some time in the Fort Wallace area, too, as we reached it just about lunchtime. Granted, I didn't expect much from the town's little isolated museum, located, as it is, out in the middle of the Kansas prairie, but boy was I wrong. The museum was just top notch. Everything was skillfully and carefully done throughout. They had everything from a prairie schooner to their own railroad station, from a myriad of tools from every frontier craft, to women's and men's fashions from 140 years ago.

But the wing of the museum that I liked the very best was devoted to one man's collection of "dug" artifacts from the various military forts, camps, stage stations, and battle sites throughout the area. This chap had retired and taken up the hobby of metal detecting. Before he finally donated the collection to the Wallace Museum, he had collected thousands and thousands of artifacts which he carefully researched, cataloged, and displayed in framed site-oriented collections. (Note: there were at least thirty of the framed presentations - see photo for one).

I was so taken with this collection, I tried photographing it all. I was totally dismayed to find out that no one had made a photographic record of the collection, complete with the collector's notations, which would help future historians identify other found artifacts. I did find one item at the museum that I hadn't expected to find: a book on the archaeology of the Sand Creek Massacre. The subject of Sand Creek is close to me because my great grandmother's brother was a participant. Probably none of you are familiar with the topic, but the Sand Creek massacre will go down in infamy as one of the country's most unnecessary tragedies. The story, in short, concerned Chief Black Kettle's village of largely friendly Cheyenne's that was attacked by the Colorado 100-days Calvary in 1864. Over 150 Indians, mostly women and children, were cut down, though they posed no threat to the surrounding population and, indeed, were flying the American flag over the Chief's teepee. Very, very sad.

Camped in Kansas. No sign of Dorothy

2011-09-27T13:01:00.000-07:00

Since you’re reading this now, you know that we didn’t meet an untimely end at the “Bates Motel” RV park in Cameron. Truth be known, the ramshackle, neglected park behind the third-rate motel actually was as quiet as a church and we slept the night away unmolested. Unfortunately, since, the mobile device could not find a satellite from the tiny city park in Marysville, Kansas, where we spent last night, you’re not finding this out until it’s old news.

The mobile device is to blame. Or maybe Kansas itself. Last night we were getting no “green” signal at all, not even a flickering one. Not sure what the problem was, but we had absolutely no connectivity at all. If I’d seen a McDonalds nearby as we turned off the main highway and motored south to this park, I could have walked back there to update the Blog. As it was, I had to just type this entry into Word Perfect and hope that our signal would sort itself out somewhere down the road.

Yesterday morning, after packing up the various hoses, fittings, and other RV accouterments, we headed for the nearest gas station to top up our tank. Like the motel to which it was adjacent, the gas station had been sorely neglected as well. The barely readable pump instructions failed to illuminate my repeated attempts to make the card reader acknowledge my card. So, we saddled up and moved across the highway to the Shell station where the card reader seemed to have been more thoroughly cared for. Once gassed up, we continued our westward sojourn on route 36.

Our immediate intention was to drive the short distance to St. Joseph, Missouri and visit whatever museums they had available. We had already seen the advertisements for the Pony Express Museum, but I was fervently hoping that I would be able to find a museum dedicated to America’s westward expansion of the 1840s, 50s, and 60s. We never did find such a museum, but in the end it didn’t matter for we had struck museum pay dirt in St. Joseph.

First, the Pony Express museum. We found it almost too easily. A quick exit off the freeway, an easy couple of blocks into the heart of the historic district, and there it was. At first I thought we were going to have a problem finding a place to park the rig. But in the end we pulled right into the museum’s backyard. Seeing a museum employee working there under a spreading black walnut tree, we rolled down the window and asked if the anyone would object if we left the rig right where we were sitting. He shrugged and said, “Guess not.”

It couldn’t have been simpler. Of course, anytime things go that well you have to assume that the museum will turn out to be a big ripoff full of pretend historic junk and a gift shop full of Chinese “American” souvenirs destined for next summer’s garage sale. Again we were surprised. Not only was the museum a very professionally run organization, but their displays were absolutely wonderful. I especially liked the biographies on the various pony riders that outlined how successful they had been as young express riders and, then, how their lives had turned out after that. Terrific! By the way, that's me on the pony express "horse" in the upper right.

They had actual archaeological artifacts from a number of pony station digs. They had clothes and weapons used by the riders. They even had the personal histories of the founders of the company, Messrs. Russell, Majors and Waddell, so you could get to know them and see how the idea for a rapid mail carrying company came to fruition and how it was all too soon upstaged by the coming of the overland telegraph.

Concetta and I spent a very enjoyable hour there and would recommend, should you be traveling this way, that you do the same.

When we left the Pony Express museum we decided to walk east two blocks to take in the Patee Hotel since we’d seen it referred to several times in the previous hour. OH MY GOD! The Patee turned out to be – and this is no exaggeration – the very finest museum, American or foreign, we have ever been privileged to visit.

The Patee Hotel figured prominently in the history of Kansas and was said to be the finest hotel west of the Mississippi in the late 1850s. Originally built to take advantage of passenger traffic when the railroad approached St. Joseph, it would

later figure prominently in the history of the Pony Express since Russell, Majors, and Waddell had an office there. Later, the Union army took over the hotel and established the provost marshal’s office and recruiting center for that area of Kansas in the hotel.

One of the most fascinating anecdotes involving the Patee took place in 1865, the final year of the Civil War. The Owner, Mr. Patee, a very Confederate-leaning gentleman, decided that he needed to sell the hotel to satisfy his debts. However, instead of selling, he decided that a lottery would be the best way to recoup his expenses. As the day for picking the winner approached, Mr. Patee found himself in possession of 100 tickets that had gone unsold. To insure that the lottery would be sold out, Mr. Patee purchased the final 100 tickets himself. You can probably guess what happened. Yes, Mr. Patee was indeed declared the winner of the lottery and was able to keep his hotel and retire his debts in the bargain.

According to the Hotel’s brochure, “The building was a hotel 3 times, and a girl’s college twice, before serving as a shirt factory for 80 years. In 1881, on the top floor, a Dr. Richmond operated an epileptic sanitarium. Patee House was called the World’s Hotel when Jesse James was killed just a block away, at 1318 Lafayette on April 3, 1882. His widow was interviewed in the hotel by the sheriff the next morning.”

Throughout its many uses, the Patee Hotel has maintained its elegance. The Hotel is just as beautiful today as it was in 1858 when it was built for the then lofty sum of $170,000. Today the first two floors of the Hotel have been converted into a fabulous museum the likes of which you won’t find anywhere else. If you’ve been to the National Auto Museum in Reno, where the car collection is centered around a collection of store fronts and street scenes, you know something of how the Patee’s collection is presented. But the Patee goes way beyond what you’d expect. Each “business” is presented with all the accouterments normally found at such an establishment, be it barber shop or photo studio, dress shop or auto garage. There’s even a railroad station complete with train, a collection of fire engines and antique cars, and a grand ballroom where elegant events are held to this day. It took us no less than two hours just to walk by all of it.

I won’t bore you at this point with further embellishments on this museum theme. Suffice it to say that if you miss this wonderful storehouse of history the next time you’re in Missouri, you’ll be missing something extra special. We didn’t get to the Jesse James family home, which is located (now) right next to the Patee Hotel property. The house was moved to its present location from elsewhere in town in order to preserve it. Also, within one block of the Patee is a fireman’s museum, which we also had to save for another day since we really had to put some miles on the Ford before nightfall. If you have lots of time, I’d spend the whole day in St. Joseph and really be treated to an entire town full of history.

Around 1:30, after we’d returned to the RV and had our lunch, we jumped back on route 36 and headed for Kansas. We were traveling blind this time as we had not been able to ferret out any suitable campsite for the night over the entire course of our intended route. When we reached Marysville, we stopped for supplies at the local Wally World noting that it was 3:00 p.m. and the sun would soon be dropping over the horizon.

As we motored out of Walmart, I started hearing a small swishing sound from the rear of the coach and decided to stop and check it out. Thankfully, it turned out to be one of the chrome beauty rings that decorate the rear wheels. The rings held on by two bolts that, for some reason, don’t quite do the job adequately on the left rear. The right is nice and tight, but the left is
“losey-goosey.” So, we motored down Marysville’s main street until I saw a tractor sales and repair shop and I stopped to ask them if they had the correct socket wrench to tighten the nuts for me. They did and soon we were on our way, but not before we asked the mechanic if he could recommend a place for the night. He thought hard, but really didn’t have any good suggestions beyond telling us that he thought a local motel had a RV lot behind.... We sort of shuddered at that idea.

So it was that moments later we were driving slowly through town trying to figure just what we were going to do for the night. I had only just told Concetta to watch for any street signs that might announce a turnoff to some state park or recreational area when she said, “How about that.” She pointed to an approaching sign which proclaimed that the city park could be reached with a left turn at the next intersection. For want of any other ideas, we turned. I didn’t think a city park would allow us to remain for the night, but as we approached we clearly saw a fifth-wheel RV set up in the middle of the park. We pulled in next to him and rolled down the window. The owner of the RV saw us and came over. “They allow motor homes to stay overnight?” I asked.

“Sure do,” he said. “Can’t stay longer than five nights, but they have water and electric and, if you need it, a dump station you can access on your way out.” He pointed back behind me. “Right over there,” he said. “Just pull off the pavement and onto the dirt by that power pole and you’re all set. There’s no charge.”

Concetta and I looked at each other. All the hookups AND no charge. Moments ago we’d been faced with camping out at Walmart or driving into the night to find a place, probably in some dark-as-midnight state park with no hookups.

I looked back to our fellow camper and gave him a thumbs up. “Thanks,” I said. “That’s just what we wanted to hear.”

He grinned. “Know what you mean.”

So, everything came out fine. One of the nicest locations we had discovered in days just popped up and said “howdy” as we passed by. Thanks to Concetta and her eagle eye, the Davis luck continues to hold.

Today we headed back out on route 36 with our eyes on the Kansas border a day’s drive away. Haven’t seen much in the way of campsites in our guide book, but at this point it doesn’t seem to matter. We always seem to come up with something. We heard yesterday from one of our fellow travelers that there’s a special guidebook available just for free campsites nationwide. We’d love to get our hands on one of those, though it will probably have to wait for next trip, I expect.

Until then, we wish you good food, good wine, and exciting destinations. Oh, and lots and lots of adventures. You just have to have those.

Ciao.

Author's note: the foregoing was added to the blog in the Norton, Kansas, Mickie Ds, the town in which we hope to stay tonight. It's afternoon, I had a fruit smoothie, and Concetta is in the process of drinking a Iced Latte to earn our right to sit here and surf the net. We're not sure at present whether the mobile device will connect tonight in camp, since it doesn't seem to like Kansas much. If not, we'll update you as soon as we can.

Mark Twain and the Wonderful State of Missouri

2011-09-25T16:08:00.000-07:00

Right now we're holed up on the edge of a packed truck stop in a little berg called Cameron, Missouri. We were headed for a state park down the pike a bit from here, but when the grocery clerk from whom we'd been buying supplies told us that a RV park of sorts could be found right here in Cameron we decided to save ourselves the drive and get dinner on the table sooner.

Oh, this place has all the required amenities mind you -- water, sewer, electricity. And it's far enough away from the truck parking to be quiet, maybe even too quiet. No, the only problem with our "home" for the night is that it reminds us of what you might find if you had explored behind the Bates Motel and found an RV park there.

The "park" consists of a patch of asphalt, most likely put down when Eisenhower was running for election, a half dozen desultory poles planted every twenty feet with just the barest remnants of white paint still adhering to them, and a whole lot of nothing else. No trees, no friendly patch of grass for people to "walk" their pets. Not even a rusty old barbecue pit, most often made from a converted truck wheel.

To the white-ish poles are attached the electrical boxes providing our 30 Amp service, themselves looking like they had been pulled together from a dozen different sojourns to the Sunday afternoon flea market. Beneath the poles, amongst the disintegrating chunks of tarmac and rangy weeds gaining a toehold, are the required sewer outlets caped by a PVC lid growing ever more yellow in the sun.
Our water is provided by an ancient freeze-proof, lift-up faucet, canted at a 15 degree angle from being backed into a few times. It's so old and rusty that it steady leaks from the top seal so much water that I suppose the camp owners will actually lose money on our stay.

But hey, we had such a wonderful day today that I'm just going to overlook the less than wonderful camp conditions tonight and just tell you about our day, one that started out in one of the most beautiful campsites in all of Missouri, tucked as it was into a mountain glen literally choked with trees, where we spent the most peaceful night of this whole trip with not a single sound to disturb our slumber.
Today we had toyed with the idea of doing a host of different activities but we finally decided to visit the town of Hannibal and see what Mark Twain's boyhood stomping grounds had to offer. We gave ourselves a tentative time limit of the morning hours before lunch and set off from the middle of town on a grand adventure back to the year 1835 when Sam Clemens was born. Sam was not born in Hannibal, but in an even more obscure town of Florida, Missouri. But from the time he was four he lived in Hannibal.

Hannibal nowadays has a population of just 17,000 or so. I think I read somewhere that it was really an up and comer back in the riverboat days situated, as it was, just a sixty or seventy miles north of St. Louis. Today it's a much quieter place. In fact, if Twain hadn't lived there I suspect that Hannibal would exist only in the history books today. Nearly every business in town tries, with obvious varying degrees of success, to springboard off Twain's fame to make money on everything from antiques to cheeseburgers.

Still, Hannibal looks charming from a distance and we found the inhabitants to be just that. Everywhere we went on our "history walk" people were friendly and outgoing and eager to provide us with whatever information we required, even if they didn't stand to benefit. Our intent initially was to find the Clemens family home and see what we could see. But the clever museum folks of Hannibal don't let you breeze in and out so quickly. Once you check in at the information center and pay your $7.50 (seniors, you know) you are given tickets and started on a historical journey that takes a couple of hours or more to complete and marches you through Sam Clemens' entire life, from boyhood to manhood.

A lot of times when you're museum addicts, as best describes Concetta and me, you end up experiencing a multitude of efforts in that realm. Some museums are too cursory. Some are overwhelming. I tend to like a light touch since I easily get bored when I try to read little cue cards on 11,000 different exhibits. In Hannibal, we thought that the museum folks have done an outstanding job on their museum experience, both at the information center where you start your tour and, later, at the more formal museum two blocks south. As you wend your way from information center to the Huck Finn house, to the Clemens house, to the infamous whitewashed fence, and on to the two-story main museum, you discover that all the exhibits are presented with a minimum of verbiage and a maximum of visuals. Life-sized photos and cutouts of Clemens are often utilized to present the viewer with excerpts from his various published works, speeches, and letters. We just thought the whole effect was terrific.

So, there you have it. If you're a Twain fan and you haven't been to Hannibal, we'd encourage you to go. There's lots more to do in the area than we did, but you'd have to plan on staying a bit. And if I were you, before you go, I'd pick up that battered copy of Huck Finn or Tom Sawyer from your bottom shelf and re-read those magic words. It will make the whole thing come alive for you.

Personally, I've been a Twain fan since the seventh grade when I used to prop one of his books of short stories inside my text book while in Spanish class and spend the whole period lost in Twain's world. I didn't learn Spanish all that well, but I did discover a love of good writing that has never waned.

After our morning with Mark Twain and our lunch in the parking lot of a deserted auto garage, we cranked up and headed out. After checking our directions with the gas station attendant where we topped off the tank, we set our course for Highway 36 that runs from border to border across the states of Missouri and Kansas and then plunges right on into Colorado. Our goal for today was to get as close to St. Joseph, Missouri as possible. The town of Cameron, a few miles to the east of St. Joseph, was just the only town in our guide book that listed a camp site.

And here we are. Outside the window the night is descending. Atop one of the scraggly power poles a "night light" just snapped on providing us with a pool of soft illumination to keep us company. Fortunately, we don't have a bedroom window which faces that direction, so it shouldn't keep us awake.

As she has done for the past several days since the rain stopped in Ohio, mother nature has provided us with spectacular displays of pastel skies all day. I've included a photo of one vista where we stopped to use the phone. The country through which we've been traveling since we left Hannibal is achingly beautiful, with tiny farm houses, red barns, and meandering streams dotting the landscape amidst hundreds of acres of waning crops. If I stopped everywhere I saw a prize-winning photo waiting, I'd never get anywhere.

Tomorrow? Well, I'd like to see what St. Joseph offers to commemorate its place in the American biography since it was the best-known "jumping off place" for wagon trains leaving for the gold fields of California and the verdant farming country of Oregon.

Until then, we wish you good food, good wine, and exiting destinations.

Ciao.

Headed for Mark Twain's Home Town

2011-09-24T10:55:00.000-07:00

This morning, after the obligatory fuel stop, we jumped on Illinois I255 and headed north to the site of the ancient Native American city of Cahokia. Since we chose our camp site last night based on its proximity to Cahokia, it only took us fifteen or twenty minutes to find it. We pulled into the parking lot hoping, as we always do, that there wouldn't be so many cars in the way that we'd have a problem locating enough space for the motor home.

But we had at least half the parking lot all to ourselves and chose a nice spot beneath a spreading maple full of fall colors. Our plan was to spend lunchtime in the RV in the shade of that tree before we headed north and west to our final destination for the day, Hannibal, Missouri.

Let me just say that Cahokia is immense. How big? Try 2200 acres. Naturally, we didn't intend to prowl the whole property, but we fully intended to do some walking so we disembarked from the coach with our day pack, water bottles, camera, and suitable hats intending to spend at least several hours pursuing one of Concetta's favorite subjects, that of paleo-Indians.

Just inside the door of the interpretive center we were invited to view a 17 minute film that would acquaint us with the site and make our visit more rewarding. After the film we spent the next two hours trying to absorb as much as possible of what life was like in the Mississippi River valley between 700 and 1400 A.D. Unbelievably, this civilization, at its peak about a thousand years ago, counted as many as 20,000 citizens, the largest city north of the Aztec's Mexico City. Not until Philadelphia of the 1830s did North America have a city as large.

Now paleo-Indian cultures are not normally my favorite subjects of study. But these people were so industrious I was enthralled. If you've Googled the subject you know that the specialty of these early Mississippian Americans was digging large holes near their villages and putting the dirt in a central location. The biggest mound, which Concetta and I climbed, took 300 years and no less than 15 million trips to the top with a 50 to 60 pound basket of dirt to complete. Try getting your teenagers to take on a project like that.

Once up there, you could see why the rulers wanted to put their central government houses on top of these giant mounds. There's no doubt who's in charge when you have to look skyward to see your head guy. One sign I saw said that the chief's "hut" was about 50 feet by 100 feet in size. Can you imagine how much time, effort, and materials went into such a project? It wasn't the pyramids of Giza, but it sure must have taken as much coordination to pull off.

My favorite part of the museum involved the process called "flint-napping." Flint-napping is chipping away chert material to get things like arrowheads, spear points, hoes, war clubs, and scrapers. I always get lost in watching somebody do that. Using things like bones and antlers, these Indians patiently (I don't normally have a lot of that) flake off one bit of chert at a time until they finish with a splendidly crafted point. Beats me how they're able to do such a fine job though I've watched it done numerous times. I watched the video at the museum twice, but I think I'd still need some hands on to ever try it myself.

This particular civilization did not fail because of the coming of the Europeans. Amazingly enough, Cahokia had ceased to exist around 1400 A.D., before even the Spanish had begun their explorations of the new world. What did them in? It was their Success! The civilization's farming techniques were so successful that it encouraged a population explosion. One statistic we saw recounted that Cahokia had 4,000 persons per square mile at the height of their civilization. Nowadays, we here in America believe that a population density of 250 persons per square mile is about tops for an urban setting. Even though they were experts in growing corn, squash, beans, and a variety of salad greens, 20,000 humans is a lot of people to feed on a daily basis. They were also adept at foraging for natural foodstuffs like nuts, berries, and root tubers, as well as the usual compliment of native animals and fish.

Experts think that their success at nation building may have caused their ultimate failure. Too much food needed. Too many trees burned for firewood. Too little sanitation for a population that size. Any one or all of these things may have ultimately caused these early Americans to move away from Cahokia and allow the city to die. Whatever the reason, they left behind some truly fascinating clues to what life was like in their time. Concetta and I very much recommend you try and see it when next you travel this way.

When we rolled out of Cahokia I told Concetta that our next destination, Hannibal, Missouri, ought to be a piece of cake. As Billy Crystal would say, "Never say famous last words." All we had to do was jump back on Interstate 255 north, change almost immediately to Interstate 70 west, and, when the opportunity arose, catch state route 79 north to Hannibal. At least, that's what it said in the playbook. And at first things went well. We found I255. We exited promptly onto I70. But then we started getting hit with all manner of choices of freeways coming in rapid fire one after the other. Before we knew it we were blazing through St. Louis, trying to keep our eyes on the road while the St. Louis arch, in all it's early afternoon resplendent glory, beckoned out our passenger-side window. But we trucked on hoping that at some point we'd see a sign for state route 79 and we could get off the Mad Hatter's Tea Party of St. Louis' freeway megalopolis. On we trekked without seeing it when I was just certain we'd way overshot our mark and we're going to end up somewhere in central Missouri, hundreds of miles from our intended destination. Meanwhile, I'm yelling at Concetta to find our location on the map and tell me where in the hell we were.

Well, long story short, I finally exited the freeway and found myself an abandoned gas station to rest and consult the map before I had a meltdown. Naturally, it only took seconds to see if I'd just stayed on the I70 where I had been, my turnoff was just a mile or two further along. Yup, it was a tad hair-raising, but in the end we found our route and were headed north along the "Scenic River Route" on the west bank of the Mississippi.

Then, for the next sixty or seventy miles, things were wonderful. The sky over Illinois and eastern Missouri was more beautiful today than we've seen it anywhere for the past month. The randomly-spaced clouds were ultra fluffy looking, the sky's hues were all pastels of blues and purples and reds, and the overall effect was like an oil painting. It was something to see. Concetta and I rolled along, listening to our book on tape, and just let the Tioga eat up the miles.

And then Billy Crystal intervened again, darn him. There we were, out in the middle of who knows where on this twisty, curvy, mountainous road, when we rounded a corner and found a big orange sign blocking the entire highway. I looked at Concetta and back at the big orange sign. It said, simply, "Road Closed." That's it. No other information. No, "gee, sorry traveler, but an atomic bomb exploded just ahead and you'll have to go back to St. Louis until we clean it up." Or, "go back pilgrim, urban terrorists have taken over Hannibal and you don't EVEN want to go there now." No, it just said, "Road Closed" and let us decide what course of action to pursue.

Off to our right was this lonely-looking dirt road that crested a nearby hill and disappeared into the surrounding croplands. Well, we certainly didn't want to go THERE. But, we didn't want to go back either. So, finally, we backed up, put her in gear, and rolled into what we fully expected to be a future episode of the Twilight Zone.

Naturally, the entry of this thirty-foot behemoth onto this damn wash-boarded, dusty road did nothing for the RV or any of its rather loose-knit contents. Things were rattling and banging and, we felt certain, tearing themselves loose from their chintzy moorings and scattering themselves across the floor. Dust began to fill the coach immediately. Thankfully, turning the air conditioner to full blast cut the dust a bit.

Presently we came to a "Detour Sign." "Wow," I said to Concetta. "That would have been usefull out on the highway." But before long more detour signs began to show themselves, almost as if they'd been tacked up as an afterthought. They were faded and dog-eared and sad looking. It appeared to me as though no one really cared if you figured out how to choose the proper set of roads amongst all the different fields full of dead corn stalks or not. If you got lost, they'd just establish a cargo cult of some sort and strip your errant rig of whatever valuables they could turn up.

After about fifteen minutes we got to a "T" intersection containing no signs at all. One road went left, one right. We finally decided that left was sort of in the direction we had been traveling out on the highway and turned that way. Soon, we reached one of the sad, faded detour signs confirming our choice and minutes after that, the highway. Once we reached the camp grounds the manager told me that the road had been torn up for TWO YEARS! Now that's progress.

So, here we are, just a stone's throw from Mark Twain's boyhood home (he was born elsewhere you know). Fortunately, this is the one time that I called ahead to secure a spot in a camp. Every other night we've taken pot luck and made out just fine. But something told me that Hannibal's only campground was going to be above-average in popularity. My hunch proved right. When we got here we found that several travel clubs, made up of people driving those $100,000 bus-sized coaches, had made reservations, too. We got one of the few remaining spots.

At this point we're not sure just what activities we'll pursue tomorrow. We do know that by tomorrow afternoon we'll be headed toward the town that many of our ancestors in their covered wagons considered the "jumping off place" for the trails to California and Oregon, St. Joseph, Missouri. I expect there's going to be lots and lots of history to be found along the way. Until then, we wish you good food, good wine, and, above all, exciting destinations.

Ciao.

Middle America Muses

2011-09-23T15:18:00.001-07:00

Today, with the sky looking like rain and the weatherman reporting more of the same, we broke camp in Terre Haute and headed west on Highway 40, the National Road, first proposed to the U.S. Congress by President Thomas Jefferson. Our destination for the day was East St. Louis, somewhere near the town of Cahokia. Our goal was to visit the ancient Indian mound site of Cahokia wherein lie the ruins of the largest prehistoric city north of the Aztec city of Mexico. The area is also a United Nations World Heritage site.

For now, we’re sitting in an absolutely “sold out” camp site where we only got a space because a particular camper’s reservation has them showing up tomorrow after we’ve left and no one else before us wanted a single night’s stay. After so many nearly empty camps as we head into fall, finding one this popular was a surprise – well it was until my next door neighbor mentioned that he’s here for the ball game. Not sure which ball game since I don’t follow such things, but we feel very lucky that we got here at 3:00 p.m. and decided not to visit the Indian site this afternoon. Had we come later, well, we’d have been in a tough spot.

Anyway, the drive here this afternoon was just a joy. Highway 40 is a 1950s, pre-Interstate sort of road with one lane in each direction. You run with your lights on to avoid collisions and, most importantly, you take it easy. I drive between fifty or fifty-five and keep my eyes peeled for interesting photo opportunities, though most of what you see is gently rolling hillocks full of dried corn stalks and yellowing soy bean plants. The whole landscape is like a soft watercolor painting with only the occasional bright red or green tractor or dazzlingly white farmhouse to break the sweep of the fall colors that flow uninterrupted toward the cornflower blue of the sky on the distant horizon.

The gentle pace is far easier on the engine, probably gets us a mile or two extra in fuel consumption, and serves to lower my blood pressure immeasurably since we’re out on the Interstate not being blown around by 18-wheelers flying past.

Our journey didn’t involve much stopping today. Oh, we passed a myriad of antiques stores in which I would have loved to spend an hour. But I don’t really have much room to haul any extra “cargo” so I have thus far avoided the temptation to stop and explore. Perhaps our favorite stop was for the Cumberland County covered bridge, which, though it was a reconstruction of the original bridge, was a fully working replica that serves to carry traffic, though not for the main road. Probably all of you have explored a covered bridge in your life and know that few things are as quaint and wonderful as these timber-framed gems.

We chanced upon the perfect lunch spot today nestled at the edge of a farmer’s field full of soy beans, bordered by a white rail fence. The sun was behind us and the view across the golden yellow field filled us with awe that we could be privy to so much beauty.

The most entertaining stop today was for groceries. Some of the grocery stores we’ve chanced upon on this trip rival, and sometimes surpass, the finest stores we’ve visited anywhere. However today the store was right out of Mayberry, RFD. Concetta and I had been pretty successful in finding all the items on our list until we got to the last two which we decided to split. I took the vitamins and Concetta took the dried dates. Since I had no firm layout of the store memorized even though we had already wandered throughout much of it, I began at the first aisle and began to walk up and down each one. Finally, when I had found no vitamins, I headed for the nearest check stand to verify that I had just been unobservant and would need to retrace my steps. When I presented my question to the tall, slender woman behind the register she looked at me for a long moment. Figuring that she was just trying to decipher my accent, I repeated, “Do you happen to know on what aisle I might find the vitamins?”

With that she said, “If we have any, they’ll be on aisle seven.”

I turned and looked back down the long aisle that I had so recently thoroughly explored. No sense going back there. What kind of grocery store doesn’t have vitamins I wondered? I looked back at her. “Okay, thanks,” I said, and headed off to see how Concetta had done on her quest for dates. Good thing I wasn’t looking for Tai food or Greek yogurt or something like that, I thought.

When I reached Concetta, I said, “Well, did you find the dates?”

She shook her head. “When I asked one of the clerks where the dates were located the woman just looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language. I told her, you know, DATES.”

“And she didn’t understand?” I asked.

“Nope. Told me she didn’t know what I was talking about.”

“You should have described the palm trees they grow on. She might have seen pictures somewhere.”

Concetta just shrugged. “I think the woman thought I was crazy.”

We did try a little date sleuthing on our own since, on sudden inspiration, I figured they’d be kept wherever the raisins and dried fruit were kept. But alas, when we located the raisins they didn’t prove to be keeping company with the dates. Personally, I love dates in my oatmeal so, if asked, I’ll have to inform the good citizens of Vandalia, Illinois, that I won’t be moving there anytime soon.

Tomorrow? Well, after our communion with the ghosts of all those long-dead native Americans, we're headed northwest toward yet another of our bucket list destinations: Hannibal, Missouri. There's talk of exploring "Injun Joe's" cave or maybe taking a stern-wheeler ride on the Mississippi. Mark Twain is calling and we can't wait to answer!!!

Until then, we wish you good food, good wine, and, above all, exciting travel!

Ciao.

Exploring Indianapolis in 1836

2011-09-22T15:28:00.000-07:00

Today we decided to do a little exploring around Indianapolis before we resumed our journey west. From the KOA map that the camp hosts gave us last night when we arrived, we discovered that just a few miles north of our location on I70 was something identified as "Conner Prairie." From what we could tell, Conner Prairie was a largely outdoor interactive museum where various aspects of life in the 1800s are portrayed by museum docents.

It didn't take long for us to discover that this was going to be a museum trip unlike anything we'd experienced before. From our very first activity where I was invited to throw a Delaware Indian tomahawk at a slice of tree trunk thirty feet away (sorry, no photo of me), to our final experience nearly three hours later where we were invited to join the Union army to fight the rebs, we were totally immersed in the history of Indiana of nearly two centuries ago. Just as an aside, I was the only one in the group who buried the tomahawk in the tree. Of course, my competitors were in the sixty grade, but hey, they're more used to throwing things than I am.

Naturally, Concetta and I did not originally intend to spend nearly the whole day at Conner Prairie, but once we began wandering in and out of all the various commercial and agricultural buildings we just couldn't bear to tear ourselves away. All the docents played their parts wonderfully, remained in character, and taught us a lot about a dozen different vocations.

Just to be a smart ass, I even tested the blacksmith to see if he was a real blacksmith or just someone banging on an anvil with a big heavy hammer. I pointed to a special tool hanging on the wall, a copy of which I have in my collection, and said to the young blacksmith, "So, do you know what that tool is?"

"Yes, of course," he said. "That's a Traveler."

He was right, it WAS a Traveler which not one person in a thousand would know about today. The tool was used to measure the circumference of a wagon wheel so that a metal "tire" could be cut to the right length, welded together, and placed over the wooden wheel to hold the whole thing together and insulate the wood from the rocky roads. Looking much like a modern accident-scene wheel device on a handle, the Traveler would be rolled around the wooden wheel establishing a measurement, then rolled along a flat piece of iron for an identical number of revolutions. The iron would then be cut at the appropriate point.

Early wheelwrights would put the completed iron tire on a large fire until it heated enough to expand. Then several people would pick up the red-hot tire with tongs, carry it over to where the wooden wheel was laying on the ground, and then drop the tire over the wheel. Of course the red-hot tire would immediately set the wooden wheel on fire. But when the wheelwright would dump buckets of water on the wheel it would not only put the fire out but shrink the iron tire, causing it to grip the wooden wheel in a vice-like embrace. Absolutely fascinating to watch if you ever get the chance.

So, the blacksmith proved his mettle and put me in my place. All the other docents proved equally knowledgeable. I especially liked the dying and spinning cottage where the process of cloth manufacturing was thoroughly explained to us. They had dozens of different colors they had used to dye the wool made from a huge variety of natural plant extracts. At least most of them were plant extracts. The one that fascinated me the most was the tiny parasitic insect that is found only on the prickly pear cactus that, when harvested, yields a bright red dye. They told us that folks in the Old World were very, very excited about the discovery of this little bug since until that time they couldn't have cloth in brilliant red.

I watched the woman running the loom for a time and learned a lot about that discipline. In the past I thought that you just moved the warp threads up or down after each pass of the weft thread on the shuttle. In reality, you have a number of warp pedals (this particular docent's loom had four) and you hit them in combination to open up a specific color combination for passing a specific color of weft. This allows for patterns in the cloth. The final product is called the "weave." Our ancestors were so darn inventive it just astounds me.

We learned about wood working and the preparation of logs for cabins. We learned about trapping and hide preparation for sale and trade. We learned about Irish stitching (a sort of needlepoint). We learned about doctors and the concocting of medicine in a small rural community. We learned about so many things that I probably should have recorded it all. The time went by so fast that 2:00 p.m. came and went and we suddenly realized that we had simply forgotten about lunch. We had to tear ourselves away and go find a quick sandwich and cup of coffee.

Finally, as the sun (or what we could see of it through the rain clouds) sank lower in the sky we decided that we just had to get on the road or we'd have to return to our previous KOA camp and stay the night again. So it was that we left Conner Prairie, found Highway 40, and headed west toward Terre Haute, Indiana. We're not sure what opportunities lie in wait for us here in Terre Haute, but our next big destination is the Cahokia Indian mounds near St. Louis. So if nothing distracts us in the morning, we'll be rolling toward the city that has been know since the emigrant wagon train days as "The Gateway to the West."

Until then, we wish you good food, good wine, and good traveling. Ciao.

Rollin' on toward Indianapolis

2011-09-21T15:46:00.000-07:00

This morning, under the rainy skies of Ohio, Collin delivered me to the Moose Lodge where we had been parking the motor home for five dollars a day. Just ahead of a rain shower I disconnected the electric line and brought the coach back to sister-in-law, Phyllis' house where we loaded up our stuff, including clean laundry, and headed once again for the open road. We were trying to beat the rush hour traffic in Akron so we were rolling by 6:30 a.m., though yours truly had not had his breakfast or coffee yet.

Around 8:00 a.m. we spied a Bob Evans restaurant that looked interesting and, since the parking lot was fairly empty, I drove in and took up my usual eight parking spaces. I can't say the coffee was anything to write home about, but the breakfast was hot and the service great. Also on the plus side, our waitress saw that we had brought our Atlas in to lay out our route for the day and she proceeded to carry on a lively conversation with us about traveling and how her parents had just spent 3 1/2 months on a motor home tour that extended all the way to Alaska.

My first task of the day was to figure out how to fix the tail light on the RV that had suddenly decided to quit working. So it was that when we veered off route 77 south and started west on Route 36 I came across a Walley World and drove back to the service area to see if they might have the necessary part. The two twenty-something mechanics just scratched their heads when I showed them what I wanted and told me that they didn't have any such part. Of course my heart sank at that point since it looked like I might spend the rest of the morning trying to find a taillight for a 1996 Ford RV. "But," they quickly added, "just drive out the rear of the parking lot here, take a right, and go down a couple of blocks and you'll see a bus and truck repair place. Maybe they have one."

Not holding out much hope that a bus and truck repair place was going to do me any good, I nevertheless thanked them and set off to seek what I just knew was going to be the first in a long line of fix-it shops that I'd have to visit on our quest.

Moments later we pulled up in front of the repair shop and I walked over to where I saw a mechanic working on, of all things, a motor home. Of course, by then I had removed the old light and was holding it in my hand. When I got the mechanic's attention I held out my taillight and said, "I don't suppose you guys sell this model of light."

"Sure," the mechanic said. "Just go over to the Parts Department window and they'll fix you right up."

Scarcely able to believe it might be true, I set out for the aforementioned window and, when I got the attention of the chap behind the counter, I dangled my scruffy taillight in front of me and asked if he happened to have one.

"Sure do," he said. How many do you want?"

"I'll take two," I said, for I knew if both taillights were the same age they might just decide to burn out around the same time. The ol' bird was in the hand and the next time I needed one I just wanted to go to the storage locker to pull one out.

So the task that had promised to take most of the morning was completed in under an hour and we were back on the road. Since we were traveling on secondary roads, our scenery was beautiful. And even though the Ohio skies were overcast and gloomy we had our book on tape to pass the driving time. That's the good news.

The bad news is that the last two books to which we've been listening on the CD player have been by Stuart Woods, an author that obviously has no trouble getting into print, but an author that I personally wish had taken up bicycle repair or taxidermy or something instead of writing. His stories are just plain unbelievable and dull. He tries to spice up the plot with equally unbelievable sex scenes. And -- this is the worst part -- the guy who narrates these particular books should have found another line of work as well. His speaking voice is sing-songy and stupid-sounding. His ability to do different voices for different characters is nil. And his ethnic character voices are just downright insulting. Finally, all the women sound like men and all the men sound like wimps. Most of the time you hope that characters hurry up and get killed so you don't have to listen to them anymore.

Concetta insisted that we finish both books since we'd paid good money for them. Left up to me I'd have donated them to some unsuspecting library book return box and bid them a not so fond farewell. Fortunately, since I received a lot of books in trade from my buddy John we now have a fresh supply for the balance of the trip.

Today we made it to Indianapolis and we're staying in a KOA just east of town. Outside, the evening is so pleasant that we ate on the picnic table on the lawn outside the coach. Amazingly, we weren't bothered by bugs at all. For the time being we seem to have put the rain behind us.

In the morning we're headed a few miles north to take in a outdoor museum before we decide in which direction to drive. Concetta doesn't really want to go straight west which I suppose would take us through the cornfields of Nebraska and such. So the subject is still under discussion. What's happened in the past is that we'll run into someone tomorrow who will recommend a particular destination and that will decide the question. You know how I love serendipity.

Until tomorrow, then, I bid you good food, good wine, and best of all, good traveling.

A Chance Encounter

2011-09-20T11:51:00.000-07:00

As most of you can tell by the absence of blog entries, Concetta and I have been spending several days with our relatives in Akron, Ohio. Mostly what we've been doing, if you want to know, has been eating. We just move from one house to another, one meal to another. In between we just visit and hang out. Consequently, there hasn't been much in the way of adventure going on that I could tell you about.

But two days ago I got a phone call from my buddy John telling me that he and his 70,000 pounds of "pot stickers" were going to be hanging out at a truck stop just a few miles north of Akron for the night and did I want to come up and, what else, have lunch or dinner? (John had been following our progress via our blog) John's a long-haul trucker for a Texas company and just happened to be hauling a load through our immediate area. Well, I jumped at the chance since I hadn't seen John in quite some time.

Fortunately, it was only lightly raining as I hiked the half mile to the Moose Lodge where we're storing the motor home and soon I was headed up I76 to where it joins with I80 north of Akron. I had a little trouble finding the truck stop and the rain changed from drizzle to full on showers, but everything went fine and soon I was parked next door to the truck stop.

Since I didn't know exactly when John was going to arrive, I fired up the motor home's generator, plugged in the computer, and was busily reading email when John called to tell me he had arrived. A few minutes later we had made our rendezvous and were headed south on route 21 for the nearest bistro for a little lunch. We soon found a really great sandwich shop called Brielle's on the west side of the street and spent the rainy afternoon catching up, eating some outstanding potato salad, and drinking hot tea.

Once back at John's truck, we traded our small supply of books on CD, visited some more, then I headed back down the road to Akron as the rain beat enthusiastically on the RV's roof. It had been great seeing John and an amazing coincidence that in all the U.S. our paths would cross here in Concetta's home town.

John and I go back to the 7th grade in Altadena, California, where we grew up in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains, spent much of junior high and high school days together, then spent a year aboard a sixty-foot yacht in the Mediterranean working as both boat crew and film crew for a filmmaker shooting a documentary.

Now John is on a different adventure, one that I hope will eventually turn into a book about trucking. He's a talented writer and if anyone can do it, I'm confident he can. If you're interested in reading about John's adventures on the road, type www.roadquill.wordpress.com into your browser and check him out.

Long Day in the Windy City

2011-09-16T06:18:00.002-07:00

If you missed the blog yesterday it's because we didn't get back into camp until after 10:00 p.m. last night and we were too tired to try and think creatively, especially after doing battle with Chicago's maze of freeways and torn-up city streets for four hours, two going and two coming back. We were staying in the tiny hamlet of Union which is located, according to MapQuest, about seventy miles to the northwest of Chicago along route I90.

The first part of the day started out very pleasantly as the Illinois State Railway Museum is just three miles down the road from our camp. When I say that this place is a museum you should immediately banish the notion that this thing is in any way museum-like. It's more like an operating railroad yard full of trains that just happens to be owned by a non-profit organization. There are trains EVERYWHERE!

In addition to perhaps more than a half dozen giant warehouses full of the best equipment, they have dozens of cars and engines stored outside around their close to fifty acres of property. The only disappointing part of our visit was that most of the warehouses were locked and we were only able to tour one. But what we saw in that one warehouse, as well as around the rest of the grounds, was very impressive not to mention photogenic.

At IRM they have everything from steam engines to old-time trolley cars, from immaculate passenger cars from the 1940s to freight cars from the turn of the last century. They even have old Chicago "L" cars parked next to a subway platform, just ready for boarding. We would definitely like to come back someday when the museum is in full operation and take in more of the sights

After an hour or so of touring the Rail museum, we loaded up and headed for the "Windy City." Both of us had been dreading the thought of taking our thirty-foot home on wheels into the heart of Chicago all the way to the lake shore. We knew that it was not going to be a particularly pleasant experience. Actually, it didn't turn out to be too bad. The GPS more or less led us right to the spot we needed to park. Only once did it send us on a wild goose chase and we nipped that side trip in the bud, reprogrammed, and began again.

One thing you have to realize about Chicago is that they absolutely love to tear up their streets and, knowing that those already overloaded streets are vital to the sane flow of traffic during peak hours, will leave them torn up for literally years at a time. When I lived on the north side of Chicago back in the early 1970s I more than once watched the highway guys tear up a block-long stretch of road near the air base where I was stationed and milk that project for the next year. They proceeded at such a snail's pace that you just permanently rerouted around that stretch knowing that in your lifetime you might not see it finished.

As you might guess, our trip to Chicago was undertaken along with what appeared to be several million others all headed downtown. As I said, I lived in Chicago before, for some three years, so I knew pretty much what to expect. I knew that the freeways would be packed, the city streets narrow, and there would be lots and lots of construction with which to contend. It turned out that I was right about all three. At places we would be funneled from two lanes down to one, forming a bottleneck, which, when you're trying to merge a thirty-foot vehicle, is sort of like trying to commute in a moving van. Amazingly, in under two hours we actually made it to the shore of Lake Michigan. I did have to stop at one point and ask for directions of a security officer, but by then we were so close the officer told us to just turn left where we had lately turned right, go two or three stop signs, and we'd see the parking lot.

The parking lot was so spacious and so empty we could have been leading a whole convoy of motor homes and they all would have found parking. A little pricey at $32.00 but we were only a ten minute walk from the Field Museum, the Shed Aquarium, and the Planetarium. It couldn't have been more perfect. The other thing that was perfect was the crystal-clear day that Chicago had conjured up, I'm sure, just for us.

I actually had trouble walking the short distance to the museum because I couldn't stop taking photos of all the brilliantly-lit buildings, the harbor full of creamy white boats, or the skyline of the city which lay a short distance to the north of where we were walking.

You may remember that our quarry in Chicago, at least for this trip, was the Field Museum where I wanted Concetta to see what is truly an outstanding collection of Egyptian mummies and other artifacts. Back in 1969, when I first found myself in Chicago for what appeared to be a long-term stay, I sought refuge from the demands of Navy life in the Field Museum. Back then, before Dr. Zahi Hawass had worked so hard to generate interest in Egyptian archeology, I usually had the Egyptian section to myself. I'd spend hours there studying the artifacts and enjoying the artistry of ancient Egypt. Even though my interest in Egyptology has cooled somewhat over the intervening years, Concetta is an avid fan of ancient archaeological subjects. I just knew she'd love the Field Museum.

Some of you are probably aware that the museum experience, probably all over the world, has become very interactive. Where in the past I would enter a room full of parallel rows of glass cases with the artifacts displayed in ordinary light, now the whole Egyptology experience goes on in an environment that closely approximates, I would suppose, the actual mood and lighting of a tomb. No longer a big open room, now you wend your way through tomb-like spaces surrounded with limestone blocks actually purchased from Egypt. The mummies and other artifacts are all hermetically sealed and kept in low light to preserve them from harmful heat and light. It's all pretty mysterious and solemn. The only problem we discovered is that the light in some displays is so low you can't read the cue cards, which somewhat detracts from the experience.

The other display area that we had time for was the one dealing with the habitation of the Americas by native peoples. Once again, the Field outdid themselves with their largely interactive displays. In one that I especially liked, you could touch pieces of broken pottery that had been fastened to a display board beneath a computer screen. The instructions were to touch the pieces in the correct order to put the broken pot back together bottom to top. Now if that doesn't capture the imagination of some budding grade school archaeologist, I don't know what would.

One of the collateral activities that we planned for Chicago was to meet our friends, Katherine and Bobby Royce, for dinner while we were in the city. We first met Katherine and Bobby while on our cruise last fall to Turkey and the Greek Islands. The four of us got along famously from the beginning and we took many meals together on the fantail of the cruise ship as it plied the ancient waters of the Mediterranean. When we parted we promised to look them up if ever we made it to Chicago. So it was that we set up a date and they picked us up near where we had parked the motor home and we celebrated the one year anniversary of our friendship by finding the nearest Greek restaurant and having a party, avowing once again that good wine, good food, and good friends are the best things in life.

Once the Royces had dropped us back in the parking lot on the Chicago lake shore we realized that time had really gotten away from us. Since we had purchased two days at the campground in Union we had to now wend our way back out of the city and back north 70 miles before we could sleep for the night. As it turned out, the trip out was more hairy than the trip in, mostly because when the sun goes down the street maintenance folks double their activities and we spent much time creeping along a few feet at a time before we were able to reach the interstate and really get rolling. When we finally arrived at some God forsaken hour, we just pulled into the space and collapsed into bed, too tired to set up any plumbing or electrical.

This morning, with gray skies above us, we once more set off toward Chicago, but this time we used secondary roads and skirted the main part of the city. I didn't do any photos today as the light was just too flat and boring. We were able to find some parts of the old Lincoln Highway -- America's first interstate, now mostly highway 30 in this area -- and cruise through countless tiny towns in Illinois and Indiana. Tomorrow we're hoping to make the final leap to Akron, Ohio, where we will be staying for a couple of days visiting Connie's sisters and other relatives.

As Concetta pointed out to me this evening, my penchant for merely wandering throughout the country, stopping at whatever towns and hamlets that look interesting, and having no actual plan, has caused us to be much later reaching Ohio than we originally planned. Hard to believe that we've been since August 28th on the road and at this rate we won't be home until Christmas. I think her point is that we will probably have to turn around now and head back. We very much want to visit Gettysburg and a few other historic sites, but it doesn't look like we're going to be seeing the east coast on this trip. Sigh!

Anyway, that's the story. I'd sure like it if these dreary skies would clear up and look like Nevada tomorrow, but we'll have to see. Until then, I bid you adieu and, whenever possible, good wine, good food, and good friends.

Ciao.

A Happy Surprise

2011-09-14T13:49:00.000-07:00

When last we saw the Happy Wanderers they had tried unsuccessfully to locate fellow co-worker, George Aldrich's mother at her farm in rural Wisconsin. Not sure how they were going to connect with her, the Wanderers decided to locate a KOA for the night and puzzle out the problem in the morning.

Low and behold, we had only just thrown off the covers this morning and stumbled out to make the coffee when the phone rang. Who should be calling but Rachel, George's missing mom. It turned out that not only were we going to get to see her, but she was only minutes away from knocking on our door.

Just in time for breakfast, Rachel soon pulled up outside and we spent a very pleasant hour over oatmeal, homemade cranberry bread (courtesy Rachel), and some wonderfully strong Peet's coffee (George's favorite). We were thrilled to find out that Rachel was farming/ranching sixty acres in rural Wisconsin, just down the road from the cranberry bogs. We could see from the drive that she has ample room for gardening. I suspect she has just a half dozen acres cleared for the homestead. Most of the rest is in hardwood and softwood forest. Speaking of forests, Rachel even chops her own wood, which we saw neatly piled behind the house. A more pleasant setting you would never find.

Anyway, thanks again to Rachel for the visit, the cranberry bread, and for making possible some forty-four years ago our association with one George Aldrich, computer tech extraordinaire and good friend. And George, Concetta and I liked your mom immediately and extended our invitation to come visit us (and you) anytime she feels like it. The guest room has her name on it whenever she's in town.

The balance of the day the Wanderers spent listening to one FABULOUS book on tape by a favorite author, Jack Higgins, rolling down the road in the direction of Chicago, and enjoying the scenery. We stopped for a very pleasant lunch in a state park off I39 called Lake Kegonza. The day was rather overcast and the light not very good for taking photos so, unfortunately, no scenics today. But for your viewing pleasure I include a shot of Rachel's old-time Aermotor windmill. I just love those things and would love to have one on our property.

I hope the sun's shining tomorrow. Word has it that there's a railroad museum just down the road from where we're camped off I90 above Chicago. However, my main thrust tomorrow is to introduce Concetta to the Field Museum on Chicago's lakeshore so that's where the Wanderers are headed next.

Stay tuned.

Breathing a sigh of relief

2011-09-13T16:55:00.000-07:00

This morning, literally holding our breath, we headed back to the tire company to have our last two tires mounted and installed on the truck. After spending five hours yesterday getting four tires installed we were really apprehensive about going back. We didn't want to spend our whole day there. As we motored down the freeway we chanced a call and told them that we'd be in their shop in the next ten minutes. The front man told us that the new tires had arrived from the distributor and Derek was as we spoke mounting the first of the tires on one of our new wheels.

Soon after, we pulled up in front of the store and the crew set to work right away. We got there at 10:30 a.m. and we were unbelievably done an hour later, including remounting the spare underneath the coach. So, we now have six new tires, two new wheels, and we still have our new spare that we started out with underneath. All the other tires and the wheel that ended up on the ground along the freeway yesterday went into the dumpster.

Before we left town, we stopped by the Ford dealer, conveniently located next door to the tire shop, to inquire about any recalls for our 1996 E350 Ford. One of the maintenance men at our camp last night, a very helpful and friendly chap named Brent, said that there might be a recall on the cruise control, which was reported to catch fire. It was nice to find out that such was not the case for our 1996 coach.

Once we were out of the Ford dealer we set our sights on heading on down the road into Wisconsin. It had taken us two days to accomplish it, but we were finally clearing out of Minnesota, not the luckiest state that we have encountered, at least for the pocketbook.

The rest of the day we rolled down the interstate moving southeast. At one time I tried getting off and driving route 12, a secondary road that promised to be more rural in nature. We found so many 18-wheelers clogging the interstate (Sorry John) that it was kinda unnerving in view of our recent luck with tires. But that particular stretch of route 12 was just as busy and had a million stop lights to boot. So, we got back on the interstate.

Our special quest today was to find George Aldrich's mother's house just off I94 in Wisconsin. Mrs Aldrich lives in a beautiful area, though somewhat perplexing to find unless you're paying really close attention. Still, we eventually found the homestead and spent a half hour waiting to see if Mrs Alrich would show up. When she didn't, we left a message and headed back for the interstate where we had seen a camp site called, "Jellystone." Pretty original, hey?

Anyway, we soon missed an important turn and ended up way south of our intended camp site. So, when we wandered into Tomah we went ahead and cranked the address of the nearest KOA into the GPS and, well, here we are in beautiful downtown Oakdale, just eating some fresh trout, watching Pawn Stars on TV, and enjoying the good life.

George's mother's home was located in a truly beautiful forested area of Wisconsin and the log cabin-style construction was terrific (see photos above).

On the way to George's mother's house we chanced to pass a nice display of a vintage steam locomotive and two passenger cars that I just had to stop and photograph. I know not many of you are railroad fans, but for those who are, enjoy!

Just a sittin' and and a grinin'

2011-09-12T14:36:00.000-07:00

Sitting in the morning sun
we'll be sitting when the evening comes
Watching the trucks roll in
And we watch 'em roll away again

Yes we're sittin' in the service bay
Watching the day roll away
We're just sitting in the service bay
Wasting time

We left our home in Carson
Headed for an eastern stay
'Cause we had nothing to wait for
looked like everything was headed our way

[chorus]
Looks like all the tires are gonna change
Hope nothing still remains the same
We can't leave 'till they do what they have to do
So I guess we'll remain all day

Sittin' here resting our bones
And this boringness won't leave us alone
It's three thousand miles we roamed
Just to make this tire store our home

Yes we're sittin' in the service bay
Watching the day roll away
We're just sitting in the service bay
Wasting time

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Yup, Otis Redding said it best. We're sitting in the tire store waiting and waiting and waiting while they turn a 60 minute job into an all-day affair. Of course we can't bitch too much. They did rescue us off the highway. Trouble is, we got back here at 2:00 p.m. It's now a quarter to five and they've finished precisely one tire. Not sure how anyone can move that slow, but Concetta and I are sitting in the waiting room -- thankfully air conditioned -- and wasting time.

Busted flat -- AGAIN!!!!

2011-09-12T10:53:00.000-07:00

No one is going to believe this. I hardly believe it myself. This morning, first thing, we headed out to buy supplies and check on a recommended tire company to check on purchasing a new spare. After that, we intended to travel about a dozen miles away and purchase a new wheel on which to mount the spare for, as you remember from yesterday, the old wheel was the wrong one for this truck. On the way out of the tire company parking lot I told Concetta, "You know, I'm just going to replace both the front tires on this rig with new ones and use one of the front ones for a spare." Concetta thought that sounded like a good idea.

So, off we went, back into Minneapolis to find the wheel company. Passing the spot where we were broke down yesterday afternoon we headed west on I94 with a stiff side wind out of the south to keep us company. Something with as much surface mass as a motor home is understandably harder to keep on the highway when the wind is blowing so I didn't think anything of the fact that the truck was tracking a bit strange. Finally, however, I told Concetta that something didn't feel just right in the steering so I pulled over to the side of the freeway. At that point the tire on the right front wheel tore through the sidewall and "walked" right off the wheel. Sigh!

So, here we are, sitting beside the freeway, as millions of cars roar by a couple of feet away. Naturally, I called the tire guy to whom we had just been speaking and asked him to come rescue me. In return, I offered, to purchase a whole new set of tires for the rig from him. That deal was immediately struck, though he had to go a little afield to find two of the six since he didn't have them on hand.

Then I called the wheel company in Minneapolis and asked if they made house calls. "Not normally," was their response.

"Well," I said, "this is kind of an emergency."

After hearing my tale of woe, the wheel company agreed to send a wheel out to our rig parked on the shoulder of I94.

Soon after, the tire company kid arrived, removed the shredded tire from the right front and took it back to his shop. A half hour later they called and said that the wheel might get me back to their shop if they put a used tire on it, but it was bent enough to not be safe to put back in service. SIGH!

Soooooo, I called the wheel company back and asked if the delivery boy hadn't left with the first wheel, to please load up a second wheel because I was going to need two. This deal was also struck, though the the delivery guy was already a mile away from the shop at the time. The wheel people graciously offered to call him back to pick up the other wheel.

I'm not sure how this is all going to end. We're not stuck in Lodi again, but it feels darn close. Ironic that this coach came from Lodi, isn't it?

The Flying Fickle Finger of Fate Falls Fast and Furious

2011-09-11T14:44:00.000-07:00

Well, I guess our impeccable luck couldn't go on forever, Right? Coming out of Minneapolis we neatly blew out the inboard driver's side dualie, shredded it into a hundred different pieces, with a sound like we'd been hit with canon fire. Not satisfied with merely ruining a $150.00 tire, the errant rubber proceeded to thrash the aft locker full of sewer pipes and connections and trashed that, too. I (carefully) motored off the freeway at greatly reduced speed, flashers bleeping, and parked her beneath a convenient freeway overpass. After chocking the front wheels, I settled in with my phone to communicate with my (heretofore) trusty AAA card folks. They've never let me down before and have always responded cheerfully and, more important, swiftly to my emergencies.

Well, it appears as though they now intend to pay me back for all the cheerful service over the years. On the phone I got what can only be described as a complete idiot. You know the type. They ask you the same questions over and over again as if while sitting in the hot sun with a flat tire you'd be tempted to lie to them about where you are and what your problem is. Jeeze!

Anyway, in addition to being dense as a wheelbarrow full of sod, this woman proceeded to tell me that even though I am a "Plus" member at some $90.00 a year my card does not cover motor homes.

"What?" I said, I'm sure sounding incredulous. "When did you folks think you might let me in on that piece of news."

"Sorry, sir," she said, sounding bored. "Where did you say you were?"

"St Croix senic byway where it crosses I94," I said, perhaps for the fourth time.

"And what was your exit number?" she asked.

"Don't know," I said.

"Sir," she said, though I don't think sir was what she mentally was identifying me as, "I have 22,000 St Croix streets in the area."

I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. Had I inadvertently called the local funny farm? "Let me get this straight," I said. "Just east of Minneapolis on I94 you have 22,000 references to the St. Croix scenic byway."

Silence. Then, "What is your milepost, sir?"

Anyway, the conversation went on like that with the AAA bimbo asking a succession of repetitious, inane questions until she finally said that she'd have someone call me. Somehow, while I was out cutting the metal strapping off the side of the wheel well that had probably peeled the tread off our tire, I got said call from somebody but missed it. When I saw the message, I called the number back and got AAA in -- where else -- northern California. Thankfully, this time the AAA lady was both intelligent and thorough and soon had a dispatcher for AAA call me. The dispatcher called the fixit shop and they called me back. By this time, of course, we'd been sitting for over an hour. The fixit shop said they'd be another 90 minutes. So, here we sit, trying to act composed, while we wait and see if anyone in Minneapolis knows where the St. Croix parkway is located.

We do have a couple of pluses to our credit, however. For the first time I tried using the generator, which is currently humming away pleasantly. The second thing is, I tried my buddy Tennessee Don's suggestion for getting my mobile network connection to function and -- good God! -- the darn thing works perfectly. Thanks to Tennessee Don for his sleuthing on my behalf.

As you would expect, we have no idea just when the tow truck chap might appear around the bend. We're just hoping he knows where to come. I was able to go to Mapquest and easily find the St. Croix Scenic Byway off of I94 and learned that our exit is 258. Makes you wonder what sort of dumb pills the first AAA lady might have been taking when she (keeping in mind she does this for a living) tried to find the street on her list of 22,000 other streets. I'm just sorry I failed to learn her actual name as I'd love to refer to her by name here in the blog. Ah, missed opportunities.

It's just short of 6:00 p.m. and the fixit chap just drove up in an official-looking truck and immediately set to work on changing the tire. He seem appreciative that I parked the rig under the underpass where it's cool instead of leaving it up on the freeway.

Brian, our rescuer, immediately set about pulling off the tires on the driver's side of the RV. That all went well enough. He also checked my discovery that the passenger side inside dualie was low on air. "This is your problem with the low tire," Brian said, and showed me a air filler tube that had been worn part way through. He removed the filler tube and was able to pump the tire back up. "Those filler tubes have to be watched closely," Brian continued because they move around a lot.

Okay, I thought, we're looking good here. I continued to think those thoughts right up until I heard Brian cuss and I went over to see what problem he had encountered now. He said, "you got your spare on the wrong wheel for this rig. The bolt pattern is the same but the center hole is for a Chevy or something."

"What can we do," I asked.

"Well, we take the shredded one off its wheel and put the spare on."

"Wonderful," I said. And then Brian gave me a tip on just where I might find the proper wheel as well as a tip for what kind of tires to buy that would hold up better than my Chinese tire lookalikes, information I am almost certain to find useful in the future.

Around about 7:00 p.m., an hour after he arrived, Brian air gunned the last bolt into place, lowered the RV off the jack, and I pulled out the chocks. Moments later we were on the road again. Not wanting to press my luck for the evening, I took the back roads to a camp Concetta had found in the immediate area, which although closed for the evening when we arrived, opened the gates and motioned us in. Thank goodness for small favors at this point.

The next thing I had to do was determine just how much was damaged by the flying shards of steel-belted radial as it ate into my sewer access locker. To my surprise, the carnage (not counting the side wall of the locker) was limited to the 90-degree-angle end piece to the flexible sewer pipe. Wonder of wonders, the one gadget that came with the RV in duplicate, was a 90-degree-angle sewer pipe fitting. I just pried out the old one and clamped on the new one and I was in business. I tested the line by dumping the black water tank and nothing leaked. Whoopie!

My garden hoses (water filler and sewer clean-out) went through the maelstrom unscathed, thankfully. But the tray that I had bought at Home Depot to contain all these various parts was a total loss, however, and currently rests in about nine pieces. So, it could have been a lot worse. We're thankful that we got out from under that overpass before dark. I really wasn't looking forward to sleeping with a .38 under my pillow.

Headed for Minneapolis

2011-09-10T17:48:00.000-07:00

This morning when we'd packed up the motorhome and made sure that we'd not forgotten to unplug stuff, we headed south on state route 81 for a short distance, then jumped on Interstate 90 east. Our intention was to head toward Minneapolis but we wanted to stick with secondary roads if we could. The first opportunity I found on the map was Highway 60 which, more or less, headed on a diagonal toward the twin cities area from the Interstate, though it became another highway before you had reached the halfway point. We hadn't made any specific plans to visit anything along the way. We just wanted to put some miles on the truck, plug in a good thriller on the CD player, and watch the fields full of feed corn and soy beans blow by.

For the past couple of days we've been listening to a Robert Crais mystery, though I wish I had tossed it out the window on the second disk. Robert is a native of my home county, Los Angeles, and I have read his works before. But after several days of listening to an absolutely exquisite thriller by my favorite author of such works, Hammond Innes, Robert Crais' effort was rather dismal by comparison. Thankfully, today's book is by Jack Higgins, another long-time favorite of mine and he is so far doing an admirable job. By the way, I gave the Robert Crais book to the camp host of our municipal camp tonight and won't have to look at it any more. Sorry Robert.

Anyway, we're headed northeast on Hwy 60 today, just minding our own business, when about mid-day we go sailing past a wide spot in the highway called Mountain Lake. Just out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of a large, white building with the words, "Telephone Museum" emblazoned on the side. My dear father worked for three decades for the Western Electric Company, a supplier of much equipment to the various telephone companies.

"Did you see that?" I said to Concetta.

"What?"

"The telephone museum sign."

"No," she said.

"Well, we haven't had our cultural stop for the day, you know."

"Go ahead and go back," she said, and braced herself for a radical U-turn.

It turns out the Mountain Lake folks hold an open house at their Heritage Village ONCE A YEAR and we just happened to stumble upon it on just the right day. These folks have pulled old historic buildings from around the area into one location encompassing about an acre or two in size and outfitted the buildings with appropriate furnishings. The restored structures range from a railroad station to a school house, from a general store to a blacksmith shop. In fact, just about every type of business you can think of is represented. On their one day a year open house they all dress up in costume, staff all the buildings, and serve up homemade food enough to satisfy everyone's tastes, both residents and visitors. We were just thrilled.

Concetta and I wandered throughout the grounds for about an hour taking in as much as we could absorb. All the docents were wonderfully friendly and outgoing and made our visit as enjoyable as we could hope for. We especially liked the ladies in the farmhouse who showed us their waffle makers designed to sit atop a wood-burning stove (photo above).

In the train station we looked up when a terrible racket began to emanate from a nearby room. I stuck my head in the door and caught the pictured conductor "playing" a terribly out-of-tune player piano, though the state of the tuning didn't appear to bother the old gent at all. I think he was hopeful that I'd come in and listen to he music, but I nevertheless beat a hasty retreat.

The Mountain Lake folks had a marvelously beautiful day for their festivities. We certainly thank them for their enthusiastic efforts and for their willingness, one and all, to make us feel welcome though they'd never laid eyes on us before.

The Mountain Lake Heritage festival was actually only one of two exciting adventures we had today. The second was -- are you ready for this -- washing the motor home. Lord, I never, ever tried to wash something so big. If you've been reading this blog you know that we have systematically been collecting six states worth of bugs, road grime, and campfire smoke on the ol' Tioga. It looked like a rolling science experiment.

But the general filthy condition of the coach wasn't the worst part. The worst part was that we drove it into one of those do-it-yourself car washes where you feed your quarters into the slot and then rush like hell to finish before your time runs out. Before I finished, I had fed in about a week's allowance worth of quarters and large bills and worked like the sorcerer's apprentice trying to scrub that massive thing with a brush, then rinse it off completely before the bell announced my time was up.

Meanwhile, the soapy brush was busily spewing out what seemed like acres of sudsy foam faster than I could actually deal with it. Even weirder, the foam came out in a wild kaleidoscope of colors that would have sent some of my former roommates from the sixties into never, never land. I had to brush furiously on every part of the coach I could reach or, if I had stood in one spot, the suds would have buried me. It reminded me of one of those old sitcoms, probably "I love Lucy," where the inexperienced housewife puts too much soap in the washing machine and it proceeds to fill the room with suds.

Once the coach was all covered with the kaleidoscope of suds, I then had to try and get off all that soap while I still had time on the machine. The result was a veritable blur of washing, rinsing, re-washing places I'd missed, and re-rinsing. Of course the coach is so big, thirty feet, that I couldn't reach the rear at all. The hoses were too short. In the end, the rig looks pretty good and I got most of the worst of the bug splatters off the front. I think the next time I need the darn thing washed I'm going to find one of those high school charity car washes and turn it over to the youngsters. They need the money.

We actually had one more adventure today before the sun dipped below the horizon: we tried to barbecue some vegetables and a couple of steaks. Now normally this would not have been a big deal. Most campgrounds have a barbecue pit or steel cage to make your barbecuing experience a pleasurable one. But here in Madelia, in the municipal park camp, they provide you with a large steal wheel, probably from some long defunct 18-wheeler,and call it good. I studied the wheel, at least I did after I stole one from a nearby empty camp since our camp had no such wheel. I could see where I could easily fill the cavity of the wheel with charcoal and make myself a nice little fire. But since there was no actual grilling surface to go over the wheel, I could not see how the steaks would be cooked. Hmmm.

Finally I decided that I'd just take some of the firewood that we've been carrying since Carson City and build myself a little square, log cabin style, inside the cavernous wheel. Into the square I'd dump my charcoal. And over the square I could put the little 12" diameter screen that we'd found in a grocery store somewhere in South Dakota. It all seemed very logical and easy.

Anyway, that's what I did. Only problem was that the wood was so dry that it instantly caught fire, even better than the charcoal. Now I had this roaring fire that could have cooked a whole buffalo and still nothing to cook on.

So, for my next trick I scrounged around the camp area for large rocks or rock-like items. I finally managed to collect an igneous rock about the size of a football and what could only be described as a concrete stepping stone about ten inches in diameter. Placing these things on either side of my fire (it had begun to die down a bit once I removed some of the wood -- at great danger to myself I might add), I propped two slender pieces of wood between the igneous rock and the stepping stone in a sort of A-frame configuration and then rested the 12" diameter screen on top of the sticks and then Concetta's foil-wrapped potatoes, onions, and carrots on the screen. At last, success.

Or that's what I thought. I sat down to have our vodka and cranberry cocktail and chat a moment with the park host who had motored by on her golf cart. Occasionally I'd glance over to check the progress of the food. Suddenly, I caught sight of the tin foil drop straight down into the fire. I leaped up and ran over and saw immediately that the two sticks that I had used to prop up the whole cooking arrangement had burned right through.

Fortunately I was able to rescue the packet with loss of only one potato wedge. In disgust I abandoned the whole thing and dragged out the camp stove. Note to self: next time bring a grill topper for those rare times when no such appliance is provided. Might take a bit of wire-brushing after each use before it could be stowed, but it sure would make life a lot simpler.

Crickets and stuff

2011-09-09T19:08:00.001-07:00

Back home in Carson City I've notice that the crickets have been extra loud this summer. I've not done any real research on the subject to see why they might be cricketing extra loud, but Wikipedia says "there are four types of cricket songs: the calling song which attracts females and repels other males, and is fairly loud; the courting song which is used when a female cricket is near, and is a very quiet song; an aggressive song which is triggered by chemoreceptors (how about that for a cool word) on the antennae that detect the near presence of another male cricket; and a copulatory song that is produced for a brief period after a successful mating."

The reason I bring this up is because here in Salem, South Dakota, at the Campground America park near Interstate 90, the crickets are obviously planning to take over the world, aid a new wave of hijackers, or perhaps invade some ballistic missile site. The reason I think this is the sound that they are making in the canopy of trees over our heads is without a doubt the LOUDEST I've ever heard anywhere. The buggers have got to be pissed at something bigtime. I just hope it isn't me personally. The sound can only be compared to someone cutting a very hard piece of steal with a hacksaw. I even wandered around for a few minutes trying to spot them. I figured that any creature who could make that kind of racket ought to be at least as big as my fist and be perfectly visible to the naked eye. I didn't see them, but I'm not convinced they're not up there -- plotting. I hope the military is on high alert this next week after reading this blog.

Speaking of bugs, I know that people always joke about the quantity of bugs in the mid west. Having lived in Illinois and Tennessee for varying amounts of time I can attest to the fact that bugs seem to like the country's humid mid section the best. In the past I've watched scientific programs on TV that postulate that were man to disappear from the earth (and take their bug sprays, fly swatters, and electronic zappers with them) that the bugs would soon evolve into masters of the universe. Well, in my opinion, here in South Dakota the little fellows are trying to get a head start on that process. You literally can't do anything outside without troops of winged creatures zeroing in on you and making every effort to establish a beach head.

Tonight, the air was so perfect here in Salem that we naturally wanted to eat outside. The food and wine WERE extra good au naturale, but the multi-species invaders made it necessary to have my electronic "persuader" at the ready. Sorry to say that a good number of them will not be going home to feed the little ones tonight. Mom will just have to tell the kiddies that dad was off on his usual adventure and no doubt died they way he lived -- in someone's face.

Anyway, I was taking a look at the exterior of the RV this evening and came to the realization that there are probably entomologists out there who, if they were to see the Tioga, would immediately insist on quarantining the coach until they could study the 6,352 different samplings thereon. Ultimately, I don't think a mere wash is going to clean up this thing. I think I need a giant Brillo pad. Or maybe I'll just wait a tad longer and I'll be able to shovel the the whole group into a dumpster if one that size could be found.

I think I told you about my new bug zapper. I found it at the Raley's supermarket. It's a badminton racket-shaped, handheld, battery-operated device that, when the button is held down and the racket is placed over a fly or mosquito or some such, every other wire is activated with either a positive or negative charge. When the bothersome creature flies onto the grid of wires a small electric current passes from the negative wire to the positive wire and right through him. This renders him dead in a micro second. No frantic swings of the now obsolute swatter are required. Often the bugs like the bright yellow color so much they'll come investigate on their own. This makes your job so much easier.

Wish I'd have thought of this idea. I actually have a buddy who had a full fledged, 110 volt version of one of these near his horse coral. I saw it years ago, but never projected the idea into the portable realm as the inventor of my gadget probably did. I'm sure the inventor is even now sipping a cocktail on his deck overlooking the Pacific Ocean in Malibu, Hawaii or the Italian Amalfi Coast. Wish I had been born with a few of those entrepreneurial genius cells between my ears.

So, that's my rant on bugs this evening. I'm sure there's someone out there who is actively figuring a way that they can turn common bugs into household pets. Humans have done it with everything else on the planet. To them I suspect that I'm no better than a common murderer. To them I say, however fondly, "NUTS!"

Good night and good reading!

If it's Friday it must (still) be South Dakota

2011-09-09T15:14:00.000-07:00

Dear reader. If you’ve been hanging on every word of this blog for the past week and a half you know that you had nothing to read this morning with your coffee. That’s because the camp last night had no internet and my mobile device, the infernal thing, continues to tell me that it can’t find a signal. Oh well. So, here we are in the “Camp America” RV park in the metropolis of Salem, South Dakota. It’s mid afternoon and we’ve decided to pack it in and do some laundry, take it easy, and bring the blog up to date. Guess which one of us got the laundry?

Anyway, we didn’t really get very far yesterday. From our camp on the fringe of the Bad Lands we traveled north and east to the capital of South Dakota, Pierre. Concetta and I say the name as if it were the surname of that infamous master of Le Gillotine, Robes Pierre. However, here in South Dakota they pronounce the name of their capital as if it was a wooden structure to which you tied your boat on the edge of a river.

Our plan yesterday morning was to drive north and east to Highway 14, through Pierre, and then on to the border of Minnesota and South Dakota. Well, we didn’t make it. Once in Pierre, we simply couldn’t pass up the chance to tour the state capitol building, which, if you’ve never seen it, is truly a magnificent edifice. Everyone we’ve met in South Dakota has been overboard friendly, including the Capitol policeman who invited us down to the Governor’s office to get a photograph of Concetta sitting in the Governor’s chair. Well, who could pass up that opportunity. Naturally, as we often do, we saw an advertisement for the state’s museum while touring the Capitol basement and just couldn’t leave town without seeing it, too.

So it was that it very soon got to be late afternoon and we not only hadn’t found our camp site for the day, we hadn’t even done the grocery shopping we had planned to do so we could actually cook something for dinner. Fortunately, the museum guard knew just where we could find the local Wally World and we jumped into the RV and headed over there. Once the shopping was done, we consulted the AAA guide to find the closest camp site. The sun hadn’t set yet so we thought we were home free. Au Contrar.

As it happens, since May South Dakota has been the victim of much flooding of the Missouri River with water broaching the river banks by several feet and flooding whatever happened to be in the way. The first camp site we sought out, which happened to be right in the middle of town, had been the unfortunate recipient of a bit more water than it was designed to handle. The waterline I saw on the main building in camp was about three feet over the foundation. Shucks! We knew immediately that we wouldn’t be staying there.

Fortunately, the Davis luck was running high and the very next camp site we found, only four or five miles out of town, had been flooded in some parts but other, higher parts were completely fine.

We selected a nice, dry piece of ground beside a spreading forest of trees, hooked up our electric, and settled in for the night. The camp didn’t have water, sewer, or internet, but we had all the ambience of a tree-shaded paradise beside the mighty Missouri, a cheery lantern, and one of Concetta’s prize-winning fritatas for dinner. Best of all, the cost of the camp site was a very affordable six bucks. Wonderful.

To bring you up to date on another important subject, you may remember that yesterday, while in camp near the little town of “Interior,” South Dakota, I attempted a repair on the rooftop refrigerator coil shield that I had damaged by dragging it along a very, very large tree in Bozeman, Montana. My repair material of choice was the side walls of a gallon jug of spring water that I had picked out specifically for it’s resemblance to the contours of the part I had damaged. After spending an hour applying a product called “Goop” and attempting to make cut-out portions of the water bottle stick to the rubber-like material of the broken shield, I was somewhat disgusted with the result. I really didn’t think it was sticking worth a damn, still I decided that I would let it cure, then drive the motor home for a whole day. If the patches were still in place by the end of the day then I’d use some silicone sealant that I had brought along and fill in whatever parts of the patch hadn’t stuck well to make it water tight. Well, I have to tell you that my makeshift patches held for the day and have now been thoroughly sealed. I have high hopes that they will last the remainder of our voyage. They don’t look pretty, but they certainly do work.

Today, we had hopes of finding a reliable old Mickey Ds to post this blog, but after miles of nothing but corn, soy beans, and sun flowers we finally gave up that idea. So here we are in Salem, which is a tiny town just west of Sioux City, South Dakota. Yes, I know we had hoped to be in Minnesota tonight but the fates had other ideas. Our only diversion today was stumbling into Laura Ingalls Wilder’s home town and we stopped to check it out. The little old ladies tried to get us to go on an hour-long tour of everything Laura ever touched in town, but we begged off citing an important appointment down the road. We settled for shooting a pix or three of her school house and the surrounding gardens then we were back on the road.

I guess we were lucky that we stopped early today because there’s been a constant succession of Rvs coming in after us. The park is filling up fast. They only have two washing machines in the laundry area and we were first on the scene. Let that be a lesson to us. This place also has the added benefit of having an impromptu antiques and book store in one half of the office. Now what more in life could you want? I’ve already checked it out but so far have resisted buying anything.

Tomorrow? Well, we haven’t decided on tomorrow. I don’t know wether we’ll head back north before we head east (we had to drop south to the interstate to find this park) or whether we’ll just head toward Sioux City and decide from there. As you might guess the RV parks are more numerous on the interstates, but so too are the travelers. Last night was really nice because we had the half-filled park, the Missouri River, and us. No noise or other distractions. Just lots of quiet and cool breezes. So, until we rack up a few more adventures, I bid you adieu.

P.S. I’m thinking the Prairie museum north of here sounds pretty interesting.

On the trail of ancient mammoths

2011-09-07T19:08:00.000-07:00

Last night we camped south of the Mount Rushmore area near the wonderfully picturesque town of Hot Springs, South Dakota. Our camp, identified simply as the "Hot Springs KOA," was not as scenically situated as some of our previous choices. And truck drivers decelerating out on the main road did so using their "Jake Brakes" instead of their wheel brakes, which meant a lot of racket from time to time. But the owner, a tall slender man named John, was one of the nicest camp hosts we've yet encountered. When I was unable to figure out the intricacies of his WiFi last night after trying for a good hour, John came to the RV and personally fixed the problem. I would, therefore, consider camping their again and unhesitatingly recommend this camp for other travelers coming John's way.

Today, our major goal was to navigate our way to a local museum and archaeological site known simply as, "The Mammoth Site." Short name; very impressive museum. The reason for the museum's existence can be traced to a chap intent on bulldozing off several acres of land in Hot Springs to build a tract of houses. But after several cuts into the hillside, the giant blade began to uncover bones -- very large bones. Fortunately, the builder not only halted his dozer driver, but agreed to turn the property over to a private non-profit that had been hurriedly formed to purchase the property. The builder magnanimously agreed to sell the property for his original purchase price.

This all took place back in, if I remember right, 1974. Working at first out in the open, then under the protection of a simple shed roof, volunteers began to unearth a vast cache of Mammoth bones, even some complete skeletons. Over the years, with lots of donations of time and money, the non-profit group has been able to erect a complete museum over the bone site, a piece of ground approximately 85 feet by 150 feet. Only 2% of the bone bed was not covered by the museum.

The reason for the bone bed is really fascinating. Tens of thousands of years ago a strata of ground, composed mostly of limestone, was covered by many feet of a much harder substance. At some point the limestone started to melt away as water was introduced from below. This formed a large cave. Later, when the size of the cave grew beyond the ability of the surface material to support it's own weight, the surface material fell into the cave. Once this happened and the ground water rose to near the surface, the old cave became a lake. Because the water in the old cave/new lake was warm, much vegetation grew up around the new watering hole.

This water and vegetation proved irresistible to animals, especially mammoths. Unfortunately, since the surface material that overlay the limestone was especially slick in nature the mammoths would put one foot on it and slide uncontrollably into the lake. Since these huge creatures couldn't climb out again they simply sank to the bottom and became part of the buildup of sediment that eventually filled the entire lake over a period of thirty thousand years or so. Because the contents of the lake contained gypsum and other "cement-like" substances, the filled lake turned out to be much harder than the surrounding terrain. This caused it to erode much slower, which then caused the one-time lake to become a hill in modern times.

Now, since the entire lake contents, which descend to a depth of some 65 feet, is under the protecting cover of the museum roof, archaeology professionals and students can excavate at their leisure. The result is a "dig" that is nothing short of outstanding. I hope the photos do it some justice.

Tonight we're holed up in the "Bad Lands" (photo right) of South Dakota in a KOA near, of all places, the village of "Interior," population 77. I tried for the first hour after we parked to glue some patches over the roof cover that I massacred back in Bozeman. I have some glue that guarantees to glue anything to anything, but I had mixed results. I used hunks of plastic water bottle which seemed to have the proper curves in the proper places to seal the corners of the lid that were especially hard hit by the giant tree I inadvertently kissed up against. We'll see in the morning. Maybe I can seal whatever didn't glue with silicone roof sealant. Who knows? I'd just like to keep most of the rain out if possible.

Tomorrow we plan on heading toward the Capital of South Dakota in Pierre. Not only would we like to see it, but it lies north of I90 and will allow us to drive secondary roads all the way to Minnesota. For those of you wondering if we visited Wall's Drug in Wall, South Dakota, we did. Not only did I want to see the business founded in 1931 since I'd seen it on TV on more than one occasion, but I wanted to find a good American pocket knife that I could hang on my key chain. Well, we accomplished the first part of the quest, but the second part of the quest proved virtually impossible. Why? Because all the knives, no matter what price range, were made in China. Heavy sigh!

We are our history

2011-09-06T17:14:00.000-07:00

The most important lesson I've learned on this trip was brought home to me even more powerfully today. It's this: you're never more certain of what it means to be American than when you're immersed in its history. In my life I've walked the grassy fields of Valley Forge, explored the narrow passages beneath Boulder Dam, trod the deck of a whaling ship in Connecticut, threaded my way up the spiral steps of the Statue of Liberty, gazed out the lofty windows of the Gateway Arch in St. Louis, even sat on the banks of the mighty Mississippi in Tennessee and watched a thunderstorm roll toward me like a speeding passenger train. I'm not sure at the time I truly grasped the significance of any of those experiences.

But on this trip, as we learned about General Custer and his violent end on a grassy piece of prairie known as the Little Big Horn, or today, as we learned about the hardship and dedication that went into constructing one of American's premier historic landmarks, Mount Rushmore, I can honestly say that I get it. I really get it.

Later, as we visited our second landmark of the day, the Crazy Horse memorial where a man named Korczak Ziółkowski, a Boston-born sculptor of Polish descent, almost single-handedly took on the task of carving that famous native American out of a living mountain, our emotions were just swept away. As Concetta and sat in the darkened auditorium and listened to what the Korczak went through to accomplish his task (Crazy Horse is still in progress after over fifty years) both of us came away with tears in our eyes and a new appreciation for the sacrifice that many ordinary Americans have made in order to make this country great.

If you have not seen the Custer battlefield, or Mount Rushmore, or the Crazy Horse memorial, I suggest you put these places on your itinerary for next time. While you're at it, all those other places I mentioned are pretty darn memorable, too.

Concetta cooked us up a passel of sausage, red beans, and rice for dinner tonight. Since I'd been working on the blog and photographs while she cooked (and did the laundry) I proposed a toast when she sat down at our diminutive dining table to eat. "A toast," I said, "to one of the best days on the road we've had yet." She just stared at me. "Not counting the laundry," I said, and she grimaced at me but raised her glass.

I recount this story to illustrate that being on the road isn't all cocktails and cheese platters by the park pool. Not by a long shot. Yesterday, as I explained (briefly) last night, we couldn't get internet access at all. In their infinite wisdom the RV folks had situated us just fifty feet or so BEYOND the outer limits of their WiFi access point. Tonight, try as I might, I could not get on line. My computer would happily connect to the RV park router but would not get to the outside world. They had parked me, at my insistence, right next to the access point. In desperation, I had to get the park owner over to explain to me why I could ping his router but not get out. This is where I learned just how my old customers felt when I would respond to their IT problems. The owner sat down at my laptop showing the big red X where the connection should be, changed access points (which I had already done without success) and immediately connected. Oh, well. I've looked like an idiot before and trust that it won't be the last time.

On this road trip I swear I've been gouged, sliced, banged, burned, and have generally lost more skin than when I was building the garden shed last summer. We've been beset by yellow jackets, plagued by flies, and showered with swarms of grasshoppers. You never know from mile to mile just which one of God's creatures is going to take a liking to you and try to move in. I've already recounted dropping the passenger-side wheels into an unseen hole while trying to park on a city street and trashing the protective cover of my refrigerator coils. I'm still trying to get used to just how high, wide and handsome (well, at least the first two) the machine is. Yesterday I easily zapped a carefully-placed highway sign (thank goodness a small one) as we drove through one town. Today, I just caught myself before I turned too quickly and unceremoniously removed the overhead lighting to a gas pump island.

The photo at right is at the Crazy Horse memorial. I'm standing inside the museum and shooting the memorial's horse head model, the whole memorial likeness is just outside the window, and in the distance you can see the mountain where the family of Korczak Ziółkowski carries on his work. Korczak died in 1982, but his wife and most of his children (He had five boys and five girls) carry on his work to this day. This afternoon, as we made for the exit, we actually saw the wife and one of the daughters walk right up to us. We were so stunned to see her (right out of the movie we'd just watched), but Concetta was able to compliment her on the job they were doing as well as the outstanding quality of the visitor center. The whole of the project, by the way, has no government money of any kind. It's funded through proceeds from the visitor center and from outside private donations.

Here's the specifications for the memorial from Wikipedia: The monument is being carved out of Thunderhead Mountain on land considered sacred by some Oglala Lakota, between Custer and Hill City, South Dakota, roughly 17 miles from Mount Rushmore. The sculpture's final dimensions are planned to be 641 feet (195 m) wide and 563 feet (172 m) high. The head of Crazy Horse will be 87 feet (27 m) high; by comparison, the heads of the four U.S. Presidents at Mount Rushmore are each 60 feet (18 m) high.

The photo at left is of our trusty Ford ensconced beneath the lofty Ponderosa Pines on the Rafter J Bar RV ranch near Mill City, South Dakota. Even though the internet service was lacking, the setting was to die for. They gave us the end site on the edge of a broad meadow surrounded by these wonderful old pines. This morning, as the sun came up, I lifted the bedroom blind and was blessed with a panoramic view of the full sweep of Mother Nature's handiwork. It was magnificent.

This evening we're enjoying the hospitality of the KOA in Hot Springs, South Dakota, a place I (and probably you) have never heard of. But in this little burg, population 3711 as of the latest census, we intend to, as the brochure puts it, "Experience an Ice Age museum filled with huge fossils displayed just as they were found." Now I have my doubts that the museum has been around since the ice age, I'll forgive them that piece of grammatical tomfoolery, but the brochure goes on to say that they have no less than 58 "Columbian and wooly mammoths." This we've got to see. AND, as an added touch, the folks here at the KOA have told us in confidence that the museum staff have recently discovered a couple more of the long-extinct creatures bringing their total to sixty! Obviously, tomorrow promises to be every bit as exciting as today.

Mount Rushmore

2011-09-05T17:55:00.000-07:00

At the present time I'm sitting atop a high voltage box in our RV park, using the laptop, because the signal back at our motor home is so weak it keeps cutting out. Not sure why I continue to have so much luck with internet connection. My mobile connection device seems to care little for where we are. It says, "connecting" for an eternity and never does actually connect. Appears to be largely useless to me. Anyway, I'll try and bring you more information when I don't have to blaze a trail on foot into the forest to find an internet connection. Sitting on this high voltage thingy is making my fillings hum so, for now, I'll say goodbye and be back with you soon.

Walking in the footsteps of history

2011-09-04T19:24:00.000-07:00

Today I got to do something I've wanted to do for at least the last fifty years: visit the Little Big Horn battlefield. Unlike most normal humans, I've been totally addicted to American history from my earliest elementary school days. I never pass up an opportunity to read about historic events, visit historic places, or put my hands on historic things. Today, I got to do all three and I was in heaven. Fortunately, I married a woman who is equally fascinated with history. Though she is far less likely to haul historic items home the way I do, Concetta is always game for being dragged to yet another historic site. Lucky for me.

We scheduled virtually nothing for today but visiting the scene of Custer's last stand, located in the rolling hills of southeastern Montana and only 35 miles or so from last night's camp in Billings. Though I had some trepidation that sufficient room would exist for us to park our thirty-foot motor home at the site, it turned out that there was more than enough room for a dozen such vehicles. The price was nominal and the route well marked and soon we were headed for my long sought after goal.

The first thing we did was take a seat in an outdoor patio to listen to a park service employee give a thirty-minute detailed account of the events leading up to the 7th Calvary's last battle. Let me just tell you that the guy was so knowledgeable and so enthusiastic about his subject that he easily surpassed any of the history professors I ever had for shear "listen-ability." By the time the speaker had finished the entire audience was chaffing at the bit to get out on the hilltops and into the various coulees to try and locate each and every one of the graves of the various troopers who met their end June 26, 1876. He was just that good.

One of the things that stuck with me about George Custer was, despite the fact that many people consider him a failure for the demise of a hefty portion of the 7th Calvary, he was a darn talented military commander. During the Civil War he was one of the youngest generals in the Union Army at age 23. You don't get to be a General at age 23 by being unimpressive as a soldier.

I always assumed that one would have to stand on the summit of Last Stand Hill and look out over the low hills and grassy valleys surrounding the Little Big Horn to have any chance of grasping the significance of the battle. In that I was dead on. Between the spirited descriptions of park employees and the physical effects of standing on the wind-swept summit of Last Stand imagining yourself trying to hold off thousands of native Americans with a single-shot rifle you become totally immersed in the drama. Wow! I just loved it.

After a brief break for lunch, Concetta and I signed up for a guided tour of the entire battle area, including those positions occupied by Reno and Benteen's men five miles off to the east. Our guide, a native American, gave us some of the "rest of the story" filling us in on her ancestor's movements on the day of the battle as well as acquainted us with stories told after the battle by surviving Native American warriors. It was powerful, very powerful.

So it was that the clock read 4:00 p.m. by the time we finally loaded up for the trip to our evening camp site. Not wanting to spend the afternoon on the interstate, we chose instead highway 212 that headed, more or less, straight east out of the Little Big Horn area. Triple A said that there was only one small camp in that direction, in the town of Broadus, which I know you've never heard of. We never had, either. But though we sailed right by the camp located two miles west of town and had to ask at the local gas station where we'd missed it, we easily found it on the second try located just off the highway in a stand of trees. I didn't hold out much hope of being impressed with the "Wayside Mobile RV park," and its sixteen spaces, but I was pleasantly surprised when they had full hookups, a 30 amp electric, individual sewer connections, AND Wifi!! Man, you just never know. The price was just half of what the folks in Billings charged us for a site wedged between two other RVs. Here, I could barely hit our neighbor RV with a tossed stone.

Bozeman to Billings under the Big Sky

2011-09-03T17:56:00.000-07:00

Well, it's day six of our life on the road and I have to say that I have quietly put aside all my fears about living in a container the size of my hobby room. RVing is simply a ton of fun and not to be missed, though it's not without it's minor -- and sometimes major -- problems and inconveniences.

Like last night in Bozeman, Montana, where the RV park was achingly beautiful, our individual space wonderful and level, and the laundry room totally vacant and waiting for our load of towels. Absolutely everything about our experience there was great except their WiFi was on the fritz due, not to their equipment (I could connect to their router) but due to the local phone company's faux pas. We had fun anyway, especially when we got to tour the owner's greenhouse where they were growing absolutely prize-winning tomatoes.

We've found the some things just don't go your way no matter how prepared you are. Like today when I attempted to park on a quiet city street in Bozeman so I could dash around the corner and buy a circular polarizer filter for my SLR. Little did I know that the pool of water next to the curb hid a park bench-sized hole that, when the motor home's tires to dropped into it a good six inches, the coach tilted crazily and brought the refrigerator's rooftop evaporative cooling coil's plastic housing in fatal contact with a century old tree planted in the parkway. The result was one largely destroyed cover. That kind of fun stuff.

On the other side of the coin, the things you get to see and the people you get to meet make you quickly forget the pain and suffering and make you realize that things just don't get much better in life than when you can cruise the highways of America searching for adventure and literally find it around every corner.

Today Concetta and I make an absolutely amazing find in Bozeman in the form of an attraction called, "The Museum of the Rockies." Wow! What a place! We wandered the halls for at least a couple of hours looking at everything from Dinosaur skeletons to plains Indian crafts, from horse-drawn wagons to natural history exhibits. It was all so well done that we just hated to leave. When lunch time came and our stomachs told us we needed nourishment we headed for the RV to have lunch. But before we'd gone far we discovered that next door to the museum they were hosting a full-fledged Chautauqua surrounding a nineteenth century farmhouse. There were exhibits on period gardening, vintage firearms, weaving, kitchen chores, music and singing, antique machinery, and, well, you name it. It was all so colorful and exiting looking, we determined to go have lunch and then come back and take in the fun. All this meant that we didn't hit the road until 2:30 in the afternoon. Still, we made our next port of call, Billings, Montana. From here I think it's a short jaunt to the Custer Battlefield park.

Just a word on Bozeman itself. It is one of the nicest, cleanest, most historic looking towns we've seen in many years, certainly the most attractive place we've seen on this trip. Since we were intent on both finding a photo store for the purchase of my filter and finding the Museum of the Rockies that had been advertised on the freeway, we did a considerable amount of roving around. Here can be found block after block of vintage homes, all well kept, and a main street which boasts several blocks of well tended commercial buildings. I know there must be the inevitable ugly parts somewhere, but we never saw them. Santa Fe, New Mexico used to be my favorite "other place" I might see myself living if I had to leave Carson City, but I think I'm going to move Bozeman, Montana into the front-runner spot for future re-location. It's just that charming. Concetta, for her part, liked my buddy Charley seims' neighborhood near Portland, Oregon. Granted, Portland is mighty pretty owing to the fact that everything is so green. Unfortunately it gets that way because the rain falls steadily for months at a time. Everything turns green -- your lawn, your foliage, your roof, the cover on your boat. You get the picture.

Our route this trip involved us driving north from Carson City, Nevada, as far as Washington State just south of Seattle. At that point we started East with an intended destination of somewhere on the east coast -- Maine, Vermont, New Hampshire, or somewhere further south. Along the way we intend to visit a couple of days in Connie's girlhood state of Ohio. Other than Ohio, the only places that we wanted to make sure we saw were The Custer Battlefield and Mount Rushmore. Now, with our arrival in Billings, we are close to the site of General Custer's defeat and we hope to be able to take that in tomorrow.

Of course there are lots and lots of other places we'd like to see, especially a couple of Civil War battlefields such as Gettysburg and or Antietam, some nautical areas such as Mystic Seaport or New Bedford, and some great New England covered bridges and century farms. We're pretty much winging this whole trip based on what looks interesting on the map. Yes, I know we're missing tons of interesting things which will have to wait for another trip, but we prefer not to plan so tightly that no time is left for stumbling over something interesting like we did today in Bozeman.

One of the things we've been doing is listening to books on tape as we travel the more mundane stretches of interstate. Naturally, we try and avoid the interstates as much as possible. But, as we experienced in Helena yesterday, sometimes you can't get here from there unless you include a bit of divided highway. There ARE roads from Helena to Billings that don't involve interstate driving but had we taken those particular roads I'd still be driving instead of sitting here typing.

Anyway, our book on tape for the last several days is really THREE books on tape by Bill Bryson. Here's what Wikipedia has to say about Bill: "William McGuire 'Bill' Bryson, OBE, (born December 8, 1951) is a best-selling American author of humorous books on travel, as well as books on the English language and on science. Born an American, he was a resident of North Yorkshire for most of his professional life before moving back to the US in 1995. In 2003 Bryson moved back to Britain, living in the old rectory of Wramplingham, Norfolk, and was appointed Chancellor of Durham University

Bill is just the wittiest, most marvelously well spoken writer I've come across in a long, long time. I've read many of his books, most recently "A Walk in the Woods," which I thought was wonderful. Bill has a way of stringing together the same old words we all use in such new and inventive ways that he has me pounding the steering wheel with laughter every time we listen. Give Bill a try. I think you'll like him.

Well, Concetta just poked her head out of the bedroom and asked if I planned to come to bed sometime soon. I guess that means it's getting late. Actually, I'd like to get a little reading in before lights out, so for now I'll say, Ciao.

Moving in on Missoula

2011-09-01T19:18:00.000-07:00

Today we traveled from Spokane, Washington, to Missoula, Montana -- just not right away. The first thing we had to do was track down a new gas cap for the motor home. Yesterday, realizing that sometimes it becomes necessary to share the wealth, I decided to be magnanimous and leave my gas cap atop the pump in the Shell station in Ellensburg, Washington. I'm sure it was found soon after by someone who desperately needed just that design of cap. I felt good about it all day. But before we could hit the road this morning we had to track down an RV center (they had no caps) and then an auto parts store so that we wouldn't be strewing gasoline down the interstate and maybe get pulled over for polluting. Once that chore was complete, we were able to gas up and be off. My new cap is a locking one so that I can leave the keys in the cap and thus be reminded to return it to its natural place.

Our next goal, once we ventured out of Washington and into Idaho was to find my long lost buddy, Pete Blackmore, who, along with his wife of many years, had left the over-crowded confines of Carson City back in the nineties and moved up to the pristine environs of lake Couer d' Alene in Idaho. Specifically, he was living in the tiny (population 200+) town of Harrison just south of Couer d' Alene itself. Man, what a wonderfully beautiful place!!! You leave the interstate and wind your way slowly slowly for miles around the lake on a tiny two-lane road. It's a little hair raising in a thirty-foot motor home but the scenery is definitely worth it.

Pete, a native of Thetford, England, had worked with me at a printing establishment for all of my nine years in the business. In fact, Pete and I had at one time been offered ownership of the business when the owner retired. But along came an offer of a state government position and away I went, never to hang around with Pete again. I've been sending him Christmas cards for years but all I had was a post office box. Still, I thought that since the town was so small more than one person would be able to tell me where to find him.

As fate would have it, Concetta and I stopped in an ice cream parlor and asked to see their phone book. I easily picked out Pete's number and dialed the phone. Unfortunately, only his son, Simon, was home and I soon learned that Pete and his wife were off to Couer d' Alene to do the weekly shopping. Much disappointed, we headed back to the motor home parked right on the main street. As we approached we passed a woman putting the finishing touches on her sidewalk sign advertising her Wine-tasting shop. As we lingered there next to the motor home the woman stood, and came toward us. I recognized her instantly as Pete's daughter, Julie, whom I hadn't seen since she was a young girl but whom I instinctively recognized. "Are you Julie," I asked as she came abreast of us.

She got a big smile on her face and said, "Yes. Do I know you?"

I proceeded to tell her about my association with her dad and we soon fell into a lively conversation about Carson City and what her family had been up to all these years. During the course of the conversation Julie invited us up to her wine shop and we spent a lovely half hour sampling her supply of "fruit" wines, not derived from grapes. The wine was wonderful, had about 14% alcohol, and we selected a couple of different flavors (pear and Italian plum) and thanked Julie for a very nice experience.

The town had a very nice picnic area just up slope from the lake and we spent an additional half hour eating lunch before we packed up and headed back toward the interstate and our intended route to Montana. We arrived in camp here in Missoula about 5:00 p.m. and Concetta immediately set about fixing some lovely trout given to me by my buddy, Jeff, from Public Safety, some chard from our garden back home, salad, and a bottle of Menage a Trois. For dessert, we had more blackberries carefully (and painfully) picked by the roadside in Oregon.

The motor home is behaving very well and I'm getting quite comfortable handling it. I even had to back it into the camp spot tonight which went off without a hitch. My only complaint is that in order to make our rendezvous in Ohio sometime after the 12th I'm having to bypass a lot of stuff I'd really like to stop and see. Of course the downside is that there would be days that I wouldn't get anywhere at all. The route we're taking is truly beautiful. We've never spent any time in the Pacific northwest and the area obviously deserves a lot more attention in the future. I'm not exactly sure where we're going tomorrow except to say I'm headed toward the Custer battlefield national park in Montana and Mount Rushmore in South Dakota. Beyond that, who knows. I do have a date to visit George (Legislature workmate) Aldrich's mother in Wisconsin, so we'll be heading generally in that direction.

I've tried numerous times to upload photos for this segment of the blog, but the WiFi connection here at the Missoula RV park refuses to let me for some reason. So, until next time, I bid you ciao and great traveling.

Singing in the Rain

2011-09-01T07:26:00.001-07:00

Day 4 – Yakima to Spokane

Yesterday we traveled from Yakima to Spokane in the beautiful state of Washington. Much of the terrain looks like our home, the Carson Valley, with vast fields of green carpeting the valleys and sage-covered rolling hills ringing the fields. In other valleys, ones where cover crops like wheat (or maybe hay) had been grown this past summer, a short-cropped golden carpet flowed away to the horizon interrupted only by the lazy patterns carved by a myriad of farm machinery wheels in the stubble making it look as if someone had been more interested in art than in farming. Quite a beautiful sight. To heighten our experience, the sky as we headed eastward, billowed with rain clouds and bristled with the occasional lightening strike; an awesome and magnificent vista. Only later, as we neared the end of our drive, did the skies open up with their long-promised rain and envelop the landscape.

Concetta had navigated us to a KOA in Spokane that we truly hoped would have some vacant spots since it was the only one that the AAA guide had recommended. When we at last arrived and discovered that the camp did indeed have a number of open spaces, the check-in clerk asked me what sort of space I’d like. “One where it’s not raining,” I said, for by then it was raining like mother nature had to get a month’s supply on the ground so she could go on vacation. Fortunately, I was able to get the electric and water hooked up and get myself back inside before I needed to be rung out like a sponge.

The day started out with us looking for two things: one, the Yakima Trolley museum; and two, a Ford dealer so I could discuss my “Check Engine” warning on the dash. We wandered around for some time finding neither when I suggested to Concetta that we feed a fictitious address into the GPS for the trolley museum since the guidebook was kind enough to offer none. Miraculously, the fictitious address turned out to be almost exactly correct and we were soon at the front door – only to discover that it was closed. Sigh. Oh well, on to the Ford dealer which I assumed would be on the main street of town just like the Chevrolet dealer we had already seen. Unfortunately, locating the dealer was not to be and before long we found ourselves back in the vicinity of the freeway on-ramp that we needed for our journey north. Promising to check the next town for the sought-after dealer, we headed for the town of Ellensburg hoping to have better luck.

Ellensburg was where we stopped for coffee yesterday morning to post the previous blog. McDonalds has easy-to-use WiFi and surprisingly good coffee. I usually have the blog roughed out in Word Perfect (yes I own Microsoft Word, but consider it to be an inferior product) and just have to upload to the web. As you may or may not know, I bought a remote uplink device for this trip sponsored by Virgin Mobile/AT&T. But as yet I have not been able to connect with it. The device will talk happily with the mother ship at Virgin. I even downloaded the manual in PDF format this evening. But when I try to get to Google or AOL it simply tells me that it has timed out. No other explanation. Not sure how to outwit it, but for now McDonalds is my savior.

Anyway, after blogging and drinking our coffee we headed for the neighborhood Ford dealer using instructions offered by the girl serving our coffee. And her directions turned out to be spot on. Moments later we were pulling up in front of the service entrance to Ford and serendipitously caught two service employees smoking outside on the sidewalk. I jumped out and approached them with my problem. “Do you want me to pull it into the service area?” I asked.

“Nah,” the older of the two said. “We can check it out right where it sits.”

And that’s just what they did. Ten seconds later one of the chaps emerged from the building with a tester of some sort. Maybe a minute after that he’d hooked the device up to some place under the dash, run the test, and ambled over to tell me that his tester indicated the problem was with the emissions system. “Probably just a leaking vacuum hose. Plastic you know,” he said. “You probably don’t need to worry about it and can just track it down when you get back home.”

Now how is that for fortuitousness? I thanked them, hopped back in the truck, and was on my way in less time than it took to type this blog entry. I was stoked to say the least.

For most of the trip from Ellensburg to Spokane we shunned the interstate and traveled the back roads of America, just like the American Pickers. I didn’t dare suggest to Concetta that I while away the afternoon rummaging through any of the two dozen antique shops we passed, but it was fun to think about it. We don’t really have any room to bring antiques along with us anyway. Still, I’m going to pick one out one of these fine afternoons on some little-traveled country road and bring home some treasure. I promise.

Taking to the mountains

2011-08-31T11:15:00.000-07:00

Day 3 – Portland to Yakima

If you payed attention to my previous blog entry you know that around noon yesterday we had decided to head for the Pacific Ocean west of Kelso, Washington. As fate would have it, we decided quite on the fly not to head West but East to Yakima via Highway 12. There was no deep thought involved. The highway just looked like it transected some pretty exciting and scenic country, running as it does between Mount Rainier to the north and Mount St. Helens to the south.

Indeed the country has been as beautiful and sparsely populated as you could ask for. Route 12 is just a two-laner, and as such attracts far less traffic than the interstate. Dismissing the occasional speeding lumber truck cruising just scant feet from our rear bumper, our sojourn up Route 12 was a dream.

Enter the subject of road construction. Now I have to admit that we were forewarned that road construction on Route 12 would cause as much as ninety minute delays. But as I often do, I chose to disregard that warning, assuming that ninety minutes was probably the longest we could expect and the actual wait would turn out to be a far smaller chunk of time. So it was that we rounded a corner and encountered a road block complete with a very friendly female roadblock attendant who duly informed us that we could indeed expect one 45 minute delay just beyond where she had stopped us as well as an additional 90 minute delay further up the mountain.

“Of course, you could go that way,” she informed us, pointing off to her right. I looked over to where she was pointing and saw a two lane road even narrower than the one we were on. “That way leads to break-a-heart pass,” she said, or something like that. “Not really recommended for motor homes, but you could give it a try. Adds 22 miles to your trip.”

With images of Desi Arnez and Lucille Ball trying to bend their long, long trailer around tiny hairpin curves high in the mountains and barely keeping the whole rig from tumbling into the yawning chasm, I said, “No thanks, we’re not in that big a hurry.”

And that’s how I came to have time to work on this blog entry. The typing table was a little tipped since we were sitting on perhaps a 15 degree upslope angle. But at least the computer kept sliding toward me and not away. I thought about getting out the wheel chocks that I had paid big money for back in Carson City’s Wally World, but then I thought, hey, the 18-wheeler behind us would have to slide backwards first before I could.

In the end I was caught figuratively with my pants down as before I had gotten firmly into the third paragraph of the blog I heard a shout and Concetta said, “better get the truck started they’re pulling out.” I didn’t get to shut down the computer, stow my glasses, or much else and had to dive into the driver’s seat, start the truck and be off before the aforementioned 18-wheeler ran over the top of us.

Fortunately, we never ran into the second road block. I think that dinner time had inevitably called away the asphalt workers and they just went home and left us to continue our journey in peace. Ultimately I had been right from the beginning. Our total wait had been about thirty minutes.

Once over the mountain we coasted down into Yakima and headed for the RV park that Concetta had found in the AAA guide book. We were feeling pretty good. The wait had been shorter than we expected, the sun was shining on us, and it looked like we’d be in camp with plenty of daylight left. We went on thinking just like that right up until the moment we rolled in the driveway of the RV park and up to the office. There, displayed for all to see, was a sign that said, “Sorry, full for the night.”

“Oh, NO! we chorused. But after a moment of feeling sorry for ourselves, we set off in search of the only other AAA sanctioned RV park in Yakima. But when Concetta fed in the address, the little GPS came back and said, “Sorry, no such place,” or words to that effect.

By this time I didn’t really even know where in the city of Yakima I had landed. So, we did the only sensible thing in such an eventuality, we parked the coach and tried to call the second RV place, which was a state-owned and run park. On the first try I got a fax line. Ooops! We tried a different number. But this time no one answered at all. Okay, there was an 800 number listed, too. So, I tried calling that. This time I thought someone answered. Only problem was I had reached a recording, and the man who narrated the message must have been eating a peanut-butter sandwich while the tape was rolling. He sounded completely unintelligible and just a tad dim-witted to boot.

So, we decided to do the only other sensible thing we could in such a situation, stop and ask someone who was sure to know: a motel desk clerk for instance. I pulled the RV across the street from a handy motel and started for the door. But who should pull up in front just at that moment but a cab driver. Even better, I thought.

The cab driver proved our salvation. She knew right where the park was located and inside of fifteen minutes we were rolling in the front gate. Of course both of us were holding our breaths as we waited to see if this new park would be filled to the brim also. But no, the place looked completely empty. Once we got to the rear of the park where the RV folks were directed we did find a couple of dozen rigs in attendance, but we easily found a nice spot for the night.

So, serendipity had triumphed again. Yesterday morning we didn’t even know precisely where we were headed except to say generally north and east. By yesterday evening we had found a park, got a fire going, had barbecued chicken, roasted corn, salad with cucumbers from our garden, and, for dessert, blackberries that we had picked beside a country road yesterday. Everything turned out just fine even though we’d been a tad uncertain at times. Today, I have no good idea where we’re going except to say we hope to visit the Yakima trolley museum before we leave town. Otherwise, well, we’re headed generally east until we reach the Atlantic Ocean. I hope that every day is filled with as much serendipity as possible.

Stay tuned.

On the Road Again -- this time in the U.S.

2011-08-30T11:39:00.000-07:00

Day 1 – Carson City to McCloud

Sunday we slept in until about 6:00 a.m. and then went about getting ready to leave on our much anticipated cross-country adventure. We had spent the previous two days intensively finishing up the loading phase of our thirty-foot Tioga motorhome. I had spent several weeks figuring out just what should be brought along in the basement area of the coach. Things like wooden blocks to aid in the leveling at camp sites, tools for (hopefully) any occasion, and water and sewer hoses and attendant fittings, as well as more mundane things like folding chairs and a table, firewood, and a ladder to aid in extending the awning. For the two days before our departure, we had concentrated on a bit more cleaning and then packing our clothes and all the needed groceries and other supplies that would allow us to survive on the road.

It has been at least two decades since Concetta and I have been camping and, for me, well over forty-five years since I had been RVing. When I was teenager, my parents had begun traveling the west in a Ford pickup and a small, borrowed, aluminum travel trailer. I think it could not have been more than twenty feet long and was perhaps even shorter. I remember it as a sort of aquamarine and white, in stark contrast to Dad’s 1963 red and white Ford Pickup.

Because stretch cab pickups had not been invented yet, Dad had fashioned an aluminum canopy over the pickup bed and, for seating, acquired an old brown and cream-colored Studebaker front seat where brother Cliff and I would ride as we wandering the byways of the six or seven western states. Here Cliff would sleep and I would be studying each and every passing rustic town, farmstead, and roadside attraction. At that time I was absolutely addicted to western Americana. Dad seldom stopped but I took in as much as I could from the bed of the pickup. Actually, I didn't mind being out in the open air at all. I got to see more, I think, than I would have in the cab. Cliff and I even slept under the canopy at night.

Our current adventure finally began just after 10:00 a.m. as we headed north on Hwy 395 through Reno and on toward Susanville, California. The drive was through mile after mile of farm and ranch lands, punctuated only occasionally by civilization. The truck ran as smooth as glass and despite that fact that we had loaded it with every possible thing we might need, in every possible situation, it still pulled the hills with ease at 55 to 60MPH. We never tried to do more that about 65 miles per hour so as to afford us easy stopping should trouble crop up. By around 4:30 p.m. we reached McCloud and Concetta directed to the campsite she had picked out for us, a wonderful park-like facility with spaces for nearly a hundred RVs. Our camping experience was about to begin in earnest.

Concetta eased us into the evening with some vodka and cranberry juice cocktails, some cheese, salami and crackers, and a couple of comfortable chairs beneath a spreading Ash Tree. It has been a long, long haul getting to this vacation and as we sat there and clinked our (plastic) wine goblets we toasted our success. Both of us had been hired for the legislative session which mandated us starting work back in late 2010 and, for me, working through June. Concetta worked even longer, right up to last Thursday, so the coming of the road trip was especially long-awaited for her.

Dinner that first night turned out to be steak, though the RV park we chose in McCloud did not have barbecue grills so the steaks had to be cooked in the RV.
After dinner and dishes Concetta insisted that I produce the Scrabble game so we could have our usual contest played in the glow of the Coleman lantern. Miraculously, we weren’t bothered by any bugs though during our steak dinner about a dozen yellow jackets came calling. This didn’t prove to be a problem since I had purchased a bug and fly zapper that looks sort of like a badminton racket. The device runs on a couple AA batteries and actually electrocutes any flying pests if they touch it. Most of them were not inclined to touch my murder machine but after some coaxing they were quickly dispatched and dinner proceeded as before.

After the Scrabble game it was back to the RV for some much needed showers and then to bed. This was the first time, of course, that we had tried out the shower and to our relief it works fine. We had intended all along to take the RV out on a dry run for a day or two to make sure everything worked, but alas, there simply wasn’t time.

The Tioga has turned out to be quite comfortable. I’m so glad that I held out for a unit with the built-in banquette seating. Since we’re not traveling with a group of people we can leave the table set up for the banquette.

The following day, Monday, we once again got rolling around 10:00 as we made our way up I5 toward Portland and a rendezvous with my long-time hiking and traveling buddy, Charles Seims. Charles has a cute little bungalow filled with antique electric trains and other antiques and a garage full of antique autos. He and I have known each other since we were kids together in Altadena and enjoy many of the same interests.

It was kind of a long haul to Portland since we started so late so we didn't really stop for any site-seeing. We rolled up to Charles' door about dusk and then walked down the street to his favorite local restaurant for some truly wonderful Italian food and a glass of wine. After dinner, Charles and I reminisced until late over bottles of Corona and then, thanks to the wine and the beer, I had a wonderful nights sleep. This morning, after a short tour of the neighborhood in Charles' 1964 poppy-red Mustang, we hit the road once more. I think that this is the point that our adventure really begins because now we don't really have anywhere we have to be at any specific time. We just rolled off the freeway here in Washington State and once I update this blog we're headed west to the Pacific. We're going to try and stick to the secondary roads and I'll be including photographs on a regular basis. The remote connection device that I purchased to provide me with the Internet seems to connect but won't allow me on line -- at least yet. Not sure what's wrong, but I'm typing this in McDonalds over a crispy chicken sandwich and a pretty darn nice cup of coffee. So, until later, I'll say ciao.

The Flight(s) Home

2010-10-06T16:12:00.000-07:00

As I think I've said previously in the blog, I spent quite a bit of time on the planning end of this trip working with the airlines. This involved the on-line reservation via Cheapoair.com (whom I'd never heard of before) as well as spending much time on the phone with the airlines themselves.

The most time was probably taken up with insuring that at least two hours existed between the landing of one flight and the taking off of the next flight. I'm an absolute fanatic about having sufficient time between flights to cover any contingency. When there are three legs outbound and three legs inbound on your journey, the slack time between flights can become critical. On this particular trip, we didn't have any problems outbound with the planes being on time. But inbound two out of the three flights were an hour late or more, which would have been disastrous if I hadn't booked intelligently.

I also spent much time on seat selection. Though many might think selecting seats is not that important, I always insist on having the aisle seat and the middle seat for Concetta and me rather than the window seat. This insures that you don't inconvenience anyone who might want to sleep the whole flight away. On this trip, it took at least an hour on the phone on two different occasions to finally nail down the seat assignments for all six flights. Thanks to all that careful planning and diligent phone work, the flying part of our trip came off flawlessly.

Like anything else that lots and lots of people want to do at the same time and place, flying can be a gigantic pain. One of the things that made our experience as pleasant as possible is the carry-on luggage. You see some folks who buy the biggest darn carry-on bag possible in order to, what? Put something over on the flight crew? Then they struggle and struggle to get the stupid things on board and into overhead bin. Take my advice, check one big bag and buy a carry-on about half the legal size with a good set of wheels and a telescoping handle and let it go at that.

Our carry-on bags are easy to get on the plane and easy to get in the overhead. Don't put any clothes in them except some clean underwear and socks in case they lose the checked bag for a day or two. Into mine when the computer and the Nikon, two things I wouldn't dream of checking, and all the electric stuff like phone and laptop chargers, etc. Into Concetta's went the above-mentioned clothes, the medicines, the GPS unit, her headphones (always wonderful to have on an airplane), and a few personal items.

We also take what the airlines call a, "personal item." Naturally, for Concetta the personal item is her purse. For me, I have a small bag about ten inches high, six inches wide, and five inches deep that holds my reading book, my headphones, the passports, the boarding passes, my journal, my glasses, and a bunch of other stuff like a tiny flashlight and a bottle of Tylenol. This bag, which I found at Target, is just perfect for sliding under the seat ahead of me.

By the way, our checked luggage is a rolling duffel bag which has a telescoping handle. This soft-sided bag has a host of separate compartments, won't be damaged from having a ton of other luggage piled on it, and with the handle extended it's easy to put your small carry-on above it for wheeling both around the airport. To make them extra visible on the turnstile, we bought a couple of those fluorescent yellow canvas belts that you wrap around the bag and clasp. We also use the TSA-approved combination locks on the the main zippers to deter crimes of opportunity.

Yesterday, you may remember that I booked us into the airport Hilton in Rome to make our appearance at the terminal at the required hour extra easy. That turned out to be a wonderful idea, one that I intend to use in the future. Staying at the Hilton allowed me to get rid of the rental car the day before, thus cutting down on the stress that always results from trying to turn in the car and get to your flight in the same time period. The Hilton had a van and a very helpful driver who deposited us at the proper terminal at the proper time and we were on our way.

This time we rented from Avis instead of Eurocar. Though the Italian woman at the Avis desk didn't seem to care much for her job the day we arrived, I'd have to say that my experience with them was largely positive. Four years ago our experience with Eurocar was a slightly different story.

Anyway, that's it for now on the subject of airlines and baggage. Next time I'll go into what we packed and what we should have left home.

Ciao.

The Adventure Winding Down

2010-10-04T06:31:00.000-07:00

Today started early, about 5:30, as Concetta and I made ready to tackle the last leg of our Greek/Italian adventure. We tried to get into the breakfast room just when it opened because our hotel, the Villa Maria, is playing host to a couple of busloads of Brits who've proven to be a tad noisy when cooped up together in a small space.

Though the food is certainly nothing to brag about at the Villa Maria, the hotel is clean and the staff friendly. It turned out that the extra nice room they gave us when we arrived late was a tad expensive, but not quite as bad as I expected. We did enjoy having the nice patio attached to our room.

Sorrento is a tough place to move around because there's only one road in and out. With all the Italian guys and girls on their motor scooters, the tour buses, delivery trucks, zippy little Fiats, and pedestrians stepping into the street from all directions definitely slowed us down a bit. Probably best to arrive or leave on a Sunday as yesterday the streets were much less crowded.

Our little GPS decided to have a go at us one more time as we wended our way toward Napoli where we would catch the A3 to Rome. Once again, though the sign said go left for Napoli the GPS said go right for another chance to get completely lost amid the ancient neighborhoods surrounding the docks. This time, though, we ignored the little prankster and relied on our intuition to head us north.

The next bit of fun we encountered was the chance to be marooned inside a very long tunnel as some sort of crash up ahead brought traffic to a standstill. Neither of us is very comfortable being in tunnels, especially since on our last visit to Italy we were blocked in a tunnel that quickly began to fill with smoke. At that time we had visions of having to abandon the car and sprint for the end of the tunnel we'd just entered. Thankfully, just as the smoke began to look threatening, the traffic suddenly began to lurch forward and we were soon out in the fresh air. We never did find out what caused either the hold up or the smoke. This time, thankfully, we had relatively fresh air -- not counting the contributions from Diesel trucks and buses -- and after a half hour we got rolling again.

Once we reached the A3, we really started to pick up speed. In the past the maximum speed I felt comfortable traveling on the Auto Strada was 140 KPH. Even at that speed the German cars sailed by me in the left lane like I was peddling a bicycle. Today, since the road was so smooth and the traffic so light, I cranked the big Passat up to 160 KPH and we got to Rome in super quick time.

Our first mission once we got to the Rome airport was to find the Airport Hilton where we would be staying. I wanted to check in and take the bags to the room before we returned the rental car. All this worked exactly as planned. The check-in went very smoothly. We made contact with the porter who would drive us to the airport tomorrow morning and we were in our room by just after lunch time. Our next task was to return the car, which always makes me nervous. But this time, with our Avis car, the clipboard guy briefly looked the car over, had me sign a credit card slip, and told me I could leave. I've never seen anything so easy.

Our next task was to go to the Continental ticket desk and check on our seat assignments, a job which should have been dead easy. Au contrar! Because U.S. carriers demand a higher level of security in check-in, they now have their own terminal. For awhile we tried to walk there, occasionally asking non-English speaking passersby where terminal five might be. Finally, a flight attendant, in her pretty broken English, let us know that we had to ride a shuttle bus there. Since the shuttle bus stopped just scant feet from where we were standing, that turned out to be easy. But when we arrived at terminal five, things didn't exactly look right. I tried asking the shuttle driver if he would be back to pick us up, but he just shrugged.

Here things got even more interesting. When we went into the terminal, we found not a soul working there. We looked at each other. The scene reminded me of those sole-survivor films where everyone in the city is dead and only one person is left to wander the deserted streets. Now and again a janitor or similar workman would appear and disappear just to show us not everyone was dead, but for the most part the terminal remained empty. Right about then an elderly couple appeared and informed us that the terminal was closed for the day and no one would be back until the next morning. They, as it turned out, had bought a $50.00 cab ride to the airport to change their flight only to find the terminal closed for the day. Their only choice was to go back to their Rome Hotel -- another $50.00 cab ride -- and come back the next morning. We felt really sorry for them.

Soon after we four gathered in the parking lot and tried to interest someone in our plight. We really didn't know if anyone would be back for us. Why would a shuttle bus come to a closed terminal? The elderly couple tried to use the "wheelchair ordering" intercom to the main terminal to get information, but the person at the other end kept wanting to know if they needed a wheelchair. The conversation would have been pretty amusing if it hadn't been so tragic. Finally, the elderly couple wore the intercom person down and she told them that the shuttle would indeed come back for us.

As it turned out, once Concetta and I were back in the room we easily pulled up our Continental reservation and seat assignments on the PC (finally our last night in Italy we have in-room Internet access) and all looked in order, which I could have accomplished in the first place. But I wanted to have a real person in front of me just in case I had to argue for a certain seat setup that the computer refused to give me.

So, here we are, just chilling out at the Airport Hilton and taking it easy. We are both genuinely sorry that our adventure is over AND very thankful that we will be back in our boring old existence for awhile. At least we won't have to be incessantly looking for the universal "WC" wherever we go. So, I hope you've enjoyed hearing about some of what we've experienced. I apologize for the lack of photos this time. I was very disappointed to learn that the Aegean Odyssey had locked out the passenger's picture uploading ability. In the future, I will have to be even more vigilant in ferreting out suitable hosts for our traveling pants. For now, I bid you the Italian "do-all" greeting, Ciao, and buona fortuna in your traveling future.

The GPS isn't always on our side

2010-10-03T10:36:00.001-07:00

This morning Concetta and I set out to undo the questionable karma we had accumulated yesterday on our visit to the island of Capri. Our plan was to visit the Museo Archeologico Nazionale in downtown Napoli where many of the archaeological finds from Pompeii and Herculano are displayed. Now Napoli is one of those cities that most people, even Italians, will advise you to avoid if you’re driving your own car. Take the train. Take the bus. Hire a cab. But under no circumstances should you drive yourself. Naturally, the intrepid Happy Wanderers enthusiastically ignored that advice.

The drive to Napoli started out perfectly normal. We set the address of the museum into the GPS and it quite correctly set our direction north from the Hotel. Of course, in Sorrento there’s only two ways to go, north or south, so it had a 50/50 chance anyway. After fifteen or twenty minutes we found ourselves on the outskirts of Napoli at a “Y”. We probably should have wondered when the GPS insisted on the left fork when the right fork pointed to our destination, but we went ahead and followed the direction indicated by the GPS. An hour later when we’d only gone a couple of miles, we finally turned off the GPS and began navigating by intuition. In between, we were as close to completely lost as you can get in Italy, which is pretty darn lost. For at least thirty minutes the little electronic wonder had insisted on returning us to the same "no outlet" street with a big piece of earth moving equipment sitting in a field where the road ended. No matter how we tried to outwit it, it would see through our subterfuge and take us back to view the earth mover again. We did see some mighty fine urban gardens in our continuous circling and re-circling, which is something I didn't expect.

Actually, I don’t usually mind being lost. I’ve had some great experiences and stumbled on some very interesting sights while lost. This time, however, was different. This time – at least after the first half hour – I got the distinct impression that the GPS was out to have a good time with us. The first thing you have to understand is that the GPS has a hell of a bad time pronouncing Italian street names, which are not only twenty-seven syllables long, but have inflections on different syllables than Americans are used to hearing. So when the GPS says turn right on Colle Grimaldi Su Mare, it comes out sounding like CollegrimaldisumaRE, emphasizing the very last syllable as though it was all one word. So, while you’re trying to figure out just what the darn thing just said, you’ve passed the intended street and the GPS immediately begins to fire more streets at you in order to correct your previous lack of expertise.

Now, I have to tell you that I actually like driving in Italy. Even though I’ve driven in both Rome and Florence, which are probably just a tad easier than Delhi, India, I really haven’t encountered any insurmountable problems. In my experience the Italian drivers are more polite than American drivers. While driving with them you just have to learn to assert yourself or they will not let you into the stream of traffic when the highway engineers funnel five lanes of traffic down to one and don’t provide any merge signs. You just have to “nudge” your way out just like they’re doing.

But there is one thing that truly terrifies me when thinking about driving in Italian cities: the thought of being funneled into a one-way alley that proceeds to get smaller and smaller until it deadends. Finally, you can’t go forward any more and there’s no room to turn around, and there’s a couple of cars or scooters behind you. Up to now, though I’ve been darn close to that situation in the past, I had never experienced my worst nightmare; not until today. But our feisty GPS, sensing that I have had life much too easy for the past month of motoring around Italy, quite intentionally and I might say, belligerently, sent Concetta and I and our very large VW Passat into the bowels of a very run-down section of Napoli this morning with the clear intention of ruining our day. In the end we were lucky. The dead-end alley that the GPS sent us down, the one where the Passat could barely squeeze between the parked cars on both sides, the one that was two blocks long, did not somehow come complete with another car to follow us to our doom. AND, through some miracle of fate, at the very end was a spot just big enough to put a king-sized bed and in which I somehow managed to turn that darn Passat by creeping three inches this way and three inches that way in a tight little arc to where I could finally retrace our route and escape. After that, I say, bring on Delhi, India. I’m ready for it.

Anyway, after my heart quit beating at twice it’s normal rate, we ignored the advice of the GPS until I had found the A3 on the Autostrada on my own and once again pointed the car toward Napoli proper. Once on the A3, the GPS had no choice but to behave itself, so we turned it back on and it soon deposited us in the driveway of the Museo.

Since most guide books tell you to be very careful in Napoli, I suppose that many people avoid going there. But I have to tell you that Concetta and I had an extremely enjoyable morning there viewing the artifacts from the excavations at Pompeii and Herculano. The have some of the most magnificent statuary that we seen on the trip. AND, they have some absolutely terrific displays of coinage that was uncovered, sometimes in the hands of victims of the pyroclastic flow from the volcano, and sometimes buried “secretly” under houses where the owners had their own private bank. One of our favorite displays was the glassware. I bet you wouldn’t even think that glassware existed two thousand years ago, but it did. We were just dazzled by the workmanship and the intricacies of design.

While were at the Museo something just amazing happened to us. We looked up at one point to find a young woman standing nearby whom we knew. We had only recently been keeping company with her as she was one of the staff members on the Aegean Odyssey on which we had taken our cruise to the Greek islands just a few weeks ago. The ship had embarked a new set of passengers in Athens after we left and was now cruising the coast of Italy. Incredible that we should be at the Museo on exactly the same day at the same time.

After navigating our way back out of Napoli, we set our course once again for Sorrento and a late lunch. To your great joy, we managed to find an Italian restaurant that advertised “Slow” food on their sign and we spent a very pleasurable hour munching on Paninis and drinking wine and talking with a couple who hailed from, of all places, Long Beach, California. I can tell you if you’re thinking about traveling to Italy, or to any country for that matter, the best thing about the trip will turn out to be the folks you meet along the way. Last night we spent dinner with a couple of guys from Quebec, Canada, who regaled us with tales of their travels together much as we regaled them with ours. They were completely delightful, and we could easily have spent a several hours eating with them. The food was just so-so, which surprised us since we’d eaten their four years ago, but the instantaneous comradeship we enjoyed with them will stay in our memories for many years.

Lastly today, while walking back to the hotel after lunch, we stumbled onto a Leonardo Da Vinci exhibition that, while small, was very interesting and wonderfully quiet and lightly attended (tough to find during tourist season in Italy). It also allowed me to practice some Italian on the museum attendant who spoke as many words of English as I did her language. So, here we are, about to enjoy our last night in Sorrento. We’ve had our ups and downs here, but I’d have to say, mostly ups. If you come here, please don’t come during the high season. I’d wait until October, though days may be too cool for sun bathing. But hey, to heck with sunbathing. There’s just too much to do in Italy to sunbath anyway.

We visit the Isle of Capri

2010-10-02T10:00:00.000-07:00

Four years ago when we visited Sorrento with Concetta’s sisters, Phyl and Paula, Concetta and I visited the Isle of Capri, which is just a short ride by jet boat from here. That particular visit, we had a simply marvelous time hiking to the village of Capri that lies several hundred feet higher in elevation than the harbor. Though most tourists opt for the tour busses or taxis that line the quay waiting for customers, we chose instead to walk and take photographs of the beautiful gardens that seem to be everywhere.

This year we weren’t quite so lucky. We hadn’t been on the jet boat more than a few minutes when a tour pitchman descended on us and talked us into spending twenty Euros apiece to get the “special treatment” that only he could provide. I was initially going to send him on his way, but the couple with whom we had been sitting proclaimed that they were going to do it and why not give it a try. The only thing that interested me was that he promised to take us higher on the mountain to visit Anacapri, another, smaller village that we had missed on our first visit.

As you might guess, good ol’ Luigi sang to us, told us wonderful stories, and generally entertained us as we boarded his tiny bus and made our way up the most diminutive piece of highway you’ve ever seen. This ribbon of blacktop promised to allow two buses to pass safely while clinging to the cliff-face hundreds of feet above of the bay, but I don’t think I was the only passenger holding my breath at such encounters. After we arrived at Anacapri, ol’ Luigi shamelessly spent the morning herding us from one relative’s shop to another’s just to let us “take a look.” Midday, we found ourselves in his cousin’s restaurant for lunch where we had a small plate of pasta, a glass of wine probably imported from China, and a frozen dessert of some indefinable sort.

It was about this time that Concetta and I split from Luigi’s company and spent the rest of the afternoon exploring on our own, which is what we should have done in the beginning. Unfortunately, by then the sun had drifted behind a bank of clouds making photography impossible, so we did a little window shopping, some hiking around the tiny lanes that descend into the canyons, and then we rode the funicular railway back to the harbor and caught the ferry back to Sorrento. As days in Italy go, it was not one of our best. But hey, we’re getting ready to venture out into the tiny lanes that wend their way from our Sorrento Hotel down the mountain towards the sea. We’ve had some very fine dinners while wandering down there, and I have high hopes for a repeat performance.

Dashing north for Sorento

2010-10-01T13:32:00.001-07:00

Friday morning dawned clear and beautiful from our patio at the Angela Hotel on the Island of Sicily overlooking the cloud-shrouded Mount Etna volcano. We headed down to breakfast as usual, but we sensed since the hotel staff had not contacted us about our stay having been extended due to some last-minute cancellation from another guest that we would have to leave our new-found haven. Concetta and I thoroughly enjoyed our breakfast on the terrace overlooking the volcano nonetheless. Around ten, we loaded up the car and headed down the mountain. We were lucky once again as the hotel van was headed for it's morning drop-off and was going just the way we wanted to go. Thanks to the van, we had no trouble finding our way to the main highway for our trip back to Messina and the ferry.

We had plugged in the GPS to guide us but for some reason we kept choosing the wrong routes and making the little machine irritable. Finally, we turned it off and used our wits to find the ferry. With the Davis luck running high, we found the ferry entrance, presented our ticket, and boarded just as the doors were ready to close. We were, in fact, the last two or three cars allowed on board.

When we first boarded the ferry for Sicily we sort of cowered in the car unwilling to get out and leave our luggage to the unknown. This time, we locked the car, and found the upper decks so we could enjoy the voyage. It was great. Then, when we unloaded, we easily found our way out of the embarkation area and down the road to our next destination, Reggio Calabria. There, Concetta wanted a chance to see the 6th century bronze Greek statues at the local museum. We thought we had found at leaset the general location and, after finding a killer parking spot, we set off on foot to the museum. We stopped several local residents to ask the location, but finding no one who spoke English, we were not successful in walking to the museum. However, as a last try, we stopped a man in an orange shirt and asked him about the museum's location. Thankfully, he knew exactly what we wanted and pointed us in the correct location. Retrieving the car, we drove there and spent a wonderful hour viewing the exhibits.

After our museum visit, we talked about just where we should go at that late hour -- around 2:30 p.m. -- that would allow us to find a hotel. Even though it seemed like a long shot, we decided we'd make the dash for Sorento and, however late we arrived, we'd book a stay for three days and do some exploring around Napoli. At times, I certainly regretted our decision, as the sun sank lower and my lunch of one banana and half a scone began to play on my mind. Finally, after battling traffic through a dozen construction sites and the Friday-night madness of the Sorento coast, we arrived at our destination, the Villa Maria Hotel in Sorento, the hotel where we stayed four years ago. It was nice to be back on familiar ground.

Thankfully, we arrived in time at our Sorento hotel to find dinner still in progress and a room ready and waiting for us. It's always hard to "wing it" in a place as popular as Sorento and I had little confidence that we'd find a vacancy. But luck was with us once again and we now have a cozy room on the third floor. Concetta and I drank a whole bottle of Italian red between us for dinner so this blog may have an error or two that I've missed. But, for now, all is right with the world. We've traveled several hundred miles today from the foot of the Mount Etna volcano to the foot of the Mount Vesuvius Volcano. Things can only get more interesting from here. Until then, I bid you Buona Notte! Ciao.

Tramping around Taormina

2010-09-30T09:57:00.000-07:00

This morning Concetta and I decided to spend our day in old Taormina strolling the narrow lanes and alleys, visiting the shops, and – what else? – scoping out the best place to find a bit of pasta for lunch. Our Hotel, the Angela, offers breakfast at 8:00 a.m. on the terrace so we didn’t have to jump out of bed until well after after 7:00 a.m. After a light meal of granola, yogurt, scones, and fruit – and, naturally, several cups of black coffee, we headed for the hotel van which was headed downtown at “half nine,” as the desk clerk put it. My intention was to get some photos before the sun gained its straight overhead zenith in order to get those bluer skies and longer shadows to accentuate all the wonderful old stone buildings and colorful shop fronts.

In one way, we felt a little bad for not seeking out some tour or other that was headed for an archaeological site or ancient Greek ruin or something, but the truth is we’ve grown a little tired of those things and decided that we’d just wander the town and take photos and look for food. It turned out to be one of the nicest days we’ve had on this adventure. We had no time limits and no destinations. We looked at ceramics and local wines and baby clothes. We had time to wait until the proper “models,” like girls in long summer dresses, wandered into my photos. We even had time to wait until everyone wandered out of the photo. I always look for “models” who have on bright oranges and reds and blues, but usually have to count on Americans to fill that bill. For some reason, Europeans tend to like black, a color that doesn’t do a thing for landscape photos.

The best thing we visited this morning was an open-air Roman theater that dates back a couple of thousand years (probably built on the foundations of an earlier Greek theater) and has by far the best setting of any of the ancient theaters that we’ve visited. The seats are cut into a hillside hundreds of feet above the Mediterranean and the theater audience would have as a backdrop to the actors the wide sweep of that awesome blue sea far, far below. The grandeur of it takes your breath away.

The second best thing we stumbled over today turned out to be the parco publico (municipal park) that clings to the edge of the cliff overlooking the sea perhaps six or seven hundred feet below. The park has been designed with long tree-shaded walks, bright flower gardens, and dozens of nooks and crannies where you could find a comfortable bench and enjoy a quiet conversation. In a city full of buzzing motor scooters and tiny Fiats dashing to and fro, the park came as welcome a surprise as a desert oasis.

After a lovely hour in the sanctuary of the park, our tummies told us it was time for that bit of pasta. Minutes later we had retraced our steps into the heart of the old city and had chosen Il Baccanale for our lunch. I settled on the lasagna. Concetta passed on the pasta and chose an omelet just for a bit of change. For dessert, along with our espresso, we decided to share a lemon ice just because it sounded so cool. Our restaurant hosts, for reasons unknown, treated us to a glass each of almond liqueur, which I promptly added to my espresso for some extra kick. As we had done all day, we took our time with lunch and didn’t resume our wandering until after 2:00 p.m.

Concetta was anxious to spend some time on our terrace with her book so around 3:00 p.m. we made our way back to Hotel van’s pickup spot and we were back in our room by 3:30 p.m. There, we checked our email, got our showers, and spent the balance of the early evening taking it easy – or rather, Concetta took it easy. I’m here typing the blog. LOL.

Around 7:30 p.m., we plan to walk up the road to a dinner spot we’ve heard about and see if we can finish off the evening with some more great Italian food. I’ll let you know how that turns out. Until then, I bid you buona notte. Ciao.

Ci Vadiamo in Sicilia

2010-09-29T11:45:00.000-07:00

For the last five days we’ve been enjoying a wonderful visit with Concetta’s cousin, John, and his delightful wife, Helen, at their vacation town home in Cenadi, Italy. To give you a bit of insight into what Cenadi is like, visualize miles and miles of low rolling hills with virtually every inch covered in vegetation of some sort. Olive groves march off in orderly rows in just about any direction you look. Fig trees grow everywhere, both in gardens and along the edges of farm fields. Around every bend in the road you see a wonderful profusion of grape vineyards and gardens nestled in beside “rusticos,” or ancient rock houses. And wherever you don’t see carefully tended gardens and orchards, you see wonderful stands of chestnut trees, wispy fern-covered fields (where the wild mushrooms hide), and dozens of other species of trees I couldn’t begin to identify. Amongst all this beauty you find, just here and there, tiny villages full of wonderful old stone and stucco houses with red-tile roofs, bright colored entryways, and even brighter-colored laundry hanging from ancient iron balconies. Below those balconies, wind skinny two-lane roads, so narrow that you have no choice but to slow the pace of your life down and take in some of this rustic beauty, even if it’s for just a moment.

We love to come to Cenadi for the people as well. On either side of John and Helen’s house are good friends named, of all things, Montesano. As some of you know, Concetta’s last name is Montisano. The spelling was changed from the original Montesano spelling when the family immigrated from Centrache, a town just down the hill from Cenadi nearly a century ago. Though the neighbors are probably not relatives (Montesano being the third most common name in the area), we have come to love those folks like they were our own relatives. Frank and Isa on the north side are the family who are offering to sell us an apartment in their building if we would like to have a base in Cenadi from which to explore Italy more thoroughly in the future. Yesterday we had a marvelous lunch with Frank and Isa comprised of such a quantity and variety of wonderful food that I didn’t want dinner five hours later. From Isa’s pasta, fried peppers, wild chicory, lightly battered mushrooms, and to-die-for salads, to Frank’s homemade wine, we feasted like Kings and Queens for at least two hours. For dessert they brought out a plate of home-grown figs and other fruits that was a beauty to behold. That, along with ice wine and a triple dose of espresso made me want to sign the purchase agreement right there and then.

And then there’s the Montesanos on the south side, Tony and Maria. Lovely folks they are and there’s no mistake. The Montesanos “south” always have us to lunch or dinner when we come to visit, and this time was no exception. On Monday the four of us (Me, John, Helen, and Concetta, met at Tony and Maria’s for a whirlwind feast of everything from pasta to roast chicken with rosemary potatotes, stuffed eggplant to garden-grown salad. Of course Tony had his own homemade wine as well. In fact, just last night I was privileged to photograph Tony and his nephew, Giovani, carrying crate after crate of freshly-picked grapes to dump into the hopper where the stems would be stripped off. Tony is 70 years old, but he could work circles around me. After putting his thirty or forty crates of grapes through the stem-stripper, he went to his nephew’s house to do the same job. After that, it was a friend’s turn. He told me he didn’t finish stripping grapes until 10:30 p.m. What a guy. Before we left, I had a chance to get to know Maria better by sitting with her on her patio for an hour and stripping the dried beans out of the center of a whole bunch of string bean hulls for use in next year’s planting. As a reward, Maria gave me a whole package of beans to plant in my garden.

Of course, it was very hard to say goodbye to John and Helen, but since they’re getting ready to fly home to Canada, we had to bid them a very fond farewell and bon voyage. They made us very, very welcome over the past few days, even taking us sight seeing and shopping and letting us use up a bunch of their satellite Internet time. Breakfast was our favorite time of the day as we sat and planned the day’s events. I’m sorry I forgot this morning to sample the fig yoghurt (they get loads and loads of better flavors here), but the coconut was terrific. John and Helen are lovely hosts, and we hope to visit them again some time soon.

Around 9:30 a.m. we had the car all loaded and Concetta and I headed off down the mountain into some dazzling blue skies and toward the sparkling blue of the Mediterranean. We hit just a tad of fog as we gained altitude at one point, but most of the drive was heavenly. We didn’t have to rush since our goal was the east coast of Sicily, and we decided that we could easily do that in half a day. The journey here to Sicily turned out to be a tad more complicated than we thought, but by 3:30 p.m. we had reached our destination village of Taormina, just down the road from Messina where the ferry boat deposited us. We were expecting close to pandemonium in our ferry experience, but in truth, it wasn’t that bad. The Italians are sometimes a bit stingy with their road signs, which can make for some tense moments, but for the most part we purchased our ticket, got in the proper line, loaded up when the ferry docked, and got off without so much as a single problem. We had been warned that all hell can break loose when you’re trying to exit the ferry because they try to funnel four or five lanes of traffic off the ferry to one lane exiting the disembarkation point. In our case, we boarded fairly early in the process, got placed right behind an ambulance with the blue lights vigorously flashing, and when it exited so did we. In fact, we were the number one car down the exit lane. Some piece of luck!

So, our next bit of uncertainty resulted from my insistence on not making any reservations on Sicily. I wanted our choice of lodging to be based solely on accident if possible. Though that sounds a bit daft, I like at least occasionally to let serendipity take control to see just what adventures can result. Before we left this morning, and quite at the last minute, John gave me some Internet searches that Helen had performed some time ago when she wanted to go to Sicily. From that stack of searches, Concetta and I picked out a likely target for our night’s lodging based on whether they had Internet or not. As fate would have it, we found the Hotel Angela without much difficulty, drove up and parked right in front, and discovered that they indeed had space for us. We would have liked three days, but they could only guarantee two at this point. I’m hoping that someone ends up cancelling, but if not, we’ll head off down the road to see just what other adventures we can turn up. At the moment our room is located high up on a cliff face overlooking both the Mediterranean and the slopes of the active volcano, Mount Etna. It almost seems that we have a view that goes on for several lifetimes. I’m not sure what our plans for the evening are going to be, but the hotel runs a shuttle down the mountain to the old part of Taormina where there are a vast selection of restaurants and shops. So, pardon me while I finish getting dressed. I’m starting to get hungry and I haven’t eaten anything but a banana since breakfast. I’m starting to fall away to a shadow.

The photo above was taken from our bedroom patio after we returned from dinner. Quite by accident, I think Concetta and I stumbled onto the very best restaurant in Taromina. We got the full white table cloth treatment followed by the best ravioli I've had in years and years. The wine was superb, the service excellent, and the view was much like what you see above. We stayed the full course from anti pasti to gelato and coffee. I could eat there forever. When we were done, the hotel called for us with a van. What a place!

Tomorrow we'll probably explore a bit around here and then, who knows? Stay tuned.

Adventures in Pizzo

2010-09-27T00:36:00.001-07:00

Yeah! The rain finally cleared up for ten or twelve minutes – long enough for us to dash to he car and head down the mountain to drier climes. Thankfully, the rain clouds didn’t follow us and we emerged in the town of Pizzo by the sea under blue skies (mostly). The beauty of the drive down the mountain through fern-festooned glades and arboreal tunnels of huge overarching trees put everyone in high spirits. The Calabrian mountains with their verdant, rolling forests and meadows and sweeping views of the sparkling Mediterranean, makes you want to buy a piece of ground, build a cabin, and raise figs and grapes for the rest of your life.

The first seaside place we visited was La Piesa de Piedigrotta. Here, seventeenth century shipwrecked sailors tunneled into the sandstone cliff face and fashioned a church complete with carved statues of saints and other religious figures. I didn’t try to count them, but there looked to be a least a hundred carved sandstone figures in sizes varying from a few inches tall to life-sized in a room on par with any small Italian village church. Outside, the storm-tossed waves of the Mediterranean crashed against the rocks, but inside, in the dark serenity of the church, you could easily imagine those poor shipwrecked souls working feverishly to influence the God who had seemingly abandoned them.

Leaving La Piesa de Piedigrotta, we found a parking place in Pizzo and picked our way along the highway full of speeding Fiats to find the stairs to the cliff-side piazza several stories above us. The highway had no sidewalk, so we had to plaster ourselves next to the guardrail and hope we would be able to jump out of the way should an oncoming “macchina” get too close. Thankfully, we made it without incident and had soon gained the sunny heights above where a double row of side-by-side restaurants and an ocean of yellow, blue, and white plastic chairs greeted us. Each restaurant came complete with it’s own “pitchman” who stood at the edge of his particular eatery and beckoned you to come sit down. “Sorry,” we told them, “we’re just enjoying our passagiata,” our stroll on such a beautiful Calabrian day.

Our game plan was to finally choose a restaurant and have a bit of pasta and wine, then explore the tiny streets and alleys of Pizzo for an hour or so, then find another restaurant for our ice cream and espresso break. Our secret agenda that caused us to seek out Pizzo in the first place was to taste their famous Tartufo, a chocolate ice cream concoction that simulates in size and shape and color the Tartufo mushrooms (truffles). We weren’t disappointed. The Tartufos were absolutely to die for. I didn’t order one, but John and Concetta did and I got to taste hers. It was wonderful and light and as solidly chocolate as you could want.

That evening, after we had arrived back in Cenadi, we were invited to Tony Montesono’s next door for Italian torta and homemade wines and liquores. My absolute favorite is Tony’s Nocello, a dark sweet liquid made from the green outer husks of walnut shells. Tony says that in order to get the most perfect Nocello, you have to harvest the walnuts on June the 23rd exclusively. No other day, according to Tony, will produce as fine a taste. He makes only a few bottles each year and, sadly, his small supply is already promised for this year. I told him to please, please reserve a bottle for me for next year and he could name his price.

This morning we're off mushroom hunting in the forest so I have to close and get my boots on. 'Till next time, I bid you ciao, Tutti.

Cenadi our future home?

2010-09-25T04:26:00.000-07:00

Well, if you looked outside our Cenadi villa window this afternoon you’d swear that you’d been somehow transported overnight to the Florida everglades. The window vista is filled with a Florida-like palm and, just to make Floridians feel at home, the rain is pouring down like hurricane season has just arrived and plans to stay awhile. Our plans to go to Squillace for food and photographs have been squashed. But since it’s been some hours since breakfast, the girls are busily fixing our luncheon feast of pasta with fresh-caught tuna from Soverato and homemade wine from Franco downstairs.

Franco, the builder of the multi-unit building in which John and Helen purchased their town home, is one of those do-anything guys. It doesn’t matter whether it’s doing all the bricklaying on this three-story building, laying tile floors, or making his own wine, he does each with equal enthusiasm and expertise. At one time Franco had immigrated from Cenadi to Canada and spent his career as a contractor and jack of all trades. Then, at very early age, he retired, came to Italy, bought a piece of property from his grandmother, and built this marvelous building full of very nice town homes. The building still has three units available for sale and Franco would dearly love Concetta and I to purchase either the three-bedroom unit or one of the two two-bedroom units. Since it’s raining so hard outside and Franco can’t be working on one of his projects, he prevailed on me to come and see the three units. Like Goldilocks, I found the three-bedroom unit too large and the smallest two-bedroom unit too small. But the larger two-bedroom unit I found to be jusssssstttttttt right. The units are all concrete and steel, which makes them very earthquake proof, and they have tile floors throughout. The exterior is all brick and stone for low maintenance. Truly, it would be an ideal getaway place in Italy if we could afford the purchase price of $120,000 Euros.

Retirement for sure

2010-09-25T01:04:00.000-07:00

We’ve entered full retirement mode here in Cenadi, Italy. After madly dashing from archaeology site to museum to mosque to castle to ancient battlefield in Greece for two weeks, Concetta and I now find ourselves here in Cenadi doing nothing but, well, eating. We’re staying with Concetta’s first cousin, John, and his wife Helen who normally live in Toronto, Canada, but who have a wonderful town house in the mountains of Calabria. Here, their villa overlooks thousands of acres of olive groves and grape vineyards, chestnut forests and fig orchards clear to the sea in Soverato some twenty miles away. The days are mild and the nights are cool, perfect for sleeping ‘till eight, giving us just enough time to manage breakfast before it’s time to go find the perfect Italian restaurant for lunch. Yesterday, the only thing we accomplished besides eating, between eight in the morning and ten at night, was a trip to Soverato to look for saffron and a trip to Chieravalle to look for a Vodaphone satellite link for my computer, neither of which did we find.

Concetta said to tell you she especially enjoyed the porcini mushrooms in her pasta yesterday. These special mushrooms are just now in season but can’t be picked, so we’re told by the resident authorities, until nine days after it rains. Through some twist of fate, we’ve arrived at just the right moment for enjoying the those much sought-after delicacies.

This morning, we're visiting the village of Squallaci to see what photographic opportunities present themselves, but really to search for the next memorable lunch spot. The weather here has been a tad rainy, but is just so pleasant that all you want to do is walk the quiet country lanes or sit and chat over coffee. If you wanted a quiet place on the planet to get away from it all and just sort of get back to nature, you could do no better than Cenadi or one of the near by villages. The taxes, they tell me, are low and the living is easy.

Not much more to write about just now, but stay tuned for unexpected adventures.

We travel Rome to Cenadi

2010-09-23T22:57:00.000-07:00

Our goal yesterday was to reach the tiny southern Italian village of Cenadi by dinnertime. In the end we made it, though at times we had our doubts as to whether it would be dinnertime yesterday or today. Relying on our GPS, we easily – though carefully – navigated our way out of Zagarolo, the village outside of Rome where our B&B lay amongst an absolute maze of tiny lanes and alleys full of ninety-degree bends no wider than our VW sedan. However, once on the A1 towards Napoli, we made really good time, stopping only for potty breaks and the occasional leg-stretching exercise for the driver.

You can go pretty much as fast as you want on the Italian Auto Strada. I know this because no matter how fast we’re going, the big BMWs and Audis go whizzing by us in the left lane like we’re dragging a sled-full of bricks or something. We don’t go any faster than 140 kph, and usually even slower than that. If we try to go faster, our little GPS unit becomes uncomfortable and starts to beep us until we slow down.

Our B&B for the past two nights turned out to be located in a very pleasant setting among a forest of olive trees. You can’t eat olives right off the tree, of course, but we did take full advantage of the fig and apricot trees. We even loaded up a small bag of the figs and apricots to eat on the road today. When we first arrived at the B&B our fellow travelers turned out to be a friendly chap from Indonesia and a very nice couple from Newcastle, England, just down the road from where Concetta and I visited in 2008. I happened to mention the wonderful fruit just outside our doors and discovered that none of the three had ever eaten figs. After a tentative try, both the men decided that figs were just about the sweetest thing they’d ever had. Of course, when I went to collect a few for our drive today, I discovered that my new friends had virtually cleaned out the whole fig crop. I had to work hard to find the half-dozen we took with us.

Our most memorable adventure yesterday turned out to be when we got off the Auto Strada and went looking for a bathroom and a cup of coffee. After ten minutes of wandering around a big commercial warehouse area, we finally found our way up to the tiny village of Nola nestled in the foothills of southern Italy. We easily found a bright and clean café and went inside to see if they had restrooms. Naturally, as fate would have it, not a single person in the café spoke English. And even though Concetta spoke Italian until she was four or five, she doesn’t speak Italian now. So, between my limited speaking ability born of three semesters at Western Nevada College and Concetta’s tentative understanding ability we managed to carry on a twenty minute conversation with the five people in the café. You won’t believe me when I tell you, but those folks were having so much fun with us they didn’t want us to leave. Yes, it turned out to be great fun, well, except for the bathroom. We discovered that when you tuned on the light in the bathroom a strobe light came on that flashed on and off incessantly until you left, making it exceedingly difficult to perform any necessary tasks in there. Ah, Italy!

The balance of the day was spent going flat out on the Auto Strada, well at least some of the time. Unfortunately, the highway folks hadn’t been apprised of our coming for they had large sections of the A3 torn up and under construction. They’re putting in new tunnels and bridges and generally making the highway wider and the tunnels bigger. Of course, that usually meant that opposing traffic lanes were combined on the portions not under construction. It really made for some slow going for long distances.

Once we got close to Cenadi, we switched to twisty-curvy mountain driving so we had to slow down even further. Sometimes the GPS would get a little confused, but for the most part we didn’t make any mistakes that we couldn’t immediately correct. Concetta’s cousin, John, who normally lives in Canada has a house in Cenadi. He and his wife, Helen are going to be our hosts for the next several days. We’re hoping to get them to come to Sicily with us as Concetta and I have never been there.

So, here I am sitting in John and Helen’s living room talking to the internet via John’s Vodophone thumb-drive-sized “Uplink” device. Now this thing is cool and requires no monthly payment. It’s a “pay-as-you-go” model which you load with minutes when you get ready to go on vacation and then you never have to rely on you B&B (or the local MacDonalds) for you internet connection again. I’ve already decided to go with John into the nearby seacoast town of Soverato where he acquired his and buy one A.S.A.P. This is just what I’ve been wanting all along. Finding a good connection has been a royal pain this trip, a mistake I hope to never experience again. And, while the uplink tends to be slower than wireless hot spots I’ve experienced in the past, it does work. When you’re trying to write a blog and upload photos so folks can see where you’ve been, that can be important.

Anyway, that’s all for now. Ciao, Tutti!

Looking for Ostia Antica

2010-09-22T22:33:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, our intended destination was the ancient town of Ostia Antica, southwest of Rome. Since our host spoke wonderful English – his having spent fifteen years in various cities in the U.S.A. – we decided that his instructions to take the Via della Mare from the A1 Auto Strada were clear enough that we didn’t need to engage our GPS. You can probably guess how that turned out. Even though it seemed we were doing just fine and headed straight for Ostia, we ended up in the Village of San Marco with not the slightest notion of which way Ostia might be. We stopped at the Park in San Paolo, and, just to stretch our legs, set off to explore and take a break before we tried to stop being lost and figure out how to get to Ostia. The first thing we stumbled on was a pyramid. Though not quite as large as those famous ones in Egypt, it was nevertheless pretty darn visible over the other buildings. Sorry to tell you that we never did find out what the significance of the pyramid was to the city of San Paolo. The next thing we discovered was a trolley museum. Now I’m sure if you know anything about me, you know I’d never pass up such an opportunity. The museum happened to be adjacent to the train station. So, we thought, the logical thing to do was ask the ticket clerk how to get in. The clerk was only too happy to assist us by opening the gate so that we might pass through, even though you normally had to have a ticket. Of course, we didn’t know that what was she was doing so we waited for her to appear to escort us. When that didn’t happen, we went back to the window and once again she said that she’d help us. This time we noted the open gate and succeeded in gaining entrance. Soon we were prowling around the museum grounds with yours truly snapping loads of photos of all the old rail equipment. That is, I was snapping away until I began to notice a certain nervousness on the part of the museum guards. But I shrugged off the notion and went on shooting. Moments later, the guard approached me and explained in Italian that I had to stop shooting. When I indicated that I didn’t understand him, he started repeating the English word “impossible” and pointing to the camera. I got the point, then, and put the camera away. Later, as we left the train station, Concetta pointed out the large sign showing a camera and the universal sign for something that’s not allowed, the circle with the diagonal line through it. Then we understood. You weren’t supposed to take photos of the trains. Just how the guards decided to extend this prohibition to the museum’s antique trolleys from the 1920s and 1930s is way beyond me, but the photo shoot was fun while it lasted.

By the time we arrived back at the car, we had decided that we needed to ask someone how to proceed to Ostia. I approached a group of park maintenance workers and presented the question. Now you've all seen that bit in "Romancing the Stone" where Michael Douglas tells Kathleen Turner, "Lady, you're way the Hell and gone from Cartagena" Well, that's just about how the much amused maintenance workers reacted to my question about Ostia. Still, they did sort of point in the general direction we should travel. So, we jumped in the car and set out. But after another twenty minutes of wandering in what turned out to be largely the wrong direction, I suggested that Concetta feed the GPS some fictitious address in Ostia and we’d see if we could get the show on the road. And that’s just what we did. Then for the rest of the morning we headed in the general direction of Ostia, we thought, which seemed to work well until we reached an intersection where signs indicated that Ostia was in BOTH directions, left and right. You can probably guess what happened next, we took the wrong/right direction. Thankfully, I decided to try the other right direction after only traveling in the wrong/right direction for ten minutes or so. Once our direction was reversed, we soon arrived at Ostia Antica.

If you’ve ever been to Pompeii, I can tell you that Ostia Antica looks about the same with some distinct differences. First of all, not as many people go there. I was absolutely overjoyed to see but one tour bus when we pulled into the parking lot. The bus turned out to have disgorged a big bunch of fairly well-behaved German teenagers who we found wandering the site in small groups not paying much attention to the wonders of archaeology. They seemed, in fact, to mostly be paying attention to each other, which we didn’t mind at all. Other than the one tour bus, I counted perhaps another dozen cars in the parking lot and that was about it. So, we spent the entire afternoon wandering amongst some wonderful ruins which appeared to cover a tract of land roughly equivalent to eight or ten football fields. Most of the buildings had been constructed with Roman red clay bricks which in ancient times had been covered with either plaster or thinly sliced marble. Not many of either of these wall “dressings” were still in evidence, but it was nice to be able to see the ancient construction techniques. One thing that especially impressed me was the Roman’s practice of constructing walls with nice even layers of brick on both wall facings, but they used rubble mixed with concrete to give the wall width and strength. You could easily see that absolutely nothing went to waste. If they had to knock down some earlier wall or building to erect a new structure, they always used the broken building materials of the old structure to fill the voids between any new walls. That’s got to be one of the earliest incidences of recycling I know about.

Another big difference between Ostia and Pompeii is that Ostia is covered with very large trees, ones that I think are called “umbrella pines.” These trees provide lots of shade while you stroll around appreciating the Roman’s ancient workmanship. Today, it was pretty overcast for good pictures, but it surely made for some nice cool walking underneath those pines. Even better, there’s so much mint growing on the ground around the city that each scuff of our shoes would fill the air with that heady aroma. Very nice.

Day before yesterday when we tried to drive from the airport to Zagarolo where we’re staying, we ran smack dab into rush hour. Naturally, we spent over two hours stuck in traffic. Today, I convinced Concetta that we should stay around Ostia and drive back after the dinner hour. That turned out to be a great suggestion as we stumbled onto the "La Villetta" restaurant in the nearby village of Alicia that, at least to our eye, appeared to cater mostly to local Italians. During the course of our ninety-minute stay, we never saw another tourist enter. We had a great dinner of “antipasti di mare,” bread, spaghetti, pizza, salad, local wine, and, at least for me, a nice double dose of espresso for the drive home. The owner didn’t speak English very well so it was an opportunity for Concetta and I to use our growing vocabulary of Italian phrases. “Due bicchiere di vino, per favore,” I said, and he knew just what we wanted. The wine tasted quite young, we thought, but still very nice. Earlier in the evening we’d been treated to a sample of similar wine when we mistakenly stumbled into a wine wholesaler when we thought the shop was a restaurant. The proprietor handed us a cup and told us to sample any of the many stainless steel barrels on display that we wanted, at least I guessed that’s what he said. He didn’t speak a word of English, either.

So all in all, the day went pretty well. We might have gotten lost a lot, but serendipity has always been one of my favorite ways to discover life. On the way home, though we made a couple of wrong turns, we made it to the B&B in record time since rush hour had long since turned into the dinner hour. So there you have it. Another day in paradise. Ciao, Tutti.

Adventure one at end, Adventure two beginning...

2010-09-21T22:39:00.000-07:00

Yesterday’s parting from all our new friends was just a little sad. We found that we’d even grown quite fond of many of the ship’s crew in the two short weeks we’d been on board. To the ship’s crew with whom we had become especially close, we handed out small gifts of money and a enameled pin showing Nevada’s state seal that Concetta had found at the LCB gift shop. We certainly salute those folks for making our stay aboard pleasant and, for many of them, going out of their way to make us feel special. To our fellow passengers we handed out our “travel cards” with our phone numbers and the address of the web site in hopes that we may hear from some of them again.

In the midst of getting ready yesterday, ship’s personnel came over the loudspeaker and informed us that Athens was about to experience a strike on the part of the bus and truck drivers. Horrors! We immediately called Ianni, our favorite cab driver, and asked him to please come get us ahead of our pre-arranged 10:00 a.m. pickup. Thankfully, he told us that he was on his way already. So it was that a half hour later we had picked up our bags, enlisted the aid of a Greek baggage handler who used my phone to help Ianni zero in on us, and we were swiftly on our way to the Athens airport by the “back way,” a more scenic, seacoast route.

Less than an hour later we found ourselves standing at the passenger drop-off point, shaking hands with Ianni, and marveling at how we had somehow circumvented disaster. Not only had the strike not caused us to miss our flight, but Concetta and I had been treated to the dream cab ride. Since we had chosen Ianni for his ability to speak English, we not only enjoyed the scenery but had a nice conversation in the process. Ianni’s cousin lives in Detroit, he told us, and he plans on visiting the U.S. next year. We wish him well. If any of you are planning a trip to Athens, be sure and get Ianni’s phone number from us. He’ll treat you right.

Concetta and I had a couple of hours to wait at the Athens airport I used the time trying to connect to their network so I could update the blog. Unfortunately, it took me a while to figure out just how to do that. By then, the laptop’s battery was all but dead. Fortunately, Concetta found a free charging station that we could use to charge the battery and, while the laptop was connected, I had a little time to update Facebook but not the blog.

Right now I’m typing in our room in Rome which, much to my dismay, does not have a WiFi connection even though they assured me when I reserved the room that it would. I guess they fell behind in their installation schedule. So, I have typed this account into Word Perfect and then when we go to the main house for breakfast I will upload it to the blog.

Visiting the island of Skiathos

2010-09-20T13:04:00.000-07:00

This afternoon we visited the island of Skiathos, one of the islands (along with Skopelos) that served as the film location for the movie, Mama Mia. Unfortunately for those of you who were hoping that we might get to see the actual film locations, the ship crew dumped us on the quay with barely an hour to sightsee and we didn't get very far away from the harbor before it was time to board the shuttle boat and return to our home away from home. Still, from what I saw in that short length of time, Skiathos would be a nice place to have an extended visit sometime in the future. From what I hear, like most of the "popular" Greek islands, Skiathos has become very commercialized and has sprouted street after street selling largely useless trinkets and touristy junk. Still, the setting is beautiful with the red-roofed white houses clinging precariously to the steep hillside that soars just few yards from the harbor quay. We found the yacht harbor filled with colorful Greek fishing and sightseeing boats, which immediately drew my photographic attention. The rosy, soon-to-be-setting sun was making the boats sparkle and glow against the backdrop of the blue Mediterranean and the green foliage of the hillsides. After taking my pictures, Concetta and I set off into the interior of the town hoping to grab a few photos of the colorful shops. To our delight, the first thing we happened upon was a beautiful large fig tree full of "burstingly" ripe figs. Now I've been checking every fig tree I've walked by since we first left Athens two weeks ago. For the most part, I've had less than stellar success. But today we finally hit pay dirt. These figs were so large and ripe they were falling to the ground. A little sticky when you're trying to juggle a camera, but yum, yum, yum.

All too soon our watches told us that we had to head back to the harbor to catch the last shuttle boat to the ship. We would have liked to have spent hours and hours exploring Skiathos, but it was not to be. We did hear a funny story while we were sitting on the shuttle boat waiting for it to fill with passengers. One passenger was describing to her friend how she'd gone into a shop to look at blouses and made the mistake of showing a little too much interest in one particular, as she described it, rather skin-tight, revealing blouse. She thought that the blouse looked much too small, but to make the clerk happy she agreed to try it on. Here's where the real trouble began. She said the blouse was so skimpy that she decided to take everything off on top in order to give the blouse the best chance of fitting. But to her horror, once she had the blouse on, she couldn't get it off. And it was about this time that she noticed the time and knew she had to dash back to the shuttle boat. With time running out, but not wanting to damage the blouse, nor wanting to expose an embarrassing amount of skin, she just bought it and wore it back -- suitably covered by a light jacket I noted. As you can see, our fellow passengers can be as entertaining as the planned entertainment.

Tonight we all had to pack our luggage and put it outside our cabin doors for pickup by the porters. I kept back the camera, of course, and Concetta kept her purse and our tiny backpack just for essentials. Otherwise, everything else will show up on the quay tomorrow before we disembark. We were lucky when our Athens hotel called a cab for us when we wanted to go aboard the ship some two weeks ago. We were lucky because the driver spoke English pretty well. This made it easy for us to strike a deal with "Ianni" to return on the 21st and pick us up. We got his business card with his phone number and while we were waiting to up anchor on Skiathos, I called him and confirmed the time for him to show up. That should make it easy for us to get from the ship to the airport where our flight to Rome leaves tomorrow afternoon.

So, the cruise is coming to a close and the question arises, would I do it again? Surprised as I am at the answer, I'd have to say yes. The whole experience was not perfect, not by a long shot. But we had a ton of fun! I loved the staff here. I met a "boat-load" of really fascinating people, including every conceivable personality type and background. Last night I sat next to an environmental lawyer at dinner. The night before, a bee-keeper. Several mornings ago we had breakfast with an enchanting, elderly English lady who can both read and write Greek, though she says she has a bit of trouble with the speaking part. Greece was the favorite destination of she and her husband for many, many years. Now that he's passed away, well, she just keeps coming by herself. In fact, we met lots of ladies doing this adventure by themselves. Of the 333 pasengers on this voyage, over one hundred were single.

We chose this adventure because it was being sponsored, at least in part, by the Archaeological Institute of America. That meant that there were a number of very learned folks doing lectures at various times each week whenever we weren't out prowling around ancient cities and the like. I really, really liked that part and would do something like this trip again if the opportunity arose. My only real complaint, as you know, is that their computer sophistication on this ship is something akin to half a dozen years ago or earlier. Not only do they keep you from uploading photos, but they lock out utilities like the highlight and copy routine. You can't access Microsoft Paint, which would be handy if you wanted to capture photos from the Internet. Totally senseless. So, in my eval, I guess you can guess that I harpooned them big time on their antique technology policies. I won't be taking another cruise unless they can guarantee in writing that WiFi is in every cabin.

Anyway, it's just about midnight and I have to turn in. I hope to type a few words before we disembark, but I'm not sure I'll have the time. So, when next you read this we hope to be in Rome. So, until then, I'll say, ciao, Tutti.

Cruising the Bosphorus

2010-09-19T03:27:00.000-07:00

This morning Concetta and I had perhaps our most memorable experience yet as we boarded a tour boat (only partially filled, thank goodness) for our trip up the Bosphorus. The morning was clear and bright, and the sun was low on the eastern horizon making picture-taking very nearly perfect. Just to prove this theory correct, I enthusiastically took 277 photos.

The Bosphorus is the most heavily traveled shipping lane I think I've ever seen. Literally hundreds of pleasure boats, fishing boats, liners, freighters, oil tankers, tugs, and many more sight-seeing boats are in motion all the time. All the traffic from the Black Sea to the Mediterranean passes right through these narrow straits. Our cruise took us as far north as the point of land known since the days of the Silk Road as the "Golden Horn." Nowadays, there's a bridge that ties Europe and Asia together at this point, a vast suspension bridge that seems to float over this Bosphorus bottleneck.

One of the hotels we passed, according to our guide, was voted the best hotel in the world for two years running back in the 1990s. I would never have expected that, which is the point I've been trying to make about Turkey. So much of it is unexpected. It's beautiful and friendly and exotic and photogenic just for starters.

We've had several meals here in Turkey, two that were sort of "picnic style," and one in the very upscale restaurant, the Picasso. All of our meals have been simply outstanding.

Every Turkish person with whom we've had any contact has been friendly and polite and willing to bend over backward to make us happy. After the cruise our busload of happy tourists got to visit the local Egyptian spice market. You may remember that the Grand Bazaar we visited yesterday was so crowded and overwhelming that it was hard to appreciate its many splendors. Today was different. Today we truly enjoyed our experience in the smaller, less crowded spice bazaar. The sights and smells were intoxicating. We were even treated to free pomegranate and apple tea from the vendor where Concetta had bargained a fistful of Euros for spices.

Concetta and I have decided that we simply must come back to Istanbul when we're not being hurried along by a tour guide and rent a palazio for a week or two. For one thing, we didn't get to see the archaeological museum as the tour took place simultaneously with the Bosphorus tour. But the bottom line is, you just can't see Istanbul in a couple of days. There's so much more to experience away from the madding crowd, out where the Turkish people live, out where you can relax over a glass of Turkish tea and just watch people walk by from the four corners of the world.

I'm not sure whether I'll be able to add more to this blog entry later. Tonight we're meeting our Chicago friends for Champagne in their cabin followed by dinner in the upscale restaurant here on board. They're celebrating their first year of marriage (after having been together many years). We've haven't told them yet, but we're going to be celebrating our 33rd year of marriage at the same time. What better place to reaffirm our vows to each other than doing what we love.

Ciao, Tutti!

Wonder of wonders, it's Istanbul!

2010-09-18T08:55:00.000-07:00

Istanbul turned out to nothing like what I expected. My God! When you look up pandemonium in the dictionary, you'd absolutely have to find a picture of Istanbul. I've never, ever seen this many people in one place at one time in my whole life. It makes Disneyland look like the reading room at your local library. There is such a profusion of trains and buses and taxis and every other type of motor vehicle on the streets, you wonder how anyone gets anywhere. Naturally, since we're motoring around in a fifty or sixty-passenger bus, I'd swear that the driver was never going to get to pull out into traffic, let alone drive anywhere. But drive he did. We spent the morning visiting various mosques where you have to take off your shoes to enter and the Topkapi palace that served the last twenty-five sultans. The palace was built in the fifteen century and went through a succession remodelings up to the nineteenth century. The grounds are pretty neat, but Concetta and I had to beg off touring the three rooms they allow you access as there were just too many people trying to do the same thing at the same time.

The high point of today's tour was our lunch stop at a downtown four-star Istanbul Hotel where we were treated like royalty. White table cloths, bottomless wine glasses, dozens of salads and main course choices, and a dessert table that simply went on forever truly dazzled all of us. Though we had to hurry on to our next appointment, I would have been perfectly happy to spend the rest of the afternoon there chatting and sipping coffee.

Contrary to what I would have thought, Istanbul is incredibly popular with foreign tourists. For our afternoon's entertainment, we ventured into the covered bazaar, originally founded by Mehmet II in 1461. The bazaar turned out to be one giant sensory overload. There are 4,500 stalls in this bazaar selling everything from genuine fake watches, leather goods, and designer fashions, to the crafts of little old ladies selling hand-made, well, you name it. The bazaar is just an explosion of colors and sounds and smells in every direction you look. We walked down the main artery of the "Souke" only, but every few yards side arteries took off left and right that held the promise of equally fascinating things. I swear you could go into the bazaar and not re-emerge for hours. My only objection to venturing out into the tourist environment is that the Turkish vendors are very aggressive, much more so than in Greece. They're not particularly threatening. On the contrary, we've felt quite safe here in Turkey. The Turks appear to just love Americans and other tourists and have a smile ready for everyone.

As we near the end of the shipboard part of our vacation, a few thoughts on our experience are in order. Doing one of these academic cruises is both extremely rewarding and extremely frustrating. Using today's Istanbul trek as an example, we didn't get to experience any place thoroughly enough. That was true all the way along. Because of the amount of people that all the various tour groups are cranking through these archaeology sites and museums, the guides just move you through way too fast. Of course, since this type of activity tends to be pretty tiring, it can also be a plus if you don't spend too much time on your feet. But for the academic who wants to learn about the history and the culture of your destination, I'd have to suggest that you read about it way in advance. You won't have time to learn it on the fly. I would have to say that one of the marathon academic cruises is most valuable when taken as a way to acquaint one with what's available in a given area. But you have to come back at some point and spend some time in order to absorb all there is to absorb.

The biggest problem for me in taking these whirlwind tours is that I think the photography has suffered. I simply don't have time to study the area and come up with the most advantageous shot. Time after time I've fallen behind the group as I climb to the top of a nearby knoll to set up a shot. So far I haven't been left behind as the bus pulls out, but I know that I've probably missed some good shots in the process. Once again this year I brought the Nikon D70s with the 18mm-200mm lens. It's quite a bit heavier than your average point and shoot, but I like being able to use a polarizing filter for those bluer skies. The wide range zoom lens makes it easy to shoot from however far away I need to be. Hopefully, when we get to Italy and I start posting some of the photos, you'll find something you like that will encourage you to visit Greece and Turkey. They are really wonderful countries.

Well, I guess that's about all for now. I'm headed off to bed. Ciao, tutti.

We visit Troy and Gallipoli

2010-09-17T20:56:00.000-07:00

Well, yesterday turned out to be quite a day. First of all, the ship had a big, big problem just tying up to the dock. The current and the winds were so strong that we had two big tugs alongside trying to maneuver us into position, but for hours and hours they couldn't seem to pull it off. It took until noon to finally have the gangplank safely on shore. That, of course, put us hours behind schedule. Our first bus trip of the day was to Troy. I wasn't really sure what to expect at Troy. You hear about it all the time and see movies about it, but you never hear much about the current archaeological site. So, when we arrived for our tour, now taking place hours late, it came as a surprise that there really isn't much to see at Troy. Unlike Ephesus and Aphrodisias, There aren't impressive mosaics and frescoes to ooh and ah over. There isn't much in the way of fortifications. What you see is largely small stone walls, rather crudely done, and a giant reproduction horse waiting patiently for tourists to climb in inside and have their picture taken. I'm glad we came to see it, for who would want to come all the way to Turkey and not see it. But if you only have so much time, you're better off with Ephesus or Aphrodisias for the shear size and quality of those sites.

Since we didn't get to Troy until 1:00 o'clock or so, we didn't get back on the boat for lunch until well after 2:30 p.m. We were certainly hungry by then, but since Concetta and I have been having a little stomach distress the last couple of days, we didn't even care.

After lunch we reboarded the buses and headed for Gallipoli. Once again, we have reached a subject that I know little if anything about. I know Mel Gibson did a movie, but aside from that, the Gallipoli battle site was an entirely new experience for me. To visit Gallipoli, we had to drive all our buses aboard a ferry and ford the Bosporus. That was pretty exciting. Turkey is the only country (says Mehmet, our guide) that sits atop two continents. For some reason I expected Galliopi to be some kind of level battlefield where the participants charged at each other on horses or tanks or something. But that didn't turn out to be so. The place they took us to see was perched atop a tall mountain with a sweeping view of the Bosporus and the surrounding countryside. Evidently, the British, Australian, New Zealanders, and others were forced to fight their way up this steep terrain and they died by the hundreds and thousands. And it wasn't just a simple charge to take the summit, the Brits were dug in for nine months. When all was said and done, huge numbers of soldiers, both allies and Turks, had been killed and for a long time no one even came to bury the fallen. Very sad tale. Today, the Turkish government has erected a very impressive and sensitive group of memorials to all the participants on both sides. Well worth a visit and I wish we'd be able to spend more time there.

Today we're off to visit Istanbul, so stay tuned.

Ciao, tutti.

Living it up in Turkey

2010-09-16T10:49:00.001-07:00

What do you call a guy who can speak Turkish, English, Russian and Bulgarian? Well, I can tell you what we called him and that's Mehmet. Mehmet was our guide for the last two days and an astoundingly educated and articulate Turkish man. We just love him. He seems to know just about everything there is to know about Turkish life, culture and history, and -- get this -- just about as much about American life, culture and history as we do -- sometimes more. He actually seemed to know things about the U.S.A. that I had long forgotten. I had to sort of slink down in my seat so he wouldn't call on me for the answers.

Anyway, after our usual breakfast on the ship's fantail this morning as the sun dawned red and orange over the harbor here in Kusadasi, Turkey, we loaded up the buses and headed for Aphrodisias some two and a half hours away. Now I'm sure you're going, "two and a half hours -- ugh!" But let me just tell you that the countryside in Turkey reminds me greatly of what southern California looked like when I was a kid there in the 1950s. Thirty-five percent of the natives (says Mehmet) are involved in small-farm agriculture. As you travel the highway north toward Aphrodisias, farm after farm growing olives, figs, oranges, grapes, strawberries, corn, and a host of other fruits and vegetables line the highway. Just to the west, is a small range of mountains much like California's San Gabriels. Right next to the highway runs a narrow-gauge railroad. As I sat there, gazing out the window at the passing countryside, I couldn't help but draw a parallel to California as I know it existed one hundred years ago when orange groves and grape vineyards covered the San Gabriel Valley. The tracks became those of California's Pacific Electric red streetcars that serviced the far flung communities in the L.A. basin. The many Turkish farms looked just like photos I've seen of their counterparts in California. It was almost surreal, like time traveling. All the serenity and beauty of old California is right here in living color in Turkey.

Speaking of living color, large parts of the country, even as it was in Greece, is covered in olive trees. They're everywhere. I'm sure you probably eat olive oil on a regular basis. Everyone does nowadays. Its health benefits are widely advertised. But on our ride yesterday our guide filled us in on some of added benefits of growing olive trees. First of all, our guide told us, the first pressing of the olives is used for the oil you find in your supermarket. Extra virgin, if you please, says Rachel Rae. But did you know that the second pressing, made predominately from the olive pits, is used here in Turkey for frying in restaurants and even at home? Yes, the guide said, this oil makes the most delicious fried potatoes in the world. And there's more. The pulp that is left from the second pressing is used as winter fuel, the burning of which produces a blue smoke and village after village that smells like fried potatoes.

The olive trees must be kept at a reasonable size to facilitate olive harvesting. So, the trimmings of young shoots that result from keeping the growth of the trees in check is used to feed the sheep and goats, which, the guide informed us, makes for a most delicious milk. The woody parts, that are left over from trimming or when trees must be cut down, are used for barbecuing, a process that makes for equally delicious lamb chops.

So, there you have it. I'm not sure that olive trees will grow in northern Nevada, but I'm sure going to check it out. If you see blue smoke coming from my chimney, you'll know I succeeded.

But more on our trip to Aphrodisias. Aphrodisias, as well as the site of Ephesus we visited yesterday, are absolutely FABULOUS archaeological sites. In most ways, they are on a par with Pompeii in Italy. In some ways, even better. First of all, the sites are huge, combining both outdoor and indoor displays, reconstructions, restorations, and ongoing digs. If you like towering marble pillars, hundreds of yards of marble walkways, and simply awesome frescoes and mosaics, you'll like these sites. I know without photos it's impossible to generate any enthusiasm for these Turkish treasures, but until I get off this boat and find a WiFi site, please look up the names and see what I'm talking about.

Today was extra special for our lunch stop. At just past 1:00 p.m. we were treated to a spectacular lunch at a roadside restaurant that encompassed many courses including Turkish beer, shiskabob, homemade pita bread, and prize-winning baklava and Turkish coffee. The meal took place under an arbor that featured drying peppers for decoration above our heads. Just a short distance away, green and purple ripened grapes hung from trellises and a strolling minstrel playing some sort of three-stringed instrument serenaded us while his pet parrot perched and danced on the instrument's neck.

We found our Turkish hosts to be extremely friendly and helpful and made our stay memorable. When it didn't look like the waiters would get enough Turkish coffee distributed before the buses started pulling out, I ventured back into the kitchen and the owner himself insisted on making me a custom Turkish coffee to order. I complimented him on his outstanding service and his outstanding coffee.

It's hard not to love it here. Let me tell you, I could easily see myself buying ten acres of olives and setting up a retirement retreat. And, if YOU'RE interested, foreigners are allowed to own real estate here in Turkey, though Mehmet tells me that that prices have definitely started to rise.

There was something else that made today's drive extra special. Some of you know that Concetta and I have been long-time Fiat owners. We purchased our first Fiat before we were even married back in 1977. The sedan Concetta drove to work for twenty some odd years still rests peacefully in the sanctuary of our garage. Other than that one example and the parts car in our back yard, seldom do we ever see an example in northern Nevada of a Fiat 131 Mira Fiori sedan. They are definitely on the endangered species list. But, much to our surprise, as we headed north out of Kusadasi this morning we immediately began to see numerous examples of our forty-year-old car. By the end of the day we had encountered perhaps more than a hundred. Now I know where all those Mira Fioris went to die. Except, they're not dead. They're alive and well and living in Turkey. Hooray!

At this moment, the Aegean Odyssey is gliding north through the "wine dark sea" as we make our way along the Turkish coast toward tomorrow's destination of Troy. At this point I have not done any reading on Troy so don't know what to expect. In fact, tonight's lecture on the subject is taking place without me as I type this blog. So, you and I will find out together what tomorrow brings. Until then, I bid you good night and good traveling. I don't know how to say any of that in Turkish, so you'll have to be content with boring old English. Ciao, tutti.

Mykonos....Ah, Mykonos

2010-09-14T21:41:00.000-07:00

Back when I was making my living (such as it was) as a crewman aboard a sixty-foot wooden sailboat here in the Mediterranean, Mykonos easily qualified as one of the most interesting and exciting of our ports of call. I actually visited the island twice, both in 1973 and 1974. At that time Mykonos was on its way to becoming a premier fun spot in Greece for world-traveling twenty somethings. Tavernas abounded amidst the maze of tiny lanes and alleys that made up the town's thoroughfares. One, called the Minotaur, was my favorite, not because of the alcohol sold there, but for their signature dish -- waffles, peaches and whipped cream -- which tasted wonderful to a sailor far from home. But I also loved the Minotaur for its homey atmosphere, complete with books and places to read as well as listen to music. The Minotaur was where I was sitting when I first heard Pink Floyd's album, "Dark Side of the Moon." Lovely Album that even today invokes in me those long ago feelings of wanderlust.

Mykonos was exciting for another reason: the entire town is not designed on a grid system as are most towns, but like a giant maze, with streets wandering in a seemingly aimless pattern. Back in 1973, it took me several days to figure out how to go into town to find the Minotaur and then get back to the boat in any reasonable amount of time. Generally you had to just wander until you accidentally fouund your destination, then wander again until you found the waterfront. While it was fun and intriguing at first, it soon got to be irritating when I spent most of my time lost. Still, after those several days I began to recognize landmarks and navigate the town more quickly.

Last night our trusty ship, the Aegean Odyessy, pulled into Mykonos harbor and announced that we had several hours to spend there. HOURS? I couldn't conceive of even being able to pull that off in view of my previous experience. Nevertheless, Concetta and I, along with the Chicago couple we've become acquainted with, set out to find a dinner location, realizing that we simply wouldn't have enough time to do any sightseeing.

The transformation in Mykonos over the past four decades has been nothing short of incredible. They've added giant piers where the big ships can dock, where in the past ships had to anchor out. With at least a half dozen ships in port, all ablaze with hundreds of lights, the whole harbor area looks like one giant carnival ride. Mykonos town itself looks like Disneyworld on steroids. Whereas forty years ago the lanes and alleys were lined with tiny shops selling handmade leather and linen items, now you find huge emporiums selling everything from fine jewelry and watches, to expensive paintings and clothing. In the early seventies, you found a few quiet restaurants tucked away under shady arbors, most with just a handfull of customers. There you might easily find someone playing Greek bouzouki music and a couple of old Greek fishermen dancing. Now, the restaurants are big business. Not only are there seemingly dozens of them, all containing dozens of tables, but each one is filled to the brim with tourists speaking a dozen languages. I was skeptical that we would be able to find any tradional Greek food, but we actually had a very fine Greek meal at a charming, if slightly "rockus," establishment under a flower-covered arbor choosen by Concetta and Katherine.

Unfortunately, all too soon, it was time to return to the ship. I would have liked to wander the maze-like alleys for a couple more hours at least, even though I knew that the Mykonos of my youth was dead and gone. The quiet little lanes with the old Greek women sitting in the doorways of their shops do not exist anymore. Only handsome greek gods, modeling the latest in leatherware, and curvaceous, miniskirted godesses draped in form-fitting fashions, lounge in the doorways. If you're looking for the ancient, dusty relics of Greek history, you won't find them here. However, if you're reading this and happen to be just a couple of birthdays past your teens, I think you'd be crazy NOT to find your way to the island somehow, some way.

As for me, well, I'm off looking for the dusty relics of ancient Greece again. As Mykonos grows smaller off our stern and finally disappears into the mists of the Mediterranean morning, I say antio Sas! Goodbye, maybe for the last time. It was good to see you again, but the glitz and glitter of your new face is not for me. Ahead lies the island of Samos, where in classical antiquity, there existed a centre of Ionian culture and luxury, an area renowned for its Samian wines and its red pottery. Yes, it's time to go and discover more of ancient Greece, drink a little wine, and reflect on what has been.

Antio Sas!

Whitecaps on the Aegean Sea

2010-09-14T02:43:00.000-07:00

This morning the wind is blowing force six down the tidy teak decks of the Aegean Odyssey as we plough our way upwind toward the tiny islands of Delos and Mykonos. I was just up standing on the bow with a fellow passenger and we had to lean against the pilot house to keep from being swept aft. The only thing I could think of is that scene on the Titanic movie where Kate stood on the very bow with her arms outstretched. As you might guess, the surrounding seas are a mass of whitecaps and I couldn't help but visualize myself back on the MAR in 1973 as we fought our way out of Mykonos harbor late in the season amidst just such whitecaps. We had our mainsail up for both propullsion and stability and we hadn't gone very far when a tremendous gust of wind tore the top of the sail away from it's rope edging and we had to quickly lower it. The loss of stability with the sail down caused the boat to pitch and roll with even greater ferocity and we had to come about and return to Mykonos and the relative safety of it's harbor. Later, we would hire a Greek fisherman to come aboard with his mending needles and put our heavy sail back together again. He was as brown as the inside of a walnut, wore a faded black Greek fisherman's cap, and carried tools that looked like they could have mended sails for Odysseus on his voyage to Troy.

From Wikipedia we learn that: In the United States, winds of force 6 or 7 result in the issuance of a small craft advisory, with force 8 or 9 winds bringing about a gale warning, force 10 or 11 a storm warning ("a tropical storm warning" being issued instead of the latter two if the winds relate to a tropical cyclone), and force 12 a hurricane force wind warning (or hurricane warning if related to a tropical cyclone). A set of red warning flags (daylight) and red warning lights (night time) is displayed at shore establishments which coincide with the various levels of warning.

This morning Concetta and I did something we haven't done in, well, maybe we've never done it; we slept until nearly 9:00 a.m. I was so astounded that I had to check my watch against our cabin clock to see if the darn thing had stopped last night or something. But no, it was right on. We had to sprint to make breakfast which ended at 9:30 a.m. It's a good thing that we didn't have a tour today or we'd been left on the boat.

And now a word about what we're doing on this cruise. If you've ever contemplated cruising, but have been deterred (as we were) by the thought of spending any time at all living on something the size of a aircraft carrier, these smaller cruise ships are the way to go. Presently, there are 333 passengers and 118 crew members on board. So few beings allows you to really get to know some of each of those groups. We've made friends with a number of passengers and have had some truly lovely dinners and breakfasts with them. Conceivably, by the end of the voyage, I suspect that we'll be trading addresses and phone numbers with them.

Booking, as we did, a cruise that is in part put together by the Archealogical Institute of American, we are naturally thrown together with a fairly atypical bunch of people. Everywhere you look passengers are carrying, reading, or talking about books. Yesterday we had lunch with a man and wife who, before retirement, were both chemistry professors. The wife was even head of the chemistry department. At times hanging around all these academics can be a tad intimidating, but most of the time it's very, very rewarding. Our recent breakfast table guest, who was the lecturer on geologic plate techtonics and volcanology, turned out to be one of the most fascinating people I've met in years.

The crew are the most agreeable service folks we've every been around. If you think about the surly unhelpful clerks and wait staff you deal with in many U.S. businesses nowadays you'll probably not believe me when I tell you that these folks are exactly the opposite. We've been absolutely thrilled with their professionalism and eagerness to please. Granted, they are all hoping for good tips, but isn't that what tips weren't meant to be about? First comes the good service, then the reward for good service. The U.S. has somehow perverted that idea.

According to what I've been told while on board, this is about the smallest ship that is reasonably affordable. When the ships get down to what I would consider an even more attractive size -- like 100 passengers -- the cost supposedly rachets up significantly. Still, should we decide to try another cruise sometime, I intend to research the idea of a smaller ship.

For those of you who are anxious to hear about the food here on board, I would say that it's on a level with Nevada's casino food. Which is to say, that it's not bad, just not anything that you're going to find in the upcoming issue of Bon Apetite magazine. Concetta and I have always found someting on the menu that we like, though sometimes it looks better than it tastes. As for my own prefereneces, I have tried to stick with mostly light fare -- fish, vegetables, and salads -- not because I'm trying to show off my willpower, but because the desserts are so good I've been unable to pass them by. Every evening I look forward to their dessert selection, be it the excellent bread pudding, the cheese cakes, the flans, or a triple-scoop of ice cream. They do have fruit for dessert, but I haven't been tempted by it yet, to which I'm sure my waist line will readily attest when we get home.

Well, I guess I'll close for now. Concetta is reading up in the lounge and I better go see how she's doing. They just announced on the intercom that the force 6 winds have precluded our visit to Delos, so we will be heading straight to Mykonos. I'm sorry to be missing Delos as it's one of the few places in Greece you can go which is not tourist oriented. It's purely an archeaological site. Mykonos, on the other hand, is largely a young person's island. On Mykonos it's pretty much non-stop hedonism. They have lots and lots of gay bars, nude beaches, and twenty-four-hour-a-day fun. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but if you're not 20 years old, you're probably going to concentrate more on the shopping.

So, for now I'll say, hasta la vista (until I see you again -- in Spanish) since I don't know how to say that in Greek. Ciao, tutti.

Rhodes, Greece -- Where the colossos used to be

2010-09-13T10:11:00.000-07:00

Concetta and I just got back to the Ship after spending the afternoon strolling the narrow lanes and alleys of the ancient city of Rhodes. While most of the passengers elected to return to the ship after our half-day tour of the various "culturally important" areas of the city, we decided to stay and try to get off the beaten path and explore the places where few tourists go. It was fun, though you immediately become aware that where the tourist don't go the buildings don't get maintained very well and to look a little run down. Still, it was fun. About sunset we stumbled across the "Romeo" cafe and the proprietor coaxed us to take a seat in his charming outdoor restaurant where he proceeded to dazzel us with both his charm and his food preparation. I was hoping for a gyro (lamb, tomatoes, onions, and cucumber-yoghurt sauce wrapped in a pita) but ended up sharing a Greek Salad and plate of Cod and vegetables with Concetta washed down with my usual Mythos beer. Yum yum. Everything was really tasty. At home I always have to laugh when a restaurant advertises Greek salad. Usually, they have no idea what to acutally serve. Greek salad is comprised of tomotes, onions, Greek olives, feta cheese, and cucumbers. Ours tonight also had green bell peppers sliced very thin and a sprinkling of cabbage, though the latter two ingredients cannot be counted on. Over all this one always has a very light dressing of olive oil and vinegar. And there you have it. The next time you order Greek salad and it arrives looking like mostly lettuce, send it back.

This morning, our destination by tour bus was the tiny ancient city of Lindos, which hugs the coast about an hour east of Rhodes. Lindos is the place in Greece, our guide told us, that the fighting men of Rhodes sailed for the Trojan war in 1300 B.C. or so. Let me tell you, Lindos was a trip and a half. Our plan as a group was to climb the mountain that fills the skyline in Lindos all the way to the top to see the fort constructed by the Knights of St. John the Baptist. These knights, not to be confused with the Knights Templar, were the Crusaders whose job it was to serve as Doctors and hospitalers to both crusaders and pilgrims. This fort was constructed at the top of a natural (most likely volcanic) outcrop above the city known as an Acropolis. As our guide has been fond of telling us, Virtually every city in Greece of any import has its own acropolis. The one in Athens is just the most famous. Anyway, starting in Lindos, Concetta and I set off on foot to climb the stone path to the top. Nowadays, Greece is customarily inundated by tourists during the high season. And, since September is still considered the high season, we found a veritable sea of buses already parked when we arrived at 10:30 a.m. and a small (make that large) army of tourists climbing right along with us. Since there were also people coming down the stone path, the width of which measured about four feet when it wasn't even narrower, it turned out to be a fairly harrowing experience. Greeks don't believe, it would seem, in hand rails of any kind, even though the drop-off is considerable in some places. Still, we made it to the fortress and had a very nice time taking pictures and exploring the grounds.

One of the things I've been noticing since we arrived in Greece is the incredible transformation that is taking place in the look of Greek houses. I'm not sure when it happened, but according to one of our guides the Greek government passed a law that said Greeks had to begin building more earthquake proof houses and commercial spaces, this because the people were fond of building with rubble stone (with or without mortar) and absolutely no structural steel of any kind. So, the first earthquake that comes along, the whole village ends up reverting to a pile of stones in the street.

In the past, Greece had some of the most picturesque housing anywhere, most often looking more or less like our Sante Fe, New Mexico style of Spanish housing with stucco exterior and red tile roofs. Usually the doors and window trim would be painted a bright green or blue and the whole effect was quite charming. Now, with the new earthquake regulations in place, Greeks are building (and when I say building, I mean EVERYWHERE you look) structures that are a mixture of Hollywood, California "modern" in 1955, and a Soviet Union tenement apartment from the same time period. It's bizzare! They start construction by erecting something that looks a lot like a parking garage with its concrete posts and horizontal concrete floors. Their houses may have two or three of these floors. Then, they fill in the spaces between the concrete upright pillars with red brick, done in a sort of "I don't have to be neat since I'm covering this with stucco anyway" technique. The effect is to have the masonry look rather haphazard and sloppy. THEN, they may only finish one of the two or three floors with actual walls and they may leave the second and third floor with just the bare parking garage look to it. You can tell that they have been living in the bottom floor for some time since the whole place looks very lived in. So it's not like they halted construction temporarily so they could go on vacation or something. All of this is pretty sad, at least to me, when you consider that the Greeks pretty much invented classic architecture.

Rhodes looks very different than the last time I saw it in 1974. According to our guide today, the population of Rhodes was about 20,000 people back when I was here. now the population has jumped to around 60,000. Like Nevada, the island of Rhodes enjoys around 300 days of sun a year. They also get 20 days of rain. He didn't tell us what happened for the other 45 days, but whatever it is, folks are flocking here to take advantage of the good weather. Our two waiters tonight were both from out of town. One was from Thesalonika in Macedonia, quite a trek from here. Both told us they came here to take advantage of the tourism trade. They, and everyone else we talked to, puts in seven day weeks for seven to nine months in a row. No days off, and very long hours. They must do this, most of them, because there is no work in their home towns. All the wait staff here on the ship work that same three quarters of a year, then they go home and spend one quarter with their wifes and children. Very tough way to make a living, I'd say, but they all seem very upbeat about it.

Well, I'm headed up topside because they're moving the ship to a new slip tonight and I thought I'd try to capture some part of it on film. So, I'll say goodnight. We're headed for Mykonos and Delos tomorrow and those are two places I'm really looking forward to showing Concetta. Ciao, tutti.

Santorini -- where tourism meets volcanism

2010-09-12T11:46:00.000-07:00

This morning we woke up to our ship, the Aegean Odyssey, tying up in the submerged cauldera of the sleeping volcano that sometime around 1600 B.C. erupted violently and and turned a once thriving bronze age civilization into a Pompeii-like dead zone. The volcano completely destroyed the center of the island of Thera leaving only a crescent-shaped set of cliffs. For several hundred years nothing lived on the destroyed island as the ash cloud had covered everything to a depth of thirty or forty feet. Still, after a time, people began to re-populate the island remnant. Now some 12,000 people inhabit the lofty cliffside villages.

Thera, or Santorini as it's most often called, was one of my very favorite stopping places back in 1973 and 1974 when I was working as crew aboard a sixty-foot sail boat. Our mission then was to make a documentary about the Mediterranean, a task that required much schlepping of heavy cameras and tripods up and down hillsides. Here on Santorini our instructions were to set up a shooting location on the long, winding concrete path that wound its way from the harbor to the lofty heights above, a journey that required mounting six hundred steps before you reached the summit. The Captain, one Chuck Tobias, had selected a donkey to carry HIM to the village above and he wanted my shipmate, John Riise, and I to film him as he rode. "No problem," we said, and we dashed a hundred yards away and set up our camera. Our plan was to do several "drive-bys" with the donkey which would require Chuck to halt the four-legged fellow after each take so we might dash another hundred yards up the mountain where we could set up our shooting location again.

That's what it said in the fine print. However, no one consulted the donkey. Maybe Chuck just needed to know how to talk to him in Greek, who knows? But the upshot was that the donkey refused to halt between takes. This naturally required John and I to break down the equipment, dash ahead of the briskly trotting donkey, and then set up for the next take before Chuck and the furry fellow reached us. Not knowing whether any of the takes were being successful in our shooting haste, we just kept doing our dash-ahead all the way up the mountain. By the time we reached the summit neither John nor I was able to walk. We just collapsed on the pavement. The hell of it was, in the final movie the donkey scene ended up on the cutting room floor. Jeeze!

So, as you might guess, I have some very fond memories of Santorini. This island is one of the most photographed places on earth. I suspect that almost everyone has at one time or another seen a calendar shot of the beautiful whitewashed buildings perched on the edge of the cliffs overlooking the deep blue mediterranean waters of the volcanic harbor. The villages from a distance look like the whipped cream icing on a chocolate layer cake. Fortunately, we got to ride buses to the top so I didn't have to repeat the donkey-chase episode by navigating the six hundred steps. That left me with plenty of energy to do some photography and sight-seeing. There's a really great museum here on the island filled with all the things that the archeaologists have found on the sourthern end of the island in the village of Acrotiri. Concetta and I hoped that we would get to see the dig itself, but five years ago a tourist was killed by a collapsing room section at Acrotiri and now no one gets to tour there. Still, the museum had some exception frescos, pottery, and craft work.

After the museum we were allowed to roam the cliff-top villages by ourselves. Except for a few minutes of rain that dropped in unexpectedly, we had some truly great shooting weather with lots of blue skies and fluffly clouds in the backgroud. On Santorini, everywhere you point the camera the frame is filled with a rainbow of colors against the brillant whites of the houses. I loved the bright blues and greens and reds of the shop entrances, spectacular purples of the bougainvilla, and the yellows and peach colors of the awnings and umbrellas. Everything is so very colorful that Santorini is simply a photographer's dream come true. I'm so sorry that the IT neanderthals here on the boat have prevented me from showing the photos. If you were a photographer, one look at Santorini and you'd be booking your flight tomorrow. Do browse the internet and see what I mean.

For lunch today I wanted to completely avoid the sexy restaurants perched right on the edge of the cliff that are inevitably frequented by every tourist who makes the trek to the top. So, Concetta and I walked inland until we found a restaurant where nearly everyone inside looked like they stepped out of a Zorba movie. "This is just what I was looking for," I told Concetta. And so it was. I had the moussaka and Concetta had the stuffed Zuchini, both of which turned out to be wonderful. I had my usual Greek beer, Mythos, but we were too full to even think about dessert. However, a little later, after an hour or so of walking, we dropped into a coffee and pastry shop and finished out our lunch with some strong, black Greek coffee and a good-sized piece of baklava. Dear me, this has to be what heaven is like.

This afternoon, once we had ridden the cable tram from the cliff-top to the harbor, boarded the shuttle craft to the ship, and had our showers, we sat in the bar and relaxed. I've been trying out a new drink called a "sidecar," which is sort of like a whiskey sour, but better in my estimation. Concetta had the champagne cocktain, but she drank it all before I got a sip so I can't tell if it was good. I suspect that it was.

This evening we sought out our usual dinner location on the fantail, though the wind was strong enough to blow the silverware off the table. Fortunately, our new friends from Chicago invited us to share their table that was a little more sheltered. For next hour we regaled each other with stories of our work and home lives, drank a lot of wine, and generally got better acquainted, which was nice.

Right now, the boat is gliding through the dark swells of the Mediterranean toward our next destination, the island of Rhodes, perhaps my very favorite Greek island of all. Back in 1973, John Riise and I did much exploring amongst the ancient battlements of the port city that were established by the Knights of St. John the Baptist during the crusades. Though it was not allowed, we managed to sneak inside the massive walls where the crusaders held off Suliman the Magnificent and we wandered through the darkened tunnels where the knights fought to hold off the Turks all those centuries ago. If you love history like I do, Rhodes is definitely where you can rub elbows with it.

Well, once again it's coming up 11:00 p.m. I suspect that Concetta has gotten tired of waiting for me and is fast asleep. So, for now, I'll say, Kalini'ta (good night).

Wandering the Island of Crete

2010-09-11T11:07:00.000-07:00

The last time I found myself on the island of Crete, which was in late 1973, John Riise and I had requisitioned the MAR's Honda 70 motorcycles and had set off into the interior on our own. Today, Concetta and I had to depend on transportation that was a world away from those trusty Honda 70s -- namely, a sixty-passenger bus that tended to fill the narrow lanes and village streets from curb to curb. Oh, well, what can you do? The morning's destination was the ruins at Knossos, Minoan King Minos' palace discovered in 1878 by Minos Kalokairinos, a Cretan merchant and antiquarian. Though the ruins have been "restored" to show you what some of the King's palace looked like in it's heyday, using rather modern building materials, it's still a fascinating place to learn about how these ancient peoples designed what was then a very modern dwelling using water and sewer construction methods that are largely unchanged today. This in a palace that was built some 3,500 years ago.

As you probably remember if you ever took a Greek mythology class in high school, Knossos is the location of the infamous labyrinth, an elaborate mazelike structure constructed for King Minos of Crete and designed by the legendary Daedalus (of wax wings fame) to hold the Minotaur, a creature that was half man and half bull and was eventually killed by the Athenian hero, Theseus. We touristas didn't have any luck stumbling on the entrance to the labyrinth, but we did get some cool photos which I hope to post on the blog here if I ever get my hands on a WiFi spot.

After Knossos, we once again loaded into the bus and took to the narrow mountain roads (where we tried not to look down to often) in search of a remote monestary full of centuries old religious frescos (not usually my cup of tea) and a great Greek taverna overlooking the Aegean Sea (now that's more like it). Stopping at the taverna gave me another chance to order that wonderful Greek beer called "Mythos" which I had sampled for the very first time just yesterday and am already crazy about. The taverna, since they have to deal with busloads of folks at lunchtime (six busses by the time we left), basically serve a "family style" lunch in an amazingly brisk, efficient fashion that fairly takes your breath away. We had the usual spanikopita and cheese pie appetizers, wonderful Greek salad (no lettuce in these babies), and bread with yoghurt sauce which was just incredible. Soon after arrived a hot dish of pork and potatoes which I skillfully put away as expeditiously as possible. The final course was fresh fruit and coffee, both of which were fantastic. I would have loved another half hour to sit and sip that wonderful coffee, but our guide was staring pointedly at his watch so I grudgingly had to leave it and reboard the bus.

During the time we were on the road our cruise ship had upped anchor and sailed due East from Herklion Harbor toward the town of Aglios Nikolaos where it planned to meet us as we finished up our day in the Cretan interior, including our stop at the Lassithi Plateau archeaological site of the Malia Palace. Though this second palace on our route was not nearly as impressive as our first of the day, Knossos, I did find it interesting for their use of a combination of volcanic, or igneous rock, and sedimentary rock in the form of limestone. The limestone had once been deposited on the sea floor in pre-historic times and had since been raised above see level due to the irresitable forces of plate tectonics which results when the African plate pushes northward against the Aegean plate. This process basically forms a "wrinkle" in the land under the Mediterranean, thrusting beautiful Crete above sea level and providing a wealth of easily-worked building materials. This process also causes the volcanoes that dot the Mediterranean, one of which we will be visiting tomorrow -- the island of Santorini. The last eruption at Santorini was just 85 years ago.

Since the ship was not in evidence when we pulled into Agios Nikolaos, Concetta and I went in search of -- what else? -- ice cream. I decided that I just had to have some ice cream and strawberries. Along with a double espresso, it sounded like a fitting ending to a pretty interesting day. After ice cream and a nice chat with several of our fellow passengers who wandered in for ice cream just after us, we set off into the town proper to do some window shopping and photography. I decided I needed a more flamboyant hat band for my sombrero (the one I nearly lost yesterday), one that might help me keep track of it better. After buying the hat band and some Ouzo for sons Robert and Jason, we headed back to the boat for a shower, a lecture on volcanoes and earthquakes in the Aegean, and a very relaxed dinner on the fantail of the ship with the twinkling lights of the harbor and nearby city to cast a romantic glow across our dinner rendesvous.

Thanks to everyone who has kindly wrote in on Facebook with compliments on the blog. It makes it easier to stay up 'till 11:00 p.m. if I know you're enjoying it. And, of course, if you have any questions about what we're seeing, don't hesitate to let me know and I'll try and answer them. Someone asked how I'm liking the food and I can say without hesitation that I'd rather eat Greek food than just about any other. My only major disappointment as far as the ship's food selection is that they have made no effort to stock real Greek yoghurt which I love and which is unlike anything you've ever tasted from a the dairy section of your super market. Concetta and I try to order it when we're on shore at lunch time.

The boat provides almost any food you can ever want at no additional cost with the exception of hard liquor items. Those you have to pay for. To encourage you to do just that, the ship has a daily "special" drink available which, to date, we haven't taken advantage of. You can have all the wine you want, which is what we usually drink anyway, so we're really set. I'm eating way, way more sweets than I normally do at home so I suspect that will have some work to do when I get home.

This is the first time I've been aboard a boat, of any size, since I left the MAR in 1974. The roll of the deck under my feet, the smell of the salt air, the velvety breezes off the sea, even the rumble of the diesel engines, all make me miss that time of my life tremendously. There's simply nothing like living and working on a boat. The oh so humbling feeling of sailing out of sight of land in a small craft with nothing between you and eternity but a few inches of wood cannot be easily conveyed. You simple have to try it to know what I mean. If you're out there and you're young enough, do it. You won't be sorry. Hell, if I was young again, I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

Well, it's coming up 11:00 once again. I'll have to say goodnight. Ciao, tutti.

Getting cozy with Byzantine Greece

2010-09-10T11:36:00.000-07:00

Our ship's newsletter laid out the day's activities pretty well so let me just quote: "Today, we jump forward in time as we leave behind the magnificent Classical sites of Athens and Mycenae. We now explore the Byzantine Churches of Monemvasia. The two main attractions are the 13th century A.D. Church of Christos Elkomenos and the Agia Sofia. This includes a trip to the wonderful Byzantine city of Mystras and the remains of ancient Sparta."

Once again Concetta and I maintained our ritual of rising before 6:00 a.m. and greeting the dawn from the fantail of the Aegean Odyssey. We've found that there is simply no substitute for this premier breakfast location. If you haven't seen or read about it, the Mediterranea is a wonderful place to take in a sunrise or sunset. It has something to do with the minute particles of Sahara desert sand in the atmosphere. I remember thirty-five years ago when I was living aboard the MAR here in the Med that we would dread when the rains came at night. When we would get up in the morning the entire boat would be covered with mud.

Our tour for the day involved climbing aboard the Odyssey's small boats and making the short voyage to the quay. From there we set off on a ninety minute drive up into the mountains by bus. As you've read, our goal was to visit a couple of very old churches as well as see the site where ancient Sparta once thrived. There's not much left of Sparta now since the real estate developers moved in (yes it also happens in Greece), but still the little town that sits atop old Sparta is very picturesque and appears to be thriving. It turns out that you had to be part Sir Edmund Hillary and part mountain goat to fully appreciate these precariously perched religious buildings. It was not hard to see that the ancient stone paths had been trod by a lot of ancient feet. Fortunately, everyone made it up and back without turning an ankle or tumbling over the low stone walls that lined the path.

Today's outting brought it home to me once again that the very best sunlight in all of the world falls right here in Greece. It almost seems to take on a etheral quality, like you're looking past the confines of the real world into something beyond. The white-washed buildings seem to glitter and sparkle like someone had photoshopped them and upped the contrast level. We've all seen achingly blue skies in Nevada, but here in Greece the sky is so blue and radiant that you find yourself simply staring at it for long minutes at a time. The volcanic hills leap from the surface of the earth like they only just appeared a few minutes before. And the verdant olive groves, grape vineyards, and citrus orchards seem to be calling you to stop your frenzied travel and linger awhile. Stop and just breath in the intoxicating fragrance of Greece.

Once off the mountain, our tour leader took us to a nearby outdoor restaurant nestled in the foothills near old Sparta. Neatly arranged for us beneath a wonderful old pergola crowned with wisteria our hosts had provided neat white-linened tables. We spent a wonderful hour and a half eating spanakopita, cheese pie, greek salad, baked chicken and potatoes, and a wonderful light dessert that I will be thinking about for years to come. That together with a frosty mug of Greek beer on the front end, and strong, black Greek coffee on the back end served to provide us with one of the most memorable dining experiences Concetta and I have ever had.

The ride back to the harbor was long -- ninety minutes -- but provided a little siesta time after our big lunch. At one point I thought I had lost my sombrero, having left it at restaurant, but the next bus after us rescued it and the two of us were reunited in the harbor. After that it was a quick dash back to the ship, a shower, and the afternoon cocktail party. A little two much champagne together with the ship's gentle roll with the swells as we began our overnight voyage to Crete made it a tad difficult for me to make my way to our usual dinner spot on the fantail. Tonight, we opted for sharing a table with a delightful couple from Chicago and the four of us got along famously until the stewards had packed up most of the tables but ours. Thus ends yet another fabulous day in the sparkling blue world of the Aegean.

Tomorrow morning, we should be dropping anchor in the harbor of Heraklion, Crete, someplace that I haven't seen since I set off into some pretty storm-tossed waters from there in 1973 and very nearly didn't make it to my next port. If you want to read about THAT voyoage, pull up the web site, click on memoirs, and then click on the story entitled, "Sinking." In those days my nickname was, "Blue" for the blue hat I always wore. So, enjoy. I'll see ya on the flip side.