Macinaw Bridge
View from our motel room.
St. Ignace Lighthouse at dusk.
Welcome to Hessel
An urban bookstore in the
most remote setting.
100 year old lilac bush in all its glory.
Woodland jewels: lillies-of-the-valley.
Hessel is a quiet village.
Lazy afternoons watching the small bay over a beer.
A 1942 Chris Craft perfectly restored.
Great Lakes Boat Building School
All students build a flat-bottomed skiff.
Planks waiting to become boats.
Yet another coat of varnish dries...
A 32' footer is prepped for
shipment to Harbor Springs
Pasties -- meat-and-veggie pies I first
tasted in Australia
Snowmobiles are the best
vehicle come winter.
Sprawling farms grace the landscape.
Two sandhill cranes poke along
down a dirt road.
Lake Superior's forbidding shoreline.
Lake Superior Ice-water. How did those girls
manage to go in all the way?
Upper Peninsula - St. Ignace & Hessel
Mid-June, 2009 - We left the cute, warm, Northern Lake Michigan coastal towns and ventured over the Macinaw Bridge to the
rather forbidding Upper Peninsula. The bridge is a magnificent structure, and as we crossed it Mark told me a little about this other
side of Michigan. The "Yoopers," inhabitants of the UP, are a breed apart. They can withstand truly frigid winters and take great
pride in being from a vast land that shares little with the urban jungle of Detroit or the gentrified small towns of the warmer regions
to the south. There is a ruggedness here, an almost frontier quality, that increases dramatically the further you get from the
Macinaw Bridge.
We didn't get too far. The
small town of St. Ignace
beckoned to us just after we
crossed the bridge.
Bypassing the very elegant
waterfront Best Western that
advertised, "We aren't
expensive, we just look that
way," we stayed instead at a
small inn overlooking the
lighthouse. Several motels
were closed permanently, and
those that were open had few
patrons.
We were the only visitors at our motel for the night, and we had our pick
of any room we wanted. Given that opportunity, I wanted to make sure
our picture window framed the lighthouse just right. Mark and the inn
keeper shared some sidelong glances and rolled eyes as I vacillated
between two rooms, popping in and out of each one several times. "You
should see her pick out a table at a restaurant..." Mark sighed with a
smile.
Later on he agreed
it was worth it: as
the sun set and the
lighthouse slowly
winked at us
during the evening,
we both grabbed
our cameras.
St. Ignace has
a long wooden
boardwalk that
meanders along the edge of the harbor. We walked along it the next
morning and found a swan and its babies paddling in the water.
A seagull surveyed the scene and eyed me up for breadcrumbs. I
threw out a few and within seconds I was surrounded by the whole
flock and engaged in a wild game of catch. I would throw pieces of
bread as high in the air as I could, and the gulls would swoop by and
effortlessly catch the bread in mid-air in an amazing aerobatic
display.
Back in Traverse City, along the
northern part of Lake Michigan, we
had met Liz Fels who was staging an
exhibit of her photography. She was
from the tiny town of Hessel in the
UP, and she recommended that we
stop by her bookstore/gallery when
we got up that way. Hessel's
welcome sign made the town seem
like a happening place, but when we
got there we found a lovely, sleepy
little hamlet that boasts just a handful
of shops and an eatery or two.
It wasn't hard to find "The Village
Idiom," Liz's bookstore/gallery, and
what a find it was. For any
enthusiastic reader spending time in
the raw lands of the UP, this store,
brimming with used books, is a rare jewel.
Not only is there space to unwind your mind inside with shelves of
unusual titles and a gallery of pretty photographs, but there is space
outside to take your new read, relax, and check it out under the sun.
When I commented on how beautiful all the lilacs were around town, she
took me to her back yard where there is a 100 year old lilac tree. It was
immense and it was in full bloom.
I had a field day with flowers in this town. A few doors down from the
bookstore I found a huge patch of lilies-of-the-valley.
You don't spot these forest gems too often, and Mark and I
both laid down to get a whiff of their heady scent. A group of
cyclists going by stopped and gathered around us to see why
we were sprawled out on the sidewalk. Ah, they nodded to
each other knowingly. Lillies-of-the-valley... Of course!
Further down towards the harbor I found more flowers planted
along a whimsical, nautical fence.
The pace in this village is slooow, and
the air has a sense of contentment
and remoteness.
Visitors come here to let the cares of
the world slip away, and there is no
tourist hype or brochures of
prospective activities.
Long, quiet happy hours spent
overlooking the tiny bay and watching
the rare person working on their boat
is about as busy as it gets.
Hessel is the home
of a big antique
wooden boat show,
and we found a few
down in the
boatyard. Too
bad we wouldn't
be here in
August to see
the event.
A fellow at the
boatyard
proudly showed
us Shotsie, a
1942 Chris Craft that looks like it just came out of the showroom. The
rich varnish, immaculate engine and new-looking controls inspired
images of young people of another era enjoying an afternoon on the
water.
We strolled around the water's edge and admired several beautiful old boats. I can remember
boats like these (not quite as pristine!) from when I was a very little girl on the beach in New
England, and Mark remembers aunts and uncles taking him for rides in boats like these on Lake
St. Clair.
A little further north of Hessel, in Cedarville, we found the heart of this wooden boat culture: The
Great Lakes Boat Building School. Set in a huge barnlike building, the doors were thrown wide
to let in the sun and spring air, and we peeked inside.
Offering an intensive two-year
program, students attend all-day
classes five days a week (with
summers off). They range from
young people looking for career skills
to retirees looking for personal
fulfillment. The $10,000/year tuition
puts you in a class with just a handful
of other students, mastering this craft
under the attentive tutelage of highly
qualified instructors.
In Year 1, all of the students build
the same boat, a flat bottom
double-ended skiff, which the
school then sells when it is
completed. Selling these exquisitely crafted boats
supplements the school's income and helps keep the
tuition from being even higher.
There were boats in several stages of completion, and
outside was a gorgeous 32' boat that had taken two
different student classes two years to build.
The first class had laid the planks and shaped the hull,
and the second class had done the finishing work.
Now it was on a trailer, ready to go to Harbor Springs, home of the
lucky folks who had commissioned the school to build it.
Stopping for a snack, we discovered a local delicacy in the UP is
"pasties." I hadn't seen these meat-pie treats since I was in
Australia in the early 1990's. Down Under they call these yummy
personal-sized flakey crust encased meat and veggie pies "pahs-
ties." Here in the UP they were called "pass-ties" but they were the
same delicious mini-meals that were probably brought to both
regions by Cornish immigrants many years ago.
We drove straight north across the UP, making a bee-line for Lake Superior. The
temperature had dropped as soon as we crossed the bridge into the UP, and there were
snowmobile signs everywhere. We even saw someone wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with an
image of a snowmobile and the words: "Summer Sucks." This was Cold Country! Brrr.
There are endless paths through the woods where you can snowmobile in the winter, and lots of
wide open farmland as well.
Mark spotted two large
Sandhill cranes strolling down
the road. As with so much of
the wildlife we see, we tried to
get them to stop and pose so
we could get a clear photo,
but they had other ideas.
We had seen two of the Great
Lakes so far: Lake Michigan
and Lake Erie, and I wanted
to dip a finger in Lake
Superior. We drove straight
to the first coastal opening we
could find and ran down to the beach. A family was
coming up the trail from the beach, the kids shivering in
wet bathing suits with beach towels wrapped around them.
One little girl told us excitedly (through chattering blue lips), "I went in four times!" She was very
proud of her feat, and once I put a finger in I could see why. It was like putting your hand in the
water that collects around the ice in a cooler. My hand turned red and ached instantly.
I am sure the Lake Superior coast is stunning, but that little bit was enough for me. We turned
south and headed back to our cozy hotel overlooking the lighthouse in St. Ignace, planning our
next outing to the Soo Locks.
San Francisco & LA – The Sailboat Hunt is On!
Emery Cove Yacht Harbor
Some peope cruise in high style
Unusual flowers in bloom along the shoreline
Extensive beds of ice plant flowers
accompanied us on our walks
Ventura California coastline
A harbor seal teases a gull with a fish he caught
Mentryville barn and chicken coop, built 1890's
Roses in front of Charles Mentry's house
Oil well equipment
Lizard in Pico Canyon
Butterflies and flowers
Unusual flowers
They were very large
View from one of the peaks
The trail is outlined in rocks
Shams, trail blazer and trail builder
Surrounded by chain link fence til it settles in, this Valley
Oak made the Guinness Book when it was moved 1/4 mile.
Emeryville & Valencia, California
April 18-May 13, 2009 - From Arizona, we ran up and down the
coast of California in mad pursuit of a sailboat. We were driven
by the vision of a dream that had been developing for many
months: traveling with our trailer each summer, as we have
been, and traveling by sailboat in the tropics each winter.
We're both converted desert rats, most recently from Phoenix, Arizona, and
we like it warm. How warm? A fellow once told me he turns on the air
conditioning in his rig when the indoor temperature hits 79 degrees. For us,
that's when we start getting really comfortable. Our a/c doesn't go on until it
hits 90.
We have struggled to find a warm, uncrowded place to wander during each
of our two winters of fulltiming. We have ranged between southern Arizona
and Florida, but have done too much shivering. We aren't alone in this
quandary. When fulltimers meet each other, one of the first questions they
always ask is: where do you spend the winter? At first I didn't understand
why the seasoned veterans kept asking us that question, but now, after
wearing way too many layers for two winters, I understand.
Cruising in a sailboat
has been a longtime
dream for me, and
Mark has slowly come
to share that dream
too.
However, there are a lot of details to work out. Shifting between two homes is
not easy, especially when each has to be put in storage for a period of time.
So, as our prospective boat purchases in California fell through, one by one,
this past spring, we tried to be more philosophical than disappointed, taking it
as a sign that we just weren't ready yet. As we talked through the nuts-and-
bolts of our plan -- getting beyond our dreams of gazing at the scenic mountain
backdrops behind our rig each summer and snorkeling amid eagle rays and
sea turtles alongside our boat each winter -- we realized that our plan was very fuzzy.
This frustrating discovery came to us as we froze our tails off on San Francisco Bay
in May. It was a bitter surprise to find that the Bay Area rarely gets much above 60
degrees at that time of year, and we got several weeks of almost daily rain to boot.
We got to know the tiny Emeryville peninsula on the east bay next to Oakland quite
well. It is the one sliver of beauty in an otherwise industrial landscape of smoke
stacks, snarled traffic and congested urban living.
The marina there has an
interesting array of boats,
and we enjoyed getting to
know some of the
liveaboards who make it
their home. Those folks
are some sturdy stock, as
the wind blew at 25-30
mph every day across the
bay, the fog and dark
skies hung around relentlessly, and the cold was that bone-chilling kind
whose icy fingers sneak past any and all layers of clothing you put on.
One retired couple had lived on their boat in the Bay for 17 years.
We took many walks, jogs and bike rides around the area, and
especially enjoyed the pink flowers on the ice plants that were in
bloom during our visit. We left boatless, however, and made our
way down the coast to Ventura. There we enjoyed a long stroll
along the beach and watched a harbor seal teasing a seagull. He
had just caught a huge fish, and he repeatedly surfaced with the
fish in his mouth, taunting the gull. Each time he lured the gull to
approach him, he would duck under the water out of reach. This
went on for quite a while until the gull finally gave up and flew off.
In a way, we felt like that gull, tantalized by the prospect of a sailing
dream, but taunted by the vicious boat selling industry that barricades it.
We started looking for a boat as wide-eyed innocents to the boat buying
process. In just a few weeks we got a bath-of-fire introduction to the
cutthroat world of lying, cheating and stealing that is sailboat brokerage
in the Golden State.
The stress of dealing with ruthless, unscrupulous brokers desperate for
a deal in a stalled industry in a failing economy finally got to us, and we
left. Unfortunately, the stress chased us down I-5, and while turning in
to stop at Pyramid Lake, north of Los Angeles, for the night, the back of
the trailer lightly brushed the guardrail. The damage didn't look like much,
but upon assessment by RV collision repair specialists in nearby Valencia
(what luck that there was such a place nearby!), it would take 7 weeks to
fix, most of that time spent waiting for parts.
This news took a while to digest. We stayed in Valencia, north of the Los
Angeles tangle of freeways and insanity, for a few days, deciding what to
do. We couldn't stay in the trailer once they began the repair work, as
their insurance did not allow it. However, our insurance gave us some
money for "emergency" hotels. We took a few day trips around the area
as we mulled over our options and waited for our insurance claim to be
processed.
The Valencia area is desert: no fog, hot
days and cool nights. We hiked up Pico
Canyon, starting at the base in
"Mentryville," a former oil boomtown
founded by Charles Mentry who dug
California's first oil well here.
Some of the old equipment from this
first oil well still stands today. Oil well Pico #4 was
the longest running oil well in the world when it
was capped (dug in 1876, capped in 1990). It
was such a success that it prompted the formation of the Pacific
Coast Oil Company that became Standard Oil of CA which was later
acquired by Chevron.
As we hiked up the canyon we passed some
unusual critters and flowers on the way. The
view at the top was well worth the climb.
As we walked we found the trail was neatly
marked by carefully placed stones. Someone
had taken great pains to outline the best route
to the top.
Hiking down we met a mountain biker on his way up. He introduced himself as
Shams, originally from Afghanistan many years ago. He asked if we'd been to the summit. Not quite. He seemed disappointed,
explaining how the very steep section that had stopped us was actually very short and the view beyond that was spectacular. He
then explained that he had built the trail over the last 14 years, grooming it, creating little stone outlines for the paths, so he and his
son and others would have a nice place to mountain bike. There's a man who has made the most of his new home.
We drove to another area and saw the most enormous tree. Standing back to admire it, I
noticed another person taking photographs of it too.
We got talking, and I learned that this tree, a Valley Oak, had been moved 1/4 mile to
make way for a road, and that he, Lee Lumis, had been the horticultural consultant
overseeing the move. It took 18 months to relocate the tree, and required 126 hydraulic
lifts, 24" I-beams and a 43' diameter box for the root ball. They had started the project and
then had to wait 6 months when the tree suddenly budded out and couldn't be moved. He
had rotated it a bit from its original orientation, but it looked truly majestic in its new home.
Even though we were here by accident -- because of an accident -- we could still look at
each other and say, "what a cool area!" As we gathered our thoughts about how best to
handle the upcoming seven weeks, we finally decided to fly out to Michigan to visit Mark's
family and do some sightseeing in a state we probably would never reach by fifth wheel.
Lake St. Clair, Michigan – Quick Trip Abroad
Big Boys are everywhere...
...Coney Island Hot Dogs are too
Despite the depressing news on TV, Spring had sprung on Belle Isle in downtown Detroit
Harsen's Island Ferry holds 9 or so cars
B&B in San Souci
Riverside Grocery
Storefront in San Souci
Smoke stacks on the Canadian side of the St. Clair River
Pretty homes along the river too...
Pt. Huron, Michigan (US) - Sarnia, Ontario (Canada)
Bridge
Mark buys us a basket of Bridge Fries - tasty!
Classic red barns dot the landscape
Roadside farm stand on Lake Erie
Score! Baked goods galore and veggie garden
treasures too.
Trapping invasive Gobi fish for experimentation at the
University.
Lake Erie
Lake Erie harborfront
Returning to Detroit via Windsor
Lake St. Clair, Michigan
Late May, 2009 - We arrived from the Burbank, California airport to a wonderful, warm family
reception in Detroit, Michigan. Mark hadn't lived there in 30 years, and since then had made
only short visits, so we had many great get-togethers ahead of us. In between, we wanted to
squeeze in some sight-seeing, as I had never seen much of Michigan, and Mark's motorcycle
trips around the state were back in the days when he had long hair, short shorts, and Rock
hadn't yet been labeled "Classic."
We arrived in Detroit at an especially dark hour in the city's
history. Chrysler was in bankruptcy, GM was headed that
way soon, and most people we visited were out of work.
Unfortunately, I forgot my camera as we toured some of the
amazing mansions that were built by the auto industry's
icons in the days when their profits flowed like wine. The
sultans of that industry lived better than kings. The opulence was breathtaking. I could only
wonder what the factory workers thought in the early 1900's as they saw these castle-like
estates going up. No wonder the unions became so strong: the profits were staggering and
the leaders weren't into sharing.
The auto industry was a cash cow that kept giving and giving and giving, for decades. Eventually everyone had a piece of the pie,
and as the news anchors droned on about the industry's current woes, like the retirees losing their vision and dental benefits
(gasp!), we heard a few back stories about Generous Motors that flushed out the details. From more than one person we learned
how folks on the line used to punch in at work, head to the bar for the day, and then punch out. Or punch in, find a quiet spot to
sleep through their shift, and then punch out. The party lasted for almost a century. I couldn't help but wonder: how would the
founders of those companies feel if they saw their city today? Where would their industry be now if those early leaders had instilled
a culture of productivity, cooperation and true generosity instead of one based on greed?
The story of Detroit's malaise filled the airwaves each night. A mansion
that had sold in recent years for $15 million got auctioned off during our
visit for less than $5 million. Half of the gorgeous estates we drove past
along the Grosse Pointe waterfront were for sale. The once
unstoppable flow of profits had dried up.
Eager for some
pretty scenery, we
drove a circle loop
around Lake St.
Clair, the Detroit area
lake that sits between
Lake Huron to the
north and Lake Erie
to the south, dividing
its shores between
the US and Canada.
Harsen's Island was
our first stop, and we drove onto the ferry for the 10 minute ride to the
island. Harsen's island is very rural at one end, with graceful homes
spread out along the lake.
At the other end, the village of San
Souci beckons visitors with charming
victorian B&B's, cute shops and a laid
back air.
We stopped at the Riverside Grocery
for lunch, watching some kids rolling by
on their bikes and a pair of young
lovers sitting side
by side gazing at
the boats in the
water. This
seemed a perfect
place for languid
summer afternoons.
A little further up the coast we
walked around Marine City and
watched another ferry boat carrying
people across the river to and from
Canada. We heard later that this is
the best place to cross the border,
as the lines are short. Along the
river, both the Canadian side and US side have stretches
of gracious homes mixed with stretches of heavy
industry.
After spending some time on both sides of this river, it
seemed that there is a strong unity that bonds the people of this region, regardless of the
presence of an international border between them. We saw homes flying both countries' flags
off their porches, and we saw posters with both flags crossed and the words: "United we
stand." So it was odd, and sad, to see several US border patrol cars sitting on the US side
facing Canada. We are accustomed to seeing them in southern California and Arizona, but
here they seemed out of
place.
Up in Port Huron we took
the bridge across to
Canada's small city of
Sarnia, Ontario. The
lady at the visitors center
suggested we get some
Bridge Fries from one of
the vendors under the
bridge. Served Canadian
style with vinegar, we found
her recommendation was
right on. Yum!
Heading down the Canadian side of the St.
Clair River we felt ourselves relaxing. The
homes are nicely spread out. We stopped
at Bogey's Inn near the village of Sombra
for the night and ended up in their largest
suite for their regular motel room rate. "Last
year at this time I was booked solid," the
proprietor said with frustration. The night
we stayed we were the only tourists there.
We veered away from Lake St. Clair the next morning to catch a glimpse of Lake Erie. The fertile
farmlands stretched for miles with classic red barns and homesteads dotting the green vistas.
Suddenly the beautiful shores of Lake Erie opened up before us. The lake was turquoise and clear,
and the homes were perched high above the lake with rolling grass lawns stretching down to the water.
We stopped at a farm stand, thinking we'd grab some apples to snack on. As
we approached, the luscious aroma of baked goodies wafted through the
door. We stepped inside and were suddenly surrounded by pies, buns,
breads, cookies and the like -- along with fresh picked healthy veggies. At
the sight of those pies Mark was in heaven. "Wow! I'm going to get one of
everything," he joked with the lady at the counter as his eyes darted from
table to table. I wandered around looking for the one perfect snack, admiring
the rows of maple syrups and jams while I mulled over getting a muffin or a
scone or a mini sweet loaf. When I walked over to the register with my lone
apple bran muffin, there was Mark with "one of everything" -- and two of
several things -- laid out across the counter in front of him. He grinned at me
sheepishly and shrugged. How often do you find a gold mine like this?
We piled our boatload of baked goods into the car and had a small
feast of pies and cookies while overlooking the lake's crystal waters
across the street. There was an opening that led to the water, and we
wandered down to dip our toes in the lake. Some University students
were trapping Gobi fish, an invasive non-native fish that they want to
remove from the lake. They were
taking the Gobies back to the lab to
try to find some natural deterrent to
limit the spread of this unwanted
fish. Unfortunately, though, the
Gobi's were proving especially
tricky to trap.
We stopped in a small harbor town
to stretch our legs, and continued
our slow journey back towards Windsor, Ontario and the
Detroit River. Faced with another border crossing back to
Detroit, and not sure exactly what the rules were regarding
baked goods crossing the border, we stopped and gobbled
down as many of our remaining pies and pastries as we
could. The strawberry-rhubarb pie was out of this world, and
we each slyly unbuttoned the top button on our pants to
make room for more. But even stuffed to the gills, we still
had some pastries and pies to go. We just had to risk losing
our booty the border. Of course, in the end, although every
car in line at the border had its spare tire removed and
inspected, causing an hours-long traffic jam at the tunnel, no
one asked if we were bringing in any contraband pies.
After a few more days of family gatherings, we headed out
on a slightly longer sojourn into Ohio and Indiana.
Lake Huron MI – Hydroplane Races and the Joseph S. Fay Shipwreck
Forty Mile Point Lighthouse
Peace and calm reign on this shipwreck strewn shore
Pilothouse from the freighter Calcite
Kitchen inside 40 Mile Point Lighthouse
Circular staircase up to the light
The Joseph S Fay in drydock before the
shipwreck.
Remains of the wooden freighter
Joseph S. Fay.
Rogers City Michigan
An RV Park lines the East Tawas beach
Party Time!
Hydroplane boat races in Bay City
Coming in for a pit stop
Trailers and support crews for the race boats
A raceboat is launched after some quick repairs
The race is started from the dock in waves.
Up close and personal
The German immigrant town of
Frankenmuth
The Bavarian Inn served 20 million dinners in 100
years
Lake Huron, Michigan
Late June, 2009 - We left the chilly northern reaches of Michigan's
Upper Peninsula and the Soo Locks to travel down the Lake Huron
coast on the eastern shores of Michigan. Lake Huron is the second
largest of the great lakes, and it didn't take us long to find a beautiful
spot: Forty Mile Point Lighthouse. Built in 1896, it was one of a chain
of lighthouses that guided the many merchant ships through these
difficult waters.
Originally named La Mer Douce (the sweet, or freshwater, sea) by
French explorers, the sweet sea of Lake Huron has displayed a mean
streak when it comes to deadly storms. As of 2006, 1,200 shipwrecks
had been recorded in these waters.
Looking out on the placid turquoise waters, fringed with tall,
swaying grasses, it was hard to imagine such violent storms and
frightening wrecks. The water was very shallow in front of the
lighthouse. Looking closely, we could see fish jumping in the
shallows between the rocks.
Forty Mile Point Lighthouse park features the pilothouse from the
freighter Calcite. You can climb around it and peek in the windows
at the huge ship's wheel.
There is also a flat
bottomed skiff similar to
the ones that are built by
students at the Great
Lakes Boat Building
School.
We wandered up to the
lighthouse and admired
another bunch of lilacs
yet again. Just can't get
enough of these flowers!
Inside we found the kitchen was set up as it would have been when the lighthouse
keepers lived here and tended the light: simple, rustic living. Down in the basement
was a fun display of old washing machines.
We climbed up the circular steel
staircase to the cramped space
that houses the French-built
Fresnel lens, and looked out at
the peaceful view. A guide
came up after us and told us
the most amazing story of the
wreck of the freighter Fay in
October, 1905.
At the time, the Fay was a 34-
year-old and rather battered
wooden ship. She was towing a
wooden barge, the Rhodes, that night,
southbound along the coast. The
winds unexpectedly built to hurricane force and shifted
onshore, pushing the Fay towards land. As the
captain turned the ship towards safer, deeper water,
the tow line snapped taut, and the barge suddenly
ripped the back end off the ship and floated free. The
ship's captain desperately turned the remains of the
sinking ship back towards shore, and miraculously the
pilot house was swept up onto the
beach intact with all but two
officers safe inside (one man even
slept through the whole ordeal).
Despite all the drama that night,
including the drowning of the first
mate who was on deck when the
back end of the Fay was torn off,
the 40 Mile Point Lighthouse
keeper noted the shipwreck with
just a brief one-line entry in his
logbook.
The rest of the Fay landed on the beach a short distance from the lighthouse. 130 feet of its starboard side is still embedded in the
sand, the heavy wooden planks and steel spikes that held it together still plainly visible. We walked around it in wonder. 27
wooden ships and 50 lives were lost in that one storm. 104 years and many other vicious storms have passed since then.
The lake is lower now than in past years. Old photos show waves lapping over the hull as it sat
in shallow water. I don't know whether lapping waves or hot sun, wind and snow erode wooden
shipwreck remains faster, but I'm sure in another 100 years very little will be left of this hull on
the beach.
Continuing down the coast, we
stopped at Rogers City where we
found yet another lovely waterfront
city park. There are so many
wonderful public parks in Michigan
where you can enjoy the lakes.
Many miles further south we discovered East Tawas
where there was a fantastic RV park that hugged the
shoreline.
A string of RVs was backed up to the beach, and
there was a party atmosphere in the air.
The folks who got the prime spots along the beach
had set themselves up for a season's stay, building
elaborate stairways and decks off their RVs. Beach
umbrellas, bikes and happy visiting grandkids were
the theme of this RV park.
We continued south to Bay City, situated on Saginaw
Bay in the nook of Lake Huron that forms the base of
Michigan's thumb. During my stay in this state I
learned that when talking about Michigan geography
everyone whips out their left hand and points to the
spot they are referring to.
We arrived in Bay City on the day of
the hydroplane boat races. You could
hear the buzz of their engines long
before spotting them on the river.
The racecourse was a simple oval,
and the whole town turned out for the
event.
We got a great view from the bridge
overlooking the river at one end, and
got a good look at these crazy craft as they
periodically left the race to come into
the dock for a pit stop.
We walked among the trailers and pit
crews and watched one boat come get
launched back onto the racecourse
after some quickie repairs.
The boats were lined up along
the docks and sent off in
waves.
What fun to be right there on the dock
when this boat pulled over and the
driver crawled out of the cockpit.
Our last stop in Michigan was
Frankenmuth, a town settled by
German immigrants in 1845 and
redecorated to celebrate this German
heritage in the 1950's.
Touristy, but fun anyways, we got a kick out of walking
around.
A plaque informed us that the Bavarian Inn is one of
the ten largest restaurants in the US and served some 20 million
meals over the century from 1988 to 1998.
The huge restaurants on both sides of the street proudly
advertised their famous chicken dinners.
After some more family gatherings, we headed back to the airport
and jetted back to resume our normal lives in our trailer. We
hopped back in the Luvnest in Valencia, California and made a
beeline for San Diego, arriving just in time for their huge Mission
Bay July 4th bash. After a few days there we decided it was time
to start our summer travels for real. We crossed the scorching
California and Nevada deserts and made it to the cool, green mountains and glittering streams outside Ketchum, Idaho.
Roosevelt Lake, AZ – Desert Oasis
Roosevelt Lake, Arizona
April 5-18, 2009 - We left Chanute, Kansas in a blast of cold headwinds.
Those miserable winds pummeled us all the way across Oklahoma, Texas
and New Mexico. We were totally windblown by the time we arrived in
Arizona, and we were utterly fed up with fighting it every time we set foot
outside the trailer. Our usual mileage of 10 mpg while towing dropped as
low as 7.7 through parts of Oklahoma, and for the entire trip across
country our average was a dismal 8.5.
The truck and
trailer looked
like heck when
we got to
Arizona, and
we did too. So
it was with great excitement that I
opened our door and looked out
at the lake on our second
morning and felt not just warm
sun on my skin but the sweetest
of gentle breezes on my face.
This is one of those areas that is
a little jewel on our planet.
Coming into Windy Hill Recreation
Area there is a fantastic curvy
road, and I spent several happy
hours on two different days
running up and down the road
getting pictures of RVs as they
drove past.
Roosevelt Lake was dammed in 1911, and at the time was the largest
man-made lake in the world. We had lived in Phoenix, next door to this
little piece of heaven, for years, yet we had never been there. I couldn't
believe how beautiful it was. If we had known about it, we would have
camped there every spring and fall weekend in our popup tent trailer.
The lake is open to boaters of all kinds, and a marina sits next to the
visitors center. There are lots of houseboats at the marina. What a fun
place to roost for a while.
We had ridden our bikes on just about every road in the area with
various organized bike rides over the years, but the one spectacular
road that runs alongside the lake was a whole new discovery for us.
Everything
seemed to be
in bloom when
we arrived, and
the high winds
had blown
every bit of dust
and pollution to
kingdom come,
so the air was
crisp and clear.
The lake was
full to
overflowing,
and the views
in every
direction were
filled with the
promise of
spring.
We were blessed with a full moon
during our stay, and a group of birds
swooped back and forth in front of
the moon as it rose one evening.
The entire lake is smack in the
middle of Tonto National Forest, so
there is virtually no development
anywhere other than the slightly
developed campgrounds and an
Indian cliff dwelling site nearby. I
was amazed by how many
campgrounds there are, and how
many campsites within each
campground. The USFS has closed
several campgrounds and closed
many loops within the open
campgrounds, probably because
they just don't get enough
business to make it worthwhile to
maintain it all.
The campgrounds are set along little peninsulas, and many campsites
have a waterfront view. Whoever designed the campgrounds along this
lake did an outstanding job. There is boondocking too, but the
campgrounds are so spacious and pretty that we opted for a waterfront
site at the end of a peninsula instead.
Throughout our visit the cameras just kept clicking. In every direction
we turned there seemed to be another lovely shot. Friends of ours
were camped nearby, and each evening the discussion always seemed
to wander back to the various photos all of us had taken during the day.
One evening I
came back from a
bike ride to hear
an excited
discussion around
the campfire
about a clump of
clover and a bee.
This little bee had
unknowingly
become a
supermodel for the afternoon, and we
had fun comparing all the different
photos of him.
The Sonoran Desert is one of my
favorite places. It extends from
Arizona into Sonora, Mexico, and is
extremely lush, filled with a wide
variety of flowers, birds and cactus. It
is the only place in the world where
the wise old saguaro cactus chooses
to live, and they rule the landscape
with a myriad of personalities, all
seeming to wave a greeting to their fellow cactus.
The saguaros that have a cluster of arms are often 150 years old or
more. Those cactus grew up in a very different world -- one with a
small river instead of a lake, for starters.
The main road hugs the lake for many miles, and on a few
days we ventured out to Tonto Basin, a small community at
the far north end of the lake. On those morning drives the
hillsides were alive with bright yellow flowers and towering
cactus, looking down at the lake. In the distance we could see
Four Peaks, an aptly named mountain range that makes a distinct
landmark on the horizon when looking east from Phoenix. Here we got
to see its back
side.
A bridge spans
the river just
before the
dam, and every
time you drive
by it begs you
to take a
picture.
On several days we went out in the
kayak and pedaled and paddled
around. The wind resumed its howling
every few days, so we had some
sloppy times on the water with the
spray flying. But there were some
really calm days too. Those were
times of heavenly relaxation and
serenity.
The lake is an interesting habitat because it is in the
middle of the richest Sonoran Desert land, but
because the body of water is so large, ducks, grebes and even seagulls set up
housekeeping here too. Whenever we would go out in the kayak we were always
amazed to see hundreds of grebes swimming around. They would alert each other to
our presence with frantic calls, and as we approached, one by one they would dive
underwater. At the same time we could also hear the calls of the Gambel quail from
their perches in the desert scrub along the shore.
The fishermen complained
that the fishing wasn't too
good. That surprised us,
because we saw all kinds of huge fish leaping out of the water as we
paddled. Maybe their noisy powerboats were scaring off their catch.
The cycling in this area is spectacular as well.
There are a lot of organized rides sponsored by
the Arizona bike clubs that travel many of the
roads in this part of the state, however I know of
none that go along the lakeside road (route
188). It would be the perfect location for an
organized ride: stunning scenery, challenging
climbs, screaming descents, and lots of picnic
areas for rest stops.
Roosevelt Lake is a gorgeous place, and we
felt blessed to be able to spend a good bit of
time there.
A little cardinal sang his heart out on one of our last mornings.
He seemed so happy to be alive. Roosevelt Lake makes you feel
that way. Sadly, we eventually had to pack up and go. We drove
the beautiful lakeside road one last time and then turned west
once again to journey on to California.
Chanute, KS – A part of America’s Heartland
Remnants of a blizzard greeted us in Kansas
Hopefully this is the last snow we'll see for years!
Our sentiments, exactly.
The Santa Fe City Park waterfall was running at full volume after
the blizzard.
Boarded windows, "closed" signs, and storefronts for lease and
rent were signs of the times in Chanute.
A vendor hopes out-of-work customers can find a
silver lining...
The Safari Museum and Library, housed in the old train depot
A fellow tourist (or museum escapee?)
roams the sidewalks of Chanute.
Debbie took us on a tour of the trailers in the new
show room.
Leaving Kansas, we had hundreds of miles of prairie and farmlands ahead of us on our way to Arizona.
Chanute, Kansas
March 30 - April 1, 2009 - In search of warranty repairs for
the trailer (the stove burner knobs became immoble under
high heat and the pocket door to the bedroom had come off
its track), we drove north from Arkansas to Kansas. We felt
the warm air of the southern spring quickly slipping away.
Our beach days in Pensacola, just two weeks earlier,
seemed a lifetime ago as we drove north into a ferocious,
freezing headwind. A nasty blizzard blanketed much of
southern Kansas and northern Oklahoma two days before
we arrived, killing some 3,500 head of cattle in Texas.
Remnants of the storm were visible on the roadside. We
hadn't seen snow piles in a few years, and this was about as
much as we wanted to see for many years more!
We had enjoyed our visit to Chanute, Kansas
so much the previous year that we were
looking forward to seeing the town again. We
hoped to hook up with some of the friendly
people who had made us feel so welcome at
the NuWa plant. News in the RV industry and
world economy had gone from bleak last year
to jaw-droppingly disastrous this year. We
heard rumors that Elkhart, Indiana, home of
the vast majority of RV industry
manufacturers, had lost some 15,000 jobs.
We had also heard over the winter that, after a 60-day temporary factory shutdown,
NuWa had decided to close its doors permanently. With characteristic class and
concern for their customers, they had set aside enough cash to cover all warranty
repairs on new trailers until the warranties expired. To protect their shareholders' best
long term interests, however, they wanted to preserve what equity they had left. This
meant carefully liquidating their assets in an order that would keep the company as
attractive to prospective buyers as possible for as long as possible. But no new NuWa
trailers would be coming to market.
This depressing news
came at the same time the big three automakers' CEO's were flying
to Washington, DC on their corporate jets to plead for bailout money
to plug holes in their sinking ships. Plans for how the bailout money
might save those companies were nonexistent, but the wailing pleas
were heard worldwide. Meanwhile, NuWa had planned years ago for
a rainy day, and cash was available to keep their warranty service
department open for all recent buyers, like us, for as many years as
necessary.
So we were thrilled to hear the news that NuWa had changed
their plans and decided to squeeze service, production and
corporate offices into one building and resume production on
a much smaller scale as a more streamlined company in
June. When we arrived, the excitement at this prospect was
palpable. From the town's visitors center hosts to the skeletal
crew in the darkened hallways of the NuWa plant, hopes ran
high that NuWa would survive the economic calamity after all.
Chanute has a fun, quirky character beyond the NuWa factory and its steady stream of
RV-oriented visitors. Last year we enjoyed the Santa Fe City Park and its resident ducks
and geese and evening picnickers. This year we spent more time "downtown" amid the
historic buildings. The Safari Museum presents the memorabilia of former locals Osa
and Martin Johnson, travel adventurers who trekked to the world's most exotic locales
between 1917 and 1936. A giraffe statue outside the Tioga Suites made a fun sidewalk
companion.
Back at the NuWa plant, we
accidentally bumped into Neil Ford, president of NuWa, and he gave us
a tour of the plant, explaining how it would be laid out in the future. The
enormous factory floors stood silent and immaculately clean, a far cry
from the beating pulse of machinery and workers that throbbed through
the plant last year. A new area had been set aside as a showroom area,
and a collection of beautiful trailers stood ready for the new fixed-price
factory-direct purchasing program the company was implementing.
He sadly told us that their two excellent employees
who had taken such good care of us last year, Brett
and Russ, had taken positions elsewhere. So we
were delighted to see our friend Debbie was still in
the NuWa offices, and she gave us a wonderful,
detailed tour of each trailer in the show room.
The relationship between NuWa and Chanute is symbiotic, and when one is ailing the
other suffers as well. It was shocking, after visiitng Bentonville, Arkansas, the thriving
home of Walmart, heart of the American consumer economy, to wander through
America's heartland of Kansas to Chanute.
Bentonville's spiffy town
center fairly sparkled, with
an almost Disney-like flare,
showing us small town
America as it could be. In
contrast, Chanute's boarded
downtown windows, rows of
"closed" signs, and endless
stores for sale and for lease,
made us both ache inside.
The leprosy of Pay Day loan
stores was creeping in too.
Ironically, during
our stay, we watched a PBS special on the Airstream trailer caravans to
Mexico, Central America and Africa that took place during the 1950's. We
were amazed to learn that Airstream owners shipped their precious trailers
worldwide to embark on mammoth overland voyages together. In Africa
they traveled from Cape Town to Cairo! During the program we learned
that Airstream was the only trailer manufacturer, of 400, that survived the
Great Depression.
Which RV manufacturers will remain after the current shakedown? Our
hopes and bets are on NuWa. If they resume production as planned, they
may emerge from this economic disaster a stronger, leaner and better
company, producing even more clever and comfortable trailers for future
RVers.
Perhaps, amid all the government bailout money for the many corporations that squandered their fortunes long ago, there could be a
President's Hero Award for a small company that has tightened its belt and forged ahead, unaided by taxpayers, putting customers
and community first.
The wind shifted while we were in Chanute, and even though we retraced our route to the Oklahoma border, we found ourselves
fighting a ferocious, freezing headwind once again. That headwind blocked us all the way across Oklahoma, Texas and New
Mexico, for three solid days. Our trailer rocked all night outside Oklahoma City, buffeted by the wind, and it was pelted so hard with
sand and dust all night in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, that it sounded like a driving rain. The wind didn't even begin to
show hints of letting up until we had been parked at Roosevelt Lake, Arizona, for a few days.
Natchez Trace Parkway, MS – A Scenic Drive with No Trucks Allowed!
Welcome back to Natchez Trace
The Trace is perfect for a leisurely drive
We took a spin on the bikes
Wildflowers lined the road
A motorcycle group enjoys a morning ride
We take a side road to visit an Indian Mound
Riding down the side of the Indian Mound
A barn in the distance
This split-rail fence had no joinery - the rails were simply
laid on top of each other
Cows in the distance
Bursts of color everywhere
A lone tulip celebrates the
morning
Natchez Trace Parkway, Mississippi
March 20-21, 2009 - We reluctantly tore ourselves away from the sparkling waters
and soft sands of the Emerald Coast and made our way north.
We could have stayed on that beach forever, but we had two problems in the trailer
that needed attention. From day one our stove had acted up: if you cooked
something for a long time, eventually the burner knob wouldn't turn and you couldn't
adjust the flame. This meant that it was just about impossible to shift a pot from a
rolling boil to a gentle simmer.
Also, the sliding pocket
door that separated the
main room from the
bedroom had fallen off its
track. Neither of these
repairs was something
that Mark wanted to
tackle, especially
since the trailer was
still under warranty.
So we decided to
make a trip to the
NuWa factory in
Chanute, Kansas,
where the experts
were.
This change of plans
meant we would
retrace our steps
from last year,
traveling up through Alabama and Mississippi through Arkansas to the
southeast corner of Kansas. Poking around on the map we were happy
to see that this put the free campground at Rocky Springs on the
Natchez Trace right in our path.
The Natchez Trace is paradise for anyone that likes the simple pleasure
of going for a drive. It's a place to meander and ponder rather than a
route to get you somewhere. There aren't a lot of dazzling sights, but
there are endless miles of peaceful scenery with minimal traffic, clean
pavement and sweeping turns. It is ideal for bikes, motorcycles and cars that aren't in a hurry.
We rolled out our bikes and took a leisurely ride out and back along 15
miles of the Trace south of the campground. The air was fresh and clear,
flowers sprinkled the edges of the road with vibrant colors, and we
murmured to each other for the umpteen-millionth time, "What a great life!"
The Trace is layered in history, from prehistoric peoples to more
recent Indian cultures to the early settlers to modern America. The
ancestors of the Natchez Indian tribe lived along the route, and
evidence of their unusual customs has been found in their ancient
burial mounds. One Indian mound in particular had caught my
attention last year, and we took the little side route off the
Trace to see it once again.
There is not much to see but a small grassy hill topped with
informational plaques. However, their tales took my breath
away. Apparently the ancients had a radically different view
of the sanctity of human life than we do today. When a noble
man died, his slaves were strangled and buried with him. Far
more shocking, when a parent died, sometimes the surviving
parent killed their children as a sign of respect and grief.
It is easy from our viewpoint at this time in history to dismiss those
customs as barbaric, cruel, and unfair. However, in their society it
was somehow right and good and proper. Where our society would
have screamed "Murder!," theirs might have been nodding solemnly,
saying, "Yes, that was the right thing to do."
This was all very heady stuff, stamped out in a few brief
sentences on rusting metal National Park Service plaques placed
around the mound. The violent acts of the early peoples were
hard to fathom in such a bucolic setting. In the distance, the
cows were munching the grass, a barn stood quietly against the
treeline, and a split rail fence snaked its way across the meadow.
All around us the spring flowers were
bursting with color. Yellows, pinks
and pale blues filled the fields.
If you looked really closely, some of
the tiniest little blooms were the most
elaborate, but as a group they
formed a carpet of color.
Back at the campground, right outside the bathrooms, a
single tulip was opening up and greeting the day. How could
that bulb have possibly gotten there? There wasn't another tulip for miles around. It seemed yet
another mystery in this very mysterious place.
We said goodbye to the people we'd met at the campground, a young woman riding her bike
down the Trace for Spring Break and an older grey bearded guy on a motorcycle going the other
way. A little more north off the Trace for us, and we would soon find ourselves in the Ozarks.
Ozarks (AR) – Of Presidents, Billionaires and Whittlers
Bill Clinton Museum, Little Rock, AR
White House
Countless Images of Bill
Mark finds the Beatles in the Peter Max Collection
Clinton's Presidential Car
White House Table Setting, Selected by Hillary
Hillary's Gown
Socks plays sax
Lance Armstrong gave
Clinton a Trek bike
Banjos
Pickin'
Mountain View, Arkansas
Storefronts in Mountain View
Mark tries out a chair
Whittling soup spoons (note the pile of shavings)
The "Pickin' Porch" comes alive during the Folk Music
Festival
Unique music store
Headstock
THe Dulcimer Shoppe where beautiful Mountain
Dulcimers are made
Feelin' Groovy with a Dulcimer
Haromonizing
An autoharp
Putting the finishing touches on a dulcimer
Sam Walton's first store in Bentonville, AR
Walton's wasn't the biggest game in town at first
City park with a Confederate statue
opposite Sam's store
Storefronts in Bentonville, AR
Bike shop with a mountain bike frame
for a door handle
Little Rock, Mountain View & Bentonville
March 22-27, 2009 - We left the serenity of the Natchez Trace in
Missippi and continued north to Arkansas. For a week we were treated
to some of the highlights of this state by a dear friend who took us on
day trips to places we might not have otherwise visited.
The Bill Clinton Museum in Little Rock is housed in a unique building
affectionately referred to as a motorhome on stilts. It juts out over the
banks of the Arkansas River and is elevated to allow the floodwaters
plenty of room to rage underneath. Perhaps this choice of setting and
architecture is symbolic of elements of Clinton's eight year term.
Whether you are a Clinton fan or not, the museum offers a look at his
presidency in the context of history, presented in the most positive light
possible.
The museum was hosting an exhibit of paintings by Peter Max when we
were there. As we entered, there was a beautiful image of the White
House and portraits of many recent presidents as well, including, of
course, a series of images of Mr. Clinton.
Mark is a die-hard Beatles fan, and he loves Max's artwork, as it
has close ties with the Beatles. He quickly found a Beatles
painting too.
The museum opens with an exhibit of Clinton's presidential car. It was
built with all the latest high-tech gear, but as we read the list of
antiquated communications equipment, we suddenly realized just how
long ago Clinton was president. 1992-2000 is quickly slipping into
history.
We had not realized that Hillary ordered a complete new table setting
for entertaining guests at the White House. The plates featured a
bold image of the White House in the center, encircled by an ornate
design, giving visiting heads of state no doubts about just where they
were and who was entertaining them.
Seeing this table setting and one of Hillary's
gowns along with many photos of them both
dressed for elegant White House events
impressed upon us just how much these
grand, formal social events are a part of the
president's job.
There were glass cases filled with stunning
gifts the Clintons had received from leaders
all over the world, many from remote, small
countries. Our favorites were an image of
Socks the cat playing the saxaphone and a
Trek bike and yellow jersey given by Lance
Armstrong (however, we were amused that
the bike's drive-train was Shimano Ultegra,
not the high end components a president
might expect or deserve).
Music is abundant in Arkansas,
and on another day we stopped
into a guitar shop in Searcy and
admired a wall full of banjos. Two
men sat in the middle of the shop,
happily strumming away. The
younger guitar player was
accompanying his 85-year-old
friend on the mandolin.
The Ozark town of Mountain View
hosts a huge Folk Music Festival every
year, and when we visited, the town was
gearing up for the festivities.
All the buildings in this town have stone
walls that are a pretty yellow-orange hue.
Mountain View is
a wonderful Main
Street walking
town, great for
browsing and
window shopping.
Mark found a perfect seat for himself outside a furniture
shop that features oversized furniture made of rough hewn
logs.
Inside, I spotted a sign whose words ring true for us. On
days like this, when we discover a new town or place that
lifts our spirits, we feel the fleeting nature of time and
preciousness of every moment more intensely than we ever did in our old lives.
We turned a corner and saw two old men
happily whiling away the hours whittling large
wooden cooking spoons. They were creating
a large pile of cedar shavings as they
whittled, and we watched them for a long
time. They expertly rotated the wood in their
hands and shaved off paper thin strips of
wood, working together in contented silence.
Not far from where they sat, Mark discovered the "Pickin' Porch"
where musicians gather to harmonize. What a cool town. We want
to return some year when the music festival is in full swing.
Across the street is an old Victorian building that houses a large
music store, and Mark tried a variety of guitars. Many were very
ornate with elaborate headstocks and inlaid wood on the guitar body.
A few miles outside of town we found the Dulcimer Shoppe where
beautiful mountain dulcimers are hand crafted and sold. Long ago we
had visited a tiny dulcimer store in Sedona, Arizona, where the shop
owner was playing "Feelin' Groovy" by Simon and Garfunkle. This
memory had remained with us over the years, so whenever we
thought of dulcimers we thought of that Sedona shop owner playing
that song.
As soon as we walked into the Dulcimer Shoppe in Mountain View,
Arkansas, Mark asked Judy, who was showing us dulcimers, if she could
play "Feelin' Groovy." I laughed -- how could she just come up with that
out of thin air? She asked Mark to hum a few lines, and within minutes
she was playing it expertly on her dulcimer!
She called out to
her boss, Jim
Woods, owner of the store: "Get a base and accompany me!" He obliged,
and all of a sudden we were being treated to a spirited rendition of the
Simon and Garfunkle classic.
Jim had worked in the corporate world in Texas for too many years and
came out to Mountain View to buy the Dulcimer Shoppe and start a new
life. His love of music and beautiful instruments is infectious, and he
casually grabbed an autoharp as he told us his story and began playing for
us. Back behind a wall of glass we watched the dulcimers being lovingly
made.
Deep in the Ozarks, we felt like we were reaching into the heart of
American culture, one that is home grown, a little rough around the edges perhaps, and lacking any kind of commercial spin. So it
surprised us as we drove along the rural roads and suddenly found ourselves scanning the radio dial and counting eight radio
stations broadcasting in Spanish. As we listened to a Mexican um-pah beat for a while, I thought of my German ancestors who had
settled in Wisconsin in the mid-1800's. The parents spoke German exclusively at home, and only two of the four children were
born on US soil. At night the father read aloud to the family by oil lamp. He would read latest Charles Dickens novel translated into
German. Suddenly the Spanish radio reaching out to Latinos in the Ozarks made sense and
seemed as American to me as everything else we had seen in Arkansas.
With these thoughts in mind, we pulled into Bentonville, Arkansas, arguably the birthplace of
modern America's consumer based economy and, by extension, possibly the very heart of
modern America.
It is the home of the Walton family's retail dynasty and site of Sam Walton's first store,
predecessor to today's Walmart chain. Opened May 9th, 1950, the storefront is humble and
simple, not even the largest building
on the block. It faces a town square
which is built around a large statue of
a confederate soldier.
Unlike most American small towns,
this one is flush with Walmart money, and there is a
plaque thanking a Walmart CEO for the investment
the company has made in sprucing up the town.
Every building on the square sports a fresh coat of
paint and bright clear windows, a rarity in small
town America where boarded up windows and
vacant store fronts are far more common. Walton's
store is now a Walmart visitors center, and there
are wonderful black and white photos from the
1950's showing the store's simple beginnings.
Sam's plan was to make just one cent profit on every item in the
store, regardless of what the "market value" might be. He
resented the way small town proprietors tended to overcharge for
necessities, and his intention was to bring the prices that were
available to big city residents to all the small towns of America. He
bought an airplane to make it easy to visit his far-flung stores, and
later said that without Walton Aviation, Walmart never would have
become what it did.
It is ironic that by trying to serve the small town American
consumer he also helped put China, India and other distant
societies plunk in the middle of the world
economy. At the same time, he led the
homogenization of small town America, a high
cultural price that we have all happily paid so we
could have easy access to cheap consumer
goods.
Mom-and-pop stores still thrive in other
industries, however, bringing color and charm to
their communities, and our sampling of Arkansas music shops had proven that. Mark
especially liked the local Bentonville bike shop, Phat Tire (one of his favorite beers as well).
On their front door they replaced the traditional door handle with a mountain bike frame.
The list of local weekend rides they had posted looked very tempting too.
However, we had an appointment for warranty work on our trailer in Chanute, Kansas, and
we had to keep moving.
Florida Panhandle – Emerald Coast Gems
Apalachicola oyster boats
The Apalachicola Sponge Museum
Inside the Sponge Museum - lots of cool antiques
Storefronts in Apalachicola
St. George Island offers a quiet bay and beaches.
This guy sunned himself for hours while campers stopped for photos
St. George Island State Park on a blustery day
Shell-strewn beach
Pine Log State Park
Lake Powell park shrouded in mist
A bald eagle watched us kayaking below
Cycling near Rosemary Beach
Middle Eastern style swimming pool
in a new development
Gulf Islands National Seashore - what a spot!
The Emerald Coast
Crashing surf - Gulf Islands National Seashore
Hurricanes Ivan and Dennis hit this coast back to back.
The surf and winds were so powerful the entire road was
hurtled hundreds of yards away, in rumpled pieces.
Sugar sand beaches line the Emerald Coast
The sand is so white and so thick it looks like snow.
Love on the beach
Sunset from our doorway
A great shoreside spot to spend a few days.
Apalachicola, St. George Island, Gulf Islands Nat'l Seashore, FL
February, 2009 - We continued our tour of the state parks in Florida's
Forgotten Coast, leaving St. Joseph State Park and stopping in the
cute seaside town of Apalachicola on our way to St. George Island State
Park. We had visited Apalachicola last year and been enchanted by its
unique shops and history, and we found it equally charming on our
second visit.
The town was once a bustling cotton shipping port, and it now harbors a
sizeable fleet of oyster boats. There was an active sponge harvesting
industry too, and the Sponge Museum offered not only a glimpse of that
unusual industry but a terrific collection of curious antiques as well.
We picked up another jar of the semi-sweet locally harvested Tupelo
honey and spent a happy morning wandering through the many
shops in town.
Over on St. George Island we checked into the state park that fills the tip
of a long, narrow sand peninsula. Like St. Joseph, this park borders
both a shallow saltwater bay and the Gulf coast. The bay is sleepy, lined
with skinny trees with exposed roots. We learned that a tidal surge had
covered the entire end of the island in recent years, leaving the bayside
trees immersed in salt water longer than they liked, and sadly killing many of them.
This gives the bayside a slightly haunted look.
Lots of swamp creatures
patrol the area, and we
noticed unusual birds standing
in the trees and a sneaky
alligator biding his time at the
water's edge.
The coastal beaches were
wind-blown and blustery when
we were there. At night the
roar of the waves on the
beach filled the trailer, even
though the campground is a
healthy distance from the
beach.
The beaches extend for many miles, and we did lots of invigorating
walks along the water's edge. The seashells were abundant, as they
had been at St. Joseph State Park, and the campground had a
lovely display giving the names of all the different creatures' shells
that could be found along the beach.
Leaving the Forgotten Coast, we ventured slightly west and stayed in
two more parks. Pine Log State Park boasts vast stands of pines, a
terrific mountain biking trail (this from an avowed roadie who does not
particularly enjoy mountain biking) and a lovely row of campsites
overlooking a pond.
Lake Powell park sits on the edge of a lake that was the perfect
place for kayak exploration. The morning awoke under a shroud of
thick mist that gave the park's trees a mystical look.
Later in the day, once the sun was
victorious over the fog, we took the
kayak into the far corners of the lake
where we spotted a Bald Eagle. He
watched our bright yellow craft for a
long suspicious while and finally flew
off with a majestic sweep of his
wings.
This portion of the Emerald Coast has
a few upscale communities, and we
rode our bikes through the South
Walton Beach and Rosemary Beach
areas one morning. Like everywhere
else in this country, many developers'
dreams have evaporated in all stages
of construction since the housing market crash (not to
mention this area's sudden face-off with nature in a
series of hurricanes). We rode through a community of
graceful homes that stopped sprouting when only about
20% were built. Boardwalks meandered through the
community and over waterways, offering pretty views of
what could have been.
A fellow cyclist stopped and took our photo in front of
the grand entrance to the strip of road that defines a
particularly ritzy part of the coast.
She recommended that we check out the Middle
Eastern style swimming pool that was the central
attraction of one new development. I wouldn't have
thought that this distinctly Arabic looking community
would have been a big seller among Americans in this
era, but sure enough, we saw several sales people with
clipboards in hand and prospective customers in tow.
Further west along the Emerald Coast we
discovered the Gulf Islands National
Seashore. This jewel of a drive presents
the stunning coast at its best, especially
on bright sunny days. The sand is
blindingly white, and the water is truly
green in places. We walked the beach
and our shorts soon gave way to bathing
suits and frolicks in the waves.
The signs warned of rip-tides, but just like the warnings of bison gorings
at Yellowstone, you don't really take those things seriously at first glance.
I was mighty curious about the dark green band of water that is behind
Mark in this photo. It beckoned me in the way that ocean water always
has since I was a a small child. I just had to find out how deep it was
there. So I bounded out into the waves, going from waist deep to over
my head in one step. Hmmm... it was deep! I turned around to swim in
and soon found that my most powerful strokes were not moving me
forward. Mark stood on the edge of the water, just 100 feet from me, but
despite my best effort, I couldn't make any progress towards him.
Suddenly the sign about rip-tides came back to me. Is this a rip-tide?
Yikes! What had the sign said about them? I had no idea. Mark was
yelling something at me from the beach, but I couldn't hear. I just dug in and swam towards him for all I was worth, valiantly
ignoring the rising feeling of panic in my heart. In a few minutes (that felt like forever), I finally found my footing on the sand, dug
my toes in, and hiked my way back to him, uphill in aggressive water. I stood next to him on the beach, trying not to let my
pounding heart and panting breath be noticeable, and feigned nonchalance about the whole thing. "Great workout!" I said
cheerfully. Mark quietly shook his head at me, hands on his hips. "Didn't you read the sign? Swim sideways, parallel to the beach,
when you are in a rip-tide." ... Oh, that's the trick!
The power of the ocean is deceptive along this idyllic stretch of coast,
with its shimmering, rich shades of turquoise. The waves show dark
green just before they break, and the sandpipers dart in and out of the
water effortlessly, living their entire lives on the edge. However, we
learned from a local ocean kayaker that in 2004 Hurricane Ivan
completely destroyed the road along this strip of land, effortlessly
tossing it in tiny pieces all over the inland side of the peninsula.
Eager to stay on top of repairs, the state replaced the road
immediately. Five days after reopening the road, Hurricane Dennis
roared through. The sea chewed up the new road and spewed it all
over the bayside dunes a second time. I was stunned to walk the
dunes and find evidence of this man's story all over the place, as far
as 300 yards from the road.
This savage aspect of nature seems
implausible as you sift the fine sugar
white sand through your hands. In
places along the Gulf Islands National
Seashore it looked more like snow
than like sand.
It had the same texture as the sand
we found in the Coral Pink Sand
Dunes park in Utah, but here it was
pure white rather than a rusty burnt
orange. Riding our bikes alongside
the sand "snowdrifts," we thought of
all our friends and family who have had such a
snowy winter in Michigan.
The spectacular scenery on these glorious sunny days brought out the most
romantic notions in everyone along the beach. It is a place for lovers, and this
young couple found each other quite irresistable.
We stayed along the beach for many days, watching the coast change from minute
to minute as a series of storms blew through. It was the perfect place to slow down
again and get back in touch with ourselves and with nature before heading on to
Alabama and a gradual trek west with a fun return visit to the Natchez Trace.
Florida Panhandle – Don’t Forget the “Forgotten Coast”
Delta Downs horse parade
"And they're off!"
Mark would have put money on this horse...
Our greeters at the first sight of the ocean in Florida
Young love on the beach
Panama City Beach
Mexico Beach
The Driftwood Inn
Mini-chapel, a labor of love
Rare white squirrel at Ochlockonee River State Park
Walking trails and "pecker pines" at Ochlockonee
River State Park
Ochlockonee River
Hobie inflatable kayak, with paddles AND pedals
Gulf Coast at St. Joseph State Park
The beaches are serene and quiet
St. Joseph, bayside.
Grandson & grandpa fish from shore.
St. Joseph State Park
St. Joseph State Park
Pelicans enjoy their view of the "Forgotten Coast."
Beautiful boardwalks through the pines and
grasslands in St. Joseph State Park
Delta Downs Race Track, LA, & "The Forgotten Coast" FL
February, 2009 - We left San Diego and started a cross-country trek to
visit Mark's son at Navy Dive School in Panama City, Florida. We didn't
intend to cover the distance quickly, but suddenly found ourselves doing
400-500 mile days. I-10 through Texas stretches for 880 miles, and you
get a sense of treading water somewhere around San Antonio. We
wondered if we'd ever get out of Texas. So it was with exhaustion and
relief that we finally pulled off the interstate in Louisiana to stop at Delta
Downs Casino.
We were simply
hoping for a
quiet night's
sleep, but when
I began to
close the
shades I noticed that there was a horse racetrack right behind where we
were parked, and the stadium lights were on! We wandered over, and
suddenly found ourselves swept up in the horse racing scene.
I had never been to a racetrack before, and I was amazed as the
horses were paraded and their credentials were read by the
announcer. The jockeys were smaller than the Tour-de-France
cyclists who specialize in climbing, and the horses were lean, fit and
eager to race.
The betting office opened, the stats for each horse were displayed on a
huge electronic board, and a line of seasoned racetrack bettors
suddenly formed.
While the TV cameras rolled, a gun went off, and the ground
rumbled beneath our feet. Suddenly, a hurtling pack of hooves and
snorting nostrils streaked past us.
As a little boy, Mark spent a lot of
time at the horse races with his
beloved grandpa, and he had told
me, "Watch horse #2." Sure
enough, that horse won, and
Mark caught the winning moment
on camera. Too bad he hadn't
bet a buck or so on that horse, it
would have been a really good
payout!
That happy evening's unplanned
entertainment put smiles on our
faces that were still there two
days later when a group of
seagulls greeted us at the first
tiny beach on the Emerald Coast
in Florida. Panama City Beach
was just
starting a warm
spell when we
arrived, and we
made a beeline
for the famed
spring
breakers'
beach.
There is something about turquoise water and white sand
and young lovers romping around that makes the heart sing.
Panama City Beach is an arcade and mini-golf heaven, but
the beach is pure and true, even though high-rises anchor it
to the modern era.
We took a side trip to Mexico
Beach, a delightful, tiny, seaside
community that is all low-rise
buildings offering more of that
beautiful sugar-sand beach.
Friends of ours were staying at
the Driftwood Inn, a beautiful
property that is worth a visit even if you aren't lucky
enough to get a room. It is charming and artsy and a
little funky, with antiques and a unique mini-chapel that
the original owner built for his wife.
From Mexico Beach we began a tour
of three state parks along the
"Forgotten Coast." The first was
Ochlockonee River State Park, a
lovely park amid thousands of skinny
"pecker pines."
We had read that "a patient observer
may be rewarded with a sighting of
the rare white squirrel, a local
mutation that is not an albino."
On our very first hike we saw one.
What luck! Like many park
animals, he was unafraid of us,
and he busied himself eating nuts
and scampering up and down
tree trunks without the slightest
concern for our presence.
This park sits at the confluence of
two rivers and has several pretty
hiking trails. We had just
purchased an inflatable tandem
kayak as a combination 5th
anniversary gift and pair of
birthday gifts for each other, and
we couldn't wait to launch it in the
river. It is a very cool kayak that has
pedals as well as paddles, perfect for
a pair of cyclists. And it fits in our basement (barely!).
The air was about 50 degrees when we first set it up on the river's edge, and we were both
bundled in many layers of clothing. Mark hopped in and situated himself while I chatted with a
pair of experienced kayakers who had just shown up on the beach.
"Does that have pedals?" the veteran kayaker asked me. "Yeah!" I said proudly, "Isn't it cool?
This is our first time out!" I confidently put one foot in the kayak to launch it, taking care not to
get my other foot wet as I pushed off from the shore. In an instant, I was over the side, one leg
looped over the edge of the boat, hanging on for dear life, while the other sank steadily deeper
until I was submerged, half under the boat, in cold water up to my neck. "Sweety!' Mark called
out. "You didn't want to get your feet wet, and now look at you!"
Very funny!
I found my footing and scrambled ashore, squeezing gallons of water out of the arms of my
jacket. Why do these kinds of things always happen with an audience? After a change of
clothes and a few colorful remarks from yours truly, we eventually got the kayak launched, both
of us dry and in the proper seats in the boat. What a blast. It flies along effortlessly and opens
up all kinds of possibilities for exploration we could never do from shore.
We moved over to St. Joseph State Park where we spent a few days perched on the end of a
long skinny peninsula of sand. The roar of the waves lulled us to sleep every night,
accompanied only occasional by an owl nearby our campsite.
We had stayed there last year, but
we got better weather this year
(fewer bugs)
and enjoyed
many
wonderful
beach-combing
walks along the
shore.
My mom visited
us for a week,
and as we
walked and
talked, catching up on all kinds of things, we had to stop every so often to
look around and soak in the gorgeous colors. The many pretty shells
evoked all kinds of creative ideas for crafts and decorations, as well as
thoughts of the creatures that had once lived inside.
It is fortunate that this is the
"Forgotten Coast," because it is
very sleepy and almost feels
undiscovered. The sugar sand
brings out the kid in
everyone, and a grandson-
grandpa pair were fishing
happily from the shore,
poles vertical and ready,
and souls relaxed and free.
As we asked the many
fishermen along the beach
what they were catching,
everyone had hopes for various kinds of fish, but no one was
catching much of anything, and nobody seemed to care either. It
was too beautiful to feel anything but joy at being alive.
St Joseph State Park opens onto a shallow bay as well as the
Gulf, and the bay side retains some of the swampy feeling of the
inland rivers. The shorebirds like to mingle with the swamp
birds, and the brackish water from the rivers mixes with the tidal
waters of the ocean.
Everywhere you look you feel
the essence of peace.
Boardwalks connect the two
campgrounds, taking strollers
on a tour of the marshlands.
Mom and I sat for a while,
contemplating the swaying
grasses and the ibis and
herons that stalked their prey
among the rushes. It was an
easy decision to stay in
Florida's Panhandle a bit longer.