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Hit The Beach

Mileage Update:   Hike  147  Bike  378  Run  240   Drive  31300

 

HIT THE BEACH

 

After 4 months on the road touching every corner of the country, we reached San Diego just before Thanksgiving, to spend the holidays with family. In San Diego, there is one center of activity: the beach.  After a month in the Southern California winter sun, we have had plenty of sand and surf.

Laying on the beach irradiating our epidermis is not our style, however.  Fortunately, the shore of the Pacific Ocean is great for other types of activity.  We rode our bicycles 24 miles along the Silver Strand, a narrow strip of sand that separates the Great Blue Ocean from the San Diego Bay and extends from Coronado Island south to where you can see Tijuana.  For variety, we would  bike Highway 101 up the beach a dozen miles from Solano Beach to Leucadia, or from  the beach at Carlsbad south to Encinitas.  It is a dangerous bike ride, however; you could easily run into a Volkswagon while looking out at the dozens of surfers riding the sparkling waves. 

For variety, a run along the beach is a great way to get breathless.  The path along Mission Bay is a favorite, but the Pacific Beach boardwalk or the  tide channel of the San Diego River also offer exercise with a view.  For variety, the run can start at Spanish Landing on San Diego Bay and run the waterfront past the four-masted schooner Star of India, and on to picturesque Seaport Village on the Bay. 

Perhaps a morning walk for relaxation.  Sunset Cliffs affords a tidepool walk looking down on the crashing surf, but don't step too close to the edge of the sandy cliffs; missing sections of the old concrete walkway attest to the sea's power to reclaim the land.  After a cup of coffee, you can walk out the Ocean Beach pier, where the winter waves splash up over the walkway, 15 feet above the water.  Strolling up the beach from the pier you might want to stop and admire the beach's Christmas tree, a 40 foot tall cut evergreen thrust into the sand at a rakish angle.  Beach balls festoon the holiday tree like giant Christmas ornaments.  In order to fit in with the beach locals in "OB", you should be wearing your Uggs, the fuzzy-lined suede boots favored by surfers and beach bums.

Next comes Sunday, and at Shannon's house that can only mean one thing:  time to go down to the Convention Center on the waterfront and join her group that runs the stairs of the Center for an hour, taking a break every 10 sets of stairs to run sprints out along the beach of the Embarcadero.  At least the view across the  bay makes up for the pain.

The beach life has been fun, but now our time has come to an end.  We vacuumed the Cape Cod sand out of the floor of the van, brushed away a few stray red and yellow leaves that had hitched a ride from Vermont, and picked the Georgia pine needles out of the carpet.  With the van cleaned and repacked, we are driving up Highway 101, watching the beach recede in the rear view mirror.

 

posted by Lee | 0 Comments

Pause by the Pacific

Updated mileage:  hike 147 miles  bike 267 miles  run 164 miles  Drive 28592

Pause  by the Pacific:

Our "Here to There Tour" has reached San Diego for a holiday respite.  After wandering around America for 4 months, we crossed the last set of mountains, entered the Pacific Time Zone, and reached the shores of "our" ocean again.

We are staying with Shannon and Landon, swapping our van for a real bed for a little bit.  The holidays will be spent with family and visitors in the warm Southern California sunshine.  We are running around Ocean Beach, biking around Mission Bay, and risking our lives on the San Diego Freeway.  We are taking time to read some of the many  books that we have bought and started reading during our travels.  During our break we are working on some long-range clinic plans, and finishing a web site for the clinic (a long overdue project).  I have rented a bass and I am spending several hours a day practicing to regain my "chops" after 4 months without my big instrument.  Our "granddog" Timber enjoys having someone else to take him on walks and to the dog park.

After Thanksgiving we will take a few trips out from San Diego, but soon enough the holidays will come and go (although it is hard to get that Christmas Feeling when it is 75 degrees out every day).  The first of the year will be here soon, and we will be headed back to Seattle.

 

 

posted by Lee | 0 Comments

West By Southwest

Updated mileage:  Hike 145  Bike 239  Run 146  Drive 20494

West By Southwest

After leaving Oklahoma and a brief dash across the Texas Panhandle, we entered the Southwest.  The sights change immediately: different plants, weather, place names.  We will try to convey our Southwest tour with a storm of tumblewords:

                                                    white sands

                               dunes             gypsum        playa

     soaptree yucca           saltbush             cottonwoods          shallow water table

                             fossil roots               basin                  interdunal

                                                rocket test range

                                                    launch failure

                                                     White Sands

 

                                              truth or consequences

                     campground          elephant butte          sky of stars

   main street              red dirt                    twilight run               resevoir

                        small town             moonrise            desert shadows

                                            Truth or Consequences

 

                                               albuquerque

                   mexican food         metropolitan          starbucks

bike ride              cottonwood bosque         rio grande           warm days

                 camels                    eagles               painted freeways

                              route 66            car hop drive in

                                          Albuquerque

     

                                              las vegas

                  pinyon pines        chill weather     hispanic culture

encanto cafe          bilingual           luis the proprietor         breakfast conversation

                  plaza                   college town                 history

                              jesse james               butch cassidy

                                               las vegas

 

                                               taos

                        mountain canyon    pueblos     curio shops

fry bread               dust              saint francis cathedral           plaza

                     kit carson           santa fe trail         silver and turquoise

                                            Taos

 

                                              santa fe

                     plaza              galleries             canyon road

state capital          guitar shop          sopapillas             blue corn cafe

                   still cold           church            travel on

                                              Santa Fe               

 

                                             flagstaff

                     canyon de chelly      native culture         cliff dwellings

bitter cold                    sedona                      oak creek            canyon hike

                sun on rocks           vista cantina           shops

                                              Flagstaff

 

                                             tucson

                       desert museum    javelina       harris hawk flights

ocotillo                  cacti            hummingbirds                saguaro

                 catalina campground    ice cream       national park

                                              Tucson

              

                                         

posted by Lee | 1 Comments

Arkansas Travellers

Updated mileage  Run 144  Hike 140  Bike 239  Drive 19358

Arkansas Travellers

We have allowed our travel to be guided by day-to-day whims.  While traversing Alabama, we thought about heading down to the Gulf Coast on our way west, but Terri noticed that Clinton's Presidential Library was is Little Rock, Arkansas.  A right turn and we were on our way to Arkansas.

Little Rock is one of those places where we could have spent another week, and we plan to come back.  The Clinton Library was very impressive; it brought the years of the late 90s into focus, and you could read many of the documents that were behind the current events of the time.  I was also inspired by the greatness of the President--sadly diminished by the notorious affair. We stayed at a campground in the area, and the following morning we went in search of a bicycle trail.

Our morning first took us to Starbucks, where we laid out our maps and went online with our computer to seek out trails in the area.  Four men in their 40s were at the next table, and asked where we were going.  Once we explained that we were just looking for a place to go, we got a 30 minute discussion of the must-see areas.  It started with the Rivertrail downtown, so we headed straight there.

At the river, 3 blocks from the Clinton Museum, we found a footpath called the Medical Mile.  Along this pleasant walk various local healthcare organizations had built a route that was both a beautiful walk and an encouragement to a healthy lifestyle.  Reminders of the keys to health (diet, exercise, safety, etc) were tastefully incorporated into the decor.

After this walk we went into the Farmer's Market just up the riverbank. On our way in we passed a man with bicycling clothes and helmet, and asked "where do we ride?"  He was very friendly and helpful; in fact, he was just waiting for a friend, and then we could join him on their morning ride.  We had to go back and get our bikes, but we followed his directions over a nearby bridge to a trail on the other side of the river, which stretched 8 miles upriver to the "Dam Bridge".  This trail was a delight, and we rolled along the river bank, viewing herons in the water and bald eagles overhead.  We went across hayfields and thru autumnal woods.  We ended up at the Dam Bridge, a pedestrian bridge over the Arkansas River.  This bridge was 100 feet up above a dam which trapped a large lake behind it.  We stopped at the top of the bridge to watch a small paddle-wheeler tourist boat as it went thru the locks, and listened to the calliope on the boat tooting "When The Saints Go Marching In" as the boat continued upriver into the lake.  The ride home was equally enjoyable.  The trail was full of families out for a Saturday morning.  Fathers and sons rode bikes, grandparents and grandchildren walked the path hand in hand, and dogs pulled their owners along for the sheer joy of an autumn day.  By the time we got back to the Riverfront, we were hungry.

Fortunate for us, the Farmer's Market had a number of places that had interesting food, so we got lunch and took it out into the open air by the river.  On our way back to the car, we stopped into the Clinton Museum Store (unlike most museums, the store was in a different building, an old waterfront building that had been restored.  Even Clinton's store was inspirational.  Not only did it have the normal memorabilia and souveniers (my favorite was the "I Miss Bill" T-shirt, and they had a number of them that were personally signed by folks like Madeline Albright, Jesse Jackson, and Sting), but also lots of things related to Clinton's passions.  The civil rights library and the music section were particularly inviting.  We did, of course, have to get a few books.

After this enjoyable to Little Rock, we had the treat of driving northwest thru the Ozarks.  These hills were resplendent in their colors, and we only regretted we did not have time to explore some of areas along that way that our Starbucks friends had suggested.  But we will be back.

posted by Lee | 1 Comments

Pennies

Updated mileage:  Bike 239 miles Hike 138 miles  Run 141 miles  Drive 19020

Pennies 

The sign on the railing above Plymouth Rock said "Do Not Throw Pennies Onto Plymouth Rock".  It would not have occurred to me that a prohibition against penny-throwing was necessary, but as I looked over the railing I saw at least a dozen coins scattered around this national landmark.

First a word about Plymouth Rock.  The storied landing place of the Mayflower Pilgrims was less than impressive.  The Rock itself was smaller than a parlour loveseat and sits half-buried in the sand at the harbour in Plymouth, Massachussets.  On the surface of this otherwise nondescript rock was the date "1620".  Expecting a boulder of mythic proportions, its physical size was disappointing.  The Rock’s history was even more sorry.  Apparently nobody had worried about where Capt. John Smith's boot first touched earth in his new home until 120 years later, when some citizen pointed to this lump of stone and proclaimed that it was the very spot where the Mayflower passengers disembarked.  After another 100 years they decided to move it to a safer spot downtown, but the rock broke in half when they tried to pull it out of the sand.  Leaving one half stuck in the sand, they took the other half down to city hall where it languished for another 50 years. Then it was moved to a different location in town.  Sometime in the 1900s the town decided to take it back to the beach, where they glued it back onto the half that was still buried in the sand, surrounding it with a fence and a stern admonition against the throwing of currency,

On our travels, we have seen pennies thrown onto and into a variety of public memorials.  Nearly every fountain in a city park or civic plaza has coins sparkling under the water.  The grand semicircular pools with arching water jets that flank the entrance to the Clinton Presidential Center in Little Rock have an impressive collection of pennies in them.  On the Battle Green in Lexington, Kentucky stands a marble monument commemorating the British attack on the Minutemen.  The 12 foot spire of marble was placed in 1790 and is somewhat worse for wear, so a wrought-iron fence now surrounds it for protection.  Pennies are strewn everywhere around the base of the stone memorial, and several pennies sit perched on the narrow rim of the monument's pedestal. Paul Revere's grave in Boston was surrounded with an iron  fence and a small fortune in pocket change.  Paul was a master metalsmith and might have wondered "who took the copper out of the penny?"  In Philadelphia we had to pay a couple of dollars to enter the graveyard where Benjamin Franklin was buried.  His grave was also covered in pennies, and you could almost hear the Poor Richard warning that "a penny saved is a penny earned"; he would certainly frown on the waste of a good coin.  In Mystic, Connecticut we walked thru an historical replica of the old whaling town.  You could walk into most of the old shops, but the bank had iron bars across the open door.  Inside, just a penny's throw away, sat the bank's vault, door invitingly open.  Hundreds of pennies had been tossed into and around the vault, where they looked perfectly at home.

My first contact with this phenomenon of throwing pennies into inaccessible public receptacles was when I was an impressionable five-year-old.  Children's Hospital had a "Wishing Well" where children could make a wish and throw a penny into the well.  I was always a little confused about this: Clearly the money went to the hospital, helping needy children get well.  What I couldn't figure out was whether you had to use your wish for the unfortunate sick children, or whether they could have your money but you could wish for something for yourself, sort of a win-win situation.  And what if you threw in a nickel?  Did you get five wishes, or one really big wish?  These are the ethical dilemmas that trouble a kindergartener.  But I loved to throw that little copper coin into the well.

Why do people have this desire to throw pennies into fountains, ponds, and small fenced enclosures of all sorts?  I have a number of possible theories:

1.   People like to donate to the public institutions represented by the fountain or monument.  Certainly the caretakers rake up the coins regularly, and in some small way this might help with the upkeep of public areas.

2.   People are fascinated by inaccessibility.  You can see the bottom of the pool or the fenced-off gravestone, but you can't get to it.  Adding small change enhances this effect--the money is there, just out of reach,  Like real life.

3.   Children and men enjoy the challenge of target practice.  In many cases the pennies are clearly aimed for the smallest, most difficult areas, reminiscent of the old game of pitching pennies. In this child's gambling game, each player tosses a penny as near the wall as possible without actually hitting the wall,  If the next player can get his penny closer, he gets to keep his opponent’s money.  Some people just can't resist a challenge.

4.  My own favorite theory is that throwing pennies is a way of making contact with  a person, event, or object of beauty that is otherwise out of reach.  Tossing a penny onto Paul Revere's gravestone somehow transports the person back 230 years to the year of the glorious ride, a way of participating in a tiny way with history.

 

This last theory leads me to relate an interesting twist on the penny theme.  At Walden Pond near Concord, Massachusetts visitors can walk a mile along the lake to the spot where Henry David Thoreau lived in a rough cabin in the woods for two years as an experiment in living as simply as possible.  This experience is chronicled in his famous book, Walden.  This book has had a profound philosophical and spiritual effect on many generations, but particularly those children of the 1960s who questioned the values of our materialistic society.  Next to the site where Henry's cabin had been there is a large pile of small stones.  For over 100 years visitors to the cabin site have added their own rocks to the pile, as a way of "touching" the life and ideas of Henry David Thoreau.  Pennies would not have seemed an appropriate remembrance for this man who cared little for money but cared a lot for nature.   I have added my own stone to this collection on three separate occasions, including our recent visit last month. At the nearby Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, where Henry is buried near his friends Emerson, Alcott, and Hawthorne, a 10 inch tall headstone simply says "Henry".  When we visited his grave, a row of 5 pebbles sat on top of his grave marker; some kindred spirit just wanted to say "hi".

Finally, our travels took us to the Civil Rights Institute in Birmingham, Alabama.  The park across the street was the scene of the notorious incident where police released attack dogs on a march of black children, and on the next corner stands the 16th Street Baptist Church, which still bears the scars of the bombing that killed 4 little girls during Sunday School.  In the Civil Rights Institute was an excellent and very detailed exhibit that tells the story of the civil rights movement.  Near the end of the series of exhibits is a re-creation of Martin Luther King’s jail cell.  You stand on the outside of the bars looking into the prison cell, a very realistic and chilling view.  The stark cot in the room is made up with clean white sheets.  On the bed is a scattering of pennies, along with dozens of nickels and dimes, and at least a hundred quarters.  Visitors clearly wanted to reach thru the bars to touch this difficult part of our history, but pennies were not enough to reflect the terrible price paid by the courageous heroes of the struggle for civil rights.

 

 

 

posted by Lee | 0 Comments

Sounds of Memphis

Updated Mileage:   Bike: 207  Hike 134  Run 141  Drive 17758

Sounds of Memphis:

We had not intended to stop in Memphis, but daylight was fading as we drove thru the northeast part of Mississippi and into the lowest corner of Tennessee. But as long as we were in Memphis, we thought we should visit Beale Street, home of blues and the "Memphis Sound".  It was early evening when we finally located Beale Street amongst the maze of construction and one-way streets, but there was no mistaking it: we parked and walked thru the chilly evening down the barricaded street, blues and good smells emanating from every doorway.  BB King's place is on the corner (BB got his nickname as the "Beale Street Blues Boy" in his youth).  At least a dozen joints in two  blocks, each advertising the best barbecue and the best bands.  We didn't even know if we wanted to stay, but when we pushed our way thru the doors of the Rum Boogie Cafe we decided that an evening of blues and BBQ wouldn't hurt us a bit.

The Rum Boogie Cafe is a venerable dive on the corner of Beale and Third.  It was a dark bar with tables and a bandstand anchored by a mighty Hammond B-3 organ--the real thing, with two wooden Leslie speaker cabinets stacked behind it (Leslies consist of a wooden cabinet about half the size of a refrigerator, with a speaker inside mounted on a rotating lazy-susan apparatus.  The "doppler effect" of the rotating speaker moving toward, and then away from, the listener gives the organ that pulsating, soulfull sound). 

The band wasn't there yet, so we ordered--black beans and rice for me, barbecue for Terri.  Soon the band wandered in, and we were surrounded by what we used to call "The Memphis Sound".  The keyboardist made the Hammond organ sing, and the guitarist snapped off blues licks like he was swatting flies.  The drummer kept a shuffle beat that was simple but solid.  The two horns played simple riffs that added punch to the music.  The singer had the sound--one part Smokie Robinson, two parts Otis Redding.  Listening to him made us nostalgic for the "soul music" of the late 60s: In the Midnight Hour, Sittin on the Dock of the Bay, Green Onions...we had our fill of soul food and soul.

We had noticed that the Gibson Guitar factory was just around the corner on Beale Street, so the following morning we called to see if we could tour the place where great guitars are made.  We arrived early for the 11 o'clock tour, and I tried all the great guitars in the showroom.  Then we toured the factory, seeing how the famous arch-top jazz guitars and semi-hollow body blues guitars (like BB King's famous "Lucille") were made.  The guitar-making was surprisingly hand done, very little mechanized procedures.  We saw them heatpress the  backs and sides, glue up the rims, fit the necks, smooth the frets, and spray the multiple coats of finish on the fine instruments.  A fascinating process.

My own guitar from college days is the ES-175, now a valuable collectors item.  They still make this model, but now they also make it in an "aged" version:  it comes from the factory with worn-looking varnish and a slightly hazy worn appearance to the metalic hardware.  My own 1965 guitar looks just like it!  And mine also has that "Memphis Sound"

posted by Lee | 0 Comments

Coast To Coast

Update mileage:  Bike 207 miles Hike 135 miles  Run 134 miles  Drive 17298

Coast to Coast

 

Well we have done it--we have seen the sunset over the Pacific Ocean and the sunrise over the Atlantic Ocean.  On our journey from coast to coast we have seen many differences, but many similarities also. 

The sunsets and sunrises can be spectacular and always emotional whether you are looking east or west.  They welcome a new day beginning with all of its opportunities and say goodnight to a day, giving time to reflect and appreciate.

Each coastline shares a rocky, rugged northern section and a softer, sandier southern section.   Maine and Washington both have coastlines that are formed by high banks and rock formations and are remote.  The ocean is always alive and powerful as it surges against the rocks sending up sprays of water to the upper reaches of the bluffs.  It is never quiet; the breaking of waves against the rocks create a symphony heavy with tympaniis and light on strings.  The sound of the winds rushing against your ears and the sound of the water crashing against the rocks create a time when conversation is not possible and you are left with only your thoughts. Hikers and backpackers are drawn to these areas to be alone with nature.  The Outer Banks of North Carolina and Southern California share the smooth, flatter, and sandier beaches.  These are areas where the waves rush against the shore, lapping at the sand as it rolls to its final destination. The sand is smooth and a golden brown to light almond. Drifting dunes fade away from the beach.  Crushed shells and the type of rocks in the area seem to account for the differences in color of each beach.  Surf fishing, wind surfing, and sunbathing draw people to these warm sandy beaches to spend time together enjoying warm weather and soft beaches.

 

The trees and vegetation are remarkably different and stay unique to each area as you travel.  The dominance of the evergreen tree and solid undergrowth on the west coast gives way to open plains and flat lands of mainly, then on to deciduous forests with very little undergrowth of the east coast.  Tall, stately fir, cedar and spruce give the west coast forests a dark green color year round.  They are rarely forests of mixed trees, each tree seemingly wanting to stand with its own kind.  The forests are very thick and require a premade trail to traverse easily from one area to another.  Nurse logs are abundant as they give new life to a renewing forest.  Deciduous trees play well together, so on the east coast you will see large stands of ash, oak, maples, locust and hickory standing side by side with no dominant variety,  This sharing of space by a great variety of trees causes the spectacular kaleidoscope of colors in autumn to entertain the "leaf-peepers" who come to enjoy their beauty.  There is very little undergrowth in these forests allowing for easy traversing and viewing of wildlife.  They allow a lot of light penetration from the sun and moisture from rain to reach the ground. Each coast has a king of all trees.  The great Redwood, standing tall and regal on the coast of California is king of all trees in the west.  Its dark green branches always reach toward the sky.  When left alone by man the great Redwood reaches an age and height rarely seen.  The circumference of its trunk and the towering height are challenged by no other tree.  In the southeast the mighty Live Oak spreads its massive curved arms out side to side.  The Live Oak is frequently dressed in blue-gray Spanish moss.  The Live Oak plays host to this moss, allowing it to live on its branches without any adverse effects to either.  This moss will hang several feet from the branches, adding a shadowy magical canopy to the understory of the mighty Live Oak.  The Live Oak is king on the east coast.  What the great Redwood has in height, the mighty Live Oak has in breadth.

 

The colonial times mark the settlement of the east coast by the Europeans.  This period in history opened up the building of the world’s newest country.  This is a period in time well marked and honored on the east coast.  Colonial buildings are preserved in many if not all of the cities and tours are given often, sharing their stories from this time and giving us a peek into the life of the people who lived there.  The east coast is where our government began and this period in history is saved thru homes, buildings, and documents.  From the colonial times the east coast moves into the revolutionary war and civil war.  Every state has its battlefields and monuments to mark significant events in this young country and the struggle for freedom for ALL peoples.  The buildings preserved are 200 and 300 years old.  The westward movement settled the west coast, long after the revolutionary war and removed enough from the civil war by distance that these two events do not play a large role in the history of the west coast.  History on the west coast is marked by gold rushes, land grants, Indian wars,  and struggles for statehood. The west coast preserves military forts and buildings 100 to 150 years old..

 

When we were in Duluth a tour guide in a maritime museum told us that in early America "water was an easy form of transportation and land was obstacle to transportation" and later on "land became an easy form of transportation and water was an obstacle".  This   statement seems to make sense when looking at the two coasts.  The east coast made very efficient use of waterways for transportation.  The Europeans came to the new world on the water, trade routes were most often water routes and much explorations was done in an effort to find new water routes to important destinations and markets.  The east coast was settled around rivers, bays, and lakes.  When the oceans and rivers wouldn't take them where they needed to go they built canals across miles and miles of land.  The canal systems in the east were very extensive and provided the main routes for commerce for many years.  Today many of these canals are still in existence but are now used for recreation instead of commerce.   The railroad played a big role in opening up the western side of the United States.  The railroad lines and overland trails became the main form of transportation for commerce and settlement in the west.  Bridges were built to cross the water that had now become an obstacle to movement west of people and goods.

 

We have experienced many differences and seen many similarities across the country.   One thing seems to be true everywhere; people have learned to live with their unique landscapes, raising families and making history.  Coast to coast it is America from sea to shining sea.

 

posted by Terri | 1 Comments

A Day In Charleston

Updated Mileage:  Bike 202 miles  Hike 131 miles  Run 135 miles  Drive 16676

A Day In Charleston

 

We were working our way down the coast, trying to get away from the chill weather of Maryland, Virginia, and North Carolina.  Our plan was to head for Savannah, but plans are only something with which to occupy ourselves until something more interesting happens.  This time it was Kitty who called; hearing that we were going to pay a visit to Savannah, she suggested that we should not bypass Charleston.  Being highly suggestible travelers, we set our GPS for this South Carolina port and drove on down Highway 95.

They call South Carolina's coastal plain "The Low Country", and our new Magellan GPS (we fondly call her Maggie) confirms this.  She reads out the altitude at 8 feet below sea level as we drive along cypress swamps and estuaries of tidal grasses.  The semi-isolation of this sunken terrain left its mark on its inhabitants, whether they were rice planters trying to avoid Yellow Fever or Malaria, or ex-slaves of the Gullah culture with language and customs little changed from their African roots.  The geography allowed Charleston its unique identity.

The city starts at the Battery, a stone walkway along the bay formed by the confluence of the Cooper and Ashley Rivers.  This battlement protected the old city from the Spanish, the French, the Indians, later the British, then the Union navy (the Civil War began at Fort Sumter, on one of the many little islands in the bay)), and finally the Germans.  Now the walkway offers a pleasant Saturday afternoon stroll to visitors, without a hostile ship in sight.

The Battery soon leads up into East Bay Street, where restored pre-revolutionary houses press in toward the waterfront.  The houses had once belonged to merchants and planters, but they suffered the inevitable decline into slumhood.  In the 1930s, private individuals used their resources to purchase and restore this neighborhood.  We spent several hours walking East Bay, Broad, and Meeting Streets,taking pictures of the massive doorways, the second and third story verandas that looked over the street and harbor, and the pastel stucco facades.  The houses were narrow and tall, and alongside each was a cobblestone corridor that led back past elegant side-entrances.  Sometimes we could glimpse a courtyard beyond this corridor,  with statuary and a shade tree.  Many homes had the ornate ironwork that we usually associate with the French Quarter in New Orleans, but the city is much cleaner.  We could ascertain no clues as to what sort of people were able to maintain these mansions as residences.

Further into town was a series of low open-sided brick buildings with arching supports.  During the days of slave trading, these buildings saw the buying and selling of human cargoes; now they were vibrant public markets, with sellers of jewelry, baskets, paintings, and spices crowded together.  It took an hour to work our way thru most of the market, and then it was time for church.

Charleston is a place for churches, with 180 choices, almost all of them Baptist.  The Catholic Cathedral, a grand old building of stone and stained glass, was just down Broad Street, so we stopped for the five o'clock mass.

As we left church the dusk had set in, and the night life of the city was already coming alive.  The first thing we noticed is that Charlstonians like to get dressed up.  Walking thru the streets to our car, nearly every group of people was dressed "to the nines" in suits and glamorous dresses. We spent our walk speculating about their destinations.  We guessed that some were headed for swanky weddings, others for a party in some elegant old mansion.  Some were headed for the number of fancy restaurants along Bay Street.  Some were doubtlessly headed for the Charleston Symphony concert, and we would later join them, woefully underdressed.  Not everyone on the street was in formal wear, however. This was the Saturday evening before Halloween, and there were hundreds of costumed revelers going in and out of the clubs along the street.  We saw Elvis, Chewbacca, vampires, and a host of other characters.  Particularly beautiful were the brocade and silk "masquerade-style" costumes, non-character costumes from the days of the costume ball.

Tonite we had decided to join the night life by attending the Charleston Symphony.  They were presenting a concert of "seascape" music, including Wagner's Overture from the Flying Dutchman, Handel's Water Music, something nautical from Ravel, and Debussey's La Mer.  Since we had recently toured the coast of Maine, Cape Cod, and the Outer Banks, we conjured up these seaside images as we listened to the music. The civic auditorium was very nice, and the concertgoers were both appreciative and proud of their city's orchestra.

After the concert we returned to Bay Street looking for dessert.  The downtown area had become so busy that we drove around for 20 minutes looking for some semi-legal area to park.  We had to walk 5 blocks to a coffee shop where we shared pecan pie and a massive slab of rich chocolate cake (hey, we missed dinner, ok?) and sipped coffee and tea while we listened to a folk/blues singer for an hour.

The evening was still pleasantly warm when we walked back to the car.  The moon over the bay peeked thru the spreading boughs of the live oak trees, which were dripping with Spanish Moss.  The crickets chirped their last words as we said goodbye to Charleston and drove out to our campground..  Add Charleston to our list of places we would like to visit again.

 

posted by Lee | 0 Comments

A Road By Any Other Name. . .

Updated Mileage:  Hike 131 miles Bike 202 miles  Run 126 miles  Drive 16102 miles

A Road By Any Other Name . . .

 

Driving down a 2-lane highway in rural Connecticut, my navigator suddenly asks, "Is this Boston Post Road you are on?"  To be accurate, we are both on the same road, but the tenor of the question implies that whatever road we are on is solely my responsibility.  I reply that I turned off Highway 95 onto Route 1 some time back, but since then I have not seen any clue as to the identity of the route that I am traveling.  But what’s in a name?

Touring the highways and byways of America, the names of roads and highways have occupied and amused us.

Just as the Eskimos are said to have 40 different words for "snow",  there are dozens of words to describe a ribbon of asphalt for the use of automobiles.  There are Highways, Freeways, and Thruways.  There are Tollways (which cost), and Expressways (which also cost).  There are Turnpikes, whose name comes from the pike, a sharp spear-like weapon; the implication being "pay me and I will turn my pike and let you by".  Not too far different from the Tollways that we have traveled. Some cities dress up their highways with names like "Boulevard" or "Parkway".    Then there are Streets, Avenues, Places, Terraces, Lanes, Drives, Courts, Greenways, Trails, Traces, and Runs. There are the Interstates(I), the State Roads (SR), and the County Roads (CR), and each comes with its own number, unless you are in Wisconsin or Missouri.  In these states they give every state and county road a letter, in no particular alphabetical order: "Go out to where D Highway crosses YY Highway, just before it becomes PP Highway" was one actual instruction we obtained when asking directions in Missouri"

Even the manor in which natives speak of their major roads differs.  In Washington we say "take I-90 west", while the Californian says "get on The 90".  In Colorado they would suggest you "go up Highway 90".

It is the roads with aliases that cause tension between the navigator and the driver.  The map says "Highway 1", but the street signs (if any) say "Boston Post Road".  But of course the locals who are giving you directions at the Seven-Eleven call the same road "The Diamond Parkway".

All of this discussion of names becomes irrelevant if there are no street signs.  As soon as we left Colorado, road markers became scarce.  In the tiny towns of the Midwest, there frequently were no street signs at all.  Granted, there were only a handful of streets, but their identities were known only to the locals, which made our constant search for Main Street more difficult.  Any inquiry as to the names is sure to draw a look of suspicion; why would a stranger want to know the name of  that street where the bank is?  Farther east, the towns were larger, but they had the odd custom of  having signs only for the cross streets, but not for any arterial.  I suppose they figure that if you are driving down this street you must already know what street you are on.  Which is definitely not the case.

The appellations given to streets and highways are a lesson in culture and history.  From the Rockies to the Mississippi we frequently saw roads named for specific people, and not always famous personages.  Rather than Washington Street we would find Reverend Thomas J Hobkins Parkway, or Richard Kleinfelter, Jr Boulevard.  And of course, native languages have been given free reign.  When you come to a complicated intersection somewhere in  Virginia, squinting into the driving rain and complete darkness for some idea of where you are, the sign is likely to say "Muskequashehaset Drive".  All you can say to the navigator is "are we supposed to be on a street with M in it?"  In the historical states where the Revolution and Civil War were contested, every road name seems to ring with cries of Battlefield Parkway or Paul Revere Road.

There are cities that have logic and method to their naming systems, however.  Denver has a section where all the streets have the names of the states (in alphabetical order), while the cross streets are numbered.  The next section of the city has the presidents, in chronological order: How good are you at history?  Then there is a "tree" section of town; if someone lives at 12455 Aspen Street, you just have to drive to the "trees" section of town and find the first named street, and follow it to 124th Avenue.  But such strongholds of organization are rare across this great country.

But our favorites are the names that don't take themselves seriously.  In the town of West Yellowstone, we took our morning jog along Moose Run.  Near the center of Kansas City  we found a sign for Easy Street.  And in a Seussical fit of whimsy we turned off the highway in Bar Harbor onto Whoville Lane.

Street signs have become our friends, and we are happy to see them, whatever their names.  As the great philosopher Yogi Berra said, "If you don’t know where you are going, you are likely to end up someplace else."

PS:  After this blog was posted, we visited Atlanta, Georgia, where Peachtree was a common theme; in fact, there were separate streets in and around town called Peachtree Street, Peachtree Drive, Peachtree Way, Peachtree View, Peachtree Forest Terrace, Peachtree Park Drive, Peachtree Walk, Peachtree Memorial Drive, Peachtree Industrial Boulevard, and Peachtree Denwoody Road.  Be careful when someone says "just turn left on Peachtree".

posted by Lee | 1 Comments

Firewood

current mileage:  Hike 133 miles  Bike 199 miles   Run  121  Drive  16021

Firewood.

In the gathering dusk a tiny breath of flame sighs over the crisscrossed sticks of kindling. The fire flares briefly, then fades immediately in a puff of smoke.  Perhaps this is not the evening for a campfire.

One of the joys of camping is the evening fire.  It challenges the woodsman's instinct (or so I tell Terri) to ignite the wood. There is hope, and then triumph (or failure) as the fire catches.  The drama is small, but entrancing.  The fire also warms us, and stands in stead of television for entertainment as we eat our simple evening meal.  Firewood has its own story to tell.

It should be said to begin with that firewood that has not been obtained by your own labor is missing something.  The old proverb is true. Firewood warms twice: first, while you cut it, and then again when you burn it.  But on the road, felling trees and reducing the fallen arbors into combustible pieces is not an allowable pleasure.  But nearly every campground, whether an isolated national forest clearing, a state campground, or a commercial RV town, has firewood for sale.

We have learned a lot about the surrounding forests from the firewood purchased at the nearest camp store.  In Glacier National Park in Montana, nice clean bundles of dry pine were available; they lit easily and burned hot, the pine pitch making a satisfying pop and sizzle.  As we moved across the country, paper-barked birch logs joined the pine and fir when we camped in the North Woods of Minnesota and Michigan. Farther east, a variety of deciduous trees made their way into our campfire.  In most of the east, each bundle of firewood might have three or more species of trees, including maple, beech, ash, cottonwood, cherry, and locust.  What we discovered is that these trees grow in mixed company; on our hikes we rarely found more than one or two trees of the same species growing near each other.  Instead, the various types of trees grew at random (notice in our pictures of the beautiful autumn colors in New England or the Smoky Mountains that the reds, yellows, oranges, and browns of the different species are completely mixed together on the mountain hillsides).  The woodcutter who starts at one corner of the woodlot will most likely cut an ash, a beech, a large maple, another beech, and perhaps an oak.  Henry David Thoreau, in his book "Faith in a Seed", observes the mixing of pine and oak in his native woods around Concord, Massachusetts in 1850, and comes to the conclusion that perhaps squirrels prefer their seeds "to go",  and take their acorns up into pine trees to eat them, and  peel their pinecones in the shelter of mighty oaks, so the seedlings found are not those of the mature trees in the same area,  I can't confirm the reason, but the diversity in eastern hardwood forests is nearly universal.

The quality of firewood is not universal.  Park Service wood seems to always be top quality, but anything commercial is something else.  At one store it appeared that their firewood was pulled loose by hand from rotting logs, complete with bugs and fungi.  Other places would have wood so green that no amount of firestarting cardboard-and-parrafin strips would make it catch fire.  One country store had two kinds of firewood that they offered: hardwood for $3 a bundle and softwood for $4 a bundle.  In an inquisitive mood, I splurged and bought one of each.  I think the concept of conifers/softwood and deciduous/hardwood was lost on these people; both bundles had a variety of wood, including pine, fir, maple, ash, and something unidentifiable.  Judging by the differing weights of the bundles and the combustibility of the logs ,the "hardwood" was anything dry enough to burn, while logs too green to burn were :softwood".

Proper preparation of firewood is paramount, as any woodsman knows.  Almost any wood will burn (for a very short time) if reduced to the diameter of dental floss, so a favorite strategy is to reduce half of the armload of firewood into very small kindling, hoping that by the time these small sticks were consumed they had generated enough heat to ignite more substantial timbers.  The more inclement the weather, the more likely a half hour of effort would result in spent ashes of the twigs, while the rest of the logs were still healthy enough to carry with us to our next night's campground.  Somewhere in New England I misplaced the old chipped and bent hatchet that I had brought along, and I have been reduced to pulling loose strands of wood from the split edges of the firewood and chipping off little pieces with a small screwdriver to gather enough splinters to ignite our evening fire.  Terri laughs.

In the Smokey Mountains, firewood lay all around us.  The night before our arrival a 106 mph windstorm ripped thru the Smokies, blocking roads and trails and providing a surplus of firewood.  The rangers dumped some of the cut wood at our campsite.  Being aged for all of 2 days, it wasn’t very burnable, although we had some nice dry maple from a previous evening that created coals so hot that they would ignite even the greenest wood that was thrown onto the fire.  Part of our "windfall" of firewood was aromatic Tennessee Red Cedar, which gave off a gloriously pungent odor as it burned.  The rest of our woodpile was White Oak, clear grained and split as smoothly as if it had been sanded.  As I threw it into our blazing campfire, I imagined that a somewhere a  furniture-maker winced.

A thin finger of flame explores the air above the wood, then with a crackle two more logs burst into flame.  We will have a great fire tonite--pull up a camp chair!

 

posted by Lee | 10 Comments

Smoky Mountain Surprise

 

 

 

updated mileage:  bike 199 miles  hike 133  run  113   drive 15218

 

After leaving the beautiful fall colors of New England, we headed south, thru a lot of small states and small corners of medium states, headed for the Smokey Mountains.  We found more than we expected.

The drive south from Lexington, Kentucky into Tennessee took longer than we thought, and we realized that we couldn't reach a campground in the Smoky Mountain National Park until late after sundown.  We looked at the map and decided to stay at the commercial KOA campground in the quaintly named little town of Pigeon Forge, Tennessee.  The town was named for the Passenger Pigeon (which was hunted to extinction in the early 1900s) and an iron forge (which has long since disappeared).  We expected a tiny backwards mountain town (they still have those in these here hills), so we were surprised to find that we had come to a crowded tourist extravaganza.  Neon and sparkling lights flashed as we made our way past restaurants of every description, shops of all types ("Fudge, Leather and Knives"  nestled right next to a Christmas shop), dozens of major hotels (8500 hotel rooms in town), outlet malls (6 huge collections of factory stores for everything from Liz Claiborne to the Tennessee Knife Outlet), and the largest megastore of country music instruments.  Rotating billboards advertised the big dinner shows in town:  Dolly Parton's Dixie Stampede, Fidder's Feast, Mountain Music Jubilee, Hillbilly Hoedown, and (my personal favorite) Black Bear Jamboree (a singing, dancing, and eating extravaganza with everyone in bear costume).  The Parkway (as the 8 mile long entertainment strip was called) was lit up like Las Vegas (minus the porn and the gambling) or Broadway (without the culture and diversity). Dollywood, Ms Parton's country theme park, was just up the road.  At 11 PM the town was still alive with night life and throngs of visitors walking up and down past the shops and restaurants.  We were dazed by the time we found our campground, a mini city of RVs only a half block off the parkway.

We were so fascinated by this town that we decided to return after a day of hiking in the Smoky Mountains to sample some of the entertainment offerings.   We ended up attending the Dixie Stampede, which featured a country band warmup while we drank nonalcoholic beverages out of plastic cowboy boots, a country dinner that you ate without the benefit of silverware, and an equine exhibition that included trick riding, horseback drill teams, comedy and magic acts, and a "lighthearted competition pitting the North (in Union soldier uniforms) against the South (in Confederate grey)".  The horses were beautiful and exquisitely trained, the food was ok, and the show was fun.  We were a bit put off by the North/South rivalry, however.  The guests on each side of the arena were encouraged to cheer and boo for their assigned side, but it was clear that everyone except us was of the opinion that the wrong side won the last time this rivalry was contested.  But all in all a fine evening on the town.

The Smokey Mountain National  Park was only 6 miles away, but when we drove in we were a world away.  The first surprise was the intensity of the autumn foliage.  Everyone knows how famous New England is for the fall colors, and we were certainly impressed with the vivid colors of Vermont, New Hampshire, and Massachusetts only a few weeks ago.  Nobody told us that the Smokey Mountains were every bit as brilliant, but the display of fall splendor was made even more impressive by the mountains that pushed the colorful trees into the sky.  Apparently New England has better PR people.  Maybe the Smokies don't need the advertisement; we learned that this park has the highest attendance of any National Park by a large margin (11 million yearly), and this particular weekend was their biggest of the year.

  In a dramatic twist, a hurricane force gale topping 106 miles per hour had swept thru the park the evening before our arrival, toppling trees of every size and species . Park crews had just finished opening some of the roads when we entered for our first day of hiking .  A fine mist hung in the hills as we hiked up to Schoolhouse Gap (in the Applachians a gap is roughly the equivilant of our pass).  Every hundred yards we had to scramble over or under a fallen oak, maple, or pine that testified to the violence of the recent storm.  The reds, yellows, oranges, and golds of the leaves in the treetops were made more spectacular by the damp weather and the fact that these treetops were now underfoot.   Shuffling and kicking your way thru fallen leaves is one of the sensual treats of autumn; this time the fallen leaves had branches and trunks attached!  Scrambling thru the red and gold boughs brought back the musty smell and crisp crackle reminiscent of jumping into the pile of raked leaves as a child.

The second day we hiked to Hens Wallow Falls, an uphill scramble over rocks and roots and more recent tree corpses. Fallen Tennessee Red Cedars gave off the aromatic smell that we remembered from a family antique cedar chest or a parents closet.  We talked to one of the Park workers who informed us that the 3 mile trail ahead had at least 50 fallen trees across the trail.  The third day took us to Suttons Ridge Overlook and beyond.  One of the other surprises to a Northwesterner is the rhododendrons.  Washington claims this plant as their state flower, but the trails in the Smokies would argue with this designation.  Often  these trails wind thru actual forests of rhodies 20 feet tall and so dense that they form a canopy over the trail.  They must be incredible when they all flower in June.  The rhododendrons had weathered the storm well, except where a hundred foot tall oak tree had snapped off and crushed them in its fall.  The sylvan beauty of the park made it seem almost untouched by human hands.

And yet it was not always so.  Smoky Mountain National Park was once inhabited, and the ghosts of the hardscrabble farmers and mountain people still frequent the hollows and gaps where they tried to wrest a living from the stoney ground.   In some areas like Cades Cove (here a cove is a flat open area surrounded by mountains), cabins built in the 1830s still stood, and the residents' names were remembered in plaques that commemorated their lives. These cabins and their outbuildings looked as if their owners might return and resume their rustic lives, although one of the barns which had survived since the 1800s had been tilted dangerously to one side by Monday's windstorm. Some of the hiking trails were wide enough to suggest that they had been primitive roads to cabins or one-room schoolhouses that have since disappeared.  These mountain folk were moved off their land when the National Park was established by President Roosevelt in the 1930s, but their names are remembered by names like Suttons Overlook or Ogle Mountain.

Our visit to the Smoky Mountains was memorable, and the beauty of these hills continued as we left along the Blue Ridge Parkway a 469 mile ridgetop drive thru unspoiled hardwood forests that reach into Virginia.

Terri and Lee

posted by Terri | 1 Comments

Local Color

 

 

Mileage totals:  Hike:116       Bike:195     Run :110     Drive:15279

 

Local Color Part I:

This morning the thermometer dipped down to 30 degrees and heavy frost lay on the grass . Our fingers were already stiff as we repacked the van, so we decided to find breakfast in the nearest town instead of cooking oatmeal at the campsite, as is our custom.  We drove into Williamsport, Maryland. The town was old but solid; brick buildings from the early 1800s attested to the onetime prosperity of the town.   The buildings were well , but they lacked the "Historic District Makover" of many other old towns.  It was just old and lived-in.

We try to eat at places that have local color, places where the locals go, diners with 5 local business calendars over the cash register.  For that reason we pulled up and parked on Potomac Street in front of the Busy Corner Café.  This looked like just the place for local color.

Walking thru the door was like walking back 50 years in time.  There were two booths and a dozen stools at the counter, and there was no identifiable trace of décor.  There were 8 customers at the counter and 3 in the corner booth, all men over 60. We started to wonder if there were no women in this town.  There was something uncomfortable in the atmosphere of the diner, but we chalked it up to our rather small comfort zone and took the remaining booth.  Eventually a waitress (apparently the sole employee of the establishment) brought us menus, typewritten pages laminated in plastic.  As we looked over the list of standard breakfast fare we started to tune in to the conversations in the next booth and at the counter.  Apparently every single person knew every other person (except us).  Each time a new man walked thru the door he was greeted with general acclaim by the entire group.

It was soon apparent that the waitress was also the unofficial town crier.  A police scanner radio squawked intermittently in the background and we assumed that this was the reason the waitress could fill everybody in about a traffic accident on the edge of town this morning, or someones garage door that had been torn off its hinges. Each bit of news was passed around the counter and back, embellished with observations by each of the patrons.

We placed our order and looked uncomfortably at the surroundings.  It was plain, but not in a good way. The only two decorations were a moonshine jug and a washboard in the front window.  Our seats were worn woodgrained plastic.  There was a flip-top sugar dispenser on the table (no little cup with packets of Equal and Splenda;  in this place  if you wanted something sweetened you poured in plenty of the real stuff ). The plates were hard plastic and the single water glass was red semilucent plastic as well.  I would like to report that the food in this unpretentious place was fantastic, but I cannot be that generous:  It was plain.

We turned back to listening to the surrounding conversations . Such local restaurants are a great place to get the flavor of a small town . A lot of it was typical guytalk about the local sports (although several of the men got a little confused when someone mentioned soccer), petty crime, and weather (we actually heard one say "Yup, looks like summer's finally over for good", just like a stereotypical character in a smalltown diner might say on TV).  Politics were unmistakeably conservative and colored with distrust of the government in general.  One of the loud guys in the corner booth started talking about driving thru Detroit and we soon found ourselves listening to a shockingly racist conversation which I will not relate.  It did include the phrases "there are a few good ones", "some white guys aren't so good either, like that Charles Manson fella", and something insulting about bananas.  We were dumbstruck that we were actually witnessing this sort of conversation in a public place in the 21st century, and our general uneasiness was replaced with a panicky "how quickly can we eat and get out of this place ?".  We had already felt like conspicuous strangers, and now we felt like we had wandered into "In The Heat Of The Night".  After a bit, talk switched back to football.  One of the men used the "F word " and the waitress barked "Mike!" As the offender muttered "sorry" under his breath it was obvious that the waitress had meant "Mike, there is a woman in the room", something which apparently didn't happen very often . After a few minutes the three men left and the conversation died; there was no doubt that the patrons were uncomfortably aware of the presence of strangers.

An older couple did come in and seat themselves at the corner booth and it seemed that they were also strangers, but after they had been given menus they surveyed the room and got up and left.  As soon as it seemed polite I went up to the counter, settled our tab, and we left.

It is difficult to explain the feeling that this breakfast left with us.  We were shocked that racist comments were apparently the accepted norm in this town (it did not escape our notice that the racist conversation did not rate a correction from the waitress, but a single curse word was apparently unfit for our ears).  It was clear that all strangers were viewed with some suspicion, and women were out of (their) place.  This was the "good old boy's club" that we all thought had disappeared along with tail fins on cars. We knew that these were just harmless old men living out their years in a town that resisted anything new, but I felt an overwhelming sadness, the same sadness that comes from seeing endless war memorials or listening to the ranting on conservative talk radio shows.  Is this really what our country is about?

 

Local Color Part II:

The temperature was still at the freezing point after breakfast, but on the road out of town we stumbled on a hiking/biking trail, so we decided that a brisk walk would take the bad taste out of our mouths.  The C&O Canal Trail followed an old boat canal from the 1820s for several hundred miles thru the forests of Maryland, Virginia, and Pennsylvania.  The trail itself was hard-packed dirt and gravel along the old towpath, and it afforded a comfortable 5 mile walk thru hardwood forests with views of the Potomac River. One interesting feature was an elevated aquaduct which took the boat canal over a tributary to the Potomac River; several such aqueducts had been built to maintain the higher elevation of the canal without having to construct locks down to the river level.

The scenery was breathtaking; some of the trees were changing their colors, while others leaned a green canopy over the trail . Late-blooming wildflowers of purple lined the path . At intervals a jogger, a biker, or a cluster of walkers (mostly women) would pass by and offer a friendly hello.  We liked to imagine that these were the other part of the local population, friendly, compassionate, outdoorsy folk who probably listened to public radio.  Our walk settled our nerves  .

We drove on, leaving Maryland for the Shenandoah Valley in Virginia . Here the local color was provided by endless miles of trees in their autumnal glory.  We drove the Skyline Drive, a ridgetop road that overlooks the valley.  All afternoon was spent cruising lazily under a canopy of reds, yellows. and golds, stopping at each overlook to gaze down at the valley, where small green squares of a hay field or pasture occasionally interrupted the sea of forest . As we climbed into the hills we could look across and see entire mountains of red and orange without a single scar from the hand of man.  By the time we descended the ridge in the falling darkness our souls were whole again.

posted by Lee | 1 Comments

A Visit To the Big Apple

Mileage updates Bike 195  Hike 111  Run 110   Drive 13579

 

We have spent the last couple of months avoiding the big cities and now it was time to hit the biggest city of all:  New York City.  The first challenge was to get close enough to the city to be able to use the subway.  One wrong turn and we found ourselves in New Jersey, not New York.  One $6.00 bridge toll later we were back in New York . Landon and Shannon flew in from San Diego to be our city guides.  We parked the van in a long term parking lot near JFK International, and after meeting the kids we found our way to the air train and subway . At this point we turned all our navigational skills over to them and became followers.  The subway is a great way to get around the entire NYC area and they are relatively clean and well patrolled.  One strange effect of the subway is that you lose your sense of directions to some extend, since all of your travel is done underground and in the dark.  You go underground, get on a train, travel to your stop, get off the train, and pop your head up into the light of day without having seen how you got there.  There seemed to be this little dance  you did when you reached the top of the stairs after riding the subway:  you look both ways, turn around 360 degrees, survey your surroundings,  look at the map, then your heads all nod in unison and you turn and walk in that direction.  I call it the Subway Dance.

All of your senses are touched by the City.  Day and night the sights and sounds are surrounding you.  The city is very loud . The cars, the horns, the people talking, streetside sales, street musicians, city workers, tour guides' microphones, heavy equipment pounding the streets; these all compete for your attention and in a very short time you find yourself just talking louder and the street noises become just a background to your conversation.

The City is light 24 hours a day.  As the day turns to dusk the natural lighting is taken over by neon ads that are several stories high and several stories wide;  these ads are stacked several high . The effect is that you have artificial lighting running up the sides of these high rise buildings lighting the streets below and making it almost brighter than the area is during day light hours.

There are people moving all the time.  The streets are always full, shoulder-to-shoulder people.  The sidewalks are not wide enough to hold in all the people trying to walk from here to there.  As we watched the sidewalks from 7 stories up it was as if you were watching an animated show; at 6 am a few people were on the sidewalks but the streets were crowded with garbage trucks vendors setting up their carts and semitrucks making their deliveries; by 8 am the sidewalks were full of people and the streets were full of cars and taxis; by afternoon the sidewalks could not hold the people walking on them and the streets were packed with taxies; by 10 pm you could not see the sidewalks-- the masses of people spilled into the streets and the roads became a blanket of yellow taxis, all stopped going somewhere but nowhere fast.

We were able to experience New York City from the very reflective side to the very fun side.  On the very somber side we visited the World Trade Center site and the headquarters of the United Nations.  Both sites were very powerful and thought-provoking, adding many questions to world affairs at this time. The UN is very amazing: can we find peace?  On the very fun side we were able to attend several Broadway plays.  It is the nightlife that brings New York City alive and it was fun to be a part of it for several nights.  Preshow dinners, attending the show, finding a late night dessert after the show, and just standing on the streets after midnight watching and listening to life on the streets and the people around you.. 

We spent much of each day exploring different sections of New York Ciy.  We took a walk thru Cental Park and found breakfast in a little tea shop called "Alice's Teacup".  We also had dessert at a small restaurant called "Serendipity" that specializes in hot fudge!  We walked thru the shopping area called "Soho", lots of unique small specialty shops . We spent lots of time in the Times Square area; most of the Broadway shows are there.  It is the most alive part of the City at night, and yes, it does look just like it does on TV. We walked along the Hudson and East Rivers and looked over at Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty while we listened to the seagulls tell us their stories of New York.  We stood on the corner of 34thStreet and looked over at Macys and imagined the Macys Thanksgiving Day Parade (Miracle on 34th Street fame). We stood at Rockefeller Center and watched them prepare the ice skating rink for winter and enjoyed looking at the Sky Mirror they had on display . Food is a New York specialty and we tried all different styles.  They have everything from sidewalk vendors who sell donuts in the morning and hotdogs in the afternoon, to restaurants white tablecloths and a fine dining menu.  In between these are all sizes of little delis and small restaurants lining each street, ethnic food of any type you may want.  We sampled a little of it all, each very fun and exciting to experience.

We had 4 days in New York City and left many things unseen a reason to come back again.  We put Shannon and Landon on a plane back to San Dieg ( it was great to share these 4 days with them )and then we headed to our van and said goodbye to The Big Apple.
posted by Terri | 0 Comments

A Short Visit to Rhode Island

Updated trip mileages:

bike 183 miles   hike 111 miles   run 107 miles  drive 12486

 

Rhode Island is only 37 miles across, so I must make this descriptive  blog brief, or it will take longer to write than the drive across the state.  Crossing into Rhode Island from the Massechusetts coast south of Cape Cod, it appears much the same: fingers of land protruding into the Atlantic, evidence of past glory days of shipping and whaling, sand, waves, camping at Fisherman's Memorial State Park near Nauganset, fair but chilly weather, leaving coastal towns for wooded highways where leaves are just starting to turn.  And all of a sudden we are in Connecticut; that's all for Rhode Island.

posted by Lee | 1 Comments

Candlelight dining

Updated mileage:

bike 162 miles  run 101 miles  hike 102 miles  drive  12106

 The seasons are changing, but it became noticeable all of a sudden a week ago.  We had arrived in Maine, and all of a sudden it was completely dark by 7 PM.  We will get a little more daylight once we head south, we thought.  We drove thru Maine, New Hampshire, and on to Cape Cod.  All beautiful places, but it is still getting very dark very early.

Normally we wouldn't complain; I like the long evenings.  But by the time we get to cooking dinner over our campstove, you can't see what is for dinner.  We are equipped with a satisfactory lantern, but it lasts about and hour on a charging, so we have the choice of seeing our dinner, or seeing our books to read and write in the van after dinner.  Terri does a great job cooking in the dark, throwing unidentified ingredients into the single pan under cover of darkness.  We have discovered the romance of eating a tasty (if indiscernable) meal by the light of bug-repelling citronella candles. 

The changing seasons have also brought a chill to the evening.   We usually light a campfire, but by the time the fire burns up our one armload of purchased wood, we are getting cold and retire to the van.  By the remaining lanternlight we write in our journals, read a little, check in on the computer to see if anyone has emailed us, and perhaps write a little blog.  A cosy way to spend the evening on the Here To There Tour.

posted by Lee | 1 Comments
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