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| Carol Grant—Getty Images |
Edward Ball Wakulla Springs State Park is located south of Tallahassee and has a consistent water temperature of 70F. Perfect for Florida's manatees, who, like me, enjoy anything above 68F!
The manatee, or sea cow, is a relative of the elephant and they spend their lives eating, resting and traveling. Totally relatable, if you ask me.
Unlike anything I've seen before, I was instantly drawn to Wakulla Springs to try and find one, which was a remote possibility because it was the time of year when they migrated back to southern parts of Florida, Texas, Massachusetts, Alabama, Georgia and South Carolina.
Aside from these gentle giants, the park boasts a historic 1930s Spanish-style lodge, ancient cypress swamps, a multitude of other wildlife and even mastodon bones.
Even Hollywood took notice with filming of Tarzan, Creature from the Black Lagoon and Airport '77 taking place in and under the spring waters.
The tranquil setting and limited access to the water (private boats, kayaks and canoes are prohibited) force you to relax and smell the roses, so to speak. So we hopped aboard the ranger-driven river boat and headed out for our two-mile tour.
Time almost stands still once you hit the calm, wildlife crowded waters. With the ranger and other passengers pointing out troops of turtles, bevies of birds and armies of alligators, you forget about the fact that you really came for the manatees.
Fallen trees make perfect gathering spots for families of turtles, perched above the water, often on top of one another, webbed feet splayed open to catch the breeze.
On a microscopic island all to himself, an alligator spread out like a king, soaking up the afternoon sun, legs dangling in the water. All that was missing was a beer, sunglasses and reggae music.
Around the corner we discovered what might have been the family he was trying to get a break from. A female alligator with, at quick count, a dozen babies. Much like the turtles we had just passed, the babies were huddled together, climbing on top of one another, peering at us through tall grasses hoping they might become invisible, just in case we were dangerous.
Behind them, sitting on a limb of a cypress tree, were black vultures. I have no idea if vultures eat young alligators, but I didn't want to linger and find out.
So many birds filled the tops of trees that it reminded me of a scene from Hitchcock's 'The Birds'.
Too soon, we rounded the final corner, making our way back to the dock.
It was then my husband yelled out one word - manatees!
Thankfully, between my side of the boat and the grassy shoreline were two giant shapes, totally identifiable by their large flat tails. Almost breaking the surface, they slowly passed by, making their way south.
The entire experience was only about 20 seconds long, but it will stay with me for the rest of my life.
Once on the endangered species list, the manatee has been upgraded to threatened, but how long that lasts is anyones guess.
2018 wasn't a good year. According to the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission, nearly 800 manatees died from colder waters, red tide and boating accidents.
Who knows what the fate of these gentle giants will be, but, selfishly, I can relish in the fact that I got to see a couple before no one else gets that chance.
Here's hoping that never happens.
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Mexico Beach, FL
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| February, 2019 - Mexico Beach, Florida |
You watch it unfold on television, like a soap opera that isn't real.
It's happening 3,000 miles away from your daily life, so after the initial horror and sadness passes, you do your dishes, go grocery shopping, stop by the bakery for coffee. Life goes on in your little part of the world.
But the horror and sadness remains 3,000 miles away.
We watched as Hurricane Michael made landfall on the tiny town of Mexico Beach, Florida on October 10, 2018. It did so as a Category 4 hurricane with sustained winds of 155 miles per hour, making it the strongest to ever hit land on the Florida Panhandle.
In the days that followed, the true devastation became even more evident as journalists, first responders and a few residents began posting photos and video of what remained. And it wasn't much.
After a couple of days, I had to stop watching.
Life went on; we made plans to head south in the fifth wheel as usual. To the Gulf Coast region this time as we'd never ventured that far to the southeast.
For the month of February, we pulled into Wildwood Golf & RV Resort just south of Tallahassee. Reg was thrilled because the monthly rate included golf. He began playing regularly with a group of local golfers, and talk inevitably turned to the hurricane. It had been four months since Michael hit, and some of them still hadn't been able to make the drive south to see for themselves how hard Mexico Beach was hit. It was too close to home.
So we made the drive for them. I had to see for myself the progress that was being made.
A few months earlier I had applied to volunteer with a local organization that was helping to clear debris, stock warehouses, do whatever they could to help. When I finally heard back from them, I was told thanks, but we have reached capacity and can't take on any more help.
Good, I thought. That means things are in full swing and the rebuilding has begun.
We made the two-hour drive south slowly, in part because you could see damage from the hurricane much sooner, as chunks of US 98 were missing and debris filled ditches in sections along the road.
The first major damage was in Port St. Joe which is only about 10 miles from Mexico Beach. It faired only moderately better.
As we approached Mexico Beach, I expected to see heavy equipment, construction crews, FEMA trailers, people clearing debris, hear the sound of hammers, drills, backhoes. But there was little of that.
As the rain poured down, we drove past what felt like a ghost town.
In front of a few buildings there were crews clearing debris into the back of dump trucks, but the rest of the town seemed still. Like it had almost given up.
Sitting on some of the cement pads that once held homes were RVs. Nowhere did I see a gathering of trailers to house those displaced by the storm. Maybe I wasn't looking in the right spot.
The few signs of rebuilding we saw included ACE Hardware, a coffee shop and a small restaurant. Also, the Governor Hotel apparently was determined to be structurally sound, so was beginning to clean up the area around it and fix the damages it sustained.
After the insurance claims are completed and people make the decision to return - or not - to Mexico Beach, hopefully things will move at a faster pace. The initial clean up must have been horrific and thankfully the streets are clear for work to continue.
There is no doubt that the little beach town will never be the same. Hopefully the spirit of those who lived through the worst will persevere and maybe, just maybe, it will be better than ever.
#mexicobeachstrong
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| US 98 heading west to St. George Island |
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| Home completely destroyed along US 98 |
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| Remnants of docks line the coastline along US 98 |
When talking to a few of the locals who live south of Tallahassee, in Wakulla County, places like Mexico Beach and Port St. Joe may as well not exist at the moment.
Hurricane Michael decimated both these towns, and more, in October 2018.
Places they used to visit regularly, now are just map dots. Memories. And that's how they'd like to leave it - for now.
Time will weaken their resistance and curiosity will certainly overtake the sadness, but not today, not tomorrow and probably not in the months to come.
The hurricane did more than physical damage to structures and emotional, financial and psychological damage to the residents.
It gutted people who live hundreds of miles from the destruction. People who fell in love with the solitude, the peacefulness, the beauty of the area. Snowbirds who came for decades to camp at the multitude of RV parks dotted along this part of the Gulf. Vacation home renters who returned year after year to places that felt like home. The damage and sorrow extends beyond county lines, beyond state lines. Beyond the U.S. border.
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| Tallahassee Democrat - photo downloaded from internet |
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| Same area today |
We are trying to muster the courage to make our way from Crawfordville to Mexico Beach, but even we, who have never set eyes on that part of the world, are having a hard time reckoning with the destruction we would see. So many lives were forever changed on that day in October.
Midway between here, along the Forgotten Coast, is a small barrier island called St. George. This is as close to ground zero as we've managed to get so far.
Its miles-long beautiful white-sand beaches are spectacular. There are no high rises to block your view and the laid-back attitude rivals that of the Hawaiian Islands!
There was damage done to the roads and homes leading to St. George Island, and the Island did get hit hard, but, luckily, nothing like what happened where Michael made landfall further down the coast. The state park is due to reopen partially on March 1, but still has much tree clearing to do before the entire park and campground can fully welcome visitors.
The lighthouse, the third one built on the Island since 1852, thankfully, avoided damage this time round. The previous one collapsed into the sea in 2005 after surviving past hurricanes and even the Civil War.
After stopping at the visitor centre beside the lighthouse and strolling/shell collecting the main beach, we headed across the street to a quaint little coffee shop that was conveniently attached to a souvenir store.
Thirst quenched and shopping bag full, we then scoped out a delightful seafood (of course) restaurant across the tiny town.
We sat outside with the dogs, as the Island is very pet-friendly, listening to a guitar player from Port St. Joe who reminded everyone of the devastation and resilience of the local population.
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| Marshland with Island Bridge in background |
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| 4-mile long bridge to St. George Island |
With the four-mile long St. George Island Bridge behind us, quiet, southern music to our right, and amazing seafood in front of us, we forgot, for an hour, how bad things from this point west must be.
No promises that we'll actually make the trek, but if we do, and I don't feel too much like unwelcome paparazzi, photos will follow.
I do know that businesses in Mexico Beach are reopening - slowly, and one at a time - and the spirit of the little town hasn't been squashed. They are eager to welcome everyone back who has fallen in love with the place over the years, and turn newcomers onto its quiet charms.
We wish them luck, but don't think they'll need it.
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This is the Year of the Pig, according to Chinese tradition, but where we've been spending
our 2019 winter, it's definitely the Year of the Gator.
Moving from our nature-laden paradise in Lakeland, Florida, we wandered back north
to the panhandle portion of the Gulf of Mexico.
Crawfordville sits a stone's throw south of Tallahassee and about a half hour's drive to the sea.
To say nature has followed us here would be brazen and pompous because I think it was
most likely here long before we 'discovered' this section of the world.
Our first venture out, after setting up the fifth wheel at our new month-long home at
Wildwood Golf and RV Resort, was St. Mark's National Wildlife Refuge and lighthouse.
The Refuge consists of 17,000 acres protected under the Federal Wilderness Act. Forty-three
miles of it follows the Gulf coastline.
The landscape at St. Mark's changes dramatically and often. According to their website:
This unique refuge was established in 1931 to provide wintering habitat for migratory birds. It is one of the oldest refuges in the National Wildlife Refuge System. It encompasses 68,000 acres spread out between Wakulla, Jefferson, and Taylor counties along the Gulf Coast of northwest Florida. The refuge includes coastal marshes, islands, tidal creeks and estuaries of seven north Florida rivers, and is home to a diverse community of plant and animal life.
Getting to the lighthouse at the end of the road took longer than expected because of all our pit stops along the way. The refuge boasts a massive amount of trails (including the Florida National Scenic Trail), horse trailer parking, fishing ramps, picnic tables and shelters, observation platforms ... and wildlife.
Once we arrived at the lighthouse we were a little disappointed to find out that it was closed and only was open a few days a month. But the area surrounding it didn't disappoint.
Trails lead both directions from the main parking lot. The longest is the beachfront one that reaches the end of the point and where, apparently in the spring, with extremely good luck and timing, one can see manatees. Not today.
But there were grackles, fiddler crabs and the remains of a horseshoe crab which more resembles a ancient suit of armor then a horseshoe.
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| Horseshoe crab ... with my keys for scale |
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| Female grackle |
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| Fiddler crabs ... males with their single giant claw |
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| Grumpy fiddler crab telling me off |
On the way back we found a few more birds. All-in-all, not a bad day out. And with our America the Beautiful pass ... we'll definitely return.
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| Red-bellied woodpecker |
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| Egret having a few issues swallowing his lunch |
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In over 60 years there have only been 23 deaths related to alligators in Florida. And 300 unprovoked bites. That's not bad, statistically speaking, especially when there are over 16,000 complaints per year - things like, there's an alligator in my pool, in my garage or on the 9th hole of my golf course!
Fish & Wildlife in a roundabout way, say, if an alligator is less than four feet long, it's harmless unless you stick your hand in its mouth. Um, ok. I'll take their word for it.
Stupid is as stupid does, so there are things most locals know to stay safe. Don't swim near gators. Pay attention when you're walking along waterways (as they tend to walk across your path whenever and where ever they feel like), don't poke the bear and stay 50 feet away.
You leave them alone, they leave you alone.
In the 1950s alligators were almost extinct, thanks to excessive hunting. By the 1980s they began to recover and now have a population of around one million.
Alligator nests can reach 10 feet in diameter and are filled with between 25-45 eggs on average, some up to 90.
After 65 days incubation, they hatch. The sex of the babies is determined by temperature. No, seriously!
American alligators incubating their eggs at 33C (91.4F) will produce mostly male babies, while incubation temperatures below 30C (86F) result in mostly females.
Up to 80% of juvenile alligators don't survive thanks to predators like raccoons, birds, snakes and even larger alligators.
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| Don't worry. The zoom lens makes this look more ominous than it actually is! |
Alligators don't hibernate but do go dormant when the weather gets too cold. They bury into a 'gator hole' and wait out the chillness. During this time they rarely eat, but don't fret. An alligator can go up to six months without food!
Facts and figures aside, there is little that can compare to the spine tingling shock that hits you when you round a corner on a peaceful, tree-lined, Spanish moss filled trail, only to see a ten-foot gator cross your path.
Thankfully, I hear adrenaline rushes are good for the heart.
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| Can you spot him?? |
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| Circle Bar B Reserve trail in Lakeland, Florida |
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Since who knows when, there have been a few places on my bucket list (even before I knew what a bucket list was) and the Cayman Islands? Right up there.
On a muggy morning, the day after my 60th birthday, the cruise ship tendered offshore and I caught my first glimpse of George Town.
Before the boats started making their never ending round trips to shore, I grabbed my camera and stepped out on deck to take a few shots of the island. Forget focusing. The lens fogged immediately from the humidity. It was 7 a.m. I giggled. Fitting for the Caribbean.
As soon as we were allowed to escape, we climbed aboard our tender boat to start an unforgettable tour ashore.
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| Royal Caribbean's Brilliance of the Seas as it sit tendered under a rainbow off George Town, Grand Cayman |
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| Ashore waiting for tours to begin |
We booked water activities for the entire day. It's been a decade since I've been diving and I miss it. A lot. So I was determined to get into that turquoise water one way or the other. Snorkeling it was!
Truth be told, the $60 each we paid for the day would have been worth it just for the time spent aboard the tour boat. Clear, multi-colored water. Slight breeze. Caribbean heat. Yeah, that would have been just fine. Until I remembered where we were headed.
Stingray City isn't named so because of the buildings that rise up from the sea. It's because the amount of boats and people who stream there on a daily basis mimic an urban centre! But it was still a blast. Just getting my first feel of the warm, shallow waters was worth every cent. Stepping off the boat initially ran a chill up your spine, but a split second later, heaven.
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| First sight of stingrays beneath the tour boat at Stingray City, off Grand Cayman Island |
And then you see them swim past, mere feet away, as you make your way to the heart of the water city. Every tour guide is holding their 'own' southern stingray as their photographers take photos of kids and moms and couples and grandfathers who may or may not pay later for the unique souvenir. I had a bit of trouble with the fact that the poor stingrays were more likely than not a little traumatized over the entire situation, so I just watched. And waded in the glorious water.
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| Stingray swam up behind me |
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| See why they call it a city?! |
Fitted with fins, snorkels and masks, we all looked like fish out of water as we waited for the do and don't lecture before once again hitting the Caribbean sea.
On both the stingray and reef snorkel adventures we took along underwater film cameras, so, if anything turns out once they are developed ... I'll add more photos!
The Coral Garden reef is only abut 10 feet deep but is remarkably alive. Large coral clusters, so many varieties of tropical fish and yes, two stingray even followed us from Stingray City! But alas, all good things must come to an end, so we once again were summoned aboard to make our way to our third and final stop for the day.
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| Starfish Point |
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| Selling coconuts |
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| Driving on the wrong side of the road! |
The half hour boat ride back to shore was heavenly in itself. And the bus ride back to the cruise ship terminal was interesting as I hadn't realized that Grand Cayman was a British colony with the Premier being appointed by the Queen. Thus, they drive on the wrong side of the road!
I could have used an extra four or five hours ashore to explore the city itself. There are less then 30,000 who call George Town home and it has somewhere around 600 banks or trusts.
No, I didn't open a Grand Cayman bank account, but I did buy a Cayman dollar bill. So, all-in-all, a great end to a perfect day in paradise.
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All things that move
He sat across the pond, close to the edge, not moving. Not an inch. For at least an hour. Then came the yawn. When it finally reached its peak, a small child could have disappeared forever inside. A few moments later, he stood, slowly, on short, thin legs. Thinner than I'd imagined they would be, due to his enormous size.As he moved closer to the pond, I could see his reflection in the water first. Then two long strides later he was fully immersed, only eyeballs peering out through the swampy grass.
Then he turned slowly and moved diagonally through the glassy water directly toward me, his eyes never leaving mine. I backed up the hill a little and clung to the fence but couldn't take my eyes off him. He glided into the shallow waters below me and stopped, keeping his eyes locked on mine. It would be a lie to say that I didn't lose a breath or two, even though he was still a safe distance away. We stayed like that, neither moving, for several long, chilly minutes before he grew tired of me, turned and disappeared some distance later into the reeds. I went home.
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| Birds with a death wish. Alligator at Sanlan Golf & RV Resort |
Every RV park we've stayed at this year has its own unique personality. One was massive with all types of recreational activities including a 'lazy river' inner tube ride and adorable tiki pool bar. Another was walking distance to the most beautiful white-sand beaches I've seen since Australia. And this one, Sanlan Golf & RV Resort in Lakeland, Florida, is a haven for all creatures great and small (thanks for the perfect description James Harriot). Living on the prairies, I'm used to seeing coyotes, wolves and black bears. But when you turn a corner and run smack into an alligator, it's an entirely new level of 'holy shit'.
The RV park has seven miles of nature trails that wind past ponds, canals and several holes of the attached golf course. It is pretty much heaven on a hot Florida afternoon as most of the miles are shaded from the sun by massive trees heavily draped with amazing Spanish moss. Also hanging from the trees are birdhouses. Dozens and dozens, all shapes and sizes. My guess is they were made in one shop class or another by previous mobile residents of the park.
No matter if I walk all seven miles of trails, or just pop out for a quick stroll before dinner, there hasn't been a time in our few weeks here that I haven't encountered some creature, large or small. Close by are several nature preserves that help boost the bird population, I'm certain. The more I try to photograph these flighty creatures, the more addicted I get. Getting one in focus is a small victory!
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| Sandhill cranes |
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| Diving pelican |
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| Egret |
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| Ibis |
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| Turkey vulture |
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| Great Blue Heron eating a snake |
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| Great Blue Heron |
Even if creatures great and small aren't your thing, the trails are perfect for just escaping humanity. Off season hikers are few and far between. So, for the rest of the month, if you need me I'll be somewhere between the 8th hole trail and Banana Lake. Just try and find me!
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| National Naval Aviation Museum complex taken from Pensacola Lighthouse |
Lake Michigan doesn't connect to any ocean. And it sits in the middle of North America.
Between 1912 and 1941, more upwardly-mobile citizens could enjoy overnight splendor aboard the luxury paddle-wheel steamer, SS Seeandbee, on trips between Buffalo and Cleveland.
In 1941, the Great Buffalo, a Lake Eerie paddle-wheel liner that had once boasted of luxury staterooms, an onboard movie theatre and even its own radio station, now sat idle thanks to the Great Depression.
What these facts have in common was unbeknownst to me.
When tour guides at Pensacola's National Naval Aviation Museum spoke of several WWII-era aircraft that had been restored after being recovered from the bottom of Lake Michigan, curiosity awoke. It seemed an odd place for any naval aircraft to be.
After the December, 1941 attack on Pearl Harbour the navy desperately needed more training facilities for its aviators. The calm waters of Lake Michigan and the size and availability of both the SS Seeandbee (re-christened the USS Wolverine) and Great Buffalo (re-christened USS Sable), melded into the perfect solution.
Between 1943 and the end of WWII, both sudo-carriers, safe from Japanese and German submarines, saw 120,000 successful landings, qualifying 17,800 pilots for aircraft carrier operations, including former President George H.W. Bush. There were 128 aircraft lost and over 200 accidents during training.
Seeing some of these lake-rescued, perfectly restored aircraft was a sobering experience, helping to bring history to life.
The museum itself is 350,000 square feet of exhibit space sitting on 37-acres and is one of the largest aviation museums in the world. The fact that daily tours are guided by retired aviators, many with combat experience, helped give life to the aircraft and their stories.
Over 150 historic aircraft fill every nook and cranny of the museum, some flying overhead in unison with Blue Angels written on their wings and even more sitting wing-to-wing, waiting for their stories to be told by those who know the words by heart, from the heart.
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| Retired Blue Angels aircraft. As close as they are in this display, during performances, this is nothing! |
Even the most unassuming aircraft can have the most interesting story. Do you remember the plane that Snoopy flew when chasing the Red Baron (pictured above)? That was a Sopwith Camel. The British single-seat biplane fighter played an important part during WWI. Among the U.S. Naval Aviators who flew the fighter in combat was Lieutenant Junior Grade David S. Ingalls. He became the Navy's only fighter ace of the Great War, scoring six kills, some of the 1,294 enemy aircraft downed by Camels during 1917 and 1918.
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| Sopwith Camel |
To keep the Rotary engines lubricated, castor oil was used. Unfortunately, the spray from the oil blew back at the pilots, causing them to breath in and swallow good amounts of it during flight. And one big drawback of consuming large quantities of castor oil? Diarrhea. So using a scarf that was long enough to wrap around one's neck helped it not fly away in the open cockpits of the day, and made it easier for the pilots to cover their nose and mouth to avoid inhaling the oil spray, and to wipe their goggles that were more often than not covered in it. Who knew!?
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| George H. W. Bush during WWII wearing a white aviator scarf |
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| This is the massive NC-4 that made the first trans Atlantic crossing in 1919 |
These are just a few of the fascinating facts we gleaned while visiting the National Naval Aviation Museum in Pensacola, and it took us three trips to do it. Even that wasn't enough. We owe so much to these early aviators and their successors, so taking the time to learn even just a little about some of their stories was an honor.
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| Fished from watery depths and waiting for restoration |
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| 1911 A1 Triad was the Navy's first aircraft and the first floatplane |
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| VH-3 Marine One flew Presidents Nixon and Ford in the 1970s |
https://www.navalaviationmuseum.org/
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Panzacola was a name of Native American origin (see below) given to Pensacola Bay and subsequently to the Spanish settlements built thereupon in the 17th and 18th centuries, specifically the Presidio San Miguel de Panzacola. It is the antecedent of the modern name Pensacola. Thanks Wikipedia!
Pensacola, Florida (1698), is a unique city, like many other unique cities in the area. Unique to me at least. There are no signs of typical sprawling malls, fast food joints or gas stations on every corner. Not to say there are none. I just can't see them!
Streets are tree-lined with small businesses and fancy insurance offices, housed in stunning historic homes, peeking through. Local restaurants and bars abound, making lovers of McDonalds fighting to find one.
I can't tell you what local neighborhoods look like because they too are tucked away amongst the trees. It makes Pensacola feel quite expansive, yet it only boasts a population of barely over 50,000.
Even once we reached downtown, the city was quiet on a chilly Saturday in mid December.
I'm not sure the snowbirds have really discovered this little piece of heaven as yet. Works for me!
One thing is immediately obvious when you visit the area. The navy is king.
Naval Air Station Pensacola, established in 1914, now employs more than 16,000 military and 7,400 civilian personnel. This includes: Naval Aviation Schools Command, Naval Air Technical Training Center, Marine Aviation Training Support Group 21 and 23, the Blue Angels, and the headquarters for Naval Education Training Command, a command which combines direction and control of all Navy education and training.
Everywhere you look, you see references to the navy, the Blue Angels and the military in general. Reminds me a lot of Victoria, BC and Halifax, NS.
The history here is palpable. If you look at the list of Florida's oldest buildings, Pensacola is second only to St. Augustine (our March destination), with still standing homes dating back to 1805.
Pensacola is the oldest European settlement in the United States, but the area itself was inhabited by Native Americans thousands of years before any ship laid eyes on its shores. In August 1559, Spanish explorer Tristan de Luna sailed into its harbor. His fleet of 11 vessels was soon reduced to three after a hurricane swept through the area. Those surviving three soon thereafter headed south to Mexico!
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| Celebrating 450th anniversary of Luna expedition |
History after this is somewhat frenzied. According the Smithsonian.com: It wasn't until 1698 that Spain established another garrison in Pensacola, where soldiers began to lay out a colonial town. In May 1719, Spaniards in Pensacola surrendered to the French, who were at war with Spain. Over the next century, a succession of competing powers—French, Spanish, British, then Spanish once more—would plant their flags in Pensacola sand until, in 1821, Spain ceded Florida to the United States.
Located on the westernmost tip of the Florida panhandle, it shares the coastline with its neighbor, Alabama.
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| View from Palafox Pier downtown Pensacola |
Along Palafox Street, there are so many historic places that the Registry entered them as a group - Palafox Historic District. It is comprised of 100 buildings, including Rosie O'Grady's, the current-day restaurant in the Seville Quarter which was created with $1100 by Bob Snow while in town taking naval flight training in 1967. It has done nothing but grow in popularity since opening!
Seville Quarter is proud to be the Gulf Coast’s Entertainment Destination since 1967. We’ve got a rich history dating back over five decades, when Bob Snow took a dilapidated 19th century warehouse on East Government Street and transformed it into “Rosie O’Grady’s Warehouse,” a beer-and-peanuts saloon offering up heaping portions of Dixieland jazz and good times.
Since then, Seville Quarter has grown to include seven rooms — the original Rosie O’Grady’s, Phineas Phogg’s, Lili Marlene’s, Apple Annie’s, Fast Eddie’s, End o’ the Alley and Palace Café — each with its own theme and atmosphere. There’s also the Seville Party Plaza, an outdoor concert venue, and Heritage Hall, a spacious banquet and event facility.
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| American National Bank Building - 1910 |
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| Seville Quarter |
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| Seville Quarter |
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| Seville Quarter |
Unlike the port cities of Vancouver, Victoria or Sydney, Australia, the waters were eerily quiet. It has waterfront dining options, a marina and the Port of Pensacola with ships of varying sizes in differing states of repair. But it wasn't the flurry of activity that I expected to see. No ferries. No huge housing developments. No seaplanes making loud, bouncy landings. Barely any people!
Few places have the 'let's go back' stamp of approval, only because there is so much to see in Canada and the U.S. that time probably won't allow too many repeat visits to places so far afield. Pensacola and Perdido Key, however, are now officially on that list.
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| 1903 Port of Pensacola photo |
(https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/National_Register_of_Historic_Places_listings_in_Escambia_County,_Florida)
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You smell it first. Then you feel it. You know it's coming, but still, the first glimpse always makes you catch your breath, just a little.
It's not like I haven't seen the ocean before. Living on the west coast of Canada for three decades, I let it become mundane. I forgot to appreciate just how amazing unlimited access to those beaches was. Living on the prairies now, I miss it every day.
Perdido Key, where our fifth wheel tires stopped rotating for the month of December, is a hidden gem. I judge this by the lack of northern snowbirds. The non-winged ones.
There are miles of cool, empty beaches (for a Canadian, the current mid-50-degree temperatures are far from a burden). 'For Rent' signs adorn nearly every brightly colored, stilted beachfront condo. And there are many. Neon signs in restaurant windows blink 'open' and their parking lots beg for cars to enter. The mid-day line in the grocery store totals three, on a bad day.
It's just about heaven down here along the Gulf shore.
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| Perdido Key Beach |
It is a unique barrier island which is: a type of dune system that is exceptionally flat, or lumpy areas of sand that form by wave and tidal action parallel to the mainland coast. They usually occur in chains, consisting of anything from a few islands to more than a dozen.
The sugar-white sand dunes on Perdido Key are vital to its survival, and the survival of its natural inhabitants such as the endangered Perdido Key beach mouse, a variety of sea turtles and monarch butterflies.
Beach access means crossing over the dunes so, to protect them, boardwalks or specific entry points have been built to minimize damage. The dunes are the primary line of defense during a hurricane's powerful storm surge. They literally hold the island together. That's why native plants like sea oats are so vital. The roots form a protective web inside the sand, which keeps dunes in place and provides a buffer that reduces coastal erosion during tropical storms and hurricanes.
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| Boardwalk over dunes |
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| Sea Oats |
If you truly want to get lost (as the 1693 Spanish name 'Perdido' implies), even on such as small island there are so many places to do it.
Rosamond Johnson Beach
According to the National Park Service: Private Rosamond Johnson, Jr. was killed on July 26, 1950 during the Korean Conflict. Having carried two wounded men to safety under enemy fire, he was killed going back for a third, becoming the first African American from this area to die in that conflict. (He enlisted at 15 and died at 17.) During segregation, Rosamond Johnson Beach on Perdido Key was one of the few beaches open to African Americans. Now part of the Gulf Islands National Seashore, Johnson Beach continues to honor the ultimate sacrifice of Rosamond Johnson, Jr.
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| Great Blue Heron in 'you can't see me' mode |
Perdido Key State Park
Two-hundred-ninety acres of beachfront heaven. The off-season in so many parts of the south are a mecca for northern snowbirds, yet, for some reason, this year has shown little evidence of that in Perdido Key or the Gulf of Mexico beaches along this part of the Florida panhandle. More room for us! Be it birdwatching, searching for seashells or just sitting listening to the rolling surf, this "lost island" hasn't disappointed us. Even with the cooler temperatures (thanks El Nino) and heavier rainfall, it is a destination on our 'must return to' list.
https://www.visitflorida.com/en-us/florida-beaches/florida-white-orange-dark-sand-beaches.html
The sand squeaks under your feet. The link above explains why! If you listen carefully you can hear it in the clip below...I hope.
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"I wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole." Ever wonder where that phrase originated? Many believe it stems from one normal practice that occurs in places like New Orlean's Saint Louis Cemetery Number One. I'll get to that soon...
Opened in 1789, this is the city's oldest cemetery. And it is still in operation today. Only one square city block in size, it is the final resting place of thousands, all lying amongst 600 tombs.
Stepping onto the grounds is both eerie and exciting. Confusing and intriguing. Solemn and educational.
The layout is without rhyme or reason, leaving you both wandering in circles and backing down dead-end paths. The design of the tombs is a mix of shiny marble and crumbling brick. Some of those buried there have backgrounds deserving of dignified resting places where others leave you scratching your head.
There are different styles of tombs here, thanks to the early French and Spanish colonists. In their homelands, rocky soil made building up instead of digging down necessary. Also, New Orleans has always been prone to flooding! By far the most common tomb in Cemetery #1 is the 'family tomb'.
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| Family tomb - holding generations of family members |
Creepily cool, these narrow, layered brick tombs contain generations of family members. When a loved one dies, they are placed in a coffins - cypress, I presume, because they last an eternity - for one year and one day. Then the coffins are opened, the remains are wrapped in a sheet and pushed WITH A TEN-FOOT POLE, to the rear of the tomb where it drops into an open pit and joins generations of previous relatives. If someone from the family dies while the family coffin is occupied, then they must rent a space in the wall vault tombs until a vacancy in their own become available. There are also families who use these vaults instead of the larger tombs, because they simply couldn't afford the larger tombs. See. Creepily cool!
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| Wall Vault tombs |
Another style of tomb is the Society Tomb. They housed the dead of those belonging to various organizations, such as religious groups, benevolent societies, clubs, or law enforcement like: the French Mutual Benevolent Society, the New Orleans Musicians Tomb, and the Orleans Battalion of Artillery Tomb.
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| Italian Benevolent Society tomb - made famous by 'Easy Rider' |
- MORE INTERESTING FACTS FROM THE CEMETERY:
- The cemetery was a backdrop for the movies "The Cincinnati Kid" (1965) and "Easy Rider" (1969). The latter film features a sequence in which Peter Fonda, Dennis Hopper and their entourage roam the cemetery while apparently on an LSD trip; a babbling Fonda winds up in the arms of the statue atop the Italian Benevolent Society tomb.
- The "Easy Rider" crew worked in the cemetery without a permit. After its release, the archdiocese banned any filming in its cemeteries except for pre-approved documentaries and educational movies.
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| Lake Pontchartrain Causeway into New Orleans |
Perhaps it wasn't the smartest move, trying to park downtown NO. I found a parking lot online that raved $20 for 9 hours, so figured what the heck. Thankfully I wasn't maneuvering those narrow streets in a 3/4 ton truck and thankfully we decided to just roll with it when we parked at my newfound lot only to discover it WASN'T $20 for 9 hours. More like $35 for 4. We just shortened our original plans and decided to enjoy the day nonetheless. After all, there was an NFL game in town that afternoon. Something I'd forgotten to google. Explained the price hike!
We found one of many visitors centres that line Decatur Street and booked a 2-hour walking tour. At least we wouldn't get lost! Colin, our fearless leader in the Legendary Walking Tour, was a riot. He'd lived and worked in the area for decades and had stories to tell about the streets and buildings that were both interesting and disturbing.
In 1718, a piece of property owned by a young French Canadian named Claude Trepagnier sat in what would soon become New Orleans' famed Jackson Square. It was awarded to the Canadian for his assistance in the exploration that led to the founding of the city, and was said to be home of troubled spirits: slaves who came off the boats before going to auction.
The land, which housed a small cottage, was later sold to Jean Baptiste Destrehan who tore down the cottage and built an elaborate family home in its place. He died in 1765 and the house was passed to his son who fell on hard times and soon after auctioned the home and property.
In 1776, a plantation owner, Pierre Phillipe de Marignay, purchased it to use when visiting the city. Tragedy struck in 1788 when the Great New Orleans Fire burned 856 of the French Quarter's 1100 structures. A portion of the de Marignay home was damaged. During the rebuilding process, new buildings sprung up in Jackson Square including the St. Louis Cathedral and the Cabildo. Also, a dream home was erected on a piece of the de Marignay property which he had sold to Pierre Antoine Lepardi Jourdan.
But, yet again, the property seemed cursed.
In 1814, Jourdan, an avid gambler, lost his beloved home in a poker game. Not able to admit the misdeed to his family, he committed suicide on the second floor, in the same area that once served as the slave quarters.
Today the property is Muriel's, a well-known restaurant. But it still has to share its space with Mr. Jourdan. His ghost doesn't appear, per say, but a glimmer of sparkly light wanders the lounge and patrons have seen objects move through the restaurant. In an effort to pacify their perpetual patron, the restaurant welcomes him to dine each evening by setting an empty table, reserved for him, and set with bread and wine. For the brave-of-heart, you can dine at his table, as long as you leave one seat empty for Mr. Jourdan's sparkly light.
Our guide also pointed out several film locations which, as an ex-production coordinator, I found interesting. Especially when one involved Elvis. The opening scene for 1958's King Creole was filmed from the wrought-iron railing at 1018 Royal Street. It was here where Presley's magical pipes crooned Crawfish. Sigh. I'm a fan always and forever.
Other notable stops were one of Tennessee Williams homes, and the street where parts of Streetcar Named Desire were filmed.
Fans of John Cusack/Dustin Hoffman will also remember scenes from Runnaway Jury which showcased lots of New Orlean's landmarks: Louisiana Supreme Courthouse, Cafe Pontalba, Palace Cafe, Riverwalk and Cafe Du Monde.
One thing I learned on our tour surprised me. Many of the buildings with the ornate balconies and three-storied splendor used to be single family homes. I always assumed they were apartment blocks!
Another interesting fact is that the French Quarter fell into disrepair in the 1850s but was saved by a woman. No small feat back then. The Baroness Michaela Pontalba, oversaw the construction of two actual apartment buildings which still flank Jackson Square today. They are the longest inhabited apartments in the U.S. The cast-ironworks decorating the balconies were her personal design and are adorned with her initials: AP (Almonester Pontalba).
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| The balconies of the Pontalba Building |
Bourbon Street was a bit of a bust. It seemed the entire length was under construction and when we did get to the end, it was a mess of garbage, water puddles and DJ music, not live bands that I assumed would adorn every cafe and bar.
It was an eye-opening two-hour excursion. It was and it wasn't at all what I expected. I can't say I'm dying to return during Mardi Gras, but who knows. Stranger things have happened!
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Jefferson Davis. Before becoming the President of the Confederate States in 1861, he was a Democrat who represented Mississippi in both the Senate and the House. Before that, in 1853, he was US Secretary of War. He was also a plantation owner who kept somewhere around 74 slaves.
Davis has been criticized by many for the way he led during the American Civil War - favoring the rich over the poor, poor management and coordination of his generals, selecting friends for military positions. One historian, William J. Cooper, Jr, put it this way when comparing him to his Union counterpart, President Abraham Lincoln:
Lincoln was flexible; Davis was rigid. Lincoln wanted to win; Davis wanted to be right. Lincoln had a broad strategic vision of Union goals; Davis could never enlarge his narrow view. Lincoln searched for the right general, then let him fight the war; Davis continuously played favorites and interfered unduly with his generals, even with Robert E. Lee. Lincoln led his nation; Davis failed to rally the South.
According to Wikipedia: After General Lee's surrender in 1865, a public meeting was held in Shreveport, Louisiana, at which many speakers supported continuation of the war. Plans were developed for the Davis government to flee to Havana, Cuba. There, the leaders would regroup and head to the Confederate-controlled Trans-Mississippi area by way of the Rio Grande. None of these plans were put into practice.
1865 wasn't a good year for Davis. After the surrender of the Confederacy, he was imprisoned for two years at Fortress Monroe in Virginia. After two years he was released on $100,000 bail then met up with his family who had fled to Lennoxville, Quebec. From here, he travelled extensively, trying to find work that he felt suited him. In late 1881, after a long legal battle, he won back title to one of his plantations, Brierfield, all the while continuing his belief in the superiority of whites. He blamed race as the heart of what he called "the night of despotism" enveloping the South, citing Republicans who gave political rights to blacks that made them "more idle and ungovernable than before".
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| Beauvoir - retirement home of Jefferson Davis |
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| Portrait of Davis' father who is buried in the Veterans Cemetery on the grounds |
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| Portrait of one of Davis' daughters |
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| The Davis' wedding photographs |
In his later years Davis wrote many articles and books, and in 1877 he was invited to stay at the home of wealthy widower and writer, Sarah Anne Ellis Dorsey. Beauvoir was a stately home sitting on the shore of the Gulf of Mexico in Biloxi, Mississippi. He eventually purchased the property from Dorsey. In November of 1889 he made a trip back to his Brierfield plantation, making the journey from New Orleans by steamboat. Sleety rain caused him to fall ill and never recover. Holding his wife's hand, he passed away on December 6, 1889.
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| Davis Presidential Library and Museum |
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| Confederate Veterans Cemetery on the grounds of Beauvoir |
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| Vehicle that transported Davis' body at his funeral |
The Jefferson Davis Presidential Library isn't one of the libraries overseen by the National Archives and Records Administration because Davis wasn't a true American president. But the Sons of Confederate Veterans gathered an obviously large amount of funds, and the library was born. It houses a ton of artifacts both from Davis' life and from the Civil War. What it doesn't do, however, unless I missed a floor, is address the issue of slavery. But the gift shop is well stocked with Confederate flags, mugs, pins and scarfs...should the desire overtake you.
Interesting articles related to Beauvoir:
We checked into our RV Park north of New Orleans on a muggy, quiet, mid-week afternoon. For the first few days, humidity and rain were the order of the day, so we stuck close to home, relaxing in warm 70F heat, wandering around the pretty darn cool RV park (https://www.reunionlakerv.com/).
Then the rains hit and hit hard. One day alone we were graced with a lovely 2+ inches.
To add insult to injury, within a week we had racked up three tornado warnings plus the added gift of an overnight frost warning. Time for a road trip!
We closed up the fifth wheel and bolted for Biloxi, Mississippi.
The Gulf Coast is different from anything I've seen; certainly unique from the West Coast. Sure, you've got the usual fishing boats, sandy beaches, seabirds and souvenir shops, but the distinctness is vast.
Hurricanes make their presence known, even when the weather is perfect. I can't be sure that the oh-so-many empty lots with nothing growing but 'For Sale' signs were the result of 2005's horrifying Katrina, but that's my guess. Monuments, photographs and stories of survival follow the coastline between New Orleans and Biloxi. Thirteen years have passed ... but not really.
Unlike the coastlines of California or B.C., where homes tuck in as close as possible to the lapping waves, since Katrina, homes in 100-year floodplains must be built to a new code based on height of past flood waters. I think. It's convoluted and confusing to me, but the resulting construction is, if nothing else, interesting. Homes of all shapes and sizes sit six feet or more above ground, looking larger than their actual square footage. Some loosely enclose the lower levels, but the majority are left open and used for parking or storage. https://www.fema.gov/pdf/rebuild/mat/sec5.pdf
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| Fishing for Redfish |
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| Outside Biloxi. 26 miles of manmade beach |
Defying Katrina, the Biloxi lighthouse stands as a symbol of resistance. Erected in 1848, it is one of the first cast-iron lighthouses in the South. Its construction was sponsored by Mississippi Representative, Jefferson Davis, who would become President of the Confederate States, and remained in operation until 1939. In 2005, Katrina's storm surge enveloped a third of its 64 feet, destroying the electrical system but otherwise only succeeding in breaking windows and loosening lower bricks.
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| Biloxi is a town filled with casinos |
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| Palace Casino outdoor pool |
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| Palace Casino which is a smoke-free facility |
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| Bridge over Biloxi Bay to Ocean Springs |
EVERGREEN PLANTATION - LOUISIANA
First plantation visit
It was a little surreal. Even after seeing similar scenes in photos for decades. That first glimpse still made me gasp as we rounded the corner onto the grounds of the still working sugar cane plantation.
The live oaks lined the shell-crusted lane like a mile-long hug from an ancient ancestor. One who long forgot to shave yet still exudes an air of warmth despite the wrinkled, rough exterior. The branches no longer belong to one tree. They intertwine, pulling you toward the main house and the dark past that links it, like so many others, to history. The Spanish moss adding intrigue and mystery.
Evergreen Plantation, according to their documents, is one of the largest and most intact plantation complexes in the South with 37 buildings on the National Registrar of Historic Places. The majority of the buildings are antebellum (existed prior to the American Civil War). It has existed for close to 250 years with the original French Creole farmhouse being built mostly in 1790. In 1832, the owner at the time - Pierre Clidamant Becnel - hired John Carver to do a major renovation which turned it into its present Greek Revival style.
The property remained in the Becnel family until 1894 when it was sold to Alfred and Edward Songy who subsequently lost it in 1930, near the start of the great depression. The only period the plantation sat uninhabited was the 14 years prior to its purchase by an oil heiress and restorer of historical architecture, Matilda Gray, from Lake Charles, LA. So, in 1944, the Gray's became the last-to-date owners of Evergreen. After Matilda's death, her niece, Matilda Gray Stream was sole heir to the property.
Upkeep for such a property cannot be cheap, which is why, I'm sure, the house was opened up for tours and many film crews have swarmed the grounds for productions such as Tarantino's Django Unchained, The Beguiled and Roots. The Roots production team built replica slave cabins closer to the main house, leaving them there after the series wrapped.
Slavery in America is still a hard concept for me to grasp. To feel you have the right to own another human being is something I will never understand, but it happened. It's part of American history. You have to look no further than Evergreen Plantation to see it firsthand.
The allee leading to the slave quarters from the main house is stunningly beautiful. Even peaceful. The 200-year-old live oak trees hang with Spanish moss, giving them an eery, yet serene look. But once you approach the 12 original slave cabins and realize that you are walking on the same ground they walked prior to the American Civil War, well, it's unsettling and sad and interesting and heartbreaking and informative, all at the same time. It leaves you breathless.
Slaves were essential for the existence of the sugar cane and cotton plantations that lined the Mississippi River pre 1863, when the Emancipation Proclamation was signed by President Abraham Lincoln. It stated "that all persons held as slaves" within the rebellious states "are, and henceforward shall be free." Before this though, records show that in 1835, 54 slaves lived in the cabins on this property which meant that four or five resided in each of the cabins.
After the Civil War, freed African Americans continued to live and work at Evergreen until 1940.
Since visiting the plantation, I plan on rewatching the television series 'Roots' and, at the recommendation of a friend, am reading 'The Invention of Wings' by Sue Monk. It was inspired by the life of Sarah Grimke, an American abolitionist, writer, and member of the women's suffrage movement.
It can't hurt to remind oneself of their own luck in life, while remembering those who were never as fortunate.
]]>The live oaks lined the shell-crusted lane like a mile-long hug from an ancient ancestor. One who long forgot to shave yet still exudes an air of warmth despite the wrinkled, rough exterior. The branches no longer belong to one tree. They intertwine, pulling you toward the main house and the dark past that links it, like so many others, to history. The Spanish moss adding intrigue and mystery.
Evergreen Plantation, according to their documents, is one of the largest and most intact plantation complexes in the South with 37 buildings on the National Registrar of Historic Places. The majority of the buildings are antebellum (existed prior to the American Civil War). It has existed for close to 250 years with the original French Creole farmhouse being built mostly in 1790. In 1832, the owner at the time - Pierre Clidamant Becnel - hired John Carver to do a major renovation which turned it into its present Greek Revival style.
The property remained in the Becnel family until 1894 when it was sold to Alfred and Edward Songy who subsequently lost it in 1930, near the start of the great depression. The only period the plantation sat uninhabited was the 14 years prior to its purchase by an oil heiress and restorer of historical architecture, Matilda Gray, from Lake Charles, LA. So, in 1944, the Gray's became the last-to-date owners of Evergreen. After Matilda's death, her niece, Matilda Gray Stream was sole heir to the property.
Upkeep for such a property cannot be cheap, which is why, I'm sure, the house was opened up for tours and many film crews have swarmed the grounds for productions such as Tarantino's Django Unchained, The Beguiled and Roots. The Roots production team built replica slave cabins closer to the main house, leaving them there after the series wrapped.
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| Reproduction slave cabins built for the series 'Roots'. |
Slavery in America is still a hard concept for me to grasp. To feel you have the right to own another human being is something I will never understand, but it happened. It's part of American history. You have to look no further than Evergreen Plantation to see it firsthand.
The allee leading to the slave quarters from the main house is stunningly beautiful. Even peaceful. The 200-year-old live oak trees hang with Spanish moss, giving them an eery, yet serene look. But once you approach the 12 original slave cabins and realize that you are walking on the same ground they walked prior to the American Civil War, well, it's unsettling and sad and interesting and heartbreaking and informative, all at the same time. It leaves you breathless.
Slaves were essential for the existence of the sugar cane and cotton plantations that lined the Mississippi River pre 1863, when the Emancipation Proclamation was signed by President Abraham Lincoln. It stated "that all persons held as slaves" within the rebellious states "are, and henceforward shall be free." Before this though, records show that in 1835, 54 slaves lived in the cabins on this property which meant that four or five resided in each of the cabins.
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| This shows the left half of one of the cabins. A fireplace in the middle of the open room is all that separates the two halves. |
After the Civil War, freed African Americans continued to live and work at Evergreen until 1940.
Since visiting the plantation, I plan on rewatching the television series 'Roots' and, at the recommendation of a friend, am reading 'The Invention of Wings' by Sue Monk. It was inspired by the life of Sarah Grimke, an American abolitionist, writer, and member of the women's suffrage movement.
It can't hurt to remind oneself of their own luck in life, while remembering those who were never as fortunate.
Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it.
George Santayana
Vicksburg, Mississippi
You want history? Look no further than the Mississippi delta (not to be confused with the Mississippi river delta!) and one of the towns it meanders past.
200 miles in length and up to 87 miles wide, the first known inhabitants of the delta were the Native Americans, dating back to around 1000 BC. Centuries later, between 1820 and 1832, Indian treaties opened up the land to wealthy white farmers whose slave labour worked fields of cotton. Then in 1863, Maj. Gen. Ulysses S. Grant’s army converged on Vicksburg via the Mississippi River, overtaking the city and trapping Lt. Gen. John Pemberton's Confederate army.
We had planned on two days touring Vicksburg, but tornado warnings made our decision to pack up and head east easy. But we did get to tour a pretty remarkable museum ... The Old Courthouse Museum ... including Ash, the cat.
According to Battlefields.org: In the few days it took for Grant’s message announcing the capture of Vicksburg to reach Abraham Lincoln, the President had also received word that Port Hudson, the only other Confederate stronghold left on the Mississippi, had also fallen. “The Father of Waters once again goes unvexed to the sea,” he proclaimed.
With no length of the Mississippi River now safe from Union power, the Confederacy was unable to send supplies or communications across its breadth. Louisiana, Texas and Arkansas were cut off from the rest of the rebellious nation.
The war ended in 1865. Slavery was abolished. Four million black slaves were freed.
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| The Old Courthouse Museum |
This museum is famous for many things, including the fact that Confederate President Jefferson Davis began his political career here. Completed in 1860 and built by slaves, it has been named “one of the 20 most Outstanding Courthouses in America” by the American Institute of Architects.
After a hard day wandering through the museum and the small downtown core, we headed to a rooftop restaurant for some cajun food and a nice cold beer. Perfect end to a perfectly educational day!
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| Downtown Riverside RV Park along the Arkansas River |
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| Clinton Presidential Park Bridge allows pedestrians easy access to the Clinton Presidential Library |
Incorporated in 1831, the state capital today has a population of around 200,000.
Little Rock and North Little Rock are separated by the Arkansas River, a tributary of the mighty Mississippi. Six bridges span the river: Baring Cross Bridge, the Broadway Bridge, the Main Street Bridge, the Junction Bridge, the I-30 Bridge and Rock Island Bridge.
Aside from the traffic flow, four pedestrian bridges also connect the cities: Two Rivers Bridge, the Big Dam Bridge, The Junction Bridge and Clinton Presidential Park Bridge.
The Clinton Presidential Centre and Library isn't what I expected. Being Canadian, we don't have presidential anything, but I always assumed that these libraries were just that - libraries. Nope. They are meant for preserving and making available the papers, records and other historical materials of past presidents and displaying their greatest achievements (and mistakes). This one does have a digital library where you can research pretty much anything from Clinton's time in office as they have available over 700,000 pages of archival documents, over 400 audio recordings, photographs and many streaming videos. https://clinton.presidentiallibraries.us/
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| There are binders filled with President Clinton's daily schedules |
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| One wall is filled with gifts given to the Clintons. |
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| What a state dinner table would look like in the Clinton era |
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| Recreation of the Cabinet Room |
From the library, it's an easy walk to the riverfront stores, restaurants and markets of Little Rock.
And to top it off, each evening the bridges light up, making the river sparkle. Little Rock was well worth the stop!
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| Musicland Kampground in the heart of Branson, MO |
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| Titanic Museum where actual artifacts are on display |
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| Kids won't be bored in Branson! Go-karts, waterslides, mini-golf, ice cream, museums... |
Branson & the Ozark Mountains
Reuben Branson would be beside himself if he could see Branson, Missouri, today. In 1882 he opened a general store and post office here, and the tourist boom started shortly thereafter thanks to a manmade lake and a popular book.The Shepherd of the Hills was written in 1907 by Harold Bell Wright. In 1960, the Old Mill Theatre began an outdoor production based on the Ozark themed book and it continues to this day.
Remember Granny Clampett? A young boy named Paul Henning went on a Boy Scout camping trip to the Ozarks. Years later he became a successful producer and screenwriter, with credits including The Beverly Hillbillies.
In 1983, the Roy Clark Celebrity Theatre opened (referred to as the 'birthplace of Branson celebrity theatres') and soon others followed. Andy Williams. Dick Clark. Tony Orlando. Glen Campbell. Dolly Parton.
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| Dolly Parton's Stampede sits atop a hill off West Highway 76 Country Boulevard |
Today Branson boasts a population of well over 10,000 people and an annual influx of over 7 MILLION tourists. A fact that is definitely evident on a weekend when traffic crawls along all the major roadways as people snake their way to morning, afternoon or evening shows or head toward one kid-friendly attraction or another.
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| Saturday morning traffic |
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| Food is not hard to find in Branson! |
The city sits amidst tree-covered rolling hills that spill into the Ozark Mountains. Surprisingly, along with massive forested areas, horses and cattle are a frequent sight in the nearby Mark Twain National Forest. Narrow roads wind through small towns and villages, past man-made lakes and rivers.
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| Rockaway Beach is one of the original resort towns along the shores of Lake Taneycomo |
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| Rockaway Beach was a booming resort town until a dam was built, causing the water temperature to plummet. |
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| Narrow, winding, scenic roads draw you into the heart of Missouri's Ozark Mountains |
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| Manmade Lake Taneycomo is a mecca for boaters, fishermen and tourists. |
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| Lake Taneycomo |
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| Fall colours beginning to show in the Ozarks |
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| Surprisingly few historic buildings can be seen along the winding roads of Missouri's Ozark Mountains |
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When you don't have mountains and oceans to photograph, you search. Even if it means only wandering as far as your front yard. The challenge is finding the beauty in nature, and really, it's everywhere.
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| A carpet of green returns to the burnt-out forest surrounding Fort McMurray, Alberta. |
“There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more”
]]>Spring Sprang!
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| Jackson Lake, Manitoba Spring on the prairies can be fickle. Forget the weather forecast. As hard as they try to predict it, Manitoba often has other plans. So you throw jackets, sweaters, shorts and mittens into the car and go. Trust me. You can see the bad weather coming for miles so you won't get caught off guard. But that's part of this province's charm. Spring comes early. Spring comes late. But when it arrives, everything explodes, making it hard to sit home, no matter what the weather. This year I was gratefully accepted as a boutique artist at Wasagaming Community Arts in spectacular Riding Mountain National Park. Since moving back to the province in 2011, we've not made enough trips to this part of our world, so thankfully this opportunity has rectified that! We have already made two trips to the gallery this spring with, of course, camera in hand to spend time wandering after the business part of the trip was done. 
Marsh Marigolds 
The varying shades of green are a sure sign of spring 
The east entrance gate at Riding Mountain National Park is a federal heritage building, dating back to the park's beginnings in 1930. One of the best signs of spring is the wildlife. Black bears are feeding and teaching their young. 
Turtles are looking for places to lay eggs. 
Birds of all shapes and sizes have re-emerged and can't stop talking. 
Fish are biting. Well, after you relocate the bird's nest that magically appeared on your tackle box! 
And, as spring usually does, you wait for the weather to pass so you can get outdoors once again. 
And see more of the sights of spring on the prairies. 
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| San Diego's stunning Mission Bay |
WAITING FOR SPRING
We chased the sun for six months all over the desert southwest and had a blast - except for the mouse and the mini-flood incidents, that is. But now we're back on the prairies awaiting spring.
Searching for something to photograph that doesn't include dead looking trees, brown grass or left-behind patches of snow is a challenge. It takes a good month after we're home before the new-born leaves coat the landscape in a soft green glow.
Before that happens, at least there is one thing to look forward to. The crocus hunt.
This year I returned to the closest safe bet. Arden. And it didn't disappoint.
The patch seems to moves from year to year, but never goes far. This year, however, it jumped the road and the railroad tracks! But I found them. And I got dirty for an hour crawling around in that still-cold, brown grass. Nature is amazing.
This little pop of colour should hold me over until the buds start popping and the fields turn Case red, John Deere green or New Holland blue.
Once the spring breeze turns warm, I'm good to go. Then I can honestly say, "It's good to be home."
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| San Diego's stunning Mission Bay |
WAITING FOR SPRING
We chased the sun for six months all over the desert southwest and had a blast - except for the mouse and the mini-flood incidents, that is. But now we're back on the prairies awaiting spring.
Searching for something to photograph that doesn't include dead looking trees, brown grass or left-behind patches of snow is a challenge. It takes a good month after we're home before the new-born leaves coat the landscape in a soft green glow.
Before that happens, at least there is one thing to look forward to. The crocus hunt.
This year I returned to the closest safe bet. Arden. And it didn't disappoint.
The patch seems to moves from year to year, but never goes far. This year, however, it jumped the road and the railroad tracks! But I found them. And I got dirty for an hour crawling around in that still-cold, brown grass. Nature is amazing.
This little pop of colour should hold me over until the buds start popping and the fields turn Case red, John Deere green or New Holland blue.
Once the spring breeze turns warm, I'm good to go. Then I can honestly say, "It's good to be home."
I owe Santa Fe an apology.
It's been on my bucket list for ages and we finally managed to marry weather, location and time to make a quick visit happen.
Nestled in the Sangre de Cristo foothills, you could almost miss New Mexico's state capital. The adobe structures that make up a vast portion of the city blend perfectly into its surroundings.
But hidden in the hills and along the over 400-year-old streets are gems sure to please even the non-art lovers among us.
Santa Fe is the oldest state capital in the United States, founded by Spanish colonists in 1610. The downtown Plaza holds the oldest public building in the U.S. - the Palace of the Governors (and now also New Mexico History Museum).
For the lovers of architecture, history or religion there are enough churches to satisfy your cravings. San Miguel Chapel is said to be the oldest church in the continental United States. The wooden alter screen (or reredos) is one of the oldest in New Mexico and has an inscription that reads “This altar was erected through the piety of Don Jose Antonio Ortis in the year 1798.”
Cathedral Basilica of Saint Francis of Assisi was built between 1869 and 1886 and is stunningly designed in the French Romanesque Revival style.
The Loretto Chapel has a truly interesting history as it was opened by six non-Spanish speaking Sisters in a territory of mostly Spanish citizens. They answered a plea for more schools for girls. Construction started in 1873 and one unique feature still draws crowds today. The Miraculous Staircase.
The staircase has two complete 360 degree turns with no center pole for structural support. The entire weight of the staircase rests on the bottom stair. The banisters were added approximately ten years later due to the difficulty of climbing the tall, tapered stairs with no railing.
But Santa Fe is widely known for it's eclectic art galleries, shops and artists' studios, with perhaps the most famous of all - Georgia O'Keefe. Born in 1887 in Wisconsin, she made her first trip to New Mexico in 1929, spending the next two decades traveling back and forth until 1949 when she became a permanent resident of the state. She died in Santa Fe in 1986 at the age of 98.
So why am I apologizing to Santa Fe?
We stopped by one of the visitor centres half way through our day, just to see what other sights were a must-see. That's when the poster caught my eye. It advertised a location a short drive south. One that was a tad older than most in Santa Fe. Older by 6 million years or so older.
So, we said goodbye to the mudbrick buildings of the city and headed south.
Kasha-Katuwe Tent Rocks National Monument is one of the most unique places I've seen. To get to the mesa on top is an experience in itself. The three-mile round trip hike first takes you through the narrow, winding, rock-strewn, striated cliffs of a slot canyon. But stay on the trail as this area is still a sacred site of the Cochiti Pueblo peoples.
Once out of the slot canyon, with still about a 700-foot climb to the top, you begin to see why the monument is named as it is. Giant hoodoos shaped like tents nestle themselves in the hillsides. They are unlike anything else I've ever seen. Utah's Goblin Valley has the same surreal feel, but is still vastly different.
Afraid of heights, there was only one section on the trail that gave me grief and I almost turned back. I persisted. And I'm glad I did. The extra elevation gave me a better look at the hoodoos, as well as a sense of pride in chipping away at a stupid fear.
New Mexico is well deserving of its nickname 'Land of Enchantment'. I hope one day, in the not too distant future, to return and be enchanted once again. This time, I promise to spend more time in America's oldest state capital.
I owe Santa Fe an apology.
It's been on my bucket list for ages and we finally managed to marry weather, location and time to make a quick visit happen.
Nestled in the Sangre de Cristo foothills, you could almost miss New Mexico's state capital. The adobe structures that make up a vast portion of the city blend perfectly into its surroundings.
But hidden in the hills and along the over 400-year-old streets are gems sure to please even the non-art lovers among us.
Santa Fe is the oldest state capital in the United States, founded by Spanish colonists in 1610. The downtown Plaza holds the oldest public building in the U.S. - the Palace of the Governors (and now also New Mexico History Museum).
For the lovers of architecture, history or religion there are enough churches to satisfy your cravings. San Miguel Chapel is said to be the oldest church in the continental United States. The wooden alter screen (or reredos) is one of the oldest in New Mexico and has an inscription that reads “This altar was erected through the piety of Don Jose Antonio Ortis in the year 1798.”
Cathedral Basilica of Saint Francis of Assisi was built between 1869 and 1886 and is stunningly designed in the French Romanesque Revival style.
The Loretto Chapel has a truly interesting history as it was opened by six non-Spanish speaking Sisters in a territory of mostly Spanish citizens. They answered a plea for more schools for girls. Construction started in 1873 and one unique feature still draws crowds today. The Miraculous Staircase.
The staircase has two complete 360 degree turns with no center pole for structural support. The entire weight of the staircase rests on the bottom stair. The banisters were added approximately ten years later due to the difficulty of climbing the tall, tapered stairs with no railing.
But Santa Fe is widely known for it's eclectic art galleries, shops and artists' studios, with perhaps the most famous of all - Georgia O'Keefe. Born in 1887 in Wisconsin, she made her first trip to New Mexico in 1929, spending the next two decades traveling back and forth until 1949 when she became a permanent resident of the state. She died in Santa Fe in 1986 at the age of 98.
So why am I apologizing to Santa Fe?
We stopped by one of the visitor centres half way through our day, just to see what other sights were a must-see. That's when the poster caught my eye. It advertised a location a short drive south. One that was a tad older than most in Santa Fe. Older by 6 million years or so older.
So, we said goodbye to the mudbrick buildings of the city and headed south.
Kasha-Katuwe Tent Rocks National Monument is one of the most unique places I've seen. To get to the mesa on top is an experience in itself. The three-mile round trip hike first takes you through the narrow, winding, rock-strewn, striated cliffs of a slot canyon. But stay on the trail as this area is still a sacred site of the Cochiti Pueblo peoples.
Once out of the slot canyon, with still about a 700-foot climb to the top, you begin to see why the monument is named as it is. Giant hoodoos shaped like tents nestle themselves in the hillsides. They are unlike anything else I've ever seen. Utah's Goblin Valley has the same surreal feel, but is still vastly different.
Afraid of heights, there was only one section on the trail that gave me grief and I almost turned back. I persisted. And I'm glad I did. The extra elevation gave me a better look at the hoodoos, as well as a sense of pride in chipping away at a stupid fear.
New Mexico is well deserving of its nickname 'Land of Enchantment'. I hope one day, in the not too distant future, to return and be enchanted once again. This time, I promise to spend more time in America's oldest state capital.
A STEP BACK IN TIME
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| New Mexico's Salinas Valley |
Mission San Gregorio de Abo is one of three Indian villages/Spanish missions within New Mexico's Salinas Pueblo Missions National Monument. Pueblo Indians called it home for over 500 years starting in the early twelfth century. From 1622 to around 1673, Franciscan priests also lived here as they struggled to ‘civilize’ the Indians. Fifty years after beginning their attempts to Christianize the Indians, both the village and the mission were empty.
Gran Quivira began 1200 years ago and grew to become home to 2,000 people. It was an important trade centre for Pueblo and Plains Indians before and after the arrival of the Spaniards. But in the 1660 the rains stopped and famine followed drought. Some 480 people starved in a single winter. In 1670 the people fled to Abo, but seven years after that, all three Salinas missions were abandoned. They headed south to the still flowing Rio Grande river.
Quarai Indian Village/Spanish mission is believed to have housed up to 600 people in the 1600s with the earliest know dwellers (based on pottery found on site) dating back to the early 1300s. Quarai went through periods of abandonment and rebirth by both Indians and Spaniards.
]]>
A STEP BACK IN TIME
 |
| New Mexico's Salinas Valley |
Mission San Gregorio de Abo is one of three Indian villages/Spanish missions within New Mexico's Salinas Pueblo Missions National Monument. Pueblo Indians called it home for over 500 years starting in the early twelfth century. From 1622 to around 1673, Franciscan priests also lived here as they struggled to ‘civilize’ the Indians. Fifty years after beginning their attempts to Christianize the Indians, both the village and the mission were empty.
Gran Quivira began 1200 years ago and grew to become home to 2,000 people. It was an important trade centre for Pueblo and Plains Indians before and after the arrival of the Spaniards. But in the 1660 the rains stopped and famine followed drought. Some 480 people starved in a single winter. In 1670 the people fled to Abo, but seven years after that, all three Salinas missions were abandoned. They headed south to the still flowing Rio Grande river.
Quarai Indian Village/Spanish mission is believed to have housed up to 600 people in the 1600s with the earliest know dwellers (based on pottery found on site) dating back to the early 1300s. Quarai went through periods of abandonment and rebirth by both Indians and Spaniards.
]]>
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| Deming, New Mexico and the first day of heat! |
The time has come
April approaches.
As we pack up, and ready ourselves for the long trek north, I realize just how lucky I am.
Selling our house in Arizona last spring was a hard thing to do, especially after living there for eight years, allowing us ample time to feel like a local. We got to know the neighbours, the giggling girls that lived down the block, the dogs next door, the mail lady and her ear-to-ear smile and the full menu at the nearby golf course.
With excited trepidation we took over a lifestyle introduced to us by a cherished aunt and uncle many, many years before. After months of searching for the perfect fifth wheel, the minute I walked in, I knew this was our new home-away-from-home. It just had that feel.
Our first winter on wheels is barely drawing to a close and already we are excitedly planning next winter and the winter after that and the next one to follow that. A sign of success!
But the inaugural trip wasn't lacking drama.
Things like winterizing come naturally to some. Not us. It freaks us out. And, much like a horse that senses fear in its rider, I'm pretty damn sure Clancy (our fifth wheel) sensed sheer terror in us. We paid to have her winterized before we left home, but once we reached the southern above-zero temperatures, we knew the time had come to let loose the antifreeze, stop sleeping in hotels and begin our new life as intrepid travelers.
We thought our cheat sheet was perfect. It made perfect sense. Until it didn't.
|
| De-winterizing hell |
Flood #1 brought tears and a tad bit of shouting.
Flood #2 intensified the shouting and brought back fond memories of our Arizona house.
After putting the levers and hoses back to their winterized positions and mopping up the water, we decided it best to cease and desist and go for a walk around the park. Beating ourselves up for being total novices (which, by the way, we are) and not being able to follow simple instructions, we both felt like crawling into a dark hole until we had a brilliant idea. Don't give up - call Don!
My cousin and her husband have a similar unit to ours and they are seasoned professionals when it comes to camping. It took all of one minute for him to figure out what the problem was. Sure enough. When the instructions say 'tighten the filter', it means to FREAKING TIGHTEN THE FILTER. So, sheer force and five minutes later we were de-winterized!
(I will completely ignore the fact that we have to reverse this action in a couple of weeks as we near the Canadian border.)
We did a few one night stands where no unhooking was required until we arrived outside Maricopa, Arizona, where we once lived. After selling the house we scattered belongings amongst several friends homes and had to start gathering them up, so here we planned to stay for a few nights.
We had successfully unhooked the truck from the fifth several times while camping in Canada, but this was our first attempt down south. Must have been the dry heat. Or internalized fear resurfacing. For whatever reason, Clancy would not let go of our truck. We hiked her higher, we dropped her down, we rocked the truck backwards and forwards, we cursed, I cried (again), then when we were just about ready to give up our neighbour drove past. Judging by the size of his fifth wheel (must have been 45' long!) we figured he might be able to lend a hand. And he certainly did.
Almost an hour later, after wielding a rather large wrench, the guys set Clancy free.
Alas, a new fear arose and hasn't been squashed. Twice more we had issues, but none this bad and none we couldn't finally overcome ourselves. The mind plays wicked games, and not just on the golf course.
The last of our crises involved critters.
Lake Pleasant, Arizona was our inaugural month-to-month stop. Drop dead gorgeous. Trails, wildlife, kayaking, bird watching, nearby golf for the so inflicted.
Stepping out one morning with full intentions of enjoying my coffee surrounded by the peaceful sights and sounds of nature, nature struck back. My flower pot was rolling around in misery, black guts spilled all over my green Kokopelli rug. Instead of lettuce, parsley and spearmint intended to get me through five months on the road, all that remained was a mangled chunk of root and traumatized spearmint. Seems I'd forgotten that nature includes jackrabbits and wild burros. That was the end of mobile desert gardening for me!
Reg signed up as a volunteer at a golf tournament in Scottsdale. The friend he was working with lives in Sun City, so, to avoid the 5am alarm, he packed a bag and moved into their guest room for the duration of the tournament. Finally, some alone time!! That might sound harsh to some, but he is a 35-year survivor of the Canadian navy. A navy that took him across the globe and back, sometimes for more than half a year at a time, also took him away from me. But those times apart did strengthened my independence and taught me how to fend for myself as I tried to explain several years ago in an article for the Globe & Mail. (http://www.pennyrogers.ca/married-to-the-navy---the-globe-and-mail.pdf).
My first evening in Clancy alone. Popcorn was popped. Beer was cracked. Chick flicks lined up on Netflix. Yee haw!
And then the scratching began. Not me. Him. The little shit under the sink. At first I didn't know what I was hearing. Were the wild burros back, demanding more lettuce? Was it a crazed bird doing the two-step on the roof? Nope. According to the park ranger we talked with a week later, we were the unusual recipients of a mouse. "They don't usually move in that fast," he said, in his well-ironed, badge-adorned ranger suit. Well, sir, it did.
So, sadly I admit, there were more tears, but I couldn't bring myself to beg Reg to come back.
It was a long, uncomfortable, annoying, hate-filled, teary, noisy night. Every half hour, almost like clockwork, the little turd would scurry up the water pipes and try to scratch his way over board that hid them from view. When I heard the scratching start, I'd pound on the side of the kitchen island. It seemed to work. But the bugger kept it up until just before sunrise. Persistent little shit.
I remained brave until early afternoon when exhaustion finally hit. I called in the troops. After his shift was over at the tournament I gave in and asked Reg to come pick me up. He did, arms loaded with mouse destruction devices of every shape and size.
First we plugged in the little white sonic rodent repellent devices that I secretly hoped would shatter his tiny eardrums (sorry animal lovers). Then we stuffed peanut butter and cheese inside two disposable traps then repeated the same with old fashioned snap traps.
Bag packed, I headed to our friends for the night, confident in the death and destruction that would soon follow.
But just to be sure, we'd seen that all the park hosts had ribbon lights running around the ground under their rigs. When asked why, we were told that rodents didn't like crossing over the light. Home Depot just happened to be en route. In a few hours we'd be lit up like the Fourth of July.
Needless to say, the mouse wasn't a problem again.
But, we aren't done yet.
Our second month-long stop was San Diego.
Being here again was amazing. The RV park was right on Mission Bay with walkways, cycling paths, shopping, attractions, beaches, hockey games and beaches. Or did I already mention beaches?
We were in heaven...
...Until the ants came. And came. And came.
They were marching up one of the rear jacks like their little lives depended on it. I won't go into the sordid details, but, once again with apologies to the creature lovers (of which I used to be a huge one), out came the death spray and the strategically placed traps.
It took almost three weeks before the last straggler was squished as he swaggered his way across the counter top, but, mission accomplished. From then on we knew to spray everything that touched the ground as soon as we parked for any length of time.
Lesson learned. At least we are now using environmentally friendly repellent!
So, in a not-so-short nutshell, that pretty much sums up the not-so-much-fun parts of our first venture into the RV lifestyle.
Annoying? Absolutely. But anything worth doing is worth the effort. As Benjamin Franklin said, "Energy and persistence conquer all things".
Tomorrow we start our two-week trek north. Home. Always a good place to end one journey, rest up, and plan for another. Minus the mice.
]]>
|
| Deming, New Mexico and the first day of heat! |
The time has come
April approaches.
As we pack up, and ready ourselves for the long trek north, I realize just how lucky I am.
Selling our house in Arizona last spring was a hard thing to do, especially after living there for eight years, allowing us ample time to feel like a local. We got to know the neighbours, the giggling girls that lived down the block, the dogs next door, the mail lady and her ear-to-ear smile and the full menu at the nearby golf course.
With excited trepidation we took over a lifestyle introduced to us by a cherished aunt and uncle many, many years before. After months of searching for the perfect fifth wheel, the minute I walked in, I knew this was our new home-away-from-home. It just had that feel.
Our first winter on wheels is barely drawing to a close and already we are excitedly planning next winter and the winter after that and the next one to follow that. A sign of success!
But the inaugural trip wasn't lacking drama.
Things like winterizing come naturally to some. Not us. It freaks us out. And, much like a horse that senses fear in its rider, I'm pretty damn sure Clancy (our fifth wheel) sensed sheer terror in us. We paid to have her winterized before we left home, but once we reached the southern above-zero temperatures, we knew the time had come to let loose the antifreeze, stop sleeping in hotels and begin our new life as intrepid travelers.
We thought our cheat sheet was perfect. It made perfect sense. Until it didn't.
|
| De-winterizing hell |
Flood #1 brought tears and a tad bit of shouting.
Flood #2 intensified the shouting and brought back fond memories of our Arizona house.
After putting the levers and hoses back to their winterized positions and mopping up the water, we decided it best to cease and desist and go for a walk around the park. Beating ourselves up for being total novices (which, by the way, we are) and not being able to follow simple instructions, we both felt like crawling into a dark hole until we had a brilliant idea. Don't give up - call Don!
My cousin and her husband have a similar unit to ours and they are seasoned professionals when it comes to camping. It took all of one minute for him to figure out what the problem was. Sure enough. When the instructions say 'tighten the filter', it means to FREAKING TIGHTEN THE FILTER. So, sheer force and five minutes later we were de-winterized!
(I will completely ignore the fact that we have to reverse this action in a couple of weeks as we near the Canadian border.)
We did a few one night stands where no unhooking was required until we arrived outside Maricopa, Arizona, where we once lived. After selling the house we scattered belongings amongst several friends homes and had to start gathering them up, so here we planned to stay for a few nights.
We had successfully unhooked the truck from the fifth several times while camping in Canada, but this was our first attempt down south. Must have been the dry heat. Or internalized fear resurfacing. For whatever reason, Clancy would not let go of our truck. We hiked her higher, we dropped her down, we rocked the truck backwards and forwards, we cursed, I cried (again), then when we were just about ready to give up our neighbour drove past. Judging by the size of his fifth wheel (must have been 45' long!) we figured he might be able to lend a hand. And he certainly did.
Almost an hour later, after wielding a rather large wrench, the guys set Clancy free.
Alas, a new fear arose and hasn't been squashed. Twice more we had issues, but none this bad and none we couldn't finally overcome ourselves. The mind plays wicked games, and not just on the golf course.
The last of our crises involved critters.
Lake Pleasant, Arizona was our inaugural month-to-month stop. Drop dead gorgeous. Trails, wildlife, kayaking, bird watching, nearby golf for the so inflicted.
Stepping out one morning with full intentions of enjoying my coffee surrounded by the peaceful sights and sounds of nature, nature struck back. My flower pot was rolling around in misery, black guts spilled all over my green Kokopelli rug. Instead of lettuce, parsley and spearmint intended to get me through five months on the road, all that remained was a mangled chunk of root and traumatized spearmint. Seems I'd forgotten that nature includes jackrabbits and wild burros. That was the end of mobile desert gardening for me!
Reg signed up as a volunteer at a golf tournament in Scottsdale. The friend he was working with lives in Sun City, so, to avoid the 5am alarm, he packed a bag and moved into their guest room for the duration of the tournament. Finally, some alone time!! That might sound harsh to some, but he is a 35-year survivor of the Canadian navy. A navy that took him across the globe and back, sometimes for more than half a year at a time, also took him away from me. But those times apart did strengthened my independence and taught me how to fend for myself as I tried to explain several years ago in an article for the Globe & Mail. (http://www.pennyrogers.ca/married-to-the-navy---the-globe-and-mail.pdf).
My first evening in Clancy alone. Popcorn was popped. Beer was cracked. Chick flicks lined up on Netflix. Yee haw!
And then the scratching began. Not me. Him. The little shit under the sink. At first I didn't know what I was hearing. Were the wild burros back, demanding more lettuce? Was it a crazed bird doing the two-step on the roof? Nope. According to the park ranger we talked with a week later, we were the unusual recipients of a mouse. "They don't usually move in that fast," he said, in his well-ironed, badge-adorned ranger suit. Well, sir, it did.
So, sadly I admit, there were more tears, but I couldn't bring myself to beg Reg to come back.
It was a long, uncomfortable, annoying, hate-filled, teary, noisy night. Every half hour, almost like clockwork, the little turd would scurry up the water pipes and try to scratch his way over board that hid them from view. When I heard the scratching start, I'd pound on the side of the kitchen island. It seemed to work. But the bugger kept it up until just before sunrise. Persistent little shit.
I remained brave until early afternoon when exhaustion finally hit. I called in the troops. After his shift was over at the tournament I gave in and asked Reg to come pick me up. He did, arms loaded with mouse destruction devices of every shape and size.
First we plugged in the little white sonic rodent repellent devices that I secretly hoped would shatter his tiny eardrums (sorry animal lovers). Then we stuffed peanut butter and cheese inside two disposable traps then repeated the same with old fashioned snap traps.
Bag packed, I headed to our friends for the night, confident in the death and destruction that would soon follow.
But just to be sure, we'd seen that all the park hosts had ribbon lights running around the ground under their rigs. When asked why, we were told that rodents didn't like crossing over the light. Home Depot just happened to be en route. In a few hours we'd be lit up like the Fourth of July.
Needless to say, the mouse wasn't a problem again.
But, we aren't done yet.
Our second month-long stop was San Diego.
Being here again was amazing. The RV park was right on Mission Bay with walkways, cycling paths, shopping, attractions, beaches, hockey games and beaches. Or did I already mention beaches?
We were in heaven...
...Until the ants came. And came. And came.
They were marching up one of the rear jacks like their little lives depended on it. I won't go into the sordid details, but, once again with apologies to the creature lovers (of which I used to be a huge one), out came the death spray and the strategically placed traps.
It took almost three weeks before the last straggler was squished as he swaggered his way across the counter top, but, mission accomplished. From then on we knew to spray everything that touched the ground as soon as we parked for any length of time.
Lesson learned. At least we are now using environmentally friendly repellent!
So, in a not-so-short nutshell, that pretty much sums up the not-so-much-fun parts of our first venture into the RV lifestyle.
Annoying? Absolutely. But anything worth doing is worth the effort. As Benjamin Franklin said, "Energy and persistence conquer all things".
Tomorrow we start our two-week trek north. Home. Always a good place to end one journey, rest up, and plan for another. Minus the mice.
]]>
|
| Miniature Sicilian Donkeys at Rooster Cogburn Ostrich Ranch |
I've had a love-hate relationship with zoos forever. Caged animals. A concept that bothers the heck out of me. But if it wasn't for SeaWorld, I never would have been inspired to take up scuba diving so I could get closer to the unbelievable flora and fauna below. If it weren't for the Winnipeg zoo, I probably would never have fallen head over heals with zebras or simians. If you aren't exposed to new experiences, how do you know to care? How many kids would get to feed a giraffe, if not in a zoo? How many teens would learn about the dangers of net fishing for dolphins? How many have been inspired over the years to work at a place like Scripps Institute of Oceanography? Or get involved with the amazing wildlife conservancy programs at the San Diego Zoo? But I digress.
For many years we'd drive past a little petting zoo on Arizona's I-10 called Rooster Cogburn Ostrich Ranch. Thinking it was a place we'd take the grandkids - but we don't have grandkids - we always flew past it en route to somewhere more exciting.
Last week, we stopped.
Opened in 1999, the then ostrich-filled farm has since expanded to include miniature Sicilian donkeys, Nigerian Dwarf goats, Fallow Deer from Europe, sheep from St. Croix, ducks from China, Boer goats from Africa, Cownose stingrays from Florida and the gorgeous Australian rainbow lorikeets.
Feeding these incredible creatures had both my husband and I giggling like giddy teens.
I was nipped by a donkey when I had my back turned to take a photo. Lesson learned!
Ok, not really. Same thing happened when I had my back turned to the Fallow deer! Now do you understand why we never had children?
|
| Don't turn your back on hungry Fallow deer! They will get your attention any way they can. |
But after that, things went swimmingly. Eyes front!
Seeing my husband's broad-rimmed smile as he loaded up the food container and sent it skyward to feed the Boer goats in their luxurious high-rise 'penthouse' was worth the admission alone. Related to Big Horn Sheep, goats apparently seek out the highest possible point. I imagine the early morning routine at Rooster Cogburn starting with a jostling for position amongst the Boer's - those who push their way to the front are rewarded with a day spent high above the crowd of sticky-kid fingers and selfie sticks.
Next door to their penthouse, the remaining goats do a hilarious impression of the 'Hole in the Wall Gang'. With the most goofy expressions, tongues and often front legs outstretched, their begging for food doesn't go long without reward.
The feeding that freaked me out the most was the ostrich. Perhaps it was because I'm short and they just aren't. The world's largest flightless bird can grow to heights upwards of 9 feet. They have oddly-shaped rounded beaks, no teeth and 14 meters of intestine! And they are fast. Their two-clawed feet are used for defense but also help them run up to 65-kilometers per hour. A few times I thought their beaks were dive bombing for food at the same speed. Without teeth they can't bite, but their hard beaks could freak a person out as they grabbed for food.
One of the highlights of the day were the Rainbow lorikeets. Stunningly beautiful with mauve, red and green colouring, these parrots had attitude! We were given covered plastic cups and told not to remove the lids. Holding the cup securely in hand, the birds would perch themselves, hang on tight then proceed to remove the thing separating them from the nectar inside. It wasn't a long process! At one point my husband had six birds vying for his attention.
|
| Yes, I gave him the camera |
The other highlight for me was the stingrays. Living on the prairies now, I miss scuba diving. The undersea world is simply incredible and these intelligent, misunderstood creatures are no exception. The Phoenix Zoo is doing some great work with the Cownose stingray, attempting to help educate and stop the killing contests taking place in the state of Maryland.
It was an incredible day. Kids or no kids, it's definitely worth an hour or two out of your day. Oh, and I came away with an ostrich egg from the gift shop (ok, I'm admittedly addicted to gift shops). Next Easter I will reignite my forgotten Ukrainian heritage skills and attempt to turn the off-white sphere into a psychedelic pysanka like no other. Wish me luck!
|
| Miniature Sicilian Donkeys at Rooster Cogburn Ostrich Ranch |
I've had a love-hate relationship with zoos forever. Caged animals. A concept that bothers the heck out of me. But if it wasn't for SeaWorld, I never would have been inspired to take up scuba diving so I could get closer to the unbelievable flora and fauna below. If it weren't for the Winnipeg zoo, I probably would never have fallen head over heals with zebras or simians. If you aren't exposed to new experiences, how do you know to care? How many kids would get to feed a giraffe, if not in a zoo? How many teens would learn about the dangers of net fishing for dolphins? How many have been inspired over the years to work at a place like Scripps Institute of Oceanography? Or get involved with the amazing wildlife conservancy programs at the San Diego Zoo? But I digress.
For many years we'd drive past a little petting zoo on Arizona's I-10 called Rooster Cogburn Ostrich Ranch. Thinking it was a place we'd take the grandkids - but we don't have grandkids - we always flew past it en route to somewhere more exciting.
Last week, we stopped.
Opened in 1999, the then ostrich-filled farm has since expanded to include miniature Sicilian donkeys, Nigerian Dwarf goats, Fallow Deer from Europe, sheep from St. Croix, ducks from China, Boer goats from Africa, Cownose stingrays from Florida and the gorgeous Australian rainbow lorikeets.
Feeding these incredible creatures had both my husband and I giggling like giddy teens.
I was nipped by a donkey when I had my back turned to take a photo. Lesson learned!
Ok, not really. Same thing happened when I had my back turned to the Fallow deer! Now do you understand why we never had children?
|
| Don't turn your back on hungry Fallow deer! They will get your attention any way they can. |
But after that, things went swimmingly. Eyes front!
Seeing my husband's broad-rimmed smile as he loaded up the food container and sent it skyward to feed the Boer goats in their luxurious high-rise 'penthouse' was worth the admission alone. Related to Big Horn Sheep, goats apparently seek out the highest possible point. I imagine the early morning routine at Rooster Cogburn starting with a jostling for position amongst the Boer's - those who push their way to the front are rewarded with a day spent high above the crowd of sticky-kid fingers and selfie sticks.
Next door to their penthouse, the remaining goats do a hilarious impression of the 'Hole in the Wall Gang'. With the most goofy expressions, tongues and often front legs outstretched, their begging for food doesn't go long without reward.
The feeding that freaked me out the most was the ostrich. Perhaps it was because I'm short and they just aren't. The world's largest flightless bird can grow to heights upwards of 9 feet. They have oddly-shaped rounded beaks, no teeth and 14 meters of intestine! And they are fast. Their two-clawed feet are used for defense but also help them run up to 65-kilometers per hour. A few times I thought their beaks were dive bombing for food at the same speed. Without teeth they can't bite, but their hard beaks could freak a person out as they grabbed for food.
One of the highlights of the day were the Rainbow lorikeets. Stunningly beautiful with mauve, red and green colouring, these parrots had attitude! We were given covered plastic cups and told not to remove the lids. Holding the cup securely in hand, the birds would perch themselves, hang on tight then proceed to remove the thing separating them from the nectar inside. It wasn't a long process! At one point my husband had six birds vying for his attention.
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| Yes, I gave him the camera |
The other highlight for me was the stingrays. Living on the prairies now, I miss scuba diving. The undersea world is simply incredible and these intelligent, misunderstood creatures are no exception. The Phoenix Zoo is doing some great work with the Cownose stingray, attempting to help educate and stop the killing contests taking place in the state of Maryland.
It was an incredible day. Kids or no kids, it's definitely worth an hour or two out of your day. Oh, and I came away with an ostrich egg from the gift shop (ok, I'm admittedly addicted to gift shops). Next Easter I will reignite my forgotten Ukrainian heritage skills and attempt to turn the off-white sphere into a psychedelic pysanka like no other. Wish me luck!
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| Road through Joshua Tree National Park, California |
The first sight of them will have you mesmerized.
Explorer John Fremont called them repulsive.
Mormon settlers were reminded of their Prophet Joshua, pointing to the Promised Land.
Locals call them ‘J-Trees’.
A U2 album referenced them.
Some suggest that Dr. Seuss fashioned his Truffula trees after them in ‘The Lorax’.
They grow nowhere in the world except the
high Mojave Desert.
They take up to 60 years to mature and live to be
over 150 years old.
Only one species of moth is able to transfer pollen
from one flower to another.
Their creamy, bell-shaped blooms stink.
“They” are Joshua Trees.
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| Bluebird perched atop Joshua Tree |
But that's not all that Joshua Tree has to offer. Not too far into the park, while still in the Colorado Desert section, is nearly 10 acres of teddybear cholla. Stop and wander along the .25 mile trail through these unique looking plants. Look, that is, but don't touch! They get the name teddybear because they look huggable. They aren't. Trust me.
Now, add rocks to the wacky looking cacti and twisted trees, and you've got an even more interesting place to visit! There is nothing ordinary about the rock formations that pop up erratically throughout Joshua Tree. See, they aren't just granite. They are monzogranite!
They are formed somehow through erosion and I don't pretend to understand it, but this link will give you all the fascinating information you need - https://www.nps.gov/jotr/learn/nature/geologicformations.htm - I just couldn't get enough of them!
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| The Arch |
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| Skull Rock - for obvious reasons! |
There are even campgrounds throughout the park. The one at Jumbo Rocks has 124 sites with pit toilets and trash pickup (nothing else). We didn't stay, but I can imagine how spectacular the stars must look at night in this remote wilderness miles away from city lights.
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| Jumbo Rocks Campground |
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| Jumbo Rocks Campground |
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| Jumbo Rocks Campground |
Another spot checked off my bucket list, but hopefully I'll be back. This is a destination worth exploring more than once in a lifetime. All 792,510 acres of it.
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As the distance between you and the sea shrinks, two things become overwhelmingly obvious. The smell and the crunch. You see, it's not sand beneath your feet. It's decades of death.
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| Salton Sea Recreation Area |
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| Pulverized fish bones make up beach areas of the Salton Sea |
Macerated bones from millions of dead fish create the illusion of white sand beaches.
The 'rotten egg' smell is a combination of dead fish, algal bloom and hydrogen sulfide created by the decaying organic matter trapped beneath the water.
One of the biggest concerns today is fine-particle air pollution caused as the waters recede, revealing more of the sea's bottom. With higher and higher summer temperatures, evaporation is increasing, plus less water is entering the sea from surrounding farmlands. With nothing flowing back in, it is only a matter of time before miles more sea bottom is exposed and that's not a good thing. The town of Indio already has some of the countries worst particle air pollution.
One report states that the sea mud contains arsenic, selenium and pesticides, including DDT - some of the most toxic in the world. Millions of Californians are at risk of respiratory illness. Crops will be damaged. Wildlife will be harmed. Tourism will suffer even more.
But it wasn't always like this.
California's largest lake was a mistake.
In 1905 an irrigation canal inlet gate on the Colorado River failed and flooded much of the area and the Salton Sea was born. By the 1920s it was a major tourist destination and in 1929 over 2,000 people lined the shore as five world speedboat records were set. The salinity makes boats more buoyant.
The main purpose of the lake was to irrigate crops in the Imperial Valley but tourism boomed for decades. In the 1950s the Salton Sea was a bigger draw than Yosemite. Sports fishing increased when freshwater fish were replaced with saltwater ones (corvina, cargo, croaker). The North Shore Beach and Yacht Club opened, and the 'Salton Riviera' rivaled nearby Palm Springs, drawing the likes of Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, Beach Boys, Jerry Lewis, Marx Brothers and Desi Arnaz.
Also in the '50s, developer Penn Phillips bought and sold thousands of acres on the lake's western shores, but 1960 started the beginning of the end. He abandoned Salton City, leaving behind a few homes, sewers and street signs that named paved roads that checkered empty neighborhoods.
If the 50s and 60s were unkind, the 70s were downright cruel.
The rising sea elevation led to buildings being abandoned, including the city's marina. With no outlet, less and less rainfall and more pesticide-laden drainage spilling in from surrounding farmland, the pollution increased drastically, as did the salinity level.
If that wasn't enough, 1976 produced Hurricane Kathleen and 1977 Hurricane Doreen, destroying marinas and resorts and pushing the economic decline downward even further.
Today tourists still trickle in, mostly in awe of what once was.
Fishing was restricted in 1986 because of toxicity levels in the fish, but has been replaced with things like paramotoring and hot air ballooning.
Photographers still creep in and wander the deserted shores and dilapidated towns searching for signs of better times.
Sonny Bono Salton Sea National Wildlife Refuge still draws crowds because, thankfully, the birds still come. Even as the fish become more toxic.
In 2015 a task force was formed and is working on a 10-year plan to improve air quality, wildlife habitat and water quality. I, for one, wish them well.
It's an eerie, cheerless, depressing, smelly, creepy, beautiful, humble, historic place. Here's to new beginnings.
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“It often happens that when you look at familiar things through someone else's eyes you see them as you have never seen them before.”
― John Mole, It's All Greek to Me!: A Tale of a Mad Dog and an Englishman, Ruins, Retsina--and Real Greeks
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| SUNSET BEACH |
ADIEU SAN DIEGO
A month came and went too fast. We will miss San Diego, but know we will return, possibly for an entire winter, once our wandering ways have subsided some.
We both have differing memories of this fabulous city on the sea. The navy ships brought Reg here too many times to count. Broadway Pier. Black’s Beach. Bernie’s. These places defined his early years. Later in life his trips revolved around Admiral Baker Golf Course and even Torrey Pines. Arranging golf outings for him and his fellow shipmates became an obsession.
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| BROADWAY PIER 2018 |
I often flew down to visit a friend. My trips involved rental cars, boogie boards, Baskin and Robbins ice cream, Del Mar dog beach, Belly Up Tavern and the Comedy Club.
No matter. We both fell in life-long love with San Diego.
This past month we managed to fit in as much as we could without pushing our aging bones to the limit. Reg got in a bit of golf. He stood on the newly-designed Broadway Pier and gazed across the street sadly at the new high-rises that have long since replaced Bernie’s. I managed to keep him away from Black’s Beach!
We walked along the shoreline at all times of the day and night. Gathered shells and sea glass and listened to the barking of the sea lions. I wasn’t brave enough to get my boogie board wet (this time!).
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| SHELL BEACH - COLLECTING SEA GLASS |
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| CHILDREN'S POOL - NOW OWNED BY MATING HARBOUR SEALS & SEA GULLS |
My 59th birthday gift was a dinner cruise around the harbor. Seeing the city at night from the water side was a highlight of the trip.
Not one to be satisfied with only one water tour, we found a half-price Groupon that we couldn’t resist. A two-hour daylight cruise around the harbor would show me yet another side of this city. Reg, of course, had seen it many times from this vantage point, but years had passed and things had changed. Coronado Island, military dolphin training exercises, navy ships of all shapes and sizes, planes still landing far too close to humanity for my liking, Seaport Village, Harbour Island and Cabrillo National Monument. Everything looks different from a ship.
Friends came to visit and we took in Scripps Aquarium.
We wandered around Balboa Park and I even got Reg inside a couple of museums.
The San Diego Zoo is world-renowned and took up an entire day and all existing energy.
Hikes included Mission Bay and Torrey Pines Natural Reserve.
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| Torrey Pines Natural Reserve |
Reg and our friend Gilles volunteered at Farmer’s Insurance Open golf tournament for almost a week so I accompanied them on pro-am day. In the pre-dawn light a golf course looks incredibly different, especially on tournament day. Every hole, it seemed, had someone working with only the light from their headlamp, mowing or rolling or watering. It was eerie walking the cart paths almost entirely alone.
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| THE RETURN OF THE TIGER |
Fort Rosecrans National (armed forces) Cemetery was a surprise stop. Never having heard of it, we drove past it on a very foggy morning en route to Cabrillo National Monument. The thousands of white grave markers on the rolling, ocean-sloped hills melted away into the thick white fog. The first place I stopped to take a photo turned out to be beside the grave of a CPL Watrous, who I share a birthdate with.
Shopping trips, biking, hockey games, dining out … ordinary things in San Diego seem somehow more extraordinary.
We will miss this place, but we will return. The ocean has a way of pulling people back. In the meantime, there are many more states to explore!
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| Scripps beach |
Until we meet again ...
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| Coronado Island |
The Beaches of San Diego
I live in Manitoba. Best part? Space. In every direction. My hometown has one four-way stop; no traffic light. And everybody really does know your name. But, after living on Vancouver Island for over three decades, I do miss the ocean.So, we booked ourselves into an RV park on Mission Bay, San Diego for a month. Head north or south, only minutes from our campsite are miles of sandy beaches and in January some of them can be like ghost towns.
For those who think 'a beach is a beach' ... nope. They have their own unique personalities and I can't pick a favorite.
Coronado is up there because of it's view back toward Cabrillo National Monument and, of course, the world famous Hotel del Coronado.
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| Coronado Island |
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| Coronado Island |
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| Coronado Island |
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| Hotel del Coronado |
Totally different, yet equally unique is the one-two-three punch of beaches along the stunning La Jolla shore. Windansea Beach is popular with surfers, and the sandstone rock formations make for a cozy spot to sit and watch from.
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| Windansea Beach |
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| Windansea Beach |
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| Windansea Beach Not far away is Shell Beach. It was foggy and the waves were rolling in quickly, but we managed to gather a small treasure trove of sea glass and shells. Momentarily venturing too far from land, I'd forgotten how fierce the pull of the ocean can be when it heads back out to sea. The sand under my feet disappeared and I almost went ass over teakettle into the drink! Good reminder about the power of nature. |
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| Shell Beach |
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| Shell Beach |
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| Shell Beach |
Walking distance from Shell Beach is the Children's Pool. No more children actually swim here, but it's a perfect viewing platform for the beach's laziest inhabitants. Harbour seals. The beach is closed yearly from December 15 through May 15 because of pupping season.
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| Beach at the Children's Pool in La Jolla |
The edge of Point Loma can boast Sunset Cliffs Natural Park. We caught the end of a wedding here, which obviously is a frequent occurrence...as is the gathering crowd awaiting sunset. As beautiful as the area is, it is also deadly with signs warning of unstable cliffs.
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| Sunset Cliffs |
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| Sunset Cliffs |
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| Sunset Cliffs |
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| Sunset Cliffs |
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| Sunset Cliffs |
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| Sunset Cliffs after a wedding |
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| Sunset Cliffs |
And the final beach we made it to during our month-long amazing stay was Scripps. The Ellen Browning Scripps Memorial Pier makes this a must-see, at least for me. My goal in life when I was much younger was to become a marine biologist, eventually working at Scripps Institute in San Diego. I had big goals. In the end I settled for taking up scuba diving around Vancouver Island and working on a tv series called 'Safari: Ocean Adventures'. Close, but no cigar.
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| Ellen Browning Memorial Pier |
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| Ellen Browning Memorial Pier at Scripps |
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| Scripps beach |
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| Scripps beach |
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| Ellen Browning Memorial Pier |
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| Scripps beach |
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| someone with more flexibility and confidence than I! |
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| graffiti painted on wall close to pier |
We leave here next week and I will miss San Diego. Not a fan of cities anymore, this one, for some unknown reason, has always made me feel at home.
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Physical boundaries. There maybe has never been a better time to broach the subject than in today’s world of #MeToo, Trump’s antediluvian view of (Muslim) immigrants and his damn border wall.
The Museum of Photographic Arts in San Diego’s Balboa Park had on display a student exhibition* that mostly focused on physical boundaries. Boundaries created by walls and fences; boundaries within nature; travel and relationship boundaries; political and physical boundaries and boundaries created by both city and country, wealth and poverty.
Two things I took away from the exhibit.
First, there are some strikingly creative, inspiring young photographers out there and, second, many of the youth partaking in the exhibit see a world vastly different from what I saw through my eyes as a child. And not for the better.
My world wasn’t perfection. No one’s is. But compared to what is happening today, I (thankfully) lived in an episode of ‘The Wonder Years’.
Today’s issues aren’t new. Bullying. LGBT. Sexual abuse. Poverty. Drugs. Parenthood. I think they are just intensified by the constant velocity and span of social media. For instance, the ability to hide behind a smart phone and systematically destroy someone else’s confidence is both tragic and cowardly.
I’m rooting for strength, hope, resilience and love getting these kids through whatever horror and sadness they witness in their lives. Maybe my rose-colored glasses need cleaning, but judging by the work hanging on these walls, I don’t think so. They got this.
*12th Annual Juried Youth Exhibition showcasing local K-12 students across San Diego County & Tijuana.
]]>It’s hard to beat the experience that is Carlsbad Caverns in southern New Mexico. My camera and I were transfixed for more than 5 hours in that underground matrix …
Grand Canyon Caverns was an entirely different kettle of fish. Fish? Did I say fish?
According to Pam Powers ‘Recollection of the Grand Canyon Caverns’, this magical place began 345 million years ago during the Mississippian Period. The southwestern U.S. was covered by ocean and as small sea creatures died over the centuries, their shells and skeletons created a dense mud rich in lime. This hardened into the limestone bedrock that forms the base of the Caverns today. So yes … fishy!
Then, 35 million years ago, rain carried a mild acid solution into the Caverns, seeping into cracks and crevices before draining into the Colorado River. Millions more years then passed, revealing how the evaporating water left white calcium deposits in strange shapes on the Cavern walls and floors.
The Caverns eventually dried out after the six million years they contained water. Because stalagmites or stalactites need water to form, this Cavern is void of them (unlike Carlsbad Caverns).
Actually, the Grand Canyon Caverns are the largest dry caverns in the U.S., and only 3% of all caverns in the world are dry.
Native Americans discovered the Caverns long before 1927 when a wood cutter from the Santa Fe Railway, Walter Peck, was credited with the find. He apparently fell into a hole one rainy night and the rest is history.
The hopes of striking it rich in mining didn’t pan out, but Walter did start the first tours of this magnificent place. Tourists (often laughed at for the ridiculousness of the situation) were eager to shell out 25 cents for their turn on the ‘Dope-on-a-Rope’. For this steep fee, they were lowered by rope 150 feet down with a kerosene lantern and a few stick matches. The good news was, once down there, he could look around at his leisure.
Obviously over the decades many improvements have happened at the site. One interesting one involved something as boring as the highway. The Caverns were located on the extremely popular Route 66. Because of the growing, freewheeling crowds, often filling parking lots and backing out onto Route 66, Arizona felt the need to turn the road in front of the Caverns into four lanes. The only spot in Arizona along Route 66 that this happened.
But alas, in 1978, the I-40 became a bypass to Route 66 and marked the beginning of the end to the Caverns. From Pam Powers book: Angel Delagadillo, a lifelong resident and business owner in the nearby town of Seligman said: “Statistics tell us that there were roughly 9,000 automobiles using this road some 24 hour periods. 9,000. The town died for ten long years…When we were bypassed that day, at about 2:00 in the afternoon, the world stopped for us.”
Then in 1987, the state of Arizona made Route 66 historic. With the help of over 400 road signs along Route 66 and I-40, the open road once again began calling to the people.
Today there are many ways to explore the Caverns: the new Wild Tour into newly discovered caves (even more caves have been discovered at about 1500 feet down but there is yet to be a safe way to bring people down); the short guided walking tour; regular 45-minute guided walking tour and the Explorer Tour for the more adventurous and goes off the beaten path. There is also a Ghost Walk tour!
And don’t be afraid when you stumble into Gertie. The 2,000 pound, 15-foot tall ground sloth died near a crevice that allows fresh air in. Long claw marks on the wall nearby show her desperation to find a way out, but alas it never happened. The skeleton was shipped to the University of Arizona is Tucson, but she left behind one claw, found embedded in the rock and now on display on site.
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| scratch marks on the wall close to an air vent |
Also interesting is the fact that, in 1963, during the Cuban Missile Crisis, the government stored enough food and water in the Caverns to support 2,000 people for two weeks. Large barrels contained crackers, water and first aid supplies. Apparently, after all these years, because of the dry conditions 200 feet below ground, the food is still edible! The water is stale, but still potable.
If you aren’t afraid of the deafening quiet and complete darkness and can cough up around $900, you can actually spend the night 220 feet below ground in the 65-million-year old 200x400’ room with a 70-foot ceiling!
Or you can eat 21 stories below the earth’s surface at the Caverns Grotto. Once you place your order, your attendant calls it upstairs where it is prepared and rushed the 200’ underground for your dining pleasure. A unique experience to say the least.
Another well-worth-it, off-the-beaten-path, one-for-the-books memory card full of photographs!
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Laughlin, Nevada has been a stopping point for us for many, many years. Mostly on our way to or from Phoenix, but sometimes as a destination on its own. We spent a very fun New Year's Eve there one year!
For the first time in a fifth wheel, however, it was both a win and a loose.
The win was being close to the casinos, even though I lost more than I won. The RV park (Riverside) gave us two free buffet tickets per week, so we made four trips down the hill for suppers during our stay, and it was pretty good. No dishes!
We had a lovely view of the 'mini strip' from our site atop the hill and the outlet mall (however downhill it is going) was a short walk as well.
It's the loose part that had me quite disappointed. We knew Laughlin/Bullhead City are windy. But we had no idea that the term Blowhead City was as well deserved as it was. Except for maybe 5 days in the month we had to put up with 40-50 mph wind gusts. Three nights we pulled the slides in because we thought we'd be jetted over the bank toward the Colorado. Three more nights we spent at the Aquarius hotel - luckily they had offered us $10 rooms!
With Lake Mohave so close, especially the Telephone Cove section, we had hoped to be in the kayaks at least once a week. Alas, twas not so. The boats never got wet. We did drive down and do a short hike around but wasn't quite the same.
So, returning to the area for any length of time will be hard. But, when passing through we will certainly make a stop for a night or two again. It always has had a special place in our travels, and probably always will.
Bird hangs onto fence behind our fifth wheel during yet another wind storm
Lake Mohave - Telephone Cove (Nevada) side
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There is something about rock art that draws me in every time. Maybe it's because I consider myself a wannabe writer and the stories etched into these rocks intrigue me. Or maybe it's because something so old and unique still exists in this world of toss-away items and short attention spans.
Like modern day billboards pronouncing roadside attractions or nearby shopping centers, these sacred, centuries-old areas, worked much the same way. Like neon signs pointing to watering holes or hunting areas or safe trails. Or perhaps they were etched deep into hard rock simply to preserve history. There are no concrete answers, just thought and theory.
For literally decades we have been driving past Christmas Tree Pass, gazing wonderingly down the gravel, because it called for a high-clearance vehicle, which we didn't have ... until now.
A mere two miles in you will find a parking area for the Mojave Desert's gem that is Grapevine Canyon. The Canyon is south of Spirit Mountain which is the highest peak in the Newberry Mountain range at an elevation of 5,639 feet. The mountain and its surrounding canyons are sacred grounds for the Yuman tribes of the lower Colorado River, including Mojave, Hulapai, Yavapai, Havasupai, Quechan, Pai pai and Maricopa. Members of these tribes continue to use this area today. It is such an important area to the Yuman tribes that it is listed on the National Register of Historic Places as a Traditional Cultural Property.
It's hard not to feel that you are somewhere special, even before coming upon the first set of petroglyphs. Just sit for awhile and imagine what it must have been like here 200, 400 or 800 years ago.
The outer walls of the wash explode with mini storybooks - their pages filled with symbols - some intricate, some simplistic - that told detailed stories hundreds of years ago. We can still read them today, but aside from guessing the storyline, most of the meaning has been lost.
A short walk further into the canyon explains the importance of this area, and provides some clues as to what the meaning of the art might be. Grapevines can only mean one thing ...
Water. Both rare and vital to life in the desert. I stopped wondering where they got the name Grapevine Canyon! The small fresh-water spring gives life to cottonwood, arrowweed, cattails and rushes as well as attracting small animals - today it was all about the birds and the bees!
As hard as it was to pull myself away from the quiet stillness of the canyon (bees aside), it was time to continue on our journey. There was somewhere around 13 miles of Christmas Tree Pass to still explore.
Aside from a few small boulders and lots of loose sand, the road was in much better shape than I thought it would be. The rainy season probably changes all that, but at least at the moment it was an easy drive!
Climbing through this ruggedly beautiful section of Lake Mead National Recreation Area, the drive through the canyon took us less than an hour to complete, even with my screeching "Stop!" at every turn.
The desert is a mystifying place. It is barren and desolate and cruel. It is lush and green and peaceful. It is cold and hot and wet and cracked from the drying winds. It is sand and rock and cacti. It gives life and it takes it away just as fast.
Like the storybooks left behind on the walls of Grapevine Canyon, the desert is hard to read and has a different meaning to everyone. For me it's like an insatiable itch. I can never quite reach it. It never goes away. And I never want to stop scratching it!
(Thanks to the NPS US Dep't of Interior for the documents provided)
Christmas Tree Pass is located off State Highway 163, six miles west of Davis Dam at mile marker 13.
https://www.visitlaughlin.com/listing/christmas-tree-pass-grapevine-canyon-and-spirit-mountain/14176/
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Our view drastically changed from the peaceful, mesmerizing waters of Lake Pleasant to the Riverside RV Park in Laughlin, Nevada. But change is good. For one thing we have full hookups, meaning I can go pee in the middle of the night without having to check the black water levels first. Always a good thing! And no more paper plates and plastic cups (in an attempt to not fill the gray water tank too quickly). With no recycling at the lake I felt like a criminal when tossing my recyclables; the tossing of artificial dinnerware made it even worse!
We have been settled into our lovely spacious spot at the RV park for about a week now. The first few days were awesome. Walks, shopping, casinos, movies, dinners out. The weather was perfect. Sitting in the mid 70s with only slight breezes - unnatural for the Colorado River basin. And then things changed. Or should I say normalized.
Three days ago the winds started ... and haven't stopped. The official forecast said 'gusts of 40 to 50 mph' but I'd like to correct them and say 'sustained winds of 40 to 50 mph'. I've never been so glad for chocks and blocks in my life. Still, it's been three nights of next to no sleep. Pulling in the slides helped, but only slightly.
And then along came the good ol' Aquarius hotel and their $10 room offer. With one more night of strong winds predicted, we took them up on their kindness and plan on getting a comfy, stable, quiet night's sleep!
Aside from the drama of the wind, Laughlin is an interesting area. Certainly gambling is what attracts most people...me included...but the area has much more to offer.
We already discovered the tiki god-like creation of Giganticus Headicus a few miles outside of Kingman, AZ.
http://www.route66news.com/2013/04/10/the-story-behind-giganticus-headicus/
It sits outside the unique Route 66 Antares Visitor Center on old Route 66. My bucket list consists of many things, one being a start-to-finish trip down what's left of the old route. No wonder this place appealed to me!
Lake Mohave and its 237 miles of shoreline is definitely worth more exploring too during our remaining weeks in Laughlin. Telephone Cove, on the Nevada side, takes some determination to get to. The gravel road can be in interesting condition, depending on the time of year, but is usually passable in any vehicle if you drive with care. At the end is your own private beach, pretty much. The kayaks will get some use here once the wind bids us adieu.
Further away from Laughlin, but still on the Nevada side, is Cottonwood Cove Resort & Marina (http://www.cottonwoodcoveresort.com/). It too has potential for some good kayaking, but time and weather will tell if we make it there again on this trip.
We will, for sure make the long drive to Arizona (like, 5 minutes) and head north to Katherine Landing (http://lakemohavemarina.com/lake-mohave-marina/) on the opposite side of Lake Mohave. It's a quaint little spot with RV parks, general store, boat rental, motel and fishing dock. Because it is part of Lake Mead National Recreation Area, park fees apply.
Aside from the lake, we plan to check out the Christmas decorations along the Oatman road,
Oatman itself (for the twentieth time. Those wild burros are irresistable!),
Davis Dam,
and just doing a general area wander for photo ops. So...stand by! Hopefully I'll have more to post before we push on to our next destination in January. And who knows? Maybe we'll make the short drive north to Santa Claus, AZ before Christmas and see if it's been sold yet. :)
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Finally ... a lake!
Experience. That’s the only way to learn.
We are spending a month at Lake Pleasant Regional Park, 30 minutes north of metro Phoenix, and will never inhabit a state or regional park again for that long.
We are spending a month at Lake Pleasant Regional Park, 30 minutes north of metro Phoenix, and will never inhabit a state or regional park again for that long.
Not that there is anything wrong with them! Au contraire. They are amazing places to camp, kayak, hike, picnic, relax, star gaze…just not for a month. Not for me.
I miss being able to waste water freely down the drain and flush the golden toilet as often as I like. Having to stock pile dishes and walk to the bathroom in the veil of night gets old.
And I won’t get into the lack of wifi.
But we are surviving, and enjoying our time here. We have no choice but to relax, both on and off the water. We read books, we watch sailboats drift by, we hike, we hunt for great-horned owls, we kayak, we chat with park rangers, we nap and we visit with good friends.
What an incredible place. Over 23,000 acres located in the saguaro-laden Sonoran Desert. Almost 10,000 acres of that is lake front. Camping with a view.
The trails keep us busy, but heat keeps us from experiencing all of them. It is unseasonably warm … again. But thanks to Ranger Terry we got out on a four-mile bird hike into desert, up and down hills, through a wash and alongside a creek that we had no idea existed. Weaving our way through old, age-arched mesquite trees gave us both peace and shade. It was here the great horned owl chose to live. Wise old owl.
Other ranger-led activities included bird videos, eagle talks and morning hikes. No shortage of things to do to keep the mind, body and spirit engaged.
And when we grow tired of cooking or our closet grows short of clothing, we wander over to Scorpion Bay to take advantage of the floating restaurant or the wifi or the laundry facilities.
In a few days we must pack up and head further west. We will leave behind the spectacular sunsets that Arizona is known for. But the beautiful state of Nevada is calling and we will soon be parked close to the shore of the Colorado River and a short, albeit bumpy drive, to the sandy beach of Lake Mohave.
As I write this, it is Thanksgiving Day in U.S., and Reg and I have almost too much to be thankful for.
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Water dripping from our paddles was often the only sound we heard while kayaking through the still waters of Watson Lake, Arizona.
This otherworldly, magical place has been on my bucket list for years. It did not disappoint. If anything, it was even better than I imagined.
For this post, I will let the images tell the story. I can't add anything. Enjoy!
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This camping life, at the moment, is for the birds.
Our first week in one spot and WE HAVE A FREAKING MOUSE. More than one, actually. I spent the entire night last night wide awake trying to keep the little shit from getting too far into the fifth wheel. He/she/it came up through the water pipes into the kitchen island and it sounded like a mac truck was trying to break into the place.
Reg and I spent like a thousand dollars tonight and now the place looks like Afghanistan. It's rigged to the teeth. Even tried the what the locals were using - light ropes surrounding their units. Whatever.
We're sleeping at friends tonight, so we'll see what's left of the place tomorrow. Maybe parking at the edge of the park in a nice secluded spot overlooking nothing but wilderness wasn't such a good idea.
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WATERWORKS
I only cried for two minutes. from a mixture of frustration, disappointment and fear. but once that was over, things got markedly better.
we’d booked our lake-front site at lake pleasant months in advance to be sure we got the best view in the park. and after 10 days of bopping around one night here, one night there, we were looking forward to spending a month in one area.
i was almost giddy as we drove through the park gates, waiting to see in person what i had only seen in pictures. pulling up to our sight is where the breakdown began.
the view was breathtaking. the sight was tight. with a slight curve. after many minutes of backing up, pulling forward, shifting left (to avoid the roof of the shaded picnic table), nothing was working. we’d have to give up on our perfect spot.
Reg headed up to the Discovery Centre on his bike. I never thought i’d see him again, but he did reappear, albeit a tad sweaty and breathless, but he pointed to a site right beside us that was free for our first two weeks. yippee.
Moments later we were backed in and happy.
Then we started to unhook. After trouble unhooking in Maricopa, we were both a little nervous. And, it turned out, rightfully so.
Again, lifting the trailer off the hitch didn’t work as it had when we first learned what to look for. So it was a guessing game as to how high to lift it. Several attempts at several different heights failed. It wouldn’t let go. But, maybe this time Clancy knew something we didn’t.
About that time a park ranger drove up and chatted with Reg. Seems he’d made a mistake and the site we were in was only available for one night.
Reg hiked it back up the hill to try and find another site. That’s when I briefly lost it. I sat on the cement picnic table, looked at the lake, and cried.
He came back with a new site down the hill, and we spent the next ten minutes trying to hook up. Even though we hadn’t managed to unhook, we had partially let go. So a bit of backing up and pulling forward finally had us secured and on our way.
We ended up with no view of water, but in a quiet, large site with gorgeous views of the saguaro-covered hills. We were happy.
The next challenge will be hooking up in a few days to hit the dump station. Good thing we stocked up on on wine and beer. Helps with the nerves. Onward and upward!
Today we pulled into a campground where we will spend 3 nights in a row. A nice change from the one night stands we've been doing since leaving home. And we are close to friends and familiar surroundings, which is sweet.
The office was closed when we arrived early afternoon but the lady across from us left a message for the manager telling her that new guest had arrived and we'd pop in early Monday to officially check in. That's one thing with campgrounds - the occupants are usually more than willing to chat, lend a hand, offer directions or toss you a beer. Thankfully.
Reg swung the fifth wheel into an empty spot and we started to unhook like we'd done a whopping 11 times before. And, like all 11 times before, I was freaked out about doing it.
After the blocks and chocks were in place to steady Clancy (our fifth wheel), I pushed the up/down button thingie to raise the front end up until the whatever-it's-called released a little from the hitch. Eleven times before it went fairly smoothly. Not today. Not standing out in 90 degree heat. Nope, it couldn't just work like it was supposed to.
Not a chance in hell those two pieces of equipment were going to separate.
We tried backing up which only made Clancy rock backwards, adding to my freaked out state.
We tried pulling forward which inched the fifth wheel forward too.
Reg wiggled and jiggled and yanked and twisted and scratched his head and sighed. Finally he gave in and wandered to the lot next door where a lovely 42' rig was parked. He knocked, and literally two seconds later had a fellow over to help out. No hesitation.
They worked at it for another half and hour, backing and forwarding, yanking and poking. Then finally the jaws opened and the truck was free.
No idea why today things didn't go smoothly. But we were grateful for strangers willing to lend a hand. And I was grateful to have a husband who knew when to ask for help!
Added note: Before going to bed we discovered an odd, not-heard-before sound coming from the furnace area ... here's to tomorrow!
No problem. We had the laminated de-winterize sheet with step-by-step instructions. Sounded easy.
Everything was fine until step one: hook up city water and turned on a tap.
Tip 1: when camping, always keep towels handy.
For some reason the filter would fill with water and leak. Quickly. At least the floors got washed. Twice. Confusion set in with Reg. He scratched and squinted and paced. Me, I just got mad. Stupid lifestyle choice. What were we thinking!
At this point we decided to go for a walk and try to find some place to eat. It had been hours since lunch and didn't look like we'd get much cooked tonight. Somewhere around block six we decided to call my cousin's husband - our encyclopedia on all things RV. Reef he said. Reef on the filter and don't be afraid! So we abandoned our food expedition and headed back to Clancy, newly energized.
And, sure enough, Don was right (was there any doubt, really?). So ... back to de-winterizing we went, this time with no other issues.
Tip 2: Always have someone like Don on speed dial.
After all the excitement, I realized that we hadn't filled out our campsite paperwork. The RV park at the Kansas State Fairgrounds has no office, just a box on a post with paperwork to be completed, stuffed with cash and returned. Looking for the box to stuff my envelope into, there was only one I could see in the vicinity. It looked strikingly like a US Mail box, so I either paid for the night's camping, or mailed a non-addressed envelope with $30 cash to an unsuspecting mailman.That done, we decided to stay put for the night and not resume our attempt at finding outside food. Mucking through the cupboards, I came up with beans and dry bread. Fit for a royal family! We followed that with made-with-love Christmas pudding and sauce sent along by Aunt Louise. It was a perfect end to a rather frustrating evening.
Morning went smoother and we were on the road early ... problem was, so was the wind. If I ever had any doubt about the truth behind the "We're not in Kansas anymore" statement, that's long gone. We were literally pushed for 350 miles from Kansas to Texas. So here we sit on night two of our six-month excursion. No wine. No beer. Rocking in the wind. Wondering what insurance will cover if we end up on top of the 90' beast next door. Here's to whatever tomorrow brings!!
Trepidation. Uncertainty. Excitement. And okay, outright fear. In April our retirement changed drastically. We made the choice to go from
to
That was always our plan...sell the Arizona house and buy a roving mansion. See the sights of North America before age starts to play tricks on us. But when it actually happened, well, we are both, months later, still looking at the world with that 'deer-in-the-headlights' stare!
So, after only eight nights of use in Manitoba, we packed up Clancy and headed south. Fear be damned!
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Go sit in a ditch ... seriously
Manitoba is a pretty unique place. Shifting sands. Forests of 200-year-old white spruce. Sandy beaches. Vast prairies. Cityscapes. Towns and villages nestled along riverbanks, in valleys or perched within spitting distance of Canada's major highways. There are bison. Canada Geese. Eagles. Perch. Pickerel. Blue Jays. Beaver.But what do I do to try and help showcase my home province?
I sit in a ditch.
Seriously.
For hours!
I'll eventually get to more of the 'above ground' scenics, but for now, I'm quite happy to repeat this unconventional way to spend an afternoon.
It started with a search for tiger lilies. After driving along several gravel roads just outside of town (like there are any choices), I was sure I'd missed the season yet again. Off in the distance I spied an old, abandoned farmhouse (of which there are many choices), so decided to pull off and grab a few shots so the day wouldn't be a total loss.
Seconds after I stepped out of the car I spotted tiger lilies, buried deep in the tall grasses. So, down I crawled.
Then I noticed the purples and the whites of surrounding flowers.
Then, after spending much time on my belly, trying to navigate the bullrushes and mud, I was graced with the sight of a dragonfly.
It landed and launched, landed and launched, from stock to stock, from grass to grass, with me foolishly chasing it. Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, of course. Like an idiot!
Finally I got smart and sat my butt down in one spot and waited. And waited. And waited.
But eventually curiosity got the best of him (or her, it was hard to tell) and he came closer. And he stayed. And I shot. And shot. And shot.
Bored of the situation, he finally launched one final time, never to be seen again.
I took this as my queue and crawled my way up to sea level, packed up my gear and found my way happily home.
I'm still amazed at what was to be found in that six-by-six patch of ditch.
I wonder if the view changes with the seasons?
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Growing up on the prairies, the season started off with the 'finding of the tree'. Snowmobiles, axes, mittens, toques pulled to the top of your nose. Snow blasting your face as you searched for that perfect size, that perfect shape. Dragging it home. Sticking it in a bucket filled with rocks and water. Nothing fancy. But that smell. I will always remember that smell.
Then, as family moved away, me included, Christmas became more of a rush-to-the-post-office ordeal. Never did I shop ahead of time. For years I learned to thrive on the "will it get there in time?" angst of the holidays.
As time passed, we once again found ourselves living near to one another. Children were born. Turkeys were stuffed and cooked and the smell of the lot-picked tree overtook the room.
We would gather 'round our dining room table, set with the good seen-once-a-year china, and devour our Christmas meal. After, that is, we watched the kids tear into their gifts. Always too many. Not their fault - just ours.
Then, as happens in life, tragedy struck and suddenly my brother was gone at way-too-young an age.
But, as happens every year, despite tragedy or heartbreak or loneliness, Christmas came around again. Presents were bought, the tree looked lovely, the turkey smelled amazing.
An hour before the family was to arrive I started to set the table.
With a creak, I opened the dish cupboard door.
I took seven of the once-a-year china plates from their resting place on the bottom shelf. Then I stood in the middle of the room, staring at that bottom shelf, unable to stop the tears. Only one plate remained. This would be the first family dinner without Wayne.
The tears kept flowing as the pattern repeated itself. From that place setting of eight, one of everything was left behind. One plate, one bowl, one side plate, one coffee cup.
It broke my heart closing the door on those dishes left behind.
For many years after, the setting of the Christmas table was something I dreaded as I knew that last plate would once again bring tears.
Life is definitely a gift, and it's funny the things that remind you not to take anything for granted. So live fully. Love often and don't be afraid of the dark.
Maybe it was this curiosity (or some say my propensity for boredom) that caused me to have an abundance of careers. Careers that shaped me into who I am at this point in time.
My time spent mucking through at the car wash, animal shelter and naval reserve taught me humility, hard work and respect.
My time in the computer world taught me confidence. No matter the task at hand, it could be done and done well. Ok, except the Lan network. That one pretty much did me in.
My time in film and television production taught me patience, work ethic, team work, how to think outside the box ... way outside the box (remember the Stallone truck incident, Jasmine?) ... and did I mention patience? I also learned that being severely sleep deprived wouldn't kill you. Okay, there was that time leaving Whistler. Maybe I should have just skipped past the film portion of my life entirely!
My time at Coast Guard taught me that helicopters are not my enemy, that it takes a diverse, eclectic, awesome group of people to live an isolated lifestyle and that no job is too big to tackle. Not even a cluttered warehouse with dust bunnies the size of Cuba or the request to write a 'How to be a Lightkeeper' manual.
But I think it has been my time in the photojournalism world that has brought me the most rewards. Every story I was asked to write or photo I was asked to take led me to some other world, each with its own set of challenges, drawbacks, naysayers or fans. From a new security pen invented by Frank Abagnale of 'Catch Me If You Can' fame to air ambulances to Afghanistan memorials to five-year-long submarine refits, there wasn't an article I wrote or a frame I captured that didn't teach me something.
Now that I am semi-retired and focusing more on fine art photography I have to work harder at keeping my learning curve arched. But moving to small-town Manitoba hasn't hindered the opportunities whatsoever. I haven't made it to the snake pit yet, nor have I wandered the sand dunes in decades. But I did get an eye-opener when it comes to the not-so-obscure practice of bull castration!
The day started around 11am with a trek through mud-plastered back roads the likes I have never seen. Thank you Shelley for allowing me and my camera bag room in the farm truck as I'd still be a quarter mile up that road crying. Country gals really can do pretty much anything, can't they?
Most of the ropers chose to saddle up back at the farm and ride to the pasture instead of tackling the mud. This gave the ground crew time to unpack the food (there is always food, no matter what the job), turn on the generator to make coffee, haul out some lawn chairs, stake four calf-catchers inside the corral - okay I didn't get the official name - and start weeding out the calves by size. The larger ones can't be roped and dragged for fear of injury to horse and human. They are run through a chute individually by the "team behind the fence". I didn't venture back there for fear of the electric fences and the hooves of frightened calves. Besides, there was enough going on in my immediate vicinity.
For a herd of close to 400, the day went remarkably fast.
The ropers arrived shortly after the coffee light indicated it was perked so most grabbed a steaming black cup and the traditional rhubarb muffin before saddling up and heading into the corral. The first rope was tossed about 11:30.
The process is quite simple and yes, I did feel sorry for the poor, cute little calves who had been separated from their mothers overnight but days like today wouldn't be needed if the FDA and consumers didn't dictate that it be done. I'd equate it to the inoculation and circumcision of baby boys. I could be wrong, but I doubt that many boys remember much of either. (For a better explanation, I came across a blog that I felt was clear and concise - http://agricultureproud.com/2011/05/12/why-castrate-cattle/).
Once the calves were roped, they were dragged a few feet to the 'calf-catcher' which looked like a large, bent, thick, wire coat hanger that kept the calf's head held down, sometimes with the aid of several young, eager boys and always with the rope held taut by the cowboy.
A metal tag was placed in the ear for identification, two injections were given, and the calf was marked with two colours to confirm receipt.
The unlucky buggers who had horns, and they were few and far between, had them burned off.
Then the sex was determined. The heifers were finished with their unpleasantries and dragged or shooed off to the eastern pen, but the young bulls were about to endure two minutes of more discomfort. Only a lucky few would keep their 'bullhood' entact. A woman no man should annoy was called for each bull calf found. Arriving with purple bucket and sharp knife in hand, she would snip and pull until the job was complete. Fast and efficient, but every time I watched it made me shutter. Bull becomes steer.
Somewhere around 6:00 the crew began packing up, cleaning up and getting ready to tackle the mud back to the farm for supper.
Just before nightfall the fire was blazing, the coolers were stuffed with pop, juice, water and beer. One table was loaded with food in the manner I've become accustomed to since moving back to the prairies. The other was gloriously adorned with different coloured, textured desserts.
After the feast, some sat, drinks in hand, leaning back on plastic chairs at the river's edge and chatted. Others with chores of their own to do, loaded up horse trailers and headed for home. The kids continued with the frog-chasing and other made-up games until the highlight of the evening took place.
This is where Anthony Bourdain comes in. He travels the world and seeks out foods from all walks of life. He lives to eat anything and everything unusual. Me, on the other hand, am pretty much a meat-and-potatoes girl. Regular meat, that is. Prairie oysters? Not so sure.
With the fire dying down and the white cinders giving off the perfect heat, the lady with the purple bucket and sharp knife went to work once again. She washed the bull's testicles that she had gathered in the bucket. She snipped off the funny bits and cut them in half to stop them from bursting in the heat. Then she coated them in a flour and spice mixture along with mushrooms and onions and handed it to Randy to cook over the fire.
I assumed that this would be an event for the adults, as most children I know seem to be picky eaters. I was wrong. The sizzling pan was like a beacon drawing them from every direction. All grabbed for the toothpicks and stood at the ready. I watched as everyone dug into the pan and popped the 'oysters' one by one into their mouths. My husband ate two before handing me half of one on the end of his toothpick. I stood frozen, hoping no one would notice my resistance. But that wasn't going to happen in a crowd like this. There was shouts of encouragement, calls for a rope to tie me down and force feed me and even the five-year-old telling me I couldn't bite off small pieces, I was to pop the whole thing in my mouth at once and chew. So, wanting the full experience of bull castration day, I ate my half of some poor bull's testicle. Would I have it again? No. Did it taste like chicken? No. More like a chewy oyster without the flavour. But I was proud of myself for at least trying it and not looking like a wuss in front of an adorable cowboy-boot wearing, pig-tailed five-year-old girl.
Two things will stay with me about the day. First, the freedom of the kids to be kids. Before the crew was ready to start work, the kids climbed fences, tossed logs, chased frogs, rode horses and laughed, totally ignored by the adults and left alone to play. Once the work began, they all had a job to do and they did it with pride and determination. I didn't hear one of them cry, argue or complain. When they got tired, they would spell each other off and tackle a different chore. And some of these kids were only five years old! Also, the patience of the adults to teach each job to each child was a pleasure to watch.
Second, how welcome my husband and I were made to feel, even though we were totally and completely out of our element. Our many questions were answered, we were given easy jobs to do and no one looked at me alarmingly when I pointed my camera in their direction. Well, except for Leon!
So thank you, Shelley, Randy, and the gang. It was an amazing way to spend a day! I can check another thing off my purple-bucket list!
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Whales in Captivity
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| Whale watching off coast of San Diego, CA |
As a child, a former business partner, and friend, was packed up along with the day’s supply of sandwiches and juice, tossed in the family sedan and driven to the desert outside Las Vegas to watch as the latest nuclear test filled the sky with a spectacular mushroom cloud formation. Today, the majority of her grade school classmates is either living with, or has died from some form of cancer.
As early as the 1970s we were still using asbestos for a multitude of things including ceiling and floor tiles, paints and even crayons. Now it’s a known human carcinogen that “may increase the risk of lung cancer and mesothelioma”.
In the 1940s and ‘50s cigarette companies used Mickey Mantle, Santa Clause and babies to advertise their product. One Camel campaign even went so far as to say “More doctors smoke Camels than any other cigarette.” Today you can’t legally purchase a pack of cigarettes in Canada unless you are 18 or 19 years old. Tobacco packaging even goes so far as to simply state: Smoking kills.
Aquariums and water parks worldwide are currently home to approximately 50 captive orcas. As a teenage I was a frequent visitor to Sealand of the Pacific in Victoria. Always in love with the ocean and everything in it, I envied the trainers and dreamt of being able to work with the whales. But, deep down, there was a sadness for how they lived. Their magnificent size didn’t compute with the size of their surroundings. But I will always remember Haida and Miracle and Nootka and Tilikum. I will always be grateful for their sacrifices so I could learn to appreciate and respect what the ocean holds. Never, as a kid from the prairies, would I ever have had the opportunity to see up close how truly remarkable these creatures are.
In 1985 I became a certified diver and spent as much time on and under the water as possible. I was even blessed with jobs that put me in direct contact with the sea, working with the Royal B.C. Museum staff, whale researcher Dr. Alexandra Morton, underwater photographers and dive teams from as far away as Japan.
To this day, every time I see an orca or humpback whale my breath stops, my eyes well up and for a fleeting second I even believe that there is a God. Seeing into their eyes as they pass under your boat, watching their breath as it blows from their lungs, waiting in silence until they appear again, if you’re lucky, with a breach or a spy hop as they disappear into the distance.
Do I believe in captivity today? No. I think, even as an 18-year-old, after spending five minutes at Sealand I knew it was wrong. Probably from growing up on the prairies with so much space and freedom it was hard to watch creatures of that magnitude penned in such a confined space. I remember walking around the complex wondering, naively hoping, that the whales were set free every night and every morning they chose to come back to ‘play’.
Am I horrified and saddened by what happened to Keltie and Dawn? Of course. Especially since Tilikum is part of the reason I learnt to love and respect the ocean.
All I know for certain is that people flock to these parks, as I did, to see what they would normally never have the opportunity to see. Is there a better way to educate and entertain? I have no idea. But with SeaWorld alone raking in over a billion dollars a year, I don’t see it changing dramatically anytime soon. I don't know if lessons learned will apply this time.
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