Remembering Ross

Every so often someone from a far away time comes into my mind and I smile.

Ross Bloom has been dead for a few years now, and I hadn't heard from him since I was a freshman in high school. But I'd like to share a couple of things with you.

Why am I writing this now? I suppose that I was recently conversing with a very good friend who was questioning his own worth. When Ross poped into my brain, I started to think about his worth as well.

Between 6th and 8th grade, we shared little. Most of our association came on the playground. But in 8th grade, we finally were allowed to play interscholastic sports. And we did fairly well in both soccer and touch football.

But then came our freshman year Ridge High School in Bernards Township, NJ. And we were on what was possibly the worst freshman football team in New Jersey history. It wasn't that we didn't have enough talent, we just didn't have enough warm bodies. We started the year with 15 guys and it slowly whittled down to 9 as the season wore on. We were playing against squads with around 30 guys so by the time the first quarter was over, we were exhausted. We played every single down of every game, while the other team had separate offense and defense squads. We never scored and it was rare that we had a first down.

Ridge High School 1962 Freshman Football Team. I'm number 45, standing next to the coach. Ross is number 17, standing next to me. 

Anyhow, towards the end of the season, the coach called an extra Saturday morning practice. Everyone was completely fed up and we started hitting one another with a ferocity we rarely displayed in practice or on the field. I suppose I was the worst. I just kept pounding and pound and Ross, my best friend on the team, kept pounding back just as hard. It was inevitable one of us would get hurt first. It was Ross.

I smashed into him and he went down. He told the coach he thought he broke his arm. I started screaming at him that he was a girl and a pussy and so forth. His injury, combined with one of the other players deciding to quit after his father died, left us with 7 players. Our season was finished and we spent the rest of the time being fodder for the varsity.

It turned out Ross had hurt his shoulder, not his arm. And he wound up in a sling. We both despised our science teacher, Mr. Jorgensen, but Ross got really upset when Mr. J was making demands about him using his bad arm for writing and so forth. From what I understand, he told him off pretty badly, probably stating what the rest of us thought of him. Unknown to me, it was "suggested" that Ross find another school. In the meantime, I moved to a different school district during the Christmas recess. And we never saw one another again.

It was a few years ago that a classmate, who was in my home room at the second school district sent me a message on Facebook asking if I knew Ross. It turned out He married her. And I was able to find out a lot about him.

He remained living in Bernards Township, and he became a big part of that community as a member of the Basking Ridge Volunteer Fire Department. He was a good husband and he raised three great kids. And was always willing to help others.

Every year, there is caroling at the small town square in Basking Ridge. I went with His widow and two of his kids to listen to it. I had done this only once before, exactly 50 years before. And it was nice to be a part of that community's Christmas celebration. Ross was always good with tools. And he built a star to hang on the top of the town Christmas tree. I took some photos of it during the caroling and I was not pleased. The photos were blurred because the nightime light wasn't enough to use a fast shutter speed. So I went back and took a picture from a tripod. I put some text into it and Ross' widow uses it every year on her facebook.

So what's the point of this ancient tale. Perhaps in dealing with the adversity of that horrible football season, both of us learned to be stronger. And both of us somehow chose to be of service to others. And in looking at Ross life, I understood that even the most ordinary of us have the capacity to make a difference to others. A positive difference. Ross' star still shines in Basking Ridge, but his light still shines in the heart of many.

And so, as we celebrate the birth of a savior this season, we can also celebrate the lives of people who made this world a better place for having been a brief part of it.

May God bless you and fill you with peace and purpose during the holidays.

A Different Day At The Beach

It was a day that seemed sort of upside down. The skies were clear after weeks of rain, despite a weather forecast calling for a 90 percent of rain. I was optimistic, something a little different for me lately as I spend my nights in isolation. I was missing the New York City sports scene and my favorite sports radio broadcaster was on the air. Suddenly he stopped talking about the Knicks and the Jets and told us there was something awful going on in Connecticut.

It was the shooting at a school where some disturbed person first killed his mother at home and then went to her school to massacre her students.

And so, instead of taking advantage of the sunshine, I spent the morning listening to the events as they unfolded. I finally shut off the newscast and decided I needed to clear my head. I went across the street to the state park and visited Shipwreck Beach, one of the best-known Oregon state landmarks where there is a wreck of a 1900s-era steamship on the beach. Yet the beach was very different from the summertime.

I knew there would not be many people, and there weren’t. But this wasn’t the beach I had enjoyed either. The month of nearly nonstop rains had turned the sand into a tough grey clay-like dune and footing was quite easy.

 The tide was going out and the beach was filled with the remains of huge ocean vegetation, some as long as 50 feet. There were tube-like roots at the bottom and eventually leaves at the top. It was all over the place.

As usual, there was a lot of driftwood, some of it clearly originating from some sort of man-made function. I found it very appealing and took many photos. Yet no matter how I tried, I couldn’t seem to get my mind off the deaths of so many innocents.

I remember teaching in the South Bronx where I had to deal with some insane parents more than once. One time, a man came in and began yelling and threatening his nephew. I got the principal and it turned out he was carrying a gun and he was arrested. I thought about my granddaughter who is in a day care center, and about my friend’s granddaughter, who is in kindergarten.

I went to the park’s lake. There was little breeze and the reflections in the water of the trees gave me a measure of peace. I took a few photos and one of them was incredible in terms of composition and color. But it included a dead and broken tree and my thoughts again turned to Newtown. 

I was near the museum area where I volunteered last August. I thought I would visit the rose garden. But it is December and there were no roses in bloom and the branches were neatly trimmed. On the way out, I stopped at a small store I went to last July. They had wonderful servings of Tillamook ice cream. The freezer was covered and no one was in the store. I saw a man in the garage next to the building and I asked him if he worked there. He didn’t, but his daughter owned the store. She was back in the area when I re-entered and she served me a dish of cherry vanilla. It is nearly as good as the cherry vanilla the east coast Caravel stores served. It is the favorite of both the ex and myself. And it again brought up the murders.

I took my ice and went a few blocks to Warrenton Harbor where I had a nice view of the Columbia River. To my right was the town of Astoria and its bridge-linking Oregon to Washington’s Pacific beaches. On the right were the remains of a dock where sea mines were loaded and dragged across the mouth of the river during both the first and second world wars.

I listened to Francesca’s former radio partner, Christopher Russo. He also did not want to discuss sports. Russo, whose nickname is “Mad Dog” based on his attacks on various sports figures since the 1980, was in attack mode on the gun lobby. Later, I learned that the weapons and ammo used in the attack were stolen from the killer’s murdered mother. What the hell a kindergarten teacher in a bucolic New England village needed with them anyhow?

This is the second time this week that stolen weapons were used to kill innocent people. Here in Oregon, another young man went on a rampage killing holiday shoppers. It was fortunate that the weapon jammed and people were able to escape. The fact is, I’ve been in that mall a couple of times. And I have not doubt my son and his family, and even the ex, has been there. But it could have been just about any mall, anywhere.

I got back to the trailer in time to hear the president. He was fighting back the tears. This was clearly not “presidential.” It was about a man who had kids who could have been the victims. I don’t care what your fuckin’ politics are. The man gets it. And we should be grateful he occupies the White House. He spoke – with eloquence – the words our nation needed to hear expressed.

Not that it means a damn thing to anyone, but I had to write about it and post it on my blog. It won’t comfort anyone, and certainly won’t stop the insanity, as troubled minds need to continue the Columbine syndrome. But felt I needed to write about it or I would be unable to personally let go of it. And the slaughter of the innocents continues. When will we ever learn?

Food chain

So here it is, nearing 2 a.m. in the morning and I can’t sleep. Being me, I decide life would be better with a pb&j and so I make myself one. As often as not, I’ve been eating pb&j for lunch lately because a number of the people I work with are vegetarians of some sort. I haven’t a clue what a vegan is as opposed to a vegetarian, but I suppose that since they don’t eat animal products, they avoid dairy products. A glass of milk is essential to a pb&j and I often have a cheese sandwich, so I guess I’ll never make it as a vegan.

But anyhow, this morning madness has me thinking about these things. I’ve been watching the Ken Burns documentary on our national parks and trying to find out more about John Muir. Apparently, he extended his Christian beliefs to conclude that being in harmony with God’s entire creation and all the living things created is a way of life. Muir was known for, upon occasion of finding a new plant, communing with it for hours in an attempt to understanding it. At the same time, he and Teddy Roosevelt would go into the Yosemite Valley and live off the land for days on end.

I suppose this is sort of along the lines of Heinlein’s Stranger In A Strange Land protagonist, Valentine Michael Smith and the concept of “Grock” that filled many of my generation with thoughts of all things living. Yet Smith thinks there is nothing better than eating his friends after they pass away.

Across the river from me, the State of Washington has legalized pot. But nobody’s quite figured out the distribution system yet. But it too, to some people I guess, sounds like another way of being in harmony with nature. At the same time, the fact that it helps us to remove our veneer of civilization is also a factor. And how many animals have we killed to satisfy the yearning for “munchies” that go with the use of the weed?

I observed something the other day. An eagle swept into the river and grabbed a fish for its meal. They call eagles and similar birds “raptors” and that means they tend to be vicious little monsters.

In fact, there is little in nature that is harmonious. When you get down to it, it is pretty much kill or be killed. I personally am quite glad to be on top of the food chain. I can eat anything living – plant or animal – that I feel like. Take a burger, for example:  I suppose that killing the animal, butchering it into pieces and then grinding it into a pulpy, bloody mess before setting it on fire is not exactly harmonious, especially from the animal’s point of view. I was talking to someone who loves sushi and I can’t begin to describe how that fish is violated to make it.

This summer, I was at a park along the Columbia River Gorge. I discovered a remote apple tree, filled with fruit reaching it’s ripest time. I was quite happy to pick more than a few apples, along with other fruit in the park including plums and berries. There was also a pear tree at one campsite. But the fruit was out of my reach. Every day a few pieces fell and I hoped to grab one. But each morning, all the pears that had fallen in the night showed evidence of consumption by either animals or worms or insects. And I realized we compete for plant food as well. More than three decades ago, I planted some corn in my yard and enjoyed watching it grow. But just as it was beginning to get ready for picking, I came home to find a mob of squirrels attacking it.

As humans, we can be very selective in the choice of our prey. I’m working at the Lewis & Clark National Park at the site where the expedition spent the 1805-06 winter at Fort Clatsop. The men were so tired of fish from the nearby Columbia river and its famous salmon, they killed more than 100 elk and had them boiled three times a day instead. And they used the elk’s hides for clothing and blankets as well. Yet the journals of the party said they couldn’t wait to get back over the mountains where they could find buffalo and other cattle.  I can’t imagine being skinned and tanned for clothing. Yet there have been incidents of that being done.

One of Muir’s major points is that we have ravaged our lands and killed off many of the species that once inhabited it. Bison used to roam the plains by the millions, yet in my lifetime I have seen them only in zoos or in parks where they have been protected. Yet even there, they are attacked by these nasty, biting flies.

My dog just climbed up on my lap to get petted. He has been on a diet of dog food. But every time I cook after just feeding him, he wants what I’m having. And this gentle companion took a rather nasty nip out of my friend a few years ago. My son’s cat took a nip out of my granddaughter and the little bitch was on death row for a while until my son figured out that the way to avoid the problem was to have my granddaughter be the one to feed the little beast. These somewhat friendly carnivores we call our pets and companions have simply learned that it’s easier to be nice to people and get food than to have to hunt it.

Even the things we are unable to see are fighting to kill us. It’s flu season and we are urged to get shots, wash our hands frequently and isolate ourselves when we become sick. This year, I have endured double pneumonia and even my own body is out to get me as I passed a kidney stone.

In other words, the idea of harmony is a lot of bull (think about how many burgers are served every hour). Life at every level is out to consume some other sort of life, be it animal or vegetable or both. We were born predators and our veneer of civilization simply means we let others do our killing, butchering and cooking for us and pay them.

And sometimes that veneer goes away. The other day, some young man ran amok at a nearby shopping center: a place where my son and his family, her family and even my ex could have easily been. The man gunned down three people, killing two strangers before turning the stolen weapon on himself. We look and ask “what’s wrong with this person?” Yet there is that killer within us dating back thousands of years. We call it mental illness and try to understand. Yet if we wound up as survivors of a nuclear war, who of us would not want to have that same weapon to defend ourselves?

Going back to Lewis and Clark for a moment. Clark brought his slave, York, with him on their journey. York saved the expedition’s ass more than once. He remained a slave and was even threatened with beatings and being sold after the return. We may not eat one another, but we often treat one another like animals. My mind wanders to how women are treated in certain Islamic cultures. Another of my favorite Heinlein stories is about a revolt against a theological despot. As armies endured bitter conflict, the priestess who served the prophet tore him to shreds. I wonder if something like that could happen today.

Finally, all of this chaos leads me to wonder what heaven would be like? God created the earth in this ecology that destroys. So how has he created the next step? I’m getting so that I’ve lived way more years than I have left. And I’m sort of looking forward to finding out. In the meantime, it’s nearly 3 a.m. now and I think I’m going to go to the local 24-hour McDonalds and choose between slaughtered cow or chicken. It’s really something I was born to do – sort of.

November in the Rain

It is, as usual, raining here at Humbug Mountain State Park along the Southern Oregon Coast. And as I’m leaving here in a couple of days, I suppose it is time to do a little blogging.

Along the Pacific coast from Northern California, through Oregon and Washington, up to Canada, the rainy season is here. Pacific storms are raining upon me about five out of every seven days. There are times when I can look from the ocean beach at our park, and see sun or light clouds to the north while the south features heavy rain being dumped into the ocean.

There have been times when the weather has been quite dangerous. There have been four storms this month where winds have exceeded more than 90 mph. About 10 miles north of here is Cape Blanco, the westernmost point of the continental United States and winds are known to frequently lash the cape at 115 mph.

The second night I was here, a storm hit. The winds smashed into the trailer, buffeting it around and it seemed as if someone was throwing hundreds of rocks at the truck and trailer. They turned to be small pinecones from the many pine trees throughout the camp.

The campground is in a canyon with Humbug Mountain (1500’ above sea level) on one side and China Mountain (1100’) on the other side. At one end is the ocean and the winds whip into the canyon and are turned around. Often, horizontal rains from two directions are pelting me.

About a week ago, we had about 10 inches of rain in a 24-hour period. The creek that runs through the park to the ocean overflowed – at least six feet above its normal depth -- and the road in front of me turned into a rampaging torrent, though my site was elevated just enough to escape. Some campers towards the beach woke up to find themselves in water just below their trailer floors and had to wait until the ocean tide went down to move to higher ground. Had they attempted to move, they surely would have been washed out to sea. Huge logs from fallen trees also came down the creek, knocking out our phone lines and endangering the bridge to the entrance of the park. At Cape Blanco, the park is on high ground, but there is a river behind it and the only road in or out was closed by about seven feet of water

Photo taken of flooding with my cell phone. I couldn't get to my regular camera that was in my truck. This is the street in front of my campsite, which was about 8 inches deep at high tide when the nearby creek rose seven feet. This photo was taken about 1,000 feet from the ocean as the water drained into it. This was taken a little after high tide. 

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I spent much of the week picking up tree debris and cutting up a pair of trees that had been knocked down.

But while scary, it is survivable. The winds with today’s storm gust to “only” 50 mph, so it is no big deal. One of my campers told me he pulls in his slides (areas of the trailer that extend out) during high winds to protect their awnings. It’s a really good idea. It seems I learn something new and important about camping often, even though I have been doing it for about 60 years. At the same time, the temperatures are mild, usually in the mid 50s during the day and it has yet to reach freezing at night. Often, I will wear only a tee shirt.

My computer just told me it is 2 p.m. and it is dark. This is not just a result of the storm. As the sun makes its journey from East to West, it spends most of the day behind the mountain during the winter months. So we are in shadow often. There have been times when the sun has come out after a rainstorm, but because of the shadow and the continuing drops of rain falling from the trees above me, I am often unaware of the sunlight. There is a small meadow, which I have dubbed “Molehill Meadow” as a result of the constant hills being created by our mole population. If I look over there, I can see the “real” weather.

Part of the incredible Pacific Coast along Highway 101 in Southern Oregon. Note the fog banks that seem to constantly envelop the mountains and hills along the coast.

Until I reached Oregon, I had never seen molehills. But in the parks I was at, they are all over. Being creatures who spend most of their time underground, I have yet to view a mole, though part of my duties have been patting their hills down with a shovel at campsites.

But my main issue here is being alone. There are about 100 campsites in the park, but because of the time of year, it is rare when there are more than a couple of campers. This leaves me with little to do. At my last park, I usually had to clean up about 25 campsites each day, as well as do garbage runs and run campfire programs. Since it rains constantly, it is rare when I need to clean out a fire pit. I do garbage about three times a week, most of which comes from people who drop in to visit the beach. Unlike the other park, the rangers all work the same shift this time of year and leave around 4:30. There is another host, a nice lady, but she is allergic to dogs and so most of our socialization is brief chats.

Which leaves me with only one “friend” – food. I have gained about ten pounds as a result of eating too much and lack of exercise. Because of the rain, I can’t hike or do cycling most of the time.  More isolation includes not television or Internet and phone service is so sporadic that the park gives us a “landline” phone for emergencies. Thus, I do some writing (this will be well over 3,000 words) and watch a lot of DVDs. I’ve just finished watching all eight Harry Potter movies over a two day period for the third time this month and today’s trilogy will be Star Wars.

But I endure knowing I will be heading to a much different and much the same environment on December 1 as I will head back to Astoria, at the mouth of the Columbia River. I will be housed at a KOA and will have Internet and some broadcast television. I will be working indoors at the Lewis & Clark National Park’s Fort Clatsop area. Fort Clatsop was where the Corps of Discovery wintered after reaching the Pacific before returning. Records indicate misery at the constant rains, and every time I start feeling sorry for myself, I can remember that I have both gas and electric heat and am much drier.

I will be volunteering three days a week instead of five, but for longer hours. Hopefully, my injuries won’t make it too difficult. The other four days a week I will hopefully get to know my fellow volunteers and neighbors. I am also much closer to my son and his family and am looking forward to spending some time with them.  

I once told someone that my idea of “civilization” was a nearby McDonalds and Wal-Mart. The nearest of either is 50 miles away. The closest town is Port Orford. A pretty village along the coast, it is known for it’s harbor facilities that raise and lower boats into the ocean as sandbars have lowered the normal tides over the year. It has a few motels and restaurants, but not much else. There is a convenience store and a Ray’s Food Store. Ray’s is a local food chain along the lines of an IGA. Prices are significantly – as much as 50 percent – higher than that of grocery stores such as Safeway and Fred Meyer’s. And gas prices are 20 cents higher in Port Orford than in Brookings, fifty miles to the south. It is actually more economical to travel the 100 miles because of the lower prices. I go there about once a week.

Brookings is at the California border and not much further south is the magnificent redwood forests and parks. Though there are many free parks, I went to a private venue called “Trees of Mystery” that included a forty-minute hiking trail and then a gondola ski lift to heights up to 2,000 feet above sea level. It is beautiful, yet the photographer in me was very frustrated. Because of the density of the forest, there was very little light. And the giant trees are so huge, you can’t fit them into the widest-angle lens. As we hiked along, Pup, the pup who is no longer a puppy, would mark his spot many places; but never along a redwood tree. They are so huge that he couldn’t seem to comprehend they were trees.

Pup was marking his spot all along the hiking trails in the Redwoods, but never saluted a redwood tree. They were just too huge for him to comprehend they were trees.

Highway 101, which runs along the Pacific Coast from Mexico to Canada, is quite beautiful in this area. Unlike the Atlantic Coast, there are thousands of huge boulders, some hundreds of feet high, in the ocean where the seas tore apart the land. It is a photographer’s dream and because of the constantly changing clouds, the scenes are rarely the same. I frequently photograph sunsets. But sometimes after midnight, I take the truck to one of the dozens of vantage points along the road and simply watch the waves in the moonlight and listen to its endless roaring whispers. Over weekend, we had a couple of days of relatively clear skies and the light shed by the full moon was incredibly beautiful. The sky is a very dark blue and the moon and stars are surrounded by mist. It is just wonderful as you breathe in the salt air and realize just how little you are despite your ego.

Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday. Because it falls on a Thursday, it meant a four-day weekend most of the time. It’s also been a time when “must” obligations relegated to Christmas could be avoided.

Past Thanksgivings meant, in my childhood, a visit to my godmother. My godmother, a World War II widow, lived with her spinster brother and sister. The brother was an alcoholic and practiced AA’s 12 steps so there was no drinking at the house. It was a good thing for me, as my mother didn’t drink as she usually did on Christmas. So my childhood memories of the day were much better.

As an adult, I often did things with my mother like taking her out. The last Thanksgiving we spent together was also with her sister at my cousin’s house. It was a time of reconciliation following years of battle between the two women and neither would live to see another Thanksgiving.

Three Thanksgivings ago, I was alone for the first time in decades as my marriage collapsed.  I absolutely loathed the idea of being alone and since I was living in a 55+ apartment community, I held an open house. Not many people came, but there were enough to have a good time. And the leftovers lasted for weeks and I kept the frozen pies I had purchased for a New Year’s Eve party.

Where I am is on the Oregon Coast about 60 miles north of the California border. It’s about 350 miles from my son’s family and I figured he would be with his mom anyhow, which she was. So I faced Thanksgiving alone for the first time in memory. Come to think of it, I don’t think I have ever been alone on that day.

While I really wanted a turkey dinner, a turkey was just too large for me to keep as my RV has a small refrigerator and even smaller freezer. So I bought a rotesserie chicken and made some of my sweet potato stuffing on Wednesday night. A huge baked potato, cranberry sauce, and broccoli would, along with lots of diet root beer, finish the menu.

I woke up on Thanksgiving morning and realized something wonderful was happening. The sun was out. Now, this is the Oregon Coast and we’ve had perhaps three days of sunshine this month. Earlier this week, we had 10 inches of rain over two days with winds up to 90 mph. It rocked my trailer. And if you go over to the beach on these rare days, you can usually spot a huge storm coming in from the southern side of the beach while northern half had sunlight.

I was really alone. The staff at the park were off and the other park host also had the day off. We had two campsites occupied by a family reunion and one campsite occupied by a couple of hunters. As I did my morning patrol in my “Gator,” A 4x2 utility vehicle sort of like a lawnmowing tractor, all were gone.

Do you know what a “Grange” is? It’s kind of like a service club along the lines of the American Legion. If you live a rural life, you know it is composed of farmers and others involved in local agriculture. Anyhow, the local Grange was holding an open house Thanksgiving dinner. I spent some of the morning wrestling with myself about going. When I was active in my church on Long Island, I would often take a day off from work to help organize and distribute about 150 food baskets. As I would deliver them, people would be embarrassed about needing them, while at the same time grateful.  I guess my mindset was about the same.

So I said to myself: “Self, the chicken can last another day. Go find some human company.”

It also helped that as I went to take a shower, my laundry basket was overflowing. I had not done laundry in more than three weeks and so I packed it into the truck. I figured that since I was going into town to do the laundry, why not stop at the Grange for some free food?

The laundromat, to my surprise, was open. And so I loaded the clothes and sat down to read about the nearby California Redwood Forest, which I plan to visit next week. I had a call from John and Lydia wished me a “Happy Thanksgiving.” The world’s most beautiful and brilliant toddler was busy playing with the HO train set I gave her a couple of years ago. I talked with John for a bit and the washers stopped and I hung up and put the clothing into the dryers.

And then I went to the Grange. I passed by another state park and thought about “Mary”, a woman who lives two weeks at a time at different state parks in a very small trailer that she needs to have someone tow between sites. She barely survived the flood we had earlier in the week and had moved to the other park. Until I spoke with a ranger about the woman I had thoughts of offering to share my holiday dinner with her. But she has a whole range of issues including a hellish package of mental problems. I thought about both our similarities and differences and realized that while I was one illness away from being in her shoes, I was doing OK for the time being.  It is certainly something to be thankful for.

I reached the Grange and it was packed with about 50 cars. I went in and served myself. The turkey itself was the processed variety that I used to get when I was in the Army. It was white meat and I was sort of hoping for some dark meat and skin. But there was plenty on the chicken I would have the next day. There was stuffing, mashed potatoes and a homemade whole-berry cranberry sauce. It was wonderful. But the main attraction was the vegetables. It was green beans in some sort of gravy covered with French fried onions. I think it is a regional dish. I never had it before but saw it in several food stores. A very simple dish, it was wonderful! I took some back to the trailer.

I sat down with some people and asked if “this is where the cool kids sit?” Sure enough, a minute later, their great granddaughter sat down wearing a tee shirt that said “cool cat” on it.

Turns out they were having some problems that day. In the middle of roasting their turkey, the stove broke down. So they loaded everyone into the truck and came to the Grange. He’s a commercial fisherman looking forward to the crab season and she’s a dog groomer. We talked a little about the horrific storm we had a few days ago and I showed them a photo of my road under six inches of water. And I shared some of my travel experiences. The young girl with the “cool” tee sang a song for the people, along with a few old timers who were picking on a guitar and banjo.

It turned out that one of the main crops from the area is cranberries and the wonderful cranberry sauce was made from fresh-picked berries.

Anyhow, as dinner ended, I grabbed a “to go” platter of a couple of slices of turkey a little potatoes and lots of the green beans, a far greater preference to frozen broccoli. On my return, Pup, the pup who’s no longer a puppy, got the turkey and potatoes for a holiday treat. He’s been on a diet since July and has lost all his excess weight so I didn’t feel any guilt about his holiday foray into “people” food.

Pup lapsed into a happy nap and I played Arlo Guthrie’s wonderful “Alice’s Restaurant” song about a Thanksgiving half a century ago. Then I unpacked the laundry and began my holiday decorating, putting out holiday dishtowels and potholders. I’m moving up the coast on December 1^st so I’m holding off the main decorations until then. I suspect it would be a problem securing a tree and ornaments in a trailer as it travels around the many bends ahead as I drive up Highway 101.

It is nearing the winter equinox, and darkness descends around 4:30 p.m. Around 6 p.m., a young man knocked on the door and I set him up with a site. He was travelling by himself and camping a tent. Experience has taught me that pitching a tent in the dark is not much fun and the temperature will probably dip into the 30s tonight. I have a choice of electric or gas heat in the trailer. I prefer the electric because, other than the $50 I spent on the heater, it’s free since the park supplies electric. Certainly, it’s something else to be thankful for. I hope your holiday was filled with the peace I had.

It’s now closing in on 4 p.m. and while the rain from the trees continues to descend, the sun has finally emerged from behind Humbug Mountain and I look up to China Mountain and watch the shadow line as the trees above it are gloriously filled with the sun’s blessing. It’s time to go out to play.

10 minutes later: it’s raining again.

Election Thoughts

My following the election this year was vastly different than in previous years. I am in a place with no television, no internet and low cell phone signals. I spent time sitting in my car listening to sattelite radio. On the other hand, since I’m on the Pacific Coast, the election was called just after 8 p.m. my time. I’m used to being up well past midnight listening to returns.

So what were the results? Let’s see, after billions of dollars were spent, the people have spoken. And there is little difference. The President is still the President. Republicans still control the House and Democrats still control the Senate.

Did it make much of a difference? I think there was a very fundamental change.

First, let’s look at the Candidates, an African American and a Mormon. With the exception of JFK, a Catholic, America has always nominated WASPs. It says something about the direction of this country. I am told by CNN that 59 percent of whites voted for Romney and that the Hispanic vote made the difference. It means that there is an incredible change in America’s demographics.

And I can’t help but wonder how much of the white vote was based on prejudice rather than politics? But as far as the Presidential candidates were concerned, there were no real losers. America chose a more liberal philosophy. But from where I sit, the real losers were the extremists. Several key Tea Party members of the House lost their seats. And so there is hope. Eisenhower and Regan worked with a Democratic House and Senate. Clinton worked with a Republican Congress. And things got done. But two years ago, the nation was seized by haters – the Birthers, the Birchers, the militias, the intolerant Bible thumpers. And those supported by the Tea Party were unwilling to work with members of their own party, not to mention the President.

We once called the party out of power “the loyal opposition” and there is hope that the right wing’s “take no prisioners” stance of the past two years may be changing to one of a willingness to work together. Though the President won, the issues raised during the campaign were very valid.

The focus must be putting people to work in meaningful jobs. It’s not just unemployment. It’s also underemployment. When college graduates are filling jobs at employers of last resort such as Wal-Mart, and McDonald’s, it means that houses will continue to be lost and the poor will become poorer. Americans responded to the concept of supporting growth industries, such as energy. But more needs to be done. We need to seize back our industry. We need to find a way to get electronics manufacturing out of Asia. We need to realize that borrowing from the Chinese and then buying cheap Chinese goods are destroying our economy.

And thus, we also have to reel in spending. But it can’t be the immediate stoppage that the Republicans advocated. It took more than a decade and the entry into a world war to put an end to the depression. I think Americans realize that it will take more than four years to recover from the current recession. I hope that with the end of the Afgan War, the drain on our resources can be re-channeled.

But there is no doubt in my mind that the greatest evil out there must be stopped. You might call it “corporate America” but I choose to call it the insurance industry. CNN noted that the Republicans had more than $90 million more to spend than the Democrats. This was mainly through business. The average contribution for the Democratic party was $50, the exact amount I donated.

It would not surprise me if much of that difference came from the insurance industry. They spent hundreds of millions of my medical insurance premiums in fighting Obamacare. And, of course, for the candidate who vowed to end it despite having done the same thing as governor of Massachusetts.

How do we do it? We stop giving lip service to election reform and actually do it. It is a simple idea. If a business receives federal dollars, it must be limited to a certain dollar amount of political spending. What sense does it make for the insurance industry, which gets not only my premiums, but also billions, perhaps trillions, in support through Medicare and Medicaid, to take that money to try to influence elections instead of going about the business of taking care of people?

I also hope that Americans write their Congressional representatives and tell them that it is time to stop pandering to special interests and do what they were elected to do. Take care of we, the people.

More than 10,000 words about my summer

Aug. 28, 2012 (While dated August 28, this was not posted until Nov. 9, the first time I was able to upload photos and text since last July).

“Well, I’m not the kind to live in the past. The years run too short and the days too fast. The things that you lean on are things that don’t last. Well it’s just now and then my line gets cast into these time passages. There’s something back there that you left behind. Time passages. Buy me a ticket on the last train home tonight.” – Al Stewart, “Time Passages”

I haven’t been on line very often in the past few months. And I certainly haven’t written much. My travels have generally taken me to remote places such as state and national parks where Internet isn’t provided. Sometimes I do not have telephone service either. So my phone is my major connection to the world.

I am watching from my window as I babysit the last embers of the campfire I had this evening. After more than six months on the road with only Pup, I have accepted my solitude. I don’t always enjoy it, but it rarely depresses me. Most of the people I have been in contact with live in the Eastern time zone and my intentions of making calls are suddenly confounded and defeated as the sun sets and I realize it is past bedtime for them.

 In my solitude, I frequently take a ride along time passages, reviewing my life. But I have pretty much exchanged the “what ifs” and regrets for acceptance and the realization that it doesn’t make much difference because I can’t change the past anyhow. I pretty much can’t change the present either and as the cost of this cross-country trip depleted most of my funds and I find myself pretty powerless to do so. I expect to spend the winter here while my finances recover.

I am presently volunteering in an Oregon state park along the Pacific Coast. It is just south of the Columbia River and the state of Washington. It is an interesting time. I spend about 20 hours a week riding in a Korean War era Army “duce and a half” truck like I rode in when I was in the service. We ride around the ruins of Fort Stevens, which was built during the civil war and active beyond the Second World War. Using the various ruins, I share much about military life and local history along with a few jokes and group participation. The truck stops frequently and the driver and I had problems communicating via walkie-talkie. So I borrowed the catch phrase “Bus driver, move that bus” from the ABC “Extreme Makeover” show and my tourists yell “Truck driver, move that truck” and other silly things and we generally have a lot of fun.

Fort Stevens is also the largest state park campground west of the Mississippi and there are dozens of people like myself volunteering here. In September, I move on to another state park up the Columbia River where the famous gorge is incredibly beautiful. This park is quite small and my duties will include things like delivering firewood and emptying trash. But I have arranged with the ranger there to do a couple of slide shows about this end of the river, which is called the “Graveyard of the Pacific” as a result of the hundreds of shipwrecks caused by the river’s ever shifting sandbars at mouth of the river.

Jetty built in early 1900s by Army Corps of Engineers to help contain shifting sands at the mouth of the Columbia River as it entered the Pacific Ocean.

The lifestyle I have chosen is rent free and utility free. So I have been able to start to catch up on the financial problems I experienced after getting pneumonia in April and marooned in South Dakota in July after having a minor accident and running short of cash after making repairs to the trailer. I expect to spend part of October and November hosting at one of the state park’s day areas, a place called “Humbug” of all things, that is further south on the coast and I will then spend winter back in this area volunteering at Fort Clatsop, a national park where Lewis and Clark spent the winter after reaching the Pacific.

When I arrived in Oregon, I had a reunion with my son and his family and it was a wonderful time for me. I felt as if a part of my soul had been returned after my ex and I separated. The ex sent me an e-mail saying she was getting married and I told my son to make sure that I stayed out of the way, which is another reason why I have chosen to be about two hours away from his home. Two hours is far better than two coasts.

A joyful occasion as I visit with my son and his family, including the most beautiful and brilliant toddler, for the first time since Christmas 2009.

I honestly don’t know if or when I will return to the East Coast. There are people I want to be near, especially Emily. Here, the winters are wet, but it rarely snows and though the winds can be bitter, it is far easier to endure Pacific rain than a series of “nor’easters” roaring up the Atlantic dumping huge amounts of snow. I have adopted the concept that New York is a nice place to visit, but I don’t want to live there anymore.

***

I haven’t written much about the journey, especially after returning to New Jersey to recover. It has been difficult. The logic board on my laptop crashed and I transferred the hard drive into a Mac Mini desktop computer. It is great when I am in an RV park with Internet, but I can’t use it when I’m on the road because there is no AC power available. I have a power inverter in the truck, but it isn’t strong enough to provide power so simply parking in a McDonald’s lot no longer works.  I get to the local library about once a week and answer e-mails.

So I’m finally hitting the Mac and I suspect this will run into many, many thousands of words. So please be patient with me.

Anyhow, starting from my leaving the Northwest New Jersey campsite I spent last summer and the month of May in. I’ll try to recount as much as I can remember.

I went to Interstate 80 in Pennsylvania as the sun began setting. One of the thoughts I have had about travelling in a westward direction was that since I am a night owl, it would be better to travel at night where there is less traffic and the truck drivers seem to be easier to deal with. I had filled up as I left New Jersey because of its lower gas prices. As I travelled through the night, I didn’t pay much attention to the gas gage. The dashboard has a unique feature that tells me how many miles I have until the gas tank is empty. As I started heading downhill from the Appalachian Mountains into Ohio, I suddenly discovered I had about 30 miles left. Unlike Interstate 95, which runs along the East Coast, gas stations are rare in that area and I had to get off two exits before finding an all-night station. By the time I filled up, I had only eight miles left.

There were a number of memories as I crossed through Pennsylvania in the dark. Hazelton was a town where my friend Bill had relatives. When his parents became very ill, I drove him there and we picked up a couple of aunts and brought them back to Morristown, NJ, where we lived.

It was the first time I had driven more than a couple of miles on an Interstate highway and the going became quite tough. It was raining and the splashing and mists from the trucks was something I had never encountered and it was a difficult learning experience.

Later on, I passed through Bellefonte, in the middle of the state. Right now, this little county seat is somewhat infamous as the place where the Penn State football scandal is being tried in its courthouse. But back in the mid 1970s, I edited a small-town paper there and the experiences I had there, both good and bad, spent many hours running around my brain.

Of all the silly things to remember the best, was a walk in the local park with the ex and pushing her on a swing. It was a moment of innocence with much optimism and romance in the air.

As I moved further into the state, I looked for a rest stop where I could spend the night. But trucks had filled up several rest stops and I couldn’t even find a place to stop near the toilets. I wound up using the one in the trailer, something I don’t like to do on the road because waste disposal is a major issue.

I finally reached the Ohio border and was surprised to discover that Route 90 merged with Route 80 and became a toll road. It would cost me $35 to cross the state. But since I had no other choice, I took the ticket. The first rest stop featured restaurants and bathrooms and with much relief I parked there, took the dog and myself for a walk and turned in. As I went into the trailer for some sleep, it had been lightly misting. A few minutes later, the rain turned torrential and I fell asleep to the sounds of being inside a drum.

After only a few hours, I awoke to the sounds of silence. The rains had eased back into a mist. I once again walked the two of us, fed pup in the trailer and had breakfast at the rest stop’s Burger King. It was not a wise choice, as I would eventually have food poisoning and gastric problems for the rest of the day.

I was still tired, but awake and I started heading west again. But the rains again intensified and after only an hour of driving, I pulled into the next rest stop and after getting saturated, I went back into the trailer for more sleep, getting about another five hours.

After waking up with food poisoning, and spending too much time on the can, I again resumed my trip. There was frequent construction along the way and, along with the rain; my speeds were kept around 50 miles-per-hour. I kept passing rest stops, again not paying much attention to my gas and as I crossed into Indiana, I discovered I had about 12 miles, about a gallon, left in the tank. Nine miles later, I got to a rest stop and was forced to pay $4 a gallon, about 50 cents per gallon more than off the highway. I paid it and vowed not to do something so stupid again. So I began a pattern of filling up when the tank was half empty from then on.

In Ohio, I began looking for the seemingly endless cornfields that I remembered the last time I took this route to bring my son to college in suburban Chicago for his freshman year in the mid-1990s. There appeared to be nothing there and I was surprised to see what appeared to be weeds growing everywhere instead. It wasn’t until I reached Illinois that I realized that the “weeds” were actually corn seedlings breaking ground. These were the first days of June and I last travelled through this area in late August. As my journey continued throughout the Midwest, I observed the crops grow to several feet high and then begin to whither and die as the drought began its destruction.

I was again unpleasantly surprised to discover that Route 90 was also a toll road in Indiana. I had pleasant memories of stopping in South Bend and looking at the University of Notre Dame’s legendary Golden Dome football stadium. But with the toll, getting on and off meant having to pay and then re-enter getting another toll ticket and winding up paying more. I wound up paying about $25 to cross Indiana.

As I reached the Illinois border, Interstate 90 branched off and headed to Chicago while Interstate 80 headed south. I was dismayed to see a sign announcing yet another toll but it turned out to be only $2.50 and was the last of my tolls. I enjoyed crossing Illinois. The miles were less than my previous three states and the weather had turned into sunshine. In addition, there was little road construction. I was looking forward to crossing the Mississippi, something I had never done on land. As I headed that way, thoughts of movie riverboats and huge barges filled my mind. I had my camera ready, but couldn’t stop to take a photo as I crossed. The bridge over the river was under construction and half the lanes were closed. I get somewhat nervous in tight lanes as I worry the trailer might hit something, as it is wider than my truck and hard to judge. I sometimes drift a little into the oncoming lane when I get scared.

I entered DesMoines, Iowa and was pleasantly surprised to see gas prices were much lower. It was here I encountered something that struck me as quite weird. The mid-grade gas prices were actually about 25 cents less per gallon than regular grade. In Iowa, South Dakota and, I suppose, other Midwestern states, taxes on gases with Ethanol, a corn product, were lower than regular gas prices. It is a way to support local agriculture, but I learned that ethanol gas burns faster than regular gas and thus you get less mileage.

It was at this time disaster struck. As I pulled into a pump, it was a tight squeeze and suddenly the steps of my trailer caught on the pipe barrier at the end of the gas island. It completely ripped out the steps, tore apart the metal strips of the underpanel and did some damage to the awning bracket and trailer wall. I was in complete shock. I had just bought the trailer about six weeks ago and it was about eleven feet longer. The turning angles were different. It took a while, and caused more damage, to back out. I eventually got gas, but I was in shock. I made some makeshift repairs with bungee cords and then went back on Interstate 80 and quickly stopped at the next rest stop. I was panicked and exhausted and I just went to bed trying to figure out what I was going to do. By then, my bowel was also in full revolt as a result of the food I had eaten for breakfast and the rest of the night was spent with worry and discomfort.

When I awoke the next morning, both my bowel and my emotions had calmed down. I reinforced the damage with more bungee cords and realized I could probably repair the damage myself. As I used the public restroom, I discovered that it was at the location of the first intercollegiate football game held west of the Mississippi between Iowa State and a college I had never heard of. The first ever-intercollegiate games were held in New Jersey between Princeton and Rutgers and I had been to both teams’ stadiums to watch games when I was younger. I especially liked the 1950s era Princeton Tigers uniforms, which featured tiger stripes on the sleeves. Ah, the trivia that can consume you when you are on the road.

Despite the accident, I liked my Iowa journey that day. One immediately thinks of cornfields when they think of the state. And there were certainly endless miles of them. But unlike the flat areas east of the Mississippi, the land here is somewhat hilly. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that in the middle of these fields were hundreds of wind farm windmills. I like the idea of combining the ancient ritual of planting and farming crops with the latest in “green” technology.

The old and the new: It was hay season as I passed through Iowa and the green area behind it was the start of the corn crop. Note the wind farms in the background. 

As I neared the western Iowa border, I had a choice of routes. I could continue on Route 80 to Omaha, Nebraska, and then head north to Sioux Falls, South Dakota, my first layover destination. I had never been to Nebraska and I like to travel a few miles into borders just to say I had been there. But concerned about the cost of repairing the trailer and the increasingly poor mileage I was getting with the ethanol gas, I took a northbound interstate highway, stopping in Sioux City, Iowa to get more cheap gas before heading up to Sioux Falls. Although still farmland, this highway was a refreshing change from the other highways as it only had two lanes and a 55 mile-per-hour speed limit. I reached Sioux Falls by late afternoon and checked into the RV park I had reservations at. It was dirt-cheap and I soon discovered it was a dump. The advertised swimming pool was empty and not likely to be repaired. There was cable TV in the motel part, but not at the camper area. But I didn’t care. The first two days were half price and I didn’t expect to stay more than a week.  I had reached my new “home.”

***

My favorite private RV park is A Big Wheel in St. Marys, Georgia. I discovered it by accident in 2011 when staying at the state park across the street. I returned this year and spent most of March there and another ten days there around Easter as I began to recover from pneumonia. When I pulled in the second time after a visit to Florida, the manager took one look at me and immediately set me up with her doctor, getting me in the office in a couple of hours and probably saving my life. Anyhow, I had developed friendships with the “snowbirds” who spent the winters there and it was from them I learned much about the RV life. I had mentioned that I was now legally homeless, having a New York license and plates, but no home there anymore. Several of them told me about a mail forwarding company located in Sioux Falls. To get a South Dakota driver license one had to have a current driver license from another state, social security identification, a birth certificate, a receipt from a local motel or RV park for one night and $20. There are no driver tests and they don’t inspect vehicles there. In addition, there are no state income or probate taxes and auto insurance rates are among the lowest in the nation. You can renew your vehicle registration by mail and have to return every five years for your license renewal. I am registered to vote there, so I can vote in the presidential election – though most people in my circumstances don’t bother to vote for local offices.

The people at the mail forwarding company are most helpful and guided me through the process effortlessly. They are located right next to the DMV office and the workers at the DMV know how to deal with us. As my stay in Sioux Falls continued, they recommended RV dealers who would have the parts I needed and a far better RV park that gave their customers a discount.

When I purchased the new trailer in March, my insurance company moved my coverage to a New Jersey policy and told me the coverage was the same. But as I examined the policy, I realized the deductable was $500 instead of the $200 I had in New York. I had recently had a $15,000 claim on a previous trailer that was attacked by a deer in the middle of the night and didn’t want to make yet another claim. The cost of parts and repairs came to about $800. In addition, I felt I had to get a working computer since the circuit board was fried and my back-up computer did not have wireless capability. Between the cost of the used Mac and transferring the hard drive, plus yet more data transfer when my son sent me the Mac I had given him a year before that he wasn’t using, the cost came to about $500, far less than a new laptop. But I was now broke. I couldn’t afford the $200 per day in gas when travelling. So I waited for my social security check to clear and opted to pay $450 for a month at the new park.

But I was still in serious financial difficulty. In March, I had financed my trailer with my credit union and it turned out the person in charge of loans was once the manager of my branch. She had helped me several times and I had raved about her to her boss, demanding she get a raise and/or promotion. She got both and remembered me. So I got the loan for the trailer, despite having no credit score, as I hadn’t used credit in more than a decade. I called her and explained my situation and she then got me a personal loan for $1,500 to tide me over. I suppose it was no big deal. The moment my social security check reaches the bank, both payments are deducted before I get what’s left. But I was very grateful.

At the same time, I made a decision to not pay my other creditors that month until I got my check. I wound up losing phone service for a few days, and dozens of calls from my truck finance company, but I knew that I couldn’t recover until I got to Oregon where I would have a rent-free state park to live in. The money would not only tide me over, but also enable me to do some local travel, sans trailer.

***

During this time, day trips were the order of the day. I decided to travel back south and cross over into Nebraska. As I crossed the Missouri River in the southwestern area of South Dakota, I was pleasantly surprised to go from flat farmland to hills. Immediately over the bridge, Nebraska has a scenic overlook where I was able to watch the river bend along the border. Pup, the pup who is no longer a puppy, loved climbing around the area, dragging me higher and higher up and rewarding me with great views and the incredible smile he has when his is happy. Pup is a Corgi and was bred to climb the rocky hills of Wales while herding sheep. He is in his natural environment and always has a great time when we climb. Actually, he climbs, dragging me along.

After taking some photos, I decided to move into the state a little further. I was rewarded with some of the prettiest farmland I have ever seen. The hills contained crops of now recognizable corn as well as dairy cattle and some horses. But this area was quite rural. It was a Sunday night and I stopped at a church that was letting out. I asked directions and discovered there wasn’t a restaurant or gas for about 20 miles, so I then opted to return to South Dakota where the state’s university was located. As I headed back to Sioux Falls, I was treated to a lovely sunset. It was a great day and completely unexpected.

The Missouri River along the Nebraska-South Dakota border. South Dakota, in the Vermillion area, is flat, while Nebraska, near the town of Newcastle, is hilly. Both areas feature lots of farming.

Sioux Falls is less than an hour away from the Minnesota border and I again decided to visit the border area of that state. There was little difference in the farmland, but I got a closer view of the wind turbines. They are huge. By the time I returned to South Dakota, it was still early, gas was cheap and I headed west to visit the “world famous corn palace” in Mitchell.

Mitchell Corn Palace in Mitchell, SD

The concept of a building, whose exterior was decorated with corncobs and stalks, began more than a century ago. The townspeople created the building to attract new farmers to the region by displaying the wealth of its soil. Now in its third incarnation, the building is a moderate-size arena that is the venue for many local sports events. The exterior is changed every year and this year’s theme is “Youth And Sports,” in recognition of the Olympic games. In all respects, it is a tourist trap and admission to the building is free. Inside they sell a number of items, chief of which is caramel popcorn shaped like a corncob. Like most of the days I spent in South Dakota, the heat was intense. The thermometer in my car registered 106° and I could only leave Pup in the car for a short time. But I did pop into a couple of gift stores and picked up patches from my visit. Patches are my personal choice of souvenirs and I have filled up two sweatshirts with them. I also stopped at a tee shirt shop and discovered it was a Christian one. I was delighted to find a child size tee for my granddaughter that said, “When God made me, He was just showing off.” She is the most beautiful and brilliant toddler in the world and the fact that she is my granddaughter has nothing to do with previous statement.

Another trip was to North Dakota; again just over the border and just to say I’ve been there. My friend Frank insisted there is no such place, and that it is a bottomless void that mapmakers created a state to cover the void. I crossed over the border and got a mock up license plate acknowledging the state’s role in the Lewis and Clark expedition. But the big attraction is a major casino just over the state line. In Sioux Falls, there are dozens of “Casinos,” at just about every bar. They only have slot and electronic games while the North Dakota version has table games. Sioux Falls also has dozens of pawnshops and storefronts that will give you loans on your auto title. Somehow, I suspect there is a relationship between the casinos and loan companies.

I went into one of the pawnshops as I shopped for a used computer. The prices were nearly double the actual value and not worth purchasing. I asked about the rates on a pawn loan and was shocked to discover it was 19 percent per month!

But my (and Pup’s) favorite place was right in Sioux Falls, Falls Park. Falls Park is the site of the waterfalls the town is named after along the Big Sioux River. Though not imposing by the standards of waterfalls in other areas of the country, they are very beautiful. They run over rust-colored quartzite boulders and are surrounded by the ruins of the city’s early structures including a mill and a power plant that used the river for hydroelectric generation. Though a tourist attraction, it is mainly used by local residents, much like Central Park in New York City. It is filled with statues and has an observation tower where one can see the city. I witnessed a wedding there and the falls are also used by portrait photographers as a backdrop. During summer nights, there is a light show with various colors projected on the falls. A laser show is projected onto a building and details the history of the city. As with most of the area, Lewis and Clark visited there. Pup again loved the rocks and climbing and he met a lot of admirers.

Falls Park, in Sioux Falls, SD is much like New York City's Central Park. It is the place wither Sioux Falls visitors and residents go to relax and enjoy the beauty of the waterfalls along the Sioux River. Every night during the summer, there is a light show and also a laser show exploring the history of the region.

* * *

It was finally time to move on. And I again started dragging the trailer on Interstate 90. My destination was the Badlands. I first wanted to see this site when a high school classmate of mine, George, posted a picture of himself and his motorcycle there on Facebook.  The sheer beauty of the place was astounding. As I headed west, I once again crossed the Missouri. There is a song titled “Across The Wide Missouri” and the river was indeed wide, much wider than the Mississippi. I also had a much better view of the river as the plains sloped downward prior to reaching the bridge. As soon as one crossed the river, the geography changed. There were hilly spots that I didn’t recognize. I later realized I had entered the prairies of the west. The road took me up to a plateau and soon there were more farms. But the crops were different. Instead of corn, there was wheat and soy and seemingly endless acres of hay. And there were many more cattle fields. And a sign that announced I had finally reached “Wall Drug Country.” For those familiar with Interstate 95 in the Carolinas, Wall Drug billboards are as common as Pedro and South Of The Border. The moment I entered South Dakota from Sioux City, Iowa, I saw a Wall Drug sign. Wall is a town in the middle of nowhere, or more accurately, along Interstate 90 at the end of the scenic loop of Badlands National Park. During the Great Depression, the owners of the drug store began offering free ice water to anyone who dropped in. Thirsty travelers saw signs for miles and the business boomed. Today Wall Drugs is a block long and features about a dozen shops, ranging from a restaurant to souvenirs, to western wear, and much more. In the rear of the store is an outdoor playground featuring water spouts to cool off in and a couple of museums. When I later stopped there, I had myself photographed on a giant “jackalope.”

One of the more interesting things I discovered was they employ dozens of full time RVers, like myself. This is called Workamping and is similar to volunteering in parks except that RVers are paid as well as given a full-service RV site. Wall Drugs has taken this a step further and built it’s own RV park for employees. I was sorely tempted to spend the summer there but had by then arranged for volunteer work in Oregon.

Wall Drug Store, in Wall South Dakota, became a major tourist destination by offering free water to thirsty travelers in the middle of its Badlands location. It now is a block long and has a second building and park behind the frontage. 

I reached Badlands National Park and settled into their campground. For old geezers like myself, the National Park Service has a special lifetime pass that you purchase one time for $10 and you get free admission to all the national parks in the country. I’ve saved well over $200 in the 10 months I’ve owned one.

Like camping in most national parks, it is very cheap for seniors. The nightly rate is around $15 per night, less than half of most private and state campgrounds. I decided to spend a week there and explore without dragging the trailer. At this park, though, the only service you get is electric, a must for air conditioning. And you park on the side of the road rather than back into a site. While most sites will provide a picnic table, the tables here have a roof to protect you from the sun, which was in excess of 100° every day. There is a second campground without electric service that is free. I had considered it, but knew I couldn’t survive in the heat.

One of thousands of incredible scenes of desolation at Badlands National Park

Badlands is all it was supposed to be, and more. It is mile after mile of incredible beauty and desolation. It is a land where mankind struggles to survive, but somehow has managed to do so for centuries. It is a place where erosion has ripped away time, revealing the many colors of different eras. As I toured the area, I saw a prairie dog “town” that went on for miles. And I viewed my first herds of bison (buffalo). I have no reason to understand why anyone would want to be given a home where the buffalo roam -- at least here.

Where I camped, there is one of the world’s most beautiful sunsets. The dying sun creates sharp shadows and enhances contrast. It is a photographer’s dream. After sunset, I decided to take a ride around the park’s scenic loop. The full moon and the cloudless night added more than a touch of drama and mystery. As I started to turn back to my campsite, I noticed lightning to the west. When I got back to the campgrounds I was awed by the incredible lightning show that I was told stretched for about one hundred miles. We had a brief, but intense, rain and once again I slept to the drumbeat of water pounding my roof. It was a welcome respite from the dust and the first rain I had experienced since that day in Ohio more than a month ago. It helped settle the dust for a few hours at least.

Using the National Park as my base, I journeyed to Rapid City and Mt. Rushmore. I expected to be impressed, but wasn’t. Like Niagara Falls a year ago, it was a place I had seen photographed so many times that there was little in the way of the joy of discovery. I was also disappointed that dogs weren’t permitted in the area, so I left Pup parked in an indoor garage with the windows cracked and plenty of water in his bowl. But my visit was somewhat brief. I was also upset that while one could walk into the monument at no charge, parking was done by a concession and my senior pass was not honored. I did stop at the gift shop and a local wine called “Red Ass” perked my interest simply by its name. It is bottled in the area and is made from rhubarb rather than grapes. I did purchase a jar of pumpkin butter as a gift for my son, and of course, my patches.

Mt. Rushmore was somewhat of a disappointment simply because I had seen so many photos of it. There was no real thrill of discovery.

On the way back to Rapid City, I saw a sign that pointed me to Custer State Park. I knew it was well known for its wildlife and I decided to make a side trip. It took me through Black Hills National Forest and I climbed up a road designed by the same man who was the monument’s sculptor.  He designed the trail up the mountain to have three different tunnels through rock, each one having a view of Mt. Rushmore at its other end. I took pup for his mountain walk. After living in wasteland for several days, being in forest was a treat for both of us.

We slowly descended into Custer State Park and were immediately greeted by a pair of deer who in no uncertain terms showed us that, as a matter of fact, they did own the road. They stood there staring at me for several minutes before moving on. This is an area of beautiful valleys with the Black Hills in the background. As I continued to travel, the valleys gave way to prairies and I encountered a huge heard of bison. They too tied up traffic as they moved across the grasslands. I found myself surrounded by them as they walked their young calves through the area. There was a noticeable difference between this herd and the ones in the Badlands. They were clearly healthier and better fed. In the Badlands, aggressive flies attacked everyone and everything. They weren’t in this park and one didn’t see the preponderance of sores that the Badlands bison had. I also saw more prairie dogs and a heard of wild burros. The burros where the only animals friendly to people and walked up to be fed and petted. I later saw more deer as well.

Buffalo Roam at Custer State Park without regard for traffic. It took more than an hour to get through the area. 

The sun was setting and I turned east to return to the Badlands. I again witnessed a panorama of lightning but no rain this time. As I finally arrived back at my campgrounds, I realized that this was probably the best day I had on the western part of my travels. There were many more to come.

I spent the last of my Badlands days exploring the vistas and buffs. Near the park is a small town that proudly brags about its population of 63. Most of who lived off the tourist trade. There were several bars and a small grocery. I got fresh local eggs there as well as bread and milk and I was pleasantly surprised to find the prices were quite low. I talked to the owner and she talked about how they had three different churches in town. All three were beautifully built, but very small.

Before leaving the Badlands, I made one last stop at the Minuteman Missile National Monument. They are the only Missile control centers left from the Cold War. It was a reminder of just how close we were to annihilation.  I was surprised to discover the Soviets had more missiles aimed at this vast wasteland than at cities like New York and Washington. Such was the fear the hundreds of Minuteman missiles inspired.

Top Photo: Desk where the keys would be turned to launch nuclear missile attack during the cold war. Bottom photo: Painting on outside of control room blast door, which weighed several tons.

There is a RV resort in Grand Rapids that offers three nights for less than $30 if you are willing to listen to a timeshare pitch. I needed a place to relax and after a week in the Badlands certainly needed a shower. Though quite close to Mt. Rushmore, I spent the days enjoying the pool and just resting in preparation for my next destination: Montana and Yellowstone.

***

I chose to leave Grand Rapids in the evening, planning on a nighttime trip to my next destination, Bear Canyon RV Park, which is just east of Bozeman, Montana. Located right off Interstate 90, I anticipated a straight ride along the highway. And it started out that way. I had wanted to see Leadville, which is now a wild west themed gambling mecca, but decided not to as I was uncertain if I could park my RV in town. I was also concerned about how long I would be there. But my GPS had other plans about staying on the Interstate. As I neared the South Dakota/Wyoming border, it told me to leave the highway and head north, then west along local highway 212. I figured I it would take me the shortest distance and I preferred the local roads so I didn’t have to waste gas at 70-mph speeds. It gave me a lesson about just what “wide open spaces” really means. I’m not sure if I passed through Wyoming at all, but as dusk settled over the landscape, I saw a small sign that read “Montana” and drove into the night.

Western Sunset as I left the Black Hills and began to approach the Rocky Mountains

That evening, I was awed by an incredible Western sunset like one might find in a book. The prairie was flat, with just a hint of mountains in the background. A reddish sunset dominated the right half of the night while a wild lightning display slowly emerged from the left and for an hour continued to approach before opening up above me.

The area is marked by endless farmland, though it was rare to see any buildings at all. As I continued to drive, I noticed my gas gauge was nearing the half-full mark.  I consulted the map and it showed several towns along the way, but as I passed through, there were no buildings. I travelled nearly 100 miles before I entered a town of about two blocks long. It had an open filling station and I was very relieved to get gas, as it was about to close for the night. It also had a small store where I picked up a patch with the Montana state flag. I spoke to the girl running the store about the great distance between towns and she told me there was no commerce between where I was and the Interstate that was another 60 miles away.

As I continued, I spotted a grey wolf. At first I thought it was a dog walking alone, but as I got closer, I could see it was clearly a wolf. I thought they travelled in packs, but I saw no others. About an hour later, now the dark, I passed the Little Big Horn where Custer’s last stand took place. I could see from the moonlit geography, that Custer never had a chance. After I settled in at my park, I watched a PBS show on Custer. He was said to be incredibly arrogant and more Indians than he had bullets surrounded him. I realized that I was probably going to miss a lot of things with night travel, and resigned myself to it. I couldn’t do everything.

I was relieved to get back on the Interstate. On the Route 212 part of the trip, I encountered less than a dozen vehicles and had no phone signal. If I got into trouble, I would be in more trouble than I wanted. I drove through the night, stopping for a catnap.

Although I passed through many hills, by dawn, I was back on the vast prairie. Gradually, the Rockies came into view, but it was more than two hours before I reached them. Montana is one of the widest states in the country and my course ran from the Southeast corner of the state to the Northwest corner. I reached my campground around 10 a.m., but the park refused to allow incoming campers in until after 2 p.m. so it could clean up its sites. I drove on to Bozeman and found a shopping center with a McDonalds, grabbed a late breakfast and crashed in the trailer for a few hours until it was time to drive in.

Bear Canyon was well worth the wait. Some incredibly beautiful mountains to the north surrounded it. As I looked at the scene, I decided that simply looking at this view was worth all the money I had invested in trucks and trailers. That view remains as the wallpaper on my computer. And I often leave the monitor on when I am not working simply to enjoy the view.

Bear Canyon, outside of Bozeman, MT. Route 90 is in the foreground. It was my jumping off point to Yellowstone National Park.

I had scheduled two nights there and attempted to add some more, but the place was booked for the upcoming weekend. And so, resigned to have only one day at Yellowstone, I unhitched and started heading there. I had attempted to get a campsite in Yellowstone, but was unable to get even a “dry” camping spot without utilities. They had space, but the park was designed for RVs from the 1950s. Most of the sites are too small to accommodate longer trailers that are so prevalent today.

So pup and I drove about 60 miles down the Interstate to the road to the park and it was another 50 miles or so to the park entrance. But the country was beautiful as I drove along the Yellowstone River. I was in a valley and surrounded by mountain after mountain. As I drove on, I spotted smoke and thought it was possibly coming from a geyser. But it turned out to be a large brush fire. It took about five miles to pass by it and I was grateful there was no forest near it. Firefighters seemed to have it under control. A few hundred miles to the south, wildfires were raging out of control in Colorado and I was relieved to not be in that sort of situation.

Yellowstone is everything it is supposed to be. The scenery is awesome and the geysers are frightening when you realize you are standing on a “super volcano” that will destroy the Midwest if it ever goes off.

Top: Old Faithful Geyser; Photo 2: Yellowstone Entrance; Photo #3: One of many tranquil lakes at Yellowstone; Bottom: more geysers

And yes, I watched “Old Faithful” erupt. Like Mt. Rushmore and Niagara Falls, it is something I have seen photographed so often, that it somewhat lacked the wonder it is. There was one thing I did miss. While I saw buffalo and elk, I never saw one of the grizzly bears. I didn’t know whether to be sad or relieved. When I read Steinbeck’s account of visiting the park with his dog, Charlie, poor Charlie went nuts when he smelled them. Pup was quite docile. He had a wonderful time being petted by any number of children as we waited in the viewing area for Old Faithful to erupt. I often tell people he gives love without judging and sheds hair without ceasing. Both were true that day as a gentle breeze spread the hair he shed while being petted. By the eruption, his hair was scattered well over 50 yards.

While tempted to go back the next day, I was exhausted and spent a day recovering, enjoying the Bear Canyon view, swimming, and taking the time to shop, including getting a straw cowboy hat.

The next day I hoped to reach Oregon, but the trip was just too long. The Rockies in Montana seemed to be endless. It took about eight hours to reach the Idaho border. I stopped at the “Welcome to Idaho” sign and was once again overwhelmed with beauty. Along Route 90, the Idaho-Montana border symbolizes the end of the Rockies. But you are still at the top of a mountain and gaze into an incredible valley. Most of the area was in the clouds, and because we were below the tree line, majestic pines replaced the bare mountains. The road to through Idaho was almost all downhill, falling to a magnificent lake filled with boaters enjoying summer activities. I thought how much this town was a place where I could live forever, but also realized the winters there, close to the Canadian border, were brutal. There is a huge ski industry there, but I wanted nothing to do with it.

I crossed the Idaho panhandle and reached Washington State. It was getting close to sunset and I had been driving on and off for nearly 11 hours, one of my longest days on the trip. I pulled into a rest stop and after walking Pup, I stumbled over to the people bathrooms where a man from a local charity was offering free coffee and cookies. We chatted briefly. He was retired and this was his way on contributing to his fellow man. He had his trailer there and slept during the day and gave away the coffee through the morning. He was still there after I woke up.

I turned south on a state highway and headed to the Tri-Cities area in Washington. I once had a client located in Kennewick and I always wondered what it looked like. It actually looked like suburban New Jersey; a local highway surrounded by continuous retail stores ranging from malls to fast food restaurants. The ad manager for this client was located in Connecticut, and became very excited when she visited the plant, raving about the beauty. But that was 25 years ago.

And then the moment I had been waiting for came. I crossed over the Columbia River. I arrived in Oregon!

When I was a kid in the 1950s, Disney’s Television Davy Crockett was HUGE! If you were a kid and you didn’t have a coonskin cap and a genuine Old Betsy plastic rifle with powder horn and pouch and plastic knife on your belt, your status in Kidville was zero. Bonus points if you had a plastic buckskin jacket with fringe. Anyhow, to take advantage of the fad, Disney made a movie starring Crockett star Fess Parker about a wagon train heading to Oregon. The movie’s theme song lyrics buzzed through my head: “Westward Ho the wagons; Always Westward roll; Westward Ho the wagons; For Oregon’s our goal. There’s magic in the wind; And a brightness in the sky; And a promised land awaiting; And we’ll get there bye and bye.”

I wondered if it would indeed be a promised land. I briefly stopped at a welcome center that was nearly impossible to find and got a few brochures, but the young woman was pretty apathetic about the whole thing. I asked about a place where I could eat breakfast and she suggested a taco place. I don’t do tacos for breakfast, even if they have bacon and eggs in them. Pup echoed his disdain for the center with a “salute & poop” and so I grabbed a boiled egg and a banana out of the trailer, fed Pup and went on our way.  It was not an auspicious beginning.

I moved onto Interstate 84 and soon it turned towards the Columbia River. Once again, I was stunned to find that God had placed more evidence of his magnificence in my path. I was in the Columbia River Gorge and there were incredible cliffs on both sides of me. While certainly not as deep as the Grand Canyon, it teems with life instead of desolation. Trees arched into the air to touch the feathery clouds. Water flowed at a leisurely pace that was sometimes interrupted with turbulence from the wind. Once again, my mind was in a state that screamed “Enough, I can’t take any more beauty.” And yet it refused to end. Much of the River is now tame, thanks to a series of more than 20 dams. But the incredible turbulence of the original river was unleashed when the current from the Hood River collided into its banks.

Columbia River Gorge looking at The Dalles. This area was where the original Oregon trail ended and emigrants had to choose between traveling down the then raging river or, after the Barlow Road was built, travel through the potential snow and freezing near Mt. Hood. Since then, the river has become a series of "lakes" as more than a dozen major dams have controlled its current. In terms of water volume, the Columbia is the second largest river in North America.

Because I was travelling to a state park as a volunteer, I stopped for the night at Memaloose State Park, where I am about to spend September and October. There was no space available for me, but I was placed in an overflow area and “dry” camped without electric or water at the site. But it was only for two nights and I thoroughly enjoyed the rest. All the park offers is camping with a magnificent view. There is no access to the river. There is some recreation and a nice Saturday night campfire program about the river. But it is right off the highway and one hears the cars running by all night. Towards the river are the train tracks and the area has constant traffic. But the noise didn’t bother me. Until I left Port Jervis, NY in February, I had been sleeping adjacent to a railroad that had traffic all night. I slept like a baby.

I met briefly with the ranger and we discussed what I would be doing in September. It sounded pretty good to me. Unlike many state park systems, volunteers do not clean bathrooms in Oregon. Most of the work is simple contact with campers, selling them firewood, ice and tee shirts. He decided to let me do some evening campfire presentations as well.

The only inconvenience was that my built-in “fresh” water tank ran out of water. I had to fill a five-gallon container at a spout and lugged it to my site.

All in all, I figured Oregon was a pretty good deal.

* * *

And then came the moment I had been waiting for. Reunion with my son and his family and the world’s most beautiful and brilliant toddler. The fact that I am her grandfather has nothing to do with the previous sentence. Yes, I know I wrote this about 5,000 words ago, but it’s the truth and I won’t stop bragging.

I had not seen my son John for nearly three years when my granddaughter was born. This was a result of my leaving my ex and there was a great deal of pain involved. I waited nearly two years and in January I proposed that I stay at a park that helped make my presence more compatible.

I entered Portland with a reservation for a campground at an island just under the Interstate 5 Bridge, which links Portland and Vancouver, Washington. But I was unable to back my trailer into the right-angle spots they have. I called a couple of other campsites in Portland, but they were booked, so I went back east a few exits to one that I knew was good, but somewhat on the expensive side. I decided to register to stay two nights. The first night, John and I had dinner together in the trailer.  We had things to talk about and hopefully cleared the air. The next night we had dinner at one of his favorite restaurants with his family.

There was not much to say about my granddaughter, other than she was there and adorable. Of course, she didn’t know who I was, but she gradually warmed up to me. After dinner, we went across the street to a pet store and we looked at the animals. By the time we were ready to part, she let me pick her up and she gave me a hug. I, of course, was soaring. It was a moment I had been waiting for. It was the reason I travelled here. And I rejoiced in it.

***

It was now time to begin my new life. I drove across one last set of mountains and wound up on the Pacific coast. I had finally made it. I drove north along Highway 101, listening to an album of soft rock by the same name, including Al Stewart’s “Year of the Cat.” I sort of felt like the singer -- committed to an entirely new situation, yet not really understanding it yet. I was about to do some volunteer work at Fort Stevens State Park.

Located near the mouth of the Columbia River, the park consists of a number of different areas. There are several Pacific Ocean beaches, a day use area, the largest state park campgrounds west of the Mississippi River and the military historical area. During the Civil War, the fort, along with two others on the Washington side of the river, was built to protect the river entrance from Confederate and British sea raiders. At that time, there was a fear that the British would join the Confederate States due to a number of factors, mainly that the British needed Southern cotton for their booming textile industry. If the British, located a day’s sail from Canada, blockaded the Columbia River, they would control the Northwest.

The fort experienced a major build up in the 1890s as more modern artillary was built and it was a World War II Basic, artillery and automotive training center. In addition, the fort continued its primary mission of guarding the Columbia River. In fact, it was the only mainland military installation attacked during the Second World War when a Japanese sub lobbed 17 shells at it.

I was warmly welcomed by the volunteer coordinator and they brought me to my site. It was the only site in the loop of about 150 campsites that had a right angle driveway. I took one look and said “no way” and got a ranger to back it up for me.

My initial assignment was to help with a tour of the fort and it’s underground installation for one of the fort’s batteries. In ruins, the underground is very dark. A battery consists of two large guns on each side of a central area that supplies ammo and support to the guns. I was fine until I entered the area for the second gun, which was identical to the first. I realized I had no clue on how to get out and became Claustathrobic.

I mentioned it to the tour guide and by the time I went to the volunteer office, they knew about it. It was no problem. I could work the truck tour instead. It was a perfect fit. I sat in the back pointing to ruins while a tape played and I added little anecdotes and showed photos to supplement the tape. I joked with the people riding the truck and they went away with huge smiles on their faces.

At first, there were problems with another couple who alternated days with me. Our styles were entirely different and they felt I was a “know it all.” Eventually, they came to understand that while they lived in nearby Astoria, Oregon, I spent seven years in Astoria, Queens and my New York Style was simply different – way different. Most of the time, the tours were done using couples. I was paired with another single man and the normal situation was to have the man drive and the woman act as the guide. I was “different” and the fact that I was both a history teacher and ex-soldier represented a great deal of difference to the way they did things.

But eventually they came around and by the end of the month, we were all having a blast. The man they linked me up with and I are both coming back for an encore next August and September.

Army "Duce and a Half" truck tours the historic area of Fort Stevens. I sat in the back of the truck as we bounced all over sharing both history and anecdotes about the area. 

During the month, I spent a lot of time taking photos. There is a huge civil war re-enactment over the Labor Day weekend and they have shut down the truck tour for the rest of the month. So I am taking advantage of the time off by making a movie about the military operation of the fort.

There is also a great deal of history here at the mouth of the Columbia River. Known as the “Graveyard of the Pacific,’ there have been more than 2,000 shipwrecks over the last two centuries. The Columbia runs more than 2,000 miles with four major rivers and dozens of others streaming into it. In terms of water volume, it is the second largest river in the United States and when the river meets the Pacific Ocean’s tides, there is major chaos at the mouth. A major factor is the constantly shifting sandbar and bar pilots are needed to help major sea-going ships navigate their way into the river. During the winter months, the waves are especially bad as storms rage into the area dumping heavy rains and causing higher waves.

In Astoria, there is a museum dedicated to the river and the films they show of the watery violence are amazing. Astoria is the oldest town settled west of the Rockies and once had a thriving canning industry form the hoards of salmon swimming upstream to spawn. Now it caters to sports fishermen and tourists. It has a trolley that goes up and down the riverfront and for $1 you get an entertaining tour.  With typical Munzer luck, the trolley broke down ¾ into the trip and the mechanic who serviced it was in Portland for the day. I walked about 20 blocks to get back to my car.

A number of feature films were also shot here. The first two “Free Willie” moves were shot in the area, though most of the stunts, including the famous jumping over the jetty, were done by mechanical devices. “The Goonies” and “Kindergarten Cop” were also filmed here.

Munzer luck continued the next day. It hadn’t rained in the time I had been here, more than a month. So naturally, it poured the day I had made a reservation for a kayak tour. Around here, rain is called “Oregon Liquid Sunshine” and I had to accept it. I had just gotten off from my truck tours and someone asked me if the tour would be started since it was raining. I told him “Fort Stevens will be happy to take your money no matter what the weather.”

In my teens and early 20s, I had been a lifeguard and while I had been canoeing in the Delaware many times, and certainly could handle a rowboat, I had never been Kayaking. After being launched, I rocked quite a bit and was certain the now strong winds and choppy waves would capsize me. But I got used to it. From the middle of the lake, we fought the waves about a mile to the south end; then drifted about two miles to the north end.  Then, exhausted, we began the final mile back. I was beginning to experience motion sickness as the now whitecapped waves plowed into my bow. The only way I could overcome it was to begin paddling hard rather than give into it. I pushed myself for what seemed like forever, finally reaching the beach where we had started. I was surprised I had finished nearly ten minutes ahead of the next person and was quite pleased that an old geezer like myself could out-paddle people half my age. 

Well, that brings us up to the present day. My computer program tells me I am 53 words beyond the10,000 mark -- certainly the longest thing I have ever written. This Friday, John and his family are coming out for a visit before I head west and back to the Columbia River Gorge. Hopefully we will continue to have great weather as I get a chance to share the beach and other attractions. Then I head out for the next stop in my journey. Thanks for coming along for the ride.

Top: John and Lydia's first trip to a beach. Center: Remains of the Peter Iredale, one of many ships sank at the "Graveyard of the Pacific" sandbar at the Mouth of the Columbia River. This area is known as "Shipwreck Beach." Bottom: Pacific Ocean Sunset.