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.
