COAST TO COAST TO COAST TO COAST

 

by

 

IAN CAMERON

 

(This trip went around the edges of North America in the fall of 2003, in a camperized 1992 Grand Caravan. These are reports sent to friends during the trip) 

 

Part One 

 

We have discovered two important things about Canada. First, kilometers get longer the further East you go. Secondly, it’s not really a long way from Winnipeg to Thunder Bay: it’s the 90 km Ontario speed limit that makes it seem like a long way. We’ve been on the road for 10 days, and about  5000 KM. We’d be across Canada, but we’ve done quite a bit of North and South. We’ve been to: Fernie (hi, Jacksons), Frank, Waterton and Glacier Parks, The Cypress Hills, Saskatoon (hi Camerons), Duck Lake and Batoche (hi, Louis), Prince Albert, Flin Flon, Hecla (look it up on a map), Winnipeg, and we’re on the way to Thunder Bay, and then north to Kapuscasing. I’m writing this by dawn’s early light at a boat launch by a nameless lake near Vermillion, (thanks Vermillion) on the Trans Canada in western Ontario.  We’ve seen coyotes, foxes, antelope, blue jays, lots of hawks, and thousands of snow geese.

As Kermit said, movin right along. I’ll be sending this from North Bay, and I’ll add a PS to cover that 1,500 Km. 

Best to all,

Ian And Mary 

PS.  Now nine hours and 600 Km later, at a rest stop at Wild Goose Lake, some 20 KM west of Geraldton on Highway 11, which folks in Ontario think is the north, but which is almost exactly  the latitude of  Kamloops. Having fed the Whisky Jacks,  (oooh, I bet that’s politically incorrect, I mean Canada Jays, no, make that Jays Canada) Mary is about to feed me. Thanksgiving dinner will be Chicken Fettuchine, salad, bread and wine. 

PPS  NORTH Bay, 8:22 PM, Oct 14  Just had dinner with friends, and onto the teaching via distance ed. Tomorrow, Ottawa.

 

THE EPIC: CHAPTER LE DOUX 

Hi all 

Some of you will have this attached to the first installment of this magnus opus: others will have it as a stand-alone: it depends on whether I had your e mail address in the file when I left. Those of you who find this attached, don’t feel slighted: I thought I had everyone in the book and discovered today that I in fact made two lists, and the first epistle was sent only to one list. So, on to episode two.

 

Well, when we left our heroes they were in Ottawa. We looked around The Pit of the nation (cf Frank Norris) and, after the buildings, three museums (including the National Art Gallery, which has virtually all the famous Canadian paintings you’ve ever seen reproduced, including “The School Board”, well known to any teacher, we drove east. (“The School Board” almost caused an inter-provincial incident: I was taking a picture of it when a guard, of which there are many, informed me there are to be no pictures taken. Odd, as one of his colleagues had watched with a grin as I took a photo of a painting of Alex’s bedroom, which somehow was in the collection. (Attached.)

 

Drove into Quebec and to Shawinigan, and ate lunch, but didn’t see the famous hotel or golf course.  The most lasting memory of PQ for me will be road kill. The speed limit means nothing here, and the little animals have no chance. Then to Quebec city and the plains of Abraham and the old city. The French deserved to lose the battle and Canada: gross incompetence is the only explanation. All the pictures of Wolfe and his men scaling cliffs to get to the plains are nonsense: the cove in which he landed is only three KM west of the city, and it’s an easy walk to the top of the bank, and there you are: overlooking the walled city.  Woke at our camp site (an unused-at-the-moment ATV trail) to wet snow, but the visit to the city was sunny and fine.

 

Drove along the St Laurence all day through small towns with huge churches, each with a tall silver spire. We are now at the tip of the Gaspe Peninsula, at Forillon National Park, spending the night in the parking lot of the park information centre, having arrived too late to go to the actual campground. I hope to send this tomorrow night when we stop at a motel. I’ll add a PS then.

 

Best from Ian with a cold and Mary who claims she’s filthy and we’d better stop at a motel.

PART THREE

 We left Bathurst late Wednesday morning, and drove through Eastern New Brunswick. The snow had stopped, but it started to rain as we neared Moncton, so we found a motel again, as I hadn’t caught up with Distance Ed course I’m teaching and needed an internet connection, and the van isn’t much fun in the rain when the temperature is 2o  I sent the pictures to you folks from there. We left fairly early Thursday AM and visited the local museum, which was a disappointment to me, as they had very little on one of my favourite oddities of history: the story of the Pan American Atlantic Clipper service.

 In the 30’s aviation had advanced to the point where trans-continental passenger service (in planes such as the Douglas DC3) was common, but there was no inter-continental service because there were no runways long enough for the planes that would be needed. Accordingly, Pan Am decided that taking off from water would solve the problem, and in 1937 they commissioned Boeing to design and make a number (about 6, I think) of huge flying boats they called ‘Clippers’. (The model number was actually the 319, I think.) The Clipper service from San Diego to Hawaii was very successful, but service to England was harder, because of the distance, so Pan Am established intermediate fueling stations. Because the aircraft were so large, they could only land in calm water, so the intermediate stops had to be carefully chosen. The best spots turned out to be places no-one had ever heard of: Foine, on the west of Ireland; Botwood, Newfoundland, and Shediac, New Brunswick. The terminals were Southampton and New York. They started operations in April, 1939, and were instantly successful. But in what has to be one of history’s best examples of bad timing, after all the preparation, time and money, war broke out in September, and they made fewer than a dozen flights. 

But we went to Shediac, and saw the place where they landed, which was interesting. Then to the home of Bud the Spud, PEI, which has red soil, and more cottages than residents, for summer visitors. We visited Cavendish, the childhood home of Lucy Montgomery, who preferred to be called Maud, and discovered virtually everything closed for the season. But that’s not a bad thing: we were the only car on the road, and we popped the top at a picnic site beside the ocean in the PEI National Park, something we could never do in the summer. 

Next morning (Friday) we had breakfast in Charlottetown, visited Confederation House (I’m not very sentimental, but standing where the country really started impressed me no end) drove to the extreme end of the island, and then caught the ferry to Nova Scotia. Drove the first half of the Cabot Trail, to the end of Cape Breton, and were lucky enough to arrive at the height of the fall colours, which are very late this year. Unbelievable. Had dinner at a place called Cheticamp (liter of pretty good red: $11, gotta like that) and popped the top at the entrance to the National Park. When I saw the size of the rocks that had in times past fallen off the cliff under which we parked, I was glad it had been dark when we arrived. Drove the rest of the Trail next morning (it was snowing at the high points), visited Baddeck and the Bell historic site, during the process of getting from one end of the province to the other and back drove around Bras d’Or Lake (that’s a BIG piece of water), saw Sydney and Fortress Louisbourg on the way, and are presently camped beside the St. Peter’s Locks which separate Bras d’Or from the sea. Again, something you couldn’t do in the summer. I’ve finally found a name for the van: ‘Guerilla Camper’. 

Then to Halifax, Mahon Bay and Lunenburg (and the Bluenose) and camped at Kejimkujik National Park, with hot showers no less. Then to Digby, breakfast in Annapolis Royal, up the Annapolis Valley, across into New Brunswick, down along the Bay of Fundy to Fundy National Park for the night, and the next day over to Maine, visited the Roosevelt summer home in Campobello (and had the van searched by Canadian customs coming back into Canada) and we are now in a campsite just north of Bar Harbour. Very pictureskew: looking out over the lobster fleet at anchor with the white church steeple against the setting sun. Tomorrow – Bar Harbour and Kennebunkport. 

And now it’s Thursday AM, we’re in a motel on ME 1 (‘The Maine Street of the Northeast’) between Kennebunkport and Ogunquit. Poured rain yesterday – two inches. Mary finally got to eat lobstah last night, and today we’re off to Boston, the home of the bean and the cod, where the Lowells speak only to Cabots, and the Cabots speak only to God.

 PART 4 

Well, two interesting days. We arrived in Salem on October 30. BIG MISTAKE. “We mistimed this,” I said to Mary on the way. “We should have been here tomorrow, on Halloween.” WRONG. It seems that Salem has become the Halloween capital of the world. Thousands of people descend on it to be where the witch trials were held. We joined the throng in viewing the old graveyard (naturally, none of the ‘witches’ are buried there) and looked at the House of the Seven Gables, where they were filming a TV special for Halloween. We slept some five miles from Salem in front of the Beach Club in Swampscott, very ritzy. Then on to Cape Cod, very quaint. Talk about strict building codes – weathered cedar shingles (they must buy it that way) or white clapboard for houses, red brick for public buildings, including all stores and offices. Popped the top by a beach, complete with sand dunes. 

Saw Hyannisport, and the high fence surrounding the cottages of the rich and famous. Then to Fall River, where Lizzy Borden took an axe and gave her father 40 whacks, and when she saw what she had done, she gave her mother 41.  Saw Battleship row: the battleship Massachusetts, submarine Lionfish, destroyer Kennedy, and a Russian missile ship. Plus two PT boats.  Geez, but battleships are BIG. Then to Newport, RI, where I wanted to camp in the grounds of one of the mansions, but Mary got cold feet, so we’re in the WalMart parking lot, and it’s hot, like 20 degrees at 7:00 PM. More later.  

And the next day we toured a couple of the mansions, including the Vanderbilt cottage of 72 rooms, some of them big enough for a tennis court (doubles, at that); saw the tennis museum and the famed grass courts, and moved on to Connecticut, and stayed in Old Lyme, the enclave of the artistic set. I toured the Nautilus, the first atomic sub, and Mary tried to figure out how much we’ve spent so far.  

And then to New York, where we took our lives in our hands by driving in on the Triborough Expressway, drove down Madison, over to Park Avenue, where we did, and walked through a small part of Central Park, drove past what is left of the Trade Towers, over the Manhattan Bridge (the approach ramp is the Bowery) to Brooklyn (you leave the bridge onto Flatbush Avenue), over the Verrazano Bridge to Staten Island where we took the ferry back to New York and then back again, past the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island, and on to a Wal Mart (it was late) in Perth Amboy, the origin of teenage gangs in the U.S. (someone wrote a book about a mythical gang called the Amboy Dukes and all the teens who wanted to be tough thought a gang sounded like a good idea, and bingo!!). Then to Atlantic City and the Boardwalk (got you some saltwater taffy, Alex) and we are now in the Pine Barrens. Tomorrow, Philly. 

So now it’s tomorrow, and we had breakfast in a diner in Berlin, toured the Camden Zoo, Mary worked on her New Jersey accent (“Ow, shewar”) and into Philadelphia to a hotel, drove around the city and picked up a couple of cheese steaks (what else?) for dinner and here we are. 60 degrees F and 95% humidity. A touch of winter on the weekend, the news says, down to 45. Call it 7 C. Tough, huh? 

Stay tuned for the next installment.

 PART FIVE 

Well, I know it hasn’t been long since the last missive, but since I have the chance I’m sending this anyway. Arrived in Lancaster, Pa Thursday in a rainstorm, and have stayed two nights with our friends Bob and Dorothy Gottlieb. I managed to lose a filling, so while Dorothy took Mary around to look at the market and to a nearby Amish farm, I had a new filling installed. That was Friday. This morning we got up early, and off to Gettysburg. Never seen so many monuments and statues in one place in my entire life. Great museum, and a very good booklet to enable one to drive through the entire battlefield, with explanatory markers everywhere. Saw all the places one reads about – Seminary Ridge, Cemetary Ridge, The Angle, The Cornfield, Devil’s Den, the scene of Pickett’s charge, you name it. Well worth the visit. Tomorrow off to Baltimore and then Washington. It’ll be a while before you hear from me again.

 PART 6 

After Gettysburg we went back to Lancaster for one more night courtesy of Dorothy and Bob Gottlieb, and then off the next morning to Strasburg and the National Model Railroad Museum: several great layouts, even better than the one I had as a kid. Then through Baltimore, and a quick visit to Druid Hill Park, the largest park in a city in the U.S. On to Washington D.C. and a very quick look at the Smithsonian Museum of American History. Spent the night just outside of Washington, and in the morning left the van in a garage to have the brakes fixed: something seriously wrong with one of the systems. Went into Washington on the Metro and spent the day in the Museum of American History. The thing I found most interesting was that the one item on display (actually two items, but they go together) shown on the visitors’ map, among all the general maps of exhibits, indicating that it’s the most important artifact in American history, is??? (Answer at end.) 

Back to the hotel, picked up the car ($450 U.S.) and drove into Washington next day. Happened to be Veterans’ Day, and the Mall was full of Vietnam Veterans and families. We went to the Air and Space Museum, and then to the Museum of Natural History so Mary could see the Hope diamond and the gem and mineral collection. Wonderful display. Went to the Lincoln Memorial and the Vietnam Wall. Don’t know which is more moving.  

On to Manassas, where we spent the night in a regional park, to the sounds of gunfire as the residents practice bearing arms as members of a well-regulated militia. Then through the civil war (there’s an oxymoron for you) battlefields of Manassas (if you’re a southron) and Bull Run (if a northerner); Chancellorville, The Wilderness, and Spotsylvania, and, after a night in Ashland, on to Richmond. 

In Richmond I finally got to visit the Tredegar Ironworks, the largest ironworks in the U.S. at the start of the civil war, and the south’s main producer of armaments (in fact, almost the only producer in the south.) It’s now the civil war visitors’ centre in Richmond. Wonderful displays. Richmond is an interesting city: the older neighbourhoods (most of them) are full of brick houses, many of them with turrets. In fact, there are so many turrets you’d swear it’s a syndrome. (Sorry, Alex.) Then to Hampton, where we stayed in the municipal campground. 

Friday the 14th visited the Air Power Museum in Hampton, about half a hectare of planes given to the community by the US Air Force in recognition of the fact that Langley Air Base is located there. Oldest is an F 86 Saber, and the collection includes virtually every jet powered fighter since, and a Polaris Missiles, a Jupiter rocket, and one of the Mercury capsules. 

Then to the battleship Wisconsin, out to Virginia Beach (another beach filled with huge hotels so no-one else can see the water), then inland to Smithfield, so Mary could find out what makes Smithfield hams different from other hams (they’re saltier, drier, smokier and older), and then to Kitty Hawk, to spend the night with a flock of black swans beside a small lagoon behind - are you ready? – a Walmart! There were also, of course, the usual Canada geese (Canada’s major export to the U.S.) and a duck that according to the book shouldn’t be anywhere near here, but is listed as ‘rarely seen as a straggler’. We were going to go south to Okracoke and ferry across to the mainland, but an intervening ferry, from Hatteras to Ocracoke, was wiped out by the hurricane (we’ve seen trees down all the way along our trip from Halifax to Kitty Hawk) so we had to cross over earlier, at Roanoak Island, which is, as you all know, the location of the firft English Colony in North America, founded by Walter Raleigh in 1585. The colony disappeared shortly thereafter, and they’re still wondering about it. But we drove down the outer banks as far as Rodanthe, which is Atlantic City south. Given that they lose great chunks of the islands with every hurricane, I can’t see why they continue to build fancy beach houses there. 

Then down the coast of North Carolina, out to Atlantic Beach on Bogue Island, through Camp Lejeune Marine Base (“SIR!!! What is your destination, SIR??!!!”

“Um, Wilmington.”

“Thank you, SIR. Carry on, SIR. Watch out for tanks, SIR!!!” 

Then in the dying light to Carolina Beach State Park, which was closed. (“We all’re tryin to clean up from the hurricane, Suh. Sorry ‘bout thet.” So we popped the top in the municipal old-equipment-and-hurricane-clean-up yard, and next morning down the island to Ft. Fisher, took the ferry to Southport, then through The Strand (20 miles of tourist schlock, including mini golf on every block, I swear, all wit themes: Capt’n Hook Mini Golf, Treasure Hunter Mini Golf, Pharoe’s Mini Golf, well, you get the idea) to Brookgreen Gardens, a rice plantation converted into an estate by Anna Hyatt Huntington, the noted American sculptress, and her husband, who was not as good a poet as she was a sculptress. An amazing place. Stopped for the night at a state park on the Intracoastal waterway. Then to Charleston, which is as nice as its reputation. They have a law that says that no building more than 75 years old can be torn down. How’s that for thinking ahead? Spent the night in a Spanish-American Episcopal churchyard on an island just south of Charlestown. 

And then to Parris Island, the home of the Crotch, the best recruitment slogan in the world (“The Marines are looking for a few good men”), and a great museum, and young men and women marching and doing push-ups in the heat. Then to Savannah, seafood lunch, wander through the town, drive past great houses on streets with live oaks hung with Spanish Moss meeting overhead (trees, not moss), and onto I 95, the first freeway since Nova Scotia. One can see why people take the freeway: cold Coke in the holder, air conditioning on, auto-pilot set for 75, and awaaaay we go. 

Turned off onto Georgia State highway 252 thirty miles before our destination, to be greeted with signs advertising the great rural Georgia trinity: “Fresh bait, Ammo, Cold beer.” And small animals replaced truck treads as roadside scenery. 

Into Folkstone, to buy gas at $1.35 per gallon (call it $.44 Cdn. per litre), groceries, and Chilean Merlot at $4.95 for 1.5 litres, say $3.00 Cdn per bottle. Then seven miles south to the Okefenokee Swamp, where the campground that was supposed to be open all year was closed. So we turned into the Okefenokee Wildlife Reserve road, turned into the second road (when they made the reserve they had to grandfather all the private homes, so there are roads every mile or so with a few houses on them), turned onto a track going into the reserve, and pulled off into the first clearing. And here we are, with Mary swatting the bugs that got in while we set up. It’s 6:45, totally black out, 27 degrees, and Mary is lying on the back seat staring at the roof. 

“What are you thinking?” I ask. 

“Nothing much,” she says. “Well, actually I was thinking that this is not a nice climate. When does it ever cool off?”  And so to crib. 

And next day we got the top down and everything packed just as it started to pour. Went on into the swamp, down the road that takes one to the various sights (no-one else around) and there, in a large ditch beside the road, was a log with two little bumps on top, and just like in the movies it became a real, live, alligator. The moment we stopped he came over to the bank and looked hopeful. I didn’t want to open the fridge (it was already 21 degrees at 8:00 AM) so I tossed him a couple pieces of bread, which he wolfed down with a mouth about three feet long. 

Then on down A1A through St. Amelie Island and more endless strips of beach houses, across on a little ferry to another island, and so to St. Augustine, which claims to be the nation’s oldest city, and housing the nation’s oldest everything, including the oldest wooden schoolhouse, the oldest church, the oldest house, the oldest everything. Into a motel, and the rain has stopped, so we’re going to look at the town and go swimming, and then dinner. We’ll be the only people in the pool – it’s only 20 degrees, and everyone but us is wearing coats and gloves.

 PART SEVEN 

Up for a run in St. Augustine, the morning of the 20th, to Mose State Historic Site, the site of the first free black settlement in North America (up to 1814 Florida belonged to Spain, so run-away slaves in the 1700’s who reached there were given sanctuary in return for military service and Catholicism). Then for a swim, to the bemusement of the motel staff. Unheated pool, but about 20 degrees. Then by backroads to Waculla Springs, the largest spring in the world, half a million gallons a minute, and an interesting boat trip through the river formed by the springs. Alligators all over the place. On the way we bought some boiled peanuts so Mary could see what they are, having seen signs on every second gas station since North Carolina. Well, they’re peanuts in the shell boiled in swamp water, spooned from a crock pot into a Styrofoam cup and eaten by sucking them out of the shell. $1.49 a cup.  I wish I’d just asked. 

Late in the afternoon we stopped at our best site yet, a small mom and pop motel sold to developers and awaiting the wreckers, right on 20 km of white sand. We parked on what had been the lawn next to what had been the Tiki Bar, sat on the beach patio and read in the dying sunlight, had jambalaya, which comes frozen as a package but all the ingredients are separate – a New Orleans dish, bought in South Carolina, eaten in Florida, and packaged in – California. And I went for a solo run and swim next morning. Not a soul on all that sand, or in the 20+degree water. 

And then our second puncture, which I noticed as a soft front tire when we stopped for gas, and when I looked at the tire, there was a screw stuck in it (Phillips head, what else?) but right next to the gas station was a tire place that repaired it in 15 minutes, and away we went by the ‘scenic’ route along miles of ugly beachfront development to Pensacola, and the Naval Air museum of the United States. If you have any interest in airplanes, you’ve gotta see this. It’s spectacular for a number of reasons: first, anytime anyone anywhere designed an airplane the navy got hold of one for ‘evaluation’. Secondly, anything they got hold of they kept. Thirdly, they have a huge budget, partly because Bush senior was a naval flyer and they have a shrine to him, including his first plane. Because they have $$$$, they have a building big enough for about 100 planes, including the first plane to fly the Atlantic, not a replica, but the actual Curtis itself, all 100’ wingspan of it. And a real Zero (captured at an airstrip on a Pacific Island), and a real Mig 15 (captured in Korea), and, and, and. Fourthly, they can work Navy into anything. One of the first astronauts was in the navy, so they have an excuse to have all sorts of space stuff, including the real, actual, Gemini capsule in which the first moon walkers returned. And finally, every half hour or so a plane the size of a Dash 8, with a pair of engines designed for a 727, does a very low, very fast, VERY VERY LOUD flypast, just to remind everyone that it’s not all show. 

And then to lunch at Sam’s, THE seafood place in Pensacola, where a dozen shrimp are $8.50 and a litre of wine is less. Never occurred to me that when the menu said, ‘Carafe of wine $7.50’ it mean a litre. ‘Sorry, Sir, you can’t have a doggie bottle for the wine you don’t drink.” 

Fortunately, we replaced the travel cups we left at the Gottliebs’, so we were able to pour the wine into one and take it with us, to Gulf State Park, where we spent the night. Not as nice as the night before, and $20 more. But the next morning I get up and go for a run, and realize the benefits of such a place as this. Suddenly, overnight, I am young, or at least so I feel. This place is full of old people, really old, sixty-five, seventy, old. They live here in big motor homes and large trailers with names like Prowler and Freedom and Landcruiser. The motor homes and trailers have huge awnings, which extend over tables with tablecloths; and they have screened dining rooms, and if they have a motor home they also have a toad. In front of these motels on wheels are carved wooden signs, saying things such as ‘Joe and Flo, Warm Udder, Ohio’ and ‘The Hungerdungers, Icy Breath, Minn.’ And the last name I am seeing on my run is The Runyans, which is why I am writing this way. It’ll wear off. 

To Mobile, Alabama, next day, where I finally found a battleship worth visiting: they all look about the same, but most have various parts that you can’t see. Not the Alabama. Every bit was open, including the engine room and, remarkably, they cut a door into one of the barbettes, the part of a gun turret below the deck. The below-deck gun crews reached their battle stations through a hatch at the very bottom of the ship, so that there were no apertures in the barbettes’ armour. Naturally, this means that visitors can’t see the inside of a barbette. But on the Alabama one can walk around inside, and view the hoisting mechanism for the powder bags and shells. And the engine room – eight enormous boilers, with enough dials, wheels and levers to run a railroad. They also have lots of planes, including a B52, and a submarine. Then a tour through the town, which has some wonderful houses built between 1900 and 1930; another great lunch, and to Shephard State Park, Mississippi, where the camp host has strings of lights over all the bushes at his site. 

To New Orleans, where we found the only parking spot in town not taken at 10 AM Sunday, just off Bourbon Street where they were cleaning up the thousands of paper cups left by revelers the night before (every bar in the French Quarter, and there are hundreds, advertises ‘cocktails to go’) and received a souvenir ticket as it was a construction zone, but they weren’t working so where’s the harm? and walked through the entire French Quarter, listened to great zydeco for the price of a couple of beers, had a great lunch with Dixieland jazz, listened to more street musicians play blues and Dixie, and then to the closest camping site – you guessed it, Walmart! Where we parked beside a grassy, treed area at one end of the lot and sat out beside the van until about 10, in 27o weather. Rained during the night, and when we awoke it was 7o – a 20o drop in one night. Which made touring three of the remarkable cemeteries rather cold, but we did it. And drove through a district of very interesting houses – imagine houses from Rockland or Shaunessy on 15 metre lots. 

Then southwest to Avery Island, the home of Tabasco sauce, and further on to the culinary find of the trip. We wanted real Cajun food for lunch and were looking for a restaurant, but apart from truck stops and chains, no luck. Until we happened to see, on a backroad five miles outside of Kaplan (where we searched for a place in vain), Suire’s (rhymes with beers) Country Grocery and Cajun Cooking. In we went, to be greeted by the lady at the counter with “Hi. Y’all read about us in the New York Times?” 

“Uh, no.” 

“Gourmet magazine?” 

“Uh, no. We just saw your sign.” 

And while we were waiting for lunch to be prepared we read all the reviews, in newspapers and magazines, about this tiny 25 seat restaurant, which is apparently the epitome of Cajun cooking. And I must say that my alligator po’boy was the best I’ve ever had, and Mary’s crawfish pistolette was beyond words. Bottle of beer each (“Raht thar in the cooler, hep yosellllf,” and the total bill was $12. And then to our night stop behind a defunct school just east of Cameron, the seat of Cameron Parish. The only thing they have more of in the south than Cameron is Jackson, because of Andrew and Stonewall. It was 8o, and we put the furnace on, which shows how soft we’ve become. And there, in keeping with my experience of places called Cameron (I got a speeding ticket in Cameron County, Wisconsin) we were asked to move on for the first time in the trip. 

9 PM, crib for the night over (I won two games, one with a skunk) a spotlight lit up the inside of the van as brightly as Alex’s face when she gets a joke. I could do a five minute conversation, complete with accent, but I won’t. The gist of it was that the school board is afraid vandals will break into the school, so the local constabulary kkeps a close watch, and we’d have to move. But we could spend the night in a local park, even though there’s no camping there. So he guided us to the park (good thing, too) and we had a good night, to be awakened by the locals launching their boats at the ramp, and tossing empty Coke cans onto the ramp as they pulled away. (Lots of people here drink Coke at breakfast, and recycling is something you do when you get back on your bike after a rest.) 

Then to Sabine Wildlife Refuge, where we saw various birds and another alligator, sunning himself on the bank. I got a picture from about three feet away. 

Then to the Stark Museum of Art in Orange, Texas. Never heard of it? Well, the family came to the very south-east corner of the state after they had helped cut down all the trees in Pennsylvania, and proceeded to cut down all the trees in East Texas, making a fortune in the process ) and causing all those US lumbermen to complain about Canada’s softwood lumber flooding their market: they no longer have any trees worth cutting. Logging trucks here are full of toothpicks, and crooked ones at that. Anyway, one of the offspring got interested in art, and amassed one of the largest (and best) collections of western art (art about the American west) in existence. Remington, Dunton, Russell, Wyeth, and more Paul Kane works than the Nation Gallery of Canada. And the only five volume Audubon ‘Double Elephant’ folio of The Birds of America in the world (it was Audubon’s personal set, and was the reason I’d heard of this museum: the folio is a legend among book collectors and might be the most valuable printed work in the world.

And to our night spot at the State Railroad Park in Rusk, where I was disappointed to learn that the last train of the year ran last Saturday, and the next one is in March. (They run a 1910 steam loco 25 miles to the next town and back twice a day.)

And finally to Dallas, to the home of Mary’s brother Jim, where I am sending this and it’s 250 and I’m about to get on with the marking.

Sending this at 9:00 PM local time, Friday Nov 28. Had a great visit with Mary’s brother and his wife, had a Thanksgiving dinner that couldn’t be beat at Dallas’s restaurant (well, actually their home, but I couldn’t resist), fixed an annoying ‘squeek’ in the van steering, and caught up with my course. And tomorrow morning off to Austin, San Antonio, and Westward Ho! Two weeks to go……..

PART 8 

Our heroes left Dallas at 8:30 Saturday, November 29th, and drove south through Johnson, the home of America’s most quotable president, Ben and Yogi never having run, and on to San Antonio, which is a pretty nice place, albeit with a downtown street plan laid out by a large committee consisting of cattle. I figure they just paved the cowpaths and called them streets. The River Walk is indeed lovely and cool on a warm day, and THE ALAMO (bare yoah haid and hold yoah hand ovuh yoah heart when yo heah them noble wuds, podnuh) is, if not awe inspiring, then certainly interesting. The most interesting part, to me, is the fact that the structure you see pictures of was almost inconsequential in the actual siege, and most of the fighting was done at the walls of the fort, which was about six acres in area, or about 150 metres on each side. The fact that 200 men held it for a considerable length of time before being overwhelmed by about 2,500 men leads me to believe that either Santa Anna was a terrible general, or his men weren’t very motivated.

We spent the night there and left next day about noon, and had one of the great lunches of the trip about 100 km. west in Hondo, at Billy Bob’s Backyard Bar B Que. My chopped brisket was great, but Mary’s barbequed hog was beyond words. Sandwich, huge lemonade, potato salad, $3.79. And gas at $1.30. Boy howdy. It don’t git no better than that. Camped that night just west of Del Rio, at Seminole Canyon Historic Park, and saw about as many stars as I can remember seeing at once. 

Monday morning, up bright and early and drove to Big Bend National Park, on the Rio Grande, complete with classic desert flora and fauna, including large numbers of New World Terrestrial Cuckoos. The cartoon is quite accurate, but I didn’t get a chance to hear them to see if they actually say “Meep meep.” The park was pretty interesting, but not as interesting as the road from the park along the Rio Grande to Praesidio. Take the twistiest, most up and down road you’ve ever seen. Every 500 metres, run an arroyo across it, so that when you come to the crest of a drop you don’t know whether it’s a normal swale or a 15% grade into an arroyo and then up the other side, so if you are doing more than about 40 kph you will bottom out. Now have it run through incredible striations of sedimentary rock, with numerous incline faults and uplifts, for 100 km, and you’ve got the road from Big Bend to Praesidio. Where we had Mexican food for lunch, again great, and then north to Davis Mountains State Park for the night, in a campground with 60 sites, three tents and our van, and a herd of mule deer looking for handouts. 

Up next morning and off via I 10 and then back roads through El Paso to lunch (more Mexican food) in Mesilla, where William Bonny (aka Billy the Kid) was tried in the local courthouse circa 1880 before being shipped off to Lincoln, where he escaped and carried on his personal grudge against the world, or at least the southwest. Having gotten very little further west during the day, we pressed on to the New Mexico border and spent the night in a rest stop, which is one of the best things about New Mexico. Their rest stops are really nice, and you are welcome to stay the night, as long as you leave within 24 hours. 

Through the very south of Aridzona, Douglas and the Gadsden Hotel, which has the fanciest lobby I’ve ever seen anywhere, to Bisbee, sort of a miniature Nelson caught in a 1970 time-warp: a 1900 town full of 1970 hippies, both original and next generation. Then through the U.S. Army Intelligence field testing grounds and the incredible sprawl that houses the workers (who are obviously well paid), past the huge parking lots for surplus military plans (bombers and transports on one side of the highway, fighters on the other) to Tucson, and a night in Saguaro National Park and a visit to the fanciest monastery in the US, and then along old US 80 to lunch in a tiny place called Tacna, at the Basque Etchea, a restaurant run by and for Basques, of whom there are many in the area. We were the only people in the dining room, but there were quite a few in the bar, and when several tried to leave by the only door there was quite a pile-up, proving once again that you shouldn’t put all your Basques in one exit. 

We spent the night at Squaw Lake State Park, in politically incorrect California. Squaw Lake presented what Mary and I agreed was the oddest sight of the whole trip. Squaw Lake is man made, and is part of the Columbia River. The camping site is by the lake, and is a large parking lot with a sandy beach and toilets, at a reasonable cost. But it’s part of the Squaw Lake Recreation Site, and once you are through the Yuma Proving Ground there are what I guess were gravel pits all over the place. And every one is full of great big RV’s. Nothing to look at but gravel and other RV’s, and, of course, the sun. If any of those people had gone to a fortune teller 40 years back and been told they were going to end up living in a gravel pit they’d have asked for a refund. But there is no cost to park there, so there they are. 

Through the Imperial Valley next morning to Yuma, a nice enough place but nothing special except for the weather, and then west on I 8, until we got off as soon as possible to follow the road along the border. Another twisty, winding road through tiny places, and we turned a corner and there was a sign welcoming us to – Cameron’s Corners. I was laughing so hard I was afraid to drive (I keep telling Mary that we’re everywhere) so we got a couple of cones at the Cameron’s Corners Ice Cremeria and pressed on to Tecate, where we walked across the border and had one of the local beers, and then to San Diego where I am writing this. High today, in Tecate, was 25, but it’s only 20 here. The third corner of the trip, and the shortest leg to come. Today is the 5th, and we’ll be home on the 15th. Or maybe sooner. Start cleaning, Alex. 

See you all soon.

PART NINE 

Well, I didn’t mention it, but Mary and I were most unwell in San Diego, to the point that we got to town at 2:30, found a motel and were in bed by 3:30. More or less got up at 11 next day and checked out, without spending any time in San Diego at all. Pity. Great city, especially Balboa Park, the home of some wonderful museums. Well, up 110 and over to Route 1 at San Juan Capistrano, to drive through the endlessly forgettable coastal burbs of LA, except for Venice, where we stopped. Hasn’t changed a bit since I sailed there in 1971. Funky little houses and small apartments, and the same characters on the wide sidewalk on the beach busking, telling fortunes, reading palms, phrenning (or whatever phrenologists do) and seeing and being seen. Spent the night at Leo Carrillo State Park north of Malibu, and then went up Decker Canyon Road and over Mulholland Drive, the most hair-raising road I know, outside of Going to The Heart Attack Road in Glacier (see Part 1), over the Santa Barbara mountains to visit the rose gardens at the Wrigley mansion in Pasadena, now yclept Tournament House, as it’s the headquarters of the Tournament of Roses, AKA the Rose Bowl. We had to curtail our visit, as they were having the annual luncheon for the past presidents, and I was afraid our faithful steed would seem out of place next to all the Beemers and Mercedes and Porches, oh my. Then a tour through the Gamble House, probably the most famous Arts and Crafts home in the U.S. and maybe the world. What you can do with an unlimited budget and all the Burmese teak in the world. 

Then to Santa Barbara, another early motel and bed, and a walk on the pier in the morning, a lovely day, and to San Simeon and Hurst Castle and another great tour, with an IMAX film to boot. Started north into Big Sur, intending to stop at a state park, but dark started coming so we pulled off at one of the thousands of pull-outs for the night. Had one of my disappointments of the trip. Told Mary to watch for the ‘green flash’ as the sun set, explained it to her, told her I didn’t really believe in it as I’ve never seen it in many many tries, and damned if she didn’t see it. “Not really a flash,” she said matter-of-factly, “The sun just turns green for a second.” Bah.

On through one of the nicest drives I know to Carmel, bigger but still as ‘quaint’ as ever, and to Santa Cruz, which, unlike Venice, had changed out of all recognition since I was last there a third of a century ago, and not for the better. Then through San Francisco very rapidly (thanks to Mary) to a memorable night at Bodega Bay, at the state park on the spit, and lightning and thunder and wind and rain and wind and wind and …..wow. Inland through the Russian River and Anderson Valleys, and wine tasting the way it used to be in Napa when I was there 30 years ago. And along the tortuous route (60 minutes to go 22 miles) from Ft. Bragg to Garberville, where we are in the eponymous motel, partly because it’s cheap and funky, but mostly so I could use that word.  And you ought to hear the thunder. The Gods are bowling ten pins tonight. 

Get cleaning, Alex.

And then we were home.

Home page