We took a few weeks vacation from blogging. Had Thanksgiving dinner at the home of a high school classmate, and Christmas dinner at an RV park potluck. We're in Texas now, and will resume blogging shortly.
Best wishes for the new year,
Jim & Menominee
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Monday, November 26, 2007
California — Desert
Menominee loves the desert. We went for walks in the desert and hikes among some big boulders. Menominee had never seen boulders that large before, but she sized one up, leaped onto it, and walked right up its steep surface. Later, she walked back down. (Of course, she does have the advantage of full-time four-wheel drive.) When Menominee walked around a boulder and pulled her leash taut underneath, somehow it got trapped there. I tugged and tugged, but couldn't free it. So I disconnected Menominee from the leash and left it under the boulder! It awaits anyone who wants to try to solve the puzzle of loosening it.
Menominee is a real connoisseur of sand — digging in it to test its consistency, rolling in it as often as the mood strikes her, and of course using it as a bathroom. ("World's biggest litter box.") Most sand doesn't make much noise, but I noticed a type of desert sand that makes a squnching sound as I stepped on it. If I listened closely, I could hear Menominee's paws making tiny squnching sounds as she walked across the sand!
During the week, when the campground was nearly empty, we enjoyed the silence of the desert. Far from any traffic, the only sounds were the occasional call of a bird, howl of a coyote, or the faint sound of an airplane so high you couldn't see it. One day we were surprised to hear the unmistakable sounds of someone playing a bagpipe far, far away.
The desert weather was delightful, with clear blue skies and friendly temperatures. At night the sky was very dark and the stars sparkled beautifully. One night, examining the sky with binoculars, I saw a curious object that looked more like a gray cloud than a star. When I checked on the web, I learned that it's a comet named Holmes.
We spent several days in a campground in Southern California's Joshua Tree National Park. The Joshua Tree is a tall, odd plant that is adapted to life in the desert. (Photos at right.)
Menominee is a real connoisseur of sand — digging in it to test its consistency, rolling in it as often as the mood strikes her, and of course using it as a bathroom. ("World's biggest litter box.") Most sand doesn't make much noise, but I noticed a type of desert sand that makes a squnching sound as I stepped on it. If I listened closely, I could hear Menominee's paws making tiny squnching sounds as she walked across the sand!
During the week, when the campground was nearly empty, we enjoyed the silence of the desert. Far from any traffic, the only sounds were the occasional call of a bird, howl of a coyote, or the faint sound of an airplane so high you couldn't see it. One day we were surprised to hear the unmistakable sounds of someone playing a bagpipe far, far away.
The desert weather was delightful, with clear blue skies and friendly temperatures. At night the sky was very dark and the stars sparkled beautifully. One night, examining the sky with binoculars, I saw a curious object that looked more like a gray cloud than a star. When I checked on the web, I learned that it's a comet named Holmes.
We spent several days in a campground in Southern California's Joshua Tree National Park. The Joshua Tree is a tall, odd plant that is adapted to life in the desert. (Photos at right.)
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Cruisemaster — The Window Incident
We were driving down a San Diego freeway when suddenly WHAM! glass showered down on my head. Menominee, who had been asleep above my head, jumped for her life. A window had broken — how, we'll never know, although we didn't find a brick with a message attached. The wind whistling in continued to blow glass down on me.
We turned off at the next exit and examined the situation. The window was at the front of the RV, directly over the cab, and fortunately, it was safety glass, so the pieces were like pebbles, with no big knife-like pieces.
Our RV directory listed an RV repair shop about ten miles away, so we drove there slowly on surface streets. The owner took one look and said "Sorry, we can't help you. Tempered safety glass is impossible to get." Then he quietly recommended a plastics store a few miles away. Turned out to be a good recommendation — they were familiar with RV windows and had the skills to make a plastic window to fit. Unfortunately, it was 4pm on a Friday. Fortunately, they were open Saturday mornings.
I covered the window with a piece of cardboard and liberal amounts of duct tape, to keep insects out and Menominee in. We camped that night on a nearby street and the next morning we parked in front of the plastics store and got to work — digging the old glass out of the frame (work gloves and a screwdriver), removing old adhesive from the frame (razor blade), cutting a piece of cardboard to the exact size (carprt knife), and giving the cardboard to the guy at the plastics shop, who was very nice, offering suggestions and a cup of coffee. He cut the plastic, it fit perfectly, I glued it in with lots of silicone window caulk, and he charged me half the estimate. Whew! Happy ending! There are nice people in the world!
The new window has held up fine so far, but still awaits its first real test, when it rains. I'm pretty sure I used so much silicone caulk that it won't leak.
We turned off at the next exit and examined the situation. The window was at the front of the RV, directly over the cab, and fortunately, it was safety glass, so the pieces were like pebbles, with no big knife-like pieces.
Our RV directory listed an RV repair shop about ten miles away, so we drove there slowly on surface streets. The owner took one look and said "Sorry, we can't help you. Tempered safety glass is impossible to get." Then he quietly recommended a plastics store a few miles away. Turned out to be a good recommendation — they were familiar with RV windows and had the skills to make a plastic window to fit. Unfortunately, it was 4pm on a Friday. Fortunately, they were open Saturday mornings.
I covered the window with a piece of cardboard and liberal amounts of duct tape, to keep insects out and Menominee in. We camped that night on a nearby street and the next morning we parked in front of the plastics store and got to work — digging the old glass out of the frame (work gloves and a screwdriver), removing old adhesive from the frame (razor blade), cutting a piece of cardboard to the exact size (carprt knife), and giving the cardboard to the guy at the plastics shop, who was very nice, offering suggestions and a cup of coffee. He cut the plastic, it fit perfectly, I glued it in with lots of silicone window caulk, and he charged me half the estimate. Whew! Happy ending! There are nice people in the world!
The new window has held up fine so far, but still awaits its first real test, when it rains. I'm pretty sure I used so much silicone caulk that it won't leak.
Friday, November 9, 2007
San Diego — After the Fires
We relaxed up on the Central California coast while over a dozen wild fires burned down in Southern California. Days after the winds had died down, hundreds of fire fighters contained all the fires and we ventured back into San Diego county. The air was still a little hazy with smoke, a reminder of what had been.
We returned to the campground on the ocean we had evacuated from the previous week. Although there had been a warning that the fire upwind of here might be unstoppable until it reached the sea, it was five miles short when the ferocious winds died down and the firefighters contained it. The campground and seaside communities were spared.
Sunday morning we attended services at the UU church in Escondido, where one of the fires had destroyed many houses. The subject of the sermon was "Hope," which was the message the congregation needed that morning. It seemed nearly everyone there had been affected by the fire, one way or another — personally, or had neighbors who had been affected, or were active in relief work. One person I talked to felt fortunate that the fire had stopped half a mile from her house. Another said gravely that the fire had come with a quarter mile of hers.
The newspapers were full of stories about the fires. Were they prepared when the fires started? Yes, the Santa Ana winds had been predicted days in advance, which gave local and state government time to mobilize fire fighters and equipment. However, preparations were inadequate, as no one had foreseen the number or ferocity of fires. Only five water-bomber planes were ready to take off when the fires started, far too few to make a difference. A day later, other planes and crews, sitting on the runway ready to fly, couldn't take off because of bureaucratic red tape.
The winds fanned the flames so quickly that the fires overwhelmed all efforts to fight them, in the air and on the ground. Fire fighters were reduced to trying to save one house at a time, and then, after success or failure, moving on down the block.
And yet more people want very much to live here, and many new houses are built every year, in this area threated by persistent drought, horrendous fires and, of course, world-class earthquakes.
We returned to the campground on the ocean we had evacuated from the previous week. Although there had been a warning that the fire upwind of here might be unstoppable until it reached the sea, it was five miles short when the ferocious winds died down and the firefighters contained it. The campground and seaside communities were spared.
Sunday morning we attended services at the UU church in Escondido, where one of the fires had destroyed many houses. The subject of the sermon was "Hope," which was the message the congregation needed that morning. It seemed nearly everyone there had been affected by the fire, one way or another — personally, or had neighbors who had been affected, or were active in relief work. One person I talked to felt fortunate that the fire had stopped half a mile from her house. Another said gravely that the fire had come with a quarter mile of hers.
The newspapers were full of stories about the fires. Were they prepared when the fires started? Yes, the Santa Ana winds had been predicted days in advance, which gave local and state government time to mobilize fire fighters and equipment. However, preparations were inadequate, as no one had foreseen the number or ferocity of fires. Only five water-bomber planes were ready to take off when the fires started, far too few to make a difference. A day later, other planes and crews, sitting on the runway ready to fly, couldn't take off because of bureaucratic red tape.
The winds fanned the flames so quickly that the fires overwhelmed all efforts to fight them, in the air and on the ground. Fire fighters were reduced to trying to save one house at a time, and then, after success or failure, moving on down the block.
And yet more people want very much to live here, and many new houses are built every year, in this area threated by persistent drought, horrendous fires and, of course, world-class earthquakes.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
California — San Diego and the Fires
The deserts were becoming uncomfortably hot, and in accordance with out trip policy — go where the weather is likely to be nice — we headed for the ocean. We spent the night in a state park campground right on the beach north of San Diego. Next day was Sunday and I visited the UU fellowship I'd belonged to, back when I lived in this area. It had changed — new buildings built, old buildings remodeled, new minister, new faces. I chatted with the few people I could find who remembered me from back then.
The weather was gorgeous, bright and sunny with winds from the east. But by late afternoon we noticed smoke blowing in the air, and a phone call from a friend prompted us to listen to the news on the radio. Two wildfires had broken out and were growing, but they were so far away (dozens of miles to the east) that I wasn't worried and went to bed.
By next morning, the situation was very different. The air was thick with smoke, nearly blotting out the sun. Now the news said that new fires were burning, one of them just miles from us, and the strong easterly winds were blowing it in our direction! Yikes! Surely, though, we would be safe at the beach? Maybe not — the news said that the fire might be unstoppable until it reached the ocean. Then came the order to evacuate. We wasted no time in packing up and leaving. The campground, full the night before, was quickly emptying. We got on the road and headed north, away from the fires. We were fortunate that the freeway, Interstate 5, was moving smoothly, and by afternoon we were far from San Diego county and all the fires burning there.
We spent the night at a state park campground in Huntington Beach, in the Los Angeles area. We spoke with others in the campground and it turned out that they, too, were refugees from the San Diego area. That location worked fine for a day, but then the air became smoky again, this time from new fires in Orange and LA counties (more than a dozen altogether). We weren't afraid of the fires, but we didn't want to breathe smoky air — very bad for the lungs — so once again we traveled north, stopping for the night north of Santa Barbara and moving the next day to the coast at Pismo Beach.
Fires like these are no stranger to Southern California. Vegetation is dry and very flammable, even more so because of the extended drought here in the west. The hot, dry winds — locals call them Santa Ana — blow from the east with gusts to 60 mph, fanning the fire and blowing it forward faster than fire fighters can stop it.
I'm reminded that decades ago, Minnesota suffered similar wildfires — for example, the Hinkley fire if 1894. Circumstances were similar: Prolonged drought making vegetation very dry and flammable, and strong, strong dry winds fanning the fire to burn hot and spread rapidly.
It is a humbling experience to flee the fury of nature, when, as Garrison Keillor has said, "Nature is making a serious attempt to kill you."
The weather was gorgeous, bright and sunny with winds from the east. But by late afternoon we noticed smoke blowing in the air, and a phone call from a friend prompted us to listen to the news on the radio. Two wildfires had broken out and were growing, but they were so far away (dozens of miles to the east) that I wasn't worried and went to bed.
By next morning, the situation was very different. The air was thick with smoke, nearly blotting out the sun. Now the news said that new fires were burning, one of them just miles from us, and the strong easterly winds were blowing it in our direction! Yikes! Surely, though, we would be safe at the beach? Maybe not — the news said that the fire might be unstoppable until it reached the ocean. Then came the order to evacuate. We wasted no time in packing up and leaving. The campground, full the night before, was quickly emptying. We got on the road and headed north, away from the fires. We were fortunate that the freeway, Interstate 5, was moving smoothly, and by afternoon we were far from San Diego county and all the fires burning there.
We spent the night at a state park campground in Huntington Beach, in the Los Angeles area. We spoke with others in the campground and it turned out that they, too, were refugees from the San Diego area. That location worked fine for a day, but then the air became smoky again, this time from new fires in Orange and LA counties (more than a dozen altogether). We weren't afraid of the fires, but we didn't want to breathe smoky air — very bad for the lungs — so once again we traveled north, stopping for the night north of Santa Barbara and moving the next day to the coast at Pismo Beach.
Fires like these are no stranger to Southern California. Vegetation is dry and very flammable, even more so because of the extended drought here in the west. The hot, dry winds — locals call them Santa Ana — blow from the east with gusts to 60 mph, fanning the fire and blowing it forward faster than fire fighters can stop it.
I'm reminded that decades ago, Minnesota suffered similar wildfires — for example, the Hinkley fire if 1894. Circumstances were similar: Prolonged drought making vegetation very dry and flammable, and strong, strong dry winds fanning the fire to burn hot and spread rapidly.
It is a humbling experience to flee the fury of nature, when, as Garrison Keillor has said, "Nature is making a serious attempt to kill you."
Monday, October 22, 2007
California — LA and the Desert
Heading south, we bumped into Los Angeles and our one encounter with it was a disaster. They closed Interstate 5, the freeway we needed to get to LA, for several days! When we laboriously navigatged the detours, an LA motorcycle officer gave us a ticket for turning left! Disgusted, we withdrew from LA and never returned.
North of LA the land is desolate mountains and desert, stretching to the Nevada border and beyond. We poked around and explored some interesting back roads north of Ojai, then headed for Lancaster Victorville, and Barstow. The weather was gorgeous — blue skies, highs in the seventies — and the desert landscape was gorgeous too — in its own way, of course. (See Driver's View photo at the bottom of this page.)
Actually, most of California is desert. Oh, the northern coasts get rain, and the mountains get snow, but everything else receives surprisingly little precipitation. The great central valley that stretches for hundreds of miles up the middle of the state, Sacramento, Los Angeles, San Diego. All technically deserts, by amount of rain received. Irrigation has made California what it is today. Without irrigation, there would be no California fruit or vegetables, no LA, Hollywood or San Diego. Rent Jack Nicholson's great movie "Chinatown" (in which he wears a band-aid across the bridge of his nose) for an exciting story about California water.
North of LA the land is desolate mountains and desert, stretching to the Nevada border and beyond. We poked around and explored some interesting back roads north of Ojai, then headed for Lancaster Victorville, and Barstow. The weather was gorgeous — blue skies, highs in the seventies — and the desert landscape was gorgeous too — in its own way, of course. (See Driver's View photo at the bottom of this page.)
Actually, most of California is desert. Oh, the northern coasts get rain, and the mountains get snow, but everything else receives surprisingly little precipitation. The great central valley that stretches for hundreds of miles up the middle of the state, Sacramento, Los Angeles, San Diego. All technically deserts, by amount of rain received. Irrigation has made California what it is today. Without irrigation, there would be no California fruit or vegetables, no LA, Hollywood or San Diego. Rent Jack Nicholson's great movie "Chinatown" (in which he wears a band-aid across the bridge of his nose) for an exciting story about California water.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
California — Down the Coast to Big Sur
Next night we were back on the Pacific Ocean in Bodega Bay, staying in Doran Beach State Park (Recommended), located right on the bay, complete with flashing lighthouse and hooting fog horn. Menominee loved the sandy campsite — rolling in sand, digging in it, peeing in it — and we took long walks exploring the dunes.
Then it was southward on Highway 1 to Point Reyes National Seashore. Although it's close to San Francisco, the park is surprisingly rural and rustic. The road, I swear, hasn't seen new asphalt since the Truman administration, but drive over the hills to the west side and the Pacific Ocean lies spread before you, stretching into the mist at the horizon. A cold wind blew in off the ocean, pushing fog over the road and up the hills, so we didn't stay to sunbathe.
We spent two nights in a state park campground over on the sunny side of the the hills. The park is only about a mile from the San Andreas Fault, infamous for its ferocious earthquakes, but we felt nary a tremor.
Then it was time for the big push. We pumped lots of gas into Cruisemaster and headed over the hills and down the highway toward San Francisco. We crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, slithered through the western outskirts of San Fran, and rejoined the coast on Highway 1, which continues to hug the ocean down past Monterey and Santa Cruz.
South of that lies Big Sur, about 90 miles of desolate coastline reached by a very curvy two-lane road carved into a steep mountainside. If you dare take your eyes off the road, you can see spectacular views of the waves hitting the rocky shore hundreds of feet below. You also cross the historic Bixby Bridge, which was built of concrete in 1932 and — despite all the earthquakes since then — still safely carries traffic. (Compare that with a certain steel bridge built in the 1960s which recently fell into the Mississippi.)
The big tourist attraction along the Big Sur coast is the Hearst Castle at San Simeon (Recommended), built by newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst (the Rupert Murdoch of the U.S.). He used his enormous wealth to buy European antiquities — from trapestries and paintings to whole fire places — ship them to San Simeon, and build a castle around them. Julia Morgan was the architect, civil engineer, interior decorator, and landscape designer who turned Hearst's dreams into reality. The project evolved over decades, as Hearst was always coming up with new ideas. His wife lived on the East Coast; he and his mistress, beautiful starlet Marian Davies, hosted lavish parties for Hollywood celebrities at the castle.
From this opulent cathedral to wealth we retired in our RV to a state park campground ($18 for the night).
Then it was southward on Highway 1 to Point Reyes National Seashore. Although it's close to San Francisco, the park is surprisingly rural and rustic. The road, I swear, hasn't seen new asphalt since the Truman administration, but drive over the hills to the west side and the Pacific Ocean lies spread before you, stretching into the mist at the horizon. A cold wind blew in off the ocean, pushing fog over the road and up the hills, so we didn't stay to sunbathe.
We spent two nights in a state park campground over on the sunny side of the the hills. The park is only about a mile from the San Andreas Fault, infamous for its ferocious earthquakes, but we felt nary a tremor.
Then it was time for the big push. We pumped lots of gas into Cruisemaster and headed over the hills and down the highway toward San Francisco. We crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, slithered through the western outskirts of San Fran, and rejoined the coast on Highway 1, which continues to hug the ocean down past Monterey and Santa Cruz.
South of that lies Big Sur, about 90 miles of desolate coastline reached by a very curvy two-lane road carved into a steep mountainside. If you dare take your eyes off the road, you can see spectacular views of the waves hitting the rocky shore hundreds of feet below. You also cross the historic Bixby Bridge, which was built of concrete in 1932 and — despite all the earthquakes since then — still safely carries traffic. (Compare that with a certain steel bridge built in the 1960s which recently fell into the Mississippi.)
The big tourist attraction along the Big Sur coast is the Hearst Castle at San Simeon (Recommended), built by newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst (the Rupert Murdoch of the U.S.). He used his enormous wealth to buy European antiquities — from trapestries and paintings to whole fire places — ship them to San Simeon, and build a castle around them. Julia Morgan was the architect, civil engineer, interior decorator, and landscape designer who turned Hearst's dreams into reality. The project evolved over decades, as Hearst was always coming up with new ideas. His wife lived on the East Coast; he and his mistress, beautiful starlet Marian Davies, hosted lavish parties for Hollywood celebrities at the castle.
From this opulent cathedral to wealth we retired in our RV to a state park campground ($18 for the night).
Friday, October 5, 2007
California — Sacramento
Driving across Sonoma and Napa valleys, we passed field after field filled with carefully arranged grape vines growing in impossibly dry dirt. The sun was bright and the air was hot and dry as we made our way to Sacramento, the state capital.
Sacramento is a lively, growing city with clean streets and sidewalks, winter weather that seldom dips below freezing, and hot summers (over 100°, but it's a dry heat). Sacramento is also a city of big trees, which are beautiful but kept blocking the satellite signals our GPS needed to direct us. It became confused, uttering such complete nonsense that we turned it off and navigatged by the seat of our pants. After a bit of driving around, we found Mary H. and Brian at their cheerful duplex apartment. We sat in the shade sipping cold drinks while Menominee explored the back yard.
Next day, Mary and I went to see the State Railroad Museum (Recommended). It's in a beautiful building displaying about a dozen shiny, fully restored engines and cars, which we wandered around at our leisure, reminiscing over train-related events from our childhoods, talking with the volunteer interpreters, and catching the last half of a narrated tour. We walked through a Pullman car (the kind with upper and lower berths that you see in old black-and-white movies), sat in the cab of a million-pound steam locomotive, and viewed the solid gold spike that's a duplicate of the one driven to complete the transcontinental railroad.
One evening we went to a delightful restaurant called the Tower (Recommended), which served delicious food (I had Korean BBQ ribs) outdoors under trees in the warm air. We sat and ate and talked and it felt like we were in paradise. California is like that.
Napa
Leaving Sacramento, we stayed overnight in the town of Napa and Sunday morning I found the UU fellowship there. The minister welcomed me at the door and after the service several members of the congregation chatted with me and invited me to their potluck picnic in a park. Well! How could I resist? I stopped at a grocery for chips and salsa and had a great time with the very happy and friendly people at the picnic.
Sacramento is a lively, growing city with clean streets and sidewalks, winter weather that seldom dips below freezing, and hot summers (over 100°, but it's a dry heat). Sacramento is also a city of big trees, which are beautiful but kept blocking the satellite signals our GPS needed to direct us. It became confused, uttering such complete nonsense that we turned it off and navigatged by the seat of our pants. After a bit of driving around, we found Mary H. and Brian at their cheerful duplex apartment. We sat in the shade sipping cold drinks while Menominee explored the back yard.
Next day, Mary and I went to see the State Railroad Museum (Recommended). It's in a beautiful building displaying about a dozen shiny, fully restored engines and cars, which we wandered around at our leisure, reminiscing over train-related events from our childhoods, talking with the volunteer interpreters, and catching the last half of a narrated tour. We walked through a Pullman car (the kind with upper and lower berths that you see in old black-and-white movies), sat in the cab of a million-pound steam locomotive, and viewed the solid gold spike that's a duplicate of the one driven to complete the transcontinental railroad.
One evening we went to a delightful restaurant called the Tower (Recommended), which served delicious food (I had Korean BBQ ribs) outdoors under trees in the warm air. We sat and ate and talked and it felt like we were in paradise. California is like that.
Napa
Leaving Sacramento, we stayed overnight in the town of Napa and Sunday morning I found the UU fellowship there. The minister welcomed me at the door and after the service several members of the congregation chatted with me and invited me to their potluck picnic in a park. Well! How could I resist? I stopped at a grocery for chips and salsa and had a great time with the very happy and friendly people at the picnic.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Northern California
We followed I-5 south into California and the little town with the strange name, Yreka. The origin of the name isn't reliably known — it may come from an Indian word, but another possibility emerges when you spell it backwards and add a "b." We were in the area known locally as Jefferson State, because citizens have for decades wanted to create a new state from counties in northern California and southern Oregon — rural counties that had more in common with each other than with the distant metropolitan capitals that governed them. They never succeeded, of course, but the name lives on.
By now the coastal weather forecast had improved considerably, so we headed west over formidable ranges of mountains on curvy and narrow state highway 96. We missed the turnoff for the coast and continued on and on down the highway. Eventually (the next day) we made it to the Pacific Ocean at Arcata and swung northward on U.S. highway 101 along the coast as far as Crescent City.
Although California has a huge population, the northern coast — from suburban San Francisco to the Oregon border — is sparsely populated, which suited us fine, as we enjoyed the small towns and relaxed beach and ocean atmosphere. The highway goes right through Redwood National Park and we marveled at the ancient and stately trees. We remembered that their continued existence was not assured during Ronald Reagan's term as governor of California — he wanted to open the redwood forests to commercial lumbering, famously saying "If you've seen one redwood, you've seen them all."
South of Eureka, highway 101 takes an inland route, but state highway 1 offers an alternate route that runs right along the coast, so we chose that. The road winds up and down the sides of coastal mountains, offering a new ocean view at each curve in the road. At Fort Bragg, we stopped for lunch at Sharon's Restaurant (recommended), in a charming cottage at the water's edge, and enjoyed crab cakes on oriental slaw. (Thanks to Mary H. for pointing us down Harbor Drive to a pocket of good restaurants at the dock.) The next day we were hungry when we came into tiny Elk, Calif., and stopped at the rustic and somewhat countercultural Queenie's Roadside Cafe (recommended). There I ordered homemade corned beef hash, freshly prepared to order, and pronounced it the best I'd ever eaten. Farther south in Bodega Bay, I stopped for lunch at a fish shack called the Spud Point Crab Company for a bowl of their award-winning clam chowder ($7, recommended), full of seafood that comes off the fishing boats right across the street, and, to my palate, seasoned to perfection.
By now the coastal weather forecast had improved considerably, so we headed west over formidable ranges of mountains on curvy and narrow state highway 96. We missed the turnoff for the coast and continued on and on down the highway. Eventually (the next day) we made it to the Pacific Ocean at Arcata and swung northward on U.S. highway 101 along the coast as far as Crescent City.
Although California has a huge population, the northern coast — from suburban San Francisco to the Oregon border — is sparsely populated, which suited us fine, as we enjoyed the small towns and relaxed beach and ocean atmosphere. The highway goes right through Redwood National Park and we marveled at the ancient and stately trees. We remembered that their continued existence was not assured during Ronald Reagan's term as governor of California — he wanted to open the redwood forests to commercial lumbering, famously saying "If you've seen one redwood, you've seen them all."
South of Eureka, highway 101 takes an inland route, but state highway 1 offers an alternate route that runs right along the coast, so we chose that. The road winds up and down the sides of coastal mountains, offering a new ocean view at each curve in the road. At Fort Bragg, we stopped for lunch at Sharon's Restaurant (recommended), in a charming cottage at the water's edge, and enjoyed crab cakes on oriental slaw. (Thanks to Mary H. for pointing us down Harbor Drive to a pocket of good restaurants at the dock.) The next day we were hungry when we came into tiny Elk, Calif., and stopped at the rustic and somewhat countercultural Queenie's Roadside Cafe (recommended). There I ordered homemade corned beef hash, freshly prepared to order, and pronounced it the best I'd ever eaten. Farther south in Bodega Bay, I stopped for lunch at a fish shack called the Spud Point Crab Company for a bowl of their award-winning clam chowder ($7, recommended), full of seafood that comes off the fishing boats right across the street, and, to my palate, seasoned to perfection.
Washington and Oregon
Now we are migrating with the season, headed south with the birds.
Washington
We departed Whidbey Island by loading Cruisemaster onto the ferry to Port Townsend, and when the ferry landed we continued south through Washington. The weather was uncomfortably warm in the interior of the state, so we headed west toward the coast, which turned out to be overcast and chilly. Too hot, too cold. Checking the weather forecast on the web, we foresaw clouds for the next few days all the way down the coast into Oregon and California, so we made a decision to steer, not for a particular feature or attraction, but for better weather, which we found inland, east of the coastal range of mountains.
Oregon
We skirted Portland and continued south to McMinnville, a small town with an interesting aviation museum. I spent a few happy hours there, wandering around and looking at the planes, but the major thrill was the Spruce Goose, the one and only original, beautifully restored and displayed. This was the plane conceived during WWII, when supply and troop ships were being sunk on their way to Britain. This airplane was planned to be so huge that a fleet of them could replace the ships. Metal was scarce during the war, so the plane was made of birch, cut to shape, bent, and laminated with glue. The plane was so large that it had eight propellers, each driven by a 3000 horsepower engine.
Critics doubted that such a large wooden plane would ever fly, but it did make one test flight, piloted by Howard Hughes, the man who had championed it, overseen its design and construction, and personally paid for millions in cost overruns. But by that time the war had ended, and the test plane turned out to be the only one constructed. It is to the Evergreen Aviation Museum's great credit that it obtained, restored, and displays this historic airplane.
Farther south, we passed through Corvallis and Eugene and decided to hop on I-5 in search of reliable sunshine, finally finding it in Grants Pass, Medford, and Ashland. When we stopped in Medford to inquire about a public Internet connection, the Visitors Center gravely informed us that the city library was closed due to lack of funds. We could only gasp in disbelief. The excellent public libraries in Minnesota must not be taken for granted, for if the money isn't there, a library cannot remain open, and politicians whose only priority is cutting taxes are not to be trusted when it comes to libraries or bridges.
Washington
We departed Whidbey Island by loading Cruisemaster onto the ferry to Port Townsend, and when the ferry landed we continued south through Washington. The weather was uncomfortably warm in the interior of the state, so we headed west toward the coast, which turned out to be overcast and chilly. Too hot, too cold. Checking the weather forecast on the web, we foresaw clouds for the next few days all the way down the coast into Oregon and California, so we made a decision to steer, not for a particular feature or attraction, but for better weather, which we found inland, east of the coastal range of mountains.
Oregon
We skirted Portland and continued south to McMinnville, a small town with an interesting aviation museum. I spent a few happy hours there, wandering around and looking at the planes, but the major thrill was the Spruce Goose, the one and only original, beautifully restored and displayed. This was the plane conceived during WWII, when supply and troop ships were being sunk on their way to Britain. This airplane was planned to be so huge that a fleet of them could replace the ships. Metal was scarce during the war, so the plane was made of birch, cut to shape, bent, and laminated with glue. The plane was so large that it had eight propellers, each driven by a 3000 horsepower engine.
Critics doubted that such a large wooden plane would ever fly, but it did make one test flight, piloted by Howard Hughes, the man who had championed it, overseen its design and construction, and personally paid for millions in cost overruns. But by that time the war had ended, and the test plane turned out to be the only one constructed. It is to the Evergreen Aviation Museum's great credit that it obtained, restored, and displays this historic airplane.
Farther south, we passed through Corvallis and Eugene and decided to hop on I-5 in search of reliable sunshine, finally finding it in Grants Pass, Medford, and Ashland. When we stopped in Medford to inquire about a public Internet connection, the Visitors Center gravely informed us that the city library was closed due to lack of funds. We could only gasp in disbelief. The excellent public libraries in Minnesota must not be taken for granted, for if the money isn't there, a library cannot remain open, and politicians whose only priority is cutting taxes are not to be trusted when it comes to libraries or bridges.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Washington — Whidbey Island
The ferry from Vancouver Island navigated through fog and mist to deposit us in Washington state. All we had to do was show our U.S. passport twice, answer questions about where we'd been and how long, what we were carrying, and open our fridge for inspection, to a border officer wearing a black uniform, black boots, and black gloves.
We drove down Whidbey Island to visit an old Minneapolis friend, Ann G., who now lives in Coupeville, a tiny gem of a place. The village is cute, located on a hillside, with shops, restaurants, and a mussel farm down in the water at the cove. The local cuisine is seafood, including just-caught mussels, clams, and salmon. We had outstanding dinners at Christopher's (recommended) — I had the seafood stew, Ann had ravioli with prawns (under $20 each).
One evening we drove farther down the island to an old movie theater that was showing a documentary, "The Real Dirt on farmer John," the funny true story of a misfit Midwestern Scandinavian farmer who floundered for decades before finding the right niche in the world for him and his farm. Another day we parked at the dock and took the ferry over to Port Townsend, Wash., a gem of a place, with restored old buildings, a used book store, and (naturally) restaurants. We had seafood at Fins and pronounced it delicious. (Recommended).
The weather was sunny and pleasant, and at night the sky was so clear we could see the Milky way. Blackberries grow wild in the northwest — imagine not having to plant, cultivate, water, and worry about winter protection! When Menominee took me for walks, I always kept an eye out for blackberry bushes, then picked only the big, plump, ripe and juicy berries, the ones just waiting to be picked and popped into your mouth. (Recomended)
An island is insulated from the hubbub of the mainland. Most people seldom have a reason to come to Whidbey Island, which makes it sparsely populated, relaxed, and friendly. I'm still smiling about the friendliness of the happy locals there. (I want to go back.)
And yet, it isn't all heavenly, even on Whidbery Island.
The island lacks major culture -- professional live theater and music, museums, galleries, colleges and universities -- as well as access to large stores and a major airport. Seattle is 60 miles and one ferry crossing away, so it's like living in Hinkley and yearning for the attractions of the Twin Cities (and taking a ferry where the 35W bridge used to be).
It isn't all peace and quiet on Whidbey. A naval air station is located at the northern tip of the island, and navy planes swoop low over the island taking off and landing.
Our visit featured ideal weather -- sunny and warm -- but the island also experiences clouds, fog, rain, some snow, and plenty of wind.
Whidbey Island's only source of fresh water is from wells, and the water is full of rust, so people don't drink it or wash clothes in it.
Port Townsend is lovely to visit on foot, as we did, but if you bring a vehicle, you've got a parking problem.
We happened to be there in blackberry season. The rest of the year, they're just thorny bushes.
We drove down Whidbey Island to visit an old Minneapolis friend, Ann G., who now lives in Coupeville, a tiny gem of a place. The village is cute, located on a hillside, with shops, restaurants, and a mussel farm down in the water at the cove. The local cuisine is seafood, including just-caught mussels, clams, and salmon. We had outstanding dinners at Christopher's (recommended) — I had the seafood stew, Ann had ravioli with prawns (under $20 each).
One evening we drove farther down the island to an old movie theater that was showing a documentary, "The Real Dirt on farmer John," the funny true story of a misfit Midwestern Scandinavian farmer who floundered for decades before finding the right niche in the world for him and his farm. Another day we parked at the dock and took the ferry over to Port Townsend, Wash., a gem of a place, with restored old buildings, a used book store, and (naturally) restaurants. We had seafood at Fins and pronounced it delicious. (Recommended).
The weather was sunny and pleasant, and at night the sky was so clear we could see the Milky way. Blackberries grow wild in the northwest — imagine not having to plant, cultivate, water, and worry about winter protection! When Menominee took me for walks, I always kept an eye out for blackberry bushes, then picked only the big, plump, ripe and juicy berries, the ones just waiting to be picked and popped into your mouth. (Recomended)
An island is insulated from the hubbub of the mainland. Most people seldom have a reason to come to Whidbey Island, which makes it sparsely populated, relaxed, and friendly. I'm still smiling about the friendliness of the happy locals there. (I want to go back.)
And yet, it isn't all heavenly, even on Whidbery Island.
The island lacks major culture -- professional live theater and music, museums, galleries, colleges and universities -- as well as access to large stores and a major airport. Seattle is 60 miles and one ferry crossing away, so it's like living in Hinkley and yearning for the attractions of the Twin Cities (and taking a ferry where the 35W bridge used to be).
It isn't all peace and quiet on Whidbey. A naval air station is located at the northern tip of the island, and navy planes swoop low over the island taking off and landing.
Our visit featured ideal weather -- sunny and warm -- but the island also experiences clouds, fog, rain, some snow, and plenty of wind.
Whidbey Island's only source of fresh water is from wells, and the water is full of rust, so people don't drink it or wash clothes in it.
Port Townsend is lovely to visit on foot, as we did, but if you bring a vehicle, you've got a parking problem.
We happened to be there in blackberry season. The rest of the year, they're just thorny bushes.
Canada — In Conclusion
Things cost more in Canada, but we got by.
Canadian money looks funny.
Canada is metric, but it isn't difficult to make do.
Canada has a marvelous system of Visitor Information Centres which we used and really appreciated.
Canada is a bilingual country but everybody understood our English.
The Canadian accent is no barrier to communication.
They still have Mounties but they no longer ride horses.
We enjoyed our trip across Canada. If you enjoyed reading this blog, maybe you, too, will want to visit Canada one day. Happy travels!
Canadian money looks funny.
Canada is metric, but it isn't difficult to make do.
Canada has a marvelous system of Visitor Information Centres which we used and really appreciated.
Canada is a bilingual country but everybody understood our English.
The Canadian accent is no barrier to communication.
They still have Mounties but they no longer ride horses.
We enjoyed our trip across Canada. If you enjoyed reading this blog, maybe you, too, will want to visit Canada one day. Happy travels!
Friday, September 14, 2007
Canada — Vancouver Island
We left Vancouver and drove north to catch the ferry at Horseshoe Bay, which turned out to be a lovely hamlet with a restaurant called Trolls, where I had a delicious seafood lunch at a reasonable price. (Recommended).
The Ferry
If you've never ridden a ferry, it's fun. On foot or bicycle, it's easy and cheap. In a vehicle, you have to line up and pay a lot of money, then line up again and wait until it's time to get on the ferry. When the vehicles in front of you start moving, you follow them across a ramp and onto the ship and park where they tell you to. Then you can leave your vehicle and wander around, admiring the view, buying something to eat, or going out on the deck to feel the wind in your face. When the voyage is over, you follow the vehicle ahead of you and drive off the ferry back onto land. We saw cars, motorcycles, pickups pulling vacation trailers, RVs of all sizes, even a big truck with semi trailer. The cost is based on the size of the vehicle and the length of the trip. For an ordinary car, it's about thirty cents a minute, but for Cruisemaster it was more like a dollar, because of extra height and length.
Vancouver Island
The ferry took us to Nanaimo, on the east coast of Vancouver Island. Although we had hoped to immediately discover a Garden of Eden, Nanaimo was a busy port town, so we headed north up the coast in search of smaller towns and bucolic beauty. We spent a few days meandering through Parksville, Courtenay, and Campbell River up into the wilderness of Sayward and Telegraph Cove. It was a lovely drive through deeply green mountainous countryside with cool, damp sea air. We had wanted to drive over to the west coast of the island to see the Pacific Ocean and maybe spot some whales, but cold, rainy weather there deterred us. Instead we headed south to Duncan, where I took a tour of the Merridale Apple Cider Mill, a small operation that grows its own special apples (varieties grown in England especially for making cider) and turning them into specialty apple cider. The tasting at the end of the tour was well worth the price of admission (free, recommended). Finally we arrived at Victoria, the capital of British Columbia, at the southern tip of Vancouver Island.
Victoria is the San Francisco of Canada. It has history, class, charm, fine old buildings, bracing sea air, a wharf, lots of tourists, and plenty of good restaurants. You could spend days walking the streets, admiring the buildings, and visiting the museums and gardens.
I'm always delighted to find a neat small town on the outskirts of a large one, and I'm glad I found Sidney, a northern suburb of Victoria and a gem of a place. It's really small, just the right size for strolling around, yet has half a dozen little bookstores, delicious restaurants, and good chocolate. I had a fine dinner at Beacon Landing (recommended) and found artisan chocolate ice cream in a little chocolate shop on Beacon St. (recommended).
The time had come
We had been in Canada for more than two months, wending our way in a circuitous route from Ontario to British Columbia. Now the time had come for us to return to the United States. Passport in hand, we headed for a different ferry, one that would take us from Vancouver Island to Washington state.
The Ferry
If you've never ridden a ferry, it's fun. On foot or bicycle, it's easy and cheap. In a vehicle, you have to line up and pay a lot of money, then line up again and wait until it's time to get on the ferry. When the vehicles in front of you start moving, you follow them across a ramp and onto the ship and park where they tell you to. Then you can leave your vehicle and wander around, admiring the view, buying something to eat, or going out on the deck to feel the wind in your face. When the voyage is over, you follow the vehicle ahead of you and drive off the ferry back onto land. We saw cars, motorcycles, pickups pulling vacation trailers, RVs of all sizes, even a big truck with semi trailer. The cost is based on the size of the vehicle and the length of the trip. For an ordinary car, it's about thirty cents a minute, but for Cruisemaster it was more like a dollar, because of extra height and length.
Vancouver Island
The ferry took us to Nanaimo, on the east coast of Vancouver Island. Although we had hoped to immediately discover a Garden of Eden, Nanaimo was a busy port town, so we headed north up the coast in search of smaller towns and bucolic beauty. We spent a few days meandering through Parksville, Courtenay, and Campbell River up into the wilderness of Sayward and Telegraph Cove. It was a lovely drive through deeply green mountainous countryside with cool, damp sea air. We had wanted to drive over to the west coast of the island to see the Pacific Ocean and maybe spot some whales, but cold, rainy weather there deterred us. Instead we headed south to Duncan, where I took a tour of the Merridale Apple Cider Mill, a small operation that grows its own special apples (varieties grown in England especially for making cider) and turning them into specialty apple cider. The tasting at the end of the tour was well worth the price of admission (free, recommended). Finally we arrived at Victoria, the capital of British Columbia, at the southern tip of Vancouver Island.
Victoria is the San Francisco of Canada. It has history, class, charm, fine old buildings, bracing sea air, a wharf, lots of tourists, and plenty of good restaurants. You could spend days walking the streets, admiring the buildings, and visiting the museums and gardens.
I'm always delighted to find a neat small town on the outskirts of a large one, and I'm glad I found Sidney, a northern suburb of Victoria and a gem of a place. It's really small, just the right size for strolling around, yet has half a dozen little bookstores, delicious restaurants, and good chocolate. I had a fine dinner at Beacon Landing (recommended) and found artisan chocolate ice cream in a little chocolate shop on Beacon St. (recommended).
The time had come
We had been in Canada for more than two months, wending our way in a circuitous route from Ontario to British Columbia. Now the time had come for us to return to the United States. Passport in hand, we headed for a different ferry, one that would take us from Vancouver Island to Washington state.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Cruisemaster's Further Adventures
Cruisemaster, our RV, had been performing faithfully since Minnesota. Then, between Vancouver and Squamish,...
Bam!
We suddenly heard a curious noise. Every time the right front wheel went around, it went "Bam!" I stopped, got out and looked underneath but couldn't see anything unusual, and couldn't imagine what could be wrong. I started up again and tentatively tried driving slow, which produced Bam!...Bam!...Bam! Then I speed up a little, and got Bam!Bam!Bam! It didn't stop, but it didn't get any worse either, so I decided to try to drive, gingerly, to a garage. I got quizzical stares from pedestrians and bicycle riders, but nine slow miles later, I pulled into a nice Midas Muffler shop. The kind people there took me right in, diagnosed the problem (a small scrap of metal caught in the disk brake) and sent me on my way — for free! Thanks, Midas!
The Steps
When you opened the RV's side door, you could flip down two folding steps to make it easy to step down to the ground. The steps had a nice, uniform, rectangular shape. I always remembered to flip them up before driving away from a camp site, until one day in Squamish. They were still down when I crossed a narrow bridge, and I heard a horrible scraping sound from over there where the steps were. When I stopped to look, I found that the steps were no longer rectangular but were swept back into a streamlined shape, and they no longer flipped up. In short, they were magngled beyond repair, so I spent a while on the ground with a wrench removing the steps and disposing of them in a dumpster. I never really liked them, anyway (sour grapes!) but until I figure out what to do about it, I really must remember to exit the RV carefully, as that first step is now a big one... all the way to the ground.
The Brakes
The brakes had performed perfectly during our long crossing of the flat prairie provinces, but here in mountainous B.C. I noticed some changes. The brake pedal started feeling a little soft and very slowly descended. Then came the time I stepped on the brake and the pedal went right to the floorboards. Yikes! Further tests showed that the brakes worked Ok most of the time, which was fortunate, since we were in mountainous territory and it was a couple of days before we could get to a town with a mechanic. Feeling a surge of loyalty to Midas after their splendid service earlier, I stopped at a Midas and they replaced the master brake cylinder, only this time they charged for their work.
Cruisemaster is 28 years old. For a vehicle this age, we have to expect things like this will happen and take them in stride.
Bam!
We suddenly heard a curious noise. Every time the right front wheel went around, it went "Bam!" I stopped, got out and looked underneath but couldn't see anything unusual, and couldn't imagine what could be wrong. I started up again and tentatively tried driving slow, which produced Bam!...Bam!...Bam! Then I speed up a little, and got Bam!Bam!Bam! It didn't stop, but it didn't get any worse either, so I decided to try to drive, gingerly, to a garage. I got quizzical stares from pedestrians and bicycle riders, but nine slow miles later, I pulled into a nice Midas Muffler shop. The kind people there took me right in, diagnosed the problem (a small scrap of metal caught in the disk brake) and sent me on my way — for free! Thanks, Midas!
The Steps
When you opened the RV's side door, you could flip down two folding steps to make it easy to step down to the ground. The steps had a nice, uniform, rectangular shape. I always remembered to flip them up before driving away from a camp site, until one day in Squamish. They were still down when I crossed a narrow bridge, and I heard a horrible scraping sound from over there where the steps were. When I stopped to look, I found that the steps were no longer rectangular but were swept back into a streamlined shape, and they no longer flipped up. In short, they were magngled beyond repair, so I spent a while on the ground with a wrench removing the steps and disposing of them in a dumpster. I never really liked them, anyway (sour grapes!) but until I figure out what to do about it, I really must remember to exit the RV carefully, as that first step is now a big one... all the way to the ground.
The Brakes
The brakes had performed perfectly during our long crossing of the flat prairie provinces, but here in mountainous B.C. I noticed some changes. The brake pedal started feeling a little soft and very slowly descended. Then came the time I stepped on the brake and the pedal went right to the floorboards. Yikes! Further tests showed that the brakes worked Ok most of the time, which was fortunate, since we were in mountainous territory and it was a couple of days before we could get to a town with a mechanic. Feeling a surge of loyalty to Midas after their splendid service earlier, I stopped at a Midas and they replaced the master brake cylinder, only this time they charged for their work.
Cruisemaster is 28 years old. For a vehicle this age, we have to expect things like this will happen and take them in stride.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Canada — Vancouver
Vancouver is a big urban area, a city surrounded by suburbs, with more people than any place we've been since we left the Twin Cities two months ago. It's in a beautiful setting, with mountains all around and the ocean lapping at its feet. (Well, not the ocean itself, but a sound the connects to the ocean, the same way Puget Sound connects Seattle to the ocean.)
Coming after all our travels across the prairies and the mountains, it was a bit of a shock and a pain, having to deal with freeways and lots of other drivers on the road. Plus not being able to find places, even with the help of my GPS. I had figured that the GPS, hooked up to my laptop PC, would make it easy to navigate around cities, but no. When I typed in the name of an RV park, it never heard of it. So I typed in the exact address, and it still couldn't find it. (Thanks, Garmin!) So we had to navigate the old fashioned way, looking at a map.
I took the light rail downtown and walked around, looking at the buildings and people. Gas Town, China Town, small neighborhoods but interesting. As I walked past the public library I noticed employees on strike, so I chatted with one for a few minutes. They'd been on strike for five weeks, their main issue being wage equity between men and women workers. (Amazing, isn't it, that it's still being fought, thirty years after we had our consciousness raised about equal pay for equal work?)
I rode the passenger ferry across to North Vancouver, just for the fun of it, and noticed the ferry was clean, well designed for fast boarding and disembarking of passengers, and well run. Their first light rail system was constructed decades ago, and they liked it so much they built a second. Trains run every few minutes and carry lots of passengers. The trains are automatic — there's no human driving involved — and they were built elevated (in the suburbs) and underground (downtown) so a train never crosses a road, completely eliminating any chance of a train colliding with a car. (If only Minneapolis had done that along Hiawatha...)
I also went to the fair, which happened to be running in Vancouver, but it turned out to be nothing like the magnificent Minnesota State Fair — it was more the size of the county fair in Owatonna. To my delight, they had the same kind of hucksters selling slicers and dicers, pots and pans, and miracle mops. They also had corn dogs and mini donuts, but no milk booth and no chocolate chip cookies. (Later I went into a shopping mall looking for the Canadian equivalent of Mrs. Field's cookies, but they didn't have any. Canadians don't know what they're missing!)
Vancouver is what you would get if you moved Minneapolis to the west coast, and you would gain beautiful mountains, cooler summers, warmer winters, and an ocean. And you'd lose the mosquitoes. There's a lot to like about that.
Squamish
Soon tired of the big city, we headed up the coast to Squamish (and no, that isn't a misspelling of "squeamish" as my spell-check thinks). It's a small town with a curious past: It was founded over a hundred years ago during the mining and lumbering booms, but its only access to Vancouver was by water. It was only fifty years later that a road was built and Squamish had better access to Vancouver.
We enjoyed the small-town atmosphere and Saturday farmer's market, which included arts and crafts and massage as well as fruit and vegetables. But now Squamish has two colleges, and in 2010, Winter Olympic events will be held just up the road at the Whistler ski resort. Property values have already risen dramatically, and development has been in strip malls and subdivisions up and down the highway. Can Squamish retain its small-town charm? I sure hope so.
Between Squamish and Vancouver there's a mining museum. We stopped and I toured the copper mine — the tour actually takes you inside the mine and they demonstrate how mining trechniques changed through the years, from hammers pounding drills to compressed air machines. (Recommended.)
The drive between Vancouver and Squamish is incredibly scenic. The road rises as it hugs the mountainside, and you get views out over the sound to steep mountains, some with snow on their peaks, rising majestically from the water. To my eye, it's right up there with the sights of Jasper and Banff parks.
Coming after all our travels across the prairies and the mountains, it was a bit of a shock and a pain, having to deal with freeways and lots of other drivers on the road. Plus not being able to find places, even with the help of my GPS. I had figured that the GPS, hooked up to my laptop PC, would make it easy to navigate around cities, but no. When I typed in the name of an RV park, it never heard of it. So I typed in the exact address, and it still couldn't find it. (Thanks, Garmin!) So we had to navigate the old fashioned way, looking at a map.
I took the light rail downtown and walked around, looking at the buildings and people. Gas Town, China Town, small neighborhoods but interesting. As I walked past the public library I noticed employees on strike, so I chatted with one for a few minutes. They'd been on strike for five weeks, their main issue being wage equity between men and women workers. (Amazing, isn't it, that it's still being fought, thirty years after we had our consciousness raised about equal pay for equal work?)
I rode the passenger ferry across to North Vancouver, just for the fun of it, and noticed the ferry was clean, well designed for fast boarding and disembarking of passengers, and well run. Their first light rail system was constructed decades ago, and they liked it so much they built a second. Trains run every few minutes and carry lots of passengers. The trains are automatic — there's no human driving involved — and they were built elevated (in the suburbs) and underground (downtown) so a train never crosses a road, completely eliminating any chance of a train colliding with a car. (If only Minneapolis had done that along Hiawatha...)
I also went to the fair, which happened to be running in Vancouver, but it turned out to be nothing like the magnificent Minnesota State Fair — it was more the size of the county fair in Owatonna. To my delight, they had the same kind of hucksters selling slicers and dicers, pots and pans, and miracle mops. They also had corn dogs and mini donuts, but no milk booth and no chocolate chip cookies. (Later I went into a shopping mall looking for the Canadian equivalent of Mrs. Field's cookies, but they didn't have any. Canadians don't know what they're missing!)
Vancouver is what you would get if you moved Minneapolis to the west coast, and you would gain beautiful mountains, cooler summers, warmer winters, and an ocean. And you'd lose the mosquitoes. There's a lot to like about that.
Squamish
Soon tired of the big city, we headed up the coast to Squamish (and no, that isn't a misspelling of "squeamish" as my spell-check thinks). It's a small town with a curious past: It was founded over a hundred years ago during the mining and lumbering booms, but its only access to Vancouver was by water. It was only fifty years later that a road was built and Squamish had better access to Vancouver.
We enjoyed the small-town atmosphere and Saturday farmer's market, which included arts and crafts and massage as well as fruit and vegetables. But now Squamish has two colleges, and in 2010, Winter Olympic events will be held just up the road at the Whistler ski resort. Property values have already risen dramatically, and development has been in strip malls and subdivisions up and down the highway. Can Squamish retain its small-town charm? I sure hope so.
Between Squamish and Vancouver there's a mining museum. We stopped and I toured the copper mine — the tour actually takes you inside the mine and they demonstrate how mining trechniques changed through the years, from hammers pounding drills to compressed air machines. (Recommended.)
The drive between Vancouver and Squamish is incredibly scenic. The road rises as it hugs the mountainside, and you get views out over the sound to steep mountains, some with snow on their peaks, rising majestically from the water. To my eye, it's right up there with the sights of Jasper and Banff parks.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Canada — British Columbia
When you leave the Banff and Jasper Parks driving west, you drop down out of the Rockies into the interior of British Columbia, which has several more mountain ranges and valleys, although none to match the grandeur of the Rockies. We stopped in Radium Hot Springs for lunch, but decided against taking the waters. We passed through small town after small town, rarely big enough to have a supermarket. It got warmer and drier and the ground got dusty, which was a big plus for Menominee, who loves to roll and squirm in the dust — so far, she says, Canadian dust is her favorite. The dryness — drought, actually — was also evident in forest fires, whose smoke we saw. For a whole day we drove north to escape smoke from fires burning down in Washington — the sun filtered to a dull, bloody, red disk, and twilight was a vivid peach.
As we drove south and west, crossing barren stretches, we aimed for Nelson, where mail from the US awaited at General Delivery. Nelson is a neat place, an authentic old town with Victorian buildings (it's where Steve Martin's film "Roxanne" was shot) that has survived its roots in mining and timbering and become a lively place to visit. It's located next to a narrow lake in the valley between two steeply wooded mountains — kind of like a Scottish loch or a Norwegian fjord — and its downtown area is alive with organic restaurants, street musicians, and a Tarot card reader. (Its spriit is the closest to Uptown Minneapolis we've seen since we left the Twin Cities.)
South of Lytton we stopped and indulged in the Hell's Gate tram ride ($11) down into the Thompson River canyon where the rock walls narrow and the river flows swiftly (twice the flow of Niagra Falls, they claim). The tram ride was fun, the salmon in the cafe was delicious, the gift shop enticed us to spend thirty dollars, and the walk across the suspension bridge was free. (Recommended, because it's a welcome relief from the tedium of driving across barren stretches).
In Minnesota, the spare water just sits in lakes, over ten thousand of them scattered everywhere. Here in BC, the water is confined by the mountainous terrain to run down into the valleys in streams and rivers into lakes. Some of the lakes are pretty big, great for recreation; some were created by hydro-electric dams, including the Bennett Dam west of Fort St. John, which I toured. So powerful are its ten generators that it alone supplies a quarter of BC's demand for electricity — and of course, it doesn't pollute. Yay hydro-electric!
Eventually, as we worked our way near Vancouver, dry and dusty gave way to a more pleasant, humid air, and we realized, as early explorers must have, that we were smelling the sweet breeze from the Pacific Ocean.
As we drove south and west, crossing barren stretches, we aimed for Nelson, where mail from the US awaited at General Delivery. Nelson is a neat place, an authentic old town with Victorian buildings (it's where Steve Martin's film "Roxanne" was shot) that has survived its roots in mining and timbering and become a lively place to visit. It's located next to a narrow lake in the valley between two steeply wooded mountains — kind of like a Scottish loch or a Norwegian fjord — and its downtown area is alive with organic restaurants, street musicians, and a Tarot card reader. (Its spriit is the closest to Uptown Minneapolis we've seen since we left the Twin Cities.)
South of Lytton we stopped and indulged in the Hell's Gate tram ride ($11) down into the Thompson River canyon where the rock walls narrow and the river flows swiftly (twice the flow of Niagra Falls, they claim). The tram ride was fun, the salmon in the cafe was delicious, the gift shop enticed us to spend thirty dollars, and the walk across the suspension bridge was free. (Recommended, because it's a welcome relief from the tedium of driving across barren stretches).
In Minnesota, the spare water just sits in lakes, over ten thousand of them scattered everywhere. Here in BC, the water is confined by the mountainous terrain to run down into the valleys in streams and rivers into lakes. Some of the lakes are pretty big, great for recreation; some were created by hydro-electric dams, including the Bennett Dam west of Fort St. John, which I toured. So powerful are its ten generators that it alone supplies a quarter of BC's demand for electricity — and of course, it doesn't pollute. Yay hydro-electric!
Eventually, as we worked our way near Vancouver, dry and dusty gave way to a more pleasant, humid air, and we realized, as early explorers must have, that we were smelling the sweet breeze from the Pacific Ocean.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Canada — Banff National Park
The best way to approach the Rocky Mountains is from the east, where they appear on the horizon and capture your interest as they steadily rise and expand until they extend from as far as you can see to the left and right, their craggy peaks growing larger and larger until finally you're driving up into them and they rise all around you.
The mountain air was clean and dry. Enjoying good weather, with blue skies, little white clouds, and agreeable temperatures, we drove around and admired the mountains. These are the Rocky Mountains, same range as in Colorado, but the huge advantage here is that you're in narrow valleys within the mountain range, so you have mountains and peaks all around you, some forested, but many craggy with bare rock, and all of them rising way up.
Both Jasper and Banff Parks have wildlife, and all the tourists enjoy seeing bears, mountain goats, bighorn sheep, elk, moose, or caribou up close. The easiest way to spot them when driving around is to wait for a traffic jam: If a dozen cars are stopped in front of you, look around to see what they're looking at. We saw goats, sheep, and caribou that way.
The town of Banff is a ritzy place. Lots of hotels and lodges, fancy shops with designer clothing, and good restaurants. I seriously considered making a reservation at the Restaurant Beaujolais for their Table d'Hote Dinner (three courses at a fixed price of $69 Canadian, that's $65.50 US). You get to choose each course, and I had my eye on the Tasting of Pacific Salmon Three Ways for the first course, although the Cruisse de Grenouille Croquantes (Crispy Frog's Legs) sounded intriguing. For a second course, perhaps the Lobster Bisque en Croute, or the Alaskan Crab Crepe, or (if feeling very daring) the Alberta Wild Boar Civet (whatever that is), with black cherries, choux rouge and creamy polenta with sage butter. And for the third course, the Brome Lake Duck Breast and Leg Confit with maple-nut chutney, or maybe the Rack of Lamb Provencale au Jus. Oh, my head swam with the glory of it all!
As it happened, I was distracted by the restaurant at the top of the gondola lift, where their two-course dinner was a more affordable $28. I had their Curry Soup (delicious, almost as good as the Cambodian restaurant on University in St. Paul) and Beef Rendang (luscious -- the equal, in my estimation, of the Peninsula in Minneapolis).
It began with the gondola ride, a swift eight minutes up 2,500 feet, and at the top, the incredible 360 degree view of all the mountain peaks so close at hand. Then a relaxed meal at the restaurant, the ride down the mountain, and, to cap it off, a soak in the adjacent hot mineral spring pool. The water is 40 Canadian degrees, which is 104 US degrees. No one is swimming laps at that temperature — everyone is just relaxed and blissed out. This pool is a great leveler — no matter what country you're from or how much money you've got, each of us is just a human in a bathing suit enjoying the same water.
So, if you should find yourself in Banff one day and want to give yourself a treat, I recommend any of these establishments. Dinner, $69 or $28. Gondola ride, $25. Hot springs pool, $10. The mountain views — priceless.
Lake Louise is ritziest of all. The town consists almost exclusively of fancy lodges and hotels. The grand hotel is situated on the edge of the turquoise lake facing the incredible mountain and glacier. Its history dates back to the first railroads, when it was built as a resort to lure the wealthy to enjoy the scenery in style and comfort. After walking a bit on the trail around Lake Louise, I stopped in the hotel and had a bowl of soup and glass of beer in the pub ($20). It was delicious, but I thought it overpriced, so I stole several of their paper napkins. Next time I want to have dinner in the hotel's main dining room.
Jasper, by contrast, was much more family oriented, with lots of fast food joints, although, aftrer poking around a bit, I found tasty and innovative dinners at Dangerous Dave's and at Fiddle River, with entrees around $20.
In both parks we heard foreign languages spoken — French of course, since this is a bi-lingual country, but others too, such as German. We chatted with a woman from Holland, and saw tourists of color, or from the Orient, or wearing Islamic clothing. The beauty and splendor of these parks draw people from far, far away. (Have you been here yet?)
Next time I want to drive the Glacier Highway between Jasper and Lake Louise and tour the glaciers in the special glaciermobile. That is, if the glaciers are still around, next time I visit. (The Crowfoot Glacier, for example, has already lost one of its toes, and the other two are melting pretty fast.)
The mountain air was clean and dry. Enjoying good weather, with blue skies, little white clouds, and agreeable temperatures, we drove around and admired the mountains. These are the Rocky Mountains, same range as in Colorado, but the huge advantage here is that you're in narrow valleys within the mountain range, so you have mountains and peaks all around you, some forested, but many craggy with bare rock, and all of them rising way up.
Both Jasper and Banff Parks have wildlife, and all the tourists enjoy seeing bears, mountain goats, bighorn sheep, elk, moose, or caribou up close. The easiest way to spot them when driving around is to wait for a traffic jam: If a dozen cars are stopped in front of you, look around to see what they're looking at. We saw goats, sheep, and caribou that way.
The town of Banff is a ritzy place. Lots of hotels and lodges, fancy shops with designer clothing, and good restaurants. I seriously considered making a reservation at the Restaurant Beaujolais for their Table d'Hote Dinner (three courses at a fixed price of $69 Canadian, that's $65.50 US). You get to choose each course, and I had my eye on the Tasting of Pacific Salmon Three Ways for the first course, although the Cruisse de Grenouille Croquantes (Crispy Frog's Legs) sounded intriguing. For a second course, perhaps the Lobster Bisque en Croute, or the Alaskan Crab Crepe, or (if feeling very daring) the Alberta Wild Boar Civet (whatever that is), with black cherries, choux rouge and creamy polenta with sage butter. And for the third course, the Brome Lake Duck Breast and Leg Confit with maple-nut chutney, or maybe the Rack of Lamb Provencale au Jus. Oh, my head swam with the glory of it all!
As it happened, I was distracted by the restaurant at the top of the gondola lift, where their two-course dinner was a more affordable $28. I had their Curry Soup (delicious, almost as good as the Cambodian restaurant on University in St. Paul) and Beef Rendang (luscious -- the equal, in my estimation, of the Peninsula in Minneapolis).
It began with the gondola ride, a swift eight minutes up 2,500 feet, and at the top, the incredible 360 degree view of all the mountain peaks so close at hand. Then a relaxed meal at the restaurant, the ride down the mountain, and, to cap it off, a soak in the adjacent hot mineral spring pool. The water is 40 Canadian degrees, which is 104 US degrees. No one is swimming laps at that temperature — everyone is just relaxed and blissed out. This pool is a great leveler — no matter what country you're from or how much money you've got, each of us is just a human in a bathing suit enjoying the same water.
So, if you should find yourself in Banff one day and want to give yourself a treat, I recommend any of these establishments. Dinner, $69 or $28. Gondola ride, $25. Hot springs pool, $10. The mountain views — priceless.
Lake Louise is ritziest of all. The town consists almost exclusively of fancy lodges and hotels. The grand hotel is situated on the edge of the turquoise lake facing the incredible mountain and glacier. Its history dates back to the first railroads, when it was built as a resort to lure the wealthy to enjoy the scenery in style and comfort. After walking a bit on the trail around Lake Louise, I stopped in the hotel and had a bowl of soup and glass of beer in the pub ($20). It was delicious, but I thought it overpriced, so I stole several of their paper napkins. Next time I want to have dinner in the hotel's main dining room.
Jasper, by contrast, was much more family oriented, with lots of fast food joints, although, aftrer poking around a bit, I found tasty and innovative dinners at Dangerous Dave's and at Fiddle River, with entrees around $20.
In both parks we heard foreign languages spoken — French of course, since this is a bi-lingual country, but others too, such as German. We chatted with a woman from Holland, and saw tourists of color, or from the Orient, or wearing Islamic clothing. The beauty and splendor of these parks draw people from far, far away. (Have you been here yet?)
Next time I want to drive the Glacier Highway between Jasper and Lake Louise and tour the glaciers in the special glaciermobile. That is, if the glaciers are still around, next time I visit. (The Crowfoot Glacier, for example, has already lost one of its toes, and the other two are melting pretty fast.)
Friday, August 17, 2007
Menominee
Menominee, my cat and traveling companion on this adventure, is doing well. She has relaxed into the driving phases of our adventure, and now sleeps while I drive. She lives for the payoff at the end of the day, at the camp site, which she considers her domain, her territory to explore, her hunting ground. She has now caught a total of four small, furry, mouse-like critters, and is convinced she's a might hunter (and who am I to disagree?). We are thinking about trying a catch-and-release policy with her mice.
Jumping
Menominee soon noticed where I stored her food — in the cupboard along the ceiling over the couch — and began planning ways to reach it. The most direct means is for her to jump into the cupboard when the door is open, so I simply blocked it whenever it was open. But she also figured out that all the cupboards over the couch are connected, so she could jump into any open door and work her way over to her food.
One evening I accidentally left one of the cupboard doors open and sat on the couch watching a DVD on my laptop. Because the lights were off, I didn't notice her leap from the dining table four feet into the open cupboard, but I found out soon enough when, unable to secure a foothold in the cupboard, my ten-pound cat fell three feet onto my stomach. I told her I didn't appreciate that, but she offered no apologies, instead nursing a bruised ego because her magnificent plan had failed.
A few days later she made use of a five-inch diameter hole in the face of the same cupboard — where a loudspeaker had once been. She jumped from the kitchen sink up two feet, left two feet, and forward two feet (for a total jump of four feet) and somehow landed with her front half in that small hole, leaving her hind quarters dangling in mid-air, up near the ceiling. It was a sight to behold! With her front paws she got traction among the cabinet contents and hauled her rear half in. What a cat... Some cat!
The Bird Call Incident
To pass the time while driving the prairies, I tried (usually in vain) to find a radio station, then put on a CD. One day I put on a CD of bird calls, intended as instruction for bird watchers. To hear the CD clearly (from the speakers back in the RV) I had to turn the volume up pretty high, and began listening to the various songs of the cardinal. Soon Menominee was on the driver's seat back, touching my shoulder with her paw to get my attention, and then meowing in my ear. This is unusual behavior, some kind of communication, so I took her seriously and examined the situation. Loud bird calls. Maybe hurting her ears. Maybe she thinks they're coming from really, really big, scary birds? Huge birds right here, in the RV? Whatever. I put the bird-call CD away and Menominee calmed down.
Jumping
Menominee soon noticed where I stored her food — in the cupboard along the ceiling over the couch — and began planning ways to reach it. The most direct means is for her to jump into the cupboard when the door is open, so I simply blocked it whenever it was open. But she also figured out that all the cupboards over the couch are connected, so she could jump into any open door and work her way over to her food.
One evening I accidentally left one of the cupboard doors open and sat on the couch watching a DVD on my laptop. Because the lights were off, I didn't notice her leap from the dining table four feet into the open cupboard, but I found out soon enough when, unable to secure a foothold in the cupboard, my ten-pound cat fell three feet onto my stomach. I told her I didn't appreciate that, but she offered no apologies, instead nursing a bruised ego because her magnificent plan had failed.
A few days later she made use of a five-inch diameter hole in the face of the same cupboard — where a loudspeaker had once been. She jumped from the kitchen sink up two feet, left two feet, and forward two feet (for a total jump of four feet) and somehow landed with her front half in that small hole, leaving her hind quarters dangling in mid-air, up near the ceiling. It was a sight to behold! With her front paws she got traction among the cabinet contents and hauled her rear half in. What a cat... Some cat!
The Bird Call Incident
To pass the time while driving the prairies, I tried (usually in vain) to find a radio station, then put on a CD. One day I put on a CD of bird calls, intended as instruction for bird watchers. To hear the CD clearly (from the speakers back in the RV) I had to turn the volume up pretty high, and began listening to the various songs of the cardinal. Soon Menominee was on the driver's seat back, touching my shoulder with her paw to get my attention, and then meowing in my ear. This is unusual behavior, some kind of communication, so I took her seriously and examined the situation. Loud bird calls. Maybe hurting her ears. Maybe she thinks they're coming from really, really big, scary birds? Huge birds right here, in the RV? Whatever. I put the bird-call CD away and Menominee calmed down.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Canada — Jasper National Park
As we approached Jasper, the weather was beautiful (see photo of magnificent cloud). We found a campsite in the campground near the town of Jasper and settled in. The next day was totally overcast and cool, so we spent the day driving around the park. Unfortunately the mountains and lakes weren't very pretty in the monochromatic light -- all in shades of gray. We drove all the way up to the hot springs pool, but by the time we got there it was cold and windy, so we didn't go in. Later, in an Internet cafe, I checked the weather forecast, which was for cloudy, rainy, and even colder for the next five days. Uf da! Here we were in the most beautiful parks in Canada and the weather was absolutely lousy! Then a sudden realization: We have no schedule -- we can postpone the parks until later, when the weather is nice. So we bailed right out of Japer Park, drove east, and headed for lower elevations farther south, hoping it wouldn't be quite as cold there.
That took us back in Alberta, north of Montana, in cowboy country. The highway we were on is nicknamed "The Cowboy Trail." We saw men in cowboy hats, and on the news stand, there were magazines like "Canadian Cowboy" and (I am not making this up!) "Cowboys and Indians." There were lots of shops that sell saddles and other horse gear, but the one that caught my eye had a sign, "Chiropractor available -- walk-ins welcome." Yes, after a rodeo, a cowboy just might need some attending to.
Two days later, we were camped in Red Deer, midway between Edmonton and Calgary, when the cold wave bottomed out at freezing temperatures overnight. We came through OK, thanks to an RV park that provided electricity to our electric heater, which we left running all night. What a weather oddity -- freezing temperatures in August, in the same province where a heat wave had us sweating and panting a couple of weeks ago!
Next day we explored Red Deer, the first town of any size we'd visited in weeks. It was a joy to have a selection of large grocery stores, hardware stores, and an actual big chain bookstore -- Chapters, a Canadian imitator of Barnes & Noble, including the inevitable Starbucks. I tried to buy a copy of "Are We Rome?" but they didn't have it. The clerk who helped me (a guy nearing retirement, reminded me of MPR's Tom Keith, without a bow tie) was a history buff, and we chatted about the similarities between ancient Rome and modern U.S., and then got off onto Islam, which he thinks will conquer Europe by the end of the century. An interesting exchange!
We rather liked Red Deer, not because it has any jewel-like qualities, but because it's big enough (80,000) to have the amenities that smaller towns lack, yet small enough that people are relaxed and friendly.
That took us back in Alberta, north of Montana, in cowboy country. The highway we were on is nicknamed "The Cowboy Trail." We saw men in cowboy hats, and on the news stand, there were magazines like "Canadian Cowboy" and (I am not making this up!) "Cowboys and Indians." There were lots of shops that sell saddles and other horse gear, but the one that caught my eye had a sign, "Chiropractor available -- walk-ins welcome." Yes, after a rodeo, a cowboy just might need some attending to.
Two days later, we were camped in Red Deer, midway between Edmonton and Calgary, when the cold wave bottomed out at freezing temperatures overnight. We came through OK, thanks to an RV park that provided electricity to our electric heater, which we left running all night. What a weather oddity -- freezing temperatures in August, in the same province where a heat wave had us sweating and panting a couple of weeks ago!
Next day we explored Red Deer, the first town of any size we'd visited in weeks. It was a joy to have a selection of large grocery stores, hardware stores, and an actual big chain bookstore -- Chapters, a Canadian imitator of Barnes & Noble, including the inevitable Starbucks. I tried to buy a copy of "Are We Rome?" but they didn't have it. The clerk who helped me (a guy nearing retirement, reminded me of MPR's Tom Keith, without a bow tie) was a history buff, and we chatted about the similarities between ancient Rome and modern U.S., and then got off onto Islam, which he thinks will conquer Europe by the end of the century. An interesting exchange!
We rather liked Red Deer, not because it has any jewel-like qualities, but because it's big enough (80,000) to have the amenities that smaller towns lack, yet small enough that people are relaxed and friendly.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Canada — British Columbia
British Columbia, which is directly north of Washington state, is beautiful. Soon after we crossed the border, we noticed the difference: bigger hills than we'd seen in weeks — more like mountains. Terrain that makes use of the vertical dimension pleases the eye. Seeing a mountain range on the distant horizon evokes desire, snow-capped mountains (in August!) inspire wonder, and sheer walls rising into the sky are simply awesome. We were pleased to be in BC.
Our first stop was in Dawson Creek, an old crossroads that became the starting point for the Alaskan Highway in 1942, and thrives today as a vibrant community of 10,000. They have the first bookstore I'd seen in weeks, and I quickly went in, chatted with the proprietor, and bought a book (Jack London, "White Fang.") They also have the best restaurant I'd eaten in in weeks, the "Legendary White Spot*, Since 1928." (Recommended) Who would have suspected that they'd be serving sweet-potato fries with chipotle mayonnaise way up here? We excitedly enjoyed this interesting little hub, visiting the Alaskan Highway "Mile Zero" sign and taking a picture of Cruisemaster next to it. So progressive is this community that they provide free Wi-Fi Internet access, not only at the visitors center but also throughout downtown, and we indulged in lots of emailing and web surfing.
The Alaskan Highway enticed us to follow it for 43 miles north to Ft. St. John, which proved to be the northernmost point in our adventure, 56.3 degrees north latitude, according to the GPS. We felt the tug of the Yukon and Alaska, but that road is a long one and we decided to leave them to another adventure. We left the Alaskan Highway and began our journey south through beautiful scenery to Prince George, which bills itself as "Capital of Northern British Columbia" and advertises itself in a slick 38-page travel guide as a jewel of a place. (Thereby setting expectations so high that disappointment is likely.) The setting is nice — a river runs through it and pine-forested hills surround — but the stone proved to be fake. Oh, they have their Walmart and Home Depot, but downtown has decaying buildings, vacant storefronts, and street people. The Visitor Center gave us false information — the Cariboo is not actually open for lunch on Saturdays — and the Waddling Duck pub served pretty-good food for above-average prices with below-average service. (Although I suppose that people living up here could be delighted with any restaurant that isn't franchise fast-food.)
In the evening, we had an excellent chat with neighbors in the RV park, a couple from Vancouver who were quite happy to talk about BC, Vancouver, Jasper, and beer. It was our first extended conversation with native Canadians and we enjoyed it very much. They warned us that the road from Prince George to Jasper is a long drive through beautiful wilderness, and they were right..
*I later found out that the White Spot hasn't been in Dawson Creek since 1928 — it's a chain that started in Vancouver — but the food was still a treat.
Our first stop was in Dawson Creek, an old crossroads that became the starting point for the Alaskan Highway in 1942, and thrives today as a vibrant community of 10,000. They have the first bookstore I'd seen in weeks, and I quickly went in, chatted with the proprietor, and bought a book (Jack London, "White Fang.") They also have the best restaurant I'd eaten in in weeks, the "Legendary White Spot*, Since 1928." (Recommended) Who would have suspected that they'd be serving sweet-potato fries with chipotle mayonnaise way up here? We excitedly enjoyed this interesting little hub, visiting the Alaskan Highway "Mile Zero" sign and taking a picture of Cruisemaster next to it. So progressive is this community that they provide free Wi-Fi Internet access, not only at the visitors center but also throughout downtown, and we indulged in lots of emailing and web surfing.
The Alaskan Highway enticed us to follow it for 43 miles north to Ft. St. John, which proved to be the northernmost point in our adventure, 56.3 degrees north latitude, according to the GPS. We felt the tug of the Yukon and Alaska, but that road is a long one and we decided to leave them to another adventure. We left the Alaskan Highway and began our journey south through beautiful scenery to Prince George, which bills itself as "Capital of Northern British Columbia" and advertises itself in a slick 38-page travel guide as a jewel of a place. (Thereby setting expectations so high that disappointment is likely.) The setting is nice — a river runs through it and pine-forested hills surround — but the stone proved to be fake. Oh, they have their Walmart and Home Depot, but downtown has decaying buildings, vacant storefronts, and street people. The Visitor Center gave us false information — the Cariboo is not actually open for lunch on Saturdays — and the Waddling Duck pub served pretty-good food for above-average prices with below-average service. (Although I suppose that people living up here could be delighted with any restaurant that isn't franchise fast-food.)
In the evening, we had an excellent chat with neighbors in the RV park, a couple from Vancouver who were quite happy to talk about BC, Vancouver, Jasper, and beer. It was our first extended conversation with native Canadians and we enjoyed it very much. They warned us that the road from Prince George to Jasper is a long drive through beautiful wilderness, and they were right..
*I later found out that the White Spot hasn't been in Dawson Creek since 1928 — it's a chain that started in Vancouver — but the food was still a treat.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Canada — Alberta
Soon after we crossed into Alberta we came to Cold Lake, a boomtown with "help wanted" signs, new subdivisions, and high housing prices. It had its amenities — a bank, two supermarkets, a bookstore (although we couldn't find it) — and we enjoyed our overnight stay in the nearby Provincial Park campground. We continued westward and northward to Lac la Biche, where we stopped at the library to access the Internet, and met two happy, gregarious, and helpful library staff. They were soooo accommodating, trying my laptop on three different networks until I could check my email. (Thanks, Candice!) Later we spent the night in Blueberry Hill RV Park in Athabasca, although we couldn't find any blueberries (too early in the season for them — at the end of July!) .
Ever northward and westward, we came to Slave Lake, and, while looking for a camp site, we got stuck in some soft dirt. Soft, as in Very. Soft. Dirt. Stuck, as in up to the hubcaps on the right side. We couldn't go forward, couldn't go backward. Stuck, but good. What to do? It was four in the afternoon, the sun was hot, flies were buzzing, and there was no breeze. I walked around Cruisemaster, surveying the situation, when a Canadian came by and stopped. He offered to pull me out with his Jeep, but before we could hook up, another Canadian came by with a better idea: use his Caterpillar bulldozer. With great clanking sounds he brought the bulldozer around, hooked up Cruisemaster with a very heavy chain and slowly, slowly, pulled us out and we were freed. Whew! What an adventure! What kindly Canadians! To calm down, I needed some serious comfort food, so I bought and ate an entire 350 gram (3/4 pound) bag of chocolate chip cookies, washed down with two cans of beer. (Burp.)
From the place names in all the provinces we've driven through, we see that French explorers and traders once lived here, and that Native Americans (or First Nation, as they call them up here) have lived here for a long time.
Checking the GPS at Slave Lake, I found that we were just above 55 degrees north latitude, which is ten degrees (about 720 miles) north of Minneapolis, sixteen degrees (1150 miles) north of Washington DC, twenty-one degrees (1500 miles) north of Los Angeles.. More dramatically, this is the same latitude as Hudson Bay — if we had driven northeast from Minnesota, by the time we had gotten this far north, we'd be in the water at Hudson Bay. More dramatically yet, we are north of most of Canada's population, north of most of North America's population, north of most of the world's population. We're way far north, we are!
Even this far north, the terrain has lakes, trees, and crops (including canola). But we have the definite feeling that we are near the edge of civilization, as we pass through isolated hamlets, some with a gas station and maybe a cafe, few with a grocery or library. We see few cars on the road and notice that campgrounds have more oil-field workers than tourists. We are getting tired of the prairie and are ready for the scenery to come.
Ever northward and westward, we came to Slave Lake, and, while looking for a camp site, we got stuck in some soft dirt. Soft, as in Very. Soft. Dirt. Stuck, as in up to the hubcaps on the right side. We couldn't go forward, couldn't go backward. Stuck, but good. What to do? It was four in the afternoon, the sun was hot, flies were buzzing, and there was no breeze. I walked around Cruisemaster, surveying the situation, when a Canadian came by and stopped. He offered to pull me out with his Jeep, but before we could hook up, another Canadian came by with a better idea: use his Caterpillar bulldozer. With great clanking sounds he brought the bulldozer around, hooked up Cruisemaster with a very heavy chain and slowly, slowly, pulled us out and we were freed. Whew! What an adventure! What kindly Canadians! To calm down, I needed some serious comfort food, so I bought and ate an entire 350 gram (3/4 pound) bag of chocolate chip cookies, washed down with two cans of beer. (Burp.)
From the place names in all the provinces we've driven through, we see that French explorers and traders once lived here, and that Native Americans (or First Nation, as they call them up here) have lived here for a long time.
Checking the GPS at Slave Lake, I found that we were just above 55 degrees north latitude, which is ten degrees (about 720 miles) north of Minneapolis, sixteen degrees (1150 miles) north of Washington DC, twenty-one degrees (1500 miles) north of Los Angeles.. More dramatically, this is the same latitude as Hudson Bay — if we had driven northeast from Minnesota, by the time we had gotten this far north, we'd be in the water at Hudson Bay. More dramatically yet, we are north of most of Canada's population, north of most of North America's population, north of most of the world's population. We're way far north, we are!
Even this far north, the terrain has lakes, trees, and crops (including canola). But we have the definite feeling that we are near the edge of civilization, as we pass through isolated hamlets, some with a gas station and maybe a cafe, few with a grocery or library. We see few cars on the road and notice that campgrounds have more oil-field workers than tourists. We are getting tired of the prairie and are ready for the scenery to come.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Canada — Manitoba and Saskatchewan
Manitoba
We went over the border into Manitoba, our second province, directly north of North Dakota. Here the landscape changed from mountainous dense forest to agricultural plains and deciduous trees, and my GPS told me that we are at latitude 50 degrees north, which is five degrees north of the Twin Cities.
There's a crop being grown here that mystifies me. It looks for all the world like a weed, yet it's grown in huge fields for miles and miles. It's green, short — maybe eighteen inches high — and is topped with small yellow flowers. What's disconcerting about it is the sickly greenish-yellow color that fills your field of view — that and the smell is enough to give you a headache. The stuff smells like the intersection of agriculture, pesticide, and oil refinery. It definitely isn't wheat, but what is it? A Visitor Information Center provided the answer: It's canola, that cooking oil that's good for you, and you can tell from its very name (can + ola) that it comes from Canada.
We sailed through Winnipeg, verified its existence as a city, and kept going north of town to spend the night at Bird Hill Provincial Park, the huge park that hosts the Winnipeg Folk Festival. (Why, you might ask, didn't I plan to be here during the festival? Because it took place two weeks ago, and getting here for it would have required planning and reservations and rushing... in other words, not in the spirit of this adventure.)
I really wanted to find that accessory for my PC, so next day I turned on my GPS and asked it to find "Best Buy." It found two of them in Winnipeg, so I told it to plan the route to one of them. I easily followed the route from the park, but when the GPS announced that the destination was on the right, I saw only a Wendy's. Thinking I must have missed something, I drove a bit further and around a corner and asked it to route me there again. And it took me right back to the same Wendy's! (Humph! Thanks a lot, Garmin!) I turned the GPS off and headed for a Staples office supply I'd spotted visually and easily bought the accessory there for $20. One of the advantages of a city: stores with stuff you want in stock.
At a stoplight, I glanced at the lane to my left and was astonished to see a Yamaha Vino motor scooter, the very same model I had considered buying last month. Impulsively I smiled and said "Hi there, how do you like your Vino?" The rider turned to me and rattled off all the things she liked about it, and as the light turned green, sped off with "Love it! Highly recommended!" Sigh. I still want one.
Feeling hungry, I stopped at a McDonald's for lunch. In the men's washroom I discovered there was no soap. I looked for the little sign, and there it was, "...please tell the manager immediately." I found the manager standing talking with a customer. "Excuse me," I said politely. "There's no soap in the men's room." To my surprise, the manager, a short, dark-haired fellow, shot me a withering look and sneered, "I'm on my lunch break." Hmmm. Not the level of customer service I'd expected, and I seriously doubt that any management training seminars will change his surly character.. Then too, the campground's staff had seemed stressed and anxious. Am I just noticing the difference that a city makes? In any case, it was time to exit Winnipeg, and we headed west.
Manitoba's terrain is remarkably similar to Minnesota's: agricultural prairies in the south, wooded hills in the north. By driving northward, and gaining altitude, I hoped for cooler weather, but unfortunately that was not what we found. A heat wave extended far and wide, and we were unable to escape it. The weather was grimly similar to the Twin Cities, hot and humid. The best we were able to do is find a forested campground in a provincial park and relax until nightfall — say, around nine PM — when a cooling breeze brought us around.
Next day we continued northward to a village with the lovely name of Swan River, and stayed at a private campground. Did some shopping in the morning, including a visit to a Manitoba liquor store. It was a lot like any other liquor store, apart from its minuscule size, tiny selection, and high prices — eight dollars for a six-pack of Labatt's, nine dollars for the cheapest bottle of wine. The library offered Wi-Fi Internet access, but for some reason I couldn't get the access to work with my laptop — why is it that technology installed to help the public can be so temperamental?
Saskatchewan
Next day we drove yet farther north, turned west, and crossed into Saskatchewan, our third province, due north of Montana. The terrain was still agriculturally cultivated prairie dominated by that sickening mystery crop, and the weather still hot and muggy. I had originally suspected that driving across the prairie might be boring, but little had I realized how far north it extended, or how obnoxious it would be. We finally stopped for the night in Tisdale, a lovely name (doesn't it evoke tea and crumpets, or maybe a semi-soft cheese?) for a small prairie town with a municipal campground. Although Internet access was available at the library and an Internet cafe, both were closed on a Saturday morning. (The Internet never sleeps, but apparently access does.)
Next day we passed through Prince Albert, a city only slightly larger than Moose Jaw, and continued fleeing northward to Prince Albert National Park, the northernmost in the province. We spent a quiet night in one of the campgrounds, although the mosquitoes there were the most numerous we'd encountered. In bed, I fought off several attacks, and as I fell asleep, I heard an actual humming chorus of mosquitoes coming, thankfully, from the other side of the window screen. In the morning we discovered the lakeside village of Waskesiu, a tourist destination of lodges, cabins, restaurants and Wi-Fi hotspots — Saskatchewan's equivalent of Minnesota's Grand Marais.
We continued northward and westward but the heat continued — one afternoon it hit 33 Canadian degrees (that's 90 US degrees) and we really felt it. Sat in the shade in a provincial park campsite and waited for nightfall, when a little rain fell and the temperature came down — the heat wave had broken at last..
Menominee has been a remarkably good traveler, considering that she never naturally took to rides in cars or RVs. She seems to understand that this time it's different — We're on an adventure together, and the RV is her home. So she has learned to relax when we're on the road, even napping sometimes. When we stop, she's curious to look out the window and see what's there, and of course if it's our camp site for the night, she's ready to go out the door and explore it. She really loves the outdoors, and especially the forested outdoors, with its trees, shrubs, grass, insects, and small furry creatures. When she caught a small mouse-like animal one evening and played with it, she was one happy cat, and the next day she had a noticeably improved attitude about the adventure.
We went over the border into Manitoba, our second province, directly north of North Dakota. Here the landscape changed from mountainous dense forest to agricultural plains and deciduous trees, and my GPS told me that we are at latitude 50 degrees north, which is five degrees north of the Twin Cities.
There's a crop being grown here that mystifies me. It looks for all the world like a weed, yet it's grown in huge fields for miles and miles. It's green, short — maybe eighteen inches high — and is topped with small yellow flowers. What's disconcerting about it is the sickly greenish-yellow color that fills your field of view — that and the smell is enough to give you a headache. The stuff smells like the intersection of agriculture, pesticide, and oil refinery. It definitely isn't wheat, but what is it? A Visitor Information Center provided the answer: It's canola, that cooking oil that's good for you, and you can tell from its very name (can + ola) that it comes from Canada.
We sailed through Winnipeg, verified its existence as a city, and kept going north of town to spend the night at Bird Hill Provincial Park, the huge park that hosts the Winnipeg Folk Festival. (Why, you might ask, didn't I plan to be here during the festival? Because it took place two weeks ago, and getting here for it would have required planning and reservations and rushing... in other words, not in the spirit of this adventure.)
I really wanted to find that accessory for my PC, so next day I turned on my GPS and asked it to find "Best Buy." It found two of them in Winnipeg, so I told it to plan the route to one of them. I easily followed the route from the park, but when the GPS announced that the destination was on the right, I saw only a Wendy's. Thinking I must have missed something, I drove a bit further and around a corner and asked it to route me there again. And it took me right back to the same Wendy's! (Humph! Thanks a lot, Garmin!) I turned the GPS off and headed for a Staples office supply I'd spotted visually and easily bought the accessory there for $20. One of the advantages of a city: stores with stuff you want in stock.
At a stoplight, I glanced at the lane to my left and was astonished to see a Yamaha Vino motor scooter, the very same model I had considered buying last month. Impulsively I smiled and said "Hi there, how do you like your Vino?" The rider turned to me and rattled off all the things she liked about it, and as the light turned green, sped off with "Love it! Highly recommended!" Sigh. I still want one.
Feeling hungry, I stopped at a McDonald's for lunch. In the men's washroom I discovered there was no soap. I looked for the little sign, and there it was, "...please tell the manager immediately." I found the manager standing talking with a customer. "Excuse me," I said politely. "There's no soap in the men's room." To my surprise, the manager, a short, dark-haired fellow, shot me a withering look and sneered, "I'm on my lunch break." Hmmm. Not the level of customer service I'd expected, and I seriously doubt that any management training seminars will change his surly character.. Then too, the campground's staff had seemed stressed and anxious. Am I just noticing the difference that a city makes? In any case, it was time to exit Winnipeg, and we headed west.
Manitoba's terrain is remarkably similar to Minnesota's: agricultural prairies in the south, wooded hills in the north. By driving northward, and gaining altitude, I hoped for cooler weather, but unfortunately that was not what we found. A heat wave extended far and wide, and we were unable to escape it. The weather was grimly similar to the Twin Cities, hot and humid. The best we were able to do is find a forested campground in a provincial park and relax until nightfall — say, around nine PM — when a cooling breeze brought us around.
Next day we continued northward to a village with the lovely name of Swan River, and stayed at a private campground. Did some shopping in the morning, including a visit to a Manitoba liquor store. It was a lot like any other liquor store, apart from its minuscule size, tiny selection, and high prices — eight dollars for a six-pack of Labatt's, nine dollars for the cheapest bottle of wine. The library offered Wi-Fi Internet access, but for some reason I couldn't get the access to work with my laptop — why is it that technology installed to help the public can be so temperamental?
Saskatchewan
Next day we drove yet farther north, turned west, and crossed into Saskatchewan, our third province, due north of Montana. The terrain was still agriculturally cultivated prairie dominated by that sickening mystery crop, and the weather still hot and muggy. I had originally suspected that driving across the prairie might be boring, but little had I realized how far north it extended, or how obnoxious it would be. We finally stopped for the night in Tisdale, a lovely name (doesn't it evoke tea and crumpets, or maybe a semi-soft cheese?) for a small prairie town with a municipal campground. Although Internet access was available at the library and an Internet cafe, both were closed on a Saturday morning. (The Internet never sleeps, but apparently access does.)
Next day we passed through Prince Albert, a city only slightly larger than Moose Jaw, and continued fleeing northward to Prince Albert National Park, the northernmost in the province. We spent a quiet night in one of the campgrounds, although the mosquitoes there were the most numerous we'd encountered. In bed, I fought off several attacks, and as I fell asleep, I heard an actual humming chorus of mosquitoes coming, thankfully, from the other side of the window screen. In the morning we discovered the lakeside village of Waskesiu, a tourist destination of lodges, cabins, restaurants and Wi-Fi hotspots — Saskatchewan's equivalent of Minnesota's Grand Marais.
We continued northward and westward but the heat continued — one afternoon it hit 33 Canadian degrees (that's 90 US degrees) and we really felt it. Sat in the shade in a provincial park campsite and waited for nightfall, when a little rain fell and the temperature came down — the heat wave had broken at last..
Menominee has been a remarkably good traveler, considering that she never naturally took to rides in cars or RVs. She seems to understand that this time it's different — We're on an adventure together, and the RV is her home. So she has learned to relax when we're on the road, even napping sometimes. When we stop, she's curious to look out the window and see what's there, and of course if it's our camp site for the night, she's ready to go out the door and explore it. She really loves the outdoors, and especially the forested outdoors, with its trees, shrubs, grass, insects, and small furry creatures. When she caught a small mouse-like animal one evening and played with it, she was one happy cat, and the next day she had a noticeably improved attitude about the adventure.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Canada!
As you approach Canada, northbound on highway 61, there's a point where you crest a hill, and the elevation gives you an incredible view to the north. It's picture-perfect and says, "Ahead lies Canada — It's wonderful!"
At the Canadian border, we were met by rather stern border guards. We were grilled about our nationality, residence, purpose of trip, and contents of the RV. Menominee was required to show her certificate of vaccination (thanks, Dr. Julie!) and I had to go indoors to meet with an Immigration Officer. I pleaded "eight-week vacation" but he seemed suspicious that I might have other designs. Eventually, almost grudgingly, he allowed us in. Whoo-hoo! We're in Canada now! As we approached Thunder Bay, we heard thunder overhead.
Western Ontario
After a night camped in Thunder Bay, we headed west on the Trans-Canadian Highway. Suburbs give way to wilderness, and I mean real wilderness. The highway goes along the border of Quetico Provincial Park, the wilderness that is neighbor to Minnesota's Boundary Waters Canoe Area. The road is two lanes of blacktop heading west past dense forest. There are no cars in front of you, none behind you, as far as you can see. It's just you and the wilderness, which is deep and dark and gorgeous and enticing, but you can't go in — there are no roads into the wilderness. You can't even stop, because there's no place to stop. No scenic overlook, no rest stop, not even a turnout for a side road, and the shoulders are so narrow, by the time you'd pulled off the road, you'd have tumbled into the ditch. You just gotta keep going, on and on, watching the beauty go by.
Nearly out of gas and daylight, we arrived at Atikokan, a village of cheerful people, one campground, and one Internet cafe. (In short, perfect!) It was here that I first heard the "eh?" expression used by a Canadian, and it didn't make me laugh! It seemed perfectly normal and natural, a grammatical construction as understandable to me as to him.
Another day of driving past rugged forests brought us to Fort Frances, across the border from International Falls, MN, and Rainy Lake — yes, the weather was a bit rainy. Had dinner at a KFC and discovered that the Colonel uses a different recipe up here in Canada — very mild — and there's no choice of original, crispy, or grilled. Well, here I am, living like a Canadian!
Mosquitoes? Yes, Canada has them too, and they aren't much different from Minnesota's, although I did see one that was big enough it looked like it could be growing feathers. We like to think of Canada as a purer, better place, but, as a tourist brochure suggests, Your vacation will be more enjoyable if you use insect repellent. Menominee loves to hunt and catch and eat moths and dragonflies, and I had hopes that she might hunt mosquitoes too (and earn her keep). But no, she ignores them. I held a dead one under her nose; she sniffed it and turned away — unappetizing, I guess.
Our radio reception to this point had consisted of Minnesota Public Radio throughout Minnesota, and even after we crossed into Canada we could pick up one MPR station or another (Houghton, Bemidji). But as we headed north and left the border behind us, we found slim pickings. Usually there were one or two local stations playing popular music, but CBC wasn't always there — it makes no attempt to cover all of Canada. Makes you appreciate the way MPR and NPR cover their territories.
Still in beautifully wooded hills, we stopped for the night at Caliper Lake Provincial Park, a real gem out in the middle of nowhere.(Recommended) I guess its secret is being far enough away from civilization to keep out the riffraff, because on this July weekend the campground was only a third filled. Quiet, peaceful, on the shore of a pristine lake, and at sundown the call of the loon. The following night we stayed at Rushing River Provincial Park, whose hundreds of campsites were nearly filled by families with kids. Evidently it's close enough to Winnipeg that the city folk like to come here for vacation.
Next day we explored Kenora, population 16,000, picturesquely located on the northern shore of Lake of the Woods (yes, the same Lake of the Woods of Minnesota repute — it extends way up here). Little Kenora has obvious potential for excellence but unfortunately the town government is going about it in the wrong ways — for example covering downtown with parking meters and building an ugly concrete parking ramp. Sigh. I found an electronics store here and inquired about an accessory for my PC, but they didn't have any. Asked also at the WalMart, but they didn't have any either. (Makes you want to order it on the Internet, doesn't it?)
At the Canadian border, we were met by rather stern border guards. We were grilled about our nationality, residence, purpose of trip, and contents of the RV. Menominee was required to show her certificate of vaccination (thanks, Dr. Julie!) and I had to go indoors to meet with an Immigration Officer. I pleaded "eight-week vacation" but he seemed suspicious that I might have other designs. Eventually, almost grudgingly, he allowed us in. Whoo-hoo! We're in Canada now! As we approached Thunder Bay, we heard thunder overhead.
Western Ontario
After a night camped in Thunder Bay, we headed west on the Trans-Canadian Highway. Suburbs give way to wilderness, and I mean real wilderness. The highway goes along the border of Quetico Provincial Park, the wilderness that is neighbor to Minnesota's Boundary Waters Canoe Area. The road is two lanes of blacktop heading west past dense forest. There are no cars in front of you, none behind you, as far as you can see. It's just you and the wilderness, which is deep and dark and gorgeous and enticing, but you can't go in — there are no roads into the wilderness. You can't even stop, because there's no place to stop. No scenic overlook, no rest stop, not even a turnout for a side road, and the shoulders are so narrow, by the time you'd pulled off the road, you'd have tumbled into the ditch. You just gotta keep going, on and on, watching the beauty go by.
Nearly out of gas and daylight, we arrived at Atikokan, a village of cheerful people, one campground, and one Internet cafe. (In short, perfect!) It was here that I first heard the "eh?" expression used by a Canadian, and it didn't make me laugh! It seemed perfectly normal and natural, a grammatical construction as understandable to me as to him.
Another day of driving past rugged forests brought us to Fort Frances, across the border from International Falls, MN, and Rainy Lake — yes, the weather was a bit rainy. Had dinner at a KFC and discovered that the Colonel uses a different recipe up here in Canada — very mild — and there's no choice of original, crispy, or grilled. Well, here I am, living like a Canadian!
Mosquitoes? Yes, Canada has them too, and they aren't much different from Minnesota's, although I did see one that was big enough it looked like it could be growing feathers. We like to think of Canada as a purer, better place, but, as a tourist brochure suggests, Your vacation will be more enjoyable if you use insect repellent. Menominee loves to hunt and catch and eat moths and dragonflies, and I had hopes that she might hunt mosquitoes too (and earn her keep). But no, she ignores them. I held a dead one under her nose; she sniffed it and turned away — unappetizing, I guess.
Our radio reception to this point had consisted of Minnesota Public Radio throughout Minnesota, and even after we crossed into Canada we could pick up one MPR station or another (Houghton, Bemidji). But as we headed north and left the border behind us, we found slim pickings. Usually there were one or two local stations playing popular music, but CBC wasn't always there — it makes no attempt to cover all of Canada. Makes you appreciate the way MPR and NPR cover their territories.
Still in beautifully wooded hills, we stopped for the night at Caliper Lake Provincial Park, a real gem out in the middle of nowhere.(Recommended) I guess its secret is being far enough away from civilization to keep out the riffraff, because on this July weekend the campground was only a third filled. Quiet, peaceful, on the shore of a pristine lake, and at sundown the call of the loon. The following night we stayed at Rushing River Provincial Park, whose hundreds of campsites were nearly filled by families with kids. Evidently it's close enough to Winnipeg that the city folk like to come here for vacation.
Next day we explored Kenora, population 16,000, picturesquely located on the northern shore of Lake of the Woods (yes, the same Lake of the Woods of Minnesota repute — it extends way up here). Little Kenora has obvious potential for excellence but unfortunately the town government is going about it in the wrong ways — for example covering downtown with parking meters and building an ugly concrete parking ramp. Sigh. I found an electronics store here and inquired about an accessory for my PC, but they didn't have any. Asked also at the WalMart, but they didn't have any either. (Makes you want to order it on the Internet, doesn't it?)
Monday, July 16, 2007
The North Shore
Split Rock
Dropping down from Ely to the North Shore, I headed for Split Rock Lighthouse. Ah, Split Rock! Its beauty arouses the spirits of artists and photographers. I hadn't been there before and was looking forward to it. This summer holiday weekend it was full of tourists from everywhere, the ticket sellers were completely dysfunctional, the 20-minute introductory movie had lousy production values, and the lighthouse itself was, frankly, pretty rinky-dink. Run by the State Historical Society, I give it high marks for preservation, barely passing for operations.
Northward on highway 61, I found a private campground and rented their last campsite for three times what I'd paid in Ely, with their enthusiastic assurance that it was "the last available campsite on the whole North Shore!" Sheesh. With planning, I could have avoided these holiday crowds, but then, planning is what this adventure is NOT about.
Grand Marais
Next day I finally made it to the sanity of Grand Marais. What a gem! Located on a natural harbor on Lake Superior, the town's distance from the Twin Cities keeps out the riffraff and their bratty kids--you have to know about Grand Marais, be willing to drive the distance, and then spend some time there. It's small enough that it's charming and easy to walk around, but large enough to have the desired amenities. For example, The Angry Trout restaurant (Recommended) serving freshly-caught fish with delicious accompaniments and an attractive presentation, indoors or out on the deck, around $20. At the more plebeian Blue Water restaurant, you can get a huge filet of fried, home-battered walleye for $10 while looking out at the harbor from the second-floor windows. Then there's Sven and Ole's, which I enjoyed more for the atmosphere than the pizza. I stayed at the huge, modern, well-run Municipal Campground (Recommended).
The Stalled-Engine Incident
Having packed up the RV and pulled out of the campsite, I got all of 100 feet across the campground before the engine sputtered, died, and refused to start. While I glumly stared under the hood, a campground employee came over to commiserate. In a nice episode of male bonding, we examined the facts and agreed it (a) was fuel related, (b) wasn't flooded, so likely to be (c) the fuel pump or (d) a clogged gas line. This being Sunday, I decided to stay another night at the campground (which had the advantage that I could sample more restaurants), This wonderful person (who moved here from Minneapolis thirty years ago and teaches high school science the rest of the year) chained me to the campground pickup and towed me over to an empty campsite, then pushed me back into it while I steered. Gosh, the residents up here are good people!
For the rest of the morning I watched a parade of end-of-the-holiday-weekend campers departing the campground in their dinosaurs — humongous RVs, bigger and more powerful than Greyhound buses, with very upscale features. For example, I watched one stop, and with a soft hiss of air the door opened, and steps automatically descended to the ground, so the wife could drop some trash in the Dumpster. But driving a dinosaur wasn't enough — most pulled their full-size SUV behind. Talk about a carbon footprint! Talk about the increasing gap between the haves and have-nots.
Monday morning I called a tow truck to haul my Ford RV over to the Chevy dealer (the only car dealer, and largest garage in town), where they kindly took me in, diagnosed a faulty fuel pump, locally found a suitable replacement, installed it, and sent me on my way, all in the same afternoon. Of course, it cost upwards of three hundred dollars, but man, the feeling of relief was worth it.
Naniboujou
Leaving Grand Marais the next morning, I headed to Naniboujou Lodge for lunch. I had long heard about it, read about it in newspaper and magazine articles, and was fascinated with the lurid history of its magnificent wooden structure, way up there on the Gunflint Trail. Heck, I'd never even been on the Gunflint Trail before, so it was time. I gassed up the RV and with great expectations headed up the Trail. Wide and smooth at first, after a few miles it became a narrow old blacktop road with bumps and cracks. Ten miles went by. Twenty. I began to wonder how far up the Trail the lodge was. Of course, I could have looked it up before I left, but isn't it more fun this way? Twenty five, thirty miles. It was odd, I thought, that the lodge wasn't mentioned on any of the signposts. I pulled off the road and walked into an establishment. The jolly fellow behind the desk laughed and told me, "You're on the wrong road! It's on highway 61." Driving back downhill, I wanted to believe him, yet the thought nagged me that the Naniboujou could be just a few miles higher, and he was sending me on a wild goose chase.
An hour later I pulled off highway 61 into Naniboujou's parking lot. The structure was a lot less magnificent than I'd expected, and its location on the shore of Lake Superior baffled me. But the dining room was open and its ceiling was decorated more garishly than any sane person could imagine. The food was wonderful — the French onion soup was luscious, even the side salad was exceptional — the atmosphere just right, and the price not as much as you might fear (lunch under $15). (Recommended)
Dropping down from Ely to the North Shore, I headed for Split Rock Lighthouse. Ah, Split Rock! Its beauty arouses the spirits of artists and photographers. I hadn't been there before and was looking forward to it. This summer holiday weekend it was full of tourists from everywhere, the ticket sellers were completely dysfunctional, the 20-minute introductory movie had lousy production values, and the lighthouse itself was, frankly, pretty rinky-dink. Run by the State Historical Society, I give it high marks for preservation, barely passing for operations.
Northward on highway 61, I found a private campground and rented their last campsite for three times what I'd paid in Ely, with their enthusiastic assurance that it was "the last available campsite on the whole North Shore!" Sheesh. With planning, I could have avoided these holiday crowds, but then, planning is what this adventure is NOT about.
Grand Marais
Next day I finally made it to the sanity of Grand Marais. What a gem! Located on a natural harbor on Lake Superior, the town's distance from the Twin Cities keeps out the riffraff and their bratty kids--you have to know about Grand Marais, be willing to drive the distance, and then spend some time there. It's small enough that it's charming and easy to walk around, but large enough to have the desired amenities. For example, The Angry Trout restaurant (Recommended) serving freshly-caught fish with delicious accompaniments and an attractive presentation, indoors or out on the deck, around $20. At the more plebeian Blue Water restaurant, you can get a huge filet of fried, home-battered walleye for $10 while looking out at the harbor from the second-floor windows. Then there's Sven and Ole's, which I enjoyed more for the atmosphere than the pizza. I stayed at the huge, modern, well-run Municipal Campground (Recommended).
The Stalled-Engine Incident
Having packed up the RV and pulled out of the campsite, I got all of 100 feet across the campground before the engine sputtered, died, and refused to start. While I glumly stared under the hood, a campground employee came over to commiserate. In a nice episode of male bonding, we examined the facts and agreed it (a) was fuel related, (b) wasn't flooded, so likely to be (c) the fuel pump or (d) a clogged gas line. This being Sunday, I decided to stay another night at the campground (which had the advantage that I could sample more restaurants), This wonderful person (who moved here from Minneapolis thirty years ago and teaches high school science the rest of the year) chained me to the campground pickup and towed me over to an empty campsite, then pushed me back into it while I steered. Gosh, the residents up here are good people!
For the rest of the morning I watched a parade of end-of-the-holiday-weekend campers departing the campground in their dinosaurs — humongous RVs, bigger and more powerful than Greyhound buses, with very upscale features. For example, I watched one stop, and with a soft hiss of air the door opened, and steps automatically descended to the ground, so the wife could drop some trash in the Dumpster. But driving a dinosaur wasn't enough — most pulled their full-size SUV behind. Talk about a carbon footprint! Talk about the increasing gap between the haves and have-nots.
Monday morning I called a tow truck to haul my Ford RV over to the Chevy dealer (the only car dealer, and largest garage in town), where they kindly took me in, diagnosed a faulty fuel pump, locally found a suitable replacement, installed it, and sent me on my way, all in the same afternoon. Of course, it cost upwards of three hundred dollars, but man, the feeling of relief was worth it.
Naniboujou
Leaving Grand Marais the next morning, I headed to Naniboujou Lodge for lunch. I had long heard about it, read about it in newspaper and magazine articles, and was fascinated with the lurid history of its magnificent wooden structure, way up there on the Gunflint Trail. Heck, I'd never even been on the Gunflint Trail before, so it was time. I gassed up the RV and with great expectations headed up the Trail. Wide and smooth at first, after a few miles it became a narrow old blacktop road with bumps and cracks. Ten miles went by. Twenty. I began to wonder how far up the Trail the lodge was. Of course, I could have looked it up before I left, but isn't it more fun this way? Twenty five, thirty miles. It was odd, I thought, that the lodge wasn't mentioned on any of the signposts. I pulled off the road and walked into an establishment. The jolly fellow behind the desk laughed and told me, "You're on the wrong road! It's on highway 61." Driving back downhill, I wanted to believe him, yet the thought nagged me that the Naniboujou could be just a few miles higher, and he was sending me on a wild goose chase.
An hour later I pulled off highway 61 into Naniboujou's parking lot. The structure was a lot less magnificent than I'd expected, and its location on the shore of Lake Superior baffled me. But the dining room was open and its ceiling was decorated more garishly than any sane person could imagine. The food was wonderful — the French onion soup was luscious, even the side salad was exceptional — the atmosphere just right, and the price not as much as you might fear (lunch under $15). (Recommended)
The Clock
When I bought the RV, it came with a clock on the wall, which I rather liked. Cheap, battery-operated, kept good time, a convenience. Then one night, in the quiet of a campground, falling asleep, I became aware that the clock ticked so loudly that it dominated everything — it ruined the camping experience with its loud TICK, TICK, TICK... I couldn't fall asleep. Enraged, I arose in the dark, ripped the clock off the wall, felt around in its innards and pulled its battery out. Ahhh... blissful silence, and sleep. (Eliminating ugly man-made sounds is quite satisfying, actually.)
The Three-Way Continental Divide
At a rest stop I read this thoughtful inscription:
A drop of water falling here in the Giants Range, a rare three-way continental divide, may flow north into icy Hudson Bay, east into the Atlantic Ocean, or south into the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico.
From the north slope of these very old granite ridges, streams flow into the Red River of the North, through Lake Winnipeg, and into Hudson Bay in northern Canada.
Creeks and rivers on the south slope flow into the St. Louis River, enter Lake Superior at Duluth, and eventually reach the north Atlantic through the Great Lakes and the St. Lawrence River.
On a western spur of the Giants Range the great watershed of the immense Mississippi River system gathers the flow from a maze of streams and swamps as the legendary river begins its winding course from Lake Itasca to the Gulf of Mexico, more than 2500 miles away.
Lying as it does near the center of the North American Continent, Minnesota marks the transition between eastern woodlands and westgern prairies and between northern coniferous forests and rich grain-growing lands of the mid-nation. It is a land of dramatic differences, tied to the world through three great waterways that originate in these rocks and streams.
A drop of water falling here in the Giants Range, a rare three-way continental divide, may flow north into icy Hudson Bay, east into the Atlantic Ocean, or south into the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico.
From the north slope of these very old granite ridges, streams flow into the Red River of the North, through Lake Winnipeg, and into Hudson Bay in northern Canada.
Creeks and rivers on the south slope flow into the St. Louis River, enter Lake Superior at Duluth, and eventually reach the north Atlantic through the Great Lakes and the St. Lawrence River.
On a western spur of the Giants Range the great watershed of the immense Mississippi River system gathers the flow from a maze of streams and swamps as the legendary river begins its winding course from Lake Itasca to the Gulf of Mexico, more than 2500 miles away.
Lying as it does near the center of the North American Continent, Minnesota marks the transition between eastern woodlands and westgern prairies and between northern coniferous forests and rich grain-growing lands of the mid-nation. It is a land of dramatic differences, tied to the world through three great waterways that originate in these rocks and streams.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Hello? Hello?
Hey, out there! Is anyone reading this blog? No Comments, so I guess not. Unless I see some Comments, I'll assume nobody's reading, and I'll quit writing.
How to leave a Comment: At the bottom of each post is the line "Posted by Meadowlark..." Click on the word comments at the end of that line. Then you'll need to log in, using your Google user name and password. (And if all this is too much, just send me an email.) Thanks.
How to leave a Comment: At the bottom of each post is the line "Posted by Meadowlark..." Click on the word comments at the end of that line. Then you'll need to log in, using your Google user name and password. (And if all this is too much, just send me an email.) Thanks.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Where's my....?
Frustration built these first days on the road because I couldn't find anything. To understand the situation, consider my method of packing. It was actually part of my method of vacating the apartment, which involved triage of my supplies and possessions into boxes for (a) the Dumpster, (b) the local thrift shop, (c) giving away, (d) storage, or (e) taking along in the RV. So the stuff for the RV got thrown into boxes without any organization whatever, and looking for something I needed meant searching through all the boxes in the RV until I found it, assuming I could find it among all the other stuff. But, I assured myself, things will eventually get sorted out. It's wholistic. It's all an organic part of the Adventure. It thumbs its nose at the tight-sphincter rules at the apartment complex Ive escaped from.
Here's an example. The first day out, I couldn't find a belt. Now, a belt in an important item — without it, my pants wouldn't stay up. I tried grabbing the waist at the side and hoisting it, but that proved uncomfortable, not to mention it must have looked weird. Then I found a better approach, in which I placed the back of one hand in the small of my back, as if I were trying to look suave. That worked better, but even that was too much, so I took a length of nylon camping cord and used that as a makeshift belt... worked fine! A few days later I found a belt and the crisis was over, but it wasn't until two weeks into the trip that I discovered the other belts I'd brought.
Here's an example. The first day out, I couldn't find a belt. Now, a belt in an important item — without it, my pants wouldn't stay up. I tried grabbing the waist at the side and hoisting it, but that proved uncomfortable, not to mention it must have looked weird. Then I found a better approach, in which I placed the back of one hand in the small of my back, as if I were trying to look suave. That worked better, but even that was too much, so I took a length of nylon camping cord and used that as a makeshift belt... worked fine! A few days later I found a belt and the crisis was over, but it wasn't until two weeks into the trip that I discovered the other belts I'd brought.
The Adventure Has Begun
Lift Off!
Saturday was crazy, moving my furniture out of the apartment into the neighbor's, loading the last stuff into the RV, cleaning my apartment, returning the keys, then, finally, in the afternoon, getting in the RV with Menominee and leaving the apartment complex for the last time. We had met our deadline — Saturday, June 30, the last day of the month, the last day to be out of the apartment.
A couple of errands and we were on the road! Drove aimlessly on back roads, generally northward, to get out of the city heat. Crossed the Mississippi at Anoka, made it to Cambridge by early evening, and decided to stop there. A kindly manager at Cub Foods gave permission to stay overnight in parking lot. Whew! Time to start decompressing!
Next day, it was still hot and humid as we drove northward. By the time we got to Jay Cook State Park, just short of Duluth, it had cooled off, so we spent the night there. Gosh, it got cold! In the middle of the night I had to find a warm blanket and huddled under it the rest of the night. It occurs to me that the coldest July 4th in the continental U.S. just might be in Duluth.
Continuing northward, Hibbing beckoned, so we slanted over in that direction. By the time we got there, I was really hungry for lunch, so we stopped at the Hibbing Visitor's Center. There, a nice little white-haired lady was generally cheerful as she resisted my attempts to extract a recommendation of a restaurant for lunch, directions to it, and the location of a Caribou Coffee shop. But we finally found Zimmie's and had a delicious lunch there. (Recommended.) Turned out that Caribou Coffee was on the highway outside town near the new Lowe's and Walmart, a spot the Visitor's Bureau lady probably had never visitied. Bought dessert and got the first free Wi-Fi Hotspot of the adventure! Whoo hoo!
Potica
In Hibbing they make potica. It has nothing to do with politics or poetry, and is pronounced po-TEE-sah. It's a "traditional European-style sweet bread," deliciously sweet and tasty, and I enjoyed it for breakfast and dessert. You can walk into a Hibbing grocery and find potica in the freezer, $9.95 for a pound, made by Sunrise Bakery. In the Twin Cities, you might be able to find it at a specialty shop.
Ely
We had had no difficulty leaving any of the places we stayed until we got to Ely, which turned out to be so nice that we spent three nights there. Clean, dry air, nice temperatures, low humidity, pines all around... ahhh! Many of the people there looked outdoorsy, tanned, fit, relaxed, happy. The high point was an Independence Day parade through town, featuring the town fire engine and a squad of Girl Scouts portaging canoes. The International Wolf Center was interesting too. Returned again and again to the Front Porch Coffee Shop and Internet Cafe (Recommended) for free Wi-Fi (with a purchase). Stayed in Fall Lake campground (Recommended) in the National Forest a few miles east of town, where Menominee loved to go outdoors on her leash and explore the campsite. It was here, in campsite 40, that she stalked and chased her first National Forest brown squirrel. A scooter would have been wonderful here, riding the few miles from the campground to Ely.
Saturday was crazy, moving my furniture out of the apartment into the neighbor's, loading the last stuff into the RV, cleaning my apartment, returning the keys, then, finally, in the afternoon, getting in the RV with Menominee and leaving the apartment complex for the last time. We had met our deadline — Saturday, June 30, the last day of the month, the last day to be out of the apartment.
A couple of errands and we were on the road! Drove aimlessly on back roads, generally northward, to get out of the city heat. Crossed the Mississippi at Anoka, made it to Cambridge by early evening, and decided to stop there. A kindly manager at Cub Foods gave permission to stay overnight in parking lot. Whew! Time to start decompressing!
Next day, it was still hot and humid as we drove northward. By the time we got to Jay Cook State Park, just short of Duluth, it had cooled off, so we spent the night there. Gosh, it got cold! In the middle of the night I had to find a warm blanket and huddled under it the rest of the night. It occurs to me that the coldest July 4th in the continental U.S. just might be in Duluth.
Continuing northward, Hibbing beckoned, so we slanted over in that direction. By the time we got there, I was really hungry for lunch, so we stopped at the Hibbing Visitor's Center. There, a nice little white-haired lady was generally cheerful as she resisted my attempts to extract a recommendation of a restaurant for lunch, directions to it, and the location of a Caribou Coffee shop. But we finally found Zimmie's and had a delicious lunch there. (Recommended.) Turned out that Caribou Coffee was on the highway outside town near the new Lowe's and Walmart, a spot the Visitor's Bureau lady probably had never visitied. Bought dessert and got the first free Wi-Fi Hotspot of the adventure! Whoo hoo!
Potica
In Hibbing they make potica. It has nothing to do with politics or poetry, and is pronounced po-TEE-sah. It's a "traditional European-style sweet bread," deliciously sweet and tasty, and I enjoyed it for breakfast and dessert. You can walk into a Hibbing grocery and find potica in the freezer, $9.95 for a pound, made by Sunrise Bakery. In the Twin Cities, you might be able to find it at a specialty shop.
Ely
We had had no difficulty leaving any of the places we stayed until we got to Ely, which turned out to be so nice that we spent three nights there. Clean, dry air, nice temperatures, low humidity, pines all around... ahhh! Many of the people there looked outdoorsy, tanned, fit, relaxed, happy. The high point was an Independence Day parade through town, featuring the town fire engine and a squad of Girl Scouts portaging canoes. The International Wolf Center was interesting too. Returned again and again to the Front Porch Coffee Shop and Internet Cafe (Recommended) for free Wi-Fi (with a purchase). Stayed in Fall Lake campground (Recommended) in the National Forest a few miles east of town, where Menominee loved to go outdoors on her leash and explore the campsite. It was here, in campsite 40, that she stalked and chased her first National Forest brown squirrel. A scooter would have been wonderful here, riding the few miles from the campground to Ely.
Rustling
One afternoon, as I walked up to my RV parked on the street, I heard an odd noise coming from it — a brief rustling sound. Curious, I walked around the RV, listening. As I came round the back to the passenger side, I heard it again. I opened an access panel for the fridge and found a lot of dry leaves. Hmmm. Some kind of nest? I cleaned the leaves out and climbed the ladder up to the roof to check the roof vent. The rustler had chewed a hole through the plastic big enough to enter! So I went to the hardware store for some steel mesh and screwed that over the whole vent. Let's see the rustler chew through that! (Makes me glad I have a really good squirrel hunter along with me.)
Monday, June 25, 2007
Second Vehicle IV: A Ray of Hope
Hmmm. Maybe a motor scooter isn't such a bad idea after all. I surf the web looking at scooters. Honda has nothing that really fits my situation, but Yamaha does: the Vino 125. Bigger engine than a moped, but smaller than a motorcycle. A practical compromise — enough power and speed for my needs, no more.
So I pay a visit to the Yamaha dealer in South Minneapolis, find the Vino and sit on it. Feels good! Looks good. Seems like a pretty good match for the Travel Adventure. I talk with a young salesman, Pete, (all names have been changed) who is amiable and helpful, and go home to think about it.
How would I bring this thing along? A carrier rack for the back of the RV is out of the question for anything this heavy — it would pull the back of the RV down. So I search for trailers. They come as fancy as you could want, upwards of thousands of dollars, but I want something small, simple, and appropriate to the task. Finally, I find one for around $500 shipped, but it would arrive as a box of parts and have to be assembled. When would I have time to do that? In the hot sun? Does this make any sense? I decide to think about it.
A couple of days later, I am struck with a Ray of Hope. Suddenly, it does make sense! Yes, I can do it! Yes, this is it! Yes! Yes! Yes!
Inspired, I revisit the Yamaha dealer, where I find that Pete is out sick that day, and Ralph can help me, but he's with another customer right now. OK, I sit on the Vino some more and wait. And wait. And wait. I go looking for Ralph and find that he's still in animated conversation with his customer, and shows no sign of acknowledging my existence on Planet Earth. So I inquire at the desk if someone else could help me, and follow Stu to his desk.
Stu is an amazing sight. It's only June, the season has barely begun, and already he's bored with selling motor scooters and motorcycles. He leans back in his chair, puts his hands behind his head, yawns, and answers my questions, but has no intention of selling me a Vino. I leave.
What's wrong with this picture? Don't they want to make sales? Don't they want to make money? Why would they brush off a person with a credit card in his pocket, ready to buy? My friends clued me in later. I don't fit the profile of their customers. I am, after all, a senior citizen.
So I pay a visit to the Yamaha dealer in South Minneapolis, find the Vino and sit on it. Feels good! Looks good. Seems like a pretty good match for the Travel Adventure. I talk with a young salesman, Pete, (all names have been changed) who is amiable and helpful, and go home to think about it.
How would I bring this thing along? A carrier rack for the back of the RV is out of the question for anything this heavy — it would pull the back of the RV down. So I search for trailers. They come as fancy as you could want, upwards of thousands of dollars, but I want something small, simple, and appropriate to the task. Finally, I find one for around $500 shipped, but it would arrive as a box of parts and have to be assembled. When would I have time to do that? In the hot sun? Does this make any sense? I decide to think about it.
A couple of days later, I am struck with a Ray of Hope. Suddenly, it does make sense! Yes, I can do it! Yes, this is it! Yes! Yes! Yes!
Inspired, I revisit the Yamaha dealer, where I find that Pete is out sick that day, and Ralph can help me, but he's with another customer right now. OK, I sit on the Vino some more and wait. And wait. And wait. I go looking for Ralph and find that he's still in animated conversation with his customer, and shows no sign of acknowledging my existence on Planet Earth. So I inquire at the desk if someone else could help me, and follow Stu to his desk.
Stu is an amazing sight. It's only June, the season has barely begun, and already he's bored with selling motor scooters and motorcycles. He leans back in his chair, puts his hands behind his head, yawns, and answers my questions, but has no intention of selling me a Vino. I leave.
What's wrong with this picture? Don't they want to make sales? Don't they want to make money? Why would they brush off a person with a credit card in his pocket, ready to buy? My friends clued me in later. I don't fit the profile of their customers. I am, after all, a senior citizen.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Second Vehicle III: Reality Check
1. Bicycle. When my bicycle was stolen in St. Paul a few years ago, I said "Good riddance!" I hadn't been riding it ayway, so that simply concluded my lifetime of bicycling. Since I'm not in shape to ride a bicycle and it wouldn't be of much use for a day trip or going for help, it isn't really a good choice, which is too bad, because it's the easiest and cheapest option.
2. Moped. Next step up from a bicycle, and certainly better than pedaling, but how do you carry one? Google says racks are available to mount in a hitch receiver, but my RV doesn't have one of those. (I think my ancient RV was built before the hitch receiver was invented.)
3. Motor scooter. Ha ha, very funny. I had one of these when I was a teen and have always associated them with youth. Do I want to ride one as a retiree?
4. Small car. The possibilities are many, including a Geo Metro or a VW Golf, but the most interesting suggestions (thank you Riley) were a Porsche or a Mazda Miata. I leaned toward the Miata, due to better expected reliability, apparently towable with four tires on the road (if it has a manual transmission) and advantageously light weight for towing. (Dreams of riding around with the top down, admiring the Canadian Rockies...)
Reality check: Towing a car requires a class 3 or 4 hitch, meaning it's got heavy steel connections to the RV chassis. I looked at my RV hitch — it's just bolted to the bumper! D'oh! So towing a car would require fitting the RV with a big, expensive new hitch and outfitting a Miata with expensive towing hardware. Plus finding and buying a used Miata. Too much, too much.
2. Moped. Next step up from a bicycle, and certainly better than pedaling, but how do you carry one? Google says racks are available to mount in a hitch receiver, but my RV doesn't have one of those. (I think my ancient RV was built before the hitch receiver was invented.)
3. Motor scooter. Ha ha, very funny. I had one of these when I was a teen and have always associated them with youth. Do I want to ride one as a retiree?
4. Small car. The possibilities are many, including a Geo Metro or a VW Golf, but the most interesting suggestions (thank you Riley) were a Porsche or a Mazda Miata. I leaned toward the Miata, due to better expected reliability, apparently towable with four tires on the road (if it has a manual transmission) and advantageously light weight for towing. (Dreams of riding around with the top down, admiring the Canadian Rockies...)
Reality check: Towing a car requires a class 3 or 4 hitch, meaning it's got heavy steel connections to the RV chassis. I looked at my RV hitch — it's just bolted to the bumper! D'oh! So towing a car would require fitting the RV with a big, expensive new hitch and outfitting a Miata with expensive towing hardware. Plus finding and buying a used Miata. Too much, too much.
Second Vehicle II: The Possibilities
Over several days, the possibilities danced above my head.
1. Bicycle, carried on a rack on the back of the RV, as I have done before, so I know it works.
2. Moped, carried on a rack on the back of the RV? Don't know about this.
3. Motor scooter, carried how? Rack? Trailer? Don't know about this.
4. Car, towed behind the RV. I've never done this, but have seen cars being towed behind RVs.
1. Bicycle, carried on a rack on the back of the RV, as I have done before, so I know it works.
2. Moped, carried on a rack on the back of the RV? Don't know about this.
3. Motor scooter, carried how? Rack? Trailer? Don't know about this.
4. Car, towed behind the RV. I've never done this, but have seen cars being towed behind RVs.
Second Vehicle I: The Seduction
It hadn't occurred to me. It came in a friend's remark, "Gee, wouldn't it be nice to have a second vehicle along?"
Sure, it would be great. It would let me park the RV in a nice spot and be able to go to town for groceries or take a day trip. If I got stranded in the RV, I could go for help in the second vehicle.
It would be fun. It would add to the pleasure of the adventure. It would be the frosting on the cake.
Sure, it would be great. It would let me park the RV in a nice spot and be able to go to town for groceries or take a day trip. If I got stranded in the RV, I could go for help in the second vehicle.
It would be fun. It would add to the pleasure of the adventure. It would be the frosting on the cake.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Sightseeing in Minnesota
Starting to daydream about the trip.... beginning with Travels Across Minnesota to the North Shore. I must stop by Grand Marais and the Gunflint Trail.
What else to see in Northern and Central Minnesota? Your suggestions are welcome! In fact, I'm soliciting your ideas and suggestions. Please tell me about your favorite spots, restaurants, scenic overlooks, and fun things to see on a vagabond journey between Minneapolis and Grand Marais. (Leave a comment here, or go to my Profile and click Email.)
What else to see in Northern and Central Minnesota? Your suggestions are welcome! In fact, I'm soliciting your ideas and suggestions. Please tell me about your favorite spots, restaurants, scenic overlooks, and fun things to see on a vagabond journey between Minneapolis and Grand Marais. (Leave a comment here, or go to my Profile and click Email.)
Friday, June 1, 2007
One Month to Launch!
Only one month left before setting off on the trip. So much to do....
Ripped out the aging car radio from the RV, now preparing to install a new Pioneer radio/CD player I bought on the web for $95. Tore up the old carpet (chartreuse shag, heavily saturated with 1970s nostalgia and cigarette smoke from the previous owners) and will soon lay down some new carpet I obtained for free from the Magic Dumpster in my apartment complex.
Ripped out the aging car radio from the RV, now preparing to install a new Pioneer radio/CD player I bought on the web for $95. Tore up the old carpet (chartreuse shag, heavily saturated with 1970s nostalgia and cigarette smoke from the previous owners) and will soon lay down some new carpet I obtained for free from the Magic Dumpster in my apartment complex.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Framing the Concept
Today's NY Times brings the news that this summer's vacationers are "ditching their shoes and seeking out destinations that shun the gloss and polish of their everyday lives." They want "more authentic experiences than a five-star resort can offer them. This is completely about immersing yourself in a particular culture."
OK, I can go with that. This summer, I want to immerse myself in Canadian culture.
"They find that they want to immerse themselves in something they can't quite put their finger on. They want to be African or be Moroccan, a they see it."
This summer, I want to be Canadian.
OK, I can go with that. This summer, I want to immerse myself in Canadian culture.
"They find that they want to immerse themselves in something they can't quite put their finger on. They want to be African or be Moroccan, a they see it."
This summer, I want to be Canadian.
Monday, May 7, 2007
The Main Idea
The main idea for the upcoming travel is John Steinbeck's wonderful book "Travels with Charlie in Search of America" in which he and his dog drove around to see what they could see and meet who they could meet.
The similarity is striking: I'm single, have a pet and a small RV, and the three of us are setting out on an adventure around North America. We'll start in Minneapolis and head north into Canada, or at least that's the plan so far. Hope to get everything together by the end of June.
The similarity is striking: I'm single, have a pet and a small RV, and the three of us are setting out on an adventure around North America. We'll start in Minneapolis and head north into Canada, or at least that's the plan so far. Hope to get everything together by the end of June.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
Getting the RV Ready
The front turn signal on the passenger side doesn't work and it looks like a bad contact on the socket, so I soldered a new ground wire to it.
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