Flour, Physics, Sculpture

Well, I didn't wing out of Redwing too swiftly. First I drove to the top of the Memorial Park bluff to take overlook pictures of Redwing and of Wisconsin in the distance. Then I stopped in town to take pictures of the grand Lutheran, Methodist and Episcopalian churches built of beautiful Minnesota yellow limestone. The churches are all packed together in midtown, as if there were a single area zoned for houses of God. Or perhaps, following the strategy of fast food strips and shopping malls, the churches hoped that if you didn't like one, the proximity of alternatives would lead you to buy another brand. Another gander at the peregrine falcon, and then I visited the Redwing Pottery outlet. Lots of crockery with the redwing logo on it, as well as other classic kitchenware and kitchen tchotchkes (e.g., teeny cheese graters).

Then it was back on the Great River Road, which now stayed out of sight of the Great River until the St. Paul skyline came into view, when the road again hugged the river, hunkering low beneath the skyscrapers and the Capitol dome. The road crossed the river, and then at Mendota a sign pointed to Sibley House. I drove down to a silent, dead-end street with train tracks and heavy river vegetation on one side, and a few historical buildings on the other. A couple of them, the Sibley House and store, were architecturally plain but built of the lovely yellow limestone. Henry Hastings Sibley was the first governor of Minnesota and a descendant of Revolutionary War veterans. The Daughters of the American Revolution had purchased and restored his house, envisioning a Minnesota "Mount Vernon" when they opened the property to the public in 1910. Mendota, now a tiny suburb of the Twin Cities, is where the Minnesota and Mississippi rivers meet, and the site was once a fort and a fur trading center. Obviously, I was on what had once been an important road in a town of consequence, but now it had that haunted, cast-away feeling of rust belt areas -- the sort of place where teenagers would go to drink and neck by the river, and clean cut citizens would quickly back out and away if they accidentally found themselves there at night.

From there it was into the web of Minneapolis freeways. I must say, I do not think much of the engineering of the Twin City freeways, nor of the driving habits of the citizenry. I nevertheless somehow survived to stumble into downtown Minneapolis, which appears to be booming -- the warehouse district a chic condo neighborhood, and lots of construction producing more condos and office space. I took a picture of the Gold Medal Flour sign which looms high over the river, because my mother worked for General Mills -- specifically for the Betty Crocker test kitchens which tested the Gold Medal flour. Back across the Mississippi, I found Tate Building at the center of the University of Minnesota maroon-brick campus, the word "Physics" engraved above its Grecian columns. My father obtained his Ph.D. in nuclear physics there after WWII. The first floor had history exhibits describing the accomplishments of physicists who would have been professors and classmates of my father. I asked a friendly professor to direct me to the nuclear physics area, and he asked whether my father had done experimental or theoretical work. When I said experimental, he pointed out that such high energies are needed for current experimental work that it occurs only where there is room for super colliders. But he did show me the corner offices of the theoretical physicists, which look like offices of professors of every discipline everywhere. And I did take a picture of the tank that had housed the Van de Graaff accelerator that had helped make U. Minn. prominent in physics and was used by my father for his research.

With my high opinion of the Minneapolis freeways, I cleverly timed my exit for rush hour. After getting shunted onto the wrong freeway, then funneled into a clogged construction zone at the first possible exit, and finally eating dinner at an Anywhere America restaurant to wait out the rush, I headed northwest on I-94 to Alexandria. This was driving into the drought zone. The corn was stunted, its leaves crisped brown. The news reported that NW Minnesota was requesting emergency relief. Although I was just as happy that the predicted rain showers did not materialize, it was not a happy thing for the farmers.

A large fraction of the 10,000 lakes are located in the region between Alexandria, Fergus Falls, and Detroit Lakes. It is a hilly area. In the northern Iowa/Illinois Mississippi Valley region, the hills were there because the glaciers had not touched the region. Here the hills were due to the glaciers, being formed of glacial debris deposits. Go figure. I chose a route through the network of interlake roads that would take me by the promising-sounding Inspiration Peak State Scenic Wayside Park. The road passed lakes like mirrors, some with egrets, geese and/or ducks. One pond hosted a group of black cows next to a group of geese. Some lakes were not mirrors but were coated with green algae.

Unlike the other wayside parks I've passed that have been right at the side of the way, the Inspiration Peak wayside park was up a length of road. From the parking lot, next to an inviting picnic grove, was a path up a not-trivial grade to the bald top of the peak. A sign explained that Sinclair Lewis, the Nobel prizewinning novelist, had high praise for this spot and chided his fellow Minnesotans for not knowing about their own haunts of beauty. He would still be distressed, as mine was the only car in the parking lot. I climbed to the top and, unlike Lewis, failed to be very inspired -- I'm probably spoiled by the thousand foot views in the Rockies, compared to the 400-ft view here. But it was pretty, and there were lovely flowers blooming atop the hill. Back at the picnic spot I enjoyed the PB&J sandwich I had made from motel complimentary breakfast fare, plus veggies and fruit from a grocery. (The grocery in Alexandria, population 10,000, was a non-chain that featured some organic produce and some items such as you would find at Whole Foods. I've noticed a strong health consciousness in South Dakota and Minnesota -- lots of health-oriented menu choices, low fat milk for the cereal at motel breakfasts, diet advice on the radio, etc.) Another car had appeared, and a very patient woman dealt with four energy-charged children in a walk up and down the peak and then at a picnic lunch. It turned out she was a teacher, which may explain the patience, spending the summer at a lake cabin. Two motorcycles and another car showed before I left, so Sinclair needn't completely turn over in his grave.

I now followed the signs for the Otter Tail Scenic Byway, through fields of corn and wheat, past weathering barns and silos. The corn looked in better shape here, though the degree of health was variable (microclimates? irrigation differences? groundwater table differences?). At Vining, I was confronted with another one of the road wonders that somehow don't make the AAA tour guide. Nyberg Park there is filled with the sculptures of Ken Nyberg -- an elephant made of saw blades, an elk, a huge potted cactus, huge pliers with a very big beetle hanging on, a huge half watermelon with a huge knife stuck into the rind, a huge grappling hook, a huge square knot, and a cute little alien. Next to a life-size sculpture of an Apollo astronaut standing next to the US flag is a sign that says "Vining Honors Karen Nyberg, NASA Astronaut". Karen is Ken's daughter -- thinking big runs in the family.

There were, of course, lots of lakes, all surrounded by trees and reeds and cattails, some with little islands, some with patches of aquatic plants, some with white dead trees standing in water. The largest -- Clitherall Lake, Battle Lake, Otter Tail Lake, Lida Lake -- were surrounded by summer homes, resorts, and boat docks. At one point, there was a sunken pond mostly covered with algae and cluttered with dead trees. My eye seemed to catch something as the car whizzed by, so I turned around, drove back, parked the car, and got out the binoculars. Sure enough, standing on a nest high in a dead tree was an osprey. As I walked nearer, it started squealing -- a funny thin, high-pitched call for such a large ferocious bird, like Charles Bronson's voice -- and retreated to a more distant tree.

West of Perham I turned off the Otter Tail Scenic route and crossed out of Otter Tail County into Becker County. At Detroit Lakes I turned west on Route 10. At first, the land remained hilly, and wheat predominated as the crop of choice. The hilly golden wheat punctuated by clusters of green trees made it feel like northern California. The road entered Moorhead, crossed an impressive modern-artistic bridge over the Red River, and, presto, I was in Fargo, North Dakota. With that, I have stepped foot in 49 of the 50 states, plus the District of Columbia. Only Alaska is left. No, I'm not going to pop up to Alaska on this trip.

I have scratched Fargo off the potential retirement community list. I spent no time there, but sped north on I-29. It probably started before I got to Fargo, but it seemed like the minute I crossed into North Dakota, the land became absolutely flat. The trees were no longer clusters around farm houses or along creeks, but were long, straight rows clearly planted as wind breaks in what would otherwise be treeless land. The crops were irrigated and were some low-to-the-ground plant, no more corn. At Grand Forks, I drove past the space age architecture of the University of North Dakota and found a motel. Also a Starbucks. I have no cell phone signal, the otherwise well-appointed motel has no wireless or ethernet, but Grand Forks has a Starbucks. Life is good.

I'm sending this from the Grand Forks City/County Public Library. Signs at the entry beg bicyclists to lock their bikes. Crime must have only recently reached Grand Forks. The library has framed prints you can check out, 50¢ for 6 weeks. For less than $5.00 per year, you could have a changing art exhibit in your home.

Deep breath -- I'm headed west into the emptiness.

Great Revelations on the Great River Road

I've taken a few days away from the Adventure to visit friends and loved ones. We pick up again at Galena, Illinois. Galena is Latin for lead sulfide, and the combination of the lead mines and easy access to the Mississippi down the Galena River had made this a major town in early America. Ulysses S. Grant had moved to Galena to work for a branch of his father's leather tanning business, when the Civil War began and he rode off to become a towering historical figure. When he returned victorious to Galena, the adoring and well-off town gave him a house, complete with furnishings. In the subsequent years, the lead was mined out, the river silted in, the business departed, and time passed the town by. As a result, its beautiful red brick buildings were not sacrificed to progress, and it is a charming little tourist town now. The surrounding area consists of beautiful rolling hills -- the glaciers didn't affect this area. I arrived just in time for the last tour of the Grant home, which Grant's children gave back to the town with the original furniture -- few historic houses are so well endowed. Then I went to the Main Street to look for a post card. Nearly every store was closed at 5 pm, although there was still plenty of daylight for tourists to wander around. Greed is not great in Galena.

A little north of there, I crossed the Mississippi into Iowa at Dubuque and headed up the Great River Road of the western shore. The terrain continued hilly, the road winding first west, then north through fields of corn. At the crest of a hill, the Mississippi appeared below as blue pools in a valley of green. After a steep descent, I came to Guttenburg and turned into the business district, which fronted the river. Dinner was at the Cafe Mississippi. Halfway through the meal, a barge came through the lock. Yes, the lock. I've just learned that there are a number of locks and dams on the Mississippi above St. Louis. Along with dredging of a channel, the concrete and steel have tamed the rapids and shallows that had made the Upper Mississippi a hazardous cruise. The barge was actually 15 barges linked together, 3 x 5. Locals told me they might contain soybeans or coal or limestone blocks, hundreds of thousands of dollars worth.

Golf fanatics will have heard of the golf course at Guttenburg. Aviation buffs will know that Charles Lindberg and other early pilots used the Lakeshore dance hall at Guttenberg for dead reckoning on flights west from Chicago. Printing historians will know the town possesses a Gutenburg Bible facsimile that was damaged in the WWII firebombing and that Mainz was willing to sell to raise money to restore its museum.

After a pleasant night at the roadside motel there, I continued up the Great River Road. As well as never hearing about locks and dams on the Mississippi, I don't recall ever hearing how incredibly beautiful the Upper Mississippi Valley is. It is lined on both sides by green-cloaked bluffs. There often are islands in the middle of the river and, through the National Wildlife Refuge portion, large green plates of aquatic plants. The Great River Road winds between the bluffs and the river, providing frequent lovely vistas of wide water and green hills. The time to visit for bird lovers is winter, when there reportedly are hundreds of bald-headed eagles, flocks of tundra swans, and hundreds of thousands of ducks.

In McGregor, Iowa, I found a coffee shop with decor and menu to match anything in a large city. It shared a building with a massage/reflexology/self-empowerment business that appeared to be a slice of Santa Fe or Sedona incongruously dropped into the Midwest. Just north of there I crossed the arched bridges into Prairie du Chien, WI, just to see what was there. The name means Dog Plain. The French explorers Marquette and Jolliet entered the Mississippi here. The area was a nice flat plain in the midst of all the hills and bluffs, and the Indian chief at that location was Alim -- meaning Dog. Turned aside by construction, I didn't see much, and then went back across the bridges (gorgeous views -- wish they'd had a turnout for pictures) and a couple miles north to the Effigy Mounds National Park. I'd bought a National Parks annual pass at the Badlands, but hadn't expected to use it again until Montana. But here was another little gem in the park system I'd never heard of. I knew that there had been Indian cultures that built burial mounds, but I didn't know that some of them built mounds in the shapes of bears and birds. The map made it look like a hike up the trails to the mounds, built on top a particularly high bluff, would be well-rewarded with river views, but the day was hot and I didn't want to spend a lot of time there. So I viewed the simple circular mounds and the replica Indian village near the visitor center and drove on.

I'm discovering there is no city name that has been used just once in this country. Did you know there is a Harper's Ferry, Iowa, right there on the Mississippi? Or Durango, Iowa, or Cleveland, Minnesota?

In Winona, MN, I took a tour of the Watkins Products museum and store. I first encountered Watkins at an antique store in Lamberton. I can't believe I hadn't heard of them before -- their wares seem like the sort one would encounter often in gourmet shops and health stores. Watkins is an international company that began in the later half of the 19th century. Their 350 products include toiletries, spices and extracts, medicinal tonics and syrups, and cocoa and soup powders. The bottles and labels are charmingly evocative of the company's Victorian roots. Their best known product is real vanilla extract, undiluted by imitation flavors (although you can get that variety, too).

The day ended in Redwing MN, bringing me full circle and finally ready to turn westward again. A local who observed me taking pictures of the beautiful Redwing train depot pointed out the peregrine falcons that have been nesting atop one of the grain elevators for 10 years. If you make it to Redwing, perhaps for eagle watching, don't miss the double lemon pie at the Liberty's Restaurant and Lounge.

Winging on from Redwing. Ann

Lake Benton to Lake Pepin

Shortly after crossing into Minnesota, huge white windmills appeared in the fields, and Lake Benton announced that it was the Windpower Capital of the Midwest. Lake Benton High also boasted that it had been 9-man football champion in '73 and '74. Now, that's resting on your laurels.

The fields continued to get flatter and greener, with the corn higher, and the road still passed many small lakes. I reached Tracy, which was the end of the railroad line when the Ingalls moved to Dakota Territory. The Wilder Inn looked nice, but was full for the night. The clerk graciously called ahead to the Lamberton Motel, which did have a room. Over the phone, the owner told me it would be $38, so I was expecting a dump, but when I walked into my room in the little strip motel, it felt like a 4-star resort. The room was beautifully decorated in a northern woods hunting motif. The queen bed was on a four-poster frame of rustic but artistic wood (the kind that uses branches with the bark still on) and had a quilt-like cover and matching sham pillows. Moose and bear and pine silhouettes were incorporated into the lamp shades, the throw pillows on a bench by the wall, and the backs of the chairs on either side of the table in the window, and there was a wood moose statue on the TV stand. An arm chair and mirror were both made with rustic wood frames matching the bedstead. The phone was made to look like one of the old wall-mounted phones with the hand set hanging on a hook on the side and two bells above the circular dial pad (the "finger holes" were actually push buttons). The area in front of the motel was grassed, and a small park with lots of trees was on the other side of the road, between the road and the train tracks.

Train rumbles woke me early the next day. I did my morning meditation on the lawn while a tug pushed and pulled cars along the track. (The motel was kitty-corner to the huge grain elevator, so it was a busy spot on the rail line.) The tug would start up, and a wave would run along the line of cars -- clack, clack, clack, clack. Then the tug would stop and the wave of clacks would run the other way.

After checking out, I tried unsuccessfully to locate the Lamberton Cafe (the business section was only 2 blocks long -- how could it hide?) and decided to drive back west to Walnut Grove without breakfast. Walnut Grove is the town near the Ingalls farm that is portrayed in "On the Banks of Plum Creek". There I found breakfast at Nellie's Cafe. The menu listed prices for: 1 egg and toast; 1 egg, toast and potato; 1 egg, toast and meat; 2 eggs and toast; 2 eggs, toast and potato; and 2 eggs, toast and meat. There was no option for eggs, toast, meat and potato. Atkins dieters take note -- a safe vacation spot! While eating two eggs, toast, patty sausage and hot chocolate, I chatted with David, who had left this area at 17 and gone to work for Smuckers in Ohio for 59 years. His wife, whom he had met at Smuckers, died last year, and he moved back to Walnut Grove to live with his daughter. He told me stories of his service in WWII, and of the incomparable bond between a soldier and his buddy. He also told me of friends who had developed cancer or heart disease and had died soon after going off "the program" (more vegetables and less meat and potatoes). He was staying on the program due to his colon cancer for which he had had surgery in June. He left to mow the lawn before the day got too hot. Having strength to mow the lawn only a few weeks after major surgery -- what a marvel our modern medicine is.

Then it was time for the Laura Ingalls Wilder museum in Walnut Grove. It was stuffed with more facts and figures about Laura, Ma, Pa, Mary, Carrie, Grace, Almanzo, the Olesons, the Johnsons, Nellie Owens (Olson in the book) and Walnut Grove in the 1880's than you can shake a stick at. Native prairie flowers had been planted at the museum and were blooming in a dazzling proliferation of yellows, blues and pinks.

A mile and a half north of Walnut Grove is the farm that originally was the Ingalls homestead, setting of the L.I.W. book, "On the Banks of Plum Creek". The current owners -- the Gordons -- are kind enough to have a road through their corn and soybean fields to Plum Creek and a walk with signs pointing out the sites of the dugout house, the spring, the plum thickets, and other landmarks mentioned in the book. Plum Creek was a very pretty, shallow, cool, clear stream peacefully meandering through a lane of trees and bushes. The Gordons have converted several acres back to native prairie, also much in bloom, and plan to do more.

I was in a quandary whether to continue east to Pepin, Wisconsin, site of the book, "Little House in the Big Woods", or turn north to the Detroit Lakes area. I decided the first thing was to try and post what is now the previous entry. I've realized that my best bet for reliable wireless is a public library, and my best bet for a public library is a county seat. So I went up to the county seat of Redwood Falls, an attractive little town on the Redwood River near its confluence with the Minnesota River. On the way I stopped at the Wayside Park in Vesta, home of the nation's first electric co-op. The library did not have wireless but did have a desktop with DSL, so that I at least could get email. (Without the long explanation of why, I need wireless to post my blogs.) It was then nearly 5 pm, and I was quite tired from not much sleep the night before, and decided the Lamberton Motel had been so nice, I'd just go back. Thus, I spent the day simply making a circle through Redwood County.

The motel owner provided directions to the Lamberton Cafe; turns out it had been hiding by having no sign other than a banner saying "Restaurant" on a building that didn't particularly look to be a going concern. And it wasn't going that night -- closed Monday and Tuesday evenings -- so I procured bing cherries, Swiss cheese and Triscuits at the grocery. I peered in the window of the corner bakery across the street and saw a case of pastries. In the morning I returned for a donut and a small Danish which cost me all of 30 cents! Well, frankly, they weren't worth more, being rather dry and stale, but they were good enough with left over bing cherries to make breakfast out on the motel lawn. In the park across the street, tiered on a high dead limb of one of the trees, were about 10 vultures, perfectly framed by the green parts of the trees and the blue sky. Three of them opened their wings and just sat there spreadwinged for several minutes before they all flew away (probably because of all the pictures I was taking).

I chose east to Pepin and continued on the Laura Ingalls Wilder Historic Highway. Not far down the road were signs encouraging a stop at the Sod House on the Prairie. It is a farm where the owner has built a sod house, just like the million or so that used to dot the prairie -- clever construction by pioneers faced with no timber. The property also has a dugout, a little log cabin fitted like a trapper's home, and 10 acres of native prairie grasses and flowers. The sod house is a B & B, and the hosts provide calico dresses and bonnets, band collar shirts, and high top shoes in a variety of sizes so that you can dress like a settler during your stay if you wish. Looked like a lot of fun on a pleasant summer day such as I had -- warm, but not hot, and the prairie very still except for the chatting of tiny wrens clinging to tall grass stems. See www.sodhouse.org for pictures and info.

I wended my way to Redwing, MN (as in Redwing shoes and Redwing pottery) on minor roads through beautiful farmland -- huge fields of intensely green corn and soybeans broken by knots of farmhouses, barns, silos, and trees. All the business districts now were real business districts, and many towns were nicely dinged up with parks, flower baskets on main street, nice community centers, etc. In New Ulm -- where the names of stores and the beer garden music on Main Street affirmed the Germanic connection -- the public library had wireless. In New Prague, a huge, decorative edifice was the Church of St. Wenceslas, and the library sported a sculpture donated by Milos Vlcek of Brno, Czech Republic, in gratitude for the hospitality shown his son Lukas during his Rotary Club exchange year. All across South Dakota and Minnesota, town names have declared the diverse homelands of former immigrants, and American patriotism has been prominently on display, with flags along main streets and "We support our troops" signs in yards.

Wednesday I awoke early and went down to Colville Park by the Mississippi River. The barge captains were up early, too, just beginning the process of hooking up the tugs to the chains of barges. Boat hulls were reflected in the smooth water of the marina. The day started sunny, but clouds quickly washed the sky a flat gray. Back at the motel, the weather forecasters were showing storms moving east across mid-Minnesota, with severe weather warnings for the Twin Cities, so I hustled onto the road, hoping to stay ahead of the rain. I crossed the Mississippi on Route 63, then turned south onto the Great River Road that soon is following the shore of Lake Pepin -- a widening of the Mississippi created by the Chippewa dumping a natural dam of glacial debris into the riverbed. You could tell it would be just a gorgeous drive on a sunny day, but everything was muted and hazy that day. The radio was broadcasting a severe weather warning for several counties in MN and two counties in WI. Oh joy! One of them was Pepin County -- the county I was in! Fortunately, the rain waited until I had driven 7 miles off the main road, into the site of the Little House in the Big Woods, where Laura Ingalls Wilder was born. A replica log cabin has been built there, its three small rooms and loft looking manorial compared to a claim shanty. The LIW museum in Pepin was closed and so, with a clap of thunder, burst of lightening, and sheet of rain, my tour of Laura Ingalls Wilder locations and lore was done, for this trip anyway.

Hot Time in South Dakota

After posting the last entry while enjoying a breve and scones at the Cafe Latte in Rapid City, I headed east on Omaha Street, which soon turned into 44. "East!?! I thought this was Westward Ho." Overall, yes, but in a curlicue fashion. I want to see Minnesota and North Dakota -- partly because I never have, and partly because, once I've been to those two states, I'll only have Alaska left in order to have been in all 50.

Route 44 curves under the south side of Badlands National Park, then, just beyond Interior, joins 240 to go through the Badlands. I turned into the Business District of Interior. It consisted of the little Badlands Grocery, the tiny Interior post office, and an Indian crafts "outlet" -- a small room with a modest inventory of pottery, jewelry, beadwork and T-shirts. I became one of a very elite club to possess an Interior, SD polo shirt.

Immediately after paying my National Parks fee to gain entry to the Badlands, I stopped at the Cedar Pass Lodge for an Indian taco (seasoned buffalo meat, cheese, lettuce and tomato on Indian fry bread). Then into the heat and the barren earthen pyramidal towers of the Badlands. The Badlands join Bryce, Zion, and Ghost Ranch as a huge piece of real estate where geology, erosion, and aridity have collaborated to create an astonishing landscape. It is a photographer's paradise -- every turn providing new layers of weird formations, and lots of turnouts provided to appreciate them. I turned out at each of them and took pictures. To the extent possible, I took pictures from the car, or simply jumped out quickly for a shot, and then jumped back into the air conditioning. The car's thermometer read 104 F. To my amazement, a number of tourists were willing to walk the trails from the turnouts in that heat. There was not a single wisp of cloud to shield the sun and, usually, not a single tree in sight. Often there was prairie on one side of the road, but the absolutely barren badland formations on the other, their buff and red surfaces reflecting back yet more light and heat. The sky was not deep blue, but nearly white at the horizon, making the phrase "white hot" seem appropriate to describe the ambience. (The whiteness in the sky actually was due to another kind of heat -- it was smoke from fires in northeastern Wyoming.)

Just north of Badlands National Park and just off Interstate 90 is the town of Wall, home of the famous Wall Drug. Think of every curio and T-shirt shop you've ever seen, put together into a building that fills a full city block, and you have Wall Drug. There is a soda fountain, a cowboy apparel store ("Cowboy up!" suggested a billboard coming out of the Badlands), a bookstore, a toy store, a chapel, and on and on. There is even a section with sundries and over-the-counter drugs, although I didn't see any place to fill a prescription. The coin- (or dollar bill-) operated amusement I enjoyed the most was a gizmo that mechanically played two guitars, a banjo, and a tambourine in a pleasant country tune.

I stopped in at the National Grassland Visitor Center in Wall and learned that the abundant purple flower I had admired in the Black Hills is a weed that is wreaking havoc in the north central range. Outside the Center I saw a new bird for my list -- a Western Kingbird with a black mask, black tail, gray back, and bright yellow underside. From Wall I was forced to take Interstate for 1/2 mile to the exit onto Route 14 , which passed through checkered prairie, range and wheat fields to Pierre. I made a point of turning each time a sign pointed to a business district. In most cases, the "business district" had only a couple stores. Each town had a pleasant City Park. Late in the day I crossed the wide Missouri into Pierre, one of a handful of state capitals not on an Interstate. After procuring a motel room, I went down to Steamboat Park, just in time to see the sun set behind the Missouri River bridge. A sign told me I was on the Lewis and Clark Trail! (To my surprise, it was paved. I didn't know they had asphalt back then. :) ) Then dinner at Mad Mary's Steakhouse, which was decorated with rifles and pictures of John Wayne and had classic country (e.g., Patsy Cline, Hank Williams) as the music. Dinner was an excellent sirloin (Beef!) and tasty "sunspots" -- fried rounds of sweet potato.

On Saturday I didn't get on the road until 11:30, at which point it was 110 F in Pierre. Lucky me -- I was here for the hottest day in South Dakota recorded history. Pierre later got up to 117 F, but, by driving east, I didn't have to put up with any more than 109 F. A stiff breeze helped alleviate the force of that temperature. The towns gave evidence of former prosperity that has been degraded by drought and bypass highways. The business in the "business district" of Blunt consisted of the post office and the city hall. Possibly the old barbershop was open on weekdays, but the hardware store and old clapboard movie theater were clearly dead. In Highmore, I stopped at the Tastee Freeze for a tin roof sundae (chocolate vanilla swirl with caramel and chocolate sauce, topped by peanuts). Across the street was a Ford dealership whose inventory was 90% pick-up trucks. Across from it (kitty corner to the Tastee Freeze) were a variety of tractors and agricultural attachments. The road continued to pass through wheat fields, hay fields -- many with huge rolls of baled hay dotting the field -- and cattle farms. I felt sorry for the black-hided cattle stuck standing in the full force of the sun. Each little town had a grain elevator and silos. At a couple points, I passed fields that had semi trucks parked near harvesting equipment. The harvesters made the semis look small.

Huron boasted the world's largest pheasant -- a huge kitsch statue along the lines of the giant cowboys, Paul Bunyans, and cows that bedeck various enterprises throughout the country. I also saw several real pheasants. They are even more suicidal than the blackbirds in Ohio. A male ran across the road so close that I had to slam on the brakes. Later I watched in disbelief as a female flew up from the side of the road straight at my car. Just when I was sure it was going to hit right about in the driver's window, it veered away. This was just before Holabird -- perhaps named after birds who fly into cars and then become holy souls in their birdy heaven.

By 3:30, I reached De Smet, South Dakota, to sate myself on Laura Ingalls Wilder history and memorabilia. Laura was one of my best friends growing up -- I read her "Little House" series at least 10 times through. De Smet is the "Little Town on the Prairie", where Laura lived as an adolescent and young adult. The Ingalls family was the first family there, and the Wilder family was among the first. L.I.W. having become famous through her books and then a TV series, every detail about her and her family is now of intense interest. The L.I.W. Society gives tours of the surveyors' house where the Ingalls wintered after arriving at Silver Lake (sadly, drained in 1923), and of the home Charles Ingalls built in town 2 years after Laura married. They also provide a map of the locations of various buildings, or the sites of former buildings, mentioned in the books. The site of the Ingalls homestead bears a monument to Laura, and the 5 cottonwoods Pa planted there are all still standing -- huge trees now. There are also various for-profit enterprises that recreate Laura's life and pioneer living. That pioneer life is near unimaginable. When they arrived in De Smet, there was not a tree to be seen -- just endless prairie grasses. The wind blew constantly. The typical claim shanty was 10' by 8' -- your bathroom is probably larger, maybe even your closet. The winters and the summers were just as brutal as now (or nearly: apparently this summer is the most brutal), but without central heating or air conditioning or comfortable cocoons of cars to travel through the hostile atmosphere.

Sunday morning I made another visit to the Laura Ingalls Wilder Society gift shop, then headed east on Route 14, now the Laura Ingalls Wilder Historical Highway. Dark clouds were looming in the northwest, providing relief from the intense hot sun. Just outside of De Smet is a field throwing a grenade in the Culture Wars -- rows and columns of little white crosses, like a veterans cemetery, and a sign announcing there were 826 abortions in South Dakota in 2002, and over 44 million in the US since Roe v. Wade. While clearly a display planted several years ago, the lawn under the crosses was neatly mowed. And today embryonic stem cell research is again in the news. Oh Brave New World! How bravely will we deal with all the ethical challenges our amazing technologies bring?

De Smet is right at the edge of the Land o' Lakes, and the road east of there passed a number of small lakes hosting American white pelicans, egrets and ducks. A foray into the business district of Lake Preston was rewarded with a car show on Main Street -- fewer and more diverse cars than the Mustang show in Steamboat, but each car lovingly detailed, with the owners constantly wiping off each speck of dust. In Brookings, home of South Dakota State, I spent the afternoon at the public library with its free Internet access (we love libraries) and had dinner of excellent St. Louis ribs (Not beef! But the Eat Beef signs have ceased) at Cubby's Sports Bar and Grill. Then yet further east on Route 14 as the sun lengthened. Starting shortly before De Smet and continuing east, the fields became greener and greener, with more corn and less wheat and the corn stalks ever higher. The towns looked more prosperous, with going concerns in the business districts, and I crossed into Minnesota.

More Laura lore in MN. You cyber-pioneers check back in a couple days.

Wyoming Wanderings and Black Hills Thrills

By the time I'd blogged and emailed friends, it was past noon in Laramie. I finally tore myself away from the good Internet access and headed northeast. The day was fine. The weather report would call it partly cloudy, but the clouds were evenly distributed puffballs separated by ample blue with plenty of sunshine pouring through. On its clearest, purest September day, DC doesn't look this sunny. With the previous day's cloak of raincloud lifted, I now could see snowcapped peaks to the south. The land and the sky were both immense, the grassland mottled with light and shadow from the endless distribution of cumulous clouds. Signs that directed one to turn around and go back to Laramie, when flashing, and frequent snow fences on the windward side of the road bespoke the harsh winters. The road paralleled a long plank of upthrust land, then turned into it and wound through pretty sagebrush-covered hills. There were plenty of cows, and a number of dirt roads were labeled as leading to ranches. I stopped often and tried to capture on the camera the beauty of the ragged horizon against the blue sky; but it is simply impossible to convey the long lines and depth of landscape within the frame of a stationary lens. When I stepped out of the car for a pic, there was a stiff breeze and otherwise profound silence.

Eventually the road broke out of the hills and onto flat land going into Wheatland, where prairie grass alternated with fields of wheat, hay and corn (or maybe sorghum). The crops require irrigation, which is accomplished with enormous arms of pipe that wheel around a central hub and spray a circle of land into green. I had an idyllic experience working on a ranch/farm (the Two-Bar Ranch) here in the summer of 1975, and as one of my jobs mowed one of those irrigated fields. I simply got drenched every time the irrigation arm and my path of mowing intersected, and the cows pasturing in the field likewise got a periodic bath. My main job that summer was painting barns and houses barn red with white trim. I did see one barn thus colored, although one would hope it had been painted sometime between now and 1976, so probably not my handiwork. I expected Wheatland to be quite altered, because later in 1975 there were plans to build a power plant, and the population was anticipated to double or triple overnight. However, driving into town a sign announced the population to be 3850 -- less than when I lived there. The post office clerk explained that the town size had swelled while the power plant was built, but then had dwindled back down once the construction was completed. My memory of the town isn't strong -- I didn't have a car in 1975, and so probably wasn't paying much attention as I was driven around -- but it didn't seem to show signs of having had a boom. I had a reuben (beef!) at Vimbos, which, I'm pretty sure, was the restaurant at which Two-Bar bought me dinner when I interviewed for the job there.

From Wheatland I went north on 320, past the Laramie River power plant that had caused the temporary boom, with the Laramie Mountains making a noble western horizon. I turned east at 26. The land became hillier with outcrops of sandstone and lots of cows. Then I crossed the North Platte into Guernsey. The river was impressively full and wide for a western river -- I later learned they were draining the Guernsey Reservoir in what is called a silt run. A Bureau of Wrecklamation web site explains: "The silt run is an operation which provides silt-laden water to Goshen, Gering-Fort Laramie, and Pathfinder Irrigation Districts under contract with Reclamation." A sign on the main street pointed a right turn to the Oregon Trail Ruts. I'd put myself (approximately) on the Oregon Trail! I followed the signs back across the North Platte to a parking lot at the base of a bluff above the river. On top of the bluff, there were deep ruts cut right through the rock by the many wagon wheels and horse hooves of pioneers on the Oregon Trail, the Mormon Pioneer Trail, the California Trail, and the Pony Express Trail (which were all the same trail at this point). Although there is now enough grass regrowth that the non-rock portion of trail doesn't easily show in a picture, you could distinctly see the remains of the wheel ruts in the prairie grass, more than 100 years later. Remember that next time you consider walking off the designated path.

Just a couple miles downriver from the ruts was Register Cliff -- a wall of sandstone at which weary pioneers would take a recuperative stayover. They would "register" by carving their names and the date into the cliff wall. There are now probably more names and dates from the 20th century than the 19th, but it is fun to see "A.H. Unthank, 1850" and "P.D. Dianne, 1846", and perhaps our great-great-grandchildren will enjoy seeing the 1995 inscriptions. I shared Register Cliff with only two other tourists, plus a rabbit that didn't mind me getting quite close, and a number of Cedar Waxwings perching on electric wires and fence rails.

Back on 26, on the east side of Guernsey, there were clusters of train tracks lined three tracks deep or more with car after car of coal. I blew past the turn to 270 and considered going back, since it clearly went up through hills, but instead kept going east into the plains, the North Platte making a line of green to my right. At Fort Laramie (Pop. 86), a sign announced that the turn to Pine Ridge Ranch was left in 100 yards. For cars going the other direction, it said, "Whoa! You just passed the turn for Pine Ridge Ranch!" I turned up the road, thinking it might be a fun place to lodge for the night. After several miles, an imposing log gate over a dirt road announced Pine Ridge Ranch and sternly forbade entry to any who weren't owners or invited guests. So (read this in a whiny voice) why did they urge you to turn from the town? Anyway, the dirt road stretched indefinitely into the distance with no ranch in sight, so I simply followed the paved road, which, according to the map, would eventually take me to 85 near Lusk. But the center line on the road became fainter and fainter and the road looked less and less used. While the empty scenery was beautiful, I was clearly miles from anything, and it appeared that, should something disable my car, it could be a long time before another vehicle would come along. And I only had another hour or so of daylight. I'm an adventurer, but not a fearless one. So I decided to go back to 270 and see if the town of Hartville had any accommodations and, if not, find a motel in Guernsey. Hartville had a wooden sign in the shape of a large heart proclaiming that it was the oldest incorporated town in Wyoming still in existence. From the look of the little main street, it isn't in existence for too much longer. There were no cute little cabins, or even a scary-looking Bates Motel-type place, just the Miner Bar -- oldest bar in WY. So I went back to Guernsey and checked into the Sage Brush Motel. After anesthetizing myself with some TV, I went back out to see the full moon lighting the North Platte. In true small-town fashion, the town at 10:30 was completely dark and silent, no sign of activity except for a solitary man unloading something from his car into an office.

In the morning, I packed up and went to the Riverview Restaurant for steak and eggs. (Beef!) Then up 270, through immense ranches, prairie stretching in all directions. Cows were gathered around windmills, or were clustered as tiny black and brown dots against the gray-green sheets of grass. At 18/20, I turned east and drove the few miles to Lusk, then headed north on 85 and then east on 18 into South Dakota. I was in the company of many fellow vacationers -- most of the traffic on 85 and 18 appeared to be RVs and families in SUVs. On 85, I saw signs for Wall Drug (a renowned American kitsch spot which will probably appear in a future blog entry). The land had an irregular surface, but with gentle, smooth transitions, as if the Goddess had casually dropped a satin shawl. But the shawl had lain on the ground long enough that it had been rent in a number of places by sandstone outcroppings. After Lusk, the stretches of prairie began to alternate with pine covered hills. Far to the northeast, looking like miniature clouds with the distance, I spotted thunderhead precursors growing on the horizon. As I drove north and then east, it became apparent they were forming right over the Black Hills. From the distance, the pine-covered slopes of the hills did indeed look black. The road turned north at Edgemont, dropped into the Cheyenne River valley, and then began a gradual climb.

Rave reviews for the Black Hills!! I had heard of Mount Rushmore, of course, but had not heard of the many other wondrous things in the area. For example, the approach to Mt. Rushmore from the south is along the Iron Mountain Road, a narrow, winding ascent with three one-lane tunnels. Two of the tunnels perfectly frame Mt. Rushmore in the distance. There also are three "pigtails" -- constructs where the road makes a 360 degree turn, spiraling under itself, as a way to handle the steep grades. Another remarkable road is the Needles highway, also narrow and winding, with tunnels. It takes one through fantastical columns of granite pointing skyward -- the needles. At one spot there is a vista of a broad wall of such structures, known as the Cathedral Spires. (It turns out the original idea that eventually became Mt. Rushmore was to carve figures of such personages as Buffalo Bill and Chief Red Horse onto the needles.) There were several notable caves in the Black Hills -- I hate caves, but its nice to know they are there for those interested. And then there was all the wildlife -- bison, pronghorn antelope, elk, bighorn sheep, wild donkeys, prairie dogs. Overall the Black Hills had a gentle, peaceful beauty; the "feel" was most agreeable.

At Hot Springs, I stopped for lunch at the Chicago Cafe. The cafe was in the back of a shop filled with beaded moccasins, knives, jewelry, videos, baseball cards, and lots of other bits of the 10,000 things. My chicken salad had at least as much pickle relish as chicken. Route 385 from Hot Springs led first through Wind Cave Park, a Civilian Conservation Corp project that includes its own pigtail turn, and then into Custer State Park, a well-appointed and well-maintained park with camping facilities, lodges and cabins, visitor centers, informative signs, and many turnouts to admire scenery and/or animals. At the intersection of 385 and 87, there was a prairie dog town. In blatant disregard of the "Do Not Feed the Wildlife" sign, some bikers used peanut butter crackers to lure a couple of dogs close for photos. They looked like furry dumplings, sitting on their haunches and munching the crackers held up in their little paws. Further down the road, I joined several other carloads in walking out into a meadow to look at a single bison bull lying in a field. When I raised the camera for a shot, the bull obligingly rolled on its back and then stood up in full profile, exactly like a nickel. What a gentleman. Several miles later I turned onto the wildlife loop. Wildlife sightings were limited in the heat of the afternoon, but the fields of grass and stands of pine were a serene, gentle beauty. The wildlife loop rejoined the main road by the State Game Lodge ("Choice of Presidents"). The sign said vacancy, so I inquired within. There was nothing at that lodge, but a cabin was available at Sylvan Lake, so I booked that and then headed for Custer. On the way, a number of cars were pulled over to take pictures of a group of bighorn sheep on the hillside. The people viewing was as good as the wildlife viewing.

In Custer I got a scoop of mint chocolate ice cream and ate it while viewing the Dr. Flick cabin -- the oldest structure in the Black Hills, a one-room cabin that was built by the doctor when the first gold prospectors arrived, and which he had to abandon when the Army evicted the prospectors from what was then Indian land. (That didn't last long.) The cabin later became the subject of the second suit in equity in South Dakota. From Custer it was a short drive to the Crazy Horse Memorial. So far, only the face has been completed, and the arm that will stretch out over the horse's mane has been roughed out. But you can see the impressive scale model and an artist's conception of the finished project -- a sculpture higher than the Washington Monument, looming over a reflecting pool and a collection of buildings housing the University and Medical Training for the North American Indian.

From there it was a relatively short drive up the first few miles of the Needles Highway to my little mountain cabin at Sylvan Lake. The badges on the check-in clerks indicated they were from Jamaica. I remarked that the Black Hills must be a little different from Jamaica, and they agreed it was very different -- you could tell they were having quite an experience. I spent the evening on my little porch in the perfect summer night air, playing my guitar and chatting with a neighbor who was there for a big family reunion. In the morning I awoke early and walked around the lake. It is a little jewel of blue water with a wall of fantastical granite at one end and pine-covered hills around the remainder. The water was a smooth mirror and the early air already hot. A couple mallards were swimming along the shore with fuzzy little ducklings in tow. After the walk, I called to inquire about extending my stay, but, unsurprisingly, all rooms in the entire park were booked -- my one night there had been a bit of luck. So I continued along the Needles highway and up the Iron Mountain Road. The air was redolent with pine resin baking in the intense sun. At one point I had to stop for a traffic jam created by donkeys in the roadway. Apparently many people ignore the Don't Feed the Wildlife signs, and some of the donkeys walked right up to car windows hoping for a hand out. Less gregarious donkeys were on the hillside, including some adorable little ones (colts? donklettes?).

On through the above-described tunnels and pigtails to the Mt. Rushmore Memorial. It is very well done -- laid out with good traffic flow and good anticipation of tourists' questions and needs. I had lunch on the cafe patio looking up at George Washington and Thomas Jefferson (Teddy Roosevelt and Abe Lincoln were veiled by pines). My entree from the memorial concession was pizza with whole wheat crust, whole wheat crust being the only choice, if you can believe it. Imagine imposing health food on visitors to an American shrine! (although I heard plenty of foreign languages while there). After Suicide Chocolate Cake to counteract the whole wheat, I walked the Presidential Trail that goes up as close as possible to the sculptures, and took pictures from every angle. With binoculars, I observed a part of the incredible artistry of the busts -- the pupil of every eye was done differently, capturing the essence of each personality. Washington is dignified but a little sad -- perhaps wishing to be on his farm rather than wrangling with problems of State. Jefferson looks dreamy. Roosevelt looks fiercely determined. Lincoln's eyes are a well of compassion.

From Rushmore, the road falls steeply to Rapid City, which spreads onto the plain at the eastern base of the Black Hills. On the outskirts of Rapid City, I stopped in at Bear Country USA, a wildlife park that you drive through, with incompatible species separated from each other by fences and cow guards. At the end of the drive, there is a small zoo area. Most of the animals were snoozing in the hot late afternoon air, but a couple bears lumbered from one snooze spot to another and a singe wolf paced along the far fence. In the zoo area, three river otters were unfazed by the heat, and kept up a nonstop trio dance, running or wrestling or chewing their fur while piled together. After many failed attempts to capture their cuteness digitally, I drove on in to Rapid City. It is the kind of city built where land is plentiful -- wide streets, lots of space between buildings, more than two stories a rarity. Thursday I stayed in Rapid City to catch up on email and write this entry. In addition, I visited the Berlin wall memorial -- two sections of the wall with a number of plaques telling the story of its building and destruction. It was eerie to read the history of that wall even as one is being built to separate Palestinians and Israelis. Tensions are high there today, as they once were in Berlin between the US and the USSR. Let us hope the Middle East tensions also dissolve as peacefully as did the Berlin Wall.

Hippies and Cowboys

Late Thursday afternoon (July 6), I joined Sally, Liza and Emma on an excursion to see the Rainbow people. This was the 35th gathering of the Rainbow Family: 15,000-20,000 hippies in the forest north of Steamboat. You can learn about them at www.welcomehome.com/rainbow.html. Their arrival was a subject of much consternation amongst the Steamboat townspeople, but in the end their presence in town was not disturbing -- just added some different color to the tourist influx. We did hear stories of clashes with the Forest Service, perhaps due to overzealous enforcement, and we saw many police cars on our drive up and back.

We took the same road as when Sally, Mark and I went to Mad Creek, but continued much further up, around Hahn's Peak and along a series of dirt forest roads. The Rainbow people were encamped near the edge of the Mt. Zirkle wilderness. Their cars lined both sides of the forest road for quite a distance. Despite the interest of seeing people with dreadlocks and tie-dye shirts, we became caught up in looking at the license plates -- we saw every state except Vermont, Delaware, Hawaii and Alaska, and also saw several Canadian provinces. After driving to the wilderness boundary to confirm we'd reached the center of the gathering, we returned and parked the car and walked into the meadow where all the activity was. It was a blast from the past. The '60's live! The next day was to be the last day of the gathering, and many people were already leaving, so we were swimming upstream. It reminded me of the scene in Fiddler on the Roof where they must abandon the town, since people were pushing and pulling all sorts of wheelbarrows and wagons loaded with their camping equipment along the dirt path.

Many people wished us "Welcome Home" as we passed, as did the big banner at the "entrance" to the gathering (a canopy over the trail). Most Rainbow people picked up on the fact that we were gawkers rather than participants (as Sally pointed out, we were the freaks there), but were either friendly or ignored us. Despite the concerns about that many people camping in one area and the common towny perception that the Rainbow people were dirty, we saw absolutely no litter, and did see several signs admonishing respect for the environment. The 4 of us regretted that we had not joined Mark and others who came up on July 4 to witness the entire group of thousands holding hands and chanting Om in the high mountain meadow. As we drove away, a long hair declared several times that he was "loving you". The phrase became our standard parting salute for the next few days.

My half-hearted determination to leave the next day was thwarted by a combination of electronics woes on Friday and Saturday, culminating in the loss of all my pictures on the Treo. So I won't be posting the Russian onion town hall building or the live bait vending machine from Ohio. I still hope to someday figure out how to add pictures, however.

My half-hearted determination to leave Saturday was thwarted by grief over the Treo pictures combined with the fact it was raining. Sunday it still was raining, but I decided to leave anyway -- it had been a full month since I arrived in Colorado! So I went back up Rabbit Ears Pass (the way I had come from Denver), and turned north to Walden.

The weather forecast had seemed to indicate the rain would back off to sprinkles, but instead it became stronger -- nearly blinding at points. Sally had told me this route was pretty, but Mark dryly added "if you can see the mountains". I couldn't, except for one impressive glimpse of a snow covered peak where the clouds had temporarily lifted a bit. Instead, I saw lots of range land. I am in serious cow territory -- have seen several signs advising that I eat beef. With the skies pouring, I stopped for lunch at the River Rock Cafe in the Antler Inn at Walden. It had a beautiful interior with walls variously consisting of river rock, logs, and plaster above wainscot. Down the middle of the dining room were several columns made of huge cedar trunks turned upside down, so that they flared near the ceiling into the rippling circumference created by the roots. The trunks stood on square pedestals of river rock. In the bar, there was a huge chandelier made of antlers. Very western chic. Lunch was a delicious chicken fried steak. Beef. It's what's for dinner.

North of Walden the road splits to the right and to the left around a mountain. I had thought of going left so I could take a scenic route through the mountains, but it looked like I would only see clouds, so I took the more direct route to Laramie to the right. The road wound through the Medicine Bow National Forest, and then straightened out as it entered the edge of the great northern plains. It stopped raining, but stayed thickly overcast.

Laramie appears to be doing well -- the historic downtown is lined with boutiques rather than boarded up shops. I am writing this in a fine Internet cafe (The Grounds), perhaps due to the University of Wyoming being here. It is clear that Wyoming considers itself THE cowboy state and the apotheosis of the West. The logo of a cowboy on a bucking bronco was on the Welcome to Wyoming sign (along with Devil's Tower). The news hour featured a story on Wyoming's very fine Bighorn Sheep herd, and on the fact Wyoming is one of only 5 states where Bush's favorable rating is above 50%, with the majority of the state supporting the war in Iraq. People on the street attributed this to the Western ethic here. One of the major advertisements was for a rodeo, and one of the cable channels was carrying coverage of a rodeo.

So, buckaroos, I'm going to go ride the range. Loving you.

Colorado Cocktail (and a shot of California)

This blog has been sadly neglected. But I haven't been on the road much; rather, I've been revolving in an eddy of family and friends, mostly in Colorado, with a squirt out to California and back.

After the Green River trip, I spent a few days in Steamboat Springs, soaking in the intense sun, the clear blue skies, the huge puffy white cumulus clouds, the mountain valley rich green with pine, aspen and grass. This stint afforded me my third spring of the year -- or 4th, if you count the Apache plume, Indian blanket and Spanish broom of Santa Fe (1st was Washington, DC; 2nd was Cleveland). In Steamboat, there was a profusion of beautiful columbine and lupine, both native and domesticated, in many shades of blue, lavender, pink and white. Sally and I visited the Steamboat botanical gardens -- not as large and grand as the Cleveland botanical gardens, but very beautiful against the backdrop of Emerald Mountain, which was indeed emerald with the spring green. The gardens boasted superb columbine at every turn, beautiful iris, some stunning red poppies, a blanket of Johnny jump-ups (violas), and lots and lots of other flowers whose names I have already forgotten, creating quilted hillsides and inviting bowers and nooks of peaceful enjoyment.

On Father's Day, Sally, Mark and I went for a hike up Mad Creek, which afforded many more delights of wild flowers -- fleabane, like tiny daisies, blue bells, mules ears (similar to black-eyed Susans), and many other white and yellow flowers of unknown identity. We saw white blossoms on the thimbleberry bushes -- I've previously only seen (or noticed) the resultant thimbleberries. The Mad Creek trail starts where Mad Creek intersects the road that goes north from Steamboat along Elk River. The trail quickly climbed a few hundred feet above the creek, which roared madly through the rock and pine. Eventually, the trail and creek again met, and that is where we had Sally's excellent picnic of herbed chicken, potato salad with fresh marjoram, and lemonade with fresh mint. Close to our picnic spot was a cowboy with two saddled horses seeking shade under a huge pine. You just couldn't ask for a more classic, picturesque Colorado scene.

Another Colorado experience was dinner with Chris and Becky, who served shish kebabs of elk bagged by their son. I expected it to be tough and gamey, but instead it was like a tender steak. The dinner was accompanied by watching the shenanigans of their two young turkeys roaming in the yard. The turkeys are named Thanksgiving and Christmas. After dinner Chris and I played guitar next to a bonfire, the heat welcome in the mountain night air.

Having noticed it had been quite awhile since I'd seen my parents, and that this Adventure was taking a lot of time, I decided to hop on a plane to San Francisco. June 22 I drove to Golden to leave my car at the home of Lyd and Carl (Lyd is my brother-in-law's mother). Lyd, having given me a delicious dinner, a pretty guestroom for the night, and blueberries for breakfast, also gave me a ride to the Denver airport. My brother picked me up at the San Francisco airport, and I spent Friday in Silicon Valley with him and Christy, plus dinner in San Francisco at the Alamo Square Grill (despite the name, it is not Tex-Mex, but French cuisine with seafood emphasis). On Saturday, Christy drove me to Mill Valley, at the base of Mt. Tamalpais in Marin County, where we met my mother for lunch at the old train depot, now a cafe and bookstore. Then Mom and I drove up to Santa Rosa, using lots of back roads through the vineyards and live oak-covered hills, with a stop at a roadside stand for sweet cherries. The movie that night at the retirement village was The Birds -- the 1962 Hitchcock thriller -- which was set at Bodega Bay, on the ocean east of Santa Rosa. So on Sunday we drove over there, stopping in the town of Bodega (inland from the bay) to see the historic schoolhouse, which in the movie is where the crows congregate on the monkey bars and then attack the children as they try to dash home for safety. That schoolhouse was built in 1873 and used as a school until 1961. It is now in private hands, and the front room is a gift shop with an array of Hitchcock T-Shirts, posters for the movie, and models of attacking crows. From there we drove to the bay itself and went out to Bodega Point, which sits above craggy rocks scattered in the Pacific ocean, home to many gulls. My mother managed to spot 3 gull chicks, nearly invisible against the rock with their spotted down. Several lines of pelicans passed overhead, and cormorants skimmed the water far below us. We saw a single Black Oystercatcher, which is one strange-looking bird -- black body, long red bill, and pink legs. Bodega Point, like so many places along the California coast, provides a heart-tugging panorama of hills terminating in cliffs above the waves, and brushed-steel water stretching to the gray horizon, with a shimmering silver-veneer patch where a few rays of sunlight diffuse through the fog.

Monday I returned to Denver and Lyd and Carl's hospitality (I won't bore you with the story of all the airline snafus, but will say Lyd and Carl went above and beyond the call by picking me up at the airport past their bedtime). For lunch, I met a childhood friend, Tom, in historic downtown Golden. Golden has done a fantastic job with its downtown. There is public sculpture on every corner, lots of signs giving historical tidbits, and a lovely walk along Clear Creek, above the Coors brewery. I spent the afternoon at the Golden library, taking advantage of their free wireless -- We love libraries! Lyd and Carl provided another delicious dinner that included pork chops barbequed by Carl, another comfortable night, and breakfast coffee on the patio looking at their terraced garden. Like Pam in Santa Fe, they have created a 5-star bird resort with bird baths, feeders and perches. We watched bright yellow American finches, toned-down yellow lesser finches, purple finches (which look red to me), broad-tailed hummingbirds, and many robins.

I then left Golden for Arvada, a suburb west of Denver, to have dinner with Tom and his beautiful family. Their backyard opens directly onto a small lake, so that they have a great view of the mountains, plus proximity to ducks, egrets, herons, and humongous carp. Tom's son grilled shish kebabs of steak and chicken. We ate on the back patio and then stayed there to chat as the sun set beautifully behind the mountains, the pinks and golds reflecting in the lake. After awhile we moved inside and played guitar and mandolin until midnight. It was quite an experience to see Tom. Our childhoods intersected at many points -- we had the same 1st grade and 6th grade classes, the same piano teacher in grade school, went to the same church, same junior high and same high school. We've barely seen each other since. Tom's memories of childhood are surprisingly acute, and it was enlightening to hear about my childhood neighborhood and peers through his perceptions. I wonder if our society would feel less need for psychotherapy if we all stayed close to our childhood friends and received the benefit of their perceptions of our parents and family dynamics and of our social standing during those painful teenage years.

I had thought of continuing my travels by heading north to Wyoming from Denver. But I learned I had mail in Steamboat and took that as a sign to return here. This meant I got to attend the Steamboat 4th of July parade, which was a great Americana experience -- firetrucks with sirens screaming (it made me feel like I was back in DC), horses, tractors, the swim club and then the rugby club squirting us with those powerful pump water guns, the All Broads Kazoo Band kicking up their heels, rodeo queens, a number of candidates for sheriff, county assessor, etc., floats for banks, churches and real estate offices, two llamas, a camel, and lots of other groups, including Just a Bunch of People, complete with banner saying just that. I have 254 pictures if you'd like to live the parade for yourself. After a fairly languid afternoon, Sally and I decorated sugar cookies with white frosting, blueberries, raspberries and strawberries (including some fruit flags, stars, and red, white and blue shields), and the family went to a barbeque at Mike and Cheryl's. After dinner we took our chairs to a corner of Mike and Cheryl's lot, which has a great view of the fireworks. The fireworks were very impressive given the size of this town, but probably worth the expense to maintain Steamboat as a major 4th of July vacation destination.

Probably another 2-3 days in the 'Boat, and then back on the road. Blogs should become more consistent after that, provided I can find wireless access in the wilds of the northern plains. Hope your summer is developing swimmingly. --Ann