one.year.trip

All Good Things...

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Sat, 18 Sep 2010 18:04:00 +0000

Saturday, 18th, September – 2010. One year ago today, I think I was in Oslo. With a whole world still ahead of me. Every day an adventure. Even free hostel breakfast a surprise.

I think I was sharing a room with three big Scandinavian construction workers, and there was a weird cold fish in mustard sauce for morning meal.

I think there was a Frisbee golf course out on the field I had to cross to take the train into town.

I think.

So much has happened. Some memories seem fresh, others faded – the ones truly forgot I wouldn't even remember ever knew. So much has happened, an while I'm sure re-reaig, and watching videos, and flipping through pictures will help bring it back – it will all just be an echo of what was. A life once lived.

Tomorrow – tomorrow I'll have to get on the internet, and see if I have work. Tomorrow I'll have to start e-mailing everyone and thank them for helping make my trip what it was. Tomorrow I'll have to get Combo C! Wait, tomorrow is Sunday. There is no Combo C on Sunday. Just Monday to Friday, eleven am to two pm. That is, if it still even exists at all.

Tomorrow...

I might even pick up an X-Box 360. I might buy a new computer to deal with all my pictures. But that's tomorrow. I'll need to pay off my credit card, check my bank balance. Tomorrow.

But that's all in the future. That's once my trip is done and over with. Today, it's still on. It's still on.

I can feel the world rushing back, and to be honest, I'm not really liking it. I know I will once I'm back and everything is back to normal (it bothers me how quickly I'll adapt to living back in the 'real world.' But once I adapt, I'll be glad for it.) There's not much to do today. Just drive through Michigan, cross a final time zone, and then head back up into Canada. A country my presence has not been felt in for over twelve months.

Texting with my mother, she plans dinner and says she wants to hear stories when I get back. Having read half a million words over the course of this year, I'm not sure what stories I have left, but I'll be able to field questions.

I can already feel myself retreating to the computer room, and locking myself away on the internet. And I don't like it. While at the same time I do want to play video games.

It's strange – using computers while I travelled felt like filling time, or staying connected with people. Now? Now it will feel like wasting time.

Ah – but never mind that. As I sit in the car, I try to type up the last few nights worth of blogs. And in doing that, I feel disconnected from katherine, with whom I'd spent the last seventy five nights, far and wide across the country. Tonight we'll return to seperate houses, and have to say good-bye for the first time in a long time.

That she'll be thirty minutes away, on foot, means nothing. I can't think of a tie we'd been more than ten meters apart in the last ten weeks. Maybe once, in a Wal-Mart, or some other shop, where we tried to secret away gifts for one another.

So i'll close my computer now, and start to read Jack Horner's How To Build A Dinosaur. After all – time is running out. Only six and a half hours remain.

Six hours and fifteen minutes remain, never mind that an hour has gone by. Sitting on the I-94, around mile marker 89 a tractor trailer had gone of the road, cab completely crushed. Because of this traffic was not moving. Of course, the moment we passed it people were back up to seventy miles an hour, and then some – but the damage to our time was already done.

While I don't want this trip to end, spending time in a car while people gawk at crushed cars – that's not really my thing either. Just as we decided to pull out the laptop and watch some Archer, since we were practically in park, the speed picked up again and we were off.

More traffic. Michigan reminds me of – of – New Jersey. A grey hell that one is unable to ever escape. It's true, that's what's happening. We're being sucked in. I know it.

Ann Arbor provided some escape, as I now sit in Great Lakes Chocolate and Coffee (I like both those things!) A giant five dollar smore sits beside me, as Katherine ensures I eat my share of her giant caramel pecan... thing.

Five hours still to go, but soon enough we'll have crossed the border and that will be that. World travel: Over.

All good things...

Dunes, Malls, and Jimmy John's

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Sat, 18 Sep 2010 18:01:00 +0000

Wake up, eat cheerios, watch some Project Runway.

I spent the morning trying to upload pictures to Facebook. hundreds and hundreds of pictures uploaded, with hundreds left that I didn't get the chance to toss up. They'll have to go up after this trip is through, when I'm safe and sound, back in Good Ol' Canada. That idea still slightly terrifies me.

I've been having dreams about familiar places – and my memories have been switching over. Blasts of images, the shopping complex with grocery store, local bank, Pizza Pizza, and dollar store came flooding back. I remembered the path, and amount of stepts to walk from parking lot to bank to pizza, to video rental, back to car. I can visually picture all the areas around me, and the floor plan to a mall I'd not visited for twelve and a half months.

It's as if my brain is making space for the knowledge it thinks will be useful, make my life easier, once I return. I can already feel the familiar feel of stepping into my local Best Buy, and it's as if I'd never left – even though I'm yet to return. And it's eerie – and depressing. If we go with the assumption that my mind is making ready for my return, shifting skills and knowledges, I wonder what I've given up without even realizing.

Can I still plan three weeks of hostels and flights and trains in an afternoon, without much thought? Or has that left me. Turning a stranger into a friend over a free breakfast, is that something I'd still do without thinking – is that even possible in the real world?

Surely my mind has shifted some as I traded trains and planes for an automobile, but -

It will be different.

Killing some virtual Nazi's in Call of Duty 3, I whiled away the time until we headed out to The Dunes. Indiana's lake shore is a National Park – but being late in the season, there is no longer anyone there to collect an entrance fee. Not that it would matter, as Kath and I have our access pass. After a quick count, we realized we'd been to over twenty of America's national parks / monuments in the past ten months. Maybe we should have got the Parks Passport to stamp out all the places we had travelled to. A couple we me at Yellowstone sai how they'd just made it to their twentieth park, and they'd only had their passport for nine years.

We didn't say anything then. Twenty parks in nine years really is impressive. Not many people decide that driving more than ten thousand miles in ten weeks is a good idea let alone one that could provide great fun.

The dunes was a beautiful beach, with large mounds of sand to hike up and around. Across the water, you could see Chicago – so far away. Steel mills, or iron works, also lined the water. There's a story about how this park became protected the same day the plants were told they could build here. I'm not sure how it all worked out, but for some reason or other they are in a symbiotic relationship, each needing the other to co-exist properly.

Walking on sand reminded me about hiking up Dune 45 in Namibia. Give me snow any day. Walking in deep water might, almost, be preferable.

Up the sand, down the boardwalk, and then – after some good ol' outside, we headed off to The Mall.

Yes, The Mall. I wanted to see if I could buy individually coloured packets of fuse beads – perler beads – hama beads – take your pick at the name. I failed. But, we did go to a hippy shop which sold glass pipes, and bongs. A sign read the store will refuse sale if they think it will be used for illegal purposes. And I think the sign was serious. I wonder what they think these things are used for? Sure the sign called them tobacco pipes – but, don't people who smoke tobacco from a pipe usually have one of those awesome Sherlock Holmes deals, not a psychedelic glass piece?

My other purpose for coming to the mall was to pick up a copy of Uncharted for our oh-so-welcoming host. Unfortunately Gamestop decided that they hate that game, and had no copies in stock, not even used. Next choice for gift? Fallout 3. Hard to say if this was the better choice. Uncharted would have been good, as he liked the Tomb Raider games a lot. But Fallout 3 is – well – Fallout 3. And that's awesome too.

Our last stop was a craft store to find the much desired plastic beads required to make video game sprites. But it too was a failure. However, just before we left my eyes stumbled upon a package of candy: Boston Baked Beans. One of the podcasts we've been listening to talk about these potential treats, referring to them as the enemy of candy. They are said to be the most vial tasting things of all times. At their heart they are candy coated peanuts. But their vial exterior proves too strong for even the kindest soul to shine through.

I had to have them.

With beans in hand, I prepared for the worst as I took a great big bite. They were – well, to be honest, they were not all that bad. They were kinda like peanut M+Ms. I didn't hate the candy, and for some reason I was upset by this.

The woman ringing up my candy entered the amount I gave her incorrectly, and my receipt claimed that i was owed over one million dollars. It was like being back in Africa all over again. But did I receive this one million dollars, that the computer could not have been wrong about? No. All I got was seven and change.

I pointed this out, but the cashier did not seem impressed. When she asked for a zip code, and I told her I didn't have one her mood further soured. I do believe she thought I was just screwing with her. I tried to explain I had something similar with crazy letters and numbers, but she just waved me away. So, while the candy may have disappointed by being good, the purchasing experience did not let me down.

After that we just headed back, grabbed some sandwiches from Jimmy John's (the fastest sub creation restaurant you've ever seen) and then watched a few episodes of Flight of the Conchords, followed by Eastend and Out. Eastside and Out? Something about an ex-baseball player who works, now, as a substitute teacher.

And then to bed.

It was a quiet end to what has been a very long year.

Chicago in Chains

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Sat, 18 Sep 2010 17:59:00 +0000

In the morning we sat around, Katherine, myself, and our two house guests, watching a marathon of Parental Control. Ah yes, the MTV show where parents pimp out their daughter to potential suitors. And I will tell you this – I haven't been able to enjoy doing nothing for some time.

A bowl of Cheerios in my hands, and mindless drivel in front of me. One episode blending into the next, blending into the next, with two dogs hopping around begging for attention.

The morning was spent in a mindless daze, but that couldn't last – nor would I really want it to The idea of doing nothing for a whole day distresses me. Almost as much as the realization that in fifty or so hours, doing nothing – not covering five hundred miles of open country – will soon become the norm.

This idea of home is looming closer and closer. For so long home has been where my pack was, but soon home will be a stationary structure, with the same bed, familiar sights, and rooms full of my possessions. Now, I love possessions, and I love the idea of a good sleep - but, the transition? It might be a messy one for a few days.

Never mind that though, for we were soon picking up, piling into a big black truck, and heading off out of Indiana to the Land of Lincoln, Illinois.

Rather than blindly following a GPS, this time we took the toll roads. Now you may think, but couldn't you avoid those toll roads and only add a minute or two to your time? Well, yes, that's true. And that's what we did last night. However, this way which avoids the tolls may run you straight through the middle of Chicago Heights. Were we hoping that the lights would go green when we approached, and that we wouldn't have to stop at any signs? Indeed we were. Now I was ignorant to the potential danger this neighbourhood could pose. But apparently people go here for one reason: to score crack. Other than that?

That's not entirely fair though, I know people who have worked in the heights – but still, on our final drive, with the sun setting, we could have planned that better.

Chicago is a city that hates drivers. You can tell, because “$25.00! Cheap!” is a sign you'll see on many parking garages, and at that price, it's not lying. But there was no reason to think about that, it was the norm for those that grew up around here. Parking was paid for, and off we went to explore the city.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, we didn't bring our Cameras with us. So many pictures could have been taken, but were not. I did manage to grab a few from one of the people with us. I even managed to borrow the camera to snap a few myself, so I can say that I've been to Chicago, and taken some snaps there. But, for the first time in ages, I didn't have a camera with me.

And it was freeing and wonderful – although, you know, maybe I should have taken a picture of... well, never mind. After an hour or so my mind stopped thinking like that. Mostly, because I knew I could grab pictures from others. So addition, not quite over.

Chicago is a city of beautiful architecture. It's like the Shanghai of the previous century. No two buildings stand alike, It is a stretching city scape of intrigue and interest – and all the street corner people screaming at the masses? They're just there to remind you what time you're really in.

Walking down the shopping strip, passing all number of stores that meant nothing to me (I know Eddie Bauer and Tilley. Those are the two clothing brands I roll with.) we finally made it to the river, where we would meet up with another two guys – brothers, who reminded me far too much of guys I knew from back home. It's strange seeing people who seem so familiar, never mind that you'd only know them for minutes.

The six of us headed through the public park, where two rectangular fountains spewed water from what looked like small skyscrapers. It was not un-reminiscent of the World Trade Centre. Though, I don't remember the world trade centre ever being illuminated by the giant face of a smiling man that slowly begins to frown.

Our real reason for being here was another piece of art. Some call it Cloudscape (but then some call the Sears Tower the Willis Tower, now, too.) For most? It's simply “The Bean.”

The Bean is a huge reflective metal art piece that looks, well, like a bean. The name cloudscape comes from the wide angle reflection of the city which stretches across all sides, showing a different part of the city, depending on your current perspective. As you approach you, of course, become part of the scene as well. More often than not your part of the scene will be consumed with your attempt to take a picture of yourself, camera not blocking your face.

Then, being a warped gently sloping bean, you can walk underneath it. Walking under the bean is an experience. The walls curve in on you, and there you are, standing to your right – standing to your left. A small step and you're both in front and behind yourself. Then, in the flat circular mirror over head, there you are.

The longer you look neck craned back, the more your mind lets go of its physical presence. When finally I looked ahead of me, it was as if I was falling through the sky, crashing down upon the ground. That, or like I felt incredibly car-sick for the moments it took to process what direction was what.

I wonder what it's like for astronauts to come down to Earth after months in space. How does the body re-learn that there's such a thing as “up”?

Now, never having been one to use drugs, I can only speculate – but this seems like it would be a horrible place for a trip. Nothing good would come from that. Looking around, and seeing your refection starring back at you, no matter where you turned? It's disconcerting enough as is.

When all had agreed that enough time had passed within, and around, The Bean we pressed on.

Jumping into a minivan taxi we headed, well I don't know entirely. But it as beside the planetarium. We headed down near the planetarium where Chicago's best outdoor concert venue was located.

Tonight we would be checking out the triple billing of Mastodon, The Deftones, and Alice in Chains.

The area was still two third empty when the musical stylings of Mastodon began their set. Loud, angry, and with muffled lyrics screamed through distorted microphones, I allowed myself the comfort of relaxing into the beat. Closer to the front circle pits had opened up where elbows were thrown, and punches flailed. That, of course, being how you dance at a show like this.

Further back – not wanting to jump in with teenagers smashing around – I focused more on the music, and the fact that, standing safely back, meant I was old. I could not hear their lyrics about dwarfs, elves, “you know – geek stuff,” I think that would have added to the experience, but it was good fun nonetheless.

The only part I hate about live shows is when you have to wait twenty minutes between sets for one act to break down and the next to set up. This is when people walk around, crowds thicken, and suddenly you remember that dressing in t-shirts and shorts, while the rest of the audience is in jeans and hoodies, may not have been the best idea.

Our whole group was dressed, arms bared. In this we were alone. And while it may have been cold between sets, once people started moving, I was glad for the heat syncs that were my arms and legs.

I had no problem with the temperature, and Katherine was trying her best not to let on she was cold. Were it just me, I'm sure I would have heard about it, but she was staying strong in the face of four others. Some of those four? They decided the best way to warmth was through “liquid blankets.”

Between sets, after a few of these eleven dollar 'blankets' one of the group found himself standing beside the Mastodon guitarist while using the urinal. He was shocked, outraged, my new friend was. The guitarist would not shake his hand, and had that gall to look as if he were not enjoying the experience of meeting one of his fans – while, you now, using the urinal.

True that this guy was a huge Mastodon fan, but with everything, it should be noted – timing plays a crucial role.

Next up were The Deftones. I'd seen them many years before, probably at a Warped Tour. It's possible that this is a fictional memory, but I think I remember seeing them way out in Barrie, Ontario once upon a time. When they took to the stage, most of the general admissions area was full up, and the seats were nearly packed as well.

This was a harder set than the one before, with blinding lights, and smoke machines, and lead singers standing on benches, placed just so – allowing him too look over us all and spit water, frothing from his mouth. Why people are excited to be covered in the saliva of famous people, I have never quite figured out. But it seems to be a popular pastime.

This time multiple circle pits opened, one right beside us. Myself, and urinal greeter's much larger (think terrifying bouncer sized individual) helped act as the wall, keeping the chaos contained, only once or twice being knocked back.

When people fell, we – or others in the pit – would quickly act to get them to their feet again. This shocked me. We've always done that in Canada, but I'd grown up hearing about how people were stomped to death at American hard core shows. This did not seem to be the case. It was a good group of people, having a fun time with their controlled chaos.

Knowing that this used to be my scene, Katherine asked in all serious, “What could possibly be fun about that?” I didn't really know how to answer it – but I think it has something to do with the controlled chaos. almost like a roller coaster, there's fear, there's danger, there's a physical side to it all – but at its heart, you know you're likely to be safe. Even if you do take a tumble, smacking your head against the ground, you know there will be someone there to get you to your feet, and pull you out so you can shake it off – before jumping back in again.

The final act? Alice in Chains – at least five of their songs were off the new album. I recognized most of the songs. I think I've listened to three or four hours of straight radio this entire year. How I knew any of their new material is beyond me. Unless they're used as bmper music for Raidolab (which I doubt) or RebelFM (which is possible) it's a mystery.

The crowd was tamer for this, an there was no slamming around. Just people enjoying music, while scenes of flies on meat, or military power build ups played in the background.

When the show ended, the the hundreds upon hundreds of people all left the small confined area, suddenly the wind was no longer blocked – nor was body heat warming. This was a bit of a shock, but as we walked home, taking care not to let some of us stumble out into oncoming traffic, there were other distractions to keep us focused.

It was a long one hour walk from venue to Travelodge where half of us would be departing, and even once there the wacky antics didn't end. No, as they forgot to lock the porthole that allows access to all the phone and data lines that run through the walls, some – still warmed by the liquid blankets – thought it would make a neat hiding place to crawl into. Never mind that it was also an eight storey drop.

Back to the truck, back to Indiana, back to bed. Tomorrow? Well it would be he last full day of my trip.

Through Iowa to Chicago - Kinda

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Sat, 18 Sep 2010 17:58:00 +0000

Today marked our final push through America from one part of the country to another. After today we would not longer be driving great stretched through this land of the free and home of the brave (play ball.)

There were no real plans to do anything. We woke up, and hit the road – destination, Chicago. Kind of, but not really. We were going to Indiana, a town in Indiana pretty close to Chicago. The final stretch of our journey would be spent with a buddy that I had met way back in Europe, when I was staying in Venice. Living forty, fifty, minutes outside of Chicago – albeit in a different state – it seemed like a good way to wind down my journey.

Though there were no plans to do anything between point A and point B plans, of course, materialized on route.

Rolling through Iowa city, we discover that the university of Iowa (go Hawkeyes!) had a free museum in one of the buildings. Finding a place to park took us on a tour of the town. Iowa City is every bit a university town. From the do-it-yourself pottery shops to the new record shops - not to be confused with the used ones filling most cities selling vinyl for one or two bucks an LP - this was a town looking to appeal to every new-youth-adult with a pocket full of their parents money, far away from home. The vegan restaurant, and the independent cinema just went to further the urban cool.

The lawns were covered in students sitting in groups of one, spread the obligatory four meters from all others. Some red books, while others poured over notes – school just getting underway. Others enjoyed the freedom of the outdoors by cracking open their laptops and wandering through the world wide webs.

Walking through the lot we headed into the main building, and up into the University.

The museum covered three floors. The lower floor was mostly an exhibit showing how the others were created. Think of it as taxidermy 101.

The ground floor contained exhibits created detailing the history of Iowa. Rock from millions of years ago was placed alongside modern rock. And rocks(!) from(!) space(!!!) Another case had two native hunters holding spears. There were petrified shark fins, and ancient fish teeth. But the main draw (the one all crayon pictures created by children asked to show their favourite piece) was the giant sloth.

The giant sloth, an ice aged wonder, was a ten foot tall monster which lumbered through the North America forests, which apparently were plentiful during the ice age. I don't know much about that period of time a dozen thousand, or so, years back – so I assume it's possible the world wasn't all ice, no matter what Dennis Leary voiced CGI movies would have me believe.

The Giant Sloth was a magical beast, the type of legends, much like the New Zealand bird, four hundred years extinct. It's thought, much like in New Zealand, that these creatures were hunted to extinction by the early people. Very large, meaty, and slow. Not a good combination.

The third, top, floor of the museum contained the taxidermies specimens of various birds, and mammals. Wolves, and rhinos made this area their home, along with little blue flash cards explaining snippets of their lives. An albatross hung over head, while swans and ducks filled many glassed in cases. In front of one such case a newly minted adult sat with her sketch pad rendering the fowl in charcoal black.

The mammals and birds occupy two different halls on the third floor. This wouldn't be a problem if not for the fact that to access them one needs to walk through a lecture hall. We could have walked down three flights of stairs, then back up three more, but as class was ending, the room emptying of one group, while filling with another, I pounced on the chance to charge through.

The rooms also have a number of skeletons, including one of a human. In an attempt to show we are little different from other animals, a baby blue card was pinned next to that which is us. “Humans are a social animal, usually behaving well in communal groups. However, humans may become aggressive and forceful when in unknown circumstances.”

Iowa City was a welcome stop, not only allowing for the stretching of legs, and free museum, but also for allowing a cultural experience. While I knew University life was big in America, I didn't know just to what extent. In the University book store facial tattoos were being sold for the schools mascot. Streamers, and noise makers could be bought for the football games. There were key chains, bottle openers, and pom poms all sporting the yellow and black. But what was even stranger were the bar-b-que toppers. Cast iron pieces on which burgers and hot dogs could be cooked, searing in the teams name, and logo.

On one side university clothes were on display, while on the other the frat and sorority gear. This was a great divide from what we knew back in Canada.

After Iowa City we drove on. Katherine finished reading The Traveller, and I started to read a book about the quest by leading experts to create a modern day dinosaur by messing with the development cycle of a chicken. Chicken-o-saurus: Dinosaur from the future.

Before rolling into the long driveway in a beautiful gated community, we made just one last and final stop. The birthplace, and tombstone, of Herbert Hoover – former president of these United States.

His birth home? Two rooms. With front and back door open, you could see straight through, and were you to lay on your stomach, with arms and legs extended, you could probably touch the ground on either side of the walls. Still – it was said to be a comfortable place. The recreation of his fathers blacksmith shop is only steps away from the home, staffed by a park ranger who springs into action every time – two or three times an hour, I”m sure – someone walks past the threshold.

Just along the road near by his tomb stone, and that of – I believe - his wife, lay nearby. Free postcard to all those who visit.

And then that was done. Driving on, we made our destination. Introductions all around; a quiet night of watching t.v. and chatting, and being in awe of the decorations (mostly framed, signed, concert posters and related merch) that adorned the walls. Two small dogs, including a far-too-cute Chihuahua named Ren were played with – once more making me reconsider my self imposed ban on pets – and then it was time to sleep.

Drifting off to bed it struck me: this would be the last bed I slept in in all of America. This would be the final bed of my trip – my journey. The year long, and then some, trip would soon end. The next bed I slept in after this would be “my own.”

And while this may not seem like much, I will tell you – it's a huge thought, difficult to even process.

And then, to sleep.

Nuclear Missile Silos Along the I-90

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Thu, 16 Sep 2010 05:00:00 +0000

At 10:00am I started driving the i-90, to the 29, to the 80; I drove across all of South Dakota, down most of Iowa, and then carried on some more. At 8:30pm I switched the car off. We'd finally arrived. Now, even taking into account the one hour time zone crossing, that's still nine and a half hour of driving, with almost nothing going on. For what it's worth, at eight we saw an authentic Danish windmill. It was built in the eighteen somethings.

One would think there wouldn't be much to write about today. It's almost as if I could get to sleep early, without staying up into the night typing. But no, while little happened after ten in the morning, those earlier hours were packed with seeing the end of the world as we knew it (and I felt fine.)

Waking up we tried to break our tent down and get out before the camp monitor came around looking for payment. It's not that we were against paying the fourteen dollars so much as it was, m'eh, it's already morning. But – we failed, and were kept honest by the old man with a box, a clip board, and a golf cart.

Once we broken the tent down, we spent twenty more minutes looking at the various rocks in the park. Sharp rocks, tall rocks, flat rocks. There are a lot of rocks in the Badlands National Park.

Once we had enjoyed said rocks to their fullest potential we set out on the road, headed towards Omaha, Nebraska, or some city in Iowa. Somewhere. The destination wasn't really important; today was supposed to help us break up our journey between South Dakota and Chicago. It was the first day there was absolutely nothing planned. No sights to see, no stories to be told.

This lasted nearly ten minutes.

Just outside the gates of the National Park is a sign informing travellers of a national historic monument a quarter mile off. This was a site that I never would have thought America would have made open to tourists, but one that I was pretty excited to see.

Here in South Dakota is the Minuteman II missile silo, and launch centre.

The headquarters to this monument is right outside the park gates. It's free, and worth a visit. Inside the main building we watched a ten minute film about how nuclear weapons have been, and still are keeping America safe, and allowing freedom to survive in a world full of Soviets, and other no-do-goods.

The Minuteman II missiles worked off of solid state fuel, allowing for greater accuracy, and thus lower yield warheads. Each missile carried 75% of the entire destructive power of everything used in World War II. Now, this may still sound like over kill, but compared to the less accurate Russian missiles which had a yield 500% of all explosives used in World War II, the American weapons were barely a kick in the shins.

After seeing the movie, reading the literature, and glazing over the informative displays, we grabbed a ticket to tour the launch centre.

Five or so miles down the highway there was an exit which turned quickly into a dirt road. At the top of the road was an unassuming building that may have been a farm house, or perhaps an auto shop. It's hard to say what it would have been thought of – but a launch centre capable of ending the world as we knew it? That would be one of my last guesses.

The closer we drove the more we saw. There was a fence, barbed wire, around the building. But that juxtaposed the basketball net outside. There was a flagpole, but in reality it was a radio antenna. Then there was the peace keeper parked outside, and the familiar “do not enter” sign, last seen at the boundaries of Area 51 in New Mexico.

This time we were allowed inside the gate. With a metal triangle welded to the top of the gate, we were welcomed to Delta-1.

While we may not have known this was a nuclear missile launch silo, the Soviets did, and this very patch of land was constantly targeted by their own weapons. The farmers, on whose land the missiles were buried, they knew too. This was never a top secret program, but some times the best way to keep something hidden from the public is to put it in clear sight.

Millions of people must drive past the missile silos on I-90 every year. How many know, or even care, what's inside? They went without me even giving a second glance.

Now, here we were in the command centre which saw use up to Desert Storm, in 1991. We made our way inside where the common room looked very much as it once did, with the same couches, and magazines (Popular Mechanics, Byte, Sports Illustrated) still laying around. On the wall is a framed letter from the military issuing precise rules of who can hold the television remote control, and under what circumstances the channels may be changed.

Working in this location there were weeks of boredom punctuated with moments of complete and utter panic. But most of the time the boredom took over, and fights for who could choose the televised program took hold of the young men and women stationed here. At one point the soldiers began to go outside and physically move the satellite dish – this eventually caused six thousand dollars worth of damage, leading up to the official rules about channel surfing now hung with pride beside the television set.

From the main room, we walked through the security station to the elevator. Thirty three feet down we traveled in an aging elevator, screen being pulled across to keep us in. Rattling and clanking we were lowered deeper into the station itself.

Back when the base was in use, none but the two men who manned the station were allowed down the elevator. Even food was simply place on board, button pushed sending it down, to be picked up at the bottom. Today seven people cram on board the lift.

There was at least one time that other living creatures did reach the bottom however. It's said that one solider kept complaining about the chef's cooking – a terrible idea – claiming he didn't know how to cook a rare hamburger. Being in the middle of cattle country, the cook went out into the fields, grabbed a calf, put it on the lift, and sent it to the bottom along with the message, “here's your rare hamburger.”

We are led to believe no harm came to this animal.

Once at the bottom, a wall mural depicts a nuclear missile bursting through the Soviet flag. Just to the right is the blast door, weight five standard elephants. Painted on it, a spoof of the Domino's Pizza logo, is a picture of the Minuteman II, along with the slogan: World-Wide Delivery in 30 Minutes or Less – or your next one's free.

Crossing over through the door is like stepping into the world time forgot. Yes, it's true the magazines were all two decades old, but everything else seemed as if the people had packed up and left only moments earlier. But here, in the launch room, things were very different.

The base went online in the sixties, and it seems that the technology was never updated throughout the three decades the place was in use. Running off of a 48 computer (think Commodore 64, and then down grade it) the silo launch controls looked like something of a science fiction movie. It was one of those rooms that could have only existed in a military centre. There were buttons, lights, switches – so many that I'm sure their true purpose, if ever there was one, was often forgot.

A red chair screwed to a track which could be rolled around on, sat in front of a console. The room itself was on a shock absorbing floor, and each chair was fixed with a seat belt to keep the soldiers in place in case of an attacking explosion. Only 33 feet underground, it seemed almost pointless. No one here would survive an enemy blast.

A rotary dial phone was attached to a grey metal unit, with red box over head. The box was locked with two padlocks – one for each officer on duty. Inside the box were the keys needed to initiate launch. Countdown timers, status lights for the ten missiles controlled from this location, and numeric switches used to target attack zones, unknown to those with the keys, were all within easy reach of the two railed chairs.

When word came from the teletype machine, or the primitive intranet, each office would confirm the codes, take the keys, insert them into the slots and then – when ordered turn them at the same time. Twelve feet apart from each other, no one person could cause the missile to launch. Two men were required, but never did the time come for them to turn the keys home. On a few occasions two young men in their late teens, and early twenties, sat sweat on their brow – keys inserted, terrified that the order would come to turn, leading to who knew what future for themselves, their loved ones, and the many innocents half way around the world. But never were they ordered to turn.

Hundreds of these bases were destroyed as America and Russia stepped down their arms race. Hundreds still exist. In Canada, we were told, we should be safe from missiles both incoming and outgoing, unless – of course – one of them misfires. This was said, of course, in jest. There's a different sort of humor down here.

And with that we left D-1: QUINN COTTONWOOD Missile Flight D-01.

Our final stop as part of this excursion was a few more miles down the highway. The missile silo, itself.

Located just off the I-90, the silo would once have been watched with state of the art security systems. Guards would have been on hand in moments if anyone came near. Today, missile removed, and replaced with a decoy, the silo is available for all to see.

We could not go down within the nuclear silo, but even from the ground it is a thing to witness. Perhaps, most impressive, is just how beautiful it looks. An azure blue crystalline shape sits in the middle of a gravel lot, surrounded by chain link fence. A large pole-like antenna stands beside it. Like a piece of modern art, the silo stands in the middle of a South Dakota field, looking to all the world as a work of beauty, rather than destruction, yet it was here that all things could have changed.

What once was the most powerful weapons system on the planet, is today a tourist attraction. A piece of living history. And while that may seem strange to some, I can't think of any better way of keeping the public informed, than by letting them get up close and personal.

Today the Minuteman II silos have been imploded, the launch centres destroyed. Weapons like this one are things of the past, no longer used. No – today, armed by men deep beneath the Earth's surface – it is the Minuteman III taking up the fight.

And then, nine hours later we saw the windmill.

Mount Rushmore, Wall Drug, and The Badlands

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Thu, 16 Sep 2010 04:46:00 +0000

Two parks and a store. Who knew it would take all day? Who knew the store would be just as memorable as the parks?

Waking up in our motel, and enjoying the breakfast which, once more, included the sweet sweet taste of freshly baked waffles (Katherine could enjoy them this time) we packed up the car, and headed out.

Thirty minutes down the road was the last piece of Americana that were were planning to see. Just outside the town of Rapid City is one of the most recognizable monuments in the entire country: Mount Rushmore.

The faces of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Teddy Roosevelt, and Abraham Lincoln find themselves carved upon the mountain's face. Some for better reasons than others. Washington was there because he led to the birth of the Union, Lincoln for preserving it. Jefferson linked the coasts with rails. And Roosevelt – well, he certainly wasn't there because the sculptor worked for his party, or because he looked like the sculptor. No, that would just be silly. Whatever the reason, few should have problem with his choices. If they wish to complain, let them find and carve their own mountain. Then they can add Martin Luther King Jr., Susan B Anthony, Mickey Mouse, and all the others who people scream should be thrown up there too.

My only problem with Roosevelt is how they justify his presence. How hard would it be to say Washington created it, Lincoln preserved it, Jefferson linked it, and Roosevelt protected it (after all, it was he who set aside more land for national parks than all other presidents combined. It was also he who set aside the first block of land, forever to be protected.)

In the Lonely Planet we have the author clearly did not enjoy their experience, complaining about the multileveled parking garage, and avenue of state flags that one must pass before viewing the mountain. I honestly can not find fault with these things. Having the flags of all the states and territories is a beautiful way to lead up to the mountain, and as for having enough parking room for all those who wish to enjoy the sight? Well what type of fool would complain about that?

Still – I can only assume the author was having a bad day, which influenced his/her writing. I can't say I've never had one of those.

It's easy to point to the ten dollar parking fee (National Parks pass doesn't get you in here) and use that to complain about the monument, but you do not need to enter the official gates to enjoy the mountain. From the high way there is a pull off which offers just as good a view as from the inside, if not better. Not only that, but on the highway you are apart from the dozens of tourists who flock, even in the off season, even in the early morning. And, up in the black hills, there are even more lookouts from which Mount Rushmore can be appreciated, free of charge.

Why we paid to go inside? Well – we were here, when would we be back, and we wanted to experience it to its fullest.

Arriving in the morning there were only a few people milling around. No doubt a couple of weeks earlier this place would have been packed. Still, we were able get in and take pictures of ourselves, with not a single other person entering our shot. This lasted for about ten minutes before the first bus showed up and everything changed.

Part of me wished we woke up an hour earlier, but then we did get here, we took the pictures we wanted, and we saw the sight. There's little left to complain about, except for the workers who were walking around on Lincoln and Washington's heads.

Construction workers walked along the top of he mountain, filling cracks, and attempting to preserve this monument for future generations, despite the signs informing us that there was no danger of damage.

Was it annoying to have them in our pictures? Sure. Kind of. But when we were there, earlier, they were just to the side of the faces, adding a very interesting sense of scale to the sculptures. Moments later, just after the buses started to show up, when rappelling lines were tossed down over the eyes and nose of the former president, situated off to the right, then pictures became truly obstructed. Having already taken my clean shots, I was amazed by the whole process of taking care of this work. For those who just showed up? They seemed less enthused.

Best seen in the morning light, we were experiencing this location at its best. Having taken far too many photos, we walked the quick trail, stopping to watch the mountain goats. Not native to this area, the hundred or so that now inhabit the hills were all spawned from an initial group of six gifted by the Canadian government. They have become such an iconic part of the Mount Rushmore experience that stuffed animal versions are for sale in the gift shop.

Wandering through the shop Katherine was on a mission to locate a “Mount Plushmore.” A stuffed version of the rock sculpture just seemed to make sense, if only for the name alone. While none was to be found here, I told her the internet would probably be able to provide, and if not, then the opportunity was open before her. A gimmick that strong is a license to print money.

We sought out the most gaudy gifts, photo frames with the monument and sparkling hearts, considered buying them for friends and family, then deciding that we hated no one that much.

When we'd looked at the four rock faces for as long as we felt we needed to, it was time to head on out, get back on the road, and make our way towards Badland's National Park. Only two hours away, we should have been there in no time.

Of course, this didn't quite work out. First, we spent an hour driving through the Black Hills, right up the moment a fee needed to be paid. While I'm sure they were lovely, I'd seen forests before, and the best locations – a tunnel perfectly framing a view of Mount Rushmore, and a lookout, offering views of the same – were freely available outside of the paid zone.

Stopping at the tunnel, coming upon fifty people standing in the middle of the road after a blind turn, we wondered what was going on. A tour bus had emptied out and everyone was snapping away with their cameras. But at what? Turning, unsafely, as I drove through this mob is how I discovered the framed view. After fining a place to turn the car around again, we headed back and joined in.

After the hills we set out for the Badlands once more. And we would have made it there too, if not for a billboard at the side of the road. “Free Ice Water” it read. “5 cent coffee,” another boasted. More signs for Wall Drug appeared along the I-90, and something started to feel familiar. I remembered something I had read early on in this American road trip. These signs spanned across the entire country, starting many states away. This, Wall Drug, was counted as one of America's top eight quirky sights, along with Roswell, the Cadillac Ranch, and the – I can't believe we didn't get to see it – world's biggest ball of twine.

As we obeyed the signs and exited the highway, we had no idea what we were in for.

Wall Drug is a store two blocks in size. It's bigger than Toronto's Honest Ed's, an even quirkier.

Inside you'll find shops of all kinds. Some sell t-shirts, in others you can buy snacks. There's also the pharmacy which will fill your prescription. Don't fear, as you can buy many a jackalope here as well.

But that's not where it ends. Those shops are really only the beginning. Cowboy boots, leather clothes, spurs, and all other gear are for sale here. There's also the rock shop, and the traveller's chapel, for all those who wish to come in, kneel down, and pray.

Then there's the back yard, where a giant jackalope can be sat on by people of all ages. A water show explodes through the ground timed with music. There are stuffed buffalo, and statues of various people. A T-Rex attempts to break from its compound and feed every twelve minutes.

There was even a section where one can pay to pan for gold. Of course this was the one area closed for the season.

There was also a restaurant selling five cent coffee, and offering free ice water. In a place like this where a whole day can be spent, not to mention hundreds of dollars, cheap Joe, and free H2O are no big worry.

There was an area that sold one of a kind creations. One piece that caught my eye was an Alien (think Aliens, not E.T.) created from welded metal and bicycle chains. It would be the perfect addition to my growing number of such action figures when I got back home. And soon I would be back home – with less than a week to go, such thoughts were far more 'real' than they ever had been.

But, also, as home approached money no longer seemed something I could spend without thought. Each dollar unspent here could be one used towards something else in the future. Like video games. Or rent.

I let it go. Katherine would later buy it for me as a present. For her, I found the gold panning kit, which came with a book, a plastic pan, and a bag full of dirt with gold flecks in it. I also grabbed an extra packet of flecked dirt. Sure it was a silly little thing, but after not buying it back when we were in Virginia City she had been rather upset. Now, without having to justify the money, she would be able to enjoy the act of panning for gold in her own home.

While I was off looking elsewhere she returned to me with the gift of plastic velociraptor bones contained within a brick of plaster, which needed to be chipped away at, before putting the skeleton together. I could be a dinosaur guy, just like Alan Grant, now!

The toy department was my favourite area. Aside from the games, cap guns, and figures there was a rack of invisible ink game books. They type I remember from car trips, decades back. The big orange pen with clear liquid, changing the colour of what was beneath, had not changed at all. The only difference is that Sudoku's were now a part of the game – though it seemed a strange thing to add to a book where all the answers were already there, just waiting to be revealed.

My favourite game from these books was the battleship (I love battleship.) In these books the game was called Fleet. Just as I wished there was a book that was all Fleet, I looked down, seeing such a thing. I may have bought every one they had in stock. Nostalgia is a powerful thing, and the last time I saw these in airports somewhere over seas, they were nearly ten dollars. Here at Wall Drug, but a fraction of the cost.

There was an arcade room with a Who Wants to Be a Millionaire game in it. Different from the one in Vegas (everyone gets to open the cases here) I knew Kath would want to play. She claimed she didn't, but once I put in the four quarters and let her sit down she was grinning like a three year old who just discovered a secret stash of Oreo cookies. It didn't end well, but the opening of the cases was the real fun. And what's money for, if not fun?

She also, after seeing me give it a go, wanted to play the light gun shooting game. Strange, since she seemed so against touching a real gun. This was one of those games where you shot targets to make things happen – shoot the coffin, see a skeleton pop out, shoot the motel sign to light it up, the rattle snake to see it jump.

When she was done, I thought about how it worked, then – seeing the 'no flash photography' sign – had my thoughts confirmed. In seconds we had our cameras out, flashing away, causing all the lights, sounds, and devices to explode at once. A cacophony of wild west wilderness was abound. We were the only two in the room. No one seemed to mind.

No flash photography indeed.

There was even a store that sold replica casts of dinosaur bones. The urge to buy a replica skull for fifty dollars was tempting. If they had small Alan Grant Utah Raptor claws, I would have picked one up. But they only had larger versions.

What's more – they had beautiful fossil in rock plasters that would have been perfect hanging on walls, and replica skulls. These were a big more pricey. One carnivore's leg sold for three thousand. It's skull replica went for six grand. The T-Rex leg bone sold for five thousand, and as for its replica skull? Well there was no price tag – but being five to ten time larger than the other skull... Still, this is what I'd love to have in my home, as decoration. But, rather than the cream coloured versions they had here, I would want one tinted black, to look like the replicas they have in various museums. That is a talking piece.

After spending two or three hours looking, shopping, and enjoying free ice water, we finally headed out – but not before taking a few Wall Drug bumper stickers and signs. Free to those who come in, these stickers spread the love of Wall Drug even more than the coast to coast billboards do. In fact, one employee told us how a solider on leave came in a week ago, explaining that he saw one of the stickers on the back of a Humvee in Afghanistan.

The legend of Wall Drug is a far reaching one.

Then – finally – we headed off towards the Badlands National Park.

We quickly drove the scenic road, getting through it in twenty minutes instead of the hour it claimed it should take with stops. We found a tent site, then headed to the visitors centre to watch the park's movie which showed off all the life that lived within this desolate zone. After that we grabbed a bite to eat, and only then did we do the drive once more, heading out and over through the park. This time we took an hour and a half, stopping at all the lookouts, and taking all number of pictures of the eroded rock, the dry cracking sand, and jagged peaks glinting against the sun.

For Katherine, who had never seen a landscape like this before it was incredible. For me, I was reminded of my time in Dinosaur National Park, Alberta. Though it may look like an expanse of nothing, with full water bottle on hand, and comfortable place to spend both the day and night, it is a place of great beauty.

The prairie dogs ran around playfully in the setting sun, while shadows stretched all along the spiked valleys below.

Improperly named, the Badlands are a place which is unlike most others on the planet. On this day the usual yellowing blanket of grass which covered most of the ground had been replaced by an ominous black ash. Only two days earlier the grounds had been set ablaze in a controlled burn to cut back on the tall grasses, preventing future wild fires. Some photographers complained to the rangers, and staff – but myself? I thought it only added to the image of a place, thus named.

When the sun set, we headed back to the tent (fixed with the aid of duct tape, of course) and cringed as it was nearly doubled over by the wind. We made sure the pegs were in firm, then tied the tent to metal poles on our site. We also aligned the doors with the gusts. Then, secure in the thoughts that our home probably wouldn't blow away bouncing across the landscape, we headed off to the amphitheater for the night time ranger program,

We were treated to a presentation about the night sky, the planets, the constellations, and then a tribute to the 'real stars' – American Men and Women around the country serving the country to protect freedom and democracy. It was an interesting way to end the presentation, but in this country, not an unexpected one. The ranger then went and shook the hands of the three veterans in attendance.

When the slide show and talk finished, the ranger used his five mile laser pointer (the green ones that some people have been using as weapons to blind pilots) to show us various constellations, and stars in the sky above.

When that part ended we were able to look through the three 80x telescopes on hand. For the first time in my life, I looked upon Jupiter, with its coloured bands. The storm was, unfortunately, on the other side. Once more, my love of the night sky came flooding back, and I wished I had – not only a telescope, but an area free of light pollution in which to use it.

After looking at Jupiter, its four moons, and some stars, mosquito netting used to break it apart into various colour patterns, we headed back to our tent. We got into our sleeping bags – leaving them unzipped as it was actually warm – then broke out my netbook in a terribly non-camper fashion, pressing play to watch the season finale of True Blood.

As I went to sleep I realized this would be the last time I slept in a tent this trip. This would be the last national park we would visit. (We hit at least a dozen in two and a half months, not bad all things considered... wish we bought the passport to stamp off those that we had seen) Everything would soon be coming to an end. And while I may claim, at times, that I'm ok with that, or I'm not... to be honest, I'm not really sure. I probably won't know until that time actually comes, less than one week from now.

The Long Road to Rushmore

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Mon, 13 Sep 2010 07:21:00 +0000

Waking up in Yellowstone for the second time was better than the first – I was used to the cold. This doesn't mean that I got out of bed any quicker, but – you know – I was prepared for it anyway.

We took down the tent, careful to avoid further damaging of the split pole, and packed up the car. We're getting pretty good at this routine, and getting everything down and into the trunk took hardly any time at all. It's strange to think that the first time I travelled across a country (Canada) I had an entire van full of things – the whole thing, seats out, packed... Now, two people can fit everything into one small car trunk.

I think I could pack lighter too. We have been adding – Jedi Monkey is no small item to be trucking around with us, I'll tell you that right now. And we can't just leave it in the back seat – people break into cars for a CD or two, who wouldn't smash and grab for a stuffed monkey in Jedi robes?

On our way out of the park I stopped to take a picture of the arch, built over a century and a half ago, welcoming visitors into Yellowstone. I should have taken it the first time I past through, as the morning sun was illuminating the wrong side. But what can you do? My only hope is that Mount Rushmore is best viewed in the morning sun, as tomorrow morning is our only time to see it.

The plan for today? Drive to Rapid City, thirty minutes from the site. Find a cheap motel – Super 8 rooms go for 45.00 now that it's past September 6th, and neither Friday nor Saturday – sleep, and wake up early to see the site before moving on to Badlands National Park.

Looking at the route we'd travel, I added a few more things to the days itinerary, and we were off.

Stop the first, food. But soon after food came the all important Wal-Mart. The tent pole which had frayed after yesterdays travesty still managed to keep the tent up. It is my hypothesis that the pole will continue to work for many years to come, provided that it does not snap in two. So what we needed was something to fix it. Now what has fixed just about everything I've used this year? Duct Tape.

Duct Tape fixed:
My GPS
My Bag
Another Girl's Bag
My Watch
My Second Watch
My Battery Charger
A Screen in Florida

If I kept thinking, I'm sure I'd remember using it to fix all number of other things too – but those are the ones that sprang to mind. Had we had any a month ago it would have been the easy way to fix the leaky hole in the tent too – instead we had to gob sealing compound over it, and hope for the best. Sure it worked, and looks better than duct tape, but it just doesn't have the same charm.

Tomorrow when we set up the tent, I'll tape a few bands around the pole, and everything should be good as new.

Once we'd left the chapel of consumerism it was back on the road. Now, while it's easy to say “we drove” it should be noted that the day was comprised mostly of driving – three hours from the park until Wal-Mart, another two hours until our second site, and then three and a half more hours until Rapid city.

This is something that I don't think always comes across in writing, or travel shows. So much of the time is spent with tedious repetitious tasks where you're at your best if your brain shuts off. Katherine doesn't like when I say that in regards to driving, but... Hey, nearly twenty thousand kilometers down, and we're still going – so something's being done right.

Our second stop, which I'd seen on the map a week ago, but thought too far out of the way to get to, was the Little Big Horn Battlefield. When I saw that we were to drive right past it I made sure that we would stop in. The site costs twelve dollars per car, but as it's part of the National Parks service our pass would get us in free.

Once more I marvel at the money saving powers of our National Parks pass. I had one in Canada, but there were not nearly as many places to use it as there are here.

At the site a ranger gave a one hour talk about the events leading up to the battle. He tried to explain that Custer wasn't the fool people thought he was – explaining that his style of charging headlong into battle got him through the Civil War with flying colors. They also showed that he was not acting against orders (apparently a lot of people are under the impression that he was?) Custer's orders were to act how he thought was best under the circumstances. With orders like that, it would be impossible to break them.

The talk was not one sided, going on to explain that the natives were well within their rights to defend their land. Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull were shown to be the true heroes of the day, standing up for their people, and bringing the natives off the reservations in opposition to the American military trying to take what they could not buy.

After the talk we drove the five miles through the battlefields to see the various markers and look out from the ridges down to the river as the various generals did all those years ago.

The horses grazing by the road, and the sunflowers growing near by proved to be the most interesting things to view.

The final thing, after walking up the hill to see the spot where Custer fell, was to view the iron mural. Line art of Natives on horseback stood out against the blue sky. I'd seen an image of this somewhere – a travel guide? A promotional magazine? A poster somewhere? I couldn't remember where – but I'd wanted to see it, not knowing where it was. When I happened upon it? Well it was a fantastic addition to the day.

After that – we hit the road and drove on into darkness.

It should be noted that Katherine read about two hundred pages during our drive. The Traveller has not got any better. In fact, it has got progressively more ridiculous, and detached. Curse you critical reading skills. Why couldn't I be a non-thinker as such all those that made this a best seller? University – you've ruined my ability to enjoy being a mindless drone – as Gabriel might say.

Oh lord, I'm referencing the text.

It pains me to admit I related to the crazy characters of the text when, after hours of driving through the beautiful Montana countryside, a small town appeared before me. The neon lights, the road signs, the rules that appeared after the open roads at seventy five miles an hour – it seemed controlling, and on some level, it made me feel a little sick.

A minute or two later, and I'd readjusted – but those first minutes?

There's not that much road ahead of me. Soon I'll have to settle in again. We'll see how it goes, when it goes, I guess.

Yellowstone: The Grand Loop Road

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Mon, 13 Sep 2010 07:16:00 +0000

September 11th, 2010. Todays marks, amongst other things, the ninth anniversary of my first even University class. I wonder what that version of myself would think of this version of myself. He might probably ask, “where's the trench coat?”

We got up determined to do what the ranger said was impossible – see Yellowstone Park in one day. Step one was accomplished. We were still alive. The guy we let camp in our site turned out not to be a murderer. Well, he didn't murder us, anyway, so there's that.

Step two would involve fueling up the car – the Yellowstone Grand Loop Road is not a short one.

Step three was something about breakfast.

But then – then, step four. Start driving the loop. From Mammoth Springs we headed east along the top of the loop, travelling the opposite direction from where we set out yesterday. I had hoped that travelling this way would put the sun in the right spot as we made our way around the park. It would get up to Old Faithful while the sun was right, anyway.

Making the clockwise loop we headed out to where the ranger had, yesterday, suggested we might find bison. There were no bison. Not even one little bison to be seen along the whole stretch of road. But that was alright – we were too occupied looking at the “silly cars only” club. It seemed that a half dozen Model Ts were making their way around the park. These were not unlike the cars we saw coming out of the Redwood park a while back. Something strange was a foot. Seeing one of these cars? Fine. But a whole convoy of them? No. I could not accept something this ridiculous as they bumbled along the roads, both paved and dirt.

Our first stop was a six mile road that ran parallel to the main loop. Apparently we would see some lovely sights. I wouldn't know – I was too busy trying not to bottom out on the ungraded dirt path. Go back, go back, I may have been screaming at myself – but it was all for not, as it was a one way road, and other cars had unwittingly followed in behind us, expecting to see something wonderful that just was not to be.

Thirty minutes later, emerging victorious if not a little beaten, we found our first pull off. A petrified tree. That's right – another special tree. It seems like this country is just full of them. Now you can't just drive to the tree, there's a little walk involved, about two or three minutes in length. This wouldn't seem like much, but when you see the tree, it's all fenced off and really – it just looks like a short trunk. I appreciate that it is an amazing feat, petrified when half of the United States was covered with volcanic ash from the eruption of the volcano which is the Yellowstone National park – but, still – just a tree. Saw it, checked it off the list, and kept driving.

Next up was a river and a waterfall. The light was in the wrong direction for photographs, and with Katherine failing to act as my counter balance, taking on my somewhat jaded opinions as her own, we both shrugged claiming, “I've seen water before,” and then headed off. I don't know how I feel about this monster I may have helped create – I'll just tack it up to her being tired after a cold night's sleep. Once we reached our first sight of true beauty and colour her attitude changed, and she was back to her normal, excited about the world, self. And that always rubs off on me.

Cars were stopped in both directions – a coyote ran through the field. Behind me a man on a scooter nearly ran into the back of our car, apparently unimpressed that we were not moving, choosing t take his anger out on us: those directly in front of him, clearly responsible for the entire flow of traffic on the road.

We arrived at the Mud Volcanoes. These are one of the two reasons to visit this side of the park. Here a number of pits and pools bubble with churning mud, grey gloop springing in to the air, and settling back down into the stew festering on the surface of the earth.

Small caves issue fowl smelling smoke, as water boils outside – here there be dragons. Sour lakes on plateaus above contain water slowly transforming into sulphuric acid. Swimmers be advised – jumping in is at your own risk.

Rings of colour surround the pools, each a different type of microorganism staking claim their region. The temperature of the water can be told be the colour – each species needing specific conditions to survive. A living rainbow is formed with blue, the clear waters, in the centre. These waters reach temperatures exceeding two hundred degrees Fahrenheit. The pools boil here, and hot water can burn in less than three seconds.

There have been cases of tourists falling in, a painful death.

Pools of all shapes and sizes have formed, and a small trail took us past all of them in this area.

As we proceeded farther down the Grand Loop we came upon the other reason to travel this side of the park. The lake. Brilliant blue, with snow capped mountains along the shore line – this is a sight not to be missed. And while, once more, the sun was in a less than ideal position for capturing the splendor of this area, it was still remarkable.

Near the bottom of the lake another hot springs beckoned us out of the warm car, into the chilly air. More pools of all colours awaited us, and as we walked the board walks, built to prevent people from falling through the thin crust, we marveled at how the blues contrasting the sparkling whites of the land.

One pot existed within the lake itself. While the water in the vast body reaches a max of seven Celsius in the summer, in the pot it is near boiling. Stories are told of how fishermen used to catch from the ocean, and then drop it into the geothermal pot to cook, pulling it out to eat, all without ever taking the fish off the hook.

This is no longer allowed.

People fell in.

Give someone a pretty pool of boiling water, and you're just asking for trouble. Those are the lessons best learned from Yellowstone National Park.

Rivers of glowing yellow cut through the shimmering surface of the rock leading steaming liquid all the way down into the lake itself. A wonderful contrast of colours, form, and temperature. Still, even with all this activity, the lake is cold at the best of times.

As noon came and went we finally found ourselves back at Old Faithful. The predicted eruption was one hour from when we arrived. Slowly making our way through the information centre, mostly pushing buttons and pulling levels without paying attention to the education that said levers and buttons were trying to present us with, we killed half an hour.

With event time near, we grabbed a seat on the bench, then on the wooden deck under the bench, as others took seats along here, which threatened to block our view, we past the time by playing Cthulhu dice. Ten minutes before schedule, everyone took out their cameras and made ready for the experience.

It seems sad to me, still today, that so many people – myself included, will never see the eruption, so concerned with looking at our LCD screens in order to capture it all for future posterity.

When the water and steam did shoot up into the air, under the glowing sun, it continued for some time allowing for shot after shot, and then moments to just look and be amazed. Yes, I'd seen geysers before. Yes I'd seen this very one less than twenty four hours before, but seeing it now, under the afternoon sun – it really was something to behold.

After the eruption we stopped for some lunch, and then headed to a gift shop where I asked two tellers to search their tills in hopes of coming across the elusive Iowa quarter. No such luck. This was beginning to seem like a lost cause. However, we did end up with a Yellowstone National Park quarter – part of their new fifty states quarter program which is set to run the better part of the coming decade. Maybe if we take another American road trip five to ten years from now, we'll have to find those instead. I'm sure Iowa will continue to be elusive.

After our meal, with full stomaches, feeling as if we'd seen everything there was to see, we started to make our way back up the loop. Of course there were always more hot springs to stop at, one which ha a large crow living in the parking lot, taking up ominous positions on the mirrors of those who park to take a peek.

Different colours lashed out at us. No two pools were the same, no matter how similar. Each demanded its own special position in the park, and its own level of attention.

As we made our way through our final basin , the steam poured forward, obstructing all views except for the of the silhouetted photographers using the occurrence for ethereal images.

I wondered what this area would look like in the summer, when the air war warm, and the steam – presumably – less. I wondered what it would look like in the winter, waters still bubbling away while the land was blanketed in snow.

Small terraces chipped into the rock, Peru in miniature.

Oranges, blues, greens, and reds, all came to life as the sun lowered in the sky.

As we returned to our site, we paused to photograph some buffalo wandering the field. Once more, they were in the same position they were n yesterday. Why that ranger had suggested areas with minimal or no buffalo confused me, when clearly there was this location – plentiful with the animals.

Cruising back to the camp site after the sun had fully set we were initially distressed to not see our tent where we had left it. Had it been stolen? Did the camp not think we paid for both nights? But no – there it was, fallen and collapsed beside where we had left it.

Inside our gear was tossed around. We emptied the tent, and reset it back where it should be. It didn't seem windy today, but apparently it must have been to rip the tent, pegs, and gear away from where it had been.

One pole was slightly snapped at the end – no real problem, as they still fit together well. Another was warped, sliced down the middle.

With nothing we could do in the moment, we set it up as best we could, crawled inside, and attempted to sleep.

Thirty minutes later something could be heard peeing on the fabric walls. Person, dog, or beast – I do not know. I'm not sure what I would have preferred either.

It had been a long day – ten hours around the loop to see the park in its entirety, hiking trails, and offshoots excluded. 242 kilometers we drove from start to finish. Yellowstone – it is a very large park. One that you could easily spend a week in. One that would be worth every single minute there. But for us? Our time here was through. Tomorrow we'd be moving on once more – so much country left to cover, with every day eating away at the time remaining.

Yellowstone National Park

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Mon, 13 Sep 2010 07:13:00 +0000

The museum ticket we bought yesterday for the Museum of the Rockies was good for a second day as well. With little road to cover, we thought it would make sense to spend some more time there. And by we, I mean me. I love dinosaurs. Freaking awesome.

But what else was awesome? The breakfast at the Super 8 Motel. They had waffles! Yes the elusive waffles! Unfortunately, Katherine was sick this morning and could not enjoy the bountiful harvest laid out before us. I made sure to eat her fair share as well, and them make some more to put aside for later, when we got hungry driving around, or felt peckish at Yellowstone.

Yes, after the museum, where I gazed at more dinosaurs, and marveled how their appearance changed from young to full matured – looking like two or three completely different species – we got in the car, hit the road, and made our way to Yellowstone National Park.

This is the big daddy of National Parks. The great one. The one in which, slightly fictionalized, a talking bear who always seems to be after someone's pick-a-nick baskets resides.

As we entered into the town just on the outskirts of the park, I wondered what type of people were using the RV parks there? They were more expensive than being in the park themselves. The motels I understood – expensive, but cheaper than the lodges within the boarders – and much more comfortable than a tent.

Then it struck me that I was here in the off season. A constant stream of cars still past through the bricked archway marking the entrance to Yellowstone, and summer was over. During peak season, the park must be flooded. I imagine every spill over site on the outskirts fills up quickly too.

It saddens me that when I go back to teaching my only travel will be during peak season – but then I've done my fair share of getting around the world this year. Perhaps that will make up for it (it won't.)

Driving down the road to Mammoth Springs camp site we past a herd of elk grazing down by the river. A large male bull elk was present, capturing the attention of many a photographer, and ranger alike. The elk are a big draw during the month of September, as they are rutting. Yellowstone, for this reason, keeps ranger activities, and most park services running all the way until October.

When we dragged ourselves away from the animals, we saw the the camp sites fill up just as quickly even in the off season. When we go there, just after two in the afternoon, we were lucky enough to snag the very last tent site.

Katherine wanted to set up the tent, lest someone comes along and steals our site, but I was too eager to get out there and see what Yellowstone had to offer. As the afternoon wore on the sky began to break, and we were rewarded with some of the first glimpses of blue that we had seen in what seemed like ages.

This was an experience not to be wasted.

In the ranger station I asked where we should start our Yellowstone experience. The girl in full costume – uniform, perhaps, but I imagine she just bought hers at a thrift store, or something – looked at me with blank eyes. Finally she pulled random pamphlets and showed me pictures.

That's great, I thought – but where should I go? What are the highlights? I imagine this girl is asked this question no less than a dozen times an hour, and yet she had nothing ready. Finally I asked if I should just drive the big loop road. She still seemed dazed. When we told her we had two nights here she seemed to give a little saying, “i guess, but it's too big for one day.” Very well, I thought – I just said I had two.

Trying to escape her vapid look, I couldn't stop myself from speaking once more, “what are the odds of seeing bison here? Where should I look for them?”

She pointed off to the far side of the loop road, where I'd not be going today. I thanked her. I moved on. On to the gift shop.

Katherine was not as eager as I to spend more nights in cold tents, despite all the camping being her idea in the first place. Her feelings of animosity towards the prospect stemmed from her not being prepared for it. Here in the shop she would obtain a warmer top, and warm bottoms.

I suggested the mustard hoodie, which I was later told was actually, “gold,” in colour. She grabbed some warm track pants. Then, as luck would have it, we discovered there was a sale today of the buy two get one free variety. Due to this, I ended up with my very own, free, Yellowstone National Parks hoodie. Despite the sulking and complaining about colour choices for people my sized, I quickly came to love and adore it (though I kept this a well guarded secret for reasons unknown.) In return, I bought Katherine her very own Junior Ranger badge. Now the world can know that she, “Kathy” (a name which she despises, but the only option in the world of Jr. Rangering) is ready to inform people on the proper ways to... I don't know, bear proof their foods? Not get bit by rattlesnakes? That kind of stuff.

Finally – with all these buildings out of the way, we headed out on the Great Loop Road down towards Old Faithful. Apparently this is a big deal. It's the only thing I knew the park for – that there were field after field of other hot springs and geysers was beyond me heretofore.

As we past the hot springs, steam rising up into the air, we hit a clearing with a river running through it. Apparently a River [really does] Run[s] Through It. That was forced.

On the opposite side of the river a buffalo roamed. This was not where the ranger had pointed us. And yet there one was. We screeched to a halt to snap pictures. I stayed a safe distance back while Kath got close – too close, in my opinion. Cartoon images of Buffalo goring people aren't placed all around the park just for comedic effect.

Back in the car we drove some more, another bison. Then another. Then another.

The creatures were huge hulking animals the likes of which I could not have appreciated without seeing them alive, and in the wild. Grazers, they spend most of their time head down in the grass munching away. They are beautiful, and powerful. And they resemble nothing else I've ever seen. Their heads were as big as a child. Their whole body looked as if it could dwarf our car. Whether this was true, or just a trick of perspective, I couldn't know. But there they were, just wandering around, doing their thing, completely unaware with how spectacular that thing was.

It's hard to think this country was once filled to bursting with these creatures. Enough so that the natives could chase them over cliffs, killing them by the hundreds. What a sight that must have been. Hard to imagine that things could change so drastically, so quickly.

Now I feel privileged, being granted the opportunity to gaze upon them if only for a little while.

When we finally reached Old Faithful a sign informed us that the next blast would not be for forty five minutes. Around the gift shop we walked, before making our way outside. Together we all sat, people coming from around the park to see that which happens every 90 to 120 minutes. As the sun set, the geyser blasted off into the air. And there we had seen it, The Old Faithful.

It was over fast, but it was something to say you'd seen. Something to check off the list. Does that make it any less of an experience? Because it was one to be collected? I can't say. But with the sun down, and the colours muted, it wasn't as spectacular as I imagine it could be.

What followed was a painful quest to find food. You'd think it easy, but getting lost in a maze of parking lots and rapidly closing establishments did not make things easy.

When finally our hunger was sated we began the drive back to camp, eighty eighty kilometers from Old Faithful..In the darkest of night, I carefully wove the car around twists and turns, partially letting my mind go blank, partially aware that any number of animals could spring out from the bush in an instant.

I joined up with a convoy of a half dozen other cars. Together we drove faster than if we were alone, all depending on the car ahead of us to move out of the way, stop, or slow down, if an obstruction presented itself. Trusting in those ahead of my, I slowly began to relax. It was, of course, at that moment that all the cars began to switch into the oncoming traffic lane (blessedly empty.) Red tail lights slithered, like a terrible fire snake. At first I wondered why, but then I put my trust in them knowing the answers to that question.

As I pulled out, I saw what looked like a transient walking down the street, sauntering with a big cape pulled over his shoulders. In a park with this much hitchhiking such a thing would not be unheard of, though to do it at night?

As I neared, I saw this was no man, but rather a giant bison slowly ambling along the asphalt. With no care, trusting that all would avoid him, he was in no hurry. Out of the darkness, it was as if a ghost-buffalo had appeared before us. There was an eerie still, a loud silence, as we past. Katherine looked out through passenger window, as I focused on the road ahead. To her, it seemed the animal was the size of the car – I pictured its large eye looking into us, perhaps questioning, perhaps uncaring. winding back into our own lanes again, the chain of cars moved on while the animal seemed to fade back into the darkness from which it came.

When we returned to our camp site, the moment with the animal on the road, still strong within our minds, we wondered if we saw what we thought we saw. Had someone set up a tent on our site?

Walking up to it, it turned out someone had. Slowly, awkwardly, a man said that all the sites were taken, and could he share with ours? We sized him up. Perhaps he was a murder – but then, so too may those in the sites along side ours. And wouldn't a murder whom we helped be less likely to stab us in our sleep, than one we sent on his way?

Without any real thought, we said he could, of course, stay. He offered to pay but Katherine waved this offer away. I agreed. Enough people had helped me out this year, this was the least I could do.

He did move his tent from the perch, own to the lower area, and there he spent the night far more comfortably, than if we were to have sent him away looking for another place to sleep this late in the game.

In a sense Kath's earlier fear had been proved correct. But, had we set up our tent earlier, who knows how the night may have progressed for this fellow?

With day one down, we had seen a lot, experienced the animals, and marveled at the scenery. With tomorrow promising the be warm, with clear blue skies, we plotted to do what the ranger said was impossible – see Yellowstone in one day.

Montana: Home to the Dinosaurs

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Fri, 10 Sep 2010 05:55:00 +0000

Waking up, I was not cold. This must have been the first time in ages I was waking up, not terrified to get out of my sleeping bag. The weather outside, while not all that welcoming, was not frigid and heart stopping. I was actually glad to be awake, and excited to get up and out into the world today.

Now that Katherine had a new memory card, we headed back into Bannack to take more photographs. There was little reason to head back inside the buildings we'd covered so throughly the day before, but we did take the walk out to the gallows. It was here, on this site, that the one time Sheriff of Bannack lynched by the citizens who discovered it was him behind the gang or murderous thieves in the area. Vigilantly justice soon roamed far and wide putting an efficient end to those involved in the robbing and murdering that had taken place along the nearby roads.

From the hill top where the cemetery lay we could see the whole town before us. Saying our goodbyes we headed down, and out (not before taking a quick ride on the old merry-go-round (ride at your own risk.)

From Bannack we hit the roads, driving out to Virginia City and Nevada City. Nevada City was another ghost town, now turned into a tourist attraction. The in-authenticity, despite the people wearing period clothing, made it less desirable. It was also a sprawling town, losing the wonder created by having just one main strip.

The reason we had come out here was to pan for gold at the nearby centre. Katherine had been talking about this for months, her desire to pan. When I found out this place offered it I quickly added it to our plans. Unfortunately – it was closed.

Off to Virginia City, two miles down the road. This town was built in the same era, but rather than becoming a tourist attraction, the buildings were still in use. Though, being after Labour Day, things had slowed down some. Still – for the next two weeks, shops would still be manned. This was a town not all that unlike Bannack, one main strip. Here, however, the store fronts still kept themselves painted, and people still walked the raised wooden sidewalks.

One shop advertised itself as a free museum. And to be fair, it mostly was a free museum – but it offered the sale of books I could not turn down. One was a song book about outlaws, and the other was the tale of Bannack's dastardly Sheriff, written by those who lynched him over one hundred years past. How could I resist such things?

As for the museum? Well it was one of a kind. It was the type of road-side museum that I had been promised would litter America. But I tell you, that is a lie. Having driven the highways and byways of this large country, I sought out such places, only to come up with nothing.

This was the type of museum, that aside from having century old cash registers, and historical tools from the local area, also had a 'two bodied lamb' sharing one head in a box, and jackalopes mounted on the wall. This was the place of oddities that I had wanted to see for months. At last, here it was. And I couldn't have been happier. All of a sudden, paying for those two books doesn't seem so bad at all.

When we had had our fill of the museum, which for some reason offered two toilets in the bathroom, but no dividers of any kind, and I had managed to drag Katherine out of the old tymey candy shop, we were back on the road once more.

Our final stop for the day? Bozeman. At two in the afternoon we rolled up and got ourselves a motel. Such luxury – a whole afternoon without worry about where we would sleep, and without sleeping outside. This is how every day was spent at the start of our trip – but out here where miles sprawl between every point of interest? Things had been different.

Secure in our lodging we headed out to the reason I had stopped in this town: The Museum of the Rockies.

The Museum of the Rockies holds one of the best collections of Dinosaur fossils. And while it may not be able to stand toe to toe with the Royal Tyrrell Museum in Drumheller, Alberta, it did not fail to impress.

It also wasn't limited to dinosaurs.

Stepping into the museum and paying our 11.50 (after AAA discount) each we were told the entire museum was laid out in a ring. All halls would be walked through in order. And the first hall? A fabulous exhibit on Leonardo da Vinci. Machines in Motion.

This exhibit worked to create the various machines detailed in his codices. Brought to life were his designs for a multi cannoned tank, various failed flying machines, machine guns, canons, and all number of pulley and rope systems.

Here was a man of great genious, his works brought to life. Awkwardly they seem to be making excuses for him. This I am not a fan of. He was presented as inventor of all the ideas, although many of the pulley and gear systems would have already existed. It would have been interesting to see what was in existence, and how he added to that. There was another section which showed his bicycle, and while it was claimed that the image in the codex was mysteriously not by him, the idea was. This is a confusing statement. But, not as confusing as the one which claims he deplored war. Strange for a man who was so obviously a arms researcher and creator. The first machine gun, the first tank, better catapults and cannons. Even his ridiculous contraption to try and walk on water was for military applications.

Still – beyond that, the exhibit? Wonderful.

And then we were into the Montana history hall where photos weren't allowed. I don't know why one would want to take them, anyway? There were some cars from the forties – and, well, that's about all of interest to me. I moved through quickly. Katherine had a chuckle over the two university girls in the section looking at Native bead work.

Girl 1: Oh my god, I'd never have the patience to do all that.
Girl 2: Well it's not like you'd have anything else to do. They didn't have Facebook back then.

People.

Three o'clock was nearly at hand and it was time to head over to the planetarium to view the full-ceiling movie about Mars. Jean-Luc Picard narrated this woefully out of date film. Yes it was interesting, and educational, but when he claimed they'd soon be launching a new lander, scheduled to reach Mars by 2001 – well, we'll just leave it at that.

Then back into the museum proper where it was time to check out the reason we had come – the Dinosaurs.

A number of T-Rex skeletons were in the collection. Montana is a hot bed for fossils, and it is for that reason that there is just so much within these walls. Fossilized eggs, and nests were found. All number of triceratops skulls. Big Al the Albertasaurus.

Dinosaurs – they're fantastic. There's not much more than needs to be said. You look at the skull of a T-Rex and it's impressive, and it's amazing. And then it hits you – these things are real. These things were real, anyway. These dinosaurs existed. Creatures this big, with teeth like this. They roamed around, and did their thing.

And in that moment there's a sense of awe and understanding – which is quickly frittered away, because animals like this – even thinking of them as animals – is just too foriegn.

Instead we wandered over and took a picture of Katherine beside Catherine the T-Rex. Catherine the T-Rex is the dinosaur they found dinosaur tissue within a few years ago. This is what the Christians who now run the dinosaur sculptures in California use as proof man rode dinosaurs 6000 years ago.

After this show was snapped, we went and took a picture of me standing beside Big Mike, the T-Rex.

If only Catherine were spelled with a K, then it would have been perfect. But we'll take what we can get.

Three and a half hour later we finally made our way out of the museum, and back to our car – arms loaded with items purchased at the gift shop. Finally I had seen some dinosaurs in Montana.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to shower and wash my hair. After all this camping, it's been a while.

Bannack, Montana: Ghost Town

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Fri, 10 Sep 2010 05:46:00 +0000

I don't want to remember waking up today every again. Cold. So very cold.

This was the first day Katherine got up before me. She, who loves warm blankets more than I – I usually despise them – was greeting the day while I complained and attempted to snuggle up and tie myself within the sleeping cocoon. But this was not to be. As is usual for us these days, we had far too much distance to cover, with not all that much time to do it in.

We broke down our tents, and left the campsite behind us.

I had hoped the skies would have cleared, and that we could re-drive the going to the sun road in Glacier National Park once more... but this was not to be. Montana was still a depressing state of grey. Rather than going back, we pressed forward, looking to explore the Many Glacier Area.

There were not many glaciers here – but there were some lovely mountains. It always strikes me how these photographic pull offs are always in areas lined with trees, blocking vision, while just down the road there are perfect places to snap away from – these, of course, with no place at all to safely pull to the side.

Much like yesterday, however, all was not lost. No. While there was no Grizzly bear (I'm not saying I'm upset by this) nor was there another goat, there was a moose.

A moose full of juice on the loose?

Sadly not. This moose was contenting itself by eating the plants beneath the surface of the lake.

A large crowd of people had gathered to watch the moose wade through the waters and go about his business feeding. We all worked on running our memory cards to full snapping away, and taking video of the animal. Sure it was darkish, and the light wasn't right – but it was a moose, and damned if that isn't an exciting thing to see.

Eventually a ranger came by and warned us all to stay back (this was advice I was already following.) He went on to explain how dangerous moose can be. They're unpredictable and can kill people with ease. A calf had been spotted near by the day before, and this would only make things more dangerous. For a while people listened to the sound advice. Until he left.

Then people got closer again.

By the time the ranger pulled up a second time, we were already driving off. Back out of the park, and into the vast state of Montana once more. Where we drove.

And drove.

And drove.

Until we reached the town of Choteau. Here we stopped in at John Henry's Family Dining. It was time for lunch. Time for a third pound of beef, served with a side of fries, at a very reasonable price. $6.50, and with no sales tax in Montana, that was all one needed to pay.

After winning a dime on the video poker machines there, it was as if I only had to pay $6.40! Ohh!

Now the burger? A little burned, but when dipped in the plentiful ranch sauce, all was forgiven. The fries on the other hand? I had never imagined such flavour as these. I don't know how they were made. I can only describe how I assume they were made. First – you take the most delicious waffle fries the town could get their hands on (which, I guess would be good being so close to Idaho and Washington.) Then you deep fry them. In butter. Not oil. Butter. That locks in the sweet butter flavour right in the cooking process. Next you dunk them in spices which is fifty percent powdered cheese. Then – piping hot, you serve.

These are the most disgusting – most delicious – fries I had ever had in my life. McDonald's be damned – one of these fries will clog your arteries worse than a Big Mac, and I had a whole plate of them in front of me. It was spectacular.

As we ate different people from town would walk in, find a place to eat, and then hop from table to table. This was the town where everyone knew everyone. The best way to describe the place is to say when Katherine asked if they had an ATM the reply was, “I think we got one back here – but don't ask me how to use it.”

It was a regular ATM. Nothing strange. Nothing different. But here in Choteau it was like an alien invention. Most of the banking in this town happens at the local branch, where everyone still lines up to deal with the teller behind the counter. There are no electronics here.

This is the type of town when the bill came reading 6.50 + 6.50 = 12.00 you don't just take advantage and skimp. No you bring it up:

“You charged to little.”
“Did I? Let me see the bill.”
“No I didn't.”
“...yes you did?”
“No?”
“You charged us twelve. It should be thirteen.”
“Oh! I knew it was thirteen. I don't know why I wrote twelve.”

Uh huh – sure. Knew all along. But the point isn't the lack of Math skills. Few people like math, and we all make mistakes. The point is I, who sees every dollar as a potential value menu meal, could not simply walk away. There was a friendly atmosphere which permeated the whole place.

Now I don't know if I could ever live in a place like Choteau, but I can't say I don't wish a little bit of Choteau wouldn't rub off on my neighbourhood.

Once we left, as could be predicted, we spent hours more on the road. I tried to find some dinosaur museums, this being Montana and all, but one was closed, and the other? The one that would actually take you out to dig sites? That one required registration a few days in advance. No time. They did have a 10 day program that I may keep tabs on for later years, though.

After that, the only thing of interest this time being the billboard reading “Before Meth I had a daughter. Now I have a prostitute.” While this isn't the same painful ironic humour as the sign outside of Thunder Bay, Ontario which reads “Spousal Abuse is a Crime,” or the sign which read, “It's Never OK to Shake a Baby” - there was a little bit of WTFness in the fact that the sign seemed to imply that the father was now engaging in acts of deviancy with his daughter. And, that she was charging him. Meth – no good.

Anti-meth ads were lined up along the highway. One citizen painted a spot sign with the word METH in it on his barn, along with the words, “not even once,” on the other side. Clearly this is a problem here.

And then we reached the town of Bannack. This was the Ghost Town which I had managed to keep secret from Katherine, and when we pulled up she was overjoyed. Very excited. This was the thing she had wanted to see most – old abandoned building. A sliver of history, seemingly untouched. There was history here, life here, and also the touch of the ghosts which once made their way through the town.

Bannack is a one road town. It is a main street, and everything was situated along it. It was just how you would expect a town from an old western (or in my frame of reference, Back to the Future III) to look. It was like Pioneertown, in California, except even more like the movies. This town also had the benefit of being – real.

Part of a Montana State Park we paid our fifteen dollars entrance, for both of us. This fee also included space to set up our tent for the night. Not wanting to waste time getting the tent up, just yet, we headed into town. All but a small few of the buildings were unlocked, and open for exploration. Those which were not available for our wanderings were the ones used as storage, or for the preservation of artefact's. Out of thirty or forty major buildings, all but five were accessible. And the dozen more on the periphery? They didn't have anything close to a lock in the first place.

The story of Bannack is an interesting one. Founded in the 1880s, it was a gold mining town. But when the gold boom ended, not everyone left. In fact, it wasn't until one hundred years later that the last citizen finally moved out.

One hundred years of history laid within these homes, wallpaper now peeling, doors doing their best to stay shut – the warped floors helping hold strong against each and every offending push.

Inside the houses linoleum floors extend past rooms with nothing but dirt underfoot. A history can be read in the wallpaper, figuratively most often, but literally at times as well. Five layers of paper lie atop one another. Each covering offering a different floral pattern, not all that different to the passive observer. In some cases the layers strip away to reveal the original covering – newsprint. Stories of soldiers thought lost, now returned, can be read in bits and pieces of the history which seemed so unimportant at the time, and yet priceless now.

White graffiti now covers many walls, named scratched into the paint, there is an eerie feeling that some of these houses have not been permanently abandoned. Shelves, cabinets, and tables remain. The rooms are simply empty, seeking new ownership. These are houses lost to time, and – lost. The sense of occupancy strangely removed is what makes me want, quite badly, to visit Chernobyl. But here, in this small town USA, a similar feeling can be felt. Perhaps it is more eerie, as no sudden accident caused this town to empty. People just left – one after the other, after the other.

From the old Saloon, to the multi storey hotel, with room upon room, one wonders what life these places held. Where did the bandits meet with the bar girls? Where did law triumph over corruption – and where did the opposite occur?

In a town with but one street, the world must have seemed a very small place indeed. What is amazing is that it popped up at all, but even more so that it lasted for one hundred years, turning ghost just before my birth.

Katherine, all the while, snapped madly. This was, after all, one of the places she'd wanted to see most. Painfully, ironically, it is because of this that her camera stopped working.

“What's wrong with it?” she asked me. In a moment I could tell. Her memory card was full.

It would seem foolish for myself to assume an eight gig card could last the whole trip – but for her, she'd never needed anything else in her life. An truth be told, she did stretch it out to last for two months.

On the fly I had to delete some of her doubled up shots to free up room – and when we finally left this town, I'd rush into the nearby town of Dillon to help her grab another card, a 2 gig MircoSD with adapter – the only thing for sale in the town, found at a video rental shop that also dealt in cell phones. With this, she'd be able to shoot the city tomorrow morning.

Of Bannack, not much remains now, even though the sites still stand as proudly as they once did. Here there be only ghosts, ones with stories – and if I am not to know them, then I will simply make them up. The cemetery gives inspiration for all kinds of tales:

Michael Whitney Jacobs: Died in nineteen oh ought.
Born a rich man, died a poor man, loved the ladies a lot.
From the talk of the town, to never concerned, the people's feelings ranged.
But all who knew him will surely say that for him the Fortunes changed.

The days he would spend with a pan in the stream,
searching for gold in the black;
Through the nights he would scream, never needing to dream,
with the new girls on their back.

From riches to rags, he never did care,
though to all he seemed out of luck.
Dancers called him by name when he would strike fame;
Every penny from him they would suck.

From mansion on main, to a small little shack,
he lived happy on bachelors row.
For now, he'd not walk the long dusty street;
the saloon was but a stone's throw.

On the day he died, folks looked away, ashamed of the self-made poor,
Yet he never complained from the time of first pain, til the knocking at Death's door.

Six feat under he rots now, away from the world
his body devoured by ants.
Still, he'd never speak ill of his times on the hill
When he gave every new girl a chance.

...And Then We Saw A Goat

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Fri, 10 Sep 2010 05:31:00 +0000

We got up, grabbed breakfast – and in our change? The New Jersey quarter! Yes! The elusive New Jersey quarter! Sure we still needed Iowa, but now New Jersey could no longer cause us any further harm, other than the terrible memories of having, you know, gone through Jersey.

And then we drove.

And we drove.

And we drove.

Then we saw a goat.

The end. That's the whole day. There it is. from the quarter getting excitement, to a goat.

But I can't just leave it like that. No – I must flesh all this out. Perhaps as I write something will come to me – some other purpose, some reason, something which seemed like nothing at the time but has value, in retrospect.

But all I can see is grey sky, and rain. Rain and grey sky.

Well – we woke up, got or quarter, and then hit the road with hours to drive ahead of us. Leaving Washington behind us, we entered into Idaho. There was a visitors centre that I hoped to pop into, grab a map or something from, and then head on again. Of course, being past labour day, visitor centres were closed. This wouldn't be too troublesome (us only needing to spend an hour or so driving straight on through the state) if it wasn't for the fact that this was also the Montana visitor's centre.

Then we were out of Iowa and into Montana. Big Sky country. That's where we were. And looking around, you could see the mountains. You could really imagine what this place must look like when not covered with a blanket of grey.

Gazing towards the horizon, mountains were all that could be seen in each and every direction. If this was capped with a roof of brilliant blue, well then I don't think there'd be any other place that could possibly compare to Montana. However there was no blue today. The yellows in the fields were not wondrous contrasts. No, they were dulled out fields of depression and despair.

We drove on. And on. And on.

Finally we came across another tourist information centre, where I grabbed a map, and some pamphlets – secreting them away so that Katherine could not see what I was planning to take her to as we made our way through this state.

We had skipped some ghost towns in Idaho in order to visit Olympic park, and our soon to be reached Glacier park. While I had felt bad about this – we both agreed it was the right call. Imagine my surprise when I noticed there was another ghost town directly on our path from Glacier as we would be making our way to Yellowstone.

Maps would soon be consulted, plans made, and secrets kept.

Back in the car.

We drove, and drove, and drove.

Then we pulled into Glacier National Park. This was said to be the crown jewel of the continent. And – you know – under blue skies, I bet it really is. Given the right conditions, I'm sure this is a very lovely place. It's just, it wasn't blue skies, and it wasn't all that lovely. It was dank. And damp. And a little depressing.

Still – we would make the best of our time here, and drive the Going to the Sun road. So we got back in our car, and drove. And drove. And drove.

The going to the sun road takes you through the mountains, passing all sorts of lovely, you know – this and that. There's a stream which in the early months can be seen carrying tree trunks and boulders (this would be amazing to witness!) now though, it was a mostly dry bed with boulders and trees resting on the bottom.

Then there was the glaciers. I don't want to sound jaded. But I will. The glaciers? They're just patches of snow in the mountains. In the winter, when the snow falls, they'd be camouflaged better than Harry Potter with his magic robe (how his dad ended up with one of the most powerful magical items in all creation... never mind.)

These glaciers were just snow at a distance. You couldn't walk on them, or touch them – even Crater Lake had snow you could touch - you just saw them. I'm from Canada. I've seen snow before. Excuse me if I don't take one hundred pictures. Five or six did quite nicely.

There were two key moments as we drove along this road (before we get to the goat) and they were this – a game I invented, called get back on the road before the other slow people do. I would drive at reasonable speeds, while others – who had terrible classical sounding new-age music screaming from their speakers whenever they opened the doors to take pictures – moved at a snails pace. I'm all for enjoying, but when there's nothing to see...

So I would get out to take pictures, but as soon as I saw them heading back to their cars, Katherine and I would rush to ours, jam the keys in the ignition, and tear onto the road before they could get ahead of us. One less obnoxious person down.

The other came when taking more pictures of the snow on the mountains. Here a van of forty to fifty year olds clambered out, not looking unlike freshmen in University. They stumbled. They were giggling. One had a bald spot on his head, with flaming orange hair dyed all around it and spiked like a children's drawing of a sunburst.

The reason for their behavious was all too clear when they came close. They reeked of booze. Not good booze – but terrible freshman booze. They whispered, almost yelling, to each other about their drinking. When their driver said, “I think I'm going to go add some beer to my coffee!” we rushed back to our car and tore off. These are not the folks you want on your tail.

Look – I get it, this is America. Drinking and driving isn't that big a deal (we've past signs reading Don't Text and Drive, and Don't Drug and Drive – but I think they accept drunks will always be on the roads.) That's not what bothers me – though, as a Canadian, the idea of drinking and driving is as terrifying as the need for a laser sighted shotgun for home defense. No what really scared me – the type of person I really didn't want behind me – was one who thought adding beer (beer!) to coffee was a good idea.

Whiskey? Sure. Rum? Why not. But beer.

For that there is no excuse.

The worst thing? None of his friends thought this was a terrible idea.

Certainly I would choose tight twisty roads through the mountains to do my drinking and driving – what could possibly go wrong, right?

After some water falls, and waits for construction, we found a pull off where a number of people seemed to be clumping together. The reason for this? There was a mountain goat with its young.

Grazing before us the two kept getting closer and closer. Fearing and respecting the wild animals, I gave my distance. Others crowded. This was looking like a terrible idea, until it ran onto the path and tried to get away. When this happened others came within a foot of the animal. One foot – snapping away. I wanted so badly for them to get rammed, and set over the edge (not of the cliff, just a one foot tall walkway) but sadly this goat was used to people, and made no moves against them.

Despite this upset, we did see a goat, and that was all sorts of interesting.

Back on the road, we reached the end, grabbed a camp site, set up our tent, and played Chez Geek through he entire deck.

And then Katherine read some more Traveller. I'm ready to pass judgment on this text. It's a terrible book. I don't care that it was a best seller. It's terrible. Most best sellers are. De Vinci code, anyone? But this – this is worse. It's a work of fantasy realization. Within the first few pages it's obvious the author sees himself as the character Gabriel. He wants to have a girlfriend like the character Maya. If he can't do it in real life well then he'll do it in a trilogy of books (trilogy?! How could that happen?)

Nothing makes sense in the text. The authors bio is JOHN TWELVE HAWKS lives off the grid.

The author hates “the grid.” He wants to damn the man. He has never been seen in reai life, and his publisher doesn't know who he is, despite scrambled phone calls. I know this because I researched him. After reading a line which wrote how Gabriel never uses his real last name, I knew Twelve Hawks was not his.

The more I read, the more wacky we became. He writes his name JXIIH. Come on.

And as the book progresses, you realize that while he hate “the man” he has no idea how “the man” works. He writes about these super smart secret elements... but... well – let me break it down for you, alright?

Basically there is a group of people called Travellers who can go to another plain of existence, or something. Then there are Harlequins who are sworn to protect them. Lastly there is a group of men called Tabula who want to kill all the Travellers. They own most of the world, and want control.

So we have the plot of every person who calls into Coast to Coast AM.

But it doesn't make sense. There are only two Travellers left. They live in America. Most of the Harlequins are dead too – let us say there are maybe seven left? Only one – the stupidest of all – is in America. If you're sworn to protect these people, and there are only two left, don't you think you should all be in America? Also – the Harlequins lost track of the two Travellers. They have one job! One job that they train their whole life for, and they've screwed it up.

But don't worry – the Travellers don't yet know they're travellers.

Then you have the Tabula – don't think they're not stupid too. For the three groups that keep the world in motion, I'm surprised anything gets done at all. The Tabula decide to kill Maya's (She's a Harlequin) father. Maya was happy not being a Harlequin – but now decides it's time to get back in the game. Her father was killed for no real reason than petty revenge. You'd think if this group had exterminated all but two people, they'd work on killing those two before the revenge kick, but no.

Now Maya is off to America to find the two boys, tell them who they are, and probably – after three books – save them (well just Gabriel, because he's JXIIH after all. His weirdly, kinda-sorta-incestuous brother Michael will probably die is a supposedly heart wrenching scene which is more comical than emotional.)

And then there's the fact that this is a book with white hats and black hats – thee is no grey... I could go on and on about why this is terrible, and how terrible it is. But, we're still reading it. It's kinda an interesting idea. I'm not saying it's Twilight bad. I wouldn't go that far. But it's just painful to know the author is a certified conspiracy theory nut job.

Oh – my final point, Maya has to get fake silicon finger prints and shoot steroids into her face to get her appearance and identity to match her fake passport so she can reach American soil. Sure she could use a fake American passport, but they have RFID tags in them, and thus the man could track her down – never mind you can buy a wallet to nullify this chip for about ten bucks, or just smash the chip with a hammer.

But the real question is – if she needed to get into America, and she didn't want to be printed, or scanned – and, as we are to assume, she's super smart and up and up on all this spy stuff (she did get fake finger prints and knew how to shoot her face full of drugs to change how it looks) – if she really did want quick access into America, why not just get a fake Canadian passport?!

That's all I'm saying.

Sorry JXIIH – your world? It just does not hold up.

From Olympic National Park to Whever I Am Now

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Tue, 07 Sep 2010 08:59:00 +0000

Somehow the rain during the middle of the night had failed to make our morning in Olympic National Park any warmer.

Waking up, we took own the tent with practiced ease, tossed it into the trunk, and threw the rest of our gear in the back seat. Today we would not be going far – just one hundred miles around the bend to the western entrance of the park.

The morning was grey, dismal, and nearly depressing. If not for The Traveller (the current book we're reading) the drive would have been a terrible tragedy. With the book it was slightly less terrible. I have a hard time grabbing this text; I think the author might be a little nutty.

We pulled up to Rialto Beach jumping out into the world, only to be met with more rain, and cold. Cold that was not getting any better. I cursed my decision to leave all long sleeves in Florida, where my woolen hats also lay peacefully. Had I either of these two things, I would be fine. To be honest, were it not raining I'd be fine. If we want to get to the heart of the matter, if I would have just stopped being lazy, grabbed my rain coat out of my pack, and put it on all would have been right in the world.

But with the grey fog turning sea stacks into ghostly images of ships lost in the treacherous waters, the cold fit the mood. Sea gulls fluttered in and out of frame adding depth to the haze on the horizon. Asian tourists jumped for pictures, and flashed signs of victory. Further down the beach a shirtless man tossed flat stones, skipping over the ocean's edge.

Once more, I could picture Olympic Park as it might have been. Truly spectacular and beautiful – and while I enjoyed the moody atmosphere captured in my camera's unfeeling single frames, I would have rathered the sun on my face, while in the moment. I could talk about the smooth stone beach, as if made from rocks freshly tumbled in decades old machines – but at the time, I just wanted to get back in the car. For the first time we turned on, not the air conditioner, but the heat.

Leaving the beach we made our way for the third and final landscape of the park. The temperate rain forest of the Pacific North West.

This time I did put on my jacket, wanting to enjoy the short hike more than I otherwise would have.

It was now, with the day barely half over, that I realized we would not need to sleep another night in this park. For that reason we did only one hike through the forest – but after seeing so many trees, all holding their own value, as of late – it was hardly a loss. After all, we still did hike through rain forest today.

And the forest lived up to its name. The rain poured down. Were I not desperately trying to take pictures, it wouldn't have bothered me one bit. As it was, I was caught in a cycle of taking one frame, wiping off the lens with whatever part of my shirt was still dry beneath my somewhat protective rain coat, snapping again, and cleaning once more.

By the end of our hike through the rich, lush, forest some images were recorded. Looking above, I imagined the green hue that would be cast over everything when the suns rays filtered through the emerald canopy.

I tried to live in the moment, but it was difficult. I'd been in forest like this before, four years ago in British Columbia, and this was all the same. And it was rainy. And it was chilly. These were not good combinations. Still, looking back on the images now I edit my memories in post production, and realize that the experience was a fantastic one. One I loved far more than I realized at the time. This seems to be the way with many of my travel experiences.

And I have to wonder – what's better? Living in the moment, or holding the memory that you did live in the moment? One is as fleeting as a beating heart – the other, as eternal as our lives. Where do truth and fiction blend, bend, obscure?

Driving on the bumpy dirt roads to this section of the park we stopped as twelve classic cars drove out. Why they were there, and how they got in was a mystery. On our entrance and exit we worked hard to drive on ridges, trying not to bottom out where ruts had formed, now thick with mud.

Abandoning this Washington park we plugged in our destination into the GPS. I had assumed the drive would take nine hours. After watching the pathing come to light, it was obvious that somewhere along the line I had miscalculated. Fifteen hours. Fifteen hours from Olympic National Park to Glacier National Park. It was good that we were not staying the night. It was good that we could get some of that journey out of the way today.

Gassing up, and filling our bellies to make up a more agreeable couple, we hit the road – it wasn't until I saw a sign claiming the wait for the ferry was two hours that I started to suspect something was wrong.

I checked the route. Curses! I had checked “No toll roads,” and, “no dirt roads.” Somehow No Ferries had escaped my watch. I tried to avoid it by driving south, but another was in my way. It would have been possible to drive three hours to get from where I was to Seattle, or I could just bite the bullet, wait thirty minutes, take the one hour ferry across, and pay my fifteen dollars.

I was not a happy traveller. For some reason these fifteen dollars (five of which would have been spent on extra gas – so really only a ten dollar loss) felt all important to me. Once on board, with car turned off, and us on deck in the comfy chairs, changed my mind. This was relaxation. This is what I had missed. The art of public transportation. I couldn't go anywhere, and I couldn't speed things up. There was nothing to do. There was nothing to see. My best option, sit down, drink a hot chocolate, and read the local paper. My mind, for the first time in ages, was truly at rest.

Those ten dollars didn't seem so bad anymore. Five, really, when split with Kath.

When the Seattle sky line came into view, I felt a tinge of upset, my break was over. But so quickly did my mind snap back into, rush-rush-rush, thinking that I hardly noticed.

Driving through Seattle I thought what a nice place it would have been to visit. A podcast I was listening to was commenting on the Penny Arcade Expo – PAX for short – that just finished yesterday in this very city.

Then I was on the high way – driving, driving, getting lost in Radiolab: The Podcast.

I wondered how the hours would be spend it DeeDub never gave me the data stick with my first few entries into the series, back in Germany. That show has been the soundtrack to the last ten months.

Light spilled ever so gently over the hills, reminding me of our night in Death Valley. This time, however, the casting of the glow was not from the full moon – the one in the sky, new just now, but rather the city in the distance.

A choice was made of how far to push on. Every hour tonight was one less tomorrow. Should I go to Spokane? Should I stop short? And if so where? The Roomsavers showed little in the range of affordable motels.

A sign was past, telling us we were in the nations number one potato growing county. I would have thought that honour to Idaho. Wrong, apparently.

Just outside Moses something... Moses Lake? we exited the highway. I did not want to drive any further. Ten was late enough. Willing to pay the sixty dollars we turned in, but just off the highway a sign displayed the price for the first motel we saw – ten dollars less than what I was about to pay. We changed destinations, recouped the losses from the ferry, and set off to sleep.

Well Katherine set off to sleep. As for me? It's just past two in the morning, and I'm only now posting this entry.

Still – with the next week, potentially spent camping, who knows when I'll have time to blog again. Back logs are unacceptable. And I've neglected emailing too many people for far too long. I'll deal with the repercussions of my lack of sleep when the alarm wakes up in four and a half hours. Gotta get up early – there's still seven hours of driving ahead of us.

Still, I'd not trade this experience for – well it would take a lot. (I just corrected a lot with alot before I realized what I'd done. This being a huge pet peeve of mine, I know it's truly time for sleep. Entry. Over.)

Down in the Goondocks / Olympic National Park

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Tue, 07 Sep 2010 07:52:00 +0000

Today was a special day. In fact, today was the day the t-shirt I bought way back when at Target, months ago, would finally pay off. Why, you may ask? What day is today? Well good sir, or madame, I will tell you. Today – is Goonies day!

Today we would leave the blessed Portland behind (just when I find out I have a contact in this city... shucks.) and head off to Astoria. Astoria, for those born in the 80s, may be better known as the Goondocks. This is where the movie “The Goonies” was filmed. This is where it took place. Astoria, Oregon. For so many people coming out here has been a right of passage. To visit these shores is what many have dreamed of.

Alright – that may not be entirely true, but few who know the movie can come within one hundred miles of this city and not take make the excursion out to 38th street, and up the dirt path.

There was a labor day festival in town, but I cared nothing for that. I was wearing my oh so special, “Goonies Never Say Die,” t-shirt and I had to put it to good use. There were sites to see. Exciting things to do. Exciting thing number one, running away from the jail, to mirror the scene from the movie. Now sure, in the movie the Jail sign didn't have the words, “Oregon Film Museum” over it – and in the film there wasn't a big red white and blue flag flying from the building reading, “open,” but that didn't bother me (much.) As luck would have it they were repaving the parking lot, and while this meant getting some sticky black goo ever so slightly on my shoes, it also meant the pictures were clear of obstructions.

Exciting thing number two: Go to the museum that the father worked at. It's just across from the Jail, so getting there didn't take any effort. Neither did passing the bowling alley – nothing like a drive by (photo) shooting to speed up progress.

The final stop was the pilgrimage to 38th street. This is where all Goonies fans eventually end up, much to the dismay, I'm sure, of the people who now occupy the two houses.

Rumour has it that the current occupants knew nothing of the importance their houses held in the hearts and minds of people the nation over. Well they know now. As we pulled up, no less than six people were walking down the dirt path back to their cars. Private property signs line the road, but any attempt of keeping said property private dried up this year when the 25th anniversary of the movie past a few months back. Rather than trying to fight the inevitable, the occupants simply want to cull the traffic. A sign at the bottom of the hills reads, No cars: Goonies on foot acceptable. There are silhouettes of all the Goonies there too. Including big ol' Sloth.

I might should take a moment to explain just who the Goonies are. Think Indiana Jones, but for kids – and lots of them, including Short Round from Temple of Doom. Mix in a little Cyndi Lauper for good measure, and there you have it.

In this movie there are two main houses – the “Goonies house” and Data's house. Trying to explain to people who Data is was a mistake. While I stood taking photos a dozen others walked up the path – none really sure what house to take pictures of. I explained the blue one was Data's. Blank looks. You know, Data – Short Round from Indiana Jones? More blank looks. Ohh! Data! From Star Trek! ...No. Did anyone watch this movie?

I'll be honest – I didn't recognize the Goonies house for sure either. Memories fade, and without the Rune Goldberg machine... I may have done the truffle shuffle anyway. I'm not saying I did – but it was a distinct possibility.

The Goonies house now proudly flies the flag of Israel and The United States. With that knowledge you can't miss it. Data's house, when I was there anyway, comes complete with a woman cutting her husbands hair on the porch. I wonder what she must think of all this foot traffic. I wonder if she's watched the film?

As I finally left, more people came up the road. This is a constant stream. Is there something special about today, or has this just become the norm?

But Goonies day couldn't last forever. Not when there were other places to see, and things to do. We jumped in the car, travelled across the big ol' bridge, and hit Washington. There we pulled into a McDonalds, having just missed Ronald McDonald live and in person. His wacky Ronald Mobile was still there.

Where had he gone to? My best guess – the parade which had shut down the highway. Yes, the main highway runs through a small town for three miles – but there was a parade being held there, with no thought given to through traffic. Detour signs would have been nice, but clearly they were thought unnecessary. Some cars waited, others drove in circles. Using our GPS we plotted a course that took us up and over the hills, a wee bit, across a slight dirt road, and beyond the high school cheerleaders prancing proudly in their thousand dollar uniforms, marching to the beat.

Really town? You can do this? Shut down the highway? Well – it didn't hurt us, but I imagine some frustrated drivers going slightly mad with rage.

This was the last instance of note until we reached Olympic Nationa Park a few hours later.

Our Lonely Planet told us the visitor's centre closed at five. It was with much relief when we showed up at five thirty, finding the hours extended until six. We asked about tent sites, and were directed to one near by – but we should hurry. Today being the Sunday of Labour Day Weekend, sites were filling up fast.

There was no wasting of time. We found a site, filled out the registration card, put twelve dollars (including many quarters) into an envelope, and dropped it into the trusting self serve deposit bin.

Now that we had a site, and the light was still good, we hurried up to hurricane ridge to look out over the park. This was the reason for coming in through the North entrance.

As we climbed higher and higher we watched as the clouds became closer to us. I remarked that soon we'd be driving right into them. A few turns later and we were. All was obscured. The world was white, with a few silhouetted trees to the sides. At one moment we hardly realized there was another car in front of us – it was white, without any lights on.

As we crested a hill, the sun trying to cut through the white, but only enhancing its brilliance, I thought of an animation cell, with its background frame forgotten. This was the world we seemed to be in.

And then we broke through. Suddenly the clouds were below us, and us on top. Mountains all around. My mind went, instantly, to Switzerland. Not only did the snow capped, rocky peaks, remind me of Interlaken, but the temperature was starting to match. There, I beleive, I may have been wearing warmer clothes, while these days I have but shorts and t-shirts, but as summer gives way to fall, it's not as warm as it once was.

Signs were posted warning people of a cougar that had been bothering people as of late. There was also a posting about a mountain goat who was no longer afraid of humans, and had taken to the fun sport of charging them when approached. I thought of the two in combat. While it's likely the cougar would take down the goat in a heart beat, I couldn't help feel that any goat willing to mess with an entire family of European tourists was one that might stand a good fighting chance. For one of the few times in my life, I rooted for the vegetarian. In a fictional fight. So I don't know if that counts.

The clouds below still obscured the land, but its beauty was possible to extract. I pictured what this place must look like on a clear and sunny day. Still – all was not lost, as on our way down the hill, we saw a number of people on a pull off. They seemed to be holding their arms out for birds to eat from. This seemed a fools idea to me – but, Katherine became very excited. She doesn't understand the inerrant Hitchcockian evil within the beasts quite like I do.

After watching these, in now way small, fluttering monsters land and eat, Katherine decided to give it a try. Using popcorn left over from Portland's Saturday market she put out her arm. “Ow it hurts!” came her cry as the bird landed and ate. When it flew away she asked if I'd like a go at it.

“It doesn't hurt!” she stressed. That's not what I had just heard. Still I was not wanting to show fear - after all these are small birds which I could squash like Doomsday in his first appearance, if need be, not giant sting rays from the Cayman Islands – so in my hand went the popcorn, and then the birds came flying over flighting for what I had. Their talons pinched slightly, but it was not too bad. Still – I was not a believer in the good of these creatures. They were testing us, and when the time was right, they would swallow our souls.

Wild animals. Playing with them – no matter how great it seems – is rarely a good idea. Still, I fed a bunch, I was glad I did, it was neat – but... evil, these flying creatures. They think they're better than us. I'm sure of it. And when their moment comes, not even the glass enclosures of telephone booths will provide safety!

The real question is, how did everyone know about this place? Some people came specifically with food. So many rangers preach not feeding the animals – it seems odd that that's where the information would be coming from. But if not them, then whom?

Back at the site we still had to set up our tent, and it was not getting warmer. One quick game of Gloom, and then another, and it was time for bed. We each curled into our sleeping bags. Me, with relatively little on – so I could layer if I got cold in the night. Katherine decided to go in fully layered, with two shirts, a sweater, and shorts, and socks. All I'm saying is one of us slept fine, and the other did not. At one point in the night, I gave her a pair of my thermals – this helped a bit. There's a lesson here, which I learned from a homeless girl a decade back – put your clothes on in layers, and you can make it through the coldest of nights in relative comfort.

Sound advice to be sure.

Portland, Oregon: America, at it's Best

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Sun, 05 Sep 2010 08:15:00 +0000

Portland: America at its best. Yes, here in buzzing metropolitan Portland people certainly are doing what they can for themselves and for their country. Why there's little junior getting on the metro rail all by himself, whizzing away over the bridge and into the city proper. And if that isn't Mary-Lou. Hello Mary! Quite a lot of flowers you've got there. Ha. Ha.

[note: it should be said that for this to give full effect, you need to read it like a nineteen forties news reel. But we'll stop that now too.]

Portland, it's the city of cities. America's crown jewel as far as I'm concerned. Portland is what so many people expect from San Francisco. This is art, culture, kindness, and west coast joy all rolled into one.

First thing I did was grab myself a day pass for the metro – it was under five dollars, and seemed like good value. I didn't understand, at the time, why a day pass should be so inexpensive, though I'd later learn that answer. Portland, they're a green city. They're known as a bike city, and they also encourage mass-transit. How is mass transit encouraged? By making it free within the city centre. All we needed to do was pay to get from our motel on the outskirts (though luckily right on the orange line) and then ride it down into the city. Fromm that point on all our traveling would have been free anyway.

Imagine living in a down town area and never having to pay a dime to get around? Is this the future? Probably not. But, it is Portland.

Right as we hopped off we found ourselves lost in the Saturday market. Food stalls were all jocking for customers. Elephant ears, and Chinese food; hot dogs, and Italian. In the end it was the Greek lamb wrap that won me over. After that was polished off and a great big strawberry lemonaid had been polished off it was deeper into the heart of the market.

Here crafts were king. Cribbage boards were made from exotic woods, and jewelry was hocked at reasonable prices to all those who wanted something slightly trendy. It was like the one of a kind festival, but instead of a few weeks out of the year, this is every weekend.

I saw a few things I wanted to try and replicate when I finished travelling. Little souvenirs of sorts to give away to friends and family. In one boot a photographer had cut up small versions of her photos and affixed them to the the back of glass beads – rectangular or square in shape. These were then turned into necklaces. I'd made magnets like this in the past with magazine art and small round beads, but I'd not thought of using my own images. Now the tricky part will be finding the beads in the right shapes and sizes.

There were also rings made of bottle caps and two stage epoxy. I like crafting but I've never had a reason to do much of it before. Reason? Check. Know how and ideas? Check. Now I just need the time and the materials.

As we left the market, a band with enough member to rival Broken Social Scene in any form of professional sport, or gang fight, was setting up. They played fast, catchy ska – I was given reason to dance again. Nothing quite like skanking it up in front of random people. But then, this was Portland, and it didn't seem odd. I also didn't skank alone for long – but the next song three others had joined in.

The band was a wacky assortment of nonsense. There were two accordions, two trumpets, a trombone, percussion pipes being played with flip flops, a drum set, a korg synthesizer which, with the held of a guitar neck, and power drill, had been converted into a home made keytar. There was also a digital guitar – which I'd never seen before, and would love to hear sans accompaniment. There was even an electric ukulele just to spice it up.

I had been in the city proper for an hour, and I already knew I'd never want to leave.

As we jumped back on the metro and zipped down to the university, we noticed that a crowd was milling around. Was it for frosh week? Apparently not. This was the Saturday Farmer's Market. A real farmers market, with fruits and veggies directly to you. For three dollars I picked up a box of the most delicious black berries I'd had in years. Some sweet, others tart. All beautifully juicy, staining my tongue and fingers deep purple.

Every stall offered samples from ripe melons, to way too many types of apples. My favourite? Tokyo Rose Apples. That is an apple. It tasted like what my idea of apples tastes like. Like that idea of Banana flavour you have in your head, which never becomes quite realized. This apple was the fantastic-phantom apple realized.

There were breads, and cheeses, and pepper jellies. Goat cheese and broccoli for dipping made for an afternoon snack, with a fruit filled pastry rounding things out.

The people here were friendly, and knowledgeable, and really cared about their products. And this happens every week. Twice a week, to be truthful – it's just the mid week market is a few blocks away from the weekend one.

Now, already feeling like we'd seen a lot, we walked on up through the central park in the city which would eventually lead us to the street on which rests Powell's books. We didn't get all that far though – two blocks up I noticed a number of people holding giant keys, or dressed in black with red clouds on their robes. Girls were dressed as goth lolis, and all was a little bit off. At first I shrugged – Portland. But then I realized, there was an Anime convention going on.

Asking for information, it was discovered that the con was at the Hilton a few streets over. I was all ready to go check it out, but there was a line. A terrible line. For one thirty in the afternoon, there should not have been an hour line just to register. This was too much. There would be no Anime con for us just now – though the wild hair wonderful people still streamed around us, up and down the streets.

A few blocks more at we found ourselves at a Lego festival. Clearly LEGO had bought out the square, which was now filled with their new board games, and displays, and trivia fun for the kids. We didn't stand around long, but we were there long enough to marvel at the fact that every few blocks puts you in a new and wonderful experience.

Closer towards Powell we ventured, but were soon swept up in yet another experience. Right by the statue of an elephant standing on an elephant was the Portland art market. Think – the Saturday market, but adding an extra zero to all prices. Here things were a we bit... more – though the quality was the same. The same pictures, frames, similar crafts – but because these items were “art” you were looking to pay through the nose. It was sad, and wonderful.

In one both a man was making a kayak from nothing – cutting wood, creating the frame, and covering it in skin. From nothing to nearly finished in the course of a number of hours. Another booth had a man wood working, and another iron working. Still another was a print making shop, where each print was a one of a kind piece.

On glass someone would paint with ink, and then run that through a press, making a print – each glass painting good for only one pass. Now, I didn't want to be a swine and make this simple observation, but I thought there might be an even easier way to make a one of a kind piece of art – simply paint with ink, right on the paper, straight away? Cut out the difficult middle process. But then, that was the fun part to watch.

Finally one long pass through the stalls, and a quick hop into a porta-potty (honey bucket) which smelled shockingly not terrible – belying the horror within – and we were on course again. Only one quick stop remained before we hit Powell's for our return trip: Reading Frenzy.

Reading Frenzy is a Zine store, which carries all number of self made publications. As I flipped through one the art seemed familiar. I turned the book over, and there stamped on the back was shannongerard.org it was the same artist. Shannon was my writers craft teacher years ago. She offered me good advice when I set off to be a teacher myself. She's one of the few who managed to pursue her dream in spite of a working life. And seeing her work here, across the continent was inspiring. Also, seeing Toronto so clearly represented in her art didn't hurt either.

Now we walked through the doors of Powell's books. Hours were spent here between books, and games, and games, and books – going back and forth, looking at items over and over, and finally making choices.

At the end of it all, I decided not to get the latest Chuck Klosterman book, despite my love of his writing style. No, instead I picked up Night of the Living Trekkies. Star Trek? Zombies? What more could one ask for. It seemed the right choice at the time.

I also grabbed the Cthulhu dice game, and a copy of Eaters of the Dead – right behind Jurassic Park as my second favourite Michael Cheriton movie (13th warrior). I figured I needed to read the book.

Today I got off easy. Katherine, on the other hand, grabbed two Winnie the Pooh books, on sale for three bucks because they were to be used as book art (cut up the book to make something else – how cool is it that the store has a section for this?!) and a used copy of Under the Dome. She also snagged two games: Gloom, a card game, and The Stars Are Right... another Cthulhu game. You know, I really must force myself to read more Lovecraft. i hated his writing last time I tried it – but the mythos and the games? They're great.

You know, I hated Lord of the Rings for years too. Maybe I'm finally ready for The Horror.

With these purchases weighing us down, it was time to return up town. We made our final stroll through Portland, along the waterfront, grabbed the orange line, and zipped home. There we played the games a few times, and got a love for them. Then it was off to dinner.

Dinner would be at the Grilled Cheese Grill. I'd read about this restaurant in a number of sources, and knew it was for me. The eating are is inside a converted school bus. Tables had been put in, and a bar along one wall. The seats were all made of school bus seats – and children could play in the drivers seat. Trivial Pursuit cards sat in boxes on every table. This is always a good move for a restaurant.

But the real reason for coming was the cheesus sandwich. It's a 1/3 pound burger. But, rather than a bun, the top and bottom pieces of bread are each grilled cheese sandwiches. Yes this is a beast. I recommend it was sauerkraut for maximum deliciousness. Kath had the goat cheese and apple grilled cheese, with a side of creamy tomato soup for dipping.

My meal? It was so good – I had to have a second. When would I ever be back?!

At the motel we tried to play The Stars Are Right – a truly fun game, but a thinking game. Far too much thinking was required with meat on the brain and exhaustion overpowering. Oh Portland, how I wish we had more time, but I'll always remember you. I'll always love you.

[note: back to news reel voice.]
Yes, that's right. Portland – America at work to bring you greener, more welcoming, and more entertaining futures for us all. The choice, is yours.

Portland For Sure

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Sun, 05 Sep 2010 08:10:00 +0000

Yesterday we may have fallen a few steps shy of Portland, but today? Portland for sure! It just might take a while, that's all.

Six ten. That was when the alarm went off, and that was when we woke up – complaining and crabbing as we stepped from warm sleeping bags into the cold morning air. Twenty minutes to get the car packed, and a few more to break down the tent. With our site cleared off, we were ready to break out into the world once more.

First things first – yesterday we were unable to shoot Crater Lake from the East, as the Western setting sun obscured the images. This morning the light would be reversed. We would head out into the morning and see the lake from yet another angle.

“The sun creeps across the valley floor; a tomb opening to the morning light.” These words echo in my mind as the golden rays transform the morningscape with its early illumination. It is beautiful to watch as shadow stretch out over the treetops, and against the walls. With great speed the fog is burned away, and beauty takes hold.

When, finally, I approach the lake there are no words. Still, and calm, we are the only two around. Everyone else still rests comfortably in their tents. It is only the two of us looking out over the rim at a body of water, so still, it's hard to tell which is the real, and which is merely a reflection. In different light this lake can be many things, but right here, right now, it is a looking glass for the great forests.

Around we drive, watching the glow fade as the sun rises higher into the sky. And then it is time for us to say our goodbyes to the crater, leave the park, and return to our journey once more.

This park, visited by accident, based on misremembered information, has been a spectacular sight. But there will be more such sites in the future, without doubt.

Leaving the park we head out into the world in search of the fabled room saver. One visitor center provides us with a copy, one month old – most coupons now expired. in another there is none. Finally, at a rest stop just outside of Portland we find one. Hours of stress preceded this event. There are few things I dislike more than not knowing where I'll sleep, or not knowing where to find a place at all.

In the time between these two magazine spottings many hours of Radiolab were played, educating; entertaining. We also made our way into Eugene, and out – stopping just long enough to notice that everyone runs in this town. Everyone.

Soon we would be in Portland. Between Crater Lake and this new city on our horizon, there was only one stop of note. One stop I had not planned on, did not now we would pass, and to be honest – did not even know was real. All my life, I had assumed this location fictional, a product of the ancient floppy days, ruled over by Apple Iie machines. But there on my map, and then on my GPS, and then on my left, just outside the car's window was Odell Lake.

Anyone growing up in the 80s should know of this lake from the game which was set here. You take on the role of a fish and eat your wait, avoid your way, and outsmart your way through life in the lake. The game taught me two things – Rainbow Trout are king, and fear the osprey.

There was also an otter in there somewhere too – but it was the otter who grabbed you from on high, when you tried to be sneaky at the top of the lake, that filled all with fear.

Odell lake. Touching the clear, cool, water – I found myself lost for words. It's like seeing a dragon. How else can you describe seeing someone that you'd never thought real, which had had such an impact on your life? Imagine walking through the streets of Gotham City. In a way, this is what I was doing.

I wanted to jump in and swim, or cast a lure into the water. But I couldn't fish, wouldn't fish here if I could. In some small way, I am those fish. Those fish are me. In a strange digitized manner.

And then we were in Portland. The Roomsaver directed us to a motel, Super Inn, on the metro line. Tomorrow we'd rail into the city proper. Today, however, we would drive. Avoiding the main spots as evening fell, we headed out to the few places where driving would make access easier.

Stark's Vacuums may seem like an odd place for us to head, but this is not just an ordinary vacuum store. Oh no. Within these walls lies the free, small yet entertaining, Vacuum museum. Over one hundred years of the machines history is on display here. Enter, be amazed, and head a number of blocks down the same street, until you come to a strange red door with a sign taped to it proclaiming it to be a museum.

Knock knock Neo. You need to rap on the door, but when no one answers, don't know harder, else the lady who works there will give you an angst filled line about fearing you were going to barrel down on her with a shot gun – as if there were any way you could know she was there, and making her way over. As if there was any way to know why a museum would have a locked door with no windows.

But then you're inside. This is a Toy Museum, free of charge. Metal banks where stereotyped black boys eat your money are on shelves by the dozen. The names, too awful to mention, vary from one to the next, but most are the same.

Then there are the tin soldiers, the model trains. The creepy dolls. This is a place for all those born between the thirties and sixties to come and relive their past. And it was interesting to be sure. All these toys lined behind glass cases. But, while I enjoyed it, it did nothing for the nostalgia in me. This was not my era, these were not my toys.

For those born from the seventies to the eighties, Billy Galaxy is a shop in town which is set up much like this museum, but the pieces are for sale, if one would wish.

With these two places seen we ventured into the heart of Portland. This would not be a sight seeing expedition, but rather one with a purpose – to check out Powell's books. So much has been said of this store, that investigation was needed. But this was not a city for driving. No, pedestrians are so sure of their right of way that they will walk in front of traffic without looking. Bikes were everywhere. Now while I'm sure I will love this set up tomorrow when I am on foot, right now? Infuriating.

We circled the block once, twice, three times – and just as we set the directions on the GPS for home, a car left in front of us. We had a spot – we went into Powell's.

This is a book lovers dream. Four floors of books both new and used. There is a rare book section with one text dating back to the 1400s. And there were games. A terrible number of games. All of which I wanted.

I tried to resist, I did. But then I saw Chez Cthulhu. I had played Chez Geek at my buddies house in Silicon Valley and liked it. Combine that with the Elder Gods and I'm sold. But then if I was buying this, I might as well buy Chez Geek with the expansions too. And then, as I'm a sucker for alphabet books, I picked up Baby's First Mytho's – a Lovecraftian Alphabet Book.

This was an expensive trip – and there was so much more I wanted. I'd have to come back. But it was getting late, we had a whole day tomorrow, and rest was required – not sleep, but rest. Just a time to lay on a bed, and do nothing; lay on a bed, and think nothing. Just relax.

A whole day of this would be ideal, but I'll take the hour provided.

Of course this time never came as we played the Chez games until we fell asleep. Oh Portland. How I've missed you though I'd never met you before.

Crater Lake, Oregon

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Sat, 04 Sep 2010 08:19:00 +0000

It is with great upset that I announce my awareness that today is 90210 day. (September 2nd, 2010.) I hate myself.

But, I'm also leaving California for the great and wonderful city of Portland Oregon. All over the world people speak of Portland as the place to go. The new Oregon trail leads right to its front door step, and tonight I will sleep within the boundaries of such a great and remarkable city.

But first, I just need to find one of those Roomsaver magazines. My love of a state is proportionate to the ease with which I access one of these magazines. I need to know where to sleep, and how much it will cost. Without one I am naked. Without one, I am an unhappy hosteler devoid of free wifi.

Travelling up the secondary route 199, I was on the lookout for a Oregon welcome station. But there was none. I cursed myself, telling myself I should have gone a few miles out of the way to take the I-5 up. Surely that highway would have had a welcome centre looking to give me coupons and locations for places to sleep! But no, I took my chances on the 199.

My outrage was cut short when I saw a National Parks visitor centre. Maybe this would do the trick? It was at the threshold of the Oregon caves. Without our parks pass we could have taken the ninety minute tour free, but it said long sleeves, and pants were required. As were good boots. I had not the gear for this tour. Still, the visitor centre did provide us with a map of the southern state, listing all welcome centres. There were none near us, nor on the 5. The 101, which claimed to be a secondary road, that was where one was. Ai ya. There was no time to go there, we were headed to Portland! Wait – what was that on the map?

Crater Lake? Didn't I hear of Crater Lake somewhere recently? In an e-mail. There was something important about it... Never mind that that was a different Crater Lake, my mind was made up – we would diverge from our current path and take a day to explore yet another national park. We were making good use of our pass, for sure.

Before entering there was one lone restaurant – a pizza joint, that was also a bar, that was also a convenience store. The pizza was good, as were the people – but it was a sobering place indeed. Next to the trailer park, the girl who worked there knew all the rough edged teens that came in. I couldn't help but think this was the type of town you're born in, you live in, if you're lucky – you get a job in, and then eventually you die in it too.

The pizza was good – we had the Cougar Special. Medium was more than enough for two.

We claimed a tent spot nice and early, but quickly left before setting up camp. Katherine is slowly learning my neurosis for seeing everything there is to see before taking care of business. And this isn't something built on nothing – there is reason. Setting up the tent will be the same five hours from now, as it will be at this moment. Setting up the tent in the dark leaves nothing lost – but losing the light, that's everything.

We quickly made our way to the West Rim drive of Crater Lake. The first view point presented me with a sight I'd never before seen. A lake so clear, and so perfectly blue, it was as if a child coloured it in in elementary school. I knew water was blue. I know ice is blue. But to see the lake this brilliant – it was something else.

Crater Lake is a collapsed volcano. No rivers or streams feed the lake, only the snow and the rain. Six thousand feet up in the hills, it stands alone, the deepest lake in the United States. It also boasts the cleanest, most pure water, to be found in the country. You could drink straight out of it, so the tale goes. I wouldn't know – getting down to the water requries a trek seven hundred feet of elevation down. This part didn't concern me as much as the seven hundred feet of elevation back up again.

It would have been nice to jump in, and go for a swim, but I would settle with the views from the rim's edge.

Driving on we would, time and time again, come to view the same water from a slightly different angle, and yet each time this made all the difference. More photos were snapped, more breath taken away.

Deer ran through the fields, and small squirrels that looked suspiciously like chipmunks would scatter around the paths, playing and tumbling down the rock before scampering back up again.

The West Rim road became the East Rim road right about the time the crystal blue lake turned into a black hole, scarred with a brilliant streak of light. Surely this had nothing to do with the fact that we were now looking directly into the sun. While the lake may have been marred, there was still more to see.

A road diverging from the main path leads cars to a valley wall where tall spires have formed out of ash, left behind as the rock eroded all away. Another look out shows the pumice castle, where orange rock has formed in the shape of a medieval castle. At least, if you squint really hard, and forget everything you know about the shape of castles, then it looks like one. Last there was the waterfall trickling down the rock, fed from I can't imagine where, this high up, above the crater's lip.

When we had finished the thirty two mile drive we did not head back to our tent site straight away. instead I detoured to our initial position. I wanted to see how the light had changed the view. Gone were the spectacular colours, replaced with simply – a lake. A beautiful lake, with the Wizard's Hat island, and Phantom ship – but now, just a lake. The magic had faded with the lowering of the sun in the sky.

This is why I rush. This is why every second counts. Because nothing is ever the same again.

Feeling sorry for those just now arriving, we returned to camp where all the surrounding sites had been filled. From nothing, to full in only three hours. We set up camp, and Katherine finished reading the terrible Voyager book that detailed the history of Janeway. What a terrible, terrible, racist, person she was. My hatred for the series grew with every moment. But it's done now, never to hurt me again.

7:45 marked the start of the night's ranger led program – a talk about all the scary animals in the park. Apparently Wolves and Mountain Lions were all but unseen in this park for years – until, of course, this year. This week even. One mountain lion has been seen to stalk humans, and not fear them. When a talk trying to make us feel better about the animals around us (pointing out that vending machines kill more people a year than black bears) leaves the ranger saying quietly, “...we're a little worried about this one...” you know there could be trouble. Even still, that guy is out in the back counry.

The rest of the program was about owls, and deer, and cute little porcupine. The only other strange thing was that it recommended you 'play dead' if a black bear comes at you. This is bad form, and no other park still clams these old tips aside from Crater. If you play dead the bear will play with you, possibly killing you in the process. A bear comes at you? It's a fight for your life. And let no one else tell you otherwise. At least the other parks make visitors aware.

As much as I'd like to see one of these lumbering beasts, I'm more than happy to have them remain invisible as I make my way from park to park. Soon we'll be in Grizzly country. Joy.

As we slipped into sleep I couldn't help thinking how, sure, we still were hours away from Portland, and sure – this wasn't the same crater lake as in the email – but, boy was I glad I made it out this far.

It was just in passing that I learned how important this place was to the state. In the fifty quarter collection, it's this very place that fins itself etched into the coins face.

Never in my life had I seen such blue.

The California Red Woods

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Sat, 04 Sep 2010 06:14:00 +0000

September 1st, 2010. A day that shall be known for the most terrifying driving of my year-long trip. That and the insanely large trees we saw.

Insanely, while not being an adjective I'd normally use, seemed perfectly rational when coupled with the lack of sleep these last few entries had been churned out under. Now, with a slightly more rested mind, I will begin once more the tale of this fate filled day of, you know, large tree things. Trees. Very. Large. Trees.

We left driving down the scenic By-way, Highway 36. This was a twisting turning road that lifted us up into the hills, looking down on the outstretched forests below. It was a lovely drive, a beautiful drive, but a slow drive. A very slow drive.

The shortest route between two points is not a straight line when topography enters the mix. I would say mistakes were made, but really – the journey was a beautiful, and halfway to the Redwoods we ended up passing a ranger station.

Mad River Ranger Station lies in the middle of the 36. We had passed a few of these already, but never pulled in to see just what they were. In my mind the ranger station is that thing you passed five miles back, just before your car over heated. Hiking towards it one member of your party disappears, only to be found dead a mile later. When night falls the rangers turn out to be the true killers, and in the end there is not a sole survivor to be found – all killed in a forest fire started to end the madness. The only winner? The forest which will grow back newer and stronger under the somewhat controlled blaze.

As life would have it, this is not quite what a ranger station is. Not to my knowledge – we never broke down, or stayed past dark, so I can't speak to those ends, but in my experience a ranger station is this:

A place where you can get free comics and colouring books about Smokey the Bear. Ohh! His origin issue! What a snag! So many exclamation marks can only point to the fantastic experience that was had here.

There were also pamphlets about snakes, and bears, and other things that want to eat you from the inside out. Like ticks. For the most part a Ranger Station is a rest stop way out in the bush. And there are helpful people there who love the outdoors – have made it their life. They know all the tips and tricks.

In fact they might tell you to take one road out to the 101 to see the Redwoods, and even though that road ends north of where you want to be, you should probably listen and then backtrack later. You may think since you're going to be going north on the 101, it's best to take the road that leaves you south of the forest. But in this assumption you would be wrong.

Listen to the rangers, otherwise you end up travelling far more terrifying roads that wind higher through the hills, and place you seventy miles from the nearest service station. This may not seem bad, as you're well fueled – driving through the desert having taught you to fill up at every chance, not wait until you're near dry – but the roads... they'll become full of potholes, they'll rock you from one side to the other. There will be no railing. There will be nothing but absolute terror for the next hour (twenty miles, one hour.) You will pass no one, except on the few moments where a one lane squeeze meets a blind curve. Then a truck will barrel towards you.

I have not been this nervous in a vehicle – for years. Not since 2006 when I travelled similar roads in British Columbia, Canada (actually those were far worse, but I summoned the fear for this journey.) Katherine drove, stoic, calm, and in control. Good for her. Because as for me? I was thinking of all the worst case scenarios.

A pot could dislodge our oil pan. But would that be all that bad, I mean we hadn't changed our oil in 17 000 KM. We probably didn't have any left, as it was. Wait – we hadn't changed our oil in that long? What's that smell? Burning. Katherine noticed it. Just tell her it's the tires – no sense worrying her when we're still 45 minutes from the nearest service station. She bought it. Now only I needed to worry, and check the engine temp meter, and hope that we did not die out here.

A terrifying hour past – we still weren't out. Thirty more minutes to go. No matter how much Johnny Cash we played, I still worried. Then we were out. Then I told Katherine the smell was the oil, thinking we could change it straight away in town. But no – this town had one auto shop which was booked until next week. Unacceptable!

For the next few miles Katherine was worried, until we reached the first mile of Avenue of the Giants. Right at that moment, she would later say, she forgot all about the oil. This was excellent for me. I let it go too – there was nothing to be one until 60 miles north on the highway.

Avenue of the Giants. That's when we could relax. We had made it to the Red Woods state park. And what a place it was:

Our first stop put us on a one mile hike through the woods where sound shut off from all around us. Outside the forest it was blazing hot, inside – nice and cool. The sunlight never lingers long in this spot.

Trees grew, reaching up over three hundred feet into the air. That's a thirty storey building. All around you. This is a very big tree. And there are hundreds of them all growing clumped together. The root system of the fallen giants dwarf even the tallest person. These are things of beauty.

I thought I would be jaded, after all I had just seen big trees yesterday, but then these ones weren't just big – they were tall as well.

After finishing the trail we hit the car and moved on to the next station where road signs told us to stop. More forest, more trees, more beauty. I envied the people who would hike eight miles in to set up camp, alone in the wilderness. But at this stage, an eight mile hike, even over flat land – that seemed like far too much, just to see some trees. Some trees I was seeing here.

Now if I had a week to camp, rather than just one night that would be different.

There were trees to climb on, trees to crawl inside and make a club house within, trees to simply crane your neck back and look at. Trees, trees, trees. And there were even hidden gems.

A free auto-tour pamphlet is available from boxes at the side of the road, but it wasn't until stop three – the visitor centre – that I overheard a ranger give out secret advice. He drew new lines on the map, and added stops. I had him modify my light blue pamphlet the same way. We now had opened up the Giant Tree achievement, and Founders Tree – which included an informational booklet.

Founders tree stood 346 feet tall, and was on the cover of the book. On the cover was a cartoon man looking up. Clearly we had to re-create this image for pictures.

While 345 may seem tall, it was still but a baby after seeing Giant Tree – accessible by a quick hike after taking a seven mile road which diverged from Avenue of the Giants. Giant Tree was 363 feet tall. A thirty six storey building. If this tree fell in the forest and no one was around to hear it, it wouldn't matter – shocks would be felt all the way to Portland. Maybe. Probably not. It wouldn't make a sound. Final answer.

These are the roads of car commercials, twisting and turning through blind curves, walled by the behemoths. It was hard to think that this was still California. It seems as if we'd seen almost everything in this state. There's been the deserts of Death Valley, the art of Salvation Mountain, the beaches of Los Angeles, the cliffs of Yosemite, and now these trees. We'd spent a week and a half here, and it was barely enough.

Just after five we rolled into town to get our oil changed – the car not smelling all that hot. The oil change had closed minutes before. Great. But ten miles up the road we hit on another quick change place which still had room for us. We were lucky, as it turned out the oil had nearly run dry. After our complementary hot drinks, and a few times telling the staff that – no – we didn't want the extra products, we were good to go. Back on the road, sans terrible burning smell.

Now we just had to find a place to sleep for the night. This would come in the form of Crescent City – a northern town on the ocean. A beautiful sunset was presented to us – the last we would see in this state. And as if saying good bye, the gentle beeping of the light house would lull us to sleep.

And by lull us to sleep, I mean imagine you had left your phone off the hook on the bedside table. Yeah, it was like that, but rather than just you hearing it – it's a blessing for the whole town.

Good night California; it's been real.

The Grizzled Giant and Sleepy Time Roads

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Thu, 02 Sep 2010 07:30:00 +0000

This morning the line for camp sites was growing well before seven thirty. As we packed up to leave, more joined the line. I imagined a silent cheer each time people like us left the park. It would mean one more space open for camping.

Adding two hours to our journey, we headed south to see the large trees that lived there – that had lived there for thousands of years. You know, it's interesting. We don't know much about trees from their early days. The oldest in the world if four to five thousand years old. What about the ones from dinosaur times, hundreds of millions of years back? How did they grow? What defenses did they have? We know so little – and it's nearly impossible to learn a thing. You'd think 1600 years is old (the age of some of the trees around here) but really – just a drop in the bucket.

On our way to the grove, we passed a look out stop full of German tourists. The French go to the Grand Canyon, the German's come here. This seems to be the way of things. Why the divide? I'm not sure – but just as most of the people at the Grand Canyon were French, so too are most of those in this park German.

You can tell them, at times, from the Americans. They're the ones who look like they're about to go clubbing, rather than climb a mountain. It's strange, it's surreal, it's really quite wonderful. What are they thinking? Clearly in their mind it all makes some sort of sense.

We passed through a tunnel that transported us from one section of the park to the next. Gravel roads, and tight turns took us from place to place. Here we were not surrounded by tourists, but for the most part, on our own. Until we neared the southern part of the park. The area with, “the trees.”

We pulled into the visitors centre and I asked, rather foolishly, if this was the place with the big trees. (It wasn't as bad as yesterday when I asked if stop ten was next – boarding the bus at stop nine. “Oh, very good counting,” the driver said to me. I didn't realize the same stop going the other way was stop four.)

We were told that we could drive down, and then hike the grove, or take a tram for twenty five dollars a person. Twenty five dollars a person to take a tram a few miles? No thanks. Getting to the lot we started out.

Our legs had not forgiven us our hike the day before. Thighs and calves still hurt. But we could not not see the trees. The trees! Only two and a half miles, round trip. That would be nothing – right?

I seem to recall it being more than nothing, but my memories are what last – and those are the memories of the Grizzled Giant, and the California Tunnel.

The Grizzled Giant is nearly one hundred feet around at the base. Standing one hundred and ninety feet tall, this tree was a monster. A monster with a fence around it.

It seems that the park service didn't want people walking around the tree. Standing on the roots could hurt it. For a tree nearly three thousand years old, and having suffered fire damage, I figured it would do just fine – but that's not my call. No – this tree was out of bounds for touching. You could stand back and take pictures, though.

There's only one problem – from a distance there's no sense of scale. There's no way to appreciate its size. Not without someone next to it. And so I did what anyone in my situation would do (the situation being one who thinks protecting something can end up destroying the true beauty of it.) I set my tripod up, hopped the fence, and got my shot of me standing beside the tree. I have two shots – one with me, one without. In the one without, you just see a tree. It could be any size. But the other? It's in the other that the true monstrous size is seen.

I'd always regretted not seeing the big trees out in British Columbia back in two thousand and six, but now – standing beside this giant, everything was right in the world once more.

The California Tunnel Tree is a tree which had a hole cut in it, large enough for carriages to go under. Why chop down a tree when you can cut it up and allow it to live even still? Of course i walked under it, and looked around – but little compared to standing beside the truly awe inspiring giant.

Once we'd left the forest, it was back on the road – heading towards Red Bluff. We would spend the night there, and press on to the Red Wood forest in the morning. I thought of all the things I'd have time to do – catch up on email, blogging, tv watching – but as soon as we got there (after hours of near exhaustion driving where I had to take over for Kath who couldn't even keep her eyes open) food was our priority – ice cream and Domino's pizza. Never again. Tasty – but, doing terrible things.

With food done, just before nine I was ready to do all those things I'd thought about earlier. I was ready – but my body? It protested. Eight fifty something. That was the last time I saw before the world slipped into dark.

Hiking Yosemite

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Thu, 02 Sep 2010 07:22:00 +0000

Waking up, I was relatively sure I had gone unmolested by bears during the night. I checked my arms, my legs, my torso. All seemed where it should be. Putting on my clothes, I woke Katherine and headed outside.

I shouldn't say I woke her, as she woke up at six to check on the line of people waiting for tent sites, and then fell back asleep – but at seven, I re-woke her, and headed out to take pictures of the new day.

More about the tent sites. We only put our name in for one night, we'd have to pay and then try to get on the list for tonight's site as well. A line formed early morning, as these Valley spots normally go quick. It was only because we arrived on a Sunday, change over day, that spots were available yesterday. Today the site would be full up.

The line had yet to form.

Back to the pictures.

Just outside my tent, the rock walls towered over me. Only five hundred feet shy of those cliffs at the Grand Canyon the grey granite shined in the morning sun, a guardian for all that once fell under its shadows. Yosemite was looking to be one of the most beautiful national parks I'd ever seen – and I'd only just stepped out of my tent.

The moon was still out, above the rocks, and the light was perfect. I may have snapped a few more pictures than I'd meant to. I thought the 16 gig card I bough a while back would last until the end of the trip. We'll see. If I can keep to one hundred frames a day, I'll be fine – but that's not so easy a task. Who knew.

If I visit some boring places for a while, well maybe that will let me stick to my rationing, but I'm thinking that's not going to happen either. It's amazing to think that four rolls of film a day, in 1999 standards, isn't nearly enough.

By eight o'clock a line was forming to get a tent site for the night, as we joined it. Early in the morning, some people were extending, like us – others were trying to secure one, driving up near day break.

It was in this line that a crazy person appeared. I try to stand back and let crazy hippies be crazy hippies, but when one started to pester a guy for studying his accounting text book, I took umbridge. “Hey man, you'll remember the time this bearded guy said – don't do it! Don't go into accounting. And you'll regret it.”

In honour of bearded men everywhere, I stepped up and claimed, “let me counter balance, you can remember the time a bearded man encouraged your choice of action.”

The future accountant was studying to get a job, and get money. The hippy protested money, claiming it as all things evil. How he got his five bucks for the night, I'll not know. But, there he was talking about how it does not good. I stepped up again, “money got my butt to Antarctica. It let me walk on all seven continents of the world in a year. I'm thinking you need money for this.” And I do. I don't think you can do that without money – not on so short a time frame, anyway. And the love of money? I don't think there's anything wrong with it.

Soon the hippy turned his back to me, and talked loudly about how lost I was to whoever would listen. And then it took a turn for the wacky. A father was talking about how his son was afraid of bears. The crazy guy said not to worry – bears are more afraid of you (not true) and they won't bother anyone (where was he last night when the ranger was chasing them away?) claiming that he used to run after bears an whack them when he was younger (should we be listening to this man?)

Then the father asked about the eighteen mile day hike – the hippy said the eight year old was never too young for something like this (this is a hard hike for an experienced hiker) and I just prayed the guy wouldn't listen.

In one sentence, though, all credibility was undermined and order was restored once more:
Animals are smarter than us man, you know – they're like smart, and all; the bear, right, well unlike us it hasn't even lost its power of telepathy yet.

And there it was. Thank you very much. Please come again. Moving on.

At just this moment, the line started to move, we got our tent sites, and all went our own ways. Good for that. We were also told that shampoo, and toothpaste were “food” which needed to be removed from our car. We had got a warning on our windshield. Bears enjoy these things and will break your door down to get at them. Into the bear locker just about everything went.

Now nine in the morning we were finally ready to start our day. First we checked out the morning program where a Native American took us through a recreated Indian village. For hundreds of years the Indians lived in the Yosemite valley, until the government kicked them on out. Now only two true-bloods remain, one being her husband. When he and his aunt dies, that will be the end of the Yosemite natives.

She was from the ocean people, full blood from her tribe, now joined with his. And she told us of the acorns, the staple food. She told us how women stay away from men's plants (those used for making weapons). She told us a story of creation – diving frog, mud slinging coyote. She allowed us entrance, to the right, counter clockwise, into the round house, and then she bid us good day.

It was an hour of interest, and education. And – our hippy was there. Now that he saw my interest in this way of life, and this culture he was confused. He knew not what to think of me – and I believe we parted on good terms. To be honest, I would have liked to have heard of his life, and everything he has done and seen... It's just when people start to push their views against what another so clearly wants that I find myself upset. Just let the guy be an accountant. The world needs them, and there are people who do enjoy that line of work. Hard to believe, but there are people who hate camping too. To each their own.

After a sandwich at the deli we headed up to Vernal Falls.

I hated myself every step of the way.

No more hiking. Why do I never listen to myself when I say this? How hard would it be to just see a sign that says, “hike,” and think – nope, I don't think we'll be doing this, thank you very much?

It wouldn't be hard... except I really wanted to know what was at the top. Who comes to a park to sit in a tent all day?

Off we went, Katherine leading the charge. Over the first half mile we rose 400 feet in elevation. My legs were not happy with this. From the mid point, we were on a foot bridge. Some people turn back here – but I was not in pain, just irritated. An the falls looked so beautiful. I'd have to climb to the top to feel as if I'd accomplished anything at all.

Onwards we went. Another half mile, this time over 600 feet of elevation. This time my legs were screaming at me, but Katherine's hurt more. Unsure if she could finish, I told her she could wait and I'd come back. A glare of pure anger. In all fairness, she was carrying the pack. She had every right to be more worn out.

As we climbed, we passed others, and were passed by some. Mid way from the mid way, a rainbow appeared where the falling water hit the pool below. It was a thing of beauty, and more than one picture may have been snapped. Still, we could not wait long. Every moment paused, was another moment to realize the burning in the upper thighs. We pushed on, and on – not in the best of shape, seemingly. Then, we hit the top.

And like always, when finished every hike is worth while. You never thought you'd have to turn back. It was always possible. There in front of us was a clear cold pool of water, surrounded by large slabs heated by the sun. I may have been annoyed by the three guys fishing across, ruining an otherwise perfect picture, but at the same time were they not there, I would have simply taken a few shots, and left – rather than reclining for a brief and comfortable nap.

Lying on the rocks, in the sun, across from a still glass lake – well it was the type of thing that made you wish you had the whole day to waste. Unfortunately we're always on the move, Katherine and I. We never have the time to stop and sell the proverbial roses. No – we press on, and after an hour of relaxing it was back down the hill, and down to the shuttle bus which would take us to our next trail head.

Mirror Lake: There's not much to say, except that the lake was dry – not much to see during California's drought. We were passed by a number of people on horse back. Five used the sand in front of us to relieve themselves. The horses, not the riders. That would have been weird. More weird.

A quick miles around, and we were headed back to the camp village trying to make a ranger led hike. We failed. To console ourselves we ate, and then checked out the museum. As luck would have it just as we got there it was announced that the final showing of the Yosemite Spirit movie would be played – we grabbed seats and watched, learning how the park came to be. As beautiful in winter as it is in summer, we were shown images of the valley and also the grove of Sequoia.

I'd not known it, but in this park were some of the world's biggest trees. We would have to look into seeing these tomorrow. I was no longer disappointed about missing the ranger hike as had I been on it, I would never have learned about these trees.

All that was left was the evening program – about how bears will try and eat you, but don't worry about these black bears, it's the Grizzlies that are the real monsters (you know, the ones the live in the parks where we'll be next week.) Not sure I should have watched that film, I wandered back to the tent, sure a bear would appear at any moment, and got into bed, still dressed – determined to get out and see any bear that came around tonight.

Of course, on this night, there was not a bear to be heard of.

The Winchester House to Yosemite

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Thu, 02 Sep 2010 07:18:00 +0000

San Jose was no random stop to break up a drive. No, there was a purpose to be here. A monument to all those interested in the paranormal, the strange, the weird – the mysterious.

San Jose is home to the Winchester Mystery House.

I did not know the name of this place before reaching California, but I had heard of the House many times over the years. It is the house that was never finished – could never be finished. And because of this strange things exist:

Doors lead to walls, closets lead to open rooms. Windows are in the floor. Staircases lead straight into the ceilings. There are strange things afoot at The Winchester, and even stranger reasons why.

Mrs. Winchester, wife of he who made the well known gun, was plagued with questions after her family died close together. She did what all rational people would do in this case – turn to a fortune teller. What could possibly go wrong?

The medium told Mrs. Winchester that the deaths were caused by spirits hurt by her husbands brand of rifles. There was only one thing she could do to appease the spirits – build a house, and keep building it. Never stop. Only then would the spirits leave her alone.

Of course, being a sane and rational woman she... listened to the advice. Yes, she bought up one hundred acres of property and got to work building a giant house that could never be finished. Ironically though her ghost, and the builders ghosts have been 'seen' here, those of the rifled dead, for whom the house was built, have gone unnoticed.

Some people will say that cameras do not work in the house because Mrs. Winchester never allowed photos within before her death. These people just don't understand how long shutter speeds on automatic settings blur images. But never mind that, as no photography is allowed inside the house.

I will tell yo something, when I pay thirty dollars for a tour of a mystery house, I am not leaving without pictures. And shots of the outside may be fine and well, but if some crazy person built a staircase into the ceiling, I want to record that.

Hanging around when the guide moves on, is a great way to make this happen. Same with the window in the floor. And the damage caused by the 1906 earthquake.

I'm all for respecting some photography rights – but when it's just to sell more books in the gift shop? Nope, I'll take my own, thank you very much. Keep guiding with your practiced voice, and your perfect timing for jokes which are, at best, hit and miss.

The easy riser stairs cover the house. In some areas seven turns and fifty steps need to be walked, instead of five normal ones. There are grand ball rooms, lesser ball rooms, and rooms, rooms, rooms. The fourth and fifth floor were knocked down in quake damage, but the three still exist. At the end of the tour I had walked a mile, and seen many interesting things. And a few types of early elevators.

Due to the house being built in stages with multiple foundations, it is one of the safest places to be in a quake. There is also a large well of fresh water under the property. If trouble brews, this is where to head.

Now in reality the mysterious isn't all that mysterious. The door to nowhere, on the second storey, could have been prep work for an unfinished alternate section, and the window in the floor is actually just a skylight allowing light from outside to light the lower floor as well. They'll not tell you this, but pay attention and you'll figure it out. The staircase into the ceiling? Alright – that's somewhat mad.

After the inside, we walked the outside. There is a lot of see here, and it wasn't until three or four hours had past (some time spent playing The Simpson's Arcade Game – my favourite arcade box – just outside the gift shop.) that we drove on.

About to leave San Jose, we noticed a coupon for two free t-shirts if we visited the Flea Market. The Flea claimed to be the largest open air market in America. I've heard that before. Still, free t-shirts. And I like markets. Heading out there, we grabbed our new shirts, a twenty dollar value (what a random coupon to give out) and checked the aisles. It was mostly the same less than wonderful stuff, until a row we saw just before leaving.

This is where people sell their own stuff. This led to piles of broken electronics, and video games. I saw a few copies of Pokemon Snap for N64. If I could be assured it worked, I would gladly have paid the ten dollars. I was not in a gambling mood. Instead, when I saw He-Man's mount, Battle Cat, I had to buy it. Five bucks? Fine, whatever, now He-man can ride his cat, instead of Skeletor's, on my shelf back home.

I may need to wash, and de-stick-ify it first.

Finally we were ready to push on out of San Jose and head cross-state to Yosemite National Park. Someone should have let us know how long this would take. When we got there the three camp sites in the valley were closed. But, there was a forth site down in the valley. Camp 4. This was a place for rock climbers, and poor people, to hang. Five bucks a person to throw down your tent, in a site of six random folks. Like hosteling, but on a plot of dirt.

Not wanting to drive an hour north of the valley, we took it. To be honest, this is what we were looking for. There was just one warning: be careful of the bears.

I'd heard this bear scare before, and was ready to set up camp and sleep for the night. With the tent up, we climbed inside, but just then the cries started:

Go away bear! Go away!

Rangers, and campers were clapping and shouting at the bear which would wander our site for the rest of the night. Did I ever see it? No – the tent provided me with safety. And sure, I may have regretted not seeing the big black bear, but it was also really cold, and I was really tired. Getting dressed and sticking my head out to see a monster? Not my idea of fun. With a millimeter of fabric between me and outside I was safe.

For hours these calls continued, and I wondered what the ranger must feel like. When she applied for the parks service did she know it would be as a bear chaser?

The closest the bear came was at two in the morning when the ranger ran into our tent, as she clapped and cried for the bear to, “go away [(bear)], go away.”

I wanted to see it. I did. But I also wanted to be alive to explore Yosemite tomorrow. Warm in my tent I stayed. That bear could eat the drunks outside instead.

Car Shows, Elephant Seals, and Zebras - Oh My!

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Thu, 02 Sep 2010 07:13:00 +0000

The day started simply enough – drive to San Jose. That's it. Nothing to see, nothing to do – just get to San Jose. Simple enough, yeah?

Well – it wasn't quite so easy. First we had to decide if we wanted to run the highway straight up the centre of the state, or if we wanted to drive Highway 1. Highway 1 is the coastal road. And tour books will tell you that no trip to California is complete without taking the windy road which travels all along the rocky outcroppings up and down through the hills and against the water. The down side? It would add about two hours to our journey.

When will we be back? That's the attitude I try to hold each and every day – and while it may be setting us further and further behind, none can say we aren't seeing some fantastic things. Onwards to highway 1.

Good bye straight shot up the gently sloping centre, hello who knows what. There are all number of towns along the way, but one that we pulled off in went by the name of Slovang. This town was said to feel like Denmark in the heart of California. Believe it or not, that description is pretty accurate. All the buildings are stylized, and the people have mostly immigrated from the part of the world. There are even big ol' windmills just for fun. They don't do all that much, aside from attract you to the associated restaurant, which may or may not serve sub-par sausage.

Now this should have been a quick in and out look getting us back on track with time to spare. But no, because things were happening today in Solvang. Some very exciting things for the people – there was a classic car show. Three roads were filled with gawkers, and cars. Don't forget the cars. Old cars, less old cars, shiny cars, and matte ones too. I don't know anything about cars. I know, blue car, red car, pretty car, ugly car. But still, no less than an hour did we spent wandering, looking under hoods at things which, to my knowledge, work magic and make things go. I have a number of friends who would have loved this – and don't get me wrong, I dug it quite a lot but they would have understood a thing or two.

Leaving Solvang we hit the One once more, and continued along beautiful coastline, traveling over historic bridges built seven decades past. Just when I was back in the swing of carrying on, I saw a large number of cars stopped at the side of the road. People were gazing into the field, snapping pictures and pointing. Clearly I had to see what was going on.

As I started to slow Katherine protested – we had wasted so much time already, no more stopping. But I had to know what was up there. Making my way up the ridge to see what they were seeing I tried to guess at what might await me, prepared for disappointment.

What I saw? There was no way I could have ever guessed. I had no way of even knowing such a thing might have existed. Over the hump, across the dry grass, was a herd of zebra. Of zebra! I had not seen animals running free like this since Africa, and certainly did not expect to see them here.

It was like coming across a dragon – or at least a – no, it was like coming across Zebra in the middle of California.

Apparently they once belonged to Hearst Castle – of which we drove on by, having already seen the most impressive thing, thank you very much. But now, they live on their own and make do. Zebra. In California. Next time, I need to be told about these things ahead of time – it was, simply put, amazing.

Only one stop remained before our eventual reaching of San Jose. Elephant Seal point. We go there, parked, and joined the rest of the visitors looking down on the closed beach at all the seals. They were small blobs against the sand. Far from us, and nearly too far for the telephoto lens, I quickly grew bored. I'd seen an elephant seal before, on a nearly empty beach – only a few meters away. I had looked into the eye of a leopard seal, in the pouring rain, two or three feet in front of my face. I had seen seals – and these ones? You could hardly tell what they were.

Thanks but no thanks. I'm glad I saw them, but they weren't all that special. I feel these darkened thoughts may somewhat be from the fact that, over shadowing these creatures, was the fact that I just saw a herd of Zebra(!) but never mind that. From then on, it was just sit back, enjoy the coastal views, and get to where we were going.

Without much fanfare we rolled into San Jose, too late to do anything. The friend I stayed with back in March lived around here – but not being prepared I was without a phone number. In stead we found an over priced motel, settled in, and fell asleep.

Zebra. I mean, really? Come one.

The Getty

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Sun, 29 Aug 2010 05:05:00 +0000

The Getty – a fabulous world class museum: free! Well kind of free. Getting in is free. Parking? That's fifteen bucks. But never mind. This really is a world class museum, and one that Katherine had wanted to see. Apparently she learned about it in her museum studies class.

The Getty has some fancy architecture that makes it a beautiful complex standing out, sparkling white, high about the freeway below. Everything about it is steeped in art. Whether you think that's good or bad is up to you.

We parked our car, and took the elevator up to the tram station. We were informed the tram would not be running for another half hour. We were early. There was, however, a sculpture garden that we could make our way through. It was in a sculpture garden, just outside Winnipeg, I believe, back in 2006 that I first decided I did not hate art.

This one? It evoked a different feeling. The only thing this had going for it was the unique set up. While still outdoors, there were 'corridors' of paved stone, connecting 'rooms' of grass, on which the statues stood. The unique layout was far more impressive than any of the pieces collected.

The tram is supposed to make one feel as if they are being whisked up, up, and away from their daily life to this other realm. Apparently the wheels which moved us were to the side, rather than below. The guide claimed that we were being whisked away on a cushion of air. If that's the case, we must have hit some heavy turbulence.

Once arrived, we were still too early for the museum, but comforted ourselves with some breakfast at the outdoors cafe. The man working the counter must not have expected any eager tourists quite so early, and as such we were rewarded with the 30% off employee discount. It's like getting a whole breakfast burrito for free! I do recommend the breakfast burritos at The Getty, as well. It was delicious and filling.

Eventually we got in, and watched the ten minute introductory video. Then we hung around the gift shop for a half an hour, waiting for the gallery highlights tour to begin. The one object that stood out, and which I'll probably regret not having bought as time wears on? A stuffed Van Gogh. He had an ear which, through the magic of Velcro, could be removed – to be given to a cherished friend.

As we wandered the gallery in our group, connected with wireless head sets which allowed for our guide to talk at a reasonable volume, we stopped at statues, and tapestries, and paintings. None of the pieces really made much of an impact to me, though one of the first flower paintings stood out.

Our guide reminded me of Buffy The Vampire Slayer's Cordelia Chase. Her look, mannerisms, the way she talked, and her curt nods after every point. What was most distressing was the way the head set changed the guides voice, making it an octave higher. For the most part I tried to keep it turned off. The jarring disconnect was slightly uneasing.

Our tour ended at a great big bed. It was all original, we were told, except for the fabric. Never you mind that the fabric is eighty percent of the bed. It's best not to question that.

After the tour we explored the photograph gallery where one exhibit detailed the Vietnam war, with captions describing the pictures. One of the most striking was a photo of a mother and baby seemingly hanging out with a solider. This shot was snapped only minutes before the two were killed by the same unit.

In another room was a gallery dedicated to the photographer behind Fast Forward and Girl Culture: Lauren Greenfield. These images are as striking now as they were when I considered buying the book years ago. Signed copies were available. The one thing that upset me was that the framing went over any signing and numbering on the print. I would like to have known how many were made, and if they were scarce. Perhaps photographers print up a new batch for the museum? I don't know.

Other wanderings took us past a picture of lilies by Van Gogh (I now regret not having visited his museum when I was in Amsterdam, although I doubt it would have meant as much as Doctor Who was yet to tell me why I should love him.) and out into the courtyard where the desert garden, and the central garden (mischievously placed off to the side, rather than in a central location) could be viewed.

We made our way to another tour – this time of the Jean-Leon Gerome gallery where his art was on display for the first time in thirty years. At the time, I was told, his work was considered pornographic. How this claim could be made when just about every painting every made with humans in it is a desperate attempt to hide the pornographic behind the veil of mythology is beyond me. But there it was. Critics hated his work because people liked it, and wanted prints. That sounds about right. The fact that it was so in demand must have made it terrible (though I should watch myself, normally mass appeal is a sure sign a novel isn't going to be good – I'm looking at you Dan Brown, Mr. Clancey.)

Some of the work? I dug. Others – m'eh. By this point my feet were hurting, and I was tired. Five hours in a gallery is far too long. We just had one more stop to make before heading back down to the real world on our cushion of air machine. The illuminated manuscripts.

These manuscripts were books for the fourteenth century and later. Each was hand written with illustrations complementing the text. Each tome must have been a life's work. There was great beauty, and understanding they were not simply mass produced made each quite the collection of ideas.

Though tired, and potentially cranky, these stood out to me. One was an instructional text teaching how to properly write the calligraphic characters. A reproduction could be found in the gift shop. Katherine quickly snatched it up.

Leaving I felt there was more to appreciate, but said appreciation would require more time that we did not have. Not without food. Fearing we would no longer be met as employees by the wait staff we headed out, grabbed a quick meal, and tried to find parking in Santa Monica. Easier said than done. Instead we just headed home, and watched terrible amounts of television. Star Wars: The Clone Wars (3-d cartoon.) It wasn't as awful as I thought it might be. I don't remember children shows dealing with the concept of war deserters when I was young.

Then there was Back to the Future – always a pleasure. Finally we threw in the DVD Clue. Why was I not informed of this movie earlier? Tim Curry looking younger, while looking younger, than when he was in Rocky Horror. made this a film to remember.

There are three endings to the film, a different one shown in each theater back in 1985. Now all three are played back to back. Just as I was ready to gush about how wonderful and fantastic this movie was I read a remake will soon be coming out. Lord why? Do these things ever work out (Dawn of the Dead? I'll give you that I actually did like the remake more, but that's because the first had pacing issues. Clue? It's damn near perfect.)

But we shall see. If they can pull off Monopoly: The movie, an Battleship The movie, well anything might be possible.

Twenty Miles to Santa Monica

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Sun, 29 Aug 2010 03:45:00 +0000

Woke up in a haze. Groggy. Don't want to go anywhere. Exhausted.

Somehow that 'cold' that overtook me days ago is still present. Not yet defeated. So maybe it's not a cold – or maybe your mother was right, and the best way to deal with a cold is to relax and do absolutely nothing. Good luck finding a day where that's possible. Even getting some hot lemon tea seems an impossibility on the road.

So there I was, awake – but just barely – looking around our alcove. Couches had been turned to make the living room our room with a mattress in the middle, drapes blocking off the rest of the world all around as walls, and a spread of water bottles, green teas, and light snacks to rival any four star hotel.

Maybe it wasn't so much that I didn't want to leave because I was sick, as much as it was I didn't want to leave because this was the most amazing place I'd stayed in ages! We were with a host who went that one step beyond. Something to open my eyes; something which I'll have to strive for when people start shooting on up my way looking for a place to crash for a few nights.

I made my way to the shower, and then when all clean and squeaky started to pack up. Getting to and from the shower requires navigating the obsticle course that is the dogs. There's one small fuzzy weiner puppy, but then there are the two beasts. One, the mastiff/lab mix I called The Beast, from the Sandlot, the first moment I saw him. The other, nearly as big, is a mastiff/pit mix. Now you'd think these would be terrifying creatures, and in the beginning they were. But after a few moments, your brain registering that they're safe, and them wanting nothing more than attention, all was well. Now after a few days, I'd be sad to see them go.

My resolve to never have my own dog was weakening. Still – there's the fact that these monsters must cost thousands of dollars a year to feed. A great ferocious beast like the two big ones can't keep the scary people away without good full doggy tummies. Although, you wouldn't really know they were all that spooky had you seen the biggest in his “Top Gun” aviator costume, or dressed as Darth Vader.

Then there's the small one. This one, from the moment I saw him, looked like an alligator. I was reminded of Sparky from the old Sesame Street clip. More laid back than the others, this one was not free of the costuming. No, I'd seen him as a monkey, and a dragon/alligator, and a piggy.

Saying goodbye to these dogs before making my way out, packing the car, and locking the door behind me was a tragic moment.

Then we were off to the Flooring company to visit Jen and drop her keys off. Normal people have to work – it's what they do. So off we went. The second I stepped through the door the receptionist said, “you're for Jen – this way.” How was she described my looks, so as she knew right away, I wondered.

We said good-bye to Jen and her room mate, while I marveled at the size of their industrial sized printer which must have been six feet wide. If I worked there, I may have tried to sneak a few posters – or giant life sized picture of myself, specifically the one of me on the sand dune in Africa. But there are probably safe guards to prevent such misuse of company property. Probably.

With keys left behind, it was back to the car, and down the road to Santa Monica. All twenty miles of it. The transition didn't take long, and soon we were at another friend's place, grabbing keys from a mailbox, struggling to open a gate, and getting inside. A note and a cell phone I could use were waiting. We quickly dropped our bags then headed back out into L.A.

The last time I was here I went to the laundromat where Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog was filmed. I wanted to buy mini-Tide's for people, but the machine was busted. Katherine, also a fan of the musical, came this time. The machine? Still broken. But – there was, at least, a quarter machine which we fed bill after bill into trying to get the last few state quarters we need: Colorado, Texas, Iowa, and there's another that defeats my grasp. We ended up one closer to completion when I pulled Vermont out of the beast, but then as Katherine fed all her money the machine stopped. We had emptied all the change from it. Oops. Time to make a quick escape, and leave the locals with their clothes, probably wondering why we were taking a video of ourselves singing. Strange that, I'll admit.

Mission failed, and succeeded, more or less we headed out to the last stop. I wanted to find Echo Lake. I spent a day wandering last time, not finding it. Instead I climbed a hill, ended up on a police shooting range, and seeing Dodger's Stadium. This time I was prepared. The GPS showed me the location, right beside the laundromat, but the opposite way I'd walked last time. We drove down, parked, and then wandered around the lake – more of a small pond really.

Families were picnicking, other couples seemed to be mid-stride in the process of creating families, while others were just running around the path – what a crazy fad, this running is. It was here that Captain Hammer took his solo paddle boat ride. The paddle boats were locked away in the boat house today, but the pond was still a good excursion. A secret centre bird-island was padlocked away from public access, and no swimming signs cut off the only other entrance. What privileged lives these fowl must live.

Dinner was a french dip sandwich, potato salad, chili, and macaroni salad at a place called Phillppe's 1001 N Alameda St. (the N Alameda St. in LA, not the one in Compton. It's probably best not to make that mistake.) Delicious, delicious, delicious.

And then back, once more, to Santa Monica.

When our host got in, she told us about a meet up down on the beach. There was a Beatles cover band playing, and a bunch of people were headed out. When we got there, a basket of goodies in hand, and blanket to throw down, a number of her friends had arrived – and thousands of people filled the sandy space, not for the band (they were playing on the pier) but just to be out together on a Thursday night.

There is no analogous event like this where I'm from. No large coming together just because. The closest I could think was Cherry Blossom festival in Japan.

The night stretched on with conversation, cupcakes, bricks of cheese, and of course bands. When the beach cleared, and we started to head back home I was shocked that it was only ten thirty. I'm getting old. I was ready for bed. I don't remember there being a time when I was sleepy at such a foolish hour. But there I was, unable to keep my eyes open as we laid down on the pull out couch. Darkness first, then sleep.

Laguna Beach

noreply@blogger.com (oneyeartrip.com) — Sun, 29 Aug 2010 03:23:00 +0000

Today we were supposed to head down to The Getty and see what that was all about. A museum, or gallery, or – some building of great culture – however this was not to be. The Getty is claimed to be an all day event. We no longer had all day, on account of waking late, and getting ready to leave even later. But that was alright. It was near Santa Monica, and that's where we'd be off to tomorrow -

Today we set our giant pirate X on the city of Laguna Beach. Off we drove. I'm told there's a tv show about this place. Now that I think about it, I think it was a spin off from The Hills. But I can't be sure. I have not ever watched either of them. Stepping out of our car onto the streets of Laguna beach, I figured I might look up an episode or two when I get the chance and see what it's all about.

I will tell you this much - aw no rich people, and no fancy anythings. What I did see was mile after mile of art gallery. If I was an artist and I wanted to see my terrible pieces I would go where the money is, and the intellect is not. This seemed to make sense – some of the work wasn't bad, but one gallery just made me feel like I really do need to create my “How to Make Art.” spoof site. The entire gallery was just pictures of women terribly out of focus with high contrast. Clearly that is art worth spending hundreds of dollars on.

We started our experience at an outdoor restaurant where older, cosmetically enhanced, women gossiped three tables over from unwashed, deadlocked teenagers lost to their own deep thoughts and heavy concentration. The ruben sandwich? Put sauerkraut on anything and I'll be happy. Serve it with some bottomless, and well supplied root beer and it's golden.

After eating we left the main roads and headed, predictably enough, to the beach. This was not the beach the locals go to – of that I'm pretty sure. Everyone seemed to be travelling through, like we were. The beach itself was marked as a “no fun” zone. “Absolutely no shell collecting,” was signed everywhere. There was no body boarding, or surfing either. Those who attempted to break this rule were met with red swimsuit wearing baywatchers running – always running – to stop them an let them know what's wrong wth their current behaviour. Once modifications were made, the life guards ran back to their towers. Return jogs would be made by those who refused to learn.

Katherine found her fun by flipping over rocks with young children on a grand adventure to find tiny little crabs scuttling around in tidal pools. This, of course, would have been cracked down on – as there is no disturbing the rocks or bothering the local critters. This area was, as luck would have it, around the cliff edge, free from the red suited guardians of despair.

Despite only allowing sunbathing and reading, the beach was a beautiful sight. Still – it was one that couldn't entertain forever. After walking Laguna Beach we headed off for the mall at Laguna Hills hoping to find fancy stores. Once more we failed. The locals of Laguna Beach do not hang at the Main Beach, nor shop at the local mall. Stores were disappearing, the food court was nearly empty. The only thing of note was the Disney Store stocked with ever helpful staff giving us a complete breakdown of the Beauty and the Beast script, explaining the reason the teacup, Chip, had a chip in it (reason: he was once a little boy before being cursed, and this wee little boy had a chipped tooth.) What type of jerk curses a little child into a cup because they're mad at a prince – or whatever that monster was.

From the mall we headed back into the city, and made our way to Knott's Farm. Now don't be fooled into thinking this is where your groceries are grown, oh no – this place claims to be America's first theme park. But that's not why we were there. Roller coasters are a dime a dozen. What is far more rare is a good tube steak. The perfect hot dog. That's something that I've been on the lookout for – shall we say, all my life? As I've travelled the world I've eaten one hot dog after the next. Iceland had a good one, but few other countries measured up to what I had thought of as the best hot dog in the world: Toronto street meat. Here was the last challenger – Pink's Hot dogs.

Pink's is said to be the best dog in America, which isn't that large a hill to clamor up, but still. I've been told that if you're at the Hollywood location it takes over an hour in line to get in the door. Here, far away from the masses, we were able to grab a Pink's dog without any lines.

My choice? The twelve inch monster dog – sour cream, cheese, chili. The dog itself had bits of jalapeños stuffed right into the casing. The hot dog? Well, I was terrified to bite into it, for if anything was going to topple my hometown treat, it would be this one. With the first bite my fears were confirmed. This was the greatest dog of all time. The greatest hot dog in the, yes – I'll say it – world, nay universe. My lord – how could anything sold from the streets compete with something that has jalapeños built right into the casing? It wasn't a fair fight – and to be truthful, it was three and a half times the price of what I'd get back home – but good tasting is good tasting. The crown has been passed.

Slightly delighted by the nom, an slightly upset that I'll have to modify my term claiming Toronto has the best “street dog” rather than hot dog, I headed back home.

I crashed, we finished watching Penn and Teller's Bullshit, and were almost out when the floodgates (front door) opened, ushering in a flock of people. No longer was the night for kicking back to an early sleep. This night was one spent staying up taking for hours, about – whatever you'll have. Four hours in, I was met with a very American experience.

One of the guys collected guns, and was talking about how he had a pump action, 8 in the something 1 in the something, flash light fixed, laser sighted shot gun. I don't know much about guns – I don't know anything about guns – but I do know abount nonsense. And a laser sighted shotgun? Really? At some point I decide to say something that could have turned terribly bad, were we not dealing with professionals. “It's easy to make up any sort of gun if you don't have to prove it.”

And that's when the gun collection came out. A smaller automatic piece, and then the laser sighted shot gun which was straight out of Terminator. All unloaded of course, I was shocked by how light they were. And the feel? They ha the same texture and colour of a video game controller. It was easy to understand how some people can view them as toys. I've held toy guns that felt more, “real,” than these did.

I don't want to say they were 'cool' because that would be, I don't know, wrong? Being a Canadian the word gun rings as an evil to me. In the great white north we demonize guns more than we do drugs. Ohh Bobby was caught with an eight ball of coke? That crazy kid, always pushing. That we can shrug about. Bobby being caught with a shotgun? There is no hope for him! How could he have such a thing?!

To an American this is ridiculous. To me, well it should be ridiculous too, but it's hard to push aside all those years of forced thought.

As a final note? Guns- terrifying and creepy... and kind of cool.

BUT – you should probably always leave them locked up, and not on the kitchen table. Even if they are unloaded, and thus less harmful than a kitchen knife. You see, that Canadian thinking: guns are bad, wrong, wrong, bad, wrong, bad, bad, wrong, bad. I do believe that second amendment allows you to store them wherever you want, even in the umbrella holder near your front door – though not a good idea, as these are for home defense only. You'd need faster access.

And with those confusing thoughts, I slipped off to bed.