The Road Traveler

Mount Rushmore to Yellowstone: Bison, Geysers and Fossils

2010-07-28T17:10:00.000-07:00

Bison, marmots, bighorn sheep - they had a way of burrowing into our psyche and, sometimes, our car on our road trip to Yellowstone via Mount Rushmore.

At Sioux Falls’ Great Plains Zoo, just over South Dakota’s eastern border, Yellow-footed rock wallabies jump from rock to rock.

Other spots to break up the drive across SD are the Louis & Clark exhibit in Chamberlain, and in Mitchell, the world’s only Corn Palace for creative, if not regal, murals of colored corn.

Each fall, migrating birds peck off kernels, leaving a blank canvas for redesign come spring.

In the eerie, cacti-filled Badlands, jagged moon-like formations mystify while animal encounters make each visit new.

Stop at the White River Visitor Center near the Pine Ridge Reservation for the human history of the area.

Sturgis’ Motorcycle Museum & Hall of Fame is open daily year-round; in August the town’s population swells to half a million enthusiasts for the week-long rally held each year since 1938 (except during World War II).

Nearby Spearfish Canyon provides peace and grace away from the hubbub.

We breezed into Wyoming (speed limit 75 mph), oil rigs pumping, cattle grazing, while the crimson earth turned frosty as we crossed over the snowy Big Horn Mountains near Buffalo. At its feet, coral Ten Sleep Canyon embraced us as we tunneled through this Indian land, once said to be ten sleeps (nights) by horseback from places now disputed.

Wyoming is cow country; around the turn of the last century it was cattle vs. sheep ranchers fighting to the death for the right to graze the land. The beef at Butch’s in tiny Kirby (population: 54) still draws locals from miles around. It was a privilege to pull up a chair, kick back and down a western burger.

Just around the bend lies Thermopolis, an ancient hot springs town, Thermo (meaning warm) and Opolis (city), thus City of Warm Waters. Our hotel, a Best Western on the National Historic Register, built in 1918 for travelers and remodeled with lodge pole pine furnishings, had a hot springs-fed hot tub and a pool in its courtyard.

After many a mile on the road, this was a welcome sight, despite the slightly eggy smell (sulpher, not benedict). It’s located right in Hot Springs State Park – you can walk to two water parks, a bar across the street, or just meander along the river that runs thru it.

Nearby, find white water rafting, Petroglyphs, and the town’s premier attraction, the Wyoming Dinosaur Center. For a smallish fee you can go on an actual fossil dig, no reservations needed.

The museum features a 108 foot Supersaurus plus many other impressive fossils and beasts.

The animals here may be extinct, but the sight of a mama dino bringing food to a nest full of baby skeletons makes an impact even today.

Heading south we hugged the looming walls of the Wind River Canyon, an Indian owned masterpiece, through 2.8 billion year old tunnels, now offering fishing, float and white water trips.

Finally, 1,073 miles from home, we arrived at Moran Junction in the Grand Tetons. Prying our teens from the car, we took turns snapping group photos with two motorcyclists, who, turns out, originated from Massapequa, NY, where I lived as a teen. It all comes together on the road.

Blink and the weather changes out west. Storm clouds rolled in. Forced to forgo a boat trip around Jackson Lake, we joined our cousins at Colter Bay cabins, rain tapping on our loggy roof.

At Yellowstone, 30 degrees brought snow and 2 bison guiding their young calves across the river near Old Faithful. Timing, it seems, is everything.

West Thumb Geyser basin on Lake Yellowstone offers an easy boardwalk loop around steamy geysers and fumaroles.

Here anglers once caught and cooked their catch all in one swoop, dipping the line into a cooking hole, until second degree burns brought an end to the fun.

Grand Prismatic Spring, Morning Glory Pool, Old Faithful - the sheer number of wonders here ensure a memorable visit, no matter how short or exhaustive your exploration.

Kids of all ages love the paint pots, gurgling like oatmeal on a stove, they bubble and pop before your eyes.

If you see just one canyon out here, make it the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone.

Mammoth Hot Springs’ steep boardwalk leads to an eerie terrace, patterns frozen in time. Western ground squirrels pop out of holes all around the latticed cabins here.

An early evening drive brought unexpected encounters with marmot, baby birds nesting on the side of a craggy cliff, and the largest bison I've ever seen, just south of Mammoth. Brief showers ended with a double rainbow framing the animals below.

Leaving Yellowstone via the northern stone Roosevelt Arch (“For the benefit and enjoyment of the people”) we entered Montana.

In Billings visit the Museum of Western Heritage and order pancakes at Stella’s Bakery – they’re as big as a dinner plate- a local favorite.

Pompey’s Pillar, just 28 miles east of Billings bears William Clark’s 1806 signature carved into the towering rock, the only remaining trace of Lewis & Clark’s presence anywhere on their westward journey from St. Louis to the Pacific and back.

A ranger at Little Bighorn National Battlefield took us back to the year 1876, our nation celebrating its centennial back east, while a showdown with Indian tribes loomed out west due to government attempts to corral all Native Americans onto reservations.

Storm clouds gathered above us in the murky sky, adding a sense of urgency at the battlefields of Reno, Benteen and Custer.

A tornado touched down in Billings hours after we’d lunched at Stella's, while baseball-sized hail was reported in Sheridan, our day’s destination. Racing south, a Burlington Northern brought up our starboard while coal colored clouds massed above.

Indian legend claims a battling bear scratched the vertical grooves in Devil’s Tower. Native American chants glided through the air as we hiked the Tower’s base.

Prairie dogs pop up along the road in.
Deadwood, South Dakota is a mixture of gambling casinos and authentic Old West establishments. At Saloon No. 10 you'll still find colorful locals passing the time and a few rounds, a few tables over from where Wild Bill Hickock was shot in the back holding the "Dead Man's hand": two aces, two eights, and a nine.

Back in the Black Hills of western South Dakota, Mount Rushmore attracts license plates from every state.

These massive faces appear both noble and serene above the circular wooded trails; pause and you can hear them daring you to reach your potential.

Hilltop Sylvan Lake is reached via winding, narrow tunnels cut into the granite mountain. For extra fun, try it at night in the rain, fog floating over the windshield. Ask for directions (twice, please) and you might make it to the lodge BEFORE the restaurant closes down at 9:00 pm.

Frank Lloyd Wright chose the site, where boulders create hiking caves and reflections in the water. A hike to Harney’s Peak (elevation 7244 ft, the highest peak in SD) is rewarded with an abandoned lookout tower of rounded stone and a view of the Black Hills second to none. (so I’ve heard).

Custer State Park offers four unique lodges: Blue Bell offering horseback riding (reserve horses ahead; really), Legion Lake (family orientated fun), Sylvan Lake Lodge (see above), and the historic Game Lodge (the summer residence of President Coolidge in 1927).

Buffalo Safari Jeep tours, Chuck Wagon Cookouts, Mountain bike, Hydrobike, or Paddleboat rentals are options; we chose driving the Wildlife Loop where 1300 bison, prairie dogs, mules, and determined yet friendly burros got up close & personal with our vehicle.

Towns surrounding the Black Hills offer history (Deadwood), gold mines (Lead), caves (Wind Cave and Jewel Cave National Monuments), wooly mammoth excavations (Hot Springs), sculpture-in-progress (Crazy Horse), and geology (Badlands National Park). Take time to immerse yourself in the West. Your kids (and the animals) will thank you.

Southwest Road Trip: Canyons, Craters and Lodges

2010-06-04T18:34:00.000-07:00

On a Southwestern road trip you’ll find stunning works of nature and man.

Mix fire red Navajo earth with National Park lodges, ancient Pueblo dwellings, and neon wonders on historic Route 66. The dusty memories will seep into your shoes as the dry, thick heat settles into your bones.

We landed in Las Vegas – flamingos, Eiffel Tower impersonators, and white tigers, then were off on a 1400 mile loop through Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado and Utah. This is the Southwest.

First stop: the Grand Canyon.

From the intimate Artist’s Studio and grand El Tovar Lodge, perched like raindrops on a windowpane, you can view the dance of rock and water.

Heading southeast, we detoured to Tuba City on Navajo land to see ancient dinosaur tracks preserved in crimson red earth. Talk about stepping into the past.

At Wupatki National Monument intricate pueblo dwellings abandoned 800 years ago include a circular ball court and a curious ground hole that mysteriously blows cold air up from below. Relentless sun, temps approaching 100 degrees are pretty tough on the uninitiated.

Airy cottonwoods contrast against the ancient ebony silt at Sunset Crater National Monument. Here again we were the wilted ones.

A downhill hike at Walnut Canyon via shaded snake-like curves led to a panorama of human ingeniuity: 700 year old architecture hidden within the Canyon itself.

Looping southward, 40 miles east of Flagstaff, Meteor Crater’s 4000 foot diameter is fathomed by the juxtaposition of the tiny dwelling on its edge. Formed by meteor impact about 50,000 years ago, astronauts trained here for Apollo space missions; check out the visitor center for artifacts and souvenirs nestled inside.

Soon we glowed like the corals and pinks at Painted Desert.

Petrified logs of alabaster rose scattered at Petrified Forest National Park mix with swirling mounds like Blue Mesa, a hikers delight.

We followed John Wayne’s footsteps to a low key stretch of Route 66 in Gallup, New Mexico at the El Rancho Hotel. Built in 1937, it lodged stars like Bogart and Ronald Reagan, filming westerns in the area.

Or take the kitschy route at the retro Wigwam Motel on Route 66 in Holbrook, Arizona.

At Four Corners, stretch your limbs & touch Arizona, Colorado, Utah, & New Mexico simultaneously; Google maps now puts the actual spot some 2.5 miles away. No matter. Booths by local Indians selling authentic fry bread, t-shirts and beaded jewelry encircle the fun photo-op here.

Weaving up the narrow, tangled road to Mesa Verde’s summit (the “green table”) the Far View Lodge was a respite from the steep climb. Fire-scorched terrain, reborn with lonely magenta thistles, stretches eerily on until you reach the dwellings: Balcony House and Cliff Palace, constructed 800 years ago by the Pueblo.

Moab is a good base for advanced mountain biking on Slide Rock Trail, and exploring crimson rock formations like Balanced Rock and Delicate Arch at Arches National Park. The dry 100 degree heat sucks the moisture right from your skin.

Venture west to find Dead Horse Point State Park’s precipice, featured in the film Thelma & Louise, Grand Staircase-Escalante’s 1.7 million acres of hidden canyons and Canyonlands, Capital Reef and Glen Canyon National Parks.

Back at the River Canyon Lodge we emptied copper sand from our shoes, from trekking to Sand Dune Arch, then restored our balance in the cool outdoor pool.

Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Green River” accompanied us on the long highway west past the town of the same name as Utah’s wide sky opened to ominous thunderclouds above.

Atop Cedar Breaks National Monument, the cold mountain air and 3 mile wide red forest-filled canyon, left us breathless at 10,000 feet above sea level.

Bryce Canyon was all coral spires and milky grottos. The Navajo Trail spirals to the canyon floor where a lone tree pushes up straight to the sun. Humans have to hoof it back up. The Wall Street side is now closed due to huge rock slides in 2006 & 2010. Luckily the Bryce Canyon Lodge welcomes all home. At Bryce it felt like a reunion with our Creator.

Zion National Park is the place we most yearn to revisit. Emerging from a tunnel into the base of a canyon, massive walls rising dramatically in all directions, you know you’ve arrived at Zion.

Meander a mile to the Virgin River, then hike in the river itself, gripping a walking stick for balance, while massive sandstone cliff, alive with mossy growth rise on either side. You aren’t observing; you are participating, both in the river and the canyon. We never did reach river’s end; it was the journey, not the destination and it washed away all that wasn’t basic to nature.

Back at the loggy Zion Lodge the waitress congratulated our kids on their 10 Junior Ranger pins earned and proudly worn on our Southwest road trip: Grand Canyon, Sunset Crater, Wupatki, Walnut Canyon, Petrified Forest, Mesa Verde, Arches, Cedar Breaks, Bryce Canyon, and Zion. Grand indeed.

St. Louis, Iowa and Lincoln's Illinois

2010-05-03T18:39:00.000-07:00

Herbert Hoover National Historic Site in rural West Branch, Iowa wasn't my top pick for a vacation but we were on a road trip through Iowa to Lincoln's Springfield, Illinois and St. Louis, Missouri.

Hoover, the 31st President of the United States, is often remembered as the one who couldn't stop the Great Depression. Here at his tiny birthplace, a 14X20 ft cottage built by his Quaker father, we saw another side of Herbert Hoover.

Prior to his presidency, Hoover was hailed a hero for saving thousands of Europeans from starvation after WWI. expertly organizing food relief and distribution. At his presidential museum we followed his unlikely journey from blacksmith’s son to Commander-in-Chief at the White House.

Over in Illinois, statues of Lincoln & his family dot the streets of Springfield. We felt his presence everywhere as we walked in his footsteps.

In his home you can see the tiny wooden desk where he wrote many speeches. His law offices corner the public square where the Old Capitol Building holds court.

Here Lincoln the lawyer tried more than 300 cases. On June 16, 1858 while running for the Senate (he lost to Stephen Douglas) Lincoln delivered his famous 'House Divided' speech: "A house divided against itself cannot stand. I believe this government cannot endure, permanently, half slave and half free. I do not expect the Union to be dissolved — I do not expect the house to fall — but I do expect it will cease to be divided.”

After his 1865 assassination, 75,000 crowded past Lincoln's open casket on May 3rd & 4th beneath George Washington’s portrait in Representatives Hall. Outside on the steps a choir sang as his casket was carried past for the trip to Oak Ridge Cemetery.

At the modern Lincoln Presidential Museum Abe's story comes to life as you walk through his boyhood cabin and a White House replica, housing an exhibit of First Ladies dresses when we were there.

Riveting films literally move you in your seat as you watch the numbers scroll through the Civil War years with the casualty count mounting on both sides. Lincoln's briefcase brought the events to life even more than the 3-D phantoms.

Heading south across the Missouri border, we spotted our largest monument(and most recognizable after the Statue of Liberty & Mount Rushmore), the St. Louis Arch.

Designed by Eero Saarinen in 1967, this smooth steel mass sweeps into the sky then swoops solidly down to earth. We journeyed upward, wedged in a tiny white pod, rising & tilting ferris wheel-style 630 feet to the Arch’s summit. 40-plus years after completion it still feels futuristic.

Beneath this “Gateway to the West” visit the Museum of Westward Expansion where you can retrace the 1804 journey of Lewis & Clark which began here on the banks of the Mississippi. Out the narrow windows to the east a paddlewheeled riverboat docks on its shore.

To the west is the Courthouse where, in 1857, Dred Scott, a black slave who moved to free state Illinois sued unsuccessfully for his freedom. This heightened tensions which led to the Civil War. Scott, later freed by his owners, died of tuberculosis in 1858 and is buried in St. Louis where people reportedly still leave Lincoln pennies on his grave.

On a lighter note, hidden within the St Louis Zoo is an indoor penguin pool. Here fluffy baby penguins waddle next to giant tuxedoed King penguins who dive and swim in the shallow waters. Puffins delight those who can’t swing a trip to the Scottish coast to see them in their native turf- the St. Louis Zoo is free.

If you have time, check out one of Frank Lloyd Wright’s best residential designs, the Dana Laurence house or dine at Blueberry Hill where the St Louis Walk of Fame honors natives Chuck Berry, Ulysses S. Grant and Tina Turner. If you're lucky you'll see Chuck Berry who still performs here – sold out, of course - do his famous duck walk.

Looping back to Springfield we paid our respects at Lincoln’s tomb. Gutzom Borglum’s (Mt Rushmore’s designer) sculpture reflects people’s desire to reach out & touch the man whose strength and sacrifice led our country through its darkest hours. His wife and children are here as well and the walls circling his tomb proclaim “Now he belongs to the ages.” Indeed.

Candid shots of my daughter absentmindedly wiggling a loose tooth in Abe's kitchen or my son befriending Lincoln's innocent boy Tad bring this trip back to life for me.

Sometimes the shortest road trips stay with you the longest.

Chicago - City of Blues

2010-03-20T21:49:00.000-07:00

June 2009 -Chicago beckoned, a trip planned a lifetime ago, before my father's showdown with cancer.

Chicago’s a straightforward town. The Chicago River cuts the city in two like a ginsu and deposits you directly into Lake Michigan at the Navy Pier.

Need to get around? The rattling El ties together Chicago’s best. Want pizza? Try deep dish.

Want art? Look Van Gogh or ‘American Gothic’ in the eye at the Art Institute.

Look yourself in the eye at Millennium Park’s steely Bean; no use dodging those spitting fountain faces.

Got the blues? Chicago’s been there too - Chess Records is here, Muddy Waters’ label in his heyday, and over by the river, the House of Blues.

Best fish in town? Shedd Aquarium.

Best catch of the day? Field Museum's: “Inside Ancient Egypt” where Michael Jackson’s likeness lurks, carved in crumbling stone.

Best time travel? Inside a U-505 Submarine at The Museum of Science and Industry. Claustrophobia never felt so good.

Chicago’s known trouble. Fires, riots, it keeps getting back up. After the Great Fire destroyed most of the city in 1871, Chicago picked up the pieces and rebuilt. Like Steve Austin, it became better, stronger, faster than it ever was. (Louis Sullivan, Frank Lloyd Wright, Mies Van Der Rohe et al). In 2008 Chicago saw hope lit in every face gathered in Grant Park at Obama’s victory rally. Gift shops brim with Barack Obama mugs and opportunities to pose atop the Sears Tower with his cutout.

Flying home out of Midway I searched for signs of heaven out the tiny round window above the clouds.

Picked up the Times on my way to Dad’s house; headline: Michael Jackson had just died. Dad always saved the paper when major headlines occurred: JFK’s assassination, moon landing, Watergate, Presidential elections. I saved it for him; this was his last day.

For me, 2009 was the summer of life’s final page. That summer I often wondered, why am I here? How can I let him go? In my mind I carry two photographs - one my father, the other, Chicago - my little family reflected in the lens. Faintly, I hear a whisper, “all is not lost”. The city moves forward. City of blues.

Bluefin Bay: Memories to Last a Lifetime

2010-02-20T14:33:00.000-08:00

June 2008 – as gasoline passed $4.00/gallon we resolved to vacation closer to home, 3 generations together at Bluefin Bay Resort.

With ebony waves lapping at our doorstep, oven baked pizzas and buttery catch–of–the–day served lakeside, the moonlit boardwalk led from smores–on–the–rocks to a shimmering outdoor swim.

Late–night games of Apples–to–Apples followed days of brisk waterfalls, ambling rock hunting, and meeting Superior one–on–one in a slim red kayak, the cheers of my family resounding in my ears.

This June we buried my father under a majestic oak tree, its branches stretched out wide. In six months cancer swooped down, spun him around, and whisked him away.

My travel photos reveal the lake´s light reflected in his eyes, and his wide, easy grin.

The light lingers still there at Bluefin Bay, as do the memories.

California's Hidden Gems

2008-03-21T17:21:00.000-07:00

California. Just the word summons a mood: freewheeling, sun-enriched, coastal bliss.

Sure you’ve got mudslides, perpetual traffic and the San Andreas Fault; but they just balance the scale back to even, so the rest of us can sleep nights, feet firmly planted in the other 49.

You can’t see it all in one visit, but a trip up to Yosemite and back down the Pacific Coast Highway offers enough soul warming to last you quite a while back home.

Yosemite is an easy drive: over the mountains, mile after mile of roadside blooms overflowing until you hit Mariposa Grove, where massive redwoods sleep, with names like Tunnel Tree and the Grizzly Giant, clocking in at 200 feet high and 2700 years old.

El Capitan and Half Dome define the place. Ansel Adams’ gallery underscored the point with fabulous black and whites. For the kids it couldn’t get better than ice cream served poolside at the Yosemite Lodge where they relaxed with their cousin, the towering Yosemite Falls framing the picture.

Then there was Monterrey. Sea otters and pulsing jellyfish danced inside Monterey Aquarium.

Moments later, we wandered just past Fisherman’s Wharf, and quietly discovered families of sand dollars nestled below the water’s surface just beyond the docks where local vessels are readied for sea.

A spongy pink starfish floated atop the sea, still alive, on its way to somewhere beyond our world. My son held it in his hand, then cast it back to the wild ocean. Our hearts pounded at his proudest discovery.

Over at Cannery Row, we tiptoed around barnacles to see the sea lions mingling with the shorebirds. John Steinbeck spoke in my ear: "Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream."

If Monterey was a dream, Carmel by the Sea was a fantasy: pristine white beaches there for us alone. Alas, Clint Eastwood’s Hog’s Breath Inn opened after we breezed by, perusing the moss covered galleries.

Like JFK & Jacqueline before us, we witnessed serenity at the Carmel Mission, built in 1770 by Father Junipero Serra ("Always go forward and never turn back").

That evening smiles were wide, as the kids donned tall paper chefs hats and made their own pizzas at our table at the relaxed Allegro Trattoria.

17-Mile Drive was spotless and soaring, and afforded a wisp of "the good life". The Lone Cyprus, always inspiring, still holds its own against the rough, windy tides and the golf course surrounding it.

Heading south, the Pacific Coast Highway unwound like a ribbon set free. This is the wild California. Shoulder tapping clouds meet the pavement here. Teetering precipices dare you to hug the road and keep your eyes off the splendor while movement propels you forward.

What I liked most about this area was the grand uncontainable vistas coupled with close up explorations which brought immediacy and intimacy to our visit. At Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park, just inland off the coast, the water was as clear as Roger Daltry’s blue eyes: the kids waded stone-to-stone across the forested stream, green agates the catch of the day. My daughter posed for a picture, arms straining to stretch around the trunk of a giant Redwood, the Colonial Tree, which rests here unassumingly. It’s clear why locals camp here for an entire week; we met the land face to face, then moved on.

Missed the turnoff for Jade Cove, and landed at Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park. Venturing through an arched tunnel, we emerged high above an ocean vista as a waterfall cascaded into a turquoise inlet, nestled against the rocky Pacific shore. Paradise.

That night in Morro Bay, an unassuming town with less than stellar pizza, a massive rock outcropping provided a safehaven for migrating sea birds. Here we found a moment to slow down and join together as a family, resting on the shore to watch a sunset more brilliant than even the best episode of "House".

Down the road, Hearst Castle, built in the 1920’s by magazine tycoon William Randolph Hearst, was truly over the top, featuring 165 rooms, and overlooking the endless Pacific Ocean. The 127 acres of pools, gardens and terraces, sprouting classically designed columns and beautiful white sculptures were both offputting and uplifting. This is California, too.

Just north of Randolph Heart’s indulgent creation, lies Point Piedras Blancas. Here wild elephant seal bulls arc their bulky heads back and roar, battling their rivals each spring, for the love a good woman. Row upon row of these beasts lay like fat sausages on the sand. When they get too hot they flap their flippers to thrust sand upon their blubbery bodies. Even the most ardent couch potato will feel like an athlete compared to these tankards.

Now we turned inland and the miles of lunar landscape blended into one. We tipped our hats to James Dean at the solitary monument just past Paso Robles which bears his name and his time of death. It was here, at the barren, dusty junction of Highways 41 & 46 where James Dean crashed his Porche Spyder on September 30, 1955 while en route to a car race in Bakersfield.

Who could resist his independent yet vulnerable attitude ("I’m going to play my bongos and the world can go to hell?") (he was known to hole up in a corner at parties, cigarette dangling, bongos in hand). Only in California.

Back in L.A. we enjoyed the company of family, and the unlikely melding of many into one. The golden and the pale, the rich and the struggling, the promise and the reality. This is L.A.

Petersen’s Automotive Museum celebrates the journey of travel and the automobile.

Universal Studios celebrates the industry that darkens and illuminates.

La Brea Tar Pits explores prehistoric times, where they are still uncovering beasts from the past, submerged in the murky depths.

In Malibu, the air and the sand are still free. Buried to his neck in Zuma Beach, my son beamed for his final photo op. In California’s warm sun everyone can feel like a star, at least for a moment.

Cape Cod, Nantucket, friendship through the fog

2008-03-04T15:53:00.000-08:00

Cape Cod: A spigot of land jutting into the mighty sea, cod leaping onto the shore. Friends reunited, ghosts from the past, we took a final stroll along its fog-dipped depths before being cast back to shore and our disparate lives.

Seventeen years after college, we spent a weekend exploring Cape Cod, content to let the wind take us where it would. Nantucket, someone decided, offered a low-key charm, perfectly suited to our purposes.
We jettisoned over to Nantucket on the ferry, misty saltwater splashing our faces. The morning sunlight welcomed us, as we landed just in time to catch the Daffodil Days festival and the earthy charm of the island.

A blue 1965 Mustang convertible rounded the cobblestone bend, yellow flowers blooming from its grill, a member of a caravan parade, winding past quilt stores and glass shops.

After browsing through local shops we ventured further out on narrow streets, admiring classic columned buildings and perfectly proportioned churches.

Most trees were grey and winter bare, but the pink and white apple blossoms evoked a serene mood, opening for our arrival, embracing the sunlight, framing the clapboard houses.

Late April on the Cape offers lower airfares and sparse crowds. Too early for whale-watching, instead we discovered the pace locals enjoy before summer weather brings heavy traffic and pricey hotel rates from May thru October.

Here mailmen deliver the mail on foot in shorts, pushing a cart from house to house. On an island only 14 by 6 miles you can expect this kind of service. Locals gather at the Nantucket Bake Shop, nestled inland, away from the main drag. Sitting curbside, munching on homemade pastries, we shared their world.

Saltbox structures, grey with white trim, solidly lined each block, taking us back in time to the mid 1600s when Nantucket was settled, first as a whaling town, then an artists colony.

Back on the mainland we ambled up the Cape, destination: Provincetown. With time to kill we stopped at isolated lighthouses whenever the mood struck.

Out here on the cusp of spring, a stroll down a wooden boardwalk dead ended at the sea. Fog tapped the shoulder of the shoreline. A peaceful solitude overtook me here. And a sense of easy kinship. Could life really be this good?

Many years ago, in the dorms, we saw each other every day. Today we connect by an occasional phone call and a Christmas card. These are the people I think of when I’m tired or sinking beneath life’s concrete weight, waiting for the light to find me again. I know they’re out there. Often times, that’s enough.

In Newport, Rhode Island, the Cliffwalk, is an oceanside trail with sidewalks and rocky shoreline, that affords a distant view of majestic mansions and life beyond Target and Menards. It was our last hour before the airport beckoned.

"Let’s do this every other year" we agreed. That was seven years ago now. Our lives resumed, sweeping us up again: births and deaths, job transfers and unemployment, soccer practices and science fairs, hysterectomies and needle biopsies. The carousel keeps spinning.

Some days when the solitude of a busy life overtakes me, I remember the three who knew me when, and our moment in the cold sun on the windblown Cape.

Colorado Lessons: Rounding that Sharp Corner Into The Teenage Years and Beyond

2008-01-11T08:17:00.000-08:00

It dawned on me this summer in Colorado, as my son, now a teen, embarked with us on our annual journey, him through the filter of adolescence: every family vacation, every trip to an unexplored land is framed, like a portrait, by its time and place in our family history.

Whether we know it or not, travel is less about where we go, but who we are when we share these times together. Family travel, by nature, is just a vehicle for shared experiences. Our group dynamics are ever-evolving - half of our family today is changing so fast as to be unrecognizable to their former selves of a few years prior. Today, a vacation is a different can of worms, a product of the early teen experience.

This was the year when I first noticed that my 13 year old had packed a teenage perspective in with his sandals on our annual summer vacation. We set out for Colorado much like we always have to other places, full of hope and expectations. My son didn’t look that much different from last year - a little taller, hair a little longer. So the changes took me by surprise. I was expecting Last Year Part 2. We won’t be passing that way again.

Flew in, drove south, landed at Garden of the Gods in Colorado Springs. The massive, copper colored monoliths stretched up into the clouds. Artists battled it out for a patch of solitude, trying to capture its aura in paint on giant white canvas.

I was enthralled by the rocks shaped like giant faces. I loved wandering through this Never World on windy paths. Yet here I first discovered a truth of an early teen vacation, the birth of Rule Number One: Don’t lead a teen around. To a teenager, it seems, pathways are not on the To Do List. Explore the real wild, not one manicured and preserved by Joe Parks Department. Let him find his own way, not be led by someone else’s blueprinted trail. Okay, got it. What’s next on the agenda?

A squeezed-in side trip to Florissant Fossil Beds National Park, after a plane ride, car rental, hour’s drive on the highway, and a trek around Garden of the Gods, turned into a case of exhaustion triumphing over beauty. The massive fossilized tree stumps and prehistoric peacefulness couldn’t compete with my mistake: pushing too hard, not reading the signals. Rule Number Two: Don’t push a teen. Unless you want major static. And who needs static on vacation? Tempers flared, heels were dug in. Where’d that stubbornness come from anyway? The gorgeous scenery called out to me but all I could see was steam. Live and learn.

In the morning we could see our breath as we boarded the Cog Train up to Pike’s Peak. Though we didn’t spot any wildlife, the treeline views were inspiring and peaceful. Inside, the ride was bumpier: I’d forgotten to stash the Nintendos in the car trunk; my kids had forgotten to look out the Cog’s window. I fumed and steamed until, stepping out of the train car, onto a sheet of ice, the frigid air caught me by surprise.

Now, we aren’t winter wimps: we live in frosty Minnesota, no less, but it was so frigid and windy up there at 14,110 feet, tears came to my eyes. Gasping for breath, (a desperate move, since the air is about as thin as a Girl Scout cookie up here), I glanced at the stunning views, and slid, desperately, into the one safe haven: the gift shop complete with cider and freshly made donuts. Here my son and I commiserated about our dizziness and downed refreshments in unison.

It must have been the next day when we finally hit our stride. As morning broke, we headed to our Grand Destination: Rocky Mountain National Park, the gem that inspired this trip. We found our salvation at Streamside at Fall River: full kitchen, indoor swim spa pool, outdoor personal hot tubs with views of the Rockies, and the entrance to RMNP just 2 minutes down the road. This time we got it right. I didn’t push. I didn’t lead. We kicked back, messed up the schedule, and barbequed right there on our own deck. Guess you can teach old dogs a few new tricks.

Entering Rocky Mountain National Park, our day began with an elusive search for mountain goats, the symbol of the park. We searched, we looked, we did not find. No matter. Driving up into the mountains we found something even better.

Perched atop rocks at the end of a paved pathway, teetering on the edge of the purple mountain’s ragged heights, was a group of marmots. In the East, they have groundhogs. But here in the western U.S. they are called marmots (French, for mountain mouse). The wicked wind fluffed the little guy’s fur like a giant hairdryer, nearly blowing my camera right over Forest Canyon’s precipice. While his furry friends busied themselves with the other tourists, my marmot stood on his hind legs and looked me straight in the eye. It felt like a lifetime, though it was probably just a minute that we stood and took each other in, meeting in spirit, making a connection. For me, it was the highlight of the trip.

I can still hear it now: "Mom, you’re obsessed with that marmot!" That marmot, my friend, led us to the way my teenager and I came to interact best on this trip – ribbing, joshing, having a laugh. That would be Rule Number Three: Try humor with a teen.

Quaint shopping districts in Boulder don’t cut it with a teen. Not a teenaged boy, anyway. File that under Rule Number Four: Don’t window shop with a teen.

Panning for gold, at Argo Gold Mine in Idaho Springs, the destination both kids requested before we’d left home, was a huge hit. We skipped the tour (remember Rule One: Teens don’t like to be led around) and went right for the real experience. At the foot of a steep mountain, over a trough filled with water, our instructor demonstrated the best technique for separating the gold from stream water. Later, searching for gemstones within gravel warranted a thumbs-up. Call it Rule Number Five: Involve teens in the planning process. If you can.

Too bad altitude sickness and a nasty virus caught up with us right after this. We passed through the Eisenhower Tunnel, an arbitrary dividing point signaling we were now truly in the mountains, but illness hit us like a low lying cloud formation. Our hotel, across from the lovely Lake Dillon, became our base: Urgent Care in town for oxygen replenishment and an evening flat out on the bed watching Cable and eating Jersey Boys Pizza was all we could allow.

Next morning, I snapped a few photos of the view, before we headed down to lower elevations and got our groove back. Rule Number Six: Slow down now and then. Teens may think they’re invincible; they’re not.

Down in Denver, we hiked up Red Rocks where U2 and others have played out-of-this-world symphonies of sound. It was a steep, angled climb up to the awe-inspiring amphitheater, and my jokes ("If Bono can do it, so can we!" pant…pant) were hardly appreciated. Okay, they like humor, maybe just not mine.

Across the road from Red Rocks, up a sharp hill, lies Dinosaur Ridge National Natural Landmark, where ancient history rocks out every night and day. No, not Keith Richards, traces of Iguanodons and Ornithomimuses .

Dinosaur Ridge isn’t flashy. It isn’t even promoted. Here, atop a bluff looking out over a wide, grassy valley, it doesn’t need p.r.: this is a spot where dinosaurs left their tracks all over these hills.

Next to a wispy salmon-pink tree, I pictured these beasts lumbering like kings over the green valley below. My daughter beamed as I photographed her tiny hand inside one massive footprint. Thousands of trace fossils molded into the earth; they sit wide open by the side of the road, available for close inspection. Rule Number Seven: Give teens an impressive experience. (Just don’t expect them to gush about it).

Which brings me back to this trip’s place in our family’s timeline of vacations. Within our teen-filled family, I smile when I remember my encounter with that marmot: seeking a connection, finding a way to reach another soul, despite different perspectives. I found that common ground with my teen in flashes, up in the mountains of Colorado.

Later, back home, I grabbed a laugh from my son with my suggestion for our annual Christmas Card photo: someone perched on a windy, mountainous cliff, at the edge of civilization. "Mom, you’re obsessed with that marmot!" Connections.

New Mexico: Land of Enchantment and Georgia O’Keeffe

2007-12-18T10:05:00.000-08:00

New Mexico is known as the Land of Enchantment. Skies were bluer; rocks were redder. We flew down from the Land of 10,000 Lakes. The desert came alive and took us in.

Just beyond town, the Petroglyph N ational Monument quietly held the secrets of an earlier civilization. Narrow pathways led up steep, rocky cliffs to ancient Pueblo drawings etched on basalt. It takes determination to thrive on this harsh, scrubby, desert land. Signs warned of rattlesnakes. Cacti claimed the earth.

At Black Volcano we climbed back in time to explore this ancient lava flow, once a hunting and gathering area for pre-historic Native Americans. Today it stands apart from the cul-de-sacs of nearby development.

When Albuquerque was established, 300 years ago, the first building settlers erected was the Catholic Church of San Felipe de Neri. Rebuilt in 1793, it is the oldest structure still standing in Albuquerque. Its white towers gleamed against the cobalt sky in Old Town, a lively mix of cafes, shops, and street vendors. Route 66, a timepiece from 75 years ago, lies one block south.

In the evening, the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta had an otherworldly quality. Under the dark, velvet blue sky, a massive Uncle Sam, Stagecoach, and Ice Cream Cone rose before our eyes. The emcee of the Special Shapes Glowdeo rallied the audience to count down to light up: 3, 2, 1…dozens of massive balloons were lit in unison. A green parrot mingled with a massive sun. Garfield glowed next to a Burger King hamburger. The night air lent an excitement to the proceedings; here amongst the faithful, we felt part of a unified club.

Being a Georgia O’Keeffe buff, we headed north the next day to Abiquiu, 42 miles northwest of Santa Fe. When she first visited here in 1929, no paved roads led in. Even now, this vast, rocky, sunburned land was remote. With luck I stumbled into a tour of her home (a 6 month advance reservation is usually required) and rode a rickety bus up an impossibly narrow path to her home atop a mesa. The studio sits just as she left it: smooth rocks, white bones, paintbrushes waiting for their master to begin her magic. Large windows overlook the Chama River Valley, where distant red and purple mountains meet a wide open sky. Her New Mexico paintings never entranced me as her giant flowers did. Now, at the scene, I understood. “Winter Road I”, an abstract ribbon of black curving over a white canvas, echoes the road we drove in on, below her studio window. “Red Hills with Pedernal” locks in on the flat topped mountain, and captures its aura spot on. O’Keeffe once declared “God told me if I painted it often enough I could have it.” After her death at age 98, her ashes were, in fact, scattered atop her beloved Pedernal.

O’Keeffe first came here by train from New York City, to regain her strength following an illness. It wasn’t just the warm, dry heat that touched her heart. Indeed, she found her strength among the red rocks, and the local people who quietly welcomed her; here she found a true kinship with the land. “Wherever I go, I am always on my way back to New Mexico.” Outside, as a tall wooden ladder leaned against the smooth, adobe wall, September snowflakes descended on us like a whisper. Tucked away up here, frozen in the past, the scene was tranquil and solitary.

Next stop was Ghost Ranch where Ms. O’Keeffe lived prior to moving hilltop. A conference center today, we mused about the scrubby, rainbow- rocked landscape. The brochure relayed one of her many stories: “(We went riding) to places that we could only get the horses to go by getting off and pulling several times - places I would never dare to go alone.. perfectly mad looking country - hills and cliffs and washes too crazy to imagine all thrown up into the air by God and let tumble where they would.” Even in her nineties, the painter would hike these hills each morning with her two faithful dogs, breathing in the wild, desert air, collecting the occasional stone or cow skull.

An alternate reality thrives in nearby Santa Fe: historic hotels, adobe museums, art galleries on Canyon Road. We stayed at the cozy Adobe Star, a short stroll to the Museum of Fine Arts and the rewarding Georgia O'Keeffe Museum. Homemade rolls at breakfast with couples from Dallas and London began the day. That evening we dined outdoors on the balcony of the lively Coyote Café while overhead heaters kept the night chill at bay. These are the advantages of modern civilization.

Next day, we headed into the wilderness, following the guidebook, to climb to Nambe Falls. I’d read about the “stunning three-tier drop through a cleft in a rock face, tumbling into the Nambe Reservoir.” Who could forget it: steep edges, vertigo, red ants. There’s a fine line between scoping out possibilities and letting the guide book take the trip for you. When in doubt, mix it up a little. Take a wrong turn now and then.

Our “wrong” turn off the High Road to Taos yielded roadside goats and a wayward bull, and brought us to a rug shop in Chimayo. Seven generations have kept this weaving tradition alive since the early 1800’s. Artistry rules here at Ortega’s – this is the real thing.

At a roadside stall we bought ristras (strings of dried chilis) to hang in the doorway back home: crimson, beautiful, with a bitter odor about them, we discovered once home.

In Cordova, noted for its wood carvers, we bought a burro carved from cedar wood and aspen at Sabinita Lopez Ortiz’. Too bad my son broke a leg off of it a few years later. We may never pass this way again, indeed.

Robert Redford filmed “The Milagro Beanfield War” in Truchas, where the blue mountains sparkled in the distance as we drove along the side of a cliff. A few artists sprouted tiny shops here, testament to their ability to carve out their own path on the edge.

In Las Trampas we found the San Jose Church, built in 1760 during the Spanish colonial period. Ansel Adams had beat us here to capture its intricate wooden cutouts. See his “Old Cross” photo from 1951. It was deserted and locked; we circled it and pressed on.

The San Francisco d'Asis Church stood in Rancho de Taos. Ansel Adams photographed it. O’Keeffe painted it. In the blindingly bright morning sunshine, it’s smooth adobe and rounded shape drew me closer. It sat upright and proud, like my tabby back home.

That night, at the Historic Taos Inn, through a quiet, secluded courtyard, we found our respite from the day's wanderings: adobe walls, wood ceiling, traditional kiva fireplace. Fortunately the only reptiles we saw were hand-stenciled on the wall.

Taos is low key, known for its ancient Taos Pueblo and modern ski resort. In the evening, as the nearby Rio Grande winds its wild way through the golden cottonwoods, you can kick back at Doc Martin’s in the Taos Inn, and watch the neon phoenix light the night air.

In the craggy desert of New Mexico, we observed determination despite harsh conditions, a link with the past, and a free and independent spirit in the hills. We'll need them all going forward.

Minnesota Dreaming: Summer’s strong pull

2007-12-12T13:58:00.000-08:00

When I think of summer in Minnesota, I think of it as winter’s payoff. This is the delivery on all hope, sustained during 40 below windchills, buried deep within our frozen, winter souls. We stay in this country because we are able; each year we prove to disbelievers that we can survive any harshness thrown before us. Summer is our one true reward.

As I look back at photos of summers past, I see the rosy-cheeked innocence of my children growing up, “up north”. Like prisoners sprung on parole, they scramble to embrace life with all the joy they possess.

Paul Bunyan flourished in these parts, it’s said. Trips to the North Country are enough to almost have us believing in these old legends. If the Mississippi River can originate in the rushes and reeds of a placid, tucked-away lake in Itasca, Minnesota, perhaps stranger phenomenon have sprung forth as well.

There’s a golden glow that frames summer days in the North Woods. Loons invoke this feeling. Paddlers synch to its rhythm. The oaks and elms and towering pines tease us with the promise of more to come, on the drive up Highway 361. In a small, rented cabin we gather with relatives to share the moment together and breathe it in.

Over on Lake Superior, there’s no fooling around. The darkest blue waters of this mammoth giant warn of its power and dare us to match it. Whether it’s the steely black rocks of Duluth’s seagulled harbor or a tucked away haven, like the Naniboujou Lodge, farther upstream, Superior can’t mask its ability to outsize, and out-cold this windchill-tested land. Yet it delivers a summer, however brief, to those who wait.

Every winter I wonder why we stay. We travel elsewhere - to Santa Fe, Nantucket, Morro Bay. A kaliadescope of realities beckons us from around the world.

And yet our souls are soothed each summer when we accept the gift of a gentle Minnesota summer.

North Dakota Road Trip: Wild Horses (and Sacagawea) Couldn’t Drag me Away

2007-12-01T18:48:00.000-08:00

As a kid growing up on the East coast, I had no clue where North Dakota was. As an adult, I never sought it out. Assumption: North Dakota - barren, empty, cold. Reality: North Dakota - rugged, historic, where horses run free. In our quest to visit all 50 states, we scheduled a trip to our northerly neighbor. We were in for a surprise.

We’d been on a Lewis & Clark kick ever since we stood in their footsteps atop Spirit Mound in South Dakota where 10,000 buffalo once roamed. Now at the Lewis and Clark Interpretive Center in Washburn, North Dakota it was the 200 year anniversary of their journey. President Thomas Jefferson had sent them to find a water route to the Pacific, determine trading possibilities, and record scientific observations along the way.

In October of 2006, we descended on Fort Mandan, the primitive compound where the group had wintered two hundred two years earlier. The wide Missouri River sparkled in the brisk fall sunlight, its sandbars posing challenge to any seaward traveler. Fort quarters were tight, amenities few. Donning ski jackets, we understood why, in October, they stopped to construct a shelter. If this isn’t winter, it should be.

The modern visitor center sported many hands-on exhibits such as the blacksmith shop with bellows, the carved out cottonwood-turned-canoe. After a grueling 5 hour car ride (Lewis didn’t have preteens in his group!) Son and Daughter were glad to run along the deserted riverbank. Daughter discovered striped turkey feathers at her feet, Son marveled at the 1,400 pound carved statue of Seaman, Lewis’ faithful Newfoundland.

Upstream at the Knife River Indian Villages, a reconstructed earthlodge, 40 feet in diameter, sits along the bumpy plains abutting the narrow Knife River. Archeologists have found artifacts here dating back 11,000 years. It is here that Sacagawea lived prior to joining the Lewis & Clark expedition. Artifacts in the earthlodge and visitor center included hand painted buffalo skins, circular one-person boats, and a below ground pit used to store corn, squash and beans over the winter. Patches of snow on these wide plains prompted Son and Daughter to build a snowman, as ominous clouds overhead turned gray across the horizon.

Bittersweet, these excursions - amazing how this small group persevered over such wild, uncharted terrain. Exciting to witness their discovery of animals never before imagined.

Heartbreaking to see the naivete in their promises of good faith, extended to those encountered. The wonders of their discoveries, brought back in journal and artifact, served to accelerate the pace at which adventurous pioneers, unknowingly bringing disease, overtook the land, ending the reign of the native people. Change, though inevitable, was harshly and unfairly set forth. Lewis would commit suicide a few years later. Here at these remote sites we can feel what once was and witness the end of an era.

A group of wild turkeys bobbed along a back road, blending into the golden scrub. A few miles further west found us battling wind chill and more turkeys amidst a snowstorm in the Badlands. North Dakota is not for wimps.

Our hotel had a room for hunters to gut their kill. Being suburban mall dwellers this was a bit of an eye opener. I guess if you want rugged you get the whole package.

My favorite, by far, was Theodore Roosevelt National Park. Out in the middle of nowhere, off season, we saw only a handful of other cars the whole day we were there. Split into two sections, the South Unit, just south of the Interstate held a tiny two room cabin Roosevelt called home. I wonder, did Teddy leave his slippers and "T.R." emblazoned trunk behind out of absentmindedness or did he foresee the future exhibit?

Many legends persist in these parts. "I never would have been President if it had not been for my experiences in North Dakota", Roosevelt once remarked. Though an avid hunter, he came to understand the shortsightedness in the piles of massacred buffalo horns found here during that time. Teddy Roosevelt is featured on Mount Rushmore for his part in creating the National Park System. I can see where the Southern and Northern Unit would have inspired such desire for preservation.

Once beyond the western outpost of Medora, a wild coyote crossed in front of us, alone on a windy two-lane path.

Bison sauntered across our path, stopping to munch on the scrub. Who was going to argue with these hairy beasts?.

A jackrabbit leaped across the endless expanse.

Prairie dogs popped up out of burrows and scurried back and forth.

Looping back to deserted Medora, I saw movement to my left. Slowly we approached in our vehicle. The true spirit of the West presented itself: six wild horses, nibbling on the snow covered grass, glanced up at us, but did not bolt. Graceful, self-assured, proud. I was awed seeing a life I would never live.

Despite the frigid temps we hiked to Ox Bow Bend Overlook where the Little Missouri flowed below us. Retreating toward our car, we spotted the silhouette of a lone bison, perched on a hill directly above us. "Kids, no more running ahead". It was clear who truly rules the land out here. It isn’t the humans.

Warming up and catching our breath, we drove 15 miles to the Northern Unit. I’ve never been to the moon. But I’ve been to the North Unit. Bumpy molten clay forms the land. Cannonball Concretions dominate the landscape. These giant, spherical boulders dangle from the cliffs, the largest of them laying amongst small cacti in the field below. White petrified rock, the size of our t.v. back home, complete the ancient picture. Who needs the moon?

Sunset approached as we headed out. Three white tailed deer lingered roadside to watch us pause to watch them. Farther up the hill, three more deer walked out of sight, the buck’s antlers silhouetted by the pinks and purples of the endless sky. To the wild creatures of Theodore Roosevelt National Park, as Bob Dylan once sang, "I’d have you anytime."

Heading east the following day, Bismark’s Visitor Center covered North Dakota’s history from dinosaur skeletons through the settling of the west. Notables were a homesteader’s shack, and the badge of the Indian police chief who killed Sitting Bull. At Fort Abraham Lincoln State Park we posed for a photo on the front steps of Custer’s home, as he and his officers did before leaving for Little Bighorn. Couldn’t help but wonder what George would’ve thought of the haunted house Halloween party being staged inside. The bullet-holed hat and saddle bag from Custer Battlefield in the visitor center were more apropos. Last stop: the adjoining On-a-Slant Indian Village which provided another glimpse of a vanished way of life.

North Dakota: barren: yes; you could disappear out here and never see another human being. Cold: no doubt. Empty: hardly; nature and history have left their imprint all around these parts. The true west starts right about here. If you slow down, you might catch the spirit of the legends who walked here before us.

Great Lakes Road Trip: Part 7- Ohio to Indiana: Neil Armstrong, James Dean, and the Singing Sand

2007-11-26T14:09:00.000-08:00

If you want to see the real Midwest, the "Heartland" of the United States, get off the highway.

A giant tortoise and I shared a moment at the Cleveland Metroparks Zoo. At first glance he was massive and not particularly attractive. Kneeling to his level, I caught his eye as he munched on the greenery. There was a gentle spirit about him. I remembered the story of Owen and Mzee, the 130 year old tortoise who befriended the baby hippo, orphaned in Kenya after 2004’s massive tsunami. Unlikely kinships form when we take time to see another’s essense and try to absorb it. With animals, all is not what it seems.

The Australian Adventure featured Sulphur-crested Cockatoos bobbing and chatting on a branch, rotund koalas perching in a eucalyptus tree, and athletic wallaroos bounding across the open fields. Lingering near a kangaroo, I was drawn into his world. Chewing leaves, he eyed me knowingly, then fell, free-falling, into a shrub. With graceful locomotion, he upped and bounded away in a flash. Like an outsider at an Amish picnic, I knew I didn’t belong to his fraternity, but for a few moments I understood what his world was about.

Heading west, we eventually left the interstate and poked along the backroads. Today’s destination - James Dean’s hometown in tiny Fairmount, Indiana. But getting there was part of the fun. There’s a sameness among the cornfields - at first it’s jarring (how do they survive without Bloomingdale’s?); after a while it’s comforting, hypnotizing, and the golden beauty hits you. Looking forward out the car windshield, the cornfields appear as one giant golden blanket covering the earth. Out the side window the even rows dance, stepping sideways in rhythm as you drive forward. This land can envelop you. Even on the road, you’re disappearing into these cornfields, a little speck on the highway.

Land down here looks essentially the same as it has for generations. I like my Starbucks and Google as much as the next guy, but sometimes, when traveling, it’s nice to step into a place that holds the past, the present, and the future all in one hand.

Spouse is a space buff, so what better way to break up the day’s drive than a pit stop at the Neil Armstrong Air & Space Museum in rural Wapakoneta, Ohio? It’s all there - the moon rock, the flight suit, the Gemini Spacecraft. Who would have guessed a boy born on his grandma’s farm in this small country town would be the first human to walk on the moon? Date: July 20, 1969. Mission: Apollo 11. Fate: forever immortalized in history. Sorry, Buzz. Neil Armstrong is the name every wide-eyed grade schooler commits to memory. Never underestimate the power of a cornfield.

Mid-afternoon we touched down in Fairmount, Indiana. I’d been to Griffith Observatory in Los Angeles where they filmed Rebel Without a Cause. I’d been to the junction of Highways 46 and 41 near Pasa Robles, California where, in 1955, at dusk, he sailed from his silver Porche 550 Spyder into the Great Beyond. But now I was coming home. James Dean was born in rural Fairmount, Indiana in 1931. Long time ago, no doubt. He made only three films (East of Eden, Rebel Without a Cause, and Giant). But he hit a nerve that still speaks to many today, more than 50 years after his death.

Fairmount pulls out the stops in September with it’s James Dean Festival: 50’s car show, James Dean look-alike contest. But on a steamy July afternoon you can still catch a whisper of the small town life from which the boy emerged. The motorcycle shop: brick front, deserted back road location, where he bought his yellow and brown cycle and first learned to ride. It stands quiet and still. The Winslow farmhouse: white front porch, small road out past town, where his aunt and uncle took him in at age 9 after his mother’s death from cancer.

Downtown antique shop: a Dean Look magazine cover story or two, but mostly glass bottles, hubcaps, simple things, where shopkeepers conversed about kin in twangy cadence.

James Dean Memorial Park: a tiny tree-lined square featuring the identical monument with bust and star, sculpted by Kenneth Kendall, as found outside Griffith Observatory.

I don’t know what was better - the personal treasures at the Fairmount Historical Museum (yes, there was a small room featuring Jim Davis, creator of the Garfield cartoon, also from Fairmount), or the charming personal tour by the elderly, knowledgeable woman running the place. We’ve found our small town America, stifling and reassuring, and it dots the landscape all across this country of ours.

Next day was the last adventure before the drive-on-through-Wisconsin-nonstop-to-get-home-to-Minnesota-already ending: the Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore. Yes, we duned back in Michigan. But here, nestled between Chicago and the smokestacks of Indiana, was a National Park that provided memories all its own.

Tromping up a steep, sandy incline 123 feet to the top of Mount Baldy, massive dunes engulfed us. Here, after making sand angels, my son discovered a clear, ringing tone. Turns out the combination of quartz crystals, moisture, pressure, and friction from his bare feet created a musical tone, known as "singing sand". Only a few beaches in the world sing in this way.

Down the other side of the dune lay sparkling Lake Michigan. Squint left: you can see the Chicago skyline. Look right: nature’s beauty is oddly juxtaposed with an industrial smokestack. Nature and commerce side by side. Heron Rookery and Gary, Indiana. Pinhook Bog and Midwest Steel.

Perhaps it was an apt ending to a varied trip through 2 countries, 7 states, and various states of mind. Because nestled within the necessities of sustaining an everyday existence lay the wonders of this country, there for those who seek them out - the Great Lakes.

Lake Michigan

Lake Huron

Lake Ontario

Lake Erie

Lake Superior (Note: a separate trip)

Great Lakes Road Trip: Part 6- 4th of July with Lucy, Bob, and Duane; or: Buffalo, NY to Cleveland, Ohio

2007-11-14T12:58:00.000-08:00

Having survived the Niagara Falls crowds without flinging ourselves over the railing in a barrel, we were on a mission - Penguins at the Aquarium of Niagara on the New York side. Not just any penguins, but yes, the rare Peruvian penguin. Do these guys know how cute they are waddling around? Watching them during feeding time was a treat. Word is this small aquarium is one of only a few to house these birds. The pink and white fellows were oddly likeable in an ugly ducking kind of way. We wanted to jump in and protect them ourselves. Our kids bought "Please Feed the Penguins" t-shirts at the gift shop.

Leaving the Buffalo, NY area meant we were now heading home, at the halfway point, having driven about 1200 miles. Of the Great Lakes, we’d seen Lake Michigan, Lake Huron, and Lake Ontario on this trip. Lake Erie was next. At each lake we collected a couple of rocks for Uncle’s fishtank back home. Maybe not as exotic as his rock from Loch Ness, but hey, 5 Great Lakes is nothing to sneeze at.

As a kid, "I Love Lucy" reruns were my favorite. My kids have been watching Lucy do her "’splaining"on DVD . So a stop in Jamestown, New York was worth the slight detour. This town knows how to honor its famous alumnus: besides two museums, there are three full-wall murals of key Lucy scenes, such as the Vitameatavegamin episode, and a giant Lucy/Desi stamp pictured on the side of the local post office.

The Lucille Ball/Desi Arnaz Center’s recreated sets of Lucy and Ricky Ricardo’s New York apartment and Hollywood hotel suite were very cool. The "Three Headed Monster" offered an interesting look at the first multi-camera editing device developed, at Desi Arnaz’ insistence, for I Love Lucy in the early days of television. We paid our respects at the large but simple headstone in the local cemetery which simply said "Ball" in that familiar script inside a heart. In Jamestown we got a sense of the long journey Lucille Ball had made in her lifetime. At each of these places we visited on this trip, we saw the accomplished come home to their roots in the end.

Pennsylvania consists of a small, 30 mile stretch along I-90 and since it was our first time in PA, we stopped for a stretch at the Presque Island State Park in Erie. Remote miles of shoreline were ours as my son and daughter greeted Lake Erie by skipping stones across the beckoning sea. A red and white lighthouse there, built in 1873, was not open for visitors. Still, it made for a tranquil scene before we ventured on to Ohio. As far as rest stops go, this one definitely beat Howard Johnson’s.

Bustling into Ohio, we hit the brakes lakeside at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum. There’s something appealing about a white, modern, angled structure on a lakefront. (see also Milwaukee’s inspiring Art Museum). It was the 4th of July, and "Bob Dylan’s American Journey, 1956-1966" was on exhibit. Highlights for me were the video clips of Dylan with The Band. For Spouse it was Duane Allman’s 1961 SG and two 1959 Les Pauls. The rest of the place would have been more fun without the kids. They didn’t care and were only in it for the food at the snack bar. Youth is wasted on the young, indeed.

I’m sure there are many fine places to party down in Cleveland, but after traveling through 3 states that day we made our own 4th of July party, watching the "Monk" marathon in our hotel room and eating delivered pizza on the beds. What a country.

Great Lakes Road Trip: Part 5 - Niagara-on-the-Lake, Ontario to Niagara Falls

2007-11-12T17:24:00.000-08:00

Cutting across Ontario from Stratford we passed through wine country and landed in the charming Niagara-on-the-Lake. Dubbed "the prettiest town in Canada" it was seriously cute: clock tower, curved awnings, wrought-iron lampposts.
And seriously British.

We ducked through the stately Prince of Wales Hotel (established 1864) from the rear parking lot so that I could see it first-hand. Chestnut colored woodwork and fine leather furnishings made me feel underdressed and outclassed. Like when my sister and I as teens visited the restroom at the Pierre Hotel on Manhattan’s Upper East Side so we could see the chandeliers in the lobby.

The "Lake" is Lake Ontario, located several blocks from the main street. It’s a nice catch at sunset, calm and rose-colored. Summer nights were meant to be like this.

Behind the shoppes with their Scottish woolens and British teas was my favorite place of all. The Olde Angel Inn takes you back in time - established in 1789 and rebuilt in 1816 after the War of 1812 - it hosts an authentic British Pub with low ceilings and exposed wooden beams in the cellar. They claim a Captain’s ghost still roams the inn. Try the fish and chips and a pint.

We stayed at the Colonel Butler Inn, one of the few Best Westerns we’ve encountered with white columns and charm. If you have extra time the area boasts wineries, the historic Fort George, and cherry orchards where you can pick your own, or grab a basket full to go.

And then there’s the Big Guy. If Niagara-on-the-Lake was tranquil, Niagara Falls required a tranquilizer. The crowds, the lines, the heat. Viewing the Horseshoe Falls from the Canadian side was the way to go - it was magnificent. We opted for peanut butter sandwiches with the seagulls on the grass just beyond the hubbub.

Yellow isn’t usually my color, but those rain ponchos we donned at Journey Behind The Falls were a great touch. Up close as the spray doused our faces, we were delighted by the sight of birds nestled on a perch high above the water, basking in the spray, unperturbed by the roar of the falls or the roar of the crowds.

The Maid of the Mist looked like fun - if you like being wedged into a wet, open-air boat like a sardine after waiting fifty hours in line. Maybe next time.

After Stratford, Niagara-on-the-Lake, and Niagara Falls, as we crossed into the U.S. we were sorry to leave Canada behind. Maybe part of it stayed with each of us.

Great Lakes Road Trip: Part 4 - Stratford, Ontario: Finding Richard Manuel

2007-11-07T14:18:00.000-08:00

By the time we got to Stratford, in rural Ontario we’d driven 1000 miles since leaving home.
With time to see just one place before Niagara it was clear where we needed to go.

Stratford, is a charming town noted for its Shakespearean theatre. But before the Stratford Shakespearean Festival theatre made its debut in 1953, these British-flavored streets were home to Richard Manuel. His voice captured the heartache of life, and his eyes hinted at the driving despair he so often found himself battling. In Stratford, he fronted a little local band called The Rockin’ Revols. But when the big time came knocking it was Richard who was called to arms.

The stories are near legend now - how he rode in Ronnie Hawkins’ ("The Hawk") convertible from Arkansas to Toronto, playing every dump and dive in between. When the band had learned all they could from The Hawk, they set off on their own as Levon and the Hawks. Levon Helm’s sharp voice harkens back to the Arkansas dirt from which he came, while Rick Danko’s melodic strain reflects the simple country-folk style of his youth. It was Richard who captured the essence of despair often compared to his idol, Ray Charles. By 1965 Bob Dylan needed a band, and the Hawks became "The Ban d" behind him as they toured the world and were booed for their electric efforts. His 1965 caravan broke Dylan out of folk and into the rock-and-roll free-for-all that had sparked Dylan’s early fascination with Elvis, Buddy Holly and James Dean.

In town, after dining on Guinness Stew and Shepherd’s Pie at Bentley’s, we were searching out the only two acknowledgments of local boy made good. There’s a bench that sits under a towering elm near the river inscribed with his name. Swans float by and the sound of children’s laughter from a nearby public swimming pool float past. It’s reminiscent of one of his best songs, "In a Station" where Richard wrote "in my dreams I hear children laughing. They all sound the same" and more pointedly "out of all this idle scheming, can’t we have something to feel?".

My daughter posed in front of a fabulous lion-headed fountain along the main pedestrian thoroughfare. I was looking for a plaque the city had put in a few years back. After wandering into a tiny bookstore to inquire, (stocked with Shakespearean literature, to be sure, but not a whisper of The Band), I found myself back at the foot of the fountain. There was the plaque at my feet. For Richard. There wasn’t one for Shakespeare.

Of course you can’t stay on top forever, nor can you remain unchanged. Richard suffered as the early 70’s heydey of The Band splintered into a 1980’s regroup. He took his own way out in 1986. When we reached his grave site in the Avon Cemetery in Stratford, there was nothing I could say. His simple gravestone with piano keys etched on it told the story. Time stopped. A lump came to my throat. Gratitude, for the gifts given. Acknowledgment, for the price paid. My spouse simply said "Thanks for the music, Richard." Then we pulled away.

Great Lakes Road Trip: Part 3 - Sleeping Bear Dunes of Michigan

2007-11-06T07:36:00.000-08:00

Give a kid a 150 foot sand dune to climb and even Nintendo takes a back seat.
It was out of the way - the pinkie of Michigan’s "mitten" - but that just made it more appealing. We wanted someplace remote and real and that’s what we found.

Took long enough to get there - we literally passed through a lakeside festival in Traverse City - and had to skip Hemingway’s haunts in Horton Bay, but we wanted remote. Sleeping Bear Dunes is a National Lakeshore run by the National Park Service. The kids were antsy and ready to roll so we proceeded directly to Dune Climb. Cars lined the long parking lot like crickets at the foot of the sweeping, daunting sand pile.

Like sand? Like wind? Like adventure? This is the place. My son and daughter kicked off their shoes and started running up the hulking hill, but even their enthusiasm couldn’t keep them going at that pace. I plodded deliberately through the shifting sands, sunglasses keeping the windy grains from meeting my temperamental contact lenses. Pausing when necessary, in time victory was mine. The view from the top, back down towards our start, was inspiring. Glen Lake, a shade of powder blue not unlike my sister’s eye shadow from 1973, held the horizon, while the lumpy green hills surrounding it slithered into formations such as "Alligator Point". This is one big dune. I knew Lake Michigan lay further ahead somewhere but I never did see it from this location. The sand just seemed to go on forever, taunting me, and my so called stamina.

The sand meets the grasses first in little tufts, then in curving arcs of vegetation. We stretched out on the sand in one such inlet and breathed in the sea air. Dune Climb wasn’t deserted, yet somehow up here, observing these stubby tufts, we had this turf all to ourselves. Georgia O’Keeffe once said of New Mexico’s dark blue Pedernal mountain "God told me if I painted it often enough I could have it." This day we took home Michigan’s dunes, in our shoes and in our subconsciousness.

Achingly windblown, the Pierce Stocking Scenic Drive seemed like a good next move. Cars travel the seven mile loop to Lake Michigan views and visitors have several places to get out and explore. A wooden boardwalk called us uphill to a long weatherbeaten dock jutting into Lake Michigan. My contact lenses won this round - a screwdriver to my eyeball would have been more pleasant - so my spouse had to lead me out of the windstorm. My son shrieked with excitement as the gusts drove sand particles into his bare legs like needles. Later, the park ranger casually relayed that a major wind storm had passed through off of the lake. Funny, that unexpected drama just made it that much more memorable.

Up the main road a piece was the Coast Guard Station at Sleeping Bear Point. I loved the little enclave of buildings filled with white rescue boats trimmed in blue, barracks of past rescuers and a divers mask. The kids by now had lost any patience and only reluctantly completed their booklets for the Junior Ranger program. Frankly we were all a little worn. Luckily we hit on a little piece of Michigan heaven in the nearby town of Glen Haven.

The Cherry Republic was more popular than Visine up in these parts, so we parked down the road a bit and tromped over to it’s wooden porch. I had read it was the place to go, and it was a highlight. Sophisticated and fun, I could have moved right in. Spouse and I sampled the Cherry Wine while the kids tried the Boom Chugga Lugga Cherry Soda Pop. Wow! We left with some of each. Later, I couldn’t figure out why we hadn’t bought more.

Back at the ranger station, our kids received their Sleeping Bear Dunes Junior Ranger pins and patches. A sucker for patches, my heart skipped a beat at the display case lined with Junior Ranger pins, patches, and booklets from National Parks across the country. Each is a colorful work of art and holds memories of trips past and future. A friendly ranger, overhearing me remarking on the Zion pin we had at home, shared a tale of one summer he spent as a ranger at Zion years ago. We both agreed it was one of our favorite places in the National Park system. Food’s a good thing when you travel and this time we really got it right. I had read about The Cherry Hut (yes, some laugh at my routine of typing up notes before I travel), the "Family Restaurant Since 1922" located in Beulah. The monster-sized cherry face menu boasts a week’s worth of choices for the cherry fanatic : Cherry Chicken Salad Plate (Michigan Dried Cherries, Almonds, and Celery with a Cherry Muffin and Fruit), Cherry Ade, Cherry Pie with Cherry DuBonnet Ice Cream, and even a Cherry Jelly and Peanut Butter Sandwich. There is but also plenty that’s non-cherry for lesser mortals. Best pie I’ve tasted since I picked those cherries off the backyard tree in New Jersey, my mother baking them into a flaky, homemade pie.
This place would make up for several of the crappy places we’d eat at on this road trip (you know who you are!) when we were too tired or too hungry to care. Ahh, Michigan.

Great Lakes Road Trip: Part 2 - Michigan’s Mackinac Island

2007-11-01T16:59:00.000-07:00

Goodbye job stress, family stress, world stress!

From Wisconsin’s Door County we ambled across Michigan’s remote Upper Peninsula on a two lane road glimpsing seagulls hovering over the vast bays of Lake Michigan. Destination: little Mackinac Island at the top of Michigan’s "mitten".

5 hours later: Hello, travel stress! Wrong parking lot! RUN! RUN! along the waterfront to catch the Arnold Mackinac Island Ferry catamaran, almost ready to depart. Our disheveled, panting carcasses warranted stares from the more disciplined travelers but clamber aboard we did. Look out Lake Huron, the second-largest Great Lake!

Before us stood the five mile long Mackinac Bridge that connects Michigan’s Upper Peninsula with its "mitten" mainland through the straits of Mackinac. Majestic in design, it sports three tiers of cross panels on its main vertical supports, rectangular cutouts making an attractive pattern. For a moment I am a child again, relegated to the back seat of our blue station wagon, my Dad at the wheel, solid as a rock, guiding us from Grandma’s tiny apartment in Rutherford out to Long Island, across New York’s mighty bridges and eerie tunnels. My spirits always soared as I’d see the Manhattan skyline come into view directly ahead of us as we’d descend from atop the New Jersey shoreline, down the curving spiral of highway to the entrance of the Lincoln Tunnel. Funny how a trip to somewhere you’ve never been can take you back to a place, a person you once were: Somewhere in Time, indeed.

From the shimmering waters of Lake Huron, the Grand Hotel with it’s 880 foot long porch and massive white columns commands the shoreline like a fortress, secure in its greatness and history. Built in 1887, five presidents have stayed there (that’s Truman, Kennedy, Ford, George H.W. Bush, and Clinton), and a movie, Christopher Reeve’s "Somewhere in Time", was filmed onsite, as noted on numerous plaques around the island. Cars are not allowed on Mackinac Island. Even deliveries are transported on horse-drawn carts. Disembarking, we were ready to leave the cars AND the boats behind, renting bicycles at the dock. Exhale - now the joy of freedom set in.

The first thing to hit us as we wandered up the bustling street, filled with colorful awnings, old fashioned lampposts, and tourists in horse-drawn carriages, was the buttery scent of fresh fudge. A Mackinac legend says they propel the scent onto the street by fan to lure in unsuspecting victims. Knowing this full well, I succumbed nonetheless: pulled like a zombie into Murdick’s, "The Original on Mackinac Island since 1887", unable or unwilling to fight back. A gentleman donning white cap and apron, spread the melty fudge out on a stone table, shaping it with a trowel the size of a yardstick. The smell reminded me of my grandma’s revered chocolate fudge frosting, which she cooked over her stove, buttery and rich, then let harden to perfection on her homemade white cake. Good thing we rented bikes - surely I can pedal off at least one swallow of this chocolate heaven.

My son and daughter were raring to go - so off we pedaled, past the handsome white and gray Ste. Anne’s Catholic Church (1874) and Mission Church (1829) topped with cross and weather vane, respectively. Each charming neighborhood house seemed to hold a tale from the past sure to fascinate at a winter fireside gathering. But we ventured on.

My fondest memories of the island originate here. Sauntering along the narrow, lakeside bicycle path, the island seemed both peaceful and exciting, endless and intimate. Seeing Lake Huron, with its infinite horizon and ever darkening shades of aqua blue, a calm took hold of me. Life is beautiful, indeed.

Climbing the endless stairways 154 feet up the hump that is Mackinac Island just about killed me, when we reached our woody destination- Arch Rock, a natural limestone archway that gracefully frames the sea. Best of all was the view - we could see the bends of the path from which we had come and the shimmering depths of Lake Huron beyond us.

Back down on planet Earth, conflict ensued: Son wanted to circle the island by bicycle. My daughter wanted to horseback ride. Dad and daughter saddled up at Jack’s Livery Stable for an adventure which took them right past the grandness of the Grand Hotel, viewing the lifestyles of the inner island, while my son and I took off to explore lower passages such as "Devil’s Kitchen" and happened upon plaques showing where Jane Seymour and Christopher Reeve’s characters first met near the water beneath a tree in the film "Somewhere in Time".

Had we arrived earlier we would have explored the historic Fort Mackinac, British Landing, or the photogenic Round Island Lighthouse.

I’m ashamed to admit, so pressed for time were we after our easy meandering, we gobbled down corn dogs from a downtown vendor, then raced to return the bikes before sailing back to the mainland. Ever the shopper, I tempted fate by ducking into the nearest souvenir store ("I think I still have five minutes!") and snatched up the perfect item: patches for the kids’ collection: "I Biked around Mackinac Island" and "I Horsed around Mackinac Island". They didn’t have one for me which would have read "I exhaled around Mackinac Island".

Great Lakes Road Trip: Part 1 - Traveling to Door County, Wisconsin

2007-10-28T11:40:00.000-07:00

Eclectic! Offbeat! Those were the words I hoped would describe our Great Lakes Road Trip.

We circumnavigated these puddles the old fashioned way - in our car. Gnats be damned - we were off, scooting across Wisconsin to the famed Door County nestled on Lake Michigan. My co-worker dubbed it "Bore County" yet we found plenty to enjoy. One favorite: grass-chewing goats atop the roof of Al Johnson’s Swedish Restaurant in Sister Bay. Don’t peek around back and spoil the mystery & magic of "just how DO they get those goats up there?"

In Peninsula State Park, the crabby lighthouse keeper at Eagle Bluff Lighthouse saved us some money - we bypassed the tour, instead climbing the 75 foot Eagle Tower to admire the view of distant Horseshoe Island - deep green atop cobalt blue waters. The camera captured my jittery son’s proud moment as Grandma & Grandpa coaxed him to try the periscope at the tower’s edge. Tiny bats stretched on the cool stone buildings as an artist inside worked a painting before our eyes at one of many galleries in the charming all-white-by-law structures dotting Ephraim’s harbor.

Another highlight: secluded serenity at The Ridges Sanctuary, a 1200 acre nature preserve in Bailey’s Harbor. Sandals clomped down the wooden boardwalk that stretched through the dense forest, past the dainty white clapboard lighthouse, to the shining sea of Lake Michigan. Spying yellow Lady Slippers nestled in the woods I felt privy to a secret treasure shared by few.

Hang on! We’re tired but one last stop: the Whitefish Dunes State Park. Dead Whitefish lined the shore, eyes rotted out, gills gaping - just the memorable photo op I’d been seeking. What sticks in my memory now: the carpet of white seagulls dining along the tall rocks and rushes. Lifting en masse as we neared, they squawked, fluttered, then settled back down to earth, claiming the rocky shoreline as their own.

Exhausted and satisfied, we jostled our tribe back to the lovely Bay Shore Inn of Sturgeon Bay. Grandpa cast stones into the sunset-tinged water, my daughter nestled into her own spot on the all-seashell beach, while son created Rock-Man, a mosaic sculpture, from flat, wave washed stones. I’ll remember the surf bubbling up on the rocks, each nook and bend of the shoreline beckoning me to claim it as my own for just that one moment.