Friends, chairs, mountains, home
November 13, 2009

More Tucson friends - Barb and Bud carved out time for us, too, and as always, we visited, wined and dined at our house and theirs. With Buddy too under the weather to join in a hiking foray, we spent our time relaxing, reading, hot tubbing, and just generally recuperating from the fairly frenetic trip. It seemed just right to take a breather before heading home.

While downtiming, I jaunted over to a furniture store to determine if the perfect living room chairs were there at the perfect price and voila! they were. A great deal not to be passed up, we agreed to pick them up at the warehouse Monday morning as we departed the city. Seemed simple enough; however, the reality was a veritable comedy of errors and changes.

While waiting at the warehouse a substantial period while the pieces were unpacked, treated and reboxed, we perused the attached outlet store where we found the already super prices reduced another $22 apiece. We obtained that additional reduction with pats on our own backs, and I further utilized the wait to find a glider/recliner/ottoman set at $97 that I had to have for the office.

Chris was already sweating out whether the other chairs would fit into our limited space, so was less than enthusiastic. The plan was to remove all the various boxes, fishing tackle, tools and kayaking equipment from the truck camper, stow them in the trailer and put the chairs into the camper.

A good plan, we thought. Turned out that it was a really, really good thing we bought smallish chairs: another eighth inch and we would have been forced to leave them behind. By the time we got those pushed, scraped and finagled into the truck, we had the brainstorm to unbox the office set and stow its parts in the trailer - couldn't leave it in the crate because the packed version was wider than the door.

While waiting for that one to be shuffled over to the loading bay, I thought it might be good to peer inside the first boxes just to be sure we had the correct items. Well, we didn’t; the sales slip indicated the wrong color for one of them, thus the necessity of unloading, waiting more and reloading, and thanking Providence that we checked before we left.

There ya go - nothing to it - and we’re on the road by 1:30. So much for getting home early in the day.

Uneventful drive north, Tucson’s frenetic traffic and noise are no sooner left behind, it seems, than Phoenix’ is upon us. Gratefully missing rush hour in both places, we continue on toward home. The low desert is snap dry, perhaps as sere as I’ve ever seen it. Things look a bit better as we reach nearer to our home elevation, but not a whole lot. We knew the rain that has followed us around the country was not duplicated here at home; now we’re confronted with the evidence.

I don’t think I’ve ever considered how important the mountains are to me, how I place myself in their midst. We pass the Catalinas to the east as we head out of Tucson, later Picacho Peak’s spire shows us the way long before we get to it (I have a painting that Grandma did of it). The familiarity of the various ranges all outlying exactly where they always wait for me - Superstition Mountain, Four Peaks, Camelback. Later, Black Canyon Hill brings us to the top of Sunset Mesa (where Dad last ranched) with the magnificent home range of the Bradshaws shading us to the west, Mingus, Granite Mountain, Granite Dells, San Francisco Peaks and Bill Williams Mountain to the sides with Table Mesa, our Picacho Peak and the Black Hills ahead. We are home.

We enjoyed visiting those we love who live far away, but at the same time missed those we left behind. Son Lewis spent our first evening home with us, and sister Christie came to call on Saturday. She’s a favorite of Rowdy’s, so he settled right in with her.

On the occasion of being home, I am bound to repeat endlessly, “It’s so great to be home.” Chris allows as how he likes being home, too, primarily, he tells me, because it’s easier to plan another trip. I put my fingers in my ears and hum loudly, look at him blankly and yell “What?”.

A journey to be remembered certainly, not necessarily repeated (at least in our incredible shrinking trailer): people met, places experienced, dreams fulfilled, difficulties overcome, nerves tried, relationship honed, memories stored. And without spending any time exclusively birding, we ended up with a trip list of 147, including 18 life birds.

It will seem odd not to be blogging; the process has been troublesome at times, occasionally a burden, but well worth the effort by enabling me to share the journey. What next?

New Mexico in the rear view mirror
November 5, 2009

Woohoo! Departing New Mexico, nice as can be, but it’s not Arizona, my native state that beckons just down the road. For stopping in Las Cruces only two nights/one day, it seemed much longer because of our activities.

Beginning with the last, we enjoyed a wonderful rare visit with my uncle Gene and wife Barbara. They are longtime El Paso residents, so we bopped backwards to that city to meet them for supper and a super conversational evening. Interesting trying to catch up on life and families, but we did our best. At age 81, Gene continues still to do some ballroom dancing and occasional competition, one of his enjoyable ways to stay in shape. I think the last time we saw them was when they and their Chino Valley friends dined at our home enough years ago that none of us recalls the date.

Our parking spot at the KOA in Las Cruces was spectacular, not a description I typically use for RV parks. It is perched 300 feet on top of a hill overlooking the Rio Grande Valley and the city with a million-dollar view across to the impressive Organ Mountains, so named because their series of tall spires reminded the namers of organ pipes. Sadly, I was not in residence in the evening when I could get a photo of that view. Maybe I’ll borrow one for the blog; they’re very impressive.

A frustrating drawback was the wifi service that rejected my mail program, so I spent an inordinate amount of time fiddling-diddling around trying to get that stupid blog post out via webmail. If I’d been watching someone else in that comedic struggle, I would have had to laugh.

First, I copy and paste the blog into webmail, then I try to figure out how to do the link. By the time I search that out, the service has shut down so I have to copy and paste again. Now I can get the post and the link, but I forget how to get the address list over there. A couple of false starts with that and the thing shutting down and starting over . . . and on and on and on. In the end, I didn’t think the post was worth posting anyway and I don’t think the link worked, but what they hey . . . the mountains called so I let ‘er go.

While I fussed and mussed, Chris did a bit of research and was standing by with a plan, so away we went to the mountains. He adjusted our route through town in an attempt to traverse anything historic - commercial or residential - but such was not to be. His reading indicated that Las Cruces is a boom town, going from 2,000ish in the 1920s, now 95,000. No idea where they might have been hiding whatever exists of older sections; it will be a mystery to us until our next visit.

I seem to be having a little rebellious fit, somehow brought on by a radio news bit saying someone or other was out of swine flu vaccine; more was said to be coming but there was no way of knowing when it would arrive. For crying out pete’s sake, how hard is it to tell when something will arrive? One finds out where the package is located and calculates the time for transport. It’s not like it’s randomly rolling across the plains wrapped up in a tumbleweed and its time of arrival is based on when, how hard and which direction the wind blows. If I were a conspiracy theorist, I’d surmise that this type of pronouncement is designed to accustom us to the idea that we have no control over our lives and that all is randomly occurring. We should maybe just stand here picking our noses until someone tells us where to line up. Okay, I got that off my chest, so will move on to the day’s activities.

The Organs, ghost camps . . .































































We climbed up into the Organ Mountains at a BLM site called Dripping Spring. The trail took us from Las Cruces’ 3,900-foot elevation to 6,000 feet, and was spectacular every step of the way. The only wildlife we encountered was a tarantula ambling across our path. As I observed it, I had to wonder how they obtain their food. It’s a cinch that no bug is going to hang around waiting while that thing lumbers over to it - another must-research item.

The natural grandeur of the towering lichen-colored rock peaks above us was enhanced by the interesting historical aspect of the site. Of course any spring in the desert has been host to men and animals, visitors and settlers, for as long as it and they existed, and this one is no exception.

Winding around various ways at the foot of the cliffs, we saw the ruins, some very well preserved, of a 19th century resort complex, a mountain camp and a sanitorium; one of











































the buildings still has wallpaper remnants and tatters of ceiling muslin. Interpretive signs along the way helped us to know what we were seeing. As always, I took a zillion photos, can’t seem to help myself in circumstances of ruins, water or any places of spectacular natural beauty.

At their heyday, the abandoned complexes were fairly grandiose and extensive. The spring feeds into a small reservoir perched in a precipitous canyon. A perfect weather day for hiking and we were lulled into resting by the reedy reservoir and marveling at the distant views thus afforded.

Our trusty binoculars allowed us to add quite a few birds to the trip list: roadrunner, Gambel’s quail (those two make me wonder if the numerous ones at my house have abandoned me for better accommodations or if they’re waiting to amuse me with their antics), cactus wren, loggerhead shrike, canyon towhee, western scrub jay, white crowned sparrow and white winged dove.

Redtails fighting . . .

Walking back down, I remarked that we hadn’t seen a hawk all day when suddenly we heard the cry of one nearby. We were astounded when we located two red tail hawks fighting. One had a meal firmly clutched in its talons and the other was diving and jinking, trying to snatch the animal dangling from the other’s claws. It seemed the attacker was the one making all the racket; the battle went on easily for five minutes before it was conceded. We were thrilled to get to watch the show. I had no idea that a hawk would even attempt such a thing.

Time travel, Mesilla, Rio Grande . . .

We have been given back the three hours that was taken from us as we traveled eastward. I always think it should be returned with interest when it comes back, seems only fair to get a bonus day or two for giving up those hours during the past four months.

I have long been interested in the Las Cruces area, and want to do much more exploration. We had thought we might spend our day there checking out the charming little historic town of Mesilla, but opted for the boonies instead. We did eat at La Posta in Mesilla, housed in a 130-year-old building and interestingly decorated with 20-feet-tall trees, caged tropical birds including a scarlet macaw and large aquarium fish - even a piranha complete with an admonition not to dangle any fingers into the tank.

Extensive agricultural pursuits fill the valley: there are many hundreds of acres of pecan orchards and cotton fields, all kinds of fruit and vegetables, with many vineyards and wineries. One back road we drove was beautifully arched by pecan trees reaching across and over the roadway, giving us a leafy green tunnel to drive through.

It was surprising, though, to see that the Rio Grande has been reduced to not much more than a trickle wandering serpentine through its sandy bottom from one bank to the other.

I’m sure I will be jumping into the swimming pool when we get to Far Horizons today after going from the sweater-cool morning of Las Cruces into the forecast 90 degrees in Tucson. We had hoped to lunch and visit with brother and sis Frank and Pat on our way through Benson but couldn't get connected with them in time.

Tucson . . .

How fun to be greeted by Sam upon our arrival at the park. He is simply one of the nicest guys ever; we got to know him during previous stays and he was one of those who put so much energy into Chris' house concert/wine & cheese party here last year - what a great time that was.

Norma and George came to call after we got set up. Norma and I go way back to nerdom/childhood. We had a hilarious evening here and going out to dinner at Picacho Peak steakhouse. Seems to be typical when we get together with them that we have an all-around great time. Sara still talks about the time we visited here many years ago and the fact that Norma and I cackled and carried on pretty much the whole entire time. There are those special friendships that are unaffected by time and distance.

I would try to explain about how George got us special seating at the restaurant but then couldn’t seem to get all of us rounded up in the same place at the same time, but it was so complicated that we couldn’t even figure it out at the time. Ah well, at long last we settled down to a fine meal with excellent service.

We awoke in a most leisurely manner to a perfectly pleasant morning. The three of us watched a steady stream of birds coming to our feeders: we’re back in hummingbird country; we already got three species - Anna’s, broadtailed and black-chinned, in addition to verdins, Gila woodpeckers and house finches. Chris and I identified them; Rowdy drooled.

Mountains and springs
November 2, 2009

As we drive this stretch of west Texas, the one that people love to hate, we find ourselves being intrigued, as we always are here, by the topography, the history, the vast emptiness that seems to somehow shed most of those people who tried to be here.





















As we left our night’s lodging (the Fort Stockton RV park, not to be confused with another there - the desolate Comanche RV park), I read a bit about the history, which has led us to conversation - we’ve run out of other diversions. We have felt ourselves winding down, not being quite as interested in our surroundings, passing photo ops that prevously would have gotten our attention. Coming to an awareness of that has spurred us into a renewed action, snapping shots of attractively-painted freeway abutments and distant mountains, even stopping on the Interstate’s shoulder to do so.

Today we will drive only about 275 miles and then remain for two nights in one place, a situation that Rowdy will surely welcome. He hid under the pillows this morning, his way of saying “enough is enough.”

Not too surprising - I have digressed. Back to the reading that informed us about Comanche Springs, the impetus for this area’s settlement and the former source of an astounding 80 million gallons of water flow daily. I am always fascinated by springs - hot and cold - they seem so magical. A water flow of that magnitude would naturally encourage settling in the area and mark a good travel route, which is what occurred.

History tells us the Anglo population required protection from the hostiles, thus was born Camp Stockton in 1858. The war between the states caused the Army to withdraw from 1861 until Fort Stockton came into being in 1867.

Near the fort, the town of St. Gall was established; in 1877, it became the first county seat of Pecos County. The town was later renamed Fort Stockton. The discovery of oil in 1926 caused the area to boom around Yates Field, the fourth largest oil reserve in the world (I had no idea!). Sadly, Comanche Springs ceased flowing in the 1950s, a casualty of drought and increased irrigation.

We have decided that we’d like to return to this area for a more extended stay and exploration. On an earlier trip, we visited the old Fort Stockton and its accompanying Annie Riggs Museum. To our delight, there was an event just beginning at the museum when we showed up. We were welcomed heartly and thoroughly enjoyed the program, interesting historical talks by various old-timers, even lunch.

While contemplating how a spring of such magnitude could completely dry up, I had to wonder why the not-too-far-distant Balmorhea Springs continues its amazing flow of fresh water. As usual when I have an out-loud wonder, Chris has an answer. In this case, he’s surmising based on his geologic knowledge that because Balmorhea is closer to the mountains, the probable source of the water when it’s still undergound, it is receiving its spring flow from the aquifer before it is depleted.

Balmorhea State Park is certainly one of the most stupendous places I’ve ever seen, an incredible 22 to 28 million gallons of water from San Solomon Spring gushing forth into a 77,053 square ft. pool that is tiled on the rim but natural below. It is a popular swimming and scuba diving hole with CCC-constructed bathhouses and other facilities. There are even endangered species of fish there; they can swim out of the pool into surrounding canals to spawn and do whatever endangered fish do.

Checking the Texas State Parks site, I learn the real skinny about the artesian flow: “The springs also fill a 'cienega' (desert wetland) and the canals of a refugium, home to endangered species of fish, assorted invertebrates, and turtles. The pool differs from most public pools in several respects: the 1 3/4-acre size, the 25-foot depth and the 72 to 76 degree constant temperature. It also has a variety of aquatic life in its clear waters. With a capacity of more than 3 1/2 million gallons, the pool has plenty of room for swimmers, while offering a unique setting for scuba and skin diving. “

The town of Balmorhea is a small place seemingly based on agriculture. On our first visits there, we enjoyed having an ice cream soda at the old-fashioned soda fountain; however, the last time we stopped for our treat, it had closed, much to our dismay.

Missing Texas
November 2, 2009

Halloween has come and gone with no fanfare on my part. The day was used up in driving and the evening was short, hiding from mosquitoes in an RV park that appears to cater to us and our fellows, the transients using I-10 to cross the Lone Star State, just east of Houston. The place was set up nicely for “pull-throughs” instead of back-ins, but was buffeted by the roar of passing traffic. I feel safe in saying that a trick-or-treater has never made the rounds of it.

I do miss a bit the fun of costuming the kids, scooping out pumpkin innards and making jack-o-lanterns. Our tradition was to clean and dry the pumpkin seeds, soak them in soy sauce and roast them for a treat. It seemed a great deal of hubbub for a snack that lasted only a short time, but we all enjoyed the ritual.

We haven’t had trick-or-treaters at our house for years because we’re too isolated and hidden from the road by trees. As the trees grew up, the stream of them gradually dwindled away to nothing, but I use the holiday as an excuse to buy a bag of candy that I like - just in case someone shows up, I tell myself, and later adhere to the “waste not, want not” philosophy.

Now we are to November, the month of Thanksgiving, and I have so much for which to be grateful. We will be at home in a week, where I hope to immerse myself in the family and friends I left behind in July, but already missing the others that we saw so briefly on this trip.

A while back, at an RV park office in Kansas, a book practically jumped out of a rack I was passing and insisted on being purchased. I loaned it to Mom and Dad while we were at the Outer Banks, so have just now read it, and what a read! The title: “The Long Walk, the true story of a trek to freedom.” It is a saga beyond belief relating the 1941 escape from a Soviet labor camp in Siberia and the subsequent unrelenting will that impelled the author and his fellows to continue on when it was virtually impossible to do so. The book was positively mesmerizing; I could not put it down until the end, and I will definitely never forget it.

Today is likely the least eventful of all the ones in the past few months. We are in the midst of our second consecutive long-driving day to scoot us across Texas, surely my favorite state after Arizona. I am convinced I experience genetic memories of some places, this state the strongest of all. Some of the attraction, though, is no doubt due to familiarity after having spent a lot of time exploring here, and to knowing the places of my ancestors. Those who preceded me were many in Texas since the 1830s. As we see place names such as Waelder, Uvalde, Barksdale, Lockhart, Gonzales, Sonora, Littlefield, Fort McKavitt, Batstrop, Bandera and others, it sets a mood of homecoming for those are some of the regions in which my people settled and lived and died.

I never cease to be in awe of the variety of terrain and vegetation across the nation. We’re now back into mountains after the startling low country flatness, but their resemblance to the eastern ranges is confined only to the elevations. What fun to again look around me in a full circle and to see mountains rising near and far. It always makes me want to experience everything between me and the peaks in every direction and to explore my way through each range.

Every section is unique - exciting in its individual sights and smells, even the sky varies from place to place, and each peak, bayou and valley conceals its fascinating secrets to be released to those who seek them.

Fort Stockton . . .

We reached our destination at Fort Stockton about 6 p.m., pretty close to our arrival time outside Houston last night. It was not too bad doing our approximately 530 miles today, although I wouldn’t want to make a habit of it. We stayed at this RV park previously. As we pulled in, the evening was balmy, the nearly full moon rising just before sunset and the park exceptionally pleasant. Perched out here in the middle of the desert, it is a delightful little place - welcoming staff, nice store and pool, full private bathrooms with tubs and showers (what luxury!) and a restaurant that consistently cooks up some of the finest southern cooking I have ever enjoyed. It was well worth the wait to savor that great chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes with country gravy and green beans - manna from heaven!

A few other RV parks have their own restaurants, but it’s fairly uncommon, mostly in places that are inconvenient to dining-out places otherwise. We seldom eat out anyway; that’s part of what we enjoy about RVing - being able to travel and still eat our own fare.

Five states!
October 31, 2009

How lucky we are that we pulled into Perdido Key two days ago and not today. There was rain last night, continuing this morning with temps hovering just under a breezy 60. It puts a whole new face on the area not to be able to loll around in the sunshine.

We’re driving north to get around Mobile Bay, thus avoiding the expensive ferry across it. This is our short time in Alabama’s little reach-down-to-have-a-gulfport region, then shortly over into Louisiana. We heard last night there were tornado watches in a number of Alabama counties north of us, so when the rain started last night, I was nervous about it, especially after our weather turned sour. Oh well, it wasn’t long before my anxiety turned to sleep.

This is good agricultural land - lots of cotton and truck farming: nice farm stands abound.

As we cross over a finger of Mobile Bay on I-10 (we have joined up with that interstate highway, now heading west) that looks miniscule on the map, we are bridge-bound for miles over water that appears to be shallow and muddy with many sandbars and reed-covered islands. The section has a huge shipyard with at least one battleship at anchor.

Alabama soon disappears behind us when we cross into Mississippi’s neighboring gulf grab. All this coastal area is primarily water: some of it in the multitude of tributary-swollen rivers regally approaching their emptying point, the remainder in swamps, marshes, lagoons, bayous and quiet lakes wandering around treed islands.

Traversing this area so alien to my native Arizona, I am reminded of lessons learned out hiking in these boondocks. Darren pointed out stinging nettles so that we would avoid touching that plant. Wish he’d done that about five years earlier before I walked that long lane to an abandoned graveyard in the Texas outback. Seems it abounded with nettles that caused me incredible pain for quite a while afterwards.

While indicating hazards to avoid, he indicated banana spiders: large (harmless, he said, but who would believe that claim) arachnids poised at frequent intervals to snatch a person up into its web for sure destruction. After having to examine my head for lurking spiders after I walked into a web, he handed me a stick and suggested I swing it around in front of me as I walked so as not to encounter a spider. That worked until I tired of it and devised a much better spider avoidance system - walk behind Darren - simple and surefire.

Continuing our westward dash, we come into Louisiana just about the time we drive out from under stormy clouds. Rowdy got excited just as we were crossing the Mississippi River and came up front to look the situation over as if he knew it was a signpost on the road home.

Crossing the intriguing and impressive Achafalaya Swamp reminds me how much I like this region. Last year, we spent some good Louisiana time, visiting Kelly cousins, watching the rice and sugar cane harvests, doing research, exploring the Bayou Teche area and just generally soaking it all up. The Achafalaya marks our movement into intermittent dry ground, much of it planted to sugar cane. I am sorry to miss time here, but mark the intention to visit again soon.

We have made good time today, so have come to a midafternoon decision to press on to a park in east Houston, thereby completing our first-ever five-state day. Being just about the slowest of slow travelers, this is an entirely new experience for us. I fail to see the joy for those who zoom from starting point to final destination, seeing little along the way but roadside; however, whatever gets me closer to home right now is jim-dandy.

Perhaps this is the time to note that I flubbed up in yesterday’s blog. I shall adopt that term, “flubbed up”, for the times I make mistakes; it was Dad’s term and I think defines those moments just right. Oh yes, back to the flub: it is not the Floribama (a namby-pamby wine bar name), but the Flora-Bama (a robust “stop here for beer and grub” title), an obviously distinctive distinction.

A gentle day
October 30, 2009

Perdido Key was a convenient stopping spot on the road home, but was chosen for one reason only: The Floribama. Leslie told us last year we must stop there to eat; however, she failed to mention what road it was on, only that it was at the juncture of Florida and Alabama. This year, we were armed with a more specific location and found this nice RV park within walking distance. What a great score: we shall return to this area and most likely this park for sure in order to spend lots of time enjoying the attractions.

Primary among those are the miles and miles of barely used beaches with the most beautiful sand I’ve ever seen: soft, cool, white, powdery - really lovely. The surf is good for swimming, water temps are terrific and the beaches are open for the entire length of the key, evidently, and we have the place nearly to ourselves.






















A walk across the road is all it takes for us to get to the superb gulf surf, and the Perdido River is almost right outside our door the other direction. The park has a private fishing dock on the river. Chris fished there this morning and I found the lure (pardon the expression) irresistible so joined him in the endeavor. Just beyond the park’s nice little lawn, gardens and patio, we sat and enjoyed the breeze and sights as a dolphin swam lazily down the river in front of us. A great blue heron joined us on the dock, waiting patiently until we caught a fish to throw to him. A second one joined its counterpart down the gullet. He allowed us to approach within a few feet of him, have never seen a heron act like this.

Surfside called and we answered, took our chairs, books and binoculars and relaxed away the remainder of the afternoon, going into the water occasionally, mostly watching the surf in its mesmerizing repetition. Walked some on that great sand, watched tiny clams washing up onto the beach by the scores and were fascinated when, before the next wave came, they turned on one side and magically disappeared under the sand.

Hunger pangs finally got the best of us and good sense was shunted aside as we decided to try out a Mexican food restaurant, the first for months. Surprisingly, it was excellent by Arizona standards. Which brings me back to the Floribama, a shanty-like conglomeration of upstairs, downstairs, open air, barroom with live music and covered deck overlooking the gulf. Hurricane Ivan was not kind to the structure and local zoning conflicts have not allowed it all to be rebuilt, but there’s plenty of space and areas to still enjoy the fare. And enjoy it we did.

A singer/guitarist of a name unknown to me was exceptional, said he played for years with Waylon, one of my favorites. A friendly fun place with good food - what more could a person ask. Oh yes, there was the matter of decor. There seems not to be square inch of the interior that is not autographed by those who have visited, and I mean ceilings, beams, walls, plasticized windows. But the best is the display of brassieres: a multitude of them are draped from the ceiling beams a la men’s ties at some steakhouses. Alas, we did not witness any bras being shed and draped, but I confess a certain relief at that. Perhaps that’s best left to the Saturday night crowd. The evening was topped by a peaceful and beautiful walk along the beach with the moon showing its face occasionally between scudding clouds.

Just before sundown today, we drove along the National Seashore, a stupendously beautiful spit of sand between gulf surf and river. The siren call of home is strong indeed to induce me to leave this place after one day’s sample.

Darren, ghost train
October 29, 2009




















At long last, we have made it to Florida to see Darren. We were here last November, but the time between visits with those we love always seems so much longer. We checked into Williston Crossings RV resort mid-afternoon, saw Darren at home, and then he spent the evening at our place. While Chris was playing the keyboard, D and I set off on a little stroll around the resort, or so we thought.

Almost immediately, we spied an old road veering off into the brushy woods; of course there was nothing for it but to see where it led. Of all the things we might have imagined would be out there in the brambles under huge trees, a railroad caboose was not one of them, yet there it was with vines climbing up and through the railings, around the sides and into the interior.

Closer inspection revealed four train cars behind it (or wouldn’t it be in front?). Eventually, as we made our way through jungle-like foliage, we came across interesting vehicles from the 1920s and 1930s, many more railroad cars, two steam engines, lots of track, mountains of pipe, lumber, cinder blocks, semi trailers filled with cargo, heavy equipment and much more. It became plain after a while that this multimillion dollar treasure trove had been left in place after cessation of construction of another phase of Willston Crossings, the RV park at which we are staying. Questioning of staff verified that this was the case: the resort’s master plan has been rendered unfulfilled for now. I can’t imagine it’s doing any of that equipment much good out there in the weather, but at least the mystery is solved. It all made for some great photo ops.

Our visit with Darren is too short, as are all visits with those we love, but we are grateful to have had the time with him. He keeps me laughing with his continual witticisms. We’ve spent time at his place where he’s doing major remodeling preparatory to the property being marketed. That area is extremely rural: ranch land with sandy soil vegetated by a variety of pines and much that I don’t recognize.

Gopher tortoise, ticks . . .

Darren had located a gopher tortoise den near the house, so we did a stakeout to allow me a glimpse of it. Unfortunately, despite our diligence, the tortoise didn’t show. He has seen it several times, so I had hoped to photograph it. Evidently, they are a protected species; Darren says developers sometimes obscure the dens so inspectors won’t know the tortoise is on the property. I was able to find quite a bit of interesting information about them online. Somewhere in our boondocking, we picked up a couple of hitchhiking ticks but jettisoned them at the earliest possible moment.

Darren said he leaves them on until they get big and fat, then has a friend whack them off with a nine iron. As I groaned in disgust at the alleged humor he said, “Yeah, I know, they oughtta use a sand wedge” This I begat?!





















Ah well, we had good times fighting our way through various cypress swamps and wildlife management areas. Cypress can grow in waterlogged regions because their roots send up "knees", gnarly woody protuberances that allow the tree to breathe in the air rather than drown in the saturated ground. These areas have a singular beauty of their own.





















RV band . . .

One morning, we added to the members of what I call our RV park pick-up band. A banjo player by the name of Bernie came over to jam with Chris. The two of them created some very nice music. Bernie and his wife Coraline (not Caroline, she emphasized) are here from their home in Buffalo visiting their son in Gainesville. He’s one of the first docs to graduate with a degree in palliative care and now is employed by Hospice.

Cedar Keys . . .

As we did during last year’s visit, we drove to Cedar Keys, a quaint historic small town on the gulf at the Suwannee River’s outlet. We like it there very much; it’s quiet and unassuming. Of course we got lots of new trip birds while in the area. We met a nice couple from Massachusetts who had previously lived in Newbury, Mass where my 17th century ancestors, the Ilsleys immigrated, so we had fun talking to them. They were fellow birdwatchers and alerted us to bald eagles out at shell mound.

We had not been there and were very glad to have the tip about it. The shell mound is a fascinating place - an archaeological site - with beautiful intriguing trails leading through the moss-draped trees over and around the mound. Approximately 5,000 years old, the hill consists primarily of shells from an astronomical number of meals. It covers five acres and is 28 feet high - I could barely believe it even when I was there.

When I commented about what seemed like an awful mono-diet, Darren piped in with an imagined dialogue of that ancient age. It went something like this: “How about oysters for supper tonight? Again? We’ve had that for the last 3,000 years!”

We spent a goodly amount of time exploring the jungle of the mound, but were rained out when we emerged onto the beach hoping to spot the eagles. I opined that if we were home at Lynx Lake, we could see bald eagles any time.

Snow, farewell . . .

And speaking of home: SNOW! while we are bopping around barefoot on the beach in shorts and tank tops. In fact, it remained so hot at night that we’ve run the air conditioner all night for the past two nights. The temp reached 89 yesterday, but felt much higher with the humidity.

Darren came to bid us farewell this morning. I’m at a loss for words when it comes to leaving behind all the people I love. We did skype with Sara while we were here so Darren could get a “live” look at his new niece crawling and trying to talk. She (Trinity Grace, not Sara) just got her third tooth in honor of the occasion.

We added onto our life bird list while here with a black and white warbler, blue-headed vireo and a red-shouldered hawk, in addition to a bunch of birds new for this trip.

Florida panhandle, Perdido Key . . .

Judging by the road kill we’re seeing, I’d say we’re into armadillo country; I’m guessing some of them are still alive and well out there in the trees, but the slower of the species signal southern driving. We drove out of an hour’s worth of heavy fog this morning into sunny skies with scattered clouds. Just heard on the radio about some place with two feet of snow - cripers!

Made me feel even better about sitting on the patio scarfing down a fresh pomegranate with juice running down my chin - the only proper way to indulge in such fruit. Reminded me of long summer days growing up in the then-rural area of Phoenix, where we kids would be out and gone from home through every bit of sunshine, no need to carry lunch: citrus, strawberries, pomegranates, grapes and dates abounded. I hope those farmers knew how much we appreciated them.

After a day of threading the Florida panhandle, we are arrived at our abode on Perdido Key. “Perdido” is “lost”, but obviously this key is found and getting founder. High rises along the beach are in the process of being joined by even more development. Quite a switch from Cedar Keys, but nevertheless attractive to me with lots of public beach access. We are just across the road from those white sands on a cloudy muggy afternoon. Our park is Playa del Rio, a small crowded friendly place inhabited primarily by motor homes and large fifth wheels. Our little Totee is satisfactorily perdido in here.

Florida’s panhandle is close to Texas’ in monotony but way more treed. We were surprised at one point when we got up high enough to see over the trees into the distance - how far I couldn’t say since there were no mountains to look at. Seems we were close to the state’s highest point: 346 feet above sea level. A person could drive that stretch without noticing that it is made up primarily of swamp. A casual look shows trees, trees and trees, but in the instances where you can see beneath them, it is most often standing water.

I just looked up the meaning of “key” lest I not know on what I am ensconced. Wow, I had no idea the word had so many meanings. It must be some kind of record. Anyway, this lost place is a reef or low island. We shall hold here for two nights, no longer. Rowdy and I are both riding with our noses to the vent; we smell home getting closer.

Best newspaper name: The Mullet Wrapper

Florida bound
October 23, 2009

So much for cleaning . . . Chris washed the trailer’s exterior, cleaned out and organized the truck cab and camper in addition to lots of other neglected chores plus lubing the trailer and hitch. I, on the other hand, did my blog, showered and got ready to go to Mom & Dad’s for our last evening with them.

It was a bittersweet time: how we have enjoyed being with Mom & Dad; hopefully, another visit will not be too far away.

We readied ourselves for departure this morning later than planned. We choose to blame our oversleeping on gloomy skies and daylight savings time. By skipping breakfast, we managed to get on the road by 8:30, about 600 miles to go, so not too bad.

We didn’t manage to beat the rain, though. A slight drizzle turned into real rain as I was finishing the hitch-up just so I could be wet before I got into the truck. Stopping for gas, I was surprised to see the picture I took of Dad on the front page of the newspaper. Seems the Tryon daily unexpectedly decided to run another story about his volunteerism award.

Andersonville Prison . . .

It didn’t take very long to zip across South Carolina’s corner and gain our day’s destination state: Georgia, with gray threatening skies continuing to loom above us. We planned our trip leg to Florida with a one-night stop near Andersonville, Georgia, to allow us to visit ancestral grave of Daniel Coykendall. He is buried in the National Cemetery at the site of Andersonville Prison, the most infamous of Confederate camps, where he perished from disease, one of 13,000 prisoners to expire in those unthinkable circumstances.

Coykendall’s wife, Julia Ann Perry, died in March 1862. Daniel enlisted in the New Jersey infantry the following August, was captured in May 1864, and died in August, leaving eight orphaned children, including our g.g. grandmother Ada Belmont Coykendall who later married John J. Rhodimer. The children were taken in by relatives, causing hardship and bitterness that as a legacy for later generations. Who can know what motive was behind Daniel’s leaving his family in such dire straits? I suspect it will likely remain one of those mysteries never solved.

The visitor center at Andersonville is a POW museum, a place that projects somberness at first glance; its architectural style evokes a prison-like atmosphere. The museum itself leaves a person decidedly thoughtful and gloomy. We chose not to go through it again; our visit nine years ago was more than sufficient to absorb the lesson,

This Confederate prison camp existed for only 14 months, but its horrors reverberate through time. It was designed to hold 10,000 prisoners, at one time housed 32,000 in unthinkable conditions. The complete and utter lack of food, water and sanitation created a situation of disease and starvation beyond imagining. Even the men who escaped via tunnels were recaptured and returned to die in those confines.

The stockade’s commander, Captain Henry Wirtz, was tried as a war criminal and hanged shortly after war’s end.

The names of those lost there would likely not have survived but for the efforts of a 19-year-old prisoner, Dorance Atwater. His assignment was to record the identities of the dead; fearing the loss of those lists, he made his own copy which allowed him and Clara Barton to later mark most of the graves. Because of their work, we are able to visit Daniel Coykendall’s grave and leave flowers. We photographed him with an American flag, but it is not allowed to leave flags at the site.

The records maintained at the visitor center years ago put us in touch with Coykendall kin from New Jersey, even to obtain from them a letter written by our grandmother Ada. They had found Daniel before us and left their contact information. We were surprised on this visit to find neither their nor our family material still being held there, so we will send it to be filed again. I hope that lack has not caused us to miss being contacted by other kin.

We left Andersonville behind to find our one-night-stand RV park, chosen only for its proximity to the area. It had a low Good Sam Club rating, so we were not expecting much; what a pleasant surprise to find it one of the nicest spots at which we have stayed.

Bonded brothers of bluegrass . . .

Located on a grassy meadow surrounded by trees, it is across the road from its companion golf course, a very nice-looking course indeed. The host greeted us immediately on our arrival and informed us that we were just in time for a fish fry and bluegrass festival. Seems the Bonded Brothers of Bluegrass meet many weekends to make music, only once a year at this park - lucky us! The owner is an excellent musician, a member of the group, and a cigar-smokin’ fool.





















We had eaten earlier in the day so thought we wouldn’t join the meal gathering; however, we had little choice in the matter. We were lounging in front of the trailer talking to a fellow RVer from Alaska when I saw a man by the clubhouse making an enthusiastic “come on over” gesture in our direction. I waved back to acknowledge him and the next thing I knew, the feller was on our doorstep in a golf cart, come to fetch us.

It was a great southern feed - catfish, hush puppies, lima beans, collards, cheesy grits, sweet tea and desserts galore. What a great setup they have: a nice clubhouse with many evenly spaced double French doors around the perimeter so that it can be opened up to the surrounding verandas and overlooking the ponds. A buffet area on one side insures that everyone gets all they want to eat; the whole allows for great socialization. We met Ed and Julia, even older than us, who RV for four day weekends to follow the music.





















As they were ready, the musicians gathered on the pond-side veranda and commenced to produce excellent music - old time country, mountain and bluegrass. About ten folks rotated in and out of the group and exchanged instruments; most played numerous instruments and vocalized. Listeners pulled up chairs around them and sat back for an evening of exceptional music in a perfect balmy Georgia evening.

We were grateful that we had arrived at the exact right time in the exact right place - could not have been any better. I shot a lot of photos that I will share with the group. It would have been great fun if Chris could have played with them, but the keyboard does not conform to their strictly acoustic genre.

Moving day . . .

We were happy to leave behind the ten-lane interstate highways that conveyed us around Atlanta and Macon.

As we proceeded south of those metropolitan regions, we found ourselves traveling through lots of very pretty agricultural land - cotton, soybeans, hay and cattle pasture plus miles and miles of pecan and peach orchards. It’s been fairly level country, slightly rolling in places. We zipped right on through some lovely historic towns, mostly founded in the early 1800s. In Marshallville, I spotted a house we remembered checking out when we last visited here. Darren was with us then; that handsome structure was empty and in disrepair. Intrigued by it, we wandered the grounds and porches. It is presently being renovated, I was happy to see.

Our Saturday morning, we heard bright and early from Darren wondering about our arrival time, which should be early afternoon. We’re definitely getting into a more tropical clime - have spotted a few palm trees and cypress swamps. One tiny town we passed through begged a photo stop. Desoto, or Desota depending on which sign you believe, had a downtown that looked exactly like something out of “Fried Green Tomatoes”, a perfect movie set.

Although we drove in rain much of yesterday, temps were up into the 80s, something we haven’t seen for quite some time. Still scattered clouds, but nothing that looks very threatening. I have high hopes of driving into summer for one last fling, have given up the search for bears, now on the lookout for ‘gators.

A final North Carolina week
October 22, 2009

I have determined to write a bit while we are enroute to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Chris’ chosen destination that has continually been shunted to the bottom of the list. It’s a longish drive from here, perhaps 70 miles. The prospect of additional driving was not all that exciting to me, but C held out the strong possibility of spotting bears to entice me to agree to the journey.

Speaking of bears, I saw a news article recently about a llama being mauled by a bear. Seems its owners raised sheep and kept the llama as a guard animal, a practice I had not heard of, but which seems to be common in these parts. Obviously, the llama protects against coyotes and dogs, but a bear is an entirely different matter.

In the course of the article, I learned that bears are thriving in western North Carolina (WNC is the common reference to this geographic region. North Carolina encompasses a wide and diverse area, thus the major three sections - WNC or mountains, the Piedmont and coastal - are referred to separately.) At any rate, WNC purportedly shelters approximately 10,000 bears, a figure that gives me pause. Even in such a vast area, it seems that I should be seeing bears all around me.

I have not, although they have been in Mom and Dad’s back yard, but today’s the day for my bear sightings.

Tarheels . . .

North Carolinians, and later their sports teams, have been called Tarheels, a moniker that seemed so obscure it caused me to do a bit of research. Sad to say, the research enlightened me very little in that regard. Evidently, the true origin of the name is lost in antiquity, leaving the arena wide open for speculation. I have copied a bit of Wikipedia’s take on it.

“The exact etymology of the nickname is unknown, but most experts believe its roots come from the fact that tar, pitch and turpentine created from the vast pine forests were one of North Carolina's most important exports early in the state's history.

Because the exact history of the term is unknown, many legends have developed to explain it. Many believe it to be a nickname given during the U.S. Civil War, because of the state's importance on the Confederate side, and the fact that the troops "stuck to their ranks like they had tar on their heels.

The earliest surviving written use of the term can be found in the diary of 2nd Lieutenant Jackson B. A. Lowrance who wrote the following on February 6, 1863 while in Pender County in southeastern North Carolina. "I know now what is meant by the Piney Woods of North Carolina and the idea occurs to me that it is no wonder we are called 'Tar Heels.”

There was much more; it all kinda made me wish I hadn’t been curious . . . I have dubbed North Carolina "the rocking chair state". There are few front porches that do not sport at least two rocking chairs. They are literally everywhere, even in institutional and commercial settings. I love the feeling that sight evokes: welcoming and relaxing with family and friends.

Weather, visiting, dogs . . .

We have been a bit stymied by the weather while we have been in Tryon and Flat Rock. Unseasonable cold, wind and rain have been the norm, but we are now relieved of weather worries for a couple of days. We broke out the coats and were required to turn off our water at night, lest Jack Frost do damage to the spigot. Mr. Frost did deposit ice, but only lightly, and has now departed the region for a spell.

We have spent most of our time with Mom & Dad W., of course, and enjoyed every minute of it. We’ve dined out some, Mom has cooked, we have cooked, and we’ve just generally had a bang-up time visiting, once with friend Rick joining us. One of the meals out, at The Hungry Fox, rewarded me with such a great meal that I shall add the dish to my repertoire. It was chicken breast glazed with hot wings sauce and topped by sautéed onions and bleu cheese - superb combination!

Their two new rescue dogs - Yorkshire terriers named Apache and Cheyenne - have added great amusement to the scene, especially “Pache” who is quite the clown.

The Beacon . . .

We were treated to lunch out in Spartanburg at The Beacon, established 1946 (a very good year, I might add), a place demanding mention. The iconic drive-in can seat 350 people, and is visited by national notables including presidents.

A description from their website: “Fast, loud, and big, The Beacon is the most intense restaurant you will ever visit. The moment you enter and approach the serving line, you are virtually accosted by an order-taker – J.C. Strobel, the senior man, if you’re lucky – who will demand, “CALL IT OUT!” (If you don’t arrive knowing what you want, sheaves of printed menus are available for study or as souvenirs near the door.) Say what you want to eat and say it quickly, or else JC will tell you to stand back and allow other, swifter customers to say their piece. On a good weekend day, The Beacon will serve five thousand people.

Once you manage to convey your order, J.C. or a comrade will shout it back to the huge open kitchen, then ask you in no uncertain terms to “MOVE ON DOWN THE LINE!” Grab a tray and by the time you have moved twenty paces forward, there your order will be – miraculously, exactly as you ordered it, with or without extra barbecue sauce, double bacon on the burger. A bit farther down the line, you get your tea, lemonade, or milk shake and pay the cashier, then find a seat. Total time from entering to digging in – maybe two minutes.”

We explored a couple of motor homes on the way home and did some Costco shopping.

John & Melissa, Mast General Store, Sunday drive . . .

Chris and I froze our buns off while on a short trip to the Mast General Store in historic Hendersonville. While there, I was thrilled to find a tree face of the type I admired at a Kansas RV park. We managed to fill a shopping bag there; what a fun place it is. They have an online presence, but you can’t beat wandering through there perusing everything from shoes and clothing to candy, kitchen ware, jelly and tools - a true general emporium and a very popular one.

Mom and I enjoyed a girls’ talk morning while Dad and Chris golfed.



























We brunched out with our friends John and Melissa on Sunday at a great pancake house - The Fireside. I miss having J&M in Prescott, but acknowledge that they are in their element in Melissa’s native North Carolina. It was fun, as always, to have time with them, and to hear about their new, first grandbaby.

We enjoyed one small Sunday drive on Tuesday, wandering alongside the Pacolet River, having no idea where the road would lead us. It was through a softly wooded area as the river wound around hills and skirted horse farms. It was fun to spot a flock of wild turkeys. We stopped to watch them climb a steep road cut, all except one that couldn’t manage the climb. In danger of being left behind, he did what seems like the obvious and flew.

Cowpens, Cooley Farm . . .

One day, C and I went to the Cowpens National Battlefield, a Revolutionary War site we have wanted to visit. That battle was pivotal in turning the tide in favor of the Colonials. General Daniel Morgan’s strategy in luring the Brit’s General Banastre Tarleton into a trap was well planned and executed, resulting in the American forces taking many prisoners in less than an hour with very little loss of life.

The visitor center showed a film that did a nice job of explaining the encounter. The battlefield is accessed by a walking trail with interpretative signs at each place Morgan posted his regulars, cavalry and militia as they awaited Tarleton’s approach, making it easy to visualize exactly what transpired. Various things we read indicated that the area was basically open woods with little underbrush, often utilized to pasture cattle before they were shipped to market in Charleston. Restoration is taking place; the area seems close to the 1781 descriptions.

The site’s trail is a section of the historic Green River Road, and so continues on past the actual battlefield. The sun was out, the birds were flitting and the air was comfortably hikable, so we extended our walk to and past the Robert Scruggs house, an 1828 log cabin that was in its early years part of a small settlement. We enjoyed talking to the volunteer who was manning the place; he is a retired Charleston police officer. Seeing him sitting alone on the front porch as we approached made it seem as if we had walked back in time.

As we wandered here and there, we added two birds to our trip list: yellow-bellied sapsucker and cedar waxwing. I also picked a small fruit left hanging on a leafless tree and carried it until we located a local to identify it. It was a persimmon, which Chris had ventured to guess. How does one reach the venerable age of 63 without knowing what a persimmon is???






















On our way back from Cowpens (it’s in South Carolina), we were astounded at the vast peach orchards and strawberry fields along the way. In the midst of it, we stopped at Cooley’s farm stand and got some information about it, in addition to some great pecan cinnamon bread and apple butter. They have under cultivation a whopping 800 acres of peaches, 80 acres of strawberries and 40 acres of blackberries. My mind balks at the thought of organizing those harvests. The strawberries were in orderly plastic-mulched fields with American flags proudly waving at the ends of rows. A billboard proclaimed it “Strawberry Hill, U.S.A.” Surprisingly, they replant the entire strawberry crop every year.

Boiled peanuts, haircuts . . .

At Cooley’s, we experienced an “event”. Throughout the South, one sees sign after sign offering boiled peanuts. For years, I have been saying I wanted to sample that fare, so when we spotted said legume being placed out for sale, we requested a trial. What an incredible mistake that was! What are those people thinking to pay real money and eat that horror? It was hours before I erased the taste and thought of it. I would describe it if I were able; however, words fail me. To say that they taste like horrid salty mush does not come close.

Back in Tryon, we shaggy two got our hairs cut by Paula as recommended by Mom & Dad - what a relief - we were looking pretty disreputable and she did a nice job while imparting lots of helpful information about great RVing destinations in the South, primarily North Carolina and Florida. I made notes to use on a return trip.

Dad enabled us to get our flu shots, another necessary that is complicated by being away from home.

More Blue Ridge Parkway, Great Smoky Mountains . . .






















We are returning from our big day in the Smoky Mountains. We got there via a part of the Blue Ridge Parkway that was new to us and returned through the Cherokee Reservation, a traffic congestion nightmare in its commercial center. Of course we made only the slightest dent in seeing the park, another of those “must returns” for sure.

The Blue Ridge Parkway afforded many beautiful stops along the approach. We climbed to somewhere around 6,000 feet elevation: doesn’t sound like much compared to our western heights but it was spectacular here to look out across the autumn-hued Appalachians with one hazy blue range following another into the distance.

At one overlook, we were startled to see included on the interpretative sign a quote from a book authored by Rita Cantu, a fellow Prescottonian and a member of our church. I didn't even know she wrote, for crying out pete's sake, and of course she sings beautifully too.






















We loved the Oconaluftee River that rushed along the canyon bottom through Cherokee country - a great trout stream for sure. Interesting places we saw on another section of the Parkway were the Altapass Orchard - centenarian orchard turned cultural center - and the bed and information about the Clinchfield Railroad that brought the outside world to much of the Appalachians. Difficult and slow to traverse even now, it’s plainly evident why the mountain people remained so isolated. It was quite simply nearly impossible to move around for any distance at all within the confines of the seemingly-forever steep slopes.

Mingus Mill, Clingman’s Dome . . .

Our first non-scenery stop was at the Mingus Mill, a fascinating restored 19th century gristmill that is busy gristing away. It is powered by a turbine that is fed water dropped down a wooden chute after being transported from the creek via a long hillside flume and another supported on something like a railroad trestle.

Extremely fascinating to see the operation and to examine both floors of the mill, watching the corn being ground.

Our big exertion was to climb to the top of Clingman’s Dome. The sign says it is a half-mile climb, but I know for sure that’s a big fat lie. I would have stopped at about halfway, but seeing the people returning from up top who were some of the most unlikely hikers you ever saw caused me too much shame to give it up. I may have overstated the case just a bit, but not by much.

Anyway, it was pretty cool up there with a stupendous lookout tower that allows absolutely knockout 360-degree views for many, many miles across the mountains. Actually, everything up there is just gorgeous - just one awesome sight after another.

At one point, I spotted a UO, unidentified object, below the road so there was nothing for it but to force my weary legs out of the Toter to see what was what. Down in the canyon, we found a spring and accompanying spring house and an old road that required we strike off along it. It was quietly beautiful down there and a welcome walk after the crowds at Clingman’s Dome. C says Smoky Mountain Park is the most visited in the country with 9 million visitors per year - twice the volume of Grand Canyon. This is one of Chris’ pronouncements that makes me say, “No way”, but as usual, he turns out to be correct.

Historic trails and roads . . .






















We walked a bit on the Appalachian Trail so as to find a quiet place to picnic. We snacked and I spent even more time trying to get our self-portrait. Of course, the handy dandy little twistable tripod that Suzie gave me was stowed carefully back in the truck, so I spent considerable time semi-reclining in the damp forest duff while willing the camera to remain in whatever semi-sliding position I placed it, requiring a large number of attempts to get it balanced, push the timer shutter button without dislodging the camera, climb over logs, slip and slide down the slimy leafy slope to gain my position beside C in time to plaster a smile on my face. Quite a few feeble attempts before a satisfactory solution was reached. One can only wonder what urges me on to these convoluted charades or even why the thought arrives unchecked into my mind. . .

We came across another interesting place, Indian Gap Road, or at least a remnant of the former Indian trail that was later enlarged only slightly to become the major north/south route through the Great Smokies in 1830 until the Newfound Gap Road was developed in the 1850s. Seems the Indian Gap was long thought to be the lowest pass through the mountains until Newfound was explored, thus its name is the description of its discovery.






















We saw a fascinating photo of a long-ago endeavor on the road, men utilizing a sled to transport a load. Evidently, that was a common way to transport through there, possibly because of the rough rocky surface. Obviously, a sled would be far easier to construct and to repair.

Alas, despite extensive time in WNC’s mountains, nary a bear ventured into our sight.

This ‘n that . . .

Remnants of Halley’s Comet, the Orionids meteor shower, has come and gone without my venturing out to view the show. I hate to miss anything excitingly celestial (for that matter, I hate to miss anything excitingly earthbound). Note to self: kick self for forgetting the meteor shower.

I nominate Harris Teeter as my favorite grocery store ever. They abound in this area; perhaps they will branch out to Prescott? Wonderfully and attractively stocked, they are a pleasure to shop in, and besides, I love the name; it has a certain presence.

Most unexpected mailbox display spotted in North Carolina: A mailbox with an impressive prickly pear cactus guarding it.

Thursday: I’ve been trying not to dwell on this being our last day with Mom & Dad, but departure looms. Very sad to be so far away. The good news is that we will soon be in Florida visiting son Darren, who is sadly also a great distance from us. This is not how families are supposed to be, methinks. And to top it off, brother David who has been in our home area for quite a while departed for Minnesota today. Oh well, one more place to run around to (right after we upgrade to a larger RV - hint, hint).

As guilt tugs on my heartstrings, I end this episode: Chris is washing the outside of the trailer and here I sit enjoying my little journal - must clean . . .