Frost, lost dog, feel-good
Sept. 18, 2012

Our view of the San Juan River from our trailer window.

The frost is on the picnic table!  Our morning low temperature was 32 degrees.  I know this because we bought a min/max thermometer in Minnesota.  This was to replace the one lost when we forgot to take it off the window where it was attached by suction cup. 

Oh good grief - in the midst of writing this 80 miles down the road, I realize we did it again; a quick pull-over and I went back to retrieve the new one off the window where it was miraculously clinging after all those bumpy miles.  At any rate, it's getting too cold for our little Totee to be out and about.

Look closely: four common mergansers are swimming along the opposite shore.

Our route home today skips around New Mexico as we take Highway 160 to 89 to eliminate the typical traffic congestion around Farmington and Shiprock and go instead through Durango and Cortez.  I am happy to think of being home and it seems that Chris and Rowdy are in agreement.

Before we left, we reunited a dog with its owner after it led me on a walkabout in the campground.  Chris found him dragging his leash.  I had noticed him previously because of his appearance: I am not sure if the breed is a Corgi, but he was severely overweight so has a large chunky body and looks as if his feet are attached directly to his torso with no leg in between.  His elderly owner had staked him out, so he took the opportunity to escape and to explore.

We added a Steller’s jay to the Pagosa bird list this morning, and I forgot to include Canada geese.

As we wind through southern Colorado, we continue to see effects of the drought.  The San Juan was much lower than we had ever seen it: people were enjoying its 60-degree waters, if such could be enjoyed, but it was far too low for the usual hordes of tubers and kayakers.

Everything seems dry and dusty, but we don’t see as many beetle-killed trees here as we did north of Pagosa.

I forgot to write about a feel-good thing that happened when we spotted the first snow.  We pulled off the side of the road to get a picture.  Unbeknownst to me, there was a semi truck on a road below me and he evidently saw me with the camera, so stopped in order to stay out of the way of my photo.  Luckily, Chris noticed what was happening and we waved him a thank-you when he passed us.  A small gesture and so meaningful - I love making those kinds of people connections.

A run for home . . .

Chris is on a run for home today.  I was sure I had him trained better, but there were no photo opps in his consciousness this day. 

We marveled at and zipped right on by Baby Rocks, miniature but spectacular Bryce Canyon-esque formations that are even more astounding than their well-known big brother. 

We were lined up for a great shot at Church Rock in the foreground with a background of similar volcanic pipe formations, but that didn't warrant even a slow-down. 

We (he) ignored a number of great Navajo goat/sheep herds arrayed picturesquely on the prairie and slick rocks.  And he kept right on keeping on. 

The only reason we got a photo of the Little Colorado River and Cameron Trading Post is because we stopped there for gas and walked around back for a peek at the canyon.


























My final photo of the trip is of our wonderful San Francisco Peaks as seen through the windshield with the hole in it, something acquired on this journey (the windshield hole was acquired, not the Peaks - they are more like eternal). 

I remember one time when the German cousins were visiting us and Chris told Werner that the Peaks are taller than the highest mountain in Germany.  Werner was incredulous - not wanting to be impolite, he still couldn’t resist his exclamation: “It can’t be!”  But my all-knowing tour guide assured him that indeed ours is bigger than theirs: 12,635 for Humphries Peak to their highest - the Zugspitze, 9,718, which is perpetually snow-capped because of its more northerly latitude.

We are home and happy.  My intention is never to do another trip like that one - all drive and no (okay, little) stop, but I regret this one not a bit.  In fact, I am most grateful that we were able to spend that time with our family and contribute to the country’s economy in the process.

Westward
Sept. 13-14, 2012

Fog . . .

A fairly early start to a long driving day, fog-shrouded to begin as I shoot a pic of the sun trying to break through, but gets far worse: the heaviest daytime fog I have ever seen, making a nerve-wracking drive, very slow with flashers going to alert other vehicles of our presence.

Byways, towns? change of plans. . .

Again, we are on smaller highways that are taking us right through centers of small towns - today in South Dakota, a brand-new state for me.  As we proceed westward, we encounter much less cropland, the flat landscape covered with vast expanses of marshland, mostly being utilized as cattle pasture or for cutting grass hay where it is not open water.  Scattered houses marked by treed perimeters are counted as towns, according to the signs: villages of 19 and 20 people with no center or business, just a sign to mark their existence.

Rowdy checks out the landscape on his first glimpse of South Dakota

I will want to read some about the history along this route (we are following State Highway 34); we are informed by signage that the towns were mostly not established until the 1880s, but I’m guessing there was trapping and hunting going on in this area far previous to that.

We cross the Missouri River on Big Bend Dam, where it creates Sharpe Lake, a huge reservoir bordering the Crow Creek and Lower Brule Indian reservations.  In relief of the mono-landscape, we encounter rolling hilly grassland dotted in places by juniper trees and  then away from the river more featureless plain.  Imagine crossing this by horse and wagon or handcart like the Latter Day Saint pioneers - it must have felt as if they were going to pull those puppies for the rest of their born days.  It almost feels like that to me and we are moving at 60 miles per hour.  Walking would take at least four days to do that 60 miles.

We dropped south on 47 to get onto Interstate 90 for a spell.  We have begun seeing fields of sunflowers, fully mature with dark heads drooping heavy with seed, as well as some crops of milo and corn.  How brutal it must be up here in winter blizzards with nothing to break the wind!

We have decided to forego touring the Badlands and Mount Rushmore even though neither of us has been there.  I know we would wish we had more time to explore the region, so prefer to wait and do it when we can spare the time for it instead of further frustration at this hurried trip.

Nebraska, sand hills . . .

Turning south off of I-90 onto Highway 83, we immediately are relieved of the tabletop tedium as we come into grassy hilly country broken by numerous drainages, all filled with cottonwood trees.  It is strongly reminiscent of our very own Chino Valley.  We drive through the small Rosebud Sioux Indian Reservation heading for Nebraska, our third and last state for the day.

Very interesting this drive through the sand hills of Nebraska, a geographic feature I had not heard of (pardon my dangle there).  For many more square miles than imaginable, these dunes stretch on.  Now vegetated primarily by scrubby grasses, the region soaks up rainwater and retains it in low spots as huge marshy sections, providing summer home for sandhill cranes and other wading birds.

Rivers we’ve seen here and many places along our route are so attractive for kayaking, fishing and birding; there are any number of places that beg for a return.  We especially want to check out the Niobrara River and National Wildlife Refuge near Valentine, Nebraska.  We stopped for a closer look-see at the Dismal River and were stumped at the origin of its name: it really looked quite inviting.

Colorado . . .

A short night in North Platte, Nebraska, brought us closer to home.  We follow it up with some Interstate 76 travel, leaving it to turn south on Colorado state highway 71, a long, lonely high plains route that begins with 75 miles of next to nothing: two waypoints only in the whole stretch, each consisting of a couple of houses.  One of them, Last Chance, appears to have succumbed to a prairie fire. 

There is limited dry grain farming along here.  The road surface is great, far better than the bumpy Interstate, with nearly no other vehicles.  We have it to ourselves - super!

 
The Rockies! and snow!
Sept. 15-17, 2012

Gasp!  As we topped the first ridge after pulling out this morning, the view was gasp-worthy and elicited one from me - snow! on the Sangre de Christos and Spanish Peaks (Chris told me the mountain names - credit where it’s due, at least once in a while). 

I had already felt the excitement of returning to my beloved West when we first spotted the distant Rockies yesterday, but never expected to see snow this early.

Our drive down the desert-like high plains of eastern Colorado was without much of note: vast flat low-scrub-vegetated flatlands with occasional stabs at dry farming resulting in pathetic drought-destroyed crops.  For all its impressive mountains, Colorado contains some of the flattest acres of anywhere I’ve seen.

Last night, we stopped at a lovely KOA (we find that most KOAs are excellent camping spots) in Colorado City (not the one in Arizona) and were able to sing for our supper, so to speak.  We chanced into the park’s end-of-season camper appreciation buffet party.  Chris’ offer to provide music was accepted and netted us supper from the delicacy-laden buffet table.

Mountain passes . . .

This morning, we climbed (well, the Toter transported us, actually) 3,300 feet over La Veta Pass at 9,413 and set us off reminiscing about a previous visit to Fort Garland when we rode the scenic Rio Grande train from Alamosa to La Veta - a really memorable time.  There is much more we would like to do in the Alamosa area.

Next was Wolf Creek Pass, 10,850 feet elevation, where I had to put the computer away and be nervous, my job at times such as that.  Wolf Creek is very long and very steep with many tight curves, some so short as to need a reduced speed of 25 mph.  Pulling this grade is interesting with the trailer, even more so on the downhill lest a person burn up their brakes.  Chris is an excellent driver; however, he needs me to hold my breath, push against the floorboard and gesture uncontrollably, or so I continue to tell him.

Lots of the aspen groves are donning their fall foliage, mostly in the upper reaches.  The birds we see flitting are different: we are exchanging loons and bald eagles for red-shafted northern flickers and black-billed magpies.

Riverside, Kip’s, William Henry Walker . . .

This time, we are staying at the Pagosa Riverside Campground, one we utilized before but had not been to for several years.  Our spot is the most primo in the park; we are right on the San Juan River bank and the fishing pond is on our other side.  We are at 7,042 feet, temps 37 degrees at night, 85 by day.











Our initial venture into town included a stop for a real lunch, no rushed gulping, at Kip’s Grill and Cantina, where I consumed the second best fish tacos I ever had.  The first best were at the selfsame place that last time we were in Pagosa - delicious!





















We bought flowers and then were off to find the grave of William Henry Walker, our cousin Jerry’s great, great grandfather.  A Civil War veteran, he lies here alone because his family departed the area after his death, so I like to remember him when we are here. 

As we left, I induced Chris to stop the truck on a blind curve so I could shoot pics of a herd of deer crossing in front of us.

 


Colorado fishing, life of Riley, hot springs . . .

In the interest of full disclosure, I confess that because we are here only for two days and don’t want to buy fishing licenses, our angling was limited to the pond.  Here we are in the midst of some of the best fly fishing in the country and what do we do - picture this: me sitting in my camp chair, chocolate chip cookie in left hand, glass of wine in right hand, two fishing lines out in the pond catching miniscule bluegills and humongous crawdads, relaxation complete.

Sunday morning was truly the very first awakening of the journey that was not immediately followed by scrambling to hook up and leave or rush off to see someone or attend to chores - bliss!  Further bliss filled the day as we dipped and lounged at Pagosa Hot Springs - all day long. 


At one point, Chris wondered aloud if our last name was Riley.  I agreed that it must be because we certainly are living the life of (the younger readers will likely not understand that reference). 

On the way home, I could scarcely move a muscle.  When I whined about being exhausted, Chris' opinion was that I was just relaxed.  Good grief - has it been so long since I was relaxed that I don’t even recognize the condition?!















Birds here so far are trumpeter swan, gadwall, American wigeon, mallard, coot, brewer’s blackbird, western scrub jay, crow, red-winged blackbird, gray-headed dark-eyed junco, common merganser, black-chinned hummingbird, broad-tailed hummingbird, western tanager, Townsend's warbler, Wilson's warbler, belted kingfisher, barn swallow, pine siskin, robin, crow, great blue heron, black-billed magpie, brown-headed cowbird, raven, Eurasian collared dove, pinyon jay and house sparrow.  Amazing what you see when you bother to look.

The swans have three large young, the same as a previous time we saw them.  I was very excited to see the flocks of common mergansers swimming upriver right at our campsite - such distinctive birds!

Reversing direction
 Sept. 10-12, 2012

Time to turn back toward Arizona!  Final destination reached, direction reversed: homeward bound.

1659 explorers . . .

We were not too long on the road before we spotted a historical marker and managed to pull the rig over to check it out, a maneuver that does not always work out.  The plaque explained that the first white men, Frenchmen Radisson and Groseilliers, were in this region in 1659, encountering the Sioux Indians which were supplanted by the Ottawa tribe.  Now it is the home of Ojibway/Chippewa Indians on the current Lac Court Oreilles Reservation.

This is part of what I learned about the pair from Wikipedia: "Pierre-Esprit Radisson (1636–1710) was a French-Canadian fur trader and explorer. He is often linked to his brother-in-law Médard des Groseilliers who was about 20 years older. The decision of Radisson and Groseilliers to enter the English service led to the formation of the Hudson's Bay Company.
Born near Avignon in 1636 or possibly 1640, he came to New France at an early age. While out duck-hunting (probably in 1651) he was captured by the Mohawks but was adopted by his captors. He learned their language and way of life and joined them in their wars. While out hunting with an Algonquin and three Mohawks the captives killed their captors and escaped but were quickly hunted down. The Algonquin was killed and Radisson was tortured until he was rescued by his Indian 'family'. He later escaped to Fort Orange (Albany) where he served as an interpreter. For some reason he was sent to Europe along with a Jesuit priest. He returned to Trois-Rivières, Quebec in 1657^[1] or 1654(^[2] where he found his half-sister married to Groseilliers."

It is fascinating to me to imagine these people and others who ventured into unmapped territories with no idea of what they would find and who survived hostiles, diseases, predatory animals and natural dangers by using only their skills.  And what kind of person is willing even to wander into those kinds of conditions?

Visiting with cousins . . .

Now back to our pale-in-comparison adventure: we were so pleased that our last-minute plans to meet cousins Fred and Carolyn Blake were successful.  They kindly met us at a place convenient to park Toter/Totee and took us to their beautiful home, situated on an incredible wooded 162 acres encompassing their very own 23-acre lake.  Their wonderfully designed home takes in all the lake and forest views and has ample room for a firewood room (that’s a first for me - I was really impressed, especially when he said it holds four cords of wood and they don’t even need to go outside to get it) and a ping pong table.  Turns out that Fred and Chris are pretty evenly matched at that game, must be genetic - they are first cousins after all.

We had a nice lunch and visit with them and I even came away with already rooted house plant cuttings and fresh sweet corn from the corner stand: turned out to be the best sweet corn I’ve had all summer.  Amazing to see their photos of bears on their deck and patio.  Carolyn said when she washes windows, she washes off the bear prints from area bruins standing up for a peek inside.





























It was very interesting to hear about Fred’s management of their lake, especially in response to difficulties resulting from the drought.  The water level is so reduced as to leave the fish in jeopardy during coming winter.  Another highlight for me were the bald eagles we saw - several at Blakes’ lake and just generally flying here and there.

Redwing, casino parking . . .

Yikes, pulling into our RV park just over the border into Minnesota is surprising.  It sounded fabulous on paper, is less so in reality.  Treasure Island by name, it is associated with a hotel/casino complex.  Its landscaping leaves something to be desired, consisting entirely of blacktop with gravel strip stripes (or stripe strips).  The advertised pool & spa are reached only after a long walk or shuttle ride to the hotel and trooping through the hotel lobby.  I quickly made the decision to forego a dip.

We are outside Redwing, Minnesota (home of Redwing shoes).  The best part of this area is of course the mighty Mississippi and surrounding waters.  We have time for one short bird foray before dark, seeing the usual shore birds, but getting one new trip bird - wood ducks.  I have never seen so many geese - on the ground, flying past honking as they go - they are legion.  At next morning’s departure, I see a bald eagle on the ground at water’s edge.  Amazing to see them as a common bird.

9/11, byways, Carleton College, old country transplants . . .

As we drive through one small town after another, we remember the horror of the terrorist attacks on 9/11 and see signs reminding us.  Most flags are at half mast; surprisingly, some are not. 

Sad to see such a handsomely constructed building abandoned.

We are happy to be off big highways for two entire days because, although it is frustrating not to stop and explore, it’s at least nicer to wend our way through the midst of historic downtowns with their interesting buildings and to see what each has done with their quaint aspects.  Many burgs we’ve passed through have installed hanging flower baskets from each light pole, one of those touches made more significant by its non-utilitarian nature.

How fun to see Northfield, home of Carleton College, Mom & Dad’s alma mater, the place of their meeting, and where Chris attended for his freshman year before transferring to Prescott College.

As we move south and west from the northwoods, we get back into farmland with woodlots; then crossing the big river, we enjoy and leave behind its limestone bluff country and see more irrigated cropland and more diversity: dairies, horses farms, orchards and vineyards.  This appears to be exceptionally prosperous agricultural country.

It is interesting to see how various ethnicities colonized this country and even now are predominant in the places settled by their immigrant ancestors.  The town of New Praque is one example: just one of small welcoming places, friendly people throughout, housed in scattered large old well-kept houses, doing business in historic structures in their town center.  I was pleased to get pics of the Czechoslavakia coat of arms and map muralled on the exterior of a building, signaling the residents' pride in heritage.

The penchant toward transplanting place names from the old country is many times repeated as in New Prague, the nearby New Ulm and Heidelburg that doesn’t even bother with the modifier in its name.

We are so sorry to miss meeting up with our many kin in Wisconsin and Minnesota.  Mom W. was born in Hibbing, Minnesota, and cousins are disbursed throughout the region.  We have not taken this route before - crossing the state on local byways - are enjoying it immensely.  We feel as if we are in an ocean of corn and soybeans - astounding the vastness of these fields.  Harvest is beginning; it appears that most of the corn is being threshed for grain, smaller amounts for silage.

Pipestone, rain, David . . .

Border to border across Minnesota to Pipestone, we arrive after a relatively comfortable drive, made slightly more so by my dozing off for the last bit.  I am happy to report that Chris did not.

I spotted this scarecrow couple with a truckload
of pumpkins during a grocery store foray.

Is there something about us and weather that causes disturbances?  One has cause to take it personally.  By the time we left Wisconsin, we had about had it with cool and wet, temps reluctant to rise above 60, so when we pulled into Pipestone - clear and high 80s - we were delighted enough to go swimming and loll around basking in the sun.

All well and good, we naively conclude, until Wednesday dawns rainy and 51 degrees.  Could it be something I said?  This is our one day here and a portion of it is to be spent having the Toter serviced and lubing the trailer; desperation demands that we will visit Pipestone National Monument with water running off our hat brims. 

We chose Pipestone as a stopover because my little brother, David, is here.  He and Kathy came to call: a great visit, supper and music by Chris ensued. 

Next day at the Monument we donned sweaters, raincoats, hoods, hats and umbrellas to set off on our hike.  David’s injuries from a recent construction accident made it impossible for him to continue, but C and I completed the trail loop while they waited for us.  In spite of the conditions or perhaps even because of the dampness, the trail afforded us beautiful scenes along Pipestone Creek, Hiawatha Lake and Winnewissa Falls in addition to acres of tallgrass prairie and distant views as we climbed to the top of quartzite cliffs above various pipestone quarries.

John C. Fremont inscribed his name on this stone in 1838.

The quarries are used only by the Yankton Sioux since 1927, a stipulation when the site was designated as a National Monument.  In respect for the Earth and its blessings, Indians traditionally leave offerings at the nearby Three Maidens site before extracting stone.

This formation is called "The Oracle" for obvious reasons.

The Three Maidens consists of three large and other smaller boulders, the remains of one large erratic left at the retreat of a glacier after having been deposited there by the ice’s flow from Canada.

We enjoyed another walk around the RV park area.  It is bordered by a creek cut deeply; we spot two deer, a flock of wild turkeys and a green heron.
















































Saving Charlie . . .

As I was out skulking around to get wild turkey photos, I saw a big yellow cat crouching on the back bumper of a class C motor home that was stopped to drop off trash on its way out of the park.  Luckily, I was able to get the passenger’s attention before they departed.  I had no notion whether it was their pet or one just hitching a ride.  Turns out it was Charlie, one of their two feline fellow travelers who had somehow gotten out while the hatches were being battened.  When he saw his happy home departing without him, he was desperately trying to get in the back door.

If I hadn’t been there at that moment, they would have gone out on the road where Charlie would have fallen off and been killed or injured and left behind and they would never have known what happened to their pet.  Charlie was a scared boy but was retrieved from under the wheel well where he hid when I approached yelling at them.  Now I know why I always reassure myself that Rowdy is indeed ensconced on the back seat or in his carrier as we pull away.

Best business name: Curl up and dye hair salon.

This is the day
September 9, 2012

My head is spinning with the whirlwind wedding weekend activities!  150 guests converged on Black Bear Lodge in St. Germaine, Wisconsin, to fete Chris' niece Suzie and her bridegroom, Joe.  We met up with Mom & Dad Thursday night for dinner & began meeting other guests then in the Bear’s Den restaurant.  The lodge complex is an ideal venue for this - cabins, restaurant and bar, lake and a perfect place to set up the reception tent.  All is appropriately rustically northwoodsy, a special treat for the contingent from San Diego, where Suzie and Joe live.

We spent as much time as possible with the “rents”; it is just awful to live so far away from them.  Chris was the ceremony musician, we were involved in rehearsal planning for the outdoor affair.  Weather worries over the cool, cloudy conditions were alleviated by the forecast for warmer and clearing.

Outdoor activities (well okay, some were more bar-side) continued through Friday, culminating in a wonderful catered picnic in the tent.

Wedding day dawned not so clear after all, but with a hopeful sky, temps remaining in the high 50s.  Joe and his best man arrived via boat, climbed up from the shore and waited for the bride to emerge from her cabin - and waited and waited.  After all, they’ve been together for nine years, so what’s the big rush now? 

And . . . with impeccable timing, the sky opened up, and I don’t mean by clearing.  It began to sprinkle; it began to rain; it worked up to quite a deluge until the groom attempted to call off the location and move everything and everyone elsewhere; however, the bride, still hidden, declared the show must go on and the guests concurred. 

Out came available umbrellas, ponchos, hoods; those not as prepared scrambled to shelter under the cabin eaves and beneath trees.  A helpful guest volunteered to help me hold the keyboard case over the instrument lest it be ruined . . . and the shortened ceremony continued . . . Dad's pronouncement of the Psalm: "This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it" brought smiles and laughter.

And the music went on . . .

Dad is ready during (dry) rehearsal.

Suzie, Joe & Dad

Dad was the minister who united them and what a trooper he was as he got drenched under the superb but very drippy arbor built of unpeeled pine by Suzie’s dad Steve.

The rustic theme carried from the invitations clear through to every aspect, including table centerpieces & place cards to the wedding evening pig roast reception dinner and bonfire on the beach, all reflecting the bride and groom’s tastes and lifestyle - memorable weekend with memorable people in all ways.

Chris & sibs: Kyle and John

Sunday morning brought a revolving door, almost literally, as guests and wedding party were in and out of Mom & Dad’s cabin to exchange warm tearful farewells, a fine job of extensive milling around.



Mermaid Lake, snapping turtle babies, loon . . .

Mom & Dad and we followed Steve & Kyle out to their cottage on Mermaid Lake.  What an inviting, comfortable retirement home they have created there!  I was entranced by every aspect of the setting on the private lake and the house itself.  Much too soon came our own goodbyes; sad to live so distant from those we love.

Our next two nights arranged, we ventured out to the beach at our RV park.  Somehow, I had a vision of kayaking and fishing while we were here, but precious time with family came first, so that will wait until another time.  It did seem more than odd not to at least take a look at the lake on which our RV park is perched, Arrowhead by name, so we gathered up spotting scope, camera and binoculars for a saunter on down there, after watching three bald eagles circling lazily overhead. 

The lake was much larger than I expected and barren of waterfowl except for a lone ring-billed gull bobbing along without so much as a ruffled feather and one other bird that we would not have identified without the scope - a common loon - my big excitement for the day.  I would have hated to leave here without getting a loon.  I hear so much about them and their call (Kyle says they even have loon calling competitions), but the only other one I’ve ever seen was on Lake Mohave in Arizona.  Seems their habitat includes the Colorado River flyway.

No other real birding this stop, but we’ve enjoyed watching the antics at our feeders of ruby-throated hummingbirds, red-breasted nuthatch, white-breasted nuthatch, American goldfinch and black-capped chickadee.

On our walk to the lake, I noticed what I first thought was a tiny toy on the ground, but closer inspection revealed that it was a miniscule baby snapping turtle!  What an astounding thing to find!  And not only that, as we were carting it down to the lake, we found five more, three of them dead.  The three survivors seemed to be so cold they were scarcely moving.  As I cupped one in my hands, it warmed up and began to scrabble around in there.

We surmise they had hatched very recently judging by their sand-coverings, and these had not found the distant water before cold temperatures caused them to start shutting down.  Being completely unaware of baby snapping turtles’ nursery needs, we deposited them on the sand at water’s edge and saw them revive and swim when they got into the water.  We hope that was the right thing to do - our very own snapping turtle rescue.  They surely had lots of siblings that were earlier successful at gaining watery habitat.

Mama turtle could hardly have deposited her eggs any further from water.  As best as I can tell, this country is entirely made up of big rivers, little rivers, big lakes, little lakes, big streams, little streams; whatever is not open water consists of bogs, swamps and marshes.  In between, there is occasionally just enough terra firma on which to construct roads and buildings.

Tornado (or not)!
September 5, 2012

Well, it was not actually a tornado right here, rather a tornado warning - dang near as terrifying, in my Arizona-native estimation.  We were just settling into our evening when Pat, our campground’s owner, politely knocked on the door to give us the news.  Way too casually, Chris took the news without determining much in the way of “Will there be a siren to let us know when to head for cover?” or “Just exactly where is that shelter?”

I was not to be comforted until further information was obtained and even then, my nerves were shot.  Didn’t want to stay in, didn’t want to stay out in the wind, didn’t want to hear the creak/snap of those huge limbs breaking off the tree over the next trailer. 

We could see the storm front that was nearly upon us; lightning was continuous within it but rain didn’t get to us until much later, continued right on through the sleepless night, sleepless for me and Rowdy anyway.  The news told us that some areas got four to five inches of rain and large hail.  When Chris told me about the forecast hail, my plugged-up ears thought he said it was King Kong hail, but no, only ping pong ball size.

Neighbors came home in a panic because they had left their awning out and the strong wind wouldn’t allow it to straighten enough to retract.  We and another feller helped (I was important in this endeavor by holding his dog’s leash) and got it in without damage.  A person doesn’t want to wreck their awning; we know from expensive personal experience. 

This park is positively lovely; we definitely recommend it.  It has one feature that has to be unique among RV parks - a chapel.  The previous owners built it.  What a perfect place for quiet meditation while enjoying the view across the hills.

Not one of my earliest rising mornings after the ruckus from the previous night, but eventually, we hauled ourselves out for some sightseeing.  Chris voted for Galena to start us off and I preferred Dubuque, so Galena it was and a good choice; we spent so much time in and around Galena that Dubuque ended up with only a perfunctory drive-through late in the day.

Galena, I’m set free, U.S. Grant, Mississippi River . . .























A small town previously only glimpsed: it remains worth yet another longer visit than this day.  Its most famous person is Ulysses S. Grant; we toured the house that was given to him by town residents in appreciation for his service in the Civil War, and learned much about him and about the area.  The house remained in the Grant family until being donated as a historic site, so the contents are just as they were.  It was awesome to stand in the parlor where President Grant stood to shake hands with all the people lined up to congratulate him on his election to the U.S. presidency, a scene reflected in a period drawing onsite.

Galena is named for nearby lead mines; it was once an extremely large and important river port.  We were told that during the Civil War years, the Galena River silted up, causing the cessation of large water shipping.  Most impressive is how the historic quality has been retained, both in the bustling downtown and throughout other residential and commercial areas.  It is a most charming place and seems to be economically viable judging by the wide diversity of businesses booming.  I love that they have not succumbed to chain store construction - what few chains there are have accommodated themselves in historic structures.






















I felt liberated when I discovered a hiking trail atop the levee that protects the town from its river.  We had a nice brisk walk for a couple of miles and got a life bird in the process - a broad-winged hawk.

The levee and floodgates are necessary because of the Galena’s proximity to the Mississippi; its floodwaters back into this river and raise it to levels that would flood the town.

We had anticipated spending time on or around the Mississippi, a river that entices me strongly, but ran out of day.  There are quite a few places on it here that looked as if they would be fun kayaking, so perhaps that is a future need to return.  We previously kayaked on the big waterway and had a great time.  I would never have done it on my own, sounded way too intimidating, but Chris pushed and I followed.  Seems like the least I can do is to agree to some of his cockamamie schemes since he mostly agrees to mine.

The lure to tour the Belvedere Mansion was strong enough to pull us in.  A most impressive house up on the bluff and a bit of a pricey tour, the result was fairly disappointing.  Built in 1857, the structure itself is wonderful, but it seems to be a depository for the owners’ extensive eclectic collection of artwork, statuary, furniture and paraphernalia.  We were told some of its history, shown a few features of the mansion and informed about some of the pieces, but by and large, little was explained or known about the artwork and furnishings.  The Belvedere has been much remodeled, at one time being used as a restaurant, so its historic qualities are left to the imagination.

Caverns, pelicans . . .

There are a number of caverns that can be toured in this country, not too surprising because it is all limestone bedrock (thus the beautiful cliffs where rivers and creeks have cut through), but hours of operation are limited due to the season.  Back here, everything changes like clockwork after Labor Day - pools close immediately and tourist attractions curtail operations for the winter or reduce hours.

Not much of a birding trip this one, but we hit pay dirt in Galena.  A backwater lake between the two rivers was an open invitation to migrating waterfowl.  We were astounded to find thousands of American white pelicans floating as gigantic rafts.  Fascinating behavior; they moved as one huge bobbing barge toward a shoreline, seeming to herd fish ahead of them, as they mechanically and methodically ducked their heads under the water scooping up the catch, lifting their heads to swallow.

Gratitude to Jay’s Bird Barn in Prescott for our wonderful spotting scope that enabled us to identify other birds in the area - great blue heron, Canada goose, ring-billed gull, double-crested cormorant, mallards, great egret and black-crested night heron. 

We watched two golden eagles swooping over the masses of birds and enjoyed talking with a friendly mother/daughter pair who came down to watch the show, too.  She said they always have this migratory stopover but the numbers have been increasing over the years.

Dickeyville grotto . . .

We happily got a little lost on our way home as we tried to find a grocery store and instead were forced by incredulity to stop at The Grotto and Shrines in Dickeyville.  Part of Holy Ghost Parish property, it definitely made the top 10 on my hit parade of things that make your mouth hang open in amazement.





















In a nutshell, it is a conglomeration of structures of mosaic mania.  Every building, individual shrine, fence post and cable, actually every single surface in sight is covered within and without by mostly small, tiny even, bits of hand-placed glass, tile, shell, fossil, pottery, porcelain, stalagmite, stalagmite, petrified wood, coral, rock, ore, crystal, coal, antiques and last but definitely not in the least category - the round balls that were used on stick shifts in cars of my vintage.

It is not only a religious shrine, but has patriotic and historic overtones: one major structure is a monument to Christopher Columbus, including a statute of the man and flanked by statues of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln, all mounted of course on massive bases covered by “stuff” collected by Father Matthias Wernerus from around the world.

The priest constructed the complex in the 1920s as a dedication to “the unity of two great American ideals-love of God and love of country”.

For someone exhausted and wanting only supper, I could not tear myself away without perusing it all - bizarre and amazing.

















Finally, a stop at the local grocery, counter manned by mom & pop, the second of three generations of owners.  We enjoyed talking to the semiretired couple aged in their 70s.  At C’s request, they pointed us to some locally made Wisconsin bratwurst - very tasty after Chris grilled them while playing the keyboard to the appreciation of neighbors.

Destination northwoods
September 6, 2012

On the road and just passed the turnoff to Spring Green, the ancestral home of our Martin and Rosina Van Buren.  On a long-ago trip doing onsite research on our many Wisconsin ancestors, I read that Martin and Rosina’s house was still standing in Spring Green, so we zoomed quite a distance over there only to find the longtime owners had razed it and were living in a modular on the spot.  Devastating news (I refrained from strangling them), and at my request they mailed me a copy of a photograph they had of the original house.  We are passing near where our Buhlmans lived in the mid-1800s.  I wonder what they would think if they were suddenly plunked down in the same place but present day?

Several times we have been startled to see signs pointing to ski areas???  One presumes they are referring to cross-country skiing, there being no mountains in sight for hundreds of miles. . .

We have driven past at least thousands, well, maybe only hundreds, of interesting sights, lakes, rivers, trails, preserves, villages, museums, historic sites, Indian mounds, forests, and in Andy Griffith’s words; “I don’t know whut all” that would be fun to explore.  It is fascinating to just go and see what there is to see instead of planning a destination and possibly missing things along the way.

Serendipity, Hiawatha . . .

My shaggy husband had not the opportunity to get shaven and shorn (no, he’s not really getting shaven, it just sounds good together), so I have been the nag since we left home about finding a barber to do the deed lest he show up at the wedding in such bedraggled condition.  Not knowing how we would bring it about until we stopped for gas and lunch and my eagle eye spotted a walk-in haircutter place.  He has returned sans shaggy.

Not as far distant as we estimated, we arrive at the Hiawatha RV Resort in Woodruff.  Now that we are in Ice Age glacier country, conversation turns to peat bogs - the where, why and how, cranberries, blueberries, kettle moraines and such like.  Imagine those monstrous ice floes pushing over this country, plowing into the ground as they inched forward, and then slowly melting, retreating but leaving evidence of their presence.