Daufuskie Island

We had a somewhat bouncy ride to St. Mary’s. Captain Paw-Paw decided we could make better time if we ran offshore, so run we did. We ran right into a military exercise being conducted off Jacksonville. The weather was a little cloudy and there was a light wind, but the ocean just had those gentle swells that make for such good napping. The captain was cruising along and the first mate decided a nap would be just what the doctor ordered. She had no sooner stretched out, pulled the quilt up to her chin, breathed a sigh and closed her eyes than the radio crackled and a stern voice said something we couldn’t understand about the “white sport fisher off our port bow.” It was a Coast Guard patrol boat and when the captain finally decided they thought we were a sport fisher and answered, they told us to stay off their port bow and keep moving.

We were more than happy to comply and zipped happily along for about a mile when an even sterner voice came over the radio, identifying himself as “Warship 80.” He told us to stay at least one and a quarter-miles away and to speed up. Of course, by this time first mate and captain were nervous wrecks. The last thing we wanted to tangle with was a warship—ours or anyone else’s. So we throttled up and passed him/her with our starboard to his port, and thanked them for being there as we passed by. By then I had the binoculars and what to my wondering eyes should appear but another warship and a submarine. The other warship told us politely to stay away, which we did. We turned toward the ocean and hoped we could stay well out of everyone’s way. We heard the submarine and an army tug discussing staying out of each other’s way, and had no desire to challenge either of them. First mate got no nap that day!

The rest of the trip was uneventful and we eventually found the St. Mary’s River and gratefully tied up at Lang’s Marina in the quaint little town of St. Mary’s. We called my sister-in-law, Paula, and she drove over from Kingsland and we went to dinner at the Old Mill Restaurant, not too far from the marina. We all had a terrific shrimp dinner. Paula then took us back to the boat, where we got a good night’s sleep.

Next morning we were up bright and early and sorted the laundry, which seemed to have multiplied in the hamper. Paula picked us up and took us to her house where we started a load of wash, then we went to Cracker Barrel for brunch. We went back to the house and put another load in the washer before going to Wal-Mart to lay in supplies. Then it was back to the house, where Paula trimmed my overgrown hair and we put in yet another load.

By this time it was time to run to White Oak and pick up Paula’s granddaughters, Laurie and Callie. We were happy to see the girls, check out Laurie’s chickens and the new walk and patio that had recently been added to their house. Then it was back to Kingsland and another load of laundry and a nap in the recliner for the exhausted captain. Then Paula took us, our groceries, and the girls back to the boat so the girls could get a look at it. An extra treat was in store because when we were walking up the dock we saw a school of porpoises feeding in the area near the docks. They fed for quite some time while we stood in the marina parking lot and watched.

Later, when Karla, the girls’ mother got off from work, and Charles, their father, got off from his reserve duty in Jacksonville, we all went out for steak. We couldn’t thank Paula enough for all the running around she did for us. It was great seeing Charles, Karla and the girls, too. After dinner Paula drove us back to St. Mary’s one more time where we bedded down with the happy thought that we had plenty of clean laundry and the “pantry” under the bench was re-stocked.

We had spoken to a dear friend, Mattie Gladstone, and asked if she would like to ride from St. Mary’s to Brunswick with us. Mattie is the wife of the minister who baptized my dad and me, buried my mom and brother, and married Gary and me. Their family have been friends of ours since I was a child. Mr. Fred “Happy Rock” as he was known at Bible camps across the country, was a paratrooper at the D-Day invasion and had been wounded there. He became a Christian after returning to the United States and spent the rest of his life serving his Lord. For many years he attended every World War II reunion he could, and witnessed to any who would listen, including some of the highest-ranking generals. He had been bedridden for several years and Mattie and his daughter Mary and son David had cared for him devotedly. He passed away just a few weeks ago. He was truly an American and Christian hero.

Mrs. Mattie loves the water, having lived most of her life near Darien, Georgia. She agreed that she would like to ride with us and we asked her daughter to have her at the marina by ten on Wednesday morning. They arrived at 8:30 a.m. Mary and her friend Elaine brought their two small dogs with them for the visit. At first the dogs didn’t notice Maggie, who was sitting atop her cage surveying her kingdom. When they did notice her she was not amused. They barked at her a couple of times and she literally dive-bombed them from the top of her cage. Luckily, the dogs were so awestruck that it didn’t register at first what had happened, so I was able to scoop Maggie up and put her in the cage. Lucky for the dogs, too. I have felt the wrath of Maggie when I inadvertently invaded her territory. So have our cats. They don’t hang around her, having been bitten on the tail once too often.

We had a lovely time with Mattie aboard. The weather was overcast, which kept the cabin of the boat from getting too hot and the wind was gentle. We saw dolphins several times and a variety of seabirds, besides some beautiful scenery. We got to Brunswick about noon and David came to pick his mother up. He is a gentleman farmer and brought us some eggs from his hens and a delicious shrimp and rice dinner that Mary had cooked. These were totally unexpected, but much appreciated. We hugged Mattie and David goodbye at the Brunswick marina just as the rain began. It’s gratifying to know that a small thing can bring someone else pleasure. All that and a good shrimp dish make for a good night’s sleep.

Next morning the weather was not the most pleasant for boating or anything else. It rained off and on all day and we had to cross several bodies of fairly open water. To be charitable I will just call it snarly. We took a lot of water over the bow, plus a good bit of rain. Poor Gilraker has taken a beating over the nearly 6,000 miles we’ve traveled over 2008 and now 2010. We found this time she was leaking around windows and other places more than we’ve seen before. We have a pile of bar mop towels that we keep on hand for just such occasions and made good use of a lot of them. We bounced and jounced and were glad when we pulled into the Kilkenny Marina in the middle of nowhere, somewhere south of Savannah, out of the wind. You can see some of the mileage racked up over the months in our now-ragged burgee. We are carrying with us the new gold one that will replace it when we cross our wake in Holden Beach in a week or so.

We had some of David’s fresh eggs with grits and bacon for supper and wearily headed for the sleeping cabin. Oh no! My sleeping bag had gotten soaked by some water dripping down from the windshield and running down behind the console. The blanket that I keep for warming up my feet was dry so I flipped the bag around, covered the wet place with my raincoat, and grabbed one of Gary’s pillows. I slept much better than I expected to, probably because I was worn out from keeping my balance in a lurching boat all day. Everything has its good side. Today I draped the bag in front of the propane heater and dried it out completely.

We had a beautiful run from Kilkenny Creek to a place called Bull Creek, just opposite the northern tip of Daufuskie Island. We anchored there amid the salt marshes and it’s beginning to look and smell like home. If you were raised around the salt marsh you know what I mean. If you weren’t, you probably think they’re the most awful-smelling things in the world. We plan to anchor near Edisto tomorrow night and arrive in Charleston sometime early Sunday.

On to St. Augustine

We left the St. Lucie Lock park in the early morning and exited the Okeechobee Waterway. We made a left turn and headed north toward home. We were back in the Intracoastal Waterway that we had left in April 2008. Now we’re only a little over 600 miles from home. A year ago we were wondering if we’d ever get to this point.

We pulled into the Ft. Pierce City Marina late in the afternoon and were assigned a slip at the very back. It was nice to get off the boat and walk around the beautiful park laid out at the waterfront. It is paved with varicolored bricks and has benches and sculptures to enjoy. Quite a few strollers were out and about, as well as some hopeful fishermen.

We slipped away early the next morning with our batteries all charged and our water tanks topped off. We would be anchoring out the next two nights in a row. It had finally started to warm up in the day time, although at night we ran the propane heater to keep the cabin warm. When we’re in a marina with electrical hookups we use a couple of small ceramic heaters, but the propane saves battery power when we’re anchored out.

We had beautiful boating weather to Cocoa, where we anchored in an anchorage right off the channel with quite a few sailboats, but no cruisers. We were within sight of the town and spent a nice quiet night with hardly any motion on the boat.

We’ve made up our own recipes for living aboard. Velveeta Shells and Cheese can be very versatile and filling. I boil the shells, drain them, then add a pound of browned hamburger and the packet of cheese. Served with either a canned vegetable, or even a package of fresh broccoli that has been lightly steamed, it will warm the cockles of your heart and leave enough for lunch the next day. To save on dish and pot washing we’ve even added the broccoli directly to the mix. If we’re tired of hamburger, canned chicken tastes just as good in this mix.

Another favorite is a jar of alfredo sauce warmed with a can of chicken. Pasta, a bagged salad and canned fruit make for a filling dinner and again, leave enough for tomorrow’s lunch. For breakfast we rely heavily on oatmeal with dried fruit mixed in. Maggie has to have a helping of this, too. She particularly loves dried cranberries and cherries cooked in with the oatmeal. The thing we use to lure her back into her cage, though, is a cheese nab with peanut butter. When she hears the cellophane crackling she starts her climb down into the cage, so that by the time we have the package open she’s sitting by her food cup anxiously waiting to get the nab so she can pull the crackers apart and gobble up the peanut butter.

We weighed anchor early in the morning on Wednesday and headed for Daytona. We have had unbelievably beautiful weather, and except for the minor problem with a fuel line back at Tampa, no problems with the boat at all. I still haven’t hauled out my khaki shorts, though. I’ve told several people the weather has seemed more like Canada in summer than Florida in winter.

We anchored off Daytona, again surrounded by sailboats, most of which seemed to have no one aboard. We spent a quiet night, warmed by our propane heater again. The run from Cocoa had almost totally re-charged our batteries so we had plenty of current to run the TV, use the toaster oven if we needed to and keep our anchor light lit.

Boats over a certain length are required to show a white light when anchored at night. We’re happy to comply with this rule. No one wants to be run down on the water, especially at night. Not that we were really in any danger. Gary said he awoke one time when a barge and tug went by. Since we were anchored well out of the channel, we had no worries and once again spent a quiet, peaceful night.

The socializing has definitely been different in this phase of our Loop trip. The first part we were always traveling with at least one other boat, much of the time with three or more and there was a lot of gathering on docks or back decks and swapping of stories, lies, information and misinformation. We saw two Loopers leave Carrabelle as we were on our way to the fuel dock. We never caught up with them and have only seen one other boat with a Looper flag at St. Augustine.

There was one place Gary worried about a little between Daytona and St. Augustine. Matanzas Inlet, south of St. Augustine is notorious for shoals that shift around due to the currents when the tide goes in and out. He had read reports on the internet that part of the marked channel had become shoaled. At one point south of the shoal area a cruiser passed us going south. Gary called them on the radio and asked how the Inlet was when they had gone through. The captain replied that he had bumped twice in the middle of the channel and he only drew four feet of water, about half a foot more than Gilraker.

Gary was so uptight that by the time we got to the shoal, he couldn’t eat his lunch. As luck would have it, a larger boat was passing us in the opposite direction right about the time we hit the inlet. We passed through without a hint of shoaling and the depth finder showed plenty of water under the boat for the whole passage. All that worry and a missed lunch for nothing!

We arrived at St. Augustine in the late afternoon and fueled up. This was the first fuel we had taken on since Sarasota. We’d used a little over 100 gallons. We don’t run very fast, but we run lean—at least on diesel fuel. We had been told that the drawbridge in St. Augustine was being repaired and would only open on weekends. While that had earlier been true, by the time we arrived, the famous “Bridge of Lions” is permanently opened and the bridge next to it, over which the traffic now flows to Anastasia Island, will open during weekdays also.

We tied up at the municipal marina and happily hooked up the electrical cord and filled up the water tanks again. After some nice hot showers and a little rest, we asked for restaurant recommendations from the dockmaster. He had mentioned two of his favorites, but we saw a Cuban place directly across the street and ate there. Gary had heard of Cuban sandwiches all across Florida, but we hadn’t found a restaurant that served them. In fact, we hadn’t eaten at a restaurant since the Burger King at Moore Haven.

We were disappointed once again. The Cuban place we found only served the sandwiches at lunch. So Gary had picadillo and I had chipotle chicken. I had reached the point that anything I didn’t cook tasted good and Gary was too tired to care. It was good, though, and filling, so we waddled back to the boat and a good night’s sleep.

Foiled again! While we were gone a Sea Ray Sea Dancer had docked next to us. On board were two young couples. How they got four people in that boat to sleep, I’ll never know, but they did. Unfortunately, young is the operative word here. They had a really good time until about two a.m. Gary is lucky in one way. With his hearing aids out he couldn’t hear a gun going off next to his head. I dozed fitfully until about two when things finally quieted down.

I had e-mailed my sister-in-law, who lives in Kingsland, Georgia, and she and some friends had planned to spend the day in St. Augustine. They planned to arrive around noon and she said they would meet us at their favorite restaurant, the Columbia House. We ate a light breakfast and took off walking through the old town. We killed time window shopping and looking around till noon and met up with Paula, Ray and Telsa shortly after at Columbia House. Gary finally had his wish fulfilled and had their famous Cuban sandwich. They have a fantastic salad that the waiter mixes right at the table and apportions out onto plates. After lunch we left to go back to the boat for naps and the others took in a couple of shops before they headed back to Kingsland.

We were tired from all the walking so we got a good night’s sleep, even though out neighbors were up again a good part of the night. But we were up early and decided to take a tram tour of the city. We spent a good part of the morning touring Castillo de San Marcos, also known as Fort Marion. If you’re a history buff, Google it. It has a very interesting history. It was built by the Spanish to defend their claims on Florida and the City of St. Augustine. Standing at the massive walls and looking out across the entrance to the bay you can see why it was never taken in battle, but only transferred by treaty or negotiations. One cannon shot could easily have reached our boat, as they had one that had a range of three miles. A smaller one could send a shot one and a quarter miles.

Our weather today was a tourist’s dream. Warm, slightly breezy, and sunny. I felt sorry for the reenactors we watched perform a Spanish cannon drill. They had on replicas of the heavy wool uniforms worn year-round by the Spanish troops. And all but one of them were volunteers. To add a realistic touch all the orders were given in Spanish.

I had one big disappointment at the fort. When our family had visited it when I was a child there was a room with a small window very high in the wall. An exhibit noted that Osceola and one of his comrades were held there during the Seminole Wars and that they had escaped through that small opening by starving themselves to the point that they could fit through. They were recaptured, taken to Fort Moultrie at Charleston and died there. I had wanted to show the exhibit to Gary, but we walked through and I couldn’t find it. I asked one of the rangers about it and found that it was one of those myths that get spread from time to time. (And we thought that only happened since the internet!) Although Osceola had indeed been held at the fort, he didn’t escape, let alone starve himself to the point that he could fit through that tiny opening.

After touring the fort we hopped back on the tour tram and got off at the “Fountain of Youth.”  We drank the obligatory small cup of water from the aquifer there and were immediately rejuvenated. Not! It was an interesting place and we talked to a guide who gave us a lot of info on the Timucuan Indians. Timucuan graves had been discovered on the surrounding property and an archaeological dig was conducted there. The Indian skeletons had been given Christian burials, and after a period of their being exhibited, they were given a Christian re-burial with Catholic mass.

After a late lunch of sausage dogs, which did more to rejuvenate us than the water had, we hopped on the tram again. The tram took us by Flagler College, where 1500 students attend school in what used to be the Ponce de Leon Hotel. We also saw several other hotels and churches built by Henry Flagler, the man who “put Florida on the map.” I might owe Flagler for my being here. My grandfather used to have a contract to supply wood along the railroad route for the steam engines, and it was while working at this job that he met my grandmother.

After our tram tour we returned to the boat. Our young neighbors had left during the day to return to Jacksonville and the marina was all quiet. Tomorrow morning we will leave, Lord and weather willing, for St. Mary’s, where we will visit with family, catch up on laundry and re-stock our supplies. Then it’s heading north up the Waterway and home to the Old North State.

At St. Lucie Lock

After a windy night listening to fenders squeaking against the dock, hearing wind whistling past something that we could never find, digesting crab meat, we left the next morning in cold, but relatively calm weather. If forced to choose we’ll take calm any time. We’ll also take boring as compared to fixing fuel lines and climbing through windows with boat hooks in hand. The bruise across my midriff has gone from the purple stage to yellow, but I’m still not wearing my bikini. And don’t worry. I won’t be wearing it when the bruise does heal!

We rocked along the next day through some beautiful scenery, passing some gorgeous homes all along the Florida Inland Waterway. Let me tell you: all the gold is not in California. We stopped near Sarasota to fuel up and I asked the dock attendant how far we were from Nokomis, where I used to spend a lot of happy vacation time when I was a kid. He told me were about 14 miles south, so I thought I had missed seeing Casey Key, where one of my uncles had a home and some rental cottages and another uncle owned a grocery store.

Later, after my nap, I realized while checking the chart that the guy was confused (or I had misunderstood) and we were at that moment cruising between the mainland and Casey Key. It has changed so that I didn’t recognize anything on the “bay” side that we were traveling down, but I told Gary about the time my cousins and I waded the bay at low tide collecting scallops, which my uncle then cleaned and cooked. Great memories, even after over 50 years! I had to call my cousin Nel and reminisce a bit.

Soon, though, we were at the only part of the island I recognized, the jetty. It was near there that my uncle had taken my cousin Joe and me fishing. He had pulled up to a dock and my job was to hold the bottom rung of the ladder while Joe ran up to buy bait. I held on tightly. The boat swung out from under me and there I hung: nothing to put my feet on, no way to go up, no way to go down. Uncle Edward was laughing so hard he was no help, either. It took Joe and Unk both to haul me back into the boat, dripping wet, jeans and all. Fortunately, at age 14 there was a lot less of me to haul in.

Another memorable occasion was Joe’s dad and our Uncle Tobe taking us out to teach us to water ski. Joe tried, and when he fell, it was my turn. I sat on the gunwale of the boat, pushed off, and found the seat of my bathing suit was caught by the prongs that held the boat canopy in place when it was being used. There I hung for what seemed an eternity till they could all quit laughing and pop my seat loose, which sent me flailing like a crab ignominiously into the drink. I did get up on the skis before Joe did, though. And he’s never forgiven me for that.

After running till late in the afternoon, we followed a narrow channel to an anchorage that Gary had seen mentioned in a Waterway guide. It was totally surrounded by mangrove trees, except for the little entrance channel. There was not a soul around and we spent a beautiful, peaceful night with only a couple of ospreys and some egrets for company. We could see the horns of the crescent moon appear and disappear as the clouds passed in front of it.

Next day we took off for Ft. Myers. We had a little bouncing around in the open water, but it was so mild we hardly noticed. It was cloudy, but another beautiful day for boating. We’ve decided any day on the boat is good. Some are just better than others. We’ve been seeing warning signs for a week about the manatees, but had decided the signs were just a way of getting people to slow down and not wake their docks. Finally, as we were passing Ft. Myers and in the early part of the Okeechobee Waterway, we saw a police boat go by. Later we saw him stop and circle around a few times. When we got almost to him he turned on his blue light and we slowed to a crawl. He pulled up beside us and told us there was a large school of manatees to starboard and to proceed carefully. We never saw the creatures, except as something that looked like shadows moving around in the water, so I was unable to get pictures. But we could tell there was something there. So much for the manatees.

We’ve started doing locks again. Lake Okeechobee is something like 14 feet above sea level. Not far from Ft. Myers we went through the Franklin Lock. It was somewhat of a disappointment after the ones we’d been through on the earlier part of the Loop. We had gone through the world’s largest lift lock at Peterborough, Ontario, the “Big Chute” in Canada where they had lifted the boat in slings and took us across a road, and huge locks on the Tenn-Tom. We had even gone through a double lock that lifted us about 65 feet. These in the Okeechobee Waterway are mostly a couple of feet.  It’s just wait for the green light, go in, grab a rope, hang on for a little while, then out the other side. We even came to one that was open at both ends and we just sailed through. They are installing a  new lock, so for now, there’s no “lift.”

For our first stopover in the Okeechobee Waterway we spent two nights at the Franklin Lock. The locks are operated by the US Army Corps (not corpse) of Engineers and each one has a nice little park where RV’s and boats can stay at very reasonable rates. Rather than charge boats by the foot there is a flat rate of $24.00 per night with a maximum of 14 nights. We also found that with the Golden Age Pass we bought for the National Parks last year we could stay for only $12.00 per night. We opted for two nights at Franklin and enjoyed the little break. Gray hair has its rewards!

There was a one washer/one dryer laundromat about a half-mile from the boat and I used the opportunity to catch up on the laundry and get in a few miles of walking. I joked with folks sitting in front of their RV’s bundled up in winter jackets taking in the sun—and the wind. It wasn’t so awfully cold, but the wind was biting.

Sunday morning we pulled out and headed east. I had already had my Valentine’s Day dinner, since Gary fried up some gorgeous, delicious shrimp and unbagged a salad while I was hiking back with the last load of laundry. Since we’d eaten on the boat for all our meals since our crab feast, he decided that for real Valentine’s Day we’d have catfish at Moore Haven, our next stop. The guidebook said there was a good catfish restaurant there.

The guidebook was wrong. We docked at the city dock in Moore Haven, a really nice dock, with water and electric hookups included for $1.00 per foot. We were right in front of the library and town hall. We could occasionally get internet service from the library wireless, but it was spotty and our own, for some reason, was non-existent. Gary struck up a conversation with a couple of locals who were looking over the three boats docked there. They told him there used to be a place to get catfish, but it was closed and now there were two restaurants in town: Burger King and a taco stand that served awesome Cuban sandwiches. After walking about a mile, we checked out the taco stand. They had no Cuban sandwiches, and what they did have looked pretty unappetizing. So our Valentine’s Day dinner was at Burger King. It’s o.k. I’ve had worse. And I sure didn’t want to cook by the time we walked back to the boat. At least Gary’s knees don’t hurt any more.

Monday may be awful for people having to go back to work, but it was a beautiful day for boating. We went through two more locks and had a glorious day on Lake Okeechobee. It’s shallow, but is a huge lake and can be nasty when it gets snarly. It wasn’t exactly like glass, but as close to it as we could expect, and we got to watch the buzzards, egrets and herons along the way.

Tomorrow we’ll go through the St. Lucie Lock that will lower us back to sea level and we’ll head for Stuart. Tomorrow night should find us in Ft. Pierce on the east coast. For this Presidents’ Day holiday we are at another of those little parks near the lock for the night. We will soon be in the Inland Waterway headed up the coast and home.

We Were Sailing Along on Tampa Bay

We pulled out of our slip at Tarpon Springs about 8:30 a.m. Of course for us pulling out of a slip is hardly ever simple. We had two lines around pilings, one on either side of the bow and a stern line to a cleat on the dock. Close by us was a sailboat with a couple we’d seen stash away six cases of beer yesterday. We didn’t worry much about waking them too early, but we really didn’t want to slam into their boat, either. Fortunately, the wind was blowing in such a way as to push us away from them—which meant it was pushing us into one of the pilings at the bow. The line on that piling happened to be a short one and Gary had sort of “lassoed” it and pulled the end of the line through a loop on the end. My job, after he warmed the engine and released the stern line, was to quickly haul in the port bow line, then run to the other side of the bow, and while he tried to keep the boat steady and not crash into the piling—or the sailboat—unhook the lasso and pull the line aboard. I’m glad we don’t have movies of the process, but I did get it done. We pulled out into the Anclote River and headed for Tampa.

In order to get to Tampa we had to run out into the Gulf again. The same Gulf which had beaten us up pretty thoroughly Monday morning. It wasn’t quite as bad on Wednesday, but it still was pretty choppy. We bounced and flounced a good bit, but it was nothing like Monday, and at least we’d had a good rest. After about an hour we entered the Florida Inland Waterway and after that had a beautiful run on a chilly but beautiful day.I won’t say we’re a jinx, but the forecast for Tampa tonight is freezing weather. Still, the water was that beautiful green color that I remembered from my childhood trips to visit family in Nokomis, near Sarasota. If Sunday’s sunset water looked like lavender taffeta, today’s looked like green silk, the ripples showing like the silvery slubs you see in silk dupioni.

We cruised along through Clearwater, St. Pete, and then came Tampa Bay. More rockin’ and rollin’. We laughed at the fact we’d gotten so used to it that it seemed hardly noticeable any more. We saw gorgeous waterfront houses and boats to die for, but we love our little diesel-sipping single engine wonder boat—as in “wonder where they got that thing?” We had gotten to within an hour or so of Anna Maria Island, where we were heading for one of our favorite meals in the world—stone crab claws. Gary found a note in one of the cruising guides that told about a place called Moore’s Landing. The restaurant specializes in stone crab claws and, with a dinner of same, includes free docking for the night. No power or water, but a place to tie up and not have to worry about being run down by a ship.

We had seen a ship in Tampa Bay. It was headed for the Sunshine Skyway Bridge, as were we. It was going faster than we were and was a whole lot larger. It was a good ways behind us and Gary poured on some power so we could get under the bridge and ease over to one side of the channel, well out of the tanker’s way. We made it under the bridge, eased over to one side, and suddenly the engine lost power. Of course. A fuel line had become loosened and Gary knew almost immediately what it was.

Problem was to keep the boat out of the channel and get the anchor down. Our anchor has a nasty habit of hanging up so that it has to have some brave soul venture out on the bow and kick it loose so it will fall into the water. That brave idiot is usually me. I volunteered to do it, while quaking inwardly—suddenly those three- and four-foot waves looked more like ten and twelve–but Gary decided he could do it with the boat hook, sticking it out the center front window.

Now the only time Maggie has flown with her severely clipped wings was when she was frightened by the boat hook. That little incident took place last year when we were docked somewhere in Alabama. This time I had put her in her cage as soon as we stopped, just in case, but had apparently not latched it securely, because when I brought in the boat hook, there she sat, looking down from the top of her cage. Meantime, the boat is drifting. I finally grabbed her despite her biting me and more of less threw her into her cage. Gary, meantime, was poking at the anchor with the pole. No dice. Couldn’t reach it. “Here,” he says, “you can reach it if I hoist you up into the window.” Once again I’m glad there aren’t movies. I finally was able to thrust half of my ample body onto the bow far enough to reach the anchor and jab it loose. Ah! Now, to get my ample body back into the boat without falling into the hatch that gaped open below me.

There is a coaming about an inch and a half high that runs across the base of that window. A rather sharp coaming if one’s ample belly is squeezing down on it. I kept trying to feel something under my feet and Gary kept telling me to let go, he had me. Right! I had no intention of ending up sprawled across the engine, adding insult to injury. And injury is the operative word here. After having my bulging midriff dragged across that coaming and all but falling on my backside to avoid the gaping hatch, I felt like I’d had the cheapo version of liposuction. My poor belly will be bruised for a week. But the anchor was down.

And in jig time the captain had the line reconnected and we were back in the channel on our way to the stone crabs. Heh, heh, heh. Look out crabs! Here we come! They had various dinner sizes listed on the stone crab claw menu—which is on its own little card. Now, if you aren’t familiar with these delicacies, you need to know that they aren’t like regular crabs. Stone crabs have one large claw and one small claw. That great big claw is full of the sweetest meat you ever ate. And the great thing is that the claw can be broken off the crab, the live crab thrown back into the water and it lives to grow another replacement claw.

We decided that since we were getting free docking we’d splurge and get the one-and-three-quarter-pound order. Now we know that we could have made do with one-and-a-half pounds. It’s hard to judge because the shells are pretty thick and weigh a lot. So you suit yourself. Next time we’ll just get one and a half pounds.

Now we’re back on board, digesting all that protein, listening to the wind whistle across the bow and getting ready to be rocked to sleep. Hope you’re as full, happy, and warm as we are. We feel really blessed. As Gary said, “Things could have gone so wrong and, while we had a little inconvenience, we’ve been too blessed to complain about anything. And all those crabs are somewhere growing new claws. Yummm! Yummm!

On the Water Again

            We had a long, long ride in heavy, heavy rain to get back to the short, short boat. She was a sight for sore eyes! After thirteen months of knee replacements, even having had the privilege of driving across the country and seeing all the sights we saw, there was something really special about getting back to the boat and, hopefully, finishing the Loop. So she had a little mildew here and there. That’s why God made Clorox. Gary had actually gotten a lot of wiping down and Cloroxing done the previous weekend. Maggie seemed to be as excited as we were. She started almost immediately doing the beeps and whistles she used to do mimicking the autopilot and other electronics.

            We unloaded the truck, kissed Bill goodbye and got busy putting things away. We had a lot less stashing to do this time. We’d learned that we didn’t need about half or more of what we’d brought before. For one thing this part of the trip will only take a few weeks, whereas when we left Holden Beach in April of 08 we left prepared to stay on the boat for most of a year.

            While we were away from Carrabelle the bottom had dropped out of the real estate market and a lot more. The condo complex next to the marina had apparently gone under. The restaurant was closed and we saw only a couple of trucks in the parking lot—and quite a few “For Sale” signs. In fact, there are a lot of vacation homes for sale along “The Forgotten Coast” as the area bills itself.

            When we saw we were going to have to be in Carrabelle for more than a couple of days Gary got someone from the marina to drive him to Apalachicola to rent a car. This enabled us to restock out pantry and drive to Eastpoint, about 15 miles away, to the nearest laundromat. The main advantage of the car, though, was being able to get to seafood restaurants.

            One was definitely less than four-star, but had delicious oysters and homemade potato chips. It was only a couple of miles from the marina. On Thursday nights they play trivia and the tiny place was crammed with locals, each table with its pad of sticky notes and a pencil. We didn’t stay long enough to see who won, but wondered what would happen on Friday night. We didn’t see how they’d be able to cram a live band into the place, that being the only thing we could think of that would top a trivia contest. We must have gone too early on Friday because there were only two other couples there and no games or bands.

            Saturday, after the strain of doing three loads of laundry and folding it all, we decided to go “uptown” to Apalachicola and some serious seafood. I hadn’t eaten any lunch so opted for the platter. Oh, man! Calabash has nothing on Papa Joe’s! We had a table overlooking the water and more than we could eat. Those who know us and our appetites know that’s enuff said.

            Sunday morning we squared away things, tied down what we remembered bouncing around previously, and Gary put Rain-X on the windshield. He returned the rental car and settled up with the good folks at Dockside Marina, cast off our lines and we were off again.

            We ran across the river to the fuel dock, took on about 80 gallons of diesel and headed out to the river mouth and the Gulf beyond. It was the Lord’s Day and He had lent us a most beautiful piece of it. We left about 3:30 in the afternoon, the idea being to leave Carrabelle in daylight and arrive in Tarpon Springs in daylight. The approach to Tarpon Springs is littered with crab pots. We have nothing against crab pots, but they can royally mess up a prop if you get tangled in one of their lines.

            The Gulf looked more like a lake than the infamous Mexican Ocean you hear so many stories about. It was a perfect day for crossing and we were very thankful. Later, as the sun got lower in the west, the water looked like someone had spread a piece of rumpled lavender taffeta around the boat. Where it was rumpled the rumples appeared pink, shading to orange as you looked from east to west.

            As soon as it got really dark I succumbed, as I usually do to an overpowering urge to nap. The water was not choppy at all, but the gentle swells, the bane of those prone to seasickness, lifted the boat gently, rolled it slightly, then passed the stern with a swish. It’s like being rocked by yo’ mama in a cradle or rocking chair.

            While I sawed zzz’s Gary kept an eye on the radar, autopilot and depth finder. The faithful old Cummins, juiced up on diesel fuel and fresh new oil just purred. Maggie helped Gary keep watch for awhile, then she tucked her head behind her wing and dozed also.

            Throughout the night we took turns watching the gauges and screens, although Gary slept a lot more lightly than I did. It’s not that he doesn’t trust my seamanship, he doesn’t trust anyone really except himself and Lorenzo when it comes to handling the boat. But he did get a few winks of sleep and I diligently watched the dials, gauges and screens. At one point during the night we watched a boat or ship cross our path several miles behind us on another course. It was the only contact we had all night.

            It was fun to watch the water also. We saw phosphorescent creatures, we assume were squid pass by a couple of times. But most of the 160 miles just flowed by, pun intended.

            And then came the dawn! It was as if someone flipped a switch. We crossed some invisible demarcation line and the Gulf decided we didn’t need any more naps. Instead of the slow rolling swells, it became three- to four-foot chop. And chop it did. The chop doesn’t roll under the boat, it lifts the bow, hurries to the stern, then drops the bow just short of the next wave, which then splashes over the windshield. This started about 6:30 and didn’t stop until we were almost at the mouth of the  Anclote River.

            We found out we hadn’t tied everything down. Every time something fell I had to lurch to where it was, holding on to something to get there. I was very thankful for the overhead rail in the pilot house and every other piece of “holdable” stuff in the boat before this thing was over.

            Maggie’s favorite word of the day became, “Bad! BAD!” She was a tired bird when we finally pulled into the Tarpon Springs City Marina. We were tired birds too. Gary is still aching from just holding on to the windowsill board. We did the minimum tying up and crashed into our bunks for a couple of hours.

            We noticed an immediate improvement in the weather when we woke up and put on a pot of coffee. It is a lot warmer in Tarpon Springs than it was the whole time we were in Carrabelle. It didn’t take too long to spruce things up, repack some of the things that had fallen off shelves in the head and Gary hooked up a hose and washed off the salt spray that covered everything—even my sunglasses which had been left under a leak around the windshield.

            Tarpon Springs is an interesting place and very friendly to boaters. It used to be the sponge fishing capital of the U.S., if not of the world. The bottom has dropped out of the market for natural sponges, but the resilient Greeks who settled the place haven’t let that stop them from making lemonade out of their lemons—as well as a delicious sauce to top off their dolmades. The streets at the foot of the docks are full of shops of all kinds, especially all things Greek. They even have Fisher-Price toys that teach the Greek alphabet and language to toddlers. There are boats for harbor tours and boats for sponge diving demonstrations.

            We showered, dressed and headed for Dodecanese Street, right at the foot of the dock. Greek food! Oh my! I had eaten at a really good place here on vacation many years ago and we asked a lady at a store across the street which way to go. She told us that place was closed, but recommended a place down the street. Oh my! We got a sampler platter and became Greeks for a day. Pastitsio, moussaka, dolmades, gyro meat (the stuff you see on the vertical spits in the windows of Greek restaurants), oven roasted potatoes, and a small Greek salad—with bread and olive oil, of course. On the way out the waitress stopped us and gave us two pieces of baklava for a midnight snack. Actually, we ate our take-out plates for lunch this afternoon. I couldn’t say when the baklava disappeared.

            The second night we ate at a different place, but the food was excellent and the atmosphere very Greek. When we finished the waitress brought an apple half, cut side down on a plate, sliced in quarter-inch slices and drizzled with honey and cinnamon. Very simple, but yummy and refreshing when there’s no room left for dessert.

            My friend Betty said this trip sounds like we’re just boating from restaurant to restaurant. Cruise and eat, cruise and eat. Yep, that’s about it. But we do eat on the boat a good bit also. In fact we plan to anchor out a lot on this leg of the trip—but first an appointment at Moore’s Crab House, just south of Tampa, for stone crab claws.

            More about that later.

We left Tabor City at 6:15 a.m. on Saturday, January 30 and drove most of the day in the rain. Fortunately, it stopped while we unloaded the truck and hauled our things to the boat. Gary and Lorenzo had spent the previous weekend in Carrabelle getting Gilraker back in the water, wiping her down somewhat and stowing some of the things we had sent in the first load. They also discovered that the engine needed a new water pump, so ordered and installed one. God bless Lorenzo! He has helped us–and others–so much with problems major and minor that we will forever owe him.
Our son Bill had driven down with us and left as soon as we had the truck unloaded so that he could get back to Jacksonville and pick up his mother-in-law, Vivian, so that she could take my place babysitting King James while we finish the Loop. She’s another we’ll always be grateful to. I didn’t want to leave James with just anyone and Vivian volunteered to keep him for the four to six weeks we estimate it will take us to finish the Loop.
We haven’t gotten very far. We have to wait for a really good weather window to cross the Gulf and at this time it appears that won’t happen before Friday. So we’ll wait. In the meantime we’ve got everything pretty much stashed and stowed and have wiped up gobs of mildew and other stuff. We only brought about half the clothes and things that we had taken the first time. We’ll be running mean and lean this time!
One advantage of being stranded in Carrabelle is that my old friend (old, as in since 2nd grade) Betty came over from Tallahassee to visit today. We had a great time catching up on miscellaneous news and our respective families on the short, short boat. While we talked Gary got a few more of his chores done on the back deck, cleaning the plastic curtains and putting our AGLCA burgee back on the bow and our American flag on the stern. The poor North Carolina flag is about in shreds, but it could really tell some tales.
Maggie is obviously happy to be back aboard. She has been asking where Kilby is and doing her dog whistle as well as beeping and whistling just to let us know she’s here. She has re-staked her claim to the corner where her cage is balanced on the narrow shelf and held in place by bungee cords. She must remember the bungee cord she chewed in two last year that whacked her when  it snapped. She has hardly touched them this time. But she does try to sneak over and chews on the plastic air conditioner vent when she thinks no one is watching.
This isn’t much of a blog because we can’t go anywhere or do much of anything. It appears we’re the only people on a boat in the marina right now. We’ve seen two people working on boats over the weekend, but they haven’t been here today. It’s been cold for this area, too. No shorts and tee shirts yet. No pot luck suppers or any of the social activities we enjoyed so much in 2008 on the Loop. But that will happen. One thing we’ve learned in eight months on the boat and eight weeks crossing the country in a camper trailer is to, if not enjoy each other’s company, at least tolerate it, and to look forward to meeting new friends when we get to warmer weather and a more populated spot.

In response to many requests I’m posting some pictures of our grandson, James Timothy Walker (aka King James I). He’s our first grandchild and we are so smitten with him we are awful. The Saturday after he was born I begged Gary to go to the grocery store and hold people down while I showed them pictures. He refused. So here they are: he was born June 11, 2009, weighed 8lbs, 2 oz. and has black hair and dark eyes. Gaze to your heart’s content.

Back Home

            We stayed at the Williams, Arizona, KOA Kampground for three nights. It was great to have a few days to rest up, do a little housecleaning and take a break from the constant riding. On Sunday we attended the First Baptist Church of Williams. Everyone was friendly and made us feel right at home. There were a number of visitors from various states and several locals told us that they were preparing to leave for Phoenix for the winter. Similar to our local snowbirds, they go south for the winter and come back to Williams for the summer. The weather is warm, but there is a breeze most of the time and no humidity, so the heat isn’t stifling. Thomas had told us that the water table in the area is so far down that it’s cheaper to have water hauled in by truck than to have a well drilled. Some places have water delivered by tank trucks on a regular schedule, others go and pick it up in their own tanks.

            The picture of the Kaibab trail shows the trail that Clara and I rode down on muleback in 1967. We rode to the point at the edge of the cliff, then turned back and had lunch in the trees in the center of the picture. Then we plodded back up to the rim. 

            Monday morning we headed east (on I-40, not I-20 as I wrote in the last blog), not letting any grass grow under the truck. We had one more stop on our schedule: The Petrified Forest and Painted Desert. They reminded us of the badlands of South Dakota, except for the petrified wood lying in huge logs, some broken into many pieces, some sticking out of the sand, some in small pieces. Our first stop was on the “Long Logs Trail” near the visitor center at the Petrified Forest. We got there right after a ranger had started leading a group on the trail. He told how the logs were buried in water that was laden with silica, which replaced the tissue in the logs, turning them to stone.

            The petrified logs are spread over a large area and testify to a catastrophe that occurred in the past. The ranger showed us a petrified seashell that was found by a young girl on the Long Logs Trail some years ago. There are many marine fossils in the park, and while it is often stated that the area at some time in the past was a “shallow sea,” I think perhaps there is just as good a possibility that the shells and other marine fossils were floated in during a huge flood “of biblical proportions.”

            The Painted Desert reminded us of the landscape of the Badlands we had seen in South Dakota. The ranger joked that they hadn’t retouched the paint in quite awhile, but the colors were holding up well. No joke. There are scientific explanations of why the various layers are colored as they are, but that doesn’t mean a thing when you stand and watch them blend, contrast, weave and change. We drove through late in the day and every mile and shift of shadow changed the colors of the landscape. It makes you marvel at the eye’s ability to see color and caused us to marvel at another of God’s blessings, that of sight. Check out the various chemical reactions that have to take place in the eye, literally in nanoseconds, and tell yourself that this ability to see at all, let alone subtle color shifts, is a result of accidental random mutations. Michael Behe has a great chapter on this in Darwin’s Black Box.

            We spent a night in Albuquerque, and saw the gradual shift in the landscape from desert grays, beiges and sage greens to the yellow grasslands of the Texas panhandle and the rolling hills of Oklahoma. We stopped in Shamrock, Texas, where my friends and I had spent the night over forty years ago. There were reminders all along the way of the old Route 66 that has now been retired. The restroom at the rest stop had a tile mural of scenes from Route 66.

            The green of roadside crops in Arkansas, along with the change to piney woods that more closely resembled those of home—no more lodgepole pines–made us realize our trip was fast coming to an end. We zipped around Memphis (I couldn’t even talk Gary into stopping at Graceland, just for old times’ sake), and headed for Knoxville, where we spent the night at Soaring Eagle Campground. (I’ve included a picture of their exit sign.) It was warm in the day time, but cooled off again in the evening since we were back in mountains. It was great to be back in our familiar old Smokies. The vistas might not be as grand, glacier-ridden or high-peaked as the ones we’d seen in the west, but they were familiar and looked like “home.”

            On Friday we wound our way down I-40 to Asheville and hopped on I-26 for the last leg of our trip. Finally about 7:00 p.m. on Friday, September 5, 2009, we drove up to our house in Tabor City. Maggie gave a whistle, that let us know she was glad to be back too. The cats, Killer and Boudreau, came running out for some ear scratching and we collapsed on sofas, sorry our adventure was over, but glad to be home.

What’s Grand About a Hole in the Gound?

            We’ve had quite a time since the last blog. First was crossing back into the United States at Sumas, Washington. We had crossed into Canada three times since last summer with Maggie’s cage sitting in plain sight in either the boat or the truck. I had looked up the Canadian government regulations on traveling with pets and their website said that pet birds could be imported as long as they had been in the importer’s possession for the last 90 days and if they were classed as pet birds. It also said that Canada had signed the CITES treaty concerning endangered species, and listed those species affected. I knew that African greys are no longer imported into the U.S., but didn’t know they’re listed as endangered. In any case, Maggie fit the criteria as being in my possession for over 90 days and being a pet. She was in fact hatched in North Carolina and hand fed by the breeder till she was four or five months old. The website didn’t mention anything about needing any documents. (I found later that the website had been updated sometime in June—I checked it over a month before we left so that I’d have plenty of time to take her to the vet and get all my other chores done before leaving.)

            We had never been questioned about Maggie’s presence two of the three times we crossed into Canada and certainly didn’t expect any flak re-entering the U.S. When we crossed back into Canada from Alaska the lady at Canadian customs mentioned the CITES treaty, but said she wouldn’t confiscate her. What a relief! So we went on our merry way, never dreaming that it would be a problem to repatriate her. At Sumas the agent at the crossing saw her cage, asked about her and told us to park, that our passports would be waiting inside the building. We went in and found that we were not in compliance with the law since Maggie had no passport. We never knew there was such a thing. First, a vet came and checked her out, then told us he’d try to get a waiver on the CITES treaty, of which the U.S. is also a signatory. We had to pay a $35.00 fee to the vet, who then informed us that we still had to deal with U.S. Fish and Wildlife. That agent came, explained that we needed a pet passport plus a stamp from the U.S. and one from Canada for each border crossing in each direction. He started to write me a ticket, but when I started quoting what I had learned from the website he tore it up because he said I had tried to comply with the law but was confused by the website. Boy, howdy! But after two and a half hours at the Sumas customs office, we were finally released to head on to Everett, Washington.

            We had called our niece, Rachel and told her we’d be in Everett that afternoon, and after setting up the camper, we drove to her parents’ house. We had a joyful reunion with her, not having seen her since last year when she spent ten days on Gilraker with us. Rachel’s parents, Jack and Lita, took us to dinner at the Tulalip Tribes Casino, where we had a delicious dinner and walked through the lobby of the beautiful new hotel adjacent to the casino. Lita, Rachel, and her brothers Max and J.D. are tribal members. Lita showed me the beautiful artwork decorating the hotel lobby and explained some of it to me.

            Next day we took Jack, Max and Rachel to lunch, after which Rachel took us on a tour of the Tulalip Reservation and her mother’s office. Lita works in the tribal office as communications manager and we got to see the TV studio and the beautiful prints done by a Native American artist that decorate Lita’s office. Lita is an artist herself, as evidenced by her gorgeous beadwork.

            That evening for dinner Rachel guided us to a new experience in dining. She said someone had told her about a restaurant where you cook your own meat on a rock. Didn’t sound too appetizing at first—I had visions of a steak draped across a big gray rock—but we decided to try it. The Diamond Knot Brewery was indeed different. It was in an old renovated warehouse in the small community of Muklitea, just outside Everett. You choose your meat from the menu and the waiter brings a long ceramic dish that has a sizzling flat stone in the center and a little “well” at either end. In the wells are an ear of corn on the cob and a dinner roll. I had pork medallions, Rachel had a steak, and Gary had fresh seafood. The seafood was laid across large pieces of onion to keep it from cooking too fast. The pork and steak were sizzling on their stones already. It was different and delicious! Another adventure under our belts—literally. We drove Rachel home, hugged her goodbye, but left with a sense of knowing her context, so we can picture her in our minds now, along with her family.

            We saw beautiful scenery around the Seattle area. The Cascade Range could be seen in the distance, with Mt. Ranier looming to the east. Later we caught a glimpse of Mt. St. Helens also.

            Next morning we pulled out and headed down the road toward our next objective, the coast redwood trees. We drove most of the day and stopped at a campground in a little place called O’Brien, Oregon. O’Brien has a service station, post office, saloon and restaurant. Ah, the restaurant! It’s called McGrew’s. We arrived in O’Brien fairly late in the day on August 22, the day before our fortieth anniversary. McGrew’s looked like a rather questionable place to eat your anniversary dinner, but we’re adaptable. We opted to eat out on the deck and had the most wonderful dinner imaginable. There was homemade bread, a wonderful salad with bleu cheese vinaigrette, creamy split pea soup (better than mine!), potatoes au gratin and delicious ribs and steak. We both had enough left for lunch the next day. If you’re ever in O’Brien, Oregon, don’t miss dinner at McGrew’s!

            Next morning it was off to see the redwoods. I thought redwoods and sequoias were the same, since a flyer we picked up gave the scientific name for redwoods as Sequoia sempervirens. Turns out they aren’t but that’s another story. (If you’re really interested, Google it.) The giant redwoods only grow in a few places in the world. One is in China, the other two are in a narrow strip of the U.S. west coast, and another in the Sierra Nevada mountains. Soon after entering California (and having our camper fridge inspected for contraband fruit entering the state), we began to see the giants. (I started to make a crack about the main problem with California fruits and nuts being the ones they send to Congress, but resisted the urge.) The giant trees grow in groves located in the state and national parks that overlap along the coast. At the visitor center we saw a film on the giant redwoods, how the climate supports them, and even how fires are beneficial to them. We stopped several times just to look at them. We are very thankful that some people were concerned enough to set aside groves where they will not be cut. I tried to hug one, but couldn’t get my arms around it.

            We drove on through the grove and down through Redding, where we spent the night. The next day we drove through the lush Sacramento Valley. To the east we could see the Sierra Nevada, to the west the Coast Range. In between is the valley where so many fruits, veggies, nuts, avocados, and most anything else are grown. Some of the crops we recognized, others we didn’t. According to one book we looked at, the Sacramento Valley and its neighbor to the south, the San Joaquin, are some of the most fertile areas on earth. We saw signs that marked some of the vineyards as growing the grapes for SunMaid raisins.

            South of Sacramento we turned left and headed toward the Sierra Nevada and Yosemite National Park. After winding through the mountain roads for a good while, we arrived at the park. Since Gary had been unable to see any of the beautiful views on the way in, I suggested we take a tram tour of the valley floor. Before the tram left we watched a film on the “Spirit of Yosemite.” The tram tour was wonderful. The tram followed the Sacramento River for much of the tour and a National Park Ranger named Karen explained various rock formations, such as El Capitan and Half Dome, as well as giving us the history of the park. After the two-hour tour we pulled out and literally wound our way out of the park and on to our next campground.

            At Fresno we turned back into the mountains, heading to Kings Canyon and Sequoia National Parks. To our left was Kings Canyon, which we decided to skip in order to save time. Our trailer wasn’t allowed on the road and we’d have had to unhook, see the canyon and re-hook. We drove down to the parking lot for the General Sherman tree, the largest tree on earth. It should have been simple, but I told Gary to turn into the trailer lot too soon and we were aimed the wrong way for the parking places. It was quite a maneuver to get turned the right way, but Gary did a great job and our marriage is still intact—barely.

            It was a half-mile downhill hike to the General Sherman. It was easy going down. At the bottom of the trail we took pictures of each other and the tree. It has a fence around it so we couldn’t hug it, and I’m sure the pictures don’t do it justice. The top of the tree is dead, but it still adds wood onto the trunk each year–enough to account for a full normal-sized tree. According to the brochure, there are taller trees, but none has more wood in it. After admiring the tree and enjoying the antics of some children, we began the arduous climb back up the trail. Fortunately, there were large rocks and benches placed strategically along the path and we stopped to rest often. We were at several thousand feet elevation and the air was thin in addition to our not being in the best physical shape. But we made it, and after downing a bottle of water each, we climbed into the man truck and took off again.

            We wound through some of the most challenging road since Alaska. This one was paved, not gravel, but had some hairy curves and inclines. Making up for the aggravation were the gorgeous views we encountered. We stopped for a picnic lunch at one point and then boogied on out at about 25 miles per hour. At Barstow we hopped onto I-20 East. We saw a sign that read: Wilmington, NC, 2554 miles! We spent that night at Mojave, California.

            I had been across the Mojave Desert before. Gary had not. It still amazes us that people choose to live there. But live they do—not close together, and  not in big cities, but they’re there. I took a picture of the thermometer thing in the truck. It read 110° F. We drank lots and lots of water and didn’t get out of the truck very often.

            Next day we arrived at Williams, Arizona. Williams is one of the stops on old Route 66, the highway my friends and I followed back in 1967 when we drove from Charleston to Los Angeles, up to San Francisco, then back. Williams plays up the nostalgia angle. They have several restaurants and other venues that harken back to the fifties. They also have mock gunfights in the streets several times a day for the sake of tourists, especially kids.

            We stayed at a campground a few miles from Williams on the road to the Grand Canyon. Who should be parked next to us but “Almost Willie,” a Willie Nelson impersonator who makes at least part of a living doing shows for tips at campgrounds. He really does look like Willie and does a pretty fair imitation. We had a good time Saturday night sitting at a picnic table with several others watching him and “Miss Kitty” do their schtick.

            Saturday morning we took a tour to the Canyon. Gary sort of wanted to do it ourselves, but I felt like he would get a better view without a lot of angst over parking and following directions, so I asserted my wifely privilege and insisted on the tour. We were both glad I did. If you’re ever at the Canyon we highly recommend Silver Spurs Tours. Our guide picked us up at the campground along with another couple, Jim and Linda from Tennesse via Indiana. Thomas, the guide, had a big roomy van with large windows and a roof high enough for Gary and Jim to stand up in.

            Thomas presented each of us with a bag full of really great snacks, plastic utensils, lip balm, and other goodies. He also gave each of us a stainless water bottle filled with artesian water. He had a big container of cold water in the back of the van from which we filled our bottles often. At lunch time he gave us each a large pack of deli lunch meat and rolls, plus juice of our choice. We made sandwiches and sat on the porch of the El Tovar Hotel soaking up the view and enjoying our goodies. The El Tovar has a gift shop and I found the cutest little “Grand Canyon Ranger” outfit with green shorts, khaki shirt and web belt–size 12 months. When I showed it to Gary he got suckered in and so now James can grow into a junior ranger outfit. We are becoming dotty old grandparents.

            Thomas, originally from Germany, was a fountain of information. He knew all sorts of stories about the canyon, warned us repeatedly about going too close to the edge and told horror stories of people who had not heeded the warning. He is quite knowledgeable about the geology and history of the canyon, as well as the surrounding area, and cites all sorts of statistics about distances from which different things can be seen. I talked with him a little bit about how they have over the years given up the spiel about the canyon being carved by the Colorado River. Geologists have learned a lot from Mt. Saint Helens, especially about large lakes being drained when an earthen dam gives way.

            He was also willing to discuss World War II and told about his grandfather being forced to join the Nazi Party because of threats to his family. He did a great imitation of a bus driver he’d ridden with the day before. It’s hilarious to hear a German imitate a Southwest accent.

            It might just be a big hole in the ground, but it’s a pretty impressive hole! Pictures never do it justice. The feeling of awe you get standing on the rim looking down and across is indescribable. At least not described by any words in my vocabulary. I was especially struck by the sight of Kaibab Point, where my friend Clara and I rode to on mules back in 1967. We took the short trip. We got to Kaibab Point about noon, then turned around and had lunch at an oasis. Then came the slow climb back up, stopping to rest the mules often. I wouldn’t inflict myself on a mule these days. Not to mention the fact that reservations for the mule trek have to be made up to a year in advance now.

            There is another mule trek that goes all the way down to the Colorado River, spends the night at a ranch on the floor of the canyon, then takes the return route the next day. There are raft and boat trips on the river also. We had stopped at the IMAX Theater on our way into the park and seen the movie made by National Geographic about the discovery of the canyon by white men, and the histories of various groups that explored the canyon. They had a boat on display that was a replica of one of the boats used in the first expedition to go from one end of the canyon to the other. The display boat had been used in filming the movie. I might take a raft trip, but you couldn’t pay me to do rapids in one of those boats. And the expedition leader was a one-armed man, John Wesley Powell!

            In the interest of medical science and history I can report that after seeing the IMAX film I now advance a new theory on what happened to all the Indians who mysteriously disappeared from the area. They died from melanoma after running around in the Arizona sun with very few clothes on and no sunscreen available.

            After giving us viewing time at several points along the rim and pointing out various items of interest, Thomas herded us into the van and took us to the Navajo reservation. It was there that we saw some authentic rugs, a museum of various Indian and other artifacts, and heard his friend Tony play the native American flute. There was a deerskin dress with some very pretty beading on it that was for sale for over a thousand dollars. Rachel’s mother sent her one to wear to my brother’s funeral that was far prettier and much more heavily beaded.

            Thomas dropped us back at the campground a little bit tired, but not nearly as much as if we’d done the driving ourselves, and with much more knowledge about the canyon (if we could only remember it!) and the proud owners of bistro bags with some of the snacks, mustard and tiny jars of honey left in them—and water bottles too.

Sunday morning we got up and put on our wrinkled “good” clothes and set out for church. We worshipped with the congregation at First Baptist Church of Williams. It was a very nice service, the people were very friendly, and we found that probably half of them are leaving next weekend to winter in the Phoenix area. There were a number of visitors, but I think we had come the farthest of anyone there.

I will stop here. I’ve been trying to get this blog done for days. We are in Albuquerque and expect to be home in a few days. I will try to catch up soon so that the blog will end about the time we get home. The Grand Canyon pics are still in the camera. They’ll be on the next blog. Sorry.

Why Did the Hoary Marmot Cross the Road?

            Wow! We, who had never before seen a hoary marmot, nor even really wondered what one looked like, saw two of the creatures on the same day! Some folks from Holland who happened to be driving behind us stopped at the next turnout and asked what the creature was that we had slowed down for and tried to photograph. We didn’t know. Gary guessed a hedgehog, I thought maybe a groundhog, but knew it was too large to be a hedgehog. My other guess was a hyrax. I know I’d heard that name somewhere, but couldn’t’ remember ever seeing one. This thing was probably as large as a beaver, but had a little fuzzy tail like a squirrel and a pointed-looking face. After driving almost to the head of the Salmon Glacier, on the return trip, we saw another one—crossing the road. Still no picture.

            We talked to the Dutch folks for a few minutes, told them how much we’d enjoyed our visit to their country and I tried out my pronunciation of “Schipohl,” the airport in Amsterdam. I’ll never get it right, but they said I’d come pretty close. I was disappointed we couldn’t identify the animal for them, but as luck would have it, they were walking up to the wildlife center I’ll tell about later just as we were leaving and I was able to tell them what it was. They had heard of marmots before, and after wrangling with “hoary” and trying to think of a European equivalent (rime), we got the idea across and everyone left happy.

            Our blog has been pretty silent for a few days. We were  not idle, however. After spending a wonderful weekend in Seward and thinking it just didn’t get any better than a halibut dinner at Ray’s on the waterfront, it did get better. We backtracked from Seward, past Anchorage, then turned toward Destruction Bay on the Alaskan Highway. The drive through the Wrangell Mountains was another of those breath-taking drives through some of the most gorgeous scenery that can’t be described and that pictures can’t convey. There were several glaciers and waterfalls and seemingly unending ranges of peaks reaching into the clouds.

We spent one night camped on the Copper River in the middle of nowhere at a place called Gakona. Most of our fellow campers appeared to be workers working on the telephone lines and right-of-way. There were some young people on a motorcycle camping in a tent. Ah, the resilience of youth. The morning we pulled out the temperature registered 34 degrees.

            That evening, after a rockinghorse ride over the heaves and around blood-curdling curves, we reached Destruction Bay. Destruction Bay is on the largest lake in the Yukon and its name escapes me for the moment. The lake is beautiful. The weather was chilly, clouds were looming, and we found the reason the place is named Destruction Bay. There was a camp there during World War II. The enlisted men were in barracks down near what is now a small village. The officers were higher up on a hill, where the campground  now sits. A storm came through with winds approaching 200 miles per hour and wiped out the enlisted men’s tents and many of the men. The camp was never rebuilt.

            The campground owner caters to caravans of motor homes and campers who plan their stopovers with him. He has a live band (don’t know where the musicians come from, the woods, I suppose), and great food. The bread is all homemade and we had it for breakfast the morning we left. They were getting ready for the last caravan of the year to come through the day we left, then they’d spend a week or two closing up. We saw fresh snow on the  mountain tops that already had some caps they keep year-round.

            We stopped at the end of the lake for pictures and met a young couple from Belgium who had been over last year and toured part of the lower 48. This year they were on their way to Alaska. We told them how much we’d enjoyed our river cruise in their country a couple of years ago. Later in the day when we stopped at a rest area we met two couples and the ten-year-old son of one of them. They were traveling in a 1980’s-era bus that they have converted to run on cooking oil. They have been living and traveling on the bus for about two years now. They work at odd jobs, sell some of their artwork and crafts, get their fuel from restaurants, and were from Charleston, South Carolina. If you’d like to learn more about these artists, check out their website at transitantenna.com. You never know who you’ll meet on the Alaskan Highway! We saw a camper today that had a bumper sticker from South of the Border plastered across its rear.

            We retraced part of our earlier route past Whitehorse, where we had stayed for one night. This time we arrived about one p.m. and I searched until I found a hair salon so I could get a trim. After that was taken care of we stopped at the Beringia Interpretive Center and learned a little about the mammoths, 800-pound beavers and other interesting creatures that have been found in the vicinity.

            We arrived in Stewart, BC, on Saturday afternoon, early enough to drive the couple of miles into town from the campground and get a look around. It still doesn’t get dark until almost ten p.m.  We drove through the tiny town, along the Portland Canal, where we saw logs floating awaiting transfer to ships. There isn’t much industry in Stewart. We ate dinner at the King Edward Hotel, for which we paid a kingly price, then drove on out of town and into Hyder, Alaska. Hyder is even smaller than Stewart, but very charming. When you go to Hyder, there is no U.S. Customs Office. If you go from Stewart to Hyder, you gotta come back on the same road, so only the Canadians have an office at the border crossing. What happens in Hyder either stays in Hyder or goes back to Stewart. There is only one road.

As an aside, we are amazed at the number of cyclists calmly pedaling their way up these mountains. Sometimes alone. The pastor at the Stewart church told us they had once had a visitor, from North Carolina no less, who had pedaled across the continent and was on his way to Prudhoe Bay. We could only shudder at the thought. Remembering that we actually camped in tents in our “good old days” is hard enough to deal with. We like having the comforts of home in our Prowler.

            Sunday morning we attended church at the Stewart Community Church. It was great to be with other Christians again. A youth group from Alberta was in Stewart for the second year, putting siding provided by their church on the Stewart Church building. The youth led the service and the young preacher did a great job. Afterwards we were invited for sandwiches, but after chatting awhile we left to head for the scenic highway to Hyder.

            The thing both towns have going for them is the view. Stewart has a glacier you can see from almost any point in the town. Hyder’s view isn’t as dramatic, but what they lack in view, they make up with by having a bus. The bus restaurant that serves “mermaid chowder,” which is to die for—and they have bears.

            The single road that runs from Stewart to Hyder continues on up for 25 or so miles, past some old mines, gorgeous scenery following the course of the Salmon River and ends at the top of the Salmon Glacier. The Salmon Glacier is the fifth-largest in British Columbia and one of the few you can drive up to. We didn’t go all the way to the top because the clouds had rolled in. I mentioned seeing the strange creature which turned out to be a hoary marmot. We also saw a black bear walking across the road. On our way back to Stewart this time we stopped at the wildlife viewing area run by the National Park Service. They have built a walkway out over the river, high above where the bears come to fish.

            The folks at church had told us to go early in the morning or about eight p.m. We happened to be there about six, and had almost decided to return to the camper for a nap, then come back, when two young grizzlies came galloping out of the forest, under the walkway and splashed their way into the stream. According to the wildlife officers they are four-year-old male siblings. Apparently their mother stays in the area and they have come to know her and her cubs over the years.

            We had been watching the salmon at the end of their spawning run. There were dead salmon lying around the shallow water and a few along the banks. The sea gulls were out in force, eating until they could barely waddle—until the bears showed up. The bears cavorted around up and down the stream for a good little while, chasing the dying salmon into the shallows and chomping down on them.

            It’s sad to think that the salmon go through all the effort to swim from the ocean back to the streams they were born in, only to die at the end, but we discussed how many people and animals depend on this cycle. The native people of the Northwest have for centuries caught and dried the salmon and are still allowed to fish for subsistence. Others are limited in the number they can keep, especially of certain species. The bears fatten themselves for the winter hibernation and many other animals depend on this yearly cycle. Even the eggs and hatchlings provide food for other creatures in the chain. Death is never pretty, but it’s the ugly side of dealing with a fallen world. How wonderful it will be when it’s all made right again!

            We almost hated to leave Stewart, but Monday morning we hitched up and wended our way back to Canada Highway 16 and onto the Yellowhead Highway. We are really on our way home now and look forward to new scenery and sights along the way. The grand mountains and snow-capped peaks have given way to rolling hills and hay fields. We are beginning to come to larger towns closer together. We are in a beautiful area known as Williams Lake. Tomorrow we plan to spend the night in Hope, British Columbia, then on Thursday, we’ll stop in Everett, Washington, and spend a day or two with our niece, Rachel and her family.