VISITS WITH FRIENDS AND RELLIES

“To my mind, the greatest reward and luxury of travel is to be able to experience everyday things as if for the first time, to be in a position in which almost nothing is so familiar it is taken for granted.” – Bill Bryson

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” – Mark Twain

August 10-14: Visiting Scott Swan, Gale’s younger brother, who recently moved back to the family homestead after 30 years in Laguna Niguel, California.  Quite a change in lifestyle - Man about Town in SoCal to sleepy little Dixon, whose claim to fame is being the boyhood home of Ronald Reagan.  

Sleeping in a regular bed.  Taking lots of showers.  Endlessly watching the Olympics, which I confess is an every four-year addiction.  Michael Phelps’ grand exit, Simone Biles grand entrance, Katie Ledecky smashing her own world record, the first golf in 112 years, women’s beach volleyball, Usain Bolt.  The list goes on and on.  Great stuff!

We did take a break from the tube on Saturday to visit the Carroll County Fair in tiny Milledgeville, Illinois.  If you want a slice of summertime small town Americana, this is it.  Kids’ pedal tractor pull, dunk the cop with a well-thrown ball, 4-H competitions of every imaginable sort, hula hoop and bubblegum blowing contests, barrel racing with your horse, funnel cakes, cotton candy, tilt-a-whirl and all the usual midway rides and games.  Antique tractors that went all the way back to 1956!  What does that make me?  A very fun afternoon of everything that really hasn’t changed much since I was a kid, at least what I can remember at my pre-antique age.

GALE LOOKING FOR A USED VEHICLE
AT THE CARROLL COUNTY FAIR

I squeezed in one round of golf at Emerald Hills Golf Course in nearby Sterling, Illinois.  Much to my surprise, the course was both green and had a perceptible rise in the land that in this flat farm country could almost be called a mountain.  The only thing I couldn’t figure out was whether hitting into the immediately adjacent corn fields was a one or two-stroke penalty.  Into the soybean fields was definitely a one-shotter.  Actually, the course was very nice and I enjoyed myself completely, especially when Scott and his girlfriend showed up for refreshment at the 19th hole.

Overall, this was a really nice visit and a wonderful way to decompress after four months and 18,000 miles(!) on the road with Albie.

August 15:  After attending to some last minute details and saying adios, we departed for western New York to visit friends from Florida, Matt and Lora Heyden, who have a summer house there, or “camp” as it is called locally.  To get there, however, the rest of Illinois, including Chicago, Indiana and Ohio stretch large in front of us across the canvas of America.

DEEP FRIED

MORE DEEP FIRED

GALE AND FRIEND

August 16: I can only think of one highlight for the journey - we passed by The Recreational Vehicle/Motor Home Hall of Fame in Elkhart, Indiana. We didn’t stop, but promised Albie that someday we would come back so she could visit the stars of her universe.  After stopping for the night somewhere in Ohio, we forged on to the little town of Boston, New York to see Matt and Lora.   Set up in the hills about 25 miles south of Buffalo, we found the air cool and damp, the scenery beautiful and their home lovely, overlooking a bird-filled forest and pond.  We had a second full day here to spend at the Erie County Fair, the largest in New York State.  Far removed from the bubble gum blowing contest at the small Illinois fair, this place was HUGE! and had every conceivable ride and form of greasy, sugar coated “food” imaginable.  There were some good bands playing rock ‘n’ roll, Italian tunes, chamber music and country.  A juggling, joking, unicycle-riding, wise-cracking performer was very funny and entertaining.  Of course there were the mandatory animal exhibits, including cows giving birth on premises!  Matt and Lora are regular hotshot ballroom dancers and they put on quite a show at one of the bandstands.  Much fun and eight hours later, we were exhausted.  

MATT AND LORA CUTTING A RUG

JANET AND BEAU ON BOAT

OLD MAN AND THE SEA

August 18:  Time to get the show on the road again, but we had only a two-hour drive through the hills of southwestern New York to reach our next destination.  We were visiting Janet and Beau Hanford, just southeast of Rochester, New York.  Only a scant 51 years ago, Janet and I had graduated from Gorton High School in Yonkers, New York, and had known each other since kindergarten, so this was a wonderful opportunity to catch up.  She and Beau have a boat on nearby Canandaigua Lake, one of the famous Finger Lakes, and they were kind enough to take us out on the lake for the afternoon.  Relaxing under the sun, with a light breeze ruffling the water’s surface, we couldn’t have had a better time.  I even jumped into the lake for a minute, despite the chilly 78˚ temp, much too cold for my Florida blood.

GALE, SAM, JANET, BEAU

August 19:  Took our time getting going this morning, but eventually headed east.  Traveling through upstate New York, it’s hard not to be taken in by the history of the USA that has occurred all along the Erie Canal (you know, “I’ve got a mule, her name is Sal, 15 miles on the Erie Canal” - even Bruce Springsteen recorded it)) and the Mohawk Valley.  From long before the Revolutionary War through the present, this region has played a huge role in the development and success of our country.  Growing up in New York, study of this history was an important and fascinating part of my education and much of it came back to me as we traveled.  Every large city is associated with industrial developments - Rochester (Kodak and IBM), Syracuse (Carrier), Utica (General Electric) and Albany (corruption).  Can’t beat it with a stick.

VIN, EAMON, BECKY

Continuing on into western Massachusetts through the rolling Berkshire Mountains, home of Arlo Guthrie’s Alice’s Restaurant, we eventually made it to Grafton, MA to visit my daughter Becky, her husband Vin and their one year old son Eamon.  Three months earlier in our epic journey, we had the great pleasure of visiting my granddaughters Bonnie and Eloise in Portland, Oregon and now Eamon is the star.  Not to be subjective, but it is so much fun to VISIT my grandchildren I can barely stand it.  What a thrill!

August 20-24:  More visiting, had a great time.  Here in the Blackstone River Valley, much of America’s Industrial Revolution began, with the abundant flowing water powering mills large and small.  This was not all  on the plus side of the column, as the heavily polluted, dammed up rivers forever altered the landscape, ending the existence of Atlantic salmon in these waters and causing untold disease among the people who lived here and labored in the factories.  To celebrate this heritage, we played Blackstone National Golf Course, a fine hilly layout cast among the regrown forests of New England.  We also saw “Kubo and the Two Strings”, a fantastic incredible wonderful animated film from the Laika Studio, in Portland, Oregon.  My daughter-in-law Alice Bird, was the Art Director and my son, Matt, is the Executive Director of Acquisitions and Development (i.e., finding projects for future films).  THIS IS NOT A MOVIE JUST FOR CHILDREN!  In fact, I wouldn’t take a child to it under 12 years old and I would strongly recommend it for every adult.  It is a story of life, growth, humor, pain and love, told with unfailing artistry and compassion .  Doesn’t get much better than that.

JANE AND ME

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August 25-31:  We sadly said goodbye to the wee one and drove along quiet New England back roads, lined with old stone walls from 150 years previous, when almost all of southern New England was denuded of trees and converted to rocky, mostly infertile slopes for farming and dairy production.  The forests have come back, along with bears, birds and other inhabitants, which include a great deal of suburban sprawl.  Wandering along these overhanging leafy avenues was very peaceful and eventually brought us to Storrs, Connecticut, home of the UCONN Huskies and my sister, Jane Fried and Donna Fairfield.  We spent a couple of days here, enjoying their company and catching up.  

RACHEL AND TOM

TOM ON THE TRACK

Next stop was Lime Rock, Connecticut, to watch the race car driving of Tom Venturino, the boyfriend of Gale’s daughter, Rachel.  We weren’t sure if we would have a chance to see Rachel on this trip, so this was quite a bonus.  In addition to being a CPA, she has become an invaluable member of Tom’s pit crew and even helped him build the race car he drives.  We got to park Albie overnight right in the “paddock” with all the other race cars and their crews and spent two days watching cars zoom around the mile and a half track.  This at times required the use of earplugs.  Mufflers are not part of racing equipment and the mini-racers sounded like an extremely loud swarm of angry bees.  These racers are all amateurs, but their work on the cars is anything but.  Just try listening to the conversation of this group of mechanical engineers while they argue about the various mathematic equations and adjustments that will make their cars run a tenth of a second faster.  These are kids with really fast toys and they love tinkering with them endlessly, right up to race time, to achieve the highest performance levels.  Much fun to watch.  I even got to be the staff photographer for the day, a new experience for me.

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From Lime Rock, we returned to Rochester, for a one-night stand (including golf) with Janet and Beau, before continuing on to Kitchener, Ontario, where Albie was born (Am I getting to anthropomorphic here?).  The factory wanted us there promptly when they opened, so we parked and slept in their parking lot, where they conveniently had a plug on the outside wall for us to hook up, electrically speaking.  That way we could nuke some popcorn, which we did.  The following morning, Monday, we left Albie in their care AND they provided us with a Nissan Rogue for the duration of the repairs.  Despite it being only 10:00 AM, we repaired to a swank hotel in nearby Waterloo for a couple of nights of R&R.  A round of golf at beautiful Deer Ridge Golf Club found its way into the activity list, as did a dinner trip to the cute little town of St. Jacobs, a Mennonite community that rolled up its streets mostly by 3:00 PM and completely by 6:00 PM, leaving us one choice for dinner and some peeking in closed shop windows.  

ALL WE WANT IN LIFE IS TO GET A HEAD
ST. JACOBS, ONTARIO

By Wednesday morning, Albie was ready for pickup.  We went through the checklist and what they hadn’t done, they did on the spot.  What they had done was most impressive - new refrigerator and freezer, new motor for the sliding side step, new major valve for the hot water system, all new latches throughout, electrical repairs, and on and on.  Total charges, even for the stuff we had wrecked by driving the RV through hell and back - $0!  We couldn’t believe it.  We are customers for life.

Next stop this afternoon - Albie needs new feet.  The front tire were worn dangerously down to the cord and the rears weren’t much better.  So now we’re at the tire shop, breathing rubber fumes and waiting for the finish when we can bolt outtahere and head north to Georgian Bay.

ACROSS THE GREAT PLAINS

“While the train flashed through never-ending miles of ripe wheat, by country towns and bright-flowered pastures and oak groves wilting in the sun, we sat in the observation car, where the woodwork was hot to the touch and red dust lay deep over everything. The dust and heat, the burning wind, reminded us of many things. We were talking about what it is like to spend one’s childhood in little towns like these, buried in wheat and corn, under stimulating extremes of climate: burning summers when the world lies green and billowy beneath a brilliant sky, when one is fairly stifled in vegetation, in the color and smell of strong weeds and heavy harvests; blustery winters with little snow, when the whole country is stripped bare and gray as sheet-iron. We agreed that no one who had not grown up in a little prairie town could know anything about it.” 

― Willa Cather, My Ántonia

LOCHSA RIVER, MT

August 2:  Today is one for driving, observation and rumination.  We basically spent all day in the car, eschewing the interstate for lesser two-lane roadways as we crossed over the Bitterroot Mountains in Idaho to Missoula, Montana and then eastward to Great Falls.  The first 100 miles was the longest, steadiest, curviest climb ever, as we gained about 2500 feet winding through exquisite forest, rolling plains and deep canyons, following the Clearwater and Lochsa Rivers to their origins at the Continental Divide.  Now bear in mind that throughout this journey, the speed limit was an astonishing 70 MPH!  This equates in my opinion to the states saying, “Go ahead, kill yourself.”  And they did.  The roadside was littered with white cross markers, showing where every highway fatality had occurred.  When we crossed into Montana at Lolo Pass of Lewis and Clark fame in the Bitterroots, there was a sign explaining that the American Legion had taken it upon itself to put up these little white crosses for each death.  In fact, they had a pretty fancy system - one death, one cross on a post; two deaths got a metal post with cross bar holding two crosses at the same height; three deaths got the same treatment except now there was a third cross in the middle held higher than the other two.  We didn’t see any foursomes.  Perhaps they played through.  These deaths are a terrible thing and it is probably a good idea to remind the traveling public, who are racing along these roads now at AUTHORIZED AND ENCOURAGED death wish speeds, that others before them have bought the farm.  However, what comes to mind for me is picturing the American Legion guy (I can’t imagine a woman doing this), sitting at home with a garage full of little white cross holders that he has carefully prepared in various combinations, scanning all the traffic reports and obits throughout the state, looking for dead people on his roads.  Is he sad when he learns of deaths and has to go out to put up the markers or is he disappointed when he doesn’t find anything and has nothing to do?  Grisly, either way.  

Casino gambling is legal in Montana.  What is weird, besides seeing “Lucky Lil’s Gambling Halls” scattered around the state, are all the gas stations that are also “casinos” and usually liquor stores as well.  It’s kind of a “git ‘er all done” in one place philosophy.  Come Friday, go down to the local gaseteria, fill your tank, get wasted and gamble away your paycheck.  Saves time AND fuel.  Then you can drive home through the mountains at 70 MPH and finish the job, getting a little white cross for your efforts.  Drive at night on the back roads of Montana?  I don’t think so.

GAS STATION/CONVENIENCE STORE/LIQUOR STORE/CASINO

We tried to finish the day by staying at First Peoples Buffalo Jump State Park, but it was closed for the day, meaning it probably didn’t have camping anyway.  I would have liked to see where Native Americans hunted bison by driving them over a cliff to their deaths.  Maybe that’s where the tradition began for that 70 MPH speed limit in the mountains.  Disappointed, we continued on to the inevitable Walmart in Great Falls, right next to a scenic oil refinery, all lit up at night, plus an adjacent casino at your local Conoco station.  By now it was 8:30 PM, the temperature was still 90 degrees and we bought for dinner a rotisserie chicken that probably had been driven over a cliff by Indians.  Night all.

August 3: Like Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs said in Woolly Bully, “Drive, baby, drive!”  Or was that Sarah Palin?  Either way, that’s what we did today, crossing the the Great Northern Plains from Great Falls, Montana to northeastern North Dakota.  Rather than take the interstate, which would have been much faster, we traveled along Route 200 the entire way. This was just south of the Missouri Breaks National Monument badlands and the sprawling Charles Russel National Wildlife Refuge, roughly paralleling the course of the mighty Missouri River, about 50 miles north of our path.  Most of the trip was through rolling hills planted with grain of one sort or another or giant cattle ranches covered in grass that rippled hypnotically in the strong prairie winds.  We made one significant stop, wanting to actually get out of Albie and do a bit of exploring.  A green dot on the map drew us to War Horse NWR, a speck of saved land about seven miles north along a dirt road.  The website described it as “a natural depression that sometimes has water in it and can be very important for waterfowl migration if it does.”  We took a chance and found War Horse Lake, which actually was full of water and covered with ducks, 100s of eared and western grebes, white pelicans and some shorebirds along its perimeter.  A few flocks of lark buntings, the males still dressed in black and white for the prom, filtered by.  Were these the same birds we had seen going north almost four months ago, now heading in a southerly direction to their wintering grounds?  There was a dike surrounding the west side of the lake, so we spent about an hour walking along the water’s edge seeing what we could find.  The wind was so strong that even holding our binoculars steady was an uncertain task.  The best part about getting off the main road and rambling along a small dirt one was having a chance to really get a feel for what the surrounding land was like.  Mostly dry grassland, sliced by draws from rain water runoff, the land land rose and fell with small hills.  A pair of pronghorn watched us from a distance and bounced off, going up a rise.  A small forest of Ponderosa pine grew near the lake, thriving in what a sign called “Acid Shale Formation” that is an extremely rare geo-ecological configuration.  The only other vehicle we saw was a ranch truck carrying a massive amount of hay bales, probably to store for the winter.  Living out here, a long way from any towns at all, is a very different way of life.  But that’s where our steaks and burgers come from.

Route 200 laid a track all the way to Sidney, Montana, for refueling and a last chance at a gas station/convenience store/liquor store/casino.  The casino was small and surprisingly elegant, filled with a variety of slot machines, brightly lit with neon lighting, with a bar filled with cowpokes watching the Yankees game.  

In one more hour, we reached our destination in North Dakota - the North Unit of Theodore Roosevelt National Park.  It was now 10:30 PM, dark and we were greeted at the entrance by the resident camp host, which was a huge 2000 pound bull Plains Bison, casually munching along the road.  Bison are dark, keep their heads down and don’t much care about vehicles.  It’s a good thing Gale saw it in time.  The campground had a great site open for us so we pulled in, did our own munching on leftovers and called it a night.

NORTH UNIT, THEODORE ROOSEVELT NP, ND

August 4: We got a good late start for the day, driving the park’s 14 mile one-way road on an overcast, chilly morning.  Time to reverse gears - back to the campsite, take a nap, shower and have a late lunch.  The late afternoon sun was lighting up the prairie like a magic lantern, so we started our visit again.  Checked out the Visitor Center and picked out the Coulee/Caprock Nature Trail for a moderate hike we would enjoy. The trail narrowly wound its way through a coulee, a large slender wash or draw or arroyo caused over time by rain or snow-melt runoff.  The land here is composed almost entirely of soft sediments deposited in narrow, at times colorful bands, that are exceptionally horizontal.  No uplift here to twist and torture those sedimentary lines, as seen in the Rockies.  Fifty million years ago, this area was at the bottom of a gigantic inland sea, with all the tropical accoutrements and creatures one would expect.  The sea dried up, the land eroded and the end result is a huge high plain of grassland, sliced and diced by erosive forces of wind and water that reveal in the coulees and badlands a treasure of geological and paleontogical history, a multitude of dinosaur and other fossils, plus a relatively recently discovered rich shale oil field (The Bakken Field) that is the second largest in the USA.  Makes for a lot of ranchers and farmers that struck it rich big time.  Back to our trail.  Accompanied by a nature guide pamphlet, we learned and saw a lot about the natural history of the area.  Ancient petrified trees protruded from the coulee walls, sending a stream of silica laden former bark down the hillside below them.  In places the highly striated slopes, underlain by slippery Bentonite clay, which absorbs three times its volume in water when it rains, “slumped” and slid down the hill to the bottom, leaving the viewer to match up the sedimentary stripes to see where the the formation used to be.  Pretty amazing stuff.  Not much in the way of birds, except for a juvenile spotted towhee, which I had never seen before and some least chipmunks zipping around on the rocks.  There were some muddy spots along the path, where springs seeped out of the hillsides before disappearing back into the earth.  Immense bison tracks were common and the last thing we wanted to run into was a bison on a narrow trail.  The best thing about our walk?  No one else was there!  In fact, the lightly visited North Unit of the TRNP is a delightful place to go for peace and quiet, some nice hiking and few other people, apparently even in mid-summer.

BISON

MULE DEER

The sun was getting lower and the light was getting better for photography, so we continued on up the hill toward the two overlooks that provide superb viewing into the deeply eroded coulees that lead to the Little Missouri River.  En route, we encountered a problem.  About 100 bison were blocking the road.  When we stopped, we became surrounded by them as bulls, cows and calves slowly milled about us.  It was like being awash in a buffalo river.  We sat there for at least 20 minutes, just watching the show.  The frisky calves frolicked in the grass, chasing each other around, kicking up their heels.  Little ones tried to nurse from annoyed cows that had apparently thought that weaning time had already come and gone.  Bulls rolled around in the sandy dirt and grunted at each other in mock displays of anger.  It was very easy to imagine the time, 200 years ago, when millions upon millions of these creatures roamed the plains, traveling in vast herds and behaving in the same ways we now had the privilege to observe.  

At the highest overlook, we had a simple dinner of rice, black beans and salsa and then headed back toward the campground as the sun disappeared behind the gently rolling grasslands.  Wildlife seems to appear from nowhere at this time of day and tonight was no exception.  As darkness approached, we saw three buck mule deer, each with an immense rack.  And then the biggest surprise, two bighorn sheep rams, with full hornage, lifted their heads from atop a nearby ridge to see what we were up to.  A few bison in the road later, we were safely home for the night.

August 5: Nicely cool last night. We had breakfast and then a walk to the river through the cottonwood grove in which the campground is located.   Instantly, we heard and found a group of three red-headed woodpeckers foraging in the trees, circulating around their favorite drumming spots, usually dead tree limbs that would provide some great reverberation.  The river was muddy and low and the sandy banks were littered with the tracks of all the animals that had recently passed by.

RED-HEADED WOODPECKERS

We packed up and drove about 80 miles south to the South Unit of the TRNP, which overlaps Interstate 94 and is much more heavily visited than the North Unit.  We did find one of the last available campsites and settled in for the hot afternoon.  For the first time, we unfurled our awning, not quite sure how to do it or once out, how to get it securely back in its nifty rooftop container.  In the meantime, the shade it provides is most welcome and I’m enjoying it as I write.  The only disturbance is a common nighthawk, which is perched right above us in a cottonwood and every few minutes, starts screeching out its nasal peent call, which is MUCH louder up close and personal than from high in the sky like we usually hear them.  A lone bison calf wandered right past me (“Where’s my mommy?”) as did a single chestnut wild horse, glistening in the sunlight.

BLACK-TAILED PRAIRIE-DOGS

We spent the remainder of the afternoon cruising the 35 mile long road within the South Section.  It was much like the North, except gentler, since this area had not been glaciated, leaving many rounded sedimentary domes and shallower valleys.  Most interesting and amusing were the multiple black-tailed prairie dog towns that at times were on both sides of the road (we found one burrowing owl glowering from the top of its mound) and the small herds of wild horses, descended from ranch stock that roam the park.  A brief visit to the Painted Canyon Overlook off I-94 completed the day.

August 6:  Having realized last night that one of the best golf courses in North Dakota was only five miles away, we had no choice but to go play Bully Pulpit.  Mostly rolling along the Little Missouri River valley, for three holes on the back nine it abruptly rises into the badlands hills.  The three holes I categorize as hard, extremely hard and ridiculous.  All were much fun, but I left a quite a few golf balls out there in the tall grass.  It was a slow round, so we had a delicious brat with sauerkraut for lunch. The area around here is very German, from immigration that occurred in the early 1800s and then again after WWII.  According to our young playing partners, Logan and Lindsey Unterheyer, the Germans in the second wave came through Russia and always referred to themselves as “the Germans from Russia”, so no one would think they were Nazis.  

We left by about 3:00 PM, heading east on I-94 for 130 miles, then turning south toward Long Lake National Wildlife Refuge.  North Dakota has more National Wildlife Refuges than any other state!  Many of them are just dots on the map, providing protection for a pothole lake or small copse of trees, but these little protected areas are all over the place.  Known as “The Duck Factory of North America”, these little pothole lakes and marshes are the result of glacial activity 10,000 years ago, and teem with breeding waterfowl during spring and early summer.  Despite it being not quite prime time for migration, we found a flock of shorebirds containing stilt, least, Baird’s and pectoral sandpipers, plus a group of marbled godwits. 

ABANDONED HOME, NORTH DAKOTA PRAIRIE

Driving along all these backroads and even the highways throughout the Dakotas, Nebraska and Iowa, we’ve come across numerous abandoned houses, farm buildings and equipment, decaying as roofs collapsed, trees and weeds grew through what used to be barns, living rooms, kitchens and scenes of family happiness.  Passing by these log or clapboard antiques, paint long gone, shingles shed, I can’t help but think of the hopes and dreams, happiness and sadness, incredibly hard work trying to make a living on these wide open prairies, all of which is now irretrievably lost, history sinking into the weeds.  What went on here?  Where did the people go?  What happened to them?  From the most simple one-room log cabin, with an outhouse just behind, to an elegant two-story Italianate house, probably the finest in the county, all now decaying, lives that disappeared, stories probably lost.  Did the owners simply leave, selling out their land to the huge farming corporations that now dominate agricultural America, their land worth far more than their former homes?  Did they get wiped out in the Great Depression or the Dust Bowl years?  Did their children have no interest in the prairie farming life?  I’m sure there is a different story for each abandoned homestead, and seeing each one raises many more questions than will ever be answered.

Slowly working our way along the gravel roads, we came upon a hill with an observation shelter overlooking the lake AND an outhouse!  What could be more perfect?  So here we are, 100 feet over the lake, watching the sun set while sitting outside on our lawn chairs, sipping mint juleps.  Most of that is true.

VIEW FROM HILLTOP CAMPSITE

SUNFLOWERS, ND

BLACK TERN

August 7:  Driving, driving, driving.  After briefly checking out the rest of Long Lake Refuge, we sat in the car the whole day.  If there was any engaging scenery, this would not be too bad.  But here in the eastern Dakotas, flat and treeless are the operative words.  Pretty much nothing but one plane farming or ranching country.  We drove mostly secondary roads, so we could actually see what the small towns looked like.  Most had populations of under 500 and whose fortunes were linked to a large array of grain elevators.  The highlight was driving a 10 mile dirt road that had several marshes and ditches alongside, filled with 100s of yellow-headed blackbirds, duck and coot families and some shorebirds, including a white-rumped sandpiper, which was new for the trip.  A group of white-faced ibis gently soared in to land at one pool.  Bright yellow fields got our attention in the distance and we learned that North Dakota is the number one producer of sunflower seeds in the country, so for all you bird feeders out there, that's where your seed may be coming from!  Dozens of black terns hawked insects over a roadside pond.

Our final destination was the Ohiya Casino and Resort, operated by the Santee Sioux Nation near Niobrara, Nebraska (our 18th state for the trip).  The goal is to play golf here at the new Tatanka Golf Course and then continue east.  We checked out the casino upon arrival (they let us park overnight in the parking lot) and can’t quite figure out how a casino can succeed so far out in the middle of nowhere without any even medium-sized city nearby.  It was built with the assistance of a $20,000,000 loan from another Sioux tribe in Minnesota, which apparently already has had their revenge on white folks with their own successful gambling business.  So staying here is like a much fancier version of the Walmart parking lot, except with no shopping.

August 8:  We played Tatanka (translation in Sioux is “buffalo”) in the morning.  The course was enjoying its Grand Opening today, even though it informally opened for play last year.  Laid out on the rolling hills of the Santee Sioux tribe, the designer chose not to alter the land any more than necessary, letting the course conform to the natural rolls and tumbles of the terrain.  Tall native grasses cover everything that isn’t fairway, green or tee box and easily swallow every off line ball.  A small herd of bison was grazing just outside the course fence.  This is definitely a “player’s” course and is not for the unskilled or faint-hearted.  On the other hand, if you’ve got your “A” game, it’s nothing but fun, making you think your way through every hole and shot like you were making billiard shots.

Then came the worst drive of the trip so far.  Straight across eastern Nebraska and halfway through Iowa.  Nothing but corn and soybean fields, with an occasional cow or sheep.  Fortunately, there was good internet service most of the way, so Pandora saved the day.  But what about tomorrow?  The rest of the way through Iowa and into Illinois doesn’t hold much promise for inspiration.  Time to whip out one of our books on CD, perhaps?

Night in Williams, IA at a Best Western, operated by East Indians.  There is a slight bouquet of curry in the hallway.

August 9: Agonizingly boring drive to Dixon, Illinois.

EVER ONWARD

July 25:  Up bright and early for our date at the RV hospital in High River, Alberta, just south of Calgary.  I handed the tech our 42 page list of the issues that we would like addressed.  He said, “Will you be leaving your vehicle with us for a month?”.  “No. One day”, I replied.  “Ah”, said he, with genuine Canadian kindness, “We will do our best, eh.”  The dealership was wonderful.  Very knowledgeable, pleasant and accommodating.  They gave us a free loaner car, but we spent the morning employing their wifi to pay bills and post the blog on the net.  Then we went and played golf at a nearby course.  We were delighted when advised, later in the day, that they would like to keep Albie overnight, so they could do more work on her.  Astutely, we found a brand-new Marriott suite in which to spend the night, watch the Monday speeches at the Democratic National Convention and totally chill out.

July 26:  Albie was ready to go by 11:00 AM, so we returned to the dealer, where they carefully explained all the work they did, what they could not do due to need for parts and what we should do to connect with the national Roadtrek factory in Kitchener, Ontario on our trip east to fix the remaining issues.  They also gently tried to persuade us to trade in our vehicle for a brand-spanking new one, taking advantage of the 30% discount because of currency difference between Canada and the US dollars.  We politely declined, but the new ones were magnificent.  

OLD GRAIN ELEVATORS, NANTON, ALBERTA

AMERICAN AVOCET

AMERICAN AVOCET

We drove south through the broad Albertan high prairie, at about 4000 feet elevation, steadily aiming at the good old USA.  All the while, the sawtooth horizon of the Rockies cut through to our west.  A slight detour at the small town of Nanton for groceries slowed us down enough to take close looks at some of the prairie potholes with ducks and their broods.  So, ever distrustful of completely straight lines, which tend to prevail on the flatland, we made a two hour rectangular detour searching for wet spots that might hold southbound birds that had completed their odyssey to the far north, as had we.  Eventually, we came to the very small town of Nobleton, Alberta, which had, much to our pleasure,  eschewing modern technology, a series of mid-sized sewage lagoons consisting mostly of shallow stinking water and mudflats.  Well, ladies and gentlemen, this is heaven for birds and birders, and 

after poking around for a bit, we hit the motherlode.  One pond was chock full of migrating Franklin’s gulls, black-necked stilts, American avocets, Hudsonian godwits, long-billed curlew, greater and lesser yellowlegs, numerous Wilson’s phalaropes, willets (western form), so we set up the scope and were having a blast, until we got blasted by one of those gigantic prairie storms that rolled in on us.  Torrential rain accompanied by marble-sized hail, pounded our roof, creating a racket that made conversation impossible.  So we had lunch!  The storm passed fairly quickly and we went back to birding for a bit before continuing our journey south.  When we crossed into the US, at a lightly used border station, the obviously bored guard confiscated our just-purchased tomatoes and peppers because they contained seeds.  I hope they made a nice dinner.

HAIL STORM, NOBLETON, ALBERTA

SWAINSON'S HAWK, MONTANA

Onward to Babb, Montana, where the campground at which we intended to stay declared itself defunct.  Onward to St. Mary, where hundreds, if not thousands of travelers spend the night before descending on adjacent Glacier National Park, to get an early jump on those precious few campsites.  As did we.  We drove up and over The Highway to the Sun, through 6600’ Logan Pass and down the narrow serpentine ledge that passes for a two-way road to Avalanche Campground, where we actually secured a lovely campsite.  Once settled, not having sufficient knowledge of the now over-population of the park, we drove back up the  tortuous 17 miles to the Logan Pass Visitor Center, where we assumed we could park, get some information and go for a walk.  Not to be.  The parking lot was so jammed with cars there were no places available and lines of vehicles circled like vultures waiting to pounce on a open spot.  After some minutes of this, we gave up, deciding to go for a walk to Jackson Glacier, one of the few remaining glaciers in almost Glacier-less National Park.  We arrived, overcoming massive slow traffic along the route, to find so many vehicles and walkers there that the entire experience was completely unappealing.  We turned around and drove an hour back to our campsite for lunch and a nap.  We have learned a VERY important lesson and would like pass that along to all you prospective travelers to the big national parks of the US and Canada.  DON’T EVER COME DURING JULY AND AUGUST!!!!!!  While the parks are still beautiful, magnificent and worthy of every superlative adjective you can imagine, the crowds dilute the experience to make it more frustrating than enjoyable.  If you have no other choice but to venture forth in those heavily visited summer months, do your research in advance, pick your spots and get to them very early in the day for the greatest enjoyment of a natural experience.  We did this at Emerald Lake in Alberta’s Yoho National Park and it is a strategy we will adhere to rigidly forevermore.

HAYSTACK CREEK, GLACIER NP

Now, relaxing at our site, with the piercing songs of varied thrushes ringing in our ears, we’re gearing up for a hike somewhere nearby, where we and I’m sure several thousand others will enjoy nature at its finest.  

Well, we never made it on our walk, since thunder and a few drops scared us off.  We did wander around the campground and talk to a couple of other owners of RVs similar to ours, comparing notes and checking out their vehicles.  Some creative, talented, hands-on kind of people actually buy a shell and do their own conversion.  This is basically a foreign concept to me.  I’m much better at writing checks.  Other vehicles come fully equipped, like ours, but have different engines, fuel, beds, cooking, storage, etc.  If only there was some way to stay the same size, carry golf clubs, fishing and photo gear AND a small boat it would be perfect.  We’ve got to find an inflatable canoe that takes up no space, self-inflates and has the stability of an aircraft carrier.  Suggestions?  

Since our previous site-occupiers had left us a stack of firewood, we had no choice but torch it and sit outside, even if some of the time was under an umbrella when droplets began to fall.  Still, there’s that cozy feeling from enjoying a campfire, smoke billowing in your face no matter which direction you sit, even if the only thing we had to cook up was ideas.

MOUNTAIN GOAT WITH KID

HIDDEN LAKE

July 28:  Got up early again (egad, what’s happening to us?) to attack the throngs at Glacier with our new strategy.  By 7:30 AM we had arrived at the dread parking lot at Logan Pass, where already masses were gathering for their assaults on every trail and facility the park has to offer.  After eating breakfast in the parking lot, we, along with many others, began our 1.5 mile walk up the hill to Hidden Lake.  Fat ones, lean ones, short ones, tall ones - all marching up the broad boardwalk installed to protect the land from the hordes.  It was a clear, windless day, and with the strong mountain sunshine, we doffed our jackets rather quickly.  At 7000 feet, we made it to the lake overlook, albeit with a wee bit of gasping.  A wedding was being held on an adjacent outcrop, where the entire wedding party, in full bride and groom glory, had marched up the hill with gown and suit underscored by hiking boots.  Just to the right, as we took our places on the overlook platform, a female mountain goat clambered over the ledge, kid in tow, and rolled in a dirt wallow she obviously had used previously.  This was obviously the nine o’clock goat under contract to perform for the crowds.  She was wearing a collar with a device attached to it, aptly dubbed a “goat pro” camera by one of the observers.  A fat hoary marmot sunbathed nearby.  Later, a male goat, also similarly collared as part of a study, crossed the path just in front of us.  Hidden Lake, meanwhile, revealed itself to us in all its glory and was quite beautiful with its deep jade tones and surrounded by still lightly snowy mountains.  We took a little side trail and were rewarded not only with some respite from the crowds, but there were a ton of birds there!  Gale saw a black swift fly by, plus there several kinds of sparrows, red crossbills and a couple of teeny-weeny calliope hummingbirds.  We managed to get back down the hill without incident or injury and then swung Albie into traffic for the long twisting descent to the western exit of the park.  

We stopped at the very cute, artsy-fartsy town of Whitefish, Montana for a stroll among the shops.  We did find one bit of reality - an ice cream store that made its own stuff from local ingredients.  Delicious!  Chocolate ice cream with tiny chocolate chips. Perfection!  Onward toward Eureka, where we will play golf tomorrow.  But where to spend the night?  We adhered to Murphy’s Law and landed on the shores of Murphy Lake, where I fly-fished for underwater sticks for about an hour until I caught my limit.  This was actually a beautiful unofficial campsite, right on the lake shore.  We sat out in folding chairs and watched the slow sunset while we had our usual gourmet dinner.

RED CROSSBILL

July 29:   Camped on a little dirt side road, we went for a pre-breakfast walk.  Almost immediately, we found an adult and juvenile red-naped sapsucker, a lifer for Gale we had hoped to see somewhere in the area.   There was also a small flock of red crossbills roaming through the conifer tops, one of which amazed me during breakfast when it perched right outside the RV window for great shots.  

MURHY LAKE

We headed north to the old mining/logging town of Eureka, Montana and almost to the border of British Columbia to play at The Wilderness Golf Club, a resort truly in the middle of nowhere that apparently subscribed to the notion, “Build it and They Will Come”.  That didn’t work out so well at first and the course went bankrupt, but the current owners seem to be doing much better, selling luxury cabins and timeshares for those who really want to get away from it all.  The course itself was difficult, especially for a first-timer, but a lot of fun and in great shape.  One problem was that when we finished, it was 95 degrees!  The humidity was only 23%, which made the heat bearable to some extent, but we decided to tough it out by sitting in the bar, drinking beer and watching the second round of the PGA tournament.  We brought in our maps and itinerary and figured out that we needed to get up in the mountains tonight to find some cooler air.

That’s when the trouble started.  We had decided to go to the tiny town of Yaak, Montana, about 4000 feet higher than where we were.  As usual, we programmed my phone for the best route and made the error of actually following its directions.  Paved Route 92 gave way to unpaved road, so we gamely continued, winding up and up.  A herd of five deer watched us like we had arrived from outer space before bolting into the forest.  We came to a fork in the road, but unwilling to follow Yogi’s advice, we chose not to take it, since one way - the route our phone said to take, was now very narrow, rutted and had tall grass growing in the middle and the other went up Maria Mountain, which was not that appealing either.  At any moment, we expected a swarm of survivalist paramilitary mountain folks to surround us and take us home for dinner.  Which reminds me of a tee shirt I saw a guy wearing at Glacier NP.  The front read: “The Donner Family Restaurant - Serving Humanity since 1847”.  I must get one.  Anyway, we turned around and successfully descended to pavement, found the right curvy ascending paved road toward Yaak and took it.  By this time, I was pretty beat driving these winding roads and it was getting late, so we only went about 10 miles before finding a perfect little camping area for the night. 

Here’s something that I’ve noticed.  Throughout the trip, especially out here, we’ve seen the usual numerous roadside crosses where people have met an unfortunate fate in vehicular mishaps.  However, I’ve never seen a plastic flower-studded Star of David in any of my travels.  Seems to be a cultural thing, but Jews apparently either do not die in car crashes or don’t put up religious mementos when they they do. I suspect the latter is a more accurate assessment.  Just an observation.  A mountain cottontail welcomed us for the night and that’s all I’m going to say about that.

July 30:  As we went up and over the mountain this morning, a family of ruffed grouse with five chicks placidly strolled across the road just ahead of us.  We were riding six white horses and comin’ round the mountain, which really makes a lot of noise, taking us 35 miles through the forest and eventually to Yaak.  Since this is that kind of place, we did not talk back, driving past the Dirty Shame Saloon, just across the street from the Yaak Tavern, which seemed to be the only surviving businesses in town.  Forced by obviously misplaced mountains to take a somewhat circuitous path to our ultimate destination somewhere near the Coeur d’Alene River, we wound our way north, south, east and west before finally crossing the Continental Divide at Thompson Pass and into the great state of Idaho, where tubers (not the potato sort), were floating down a broad, shallow, crystal clear expanse known as the above river.  We did see some scantily clad people making the float who did closely resembled Idaho potatoes, completely baked.  All they lacked was the butter, sour cream and chives.  

RUFFED GROUSE

Finally, after winding for 20 miles north along the river, we arrived at our place of destiny, where no less than the Yellow Dog Creek flowed into the Coeur d’Alene.  We did see a yellow dog floating on someone’s raft, but again, I digress.  Here there was supposed to be a trail leading up the aforementioned YDC to Shadow Waterfall, where BLACK SWIFTS were nesting behind its watery curtain.  Alas, the unmarked, unmaintained trail was narrow, overgrown and very uncertain as to length or disposition.  Plus it is berry season, when our ursine friends like to flop in the fruit patch and stuff themselves.  Until some unsuspecting tourist comes along to provide a bit of protein with the meal.  Reluctantly, we agreed that our search for the grail must come to a premature end and retreated to Albie for consolation.  We did manage to secure the last site at a National Forest campground along the way out, where, although it is still almost 90 degrees, we have shade and a picnic table.  All for the senior Golden Pass holder price of $9.00.  What a deal!  We didn’t have the right , so we slipped a tenner into the envelope, figuring it was all for a good cause, but about an hour later the campground host came by with a dollar for us.  So nice when those sort of things happen.  We took a little walk around the campground, dropping down to the Coeur d”Alene River for a view, where a couple of people had parked their lawn chairs in about a foot of quickly moving cool water and were enjoying the refreshing current.  We returned to the campsite and were sitting outside, delighting in the wind through the trees, I writing and Gale reading.  BUT, if I had to take a course in sitting still for very long, I would definitely get an “F”.  The wonderful Yiddish word for this affliction is shpilkas, or vaguely translated, “ants in your pants”.  So after dutifully composing the above, I put on my swim trunks, returned to the cool flowing embrace of the Coeur d’Alene (“coor dahlane”) and plunged in.  There definitely was some shrinkage involved while submerging in these chilly waters, but in moments, the temperature could not have felt better.  The only problem was that I was wearing foam rubber sandals, which, while they protected my feet from the slippery stones, were made from extremely floaty material, so when I sat down on the stream bottom, my feet instantly jumped up to the top, sending me ass over teakettle backward into the flow.  In 18 inches of water, it was great!  As things often happen, I began having a nice conversation with the two folks in the lawn chairs.  They were from the city of Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, about 50 miles away, and both worked at a company that works primarily with forestry (lumbering) companies that replant up to 85 million trees each year that have been harvested for timber.  To accomplish this amazing statistic, they bring in people mainly from Mexico and Guatemala on work visas, to hand plant the sprigs that will ultimately become trees.  This is extremely hard work and although it pays between $14-20/hour, they said they can’t get very many Americans, of any ethnicity, to do the back-breaking labor.  And, according to them, when they do find an American, they usually quit within hours because the work is so hard.  Draw your own conclusions, my friends.  Anyway, I come back from my swim, cooled off, refreshed, but can’t get that beautiful clear water out of my mind.  So I return with my fly rod for half an hour, practicing casting.

One word about the people of the northwest.  They really know how to enjoy the outdoors, even in places where there is no phone service!  It seems like everyone camps in a tent or RV of every conceivable sort when the weather is conducive or when it is not.  

My new friends, who are camped right across the road from us, invited us over for a beer after dinner, so, being sociable folks, we visit.  We had a blast!  Another couple was there, the sister and brother-in-law of our hostess and during four glasses of wine for me and couple of brews for Gale, we were really enjoying ourselves.  Now, I must say, my usual limit is one cup of wine, since I have an inordinately low tolerance for alcoholic beverages, so I was pretty wasted by the time we left, very glad we were only 50 feet from home.  With Gale’s assistance, I made it, although the forest was now whirling around me, and with that, I wish you all a pleasant good night.

FLOATING GREEN, COEUR D'ALENE GOLF COURSE

July 31:  When traveling in an RV, your perspective on what makes a day great can vary widely from similar expectations of the general populace.  We found a gas station that had BOTH fresh water for our tank and a dump station for our other tanks.  Heavenly!  After that, the day only got better.  We continued on into the City of Coeur d’Alene and played golf at the posh resort of the same name.  This course is famous for one thing: the 14th hole is a par 3 with a floating green!  That’s right - the green is about one acre in size, beautifully decorated with flowers, has sand bunkers and is towed around into a new position every day and anchored into place.  A beautiful old Chris Craft motorboat takes you and your putter out and back for your time on exquisitely beautiful Coeur d’Alene Lake.  The surface is beautiful, but not the bottom.  In the past, this unfortunate body of water was the dumping ground of a multitude of mining companies that deposited so much toxic sludge into the lake that it can never be cleaned up.  Basically, a really good-looking corpse.  The golf course itself was a delightful resort-type layout, not too difficult, perfectly manicured, but all the holes very interesting.  Like Augusta National, there is no real rough, just a bit of water (remember that floating green) and for the first time in I don’t remember when, I played 18 holes with the same ball.  

Return to reality and back to the same-ole night at Walmart for shopping and a paved campsite under not the stars, but the light posts.

August 1: Despite the fact that we did not see any antelope playing, there was not a cloud in the sky all day.  Air quality is another issue, though.  Throughout the trip, I have been surprised that wherever we go, the air is not as clear as I would have expected or have previously experienced, even in the most remote areas of Alaska and northern Canada.  There is always a haze in the sky.  I don’t know if this is a summer phenomenon or just the new normal, but it has been somewhat disappointing and concerning.  This evening, as we drove south through Idaho, the sky took on a gray/brown cast with the smell of smoke.  There is a major fire somewhere west of us sending smoke this way.  I know there are some huge uncontrolled fires raging in California, but there could be another on this side of the Rockies that is causing this condition.

I played golf again this afternoon, Gale wisely choosing to sit this one out.  About 40 miles south of Coeur d’Alene in Worley, Idaho is the Circling Raven Golf Course, part of the Coeur d’Alene tribe’s casino and resort complex.  The course is absolutely gorgeous, winding up and down and around hills blanketed with golden wheat about to be harvested, dotted with ponderosa pines and lined by tall fescue grasses.  No buildings at all on or near the course, which for me doubles the visual enjoyment of a golf course.  Almost half the holes have forced carries over brush and those tall grasses, making it extremely difficult and unfriendly to most women and short hitters, so Gale made a good choice to just ride around with me as caddie du jour.  We had two most pleasant playing companions from Sand Point, Idaho, who were both very good golfers and knew the course, making for a fun afternoon.  My play was the usual good, bad and ugly, but it’s always a great experience in a beautiful setting.  

THE PALOUSE

From there we continued south on Route 95, traveling through the Palouse, a vast area of largely treeless rolling hills, mainly in grain production, that encompasses much of the Idaho panhandle, eastern Washington and a bit of Oregon.   As we approached Lewiston, Idaho, the road plunged two thousand feet down through the hills to the Snake River and the city of Lewiston, right on the Washington State border.  The air had gotten foul with smoke by now and smelled like there was a campfire right next to us.  We hung a left to begin our first major push east and pulled over for the night in a large rest area next to the Snake River.  Despite the late hour, I whipped up a big omelet with mushrooms, red pepper and onions for our evening meal.  Very tasty!