BETTY AND JOHN DO EUROPE

Betty, and John spent a delightful September in Europe, seeing the sights and visiting old friends.

Betty left first, flying to Vienna, where she visited her daughter, son in law, and grandkids. They had a good time visiting all the sights in that grand old Austrian city.

Then Betty was off on the train to Darmstadt, in Germany, where she met John, who had flown into Frankfurt, where he was to rent a car. Only problem was that John had misplaced his driver’s license, so no car. Anyway, after a few hectic train and subway rides, Betty rented the car. One minor detail, she couldn't drive a stick shift.

Anyway, they were finally on their way, to Vienna again. Betty's daughter had thought she was rid of her, but now she had two to contend with. So, leaving the car with daughter (The driving license had finally shown up, thanks to DHL courier service) they were off on the train to Prague, in the Czech Republic. After a brush with Czech immigration, who thought Betty looked suspicious, they finally got to Prague, and guess what, nobody spoke any English. Betty also found that you can't get seated in a Prague restaurant wearing a jogging suit, but there was always Mac Donald's. (The business there was so good that they had a security guard armed with a club to keep order.)

Since Prague didn't appreciate them, it was back to Vienna, The meals and rooms at Betty's daughter's place were cheaper anyway. They had a good bicycle ride along the Danube, although Betty crashed, even before they had sampled any of that good Austrian wine.

They then spent a delightful several days sightseeing in the Austrian, Italian, and Swiss Alps, visiting some of John's private haunts. Small villages and back roads, where the people are friendly and tourists never go.

Betty particularly wanted to visit a small village in Switzerland, which she had read about in a book. It was said to be a quaint almost inaccessible place, where Heidi is alleged to have lived.

In the story below, you can read more about this adventure.

But back to our tale. By now, running low on money, but not ready to go home, they looked up one of John's old friends and talked her into keeping them for awhile. This was an exciting few days, with trips to Heidelberg, the castles on the Rhine, and even a small town wine festival, complete with parade. This was really fun. Everyone was smashed, including the people driving the floats.

Betty and John had a great time, met lots of interesting people and were still speaking to each other at the end, even if they did come home on separate planes.


GIMMELWALD, UNTOUCHED JEWEL

One time in the distant past, friend Betty and I had an interesting adventure in the hamlet of Gimmelwald, in the Swiss Bernese Oberland

Experienced travelers are always on the lookout for an undiscovered gem. You know, killer scenery, friendly natives, cheap prices and NO TOURISTS.

And, it looked like my friend Betty had found such a place, the aforementioned Gimmelwald. Actually she had read about it in one of Rick Steves’ books. Rick Steves, for those of you who haven’t heard, is a famous travel writer and TV host, whose specialty is cheap European vacations. (So cheap, in fact, that you often have to share your hotel room with bedbugs, lice and other such assorted creatures.) It also just happens that Rick Steves’ headquarters is in Edmonds, WA, the small town, which we call home.

Betty and I, then, in the process of doing Europe, decided to check out this place, and Betty had made reservations for us at the (only) hotel (in town),

So off we go, down to the end of a dirt road in the Laterbrunnen Valley, a spectacular sight in its own right. (Something like Yosemite Valley, only larger and deeper.) Then up and away on the Shilthorn Gondola lift.

Off at the first stop, and there we are, in Gimmelwald. And maybe Rick Steves was right. An enchanting village of some 120 souls, it hangs on cliff’s edge, 2000 feet above the Lauterbrunnen valley. In fact, you kinda feel that one misstep might bring you crashing to the valley floor some 2000 feet straight below.


And Steves’ description was right on, no cars, no gift shops, and definitely no tourists. Only the sound of cowbells, as the cows grazed in the near vertical fields, and a killer view of the Jungfrau, across the valley, seemingly so close that one could touch it.

Off in the distance, at the end of a steep trail, we see this unpainted barn like shack, but is emblazoned with the word HOTEL. So onward and upward we trudge. After almost having a heart attack trying to lug our luggage up this trail at 4000 ft altitude, we finally we made it, and I went in to roust out the owner. I finally found him, and enquired, in German, about our reservations. He kind of looked at me like I had two heads, and answered me in English. Looking around, we decided that if this place was a hotel, my place is the Taj Mahal. Flophouse was more like it. Bath down the hall, somewhere, wind blowing through major cracks in the walls, and Swiss federdecke, or down comforters that were about a foot too short for the beds. I could go on and on, but you get the idea.

But we finally got settled in, and headed for the terrace for a drink and to soak in the view of the valley and the Jungfrau. We were just starting to relax when some young people, at the next table, hollered over, in English, asking us to join them. We did, and it turned out that they were from Edmonds, and had read Rick Steves’ book. So it didn’t really surprise us, when later at the communal dinner, where you ate whatever the cook deemed to serve, that all of the other twenty some guests were also from Edmonds. Having read the same book, I would guess.

Betty was enthralled, having people around who could speak English. But I was kind of disappointed, to tell the truth.

Next morning, we decided to go on up the gondola lift to the Shilthorn and have breakfast

Shilthorn is a 9744 foot mountain, and It’s main claim to fame, aside from a killer view of the Jungfrau, is the revolving restaurant Piz Gloria, atop the summit. You might remember that this was the restaurant that was blown up, in the James Bond flick “On Her Majesty’s Secret Service”.


Anyway, it was a great morning, and after breakfast, Betty and I were just hanging out on the observation deck above the restaurant. I was dressed, incidentally, pretty much like a European, wearing canvas shorts, leather jacket, and Tyrolean hat. It was also a bit chilly, (about 38 F or 3 C) but we really didn’t mind. But as we were standing there, taking in the view, an old Austrian guy strolled over and struck up a conversation. “You must be a really tough guy”, he said to me in German, “to be wearing shorts in this weather.” “Oh, I’m not so tough”, I replied in German. “I am just an American who doesn’t know any better.” Taken aback, he mumbled a couple of words, and wandered off. But we were destined to meet again.

That afternoon while walking alone in Gimmelwald village, I ran into my “friend” once more. Where’s your wife, he asked. I’m not sure, I replied. Probably in California or who knows where. Now, absolutely sure that the American was daft, he just shook his head and walked away.

By the way, the picture here is one Betty snapped just before we met the Austrian.


A CRAZY BIKE RACE

Hey, want to hear a good story. My doctor and nurse friends would probably especially enjoy it, since it has some medical aspects.

Anyway, for months I had been committed to run a support van for a group of riders participating in the STP. You know, the bike run from Seattle to Portland, which this year drew 9000 participants.

But suddenly, the doc decided that I needed a new pacemaker, which he only installs on Thursdays or Fridays, and involves a one day hospital stay. We couldn’t do it the Friday after STP, because that interfered with a golf tournament, and the week after that would cancel out a good fishing trip, so we did it the Thursday before STP.

Now I am less than 24 hours out of the hospital and I have to run this support van. They started at 4:30 Sat morning, which was too much for me, so I started at eight, and caught up with them.

Problem was, the docs tore things up quite a bit digging out the old one, and my whole left side hurt like hell.

So here I am, popping Vicadins to keep the pain down to a dull roar, and taking uppers to keep awake. Along with that, we were swilling beer at every rest stop, which were about 25 miles apart. This, of course, had me so wired, along with the shoulder still hurting, that I couldn't sleep for the two nights. So, I added sleeping pills to the mix, which didn't do any good at all, and only resulted in more uppers to keep awake the next day.

Anyway, by Monday morning I am a total basket case. But the drugs wore off, kind of, and the left side felt a bit better, so I could fake it by Wed. when I had to report to the doctor.

9000 bike riders participated. Bicycles everywhere. And as far as I know, only one serious auto bike encounter. One of our guys got tangled up with two other bikes, but nothing hurt but the bike. Which we got fixed and back in the race in short order. There was a bike repair station about every twenty miles.

Despite all that, I had a ball, and the party in Portland, at the finish line, was something to behold.

I might even do it again next year.


ARIZONA DECEMBER CAMPING
Pat and I headed to our daughter’s in Tucson, for some kind of a girl thing cookie exchange, Boys weren’t welcome at this affair, so Son in Law Hugh, dog Cal, and me are left out in the cold.

We might as well go camping, says Hugh, and starts throwing stuff into the truck. I had kind of suspected something like this might happen, so after almost freezing to death at the Grand Canyon, I had borrowed from friend Dean (who used to be a Colorado Elk hunting guide) all the cold weather gear he had, and stuffed it in the trunk of the Mustang. So at least I was prepared.

By the time we get the truck loaded it is pitch dark, and off we go. We finally find some god forsaken spot halfway up a mountain, and unload our stuff. We just have a fire started when Rick (Generic for Park Ranger) feeling a little full of himself, announces that no fires are allowed. So we set the propane lantern on the ground and pretend that it is a fire.

Dinner was hot dogs and beans. Beans eaten out of the can, because Hugh had forgotten the bowls, and hot dawgs without fixins, as Hugh had forgotten mustard, ketchup, buns, etc. Anyway we made do, and finally rolled into the sack about 9:00 PM.

Same sleeping arrangements as you read about in “The Great Grand Canyon Camping Trip” tale. Two guys and a big dog in the back of the pickup, with a vestigial tent over us.

But this time I outfoxed the dog. I have Dean’s big sleeping bag, and the dog can’t paw the blanket off that. So he ends up sleeping on my feet. Only real problem was I was laying downwind with my head outside the tent. It was kinda cold, but at least I wasn’t getting my face licked by a dog.

Anyway 6:30 AM comes and the dog is ready to get up. And if he is up, everybody is up. Pitch dark outside and colder than a well diggers you know what, but that doesn’t deter the dog. So we all roll out, but you can guess who was the only one bright eyed and bushy tailed.

Hugh said it wasn’t too cold, but when we poured the dog’s water, and it froze in the bowl before he had a chance to drink, I decided that Hugh might be wrong.

About this time we noticed that the dog was shaking like he was passing razor blades. It might not have been cold enough to freeze the balls off the proverbial brass monkey, but it was sure cold enough to freeze the appendages off a Labrador dog. So we wrapped him in a blanket, while Hugh fixed breakfast. See photo.

Breakfast turned out fine, as I had remembered to bring the coffee and sweetener.

So we broke camp, and took off for some four wheelin. I was all for sneaking out without paying, after our encounter with that sadistic Rick. But Hugh insisted we pay, Or more accurately, that I pay.

So off we go to the town of Oracle to find this four wheel drive road. No signs, of course, and the map had also been forgotten. One of our rules is that Macho Guys don’t Ask for Directions, so we got about three tours of the town of Oracle, and a nice drive through the desert, before we found the right road.

This was a 40 mile long Class 3 four wheel drive road going up to the top of a 9000 foot mountain, with a few class 5 spots where there had been washouts, but otherwise, no problem. The dog, though, being somewhat of a wimp, insisted on getting out and walking the Class 5 spots. Anyway, the scenery was spectacular, and we got some nice pictures.

Finally, upon reaching the top, we find a great ski resort with a wide two lane paved road going down the other side of the mountain. Hugh claimed that he knew that it was there all the time, but he seemed just as surprised as I was.

Anyway, the return trip was much faster, and smoother, and dinner at MacDonald’s in Tucson was almost as good as Hugh’s camp cooking.


BAHAMAS ESCAPE

We just got back from an interesting pre Christmas trip to Florida, and the Bahamas.

The Florida part was to get our son graduated from the U of Florida law school. The Bahamas part was to get away for a few days.

We got son Whalen graduated OK on Friday, and had a big celebration dinner Friday night. Seventeen of Whalen’s wife’s relatives and three of Whalen’s, and guess who paid. Anyway, a good time was had by all, and it was great to see the grandchildren again.

Saturday, favorite son in law Hugh and I played golf, in about 45 degree weather. Almost froze to death. Then Sunday morning, at 3:00 AM, it was off to the Bahamas.

We were headed to one of the out islands, Great Exuma, off the .coast of Cuba, about 200 miles south of Nassau. I had picked this tropical paradise, basically by getting out a map of the Bahamas, closing my eyes and pointing a finger, but more on that later.

As I said, up at 3:00 AM. Drive to Orlando, check in the car and catch a plane for Nassau. More good luck in Nassau, they were renovating the hotel, so we were assaulted by the sounds of power saws and hammers, and, you guessed it, the restaurant and bar were closed.

One thing though, Nassau was marginally warmer, but the wind was blowing and the chill factor must have been about 30 F.

Next morning, since the plane didn’t leave till after noon, we escaped to downtown Nassau, only to be assaulted by about 20,000 cruise ship passengers, off four giant cruise ships. They had all received basic training in pushing shoving and elbowing, at Disney World, before embarking on their cruise, so it was quite a zoo.

Finally we wended our way to the airport, and checked in at Air Bahamas, a typical third world bush plane operation. Decaying terminal building with no A/C, (but who needed it in that weather), and parked on the tarmac we saw these funny looking little planes with wings on top, engines on the front of the wings, and odd little stick like things going around out in front of the engines. They were 37 passenger deHavillands of a vintage that the Red Baron would have been familiar with. We thought maybe they were from a museum, but they did say Air Bahamas on the side.

So, up and away, and after an hour of great scenery, we caught site of our tropical island paradise. Basically a mangrove swamp, with a village at each end, and a brand new Four Seasons resort in the middle. It did though, have some beautiful beaches.

We landed, retrieved our luggage, and picked up our car, an ancient right hand drive, Japanese domestic model Toyota Corolla. Everything in metric, and all the placards and instructions in Japanese. Of course, one also had to drive on the left side of the road.

The neat thing about right hand drive cars is that everything else is backward as well, turn signal lever on the right side, shift on the left side, etc. As well as having to remember that the bulk of the car is on your left side, not your right.

Anyway, we got to the hotel without knocking off any mirrors, and guess what, it was locked up tight. After banging on doors to no avail, we briefly considered checking in at the Four Seasons up the road, and billing this hotel the $595 per night room rate, but instead we wandered around and finally raised a neighbor. She couldn’t have been more helpful, and since the island phones weren’t very reliable, she had to get a taxi to go to the proprietor’s house and roust her out. This apparently worked, because the proprietor did show up, and everything got straightened out.

Calling the place a hotel, incidentally, is probably a bit of an overstatement. It was really the typical tropical island guest house, austere but adequate, with a room rate a little less than half that of the Four Seasons, down the road.

We really had a great time driving around the island, sampling the local cuisine, purchasing some of the straw articles handcrafted by the local ladies, and looking over miles of deserted white sand beach fronting the blue Atlantic. Yes we were really in the tropics, but the temperature was in the low sixties, jacket and sweatshirt weather, and too cold to swim or sunbathe.

There were about 2000 natives living on the island, plus about 50 tourists, not including about a dozen staying at the Four Seasons. It was really ludicrous, seeing those $595 per day guests, relaxing on the beach in swim suits, but bundled up in blankets against the cold. I guess they were going to get their money’s worth, no matter what. They, of course, were not about to get out of the resort and mingle with any of the locals.

Speaking of locals, these were about the friendliest and most helpful people we have run into anywhere. One expects that of service people, but we got the same courteous treatment from everyone. If lost, we would appeal to a bystander, and he or she would bend over backwards to help. Shopkeepers treated one like a long lost relative, and folks in bars and restaurants would strike up a conversation on any pretext.

All too soon, it seemed, we were on an airplane headed back to civilization and a 15 hour journey to the WARMTH of Palm Desert. It will be a long time, though, before we forget the charm and hospitality of Great Exuma Island.



CASABLANCA ADVENTURE

Gary, Mark, and I had finished our business with CASA (A Spanish airplane manufacturer) in Cadiz, Spain early on a Wednesday afternoon, and found ourselves with really nothing to do till the next Monday morning. I’m not sure exactly what happened, but one thing led to another, culminating in us deciding to spend a long weekend in Morocco.

Casablanca, of Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart fame, seemed like a logical destination, so we rented a very large and expensive Renault sedan, and away we went. We did have the foresight to call a Holiday Inn in Casablanca, and get a reservation for the next night

The only way to get a car across the Strait of Gibraltar, of course, is by ferry, but the boat leaves, not from Gibraltar, as one might expect, but from the small Spanish town of Algeciras From there, it is a couple of hours ferry ride to Tangier, the gateway to Morocco and points beyond.

So we spent the night in Gibraltar, which is a story all in itself. Suffice to say that Gibraltar is a British Naval Base, and quite a sailor town. They also have Rock Apes, a kind of monkey. They used to run wild, but a legend sprang up that when the Rock Apes left Gibraltar, the British would not be far behind. So, not being ones to leave anything to chance, the Brits built a stout fence around the Ape’s rocky home.

We all learned in school that Gibraltar is a fortress, but in reality, most of the guns point toward Spain. The Brits seem to be more concerned about an invasion from that side than with ships coming through the Strait.

So early the next morning we arose early, and after a breakfast of “Bangers and Mash” proceeded to Algeciras and boarded the ferry. A good sized ocean going vessel of probably 12000 tons.

After a couple hours, a bit of dalliance at the ship’s bar, watching our boat dodge the ship traffic through the Strait, and soaking up some fantastic scenery, we arrived in Tangier. We docked at some kind of military looking establishment, and were immediately surrounded by several Arabs in strange uniforms, gesturing wildly and spouting some unknown language. They confiscated our passports, and it was beginning to look like we were in some difficulty. Gary, incidentally speaks fluent Spanish, and my German is pretty good, but neither of those languages, or English, for that matter, made the slightest impression. Gary and I, although experienced travelers, were getting a bit concerned, while Mark, who had never been anywhere, was in a full fledged panic.

I finally figured out that the officials were speaking Arabic, along with some French. That didn’t help much, as the other two guys’ French was non existent, and mine had progressed barely beyond the menu reading stage. Anyway, after numerous Ouis, Nons, Mercis and hand waving, I figured out that we needed to buy Moroccan auto insurance before we could proceed. So a few bucks changed hands, we got our papers stamped, the functionaries were happy, and we were free to leave.

Border towns are generally bad, but Tangier took the cake. Mix up the Black Hole of Calcutta, the worst parts of Jakarta and the docks of Kobe, stir in some mangy camels and donkeys, and leaven with a few Arabs in dirty white burnooses, and you have a vague idea of what it is like. The sights, sounds, and particularly the smells, are unbelievable.

The languages were still French and Arabic, but some of the more enterprising Arabs could speak any language you wished. I particularly remember one particularly dirty and repulsive specimen who was trying to pass himself off as the Tangier Chamber of Commerce. But maybe he really was, who knows.

One thing we soon found out, though, was that nobody could tell us the way out of town. Detailed directions how to get to the Casbah, and numerous whorehouses and bars were freely forthcoming, but nobody knew the way to Casablanca. I guess you couldn’t really blame them for wanting us to spend our money in Tangier.

But even though we had forgotten to bring a map we knew that Casablanca was about 300 miles South, so after blundering about on our own for a bit, we found a reasonably good road which seemed to be heading in the right direction. And shure nuff, after going a few kilometers, we started to see signs pointing the way to Casablanca.

For those of you who have not had the experience, the roads in the third world, even those that pass for highways, are something to behold. Camel and donkey carts abound, along with monster trucks, bicycles, stray livestock, and wandering pedestrians. Everybody drives with their horn, and they pass on the left, right, blind corners, hills and so forth. In Moslem countries particularly, everyone puts their faith in Allah, relies on God’s will, leans on the horn, and puts the pedal to the metal. It’s bad enough during the day, but at night it’s impossible.

So we are motoring along, miles from nowhere, and enjoying the desert view. (Not unlike our Mojave, I might add) Then sharp eyed Mark (remember, the innocent one) spies a camel, and immediately insists that we stop the car. We had no sooner stopped and alighted than an Arab guy materializes out of the sand. I mean, one minute there was nothing, and the next minute there he was. Again, a real language barrier, but we eventually figure out he is offering us a camel ride. Gary and I demurred, as we had both ridden camels before, but we convinced Mark that he should have the experience.

Incidentally camels are noxious beasts, with few redeeming virtues, they bite spit and kick, have generally bad dispositions, and smell horrible. Riding one is kinda like a cross between being on a stubborn mule and a bicycle with two square wheels. But anyway, Mark had his ride and emerged little the worse for wear.

In the meantime, an Arab lady and two small children also materialized out of the desert. They had a plate of some kind of cakes, a flask of what looked like goat’s milk, with a couple of dirty glasses, and urged us to partake. It was long past noon and we were hungry, so, what the Hell, we dug in. And it was surprisingly good, I might add.

So after giving them what was probably a month’s wages, it was back in the car, and away to Casablanca. We did notice a strange odor though, smelling suspiciously like camel, and emanating from Mark. It stayed with us, or I should say Mark, all the way to Casablanca. And even after he had showered and changed clothes he still smelled like camel. This went on all weekend till we finally figured out that he had camel dung stuck in the treads of his sneaker soles. But I get ahead of myself.

So, on to Casablanca, without any particularly untoward incidents. But our adventures of the day had put us a bit behind schedule, and it was getting dark. Besides, nobody had told us that Casablanca was six million souls, and having no map, we didn’t have a clue where the Holiday Inn was, or how to get there.

So while Gary drove, dodging the animals, pedestrians, and camel carts, which were everywhere, I rolled down the window every time we saw a cop, and asked him, in my non existent French where the Holiday Inn might be. After a torrent of French in return, it was Merci, and trying to grasp enough of the conversation to give Gary meaningful directions. We eventually figured out that we had to cross a railroad track, go through an underpass, then turn left, and there was supposed to be the Inn. After doing this about four times and seeing nothing that looked like a hotel or a hotel sign, Gary was getting frustrated and Mark was in full panic mode, which didn’t really help things out a bit.

About the third time around I had noticed a big green sign In Arabic, next to a kind of barracks looking building. So the next time by I asked Gary to pull up while I got out to investigate. And Bingo, a tiny sign on the door, in English, announced that this was indeed the Holiday Inn, and wonder of wonders, it was the one we had reserved.

By this time it was almost 10 PM, and Gary and I were ready to settle in, having had enough adventure for one day. But Mark, who was now fully recovered, except for the camel smell, was adamant that we had to find Rick’s. You know Rick’s Americana Café, from the movie Casablanca. Not to bore you with details, but after about two hours of more misadventures blundering around Casablanca in the dark, we finally found the place. It seems though, that in the meantime, they had built a Hilton Hotel around it.

Next morning, after a good night’s sleep, we decided to explore the famous Casbah. This is in reality a market. About a mile square, and along with hundreds of small shops, selling everything imaginable, is full of dark alleys, dead ends, interesting restaurants, and strange characters.

The only way to get any thing accomplished in these markets, not to mention avoiding getting irretrievably lost, is to hire a guide. Of course the guide will lead you to shopkeepers where he gets a sizable kickback, but this is all part of the game. There are a number of wannabee guides hanging around the entrances, and like everything else the cheapest one is not always the best. So we would subject the candidates to a fairly lengthy interview covering, among other things, their language skills. The one we finally picked seemed to be bright, and know his way around, but his only English, unfortunately, was “Roger Dodger, Over and Out”. His German though was OK and he was good in Spanish, so Gary and I were fine, but Mark was left in the dark.

The next step was, with the Guide’s help, to hire an Arab kid to watch the car, and then plunge into the unknown. The place was really indescribable, looking like total chaos. Even worse than a street scene in Cairo. But eventually, with the help of the guide, it began to make sense. I particularly wanted a good leather jacket, so the guide took us to a genuine Arab Rug Merchant, like right out of the movies, who also sold leather jackets. They seemed to be of surprisingly good quality (May be the guide really did know his stuff), and we proceeded to negotiate. The guide, incidentally, is supposed to help with, or even handle this task, but after a couple of minutes he announced that we really didn’t need him, so he retreated to a corner, lit a cigarette, and watched the show. (The rug merchant, incidentally, could speak any language you cared to throw at him, and surprisingly well.)

I eventually got the Arab merchant down to the equivalent of about $95 US, which I figured was a good price. Then, since we were well supplied with US Dollars, Sterling, Spanish Pesetas, and Algerian Reals, or whatever the Hell they are called, I figured that I might be able to pay him in one of these currencies and snooker him on exchange rates in the process. Wrong!! This guy was a human calculator. He could figure exchange rates in his head, accurate to a tenth of a percentage point and faster than a calculator. So I eventually paid him in Sterling, and still figured I had a good deal. Incidentally, the quality did turn out to be good. I wore that jacket almost every day for 10 years, and it is still hanging in the closet, only a little the worse for wear.

After other shops, and more negotiating, we were all loaded down with miscellaneous goods. Then it was time for lunch, so our guide showed us to a pretty grungy looking café, which he assured us was best in class. He didn’t however, mention what class. And since we didn’t have a clue, he even ordered for us. So, after a lunch consisting of some unknown creature, fixed with some kind of curry, and washed down with surprisingly good beer, out of the ubiquitous dirty glasses, we were good as now and ready to head for the Beach.

By the way, Mark did have one interesting adventure. Seemed he wanted to take a photo of an Arab butcher in his shop, and neglected to ask permission. This caused the Arab to take offence to the point where he vaulted over the counter and chased Mark down the street, brandishing a particularly wicked looking butcher knife. This terrorized Mark all over again, but seemed to amuse the passersby.

We went through this whole routine again in Rabat, where the Casbah was even better, and then it was time to head for home. On the road back to Tangier we did though get lost a few times. The reason for this was simple. Although there were lots of signs pointing the way from Tangier to Casablanca, there were NO signs telling us how to get to Tangier from Casablanca. We eventually made it though, and caught the last ferry of the day to Spain.

All in all, it was a good weekend, even with the camel smells and language problems. And Mark finally got over his Montezuma’s Revenge. However, if you are thin of wallet, or not up to Third World adventures, you might want to take a pass on this one.




COLORADO FOUR WHEELIN’

Many of you have read of the great Grand Canyon adventure, where favorite son in law Hugh and I about froze our tails off in April.

In mid July, though, the weather being somewhat warmer, we decided to have a go at four wheeling in the Eastern Colorado Rockies.

Plan was, for me to fly to Phoenix, where Hugh and dog Cal would pick me up for the ride to Durango CO, Where we were to spend the first night.

Well, it was certainly somewhat warmer in Phoenix than last time, the temperature being approximately 112 F.

So, Hugh and Cal picked me up on schedule in their Toyota 4wd crew cab, and we were off to Durango. Arriving there about 10 PM, we had our first problem, finding a motel which would accept dogs. We finally found this somewhat skuzzy joint, which agreed to let dog Cal stay in the room with us for an additional seven dollars. Then came the next problem, seemed that Cal did not have the seven dollars. He finally got through to us with gestures, tail wags and the like, that dogs don’t carry money because they have no pockets to keep it in. This sounded reasonable to me, so I stood Cal for the seven dollars. After that things were uneventful, until a bunch of good ol’ boys from next door started barbecuing, drinking beer, and playing their guitars outside our room. A show of dog teeth and a few menacing sounding growls on Calís part though, got them back to their room in record time.

So next morning it was up and at ‘em and off to Silverton where our adventure was to start. On the way, though, we stopped to watch the Durango Silverton steam train puffing its way up to Silverton.

To digress a moment, This train, with an 80 year old steam engine, 100 year old rolling stock, and loaded with tourists, makes its way up the old Denver and Rio Grande Western narrow gauge tracks through the Animas river canyon from Durango to Silverton. The scenery is spectacular, and if you don’t mind coal smoke in your lungs and cinders in your eyes, I would highly recommend the trip.

Our plan was, starting in Silverton, to make our way to Lake City, about forty miles away as the crow flies, across some fourteen thousand foot mountains, and twelve to thirteen thousand foot passes, then return to Silverton by a slightly different route, actually describing a large figure eight, with the ghost town of Animas forks at 11,400 feet as the crossover point.

The roads, or tracks really, which we were to use, were rated difficulty 3 to 4, in four wheel drive nomenclature, but turned out, in our view at least, to be really difficulty 5 or 6. At the danger of boring you to tears, for those of you who are not familiar with these four wheel drive terms, I will quote a few lines of the Difficulty 4 and Difficulty 6 descriptions,

Difficulty 4: High clearance 4wd recommended. Rough road surfaces with rocks larger than 6 inches. Mud possible but passable. Substantial sections of single lane shelf road. Etc etc.

Difficulty 6: Experienced four wheel drivers only. Large rocks, ruts, terraces, rough surfaces, steep slopes, deep stream crossings, etc, etc. Also very narrow shelf road with steep drop offs and challenging road surfaces to be expected.

The descriptions go on and on, but you get the idea.

We decided to take the toughest roads in the early morning when there would be less oncoming traffic, and this turned out to be a good idea. We got to Animas Forks over two 12000+ foot passes with no real problems except a couple of tight hairpins where we had to back and fill the little Toyota, running the back end into the mountain, while the front hung out over space.

Anyway, the sun was shining brightly, the scenery was spectacular, and the ghost town was really impressive. The drive from Animas Forks to Lake City was more of the same, except the road was becoming more like the Difficulty 6 description above, and we started meeting oncoming traffic on those ìvery narrow shelf roads with steep drop offsî. Very interesting to see who would finally give in and back up a quarter of a mile to a somewhat wider spot. About this time, Call was scrambling about in the back of the crew cab, trying to tell us that ìI really didnít sign on for this kind of a rideî, but we managed to ignore his whines.

In due time we arrived in Lake City and chowed down at the local eatery. Lake City’s main claim to fame is a claim that in the winter of 1873, an old miner named Alfred Packer wintered there with seven other miners. But in the spring, only Packer came out. It was alleged that he had eaten his companions. Or as local lore put it, “There used to be seven Democrats in Hinsdale County, but Packer et ‘em all.” Anyway, he was tried, convicted, and sent off to the big house. I thought that this was all just local folk lore, until a friend of mine in Palm Desert told me that his dad had guarded Packer while he was in prison, and showed me a walking stick which Packer had carved for his dad.

But back to the story. The afternoon’s major challenge was 12,800 foot Engineer pass. And to top it off, it started raining about halfway up. So it was drive up 10 feet and slide back 20, all the way to the top. And when we got to the top, guess what, there was NO MacDonalds. But on the way down, we had an exciting corkscrew slide, all the way down to Animas Forks, where the sun was shining brightly. We did, however, see one interesting example of wild life. At about 12000 feet Hugh saw what he thought was a mountain goat along the road, and hollered at me to take a picture. I thought though that it looked more like a domestic sheep, and turned out that I was right. Because around the next bend was a whole herd of sheep with the Basque sheepherder sitting on the steps of his sheepherders wagon, smoking his pipe and watching the fools in the trucks and jeeps slide by. Oh, I almost forgot to mention the back brake which was hanging up, and locking a rear wheel. Seems I suddenly forgot all my mechanical expertise, so Hugh had to lay on his back in the mud and wrestle with the thing. I did, though, manage to hand him the correct tools.

Arriving back in Silverton, Hugh decided that we would camp out, At 9500 feet!! Somehow, I suddenly came down with a bad case of altitude sickness, so Hugh had to set up camp and cook dinner. This time I had my own tent, and left the other to Hugh and the dog. Hugh had somehow forgotten my tent fly, but we made do with a tarp.

After an uneventful night, except for a sudden rain squall and a somewhat leaky tent, we broke camp in the morning and headed back for Phoenix, by way of the funky little ski resort of Telluride.

One of the better parts of the trip, for me at least, was that last night in Phoenix at the Renaissance Inn. Great room, good food, room service, no leaky tent, and no dog.


EVELYN DOES THE GRAND TOUR
( OF EUROPE)

This is another Newsletter article

One of Evelyn's greatest adventures was her grand tour of Europe in 1991, on "John's Tours", with her friends John and Pat.

First stop was Darmstadt Germany, where things started out at a fast pace, with a welcome party hosted by one of John's friends. Evelyn's first surprise, everybody didn't speak English.

A boat ride down the Rhine, a visit to the walled city of Rotenberg, and tours of the fairy tale castles in Bavaria were the trip highlights in Germany. She also took in the famous Oktoberfest. She made the mistake of going on the first day, when the place was packed like a Tokyo subway station at rush hour, and she hung on to John's jacket for dear life, for fear of getting lost, and never being heard from again.

Her hotel room in Munich was something else, so small that you could not get up on the wrong side of the bed, and with a bath down the hall, (in John and Pat's room). At least the price was right.

The tour then moved on to a small town in Austria, where they rented an apartment for a few days, while seeing the local sights. Evelyn's job here was to procure the makings for breakfast every morning. (In Europe one has rolls and sausage, cheese and stuff for breakfast, and it all must be purchased fresh in the morning, immediately before the meal.) Anyway, Evelyn was appointed chief purchasing agent and sent off to the local 711 store. Considering that she couldn't speak German, and the store folks couldn't understand English, she didn't do too bad, coming home with literally an armload of food, (In her arms, not in a sack) Problem was, she didn't have a sack. Nobody had told her that in Austria you have to buy the sack, and the store folks never offered, thinking that she was some kind of weird foreigner.

Another Austrian adventure was the great hike, where John led them down what was supposed to be a Seniorenweg, or senior citizens trail. He must have taken a wrong turn, because this trail went up and down thorough a canyon roughly the size of the Grand Canyon at home. They were finally rescued by a German tourist family, who couldn't believe that these were really Americans, in that remote place. Anyway, the Germans led them around the next corner to a picturesque inn, where they all got rejuvenated with good Austrian beer.

Next stop was a grand tour of Venice, which they reached by automobile. Evelyn knew she was in Italy, when some shady character tried to sell dirty pictures at a rest stop, and the houses looked like they had no maintenance since the First World War.

Venice was really fun. Courtesy of another friend of John's she had a personal tour of Venice, complete with guide and a private motorboat. They even toured a secluded island owned by the Franciscans, and saw where St. Francis used to live. It was kind of scary though, when after visiting St. Mark,s cathedral, in downtown Venice, they got lost on the way back to the car park. But after a few dark alleys, they found a friendly hotel porter who sent them on their way.

The hotel in Venice was something else. All kinds of free amenities and an imposing row of push buttons by the bed. Experimenting with the buttons, Evelyn accidentally summoned the floor porter. She thought he was part of the 'service', because for the price she was paying, she did expect hot and cold running men.

Then it was back to Germany, and the long airplane ride home, but she did have one last adventure. Everyone had neglected to get hotel accommodations for the last night , and due to an unforeseen holiday, (Tag der Deutsche Vereinigung) the first anniversary of German reunion, everyone was celebrating, and there were no hotel rooms to be found in all Bavaria. After searching for hours in several small towns, however, they finally found a room, but with only one bed.

By this time John was late for an appointment in Munich with Whalen, (John and Pat's son), so he took off in a rush, neglecting, as it turned out, to remember the name of the hotel, or even the town. Evelyn and Pat couldn't understand why he didn't return till 3:00 AM, and couldn't believe that John and Whalen had spent most of that time driving all over southern Germany looking for familiar landmarks. Anyway, there they were, four people and one bed. They finally settled things by John, Pat and Evelyn sharing the bed, and Whalen sleeping on the floor.

Space does not permit us to chronicle Evelyn's many other adventures, but suffice to say, upon her return, Evelyn talked about her trip for months, telling everybody that John's Tours was the only way to see Europe.


GRAND CANYON TALES


SHOE LEATHER, MULES, AND AIRPLANES

Over the years, I have had many memorable trips to the Grand Canyon, visiting both the north and south rims, viewing it from 30,000 feet, and even hiking down to the bottom.

The hike to the bottom was with my buddy Dave when we were both much younger, and an Eighteen year old German named Hans. We made it to the bottom in record time, hung out at Phantom Ranch drinking beer, and had a good dinner. The dining hall, by the way, had quite a display of scorpions, which allegedly came from the vicinity, all nicely pickled in glass jars.

After a memorable songfest with some guys who were rafting down the canyon, we settled on a sand bar to sleep, but visions of those scorpions kept Dave awake and standing up most of the night.

So before first light next morning we are off, with full canteens for each of us. And I should probably mention at this point, an interesting rescue service the Park Service maintained for hikers who got into trouble. It was like $100 for a rescue from the bottom, with a sliding scale for waypoints on the way up, depending upon how far you got before giving out.

Anyway, the sun came up, it got hotter and hotter, the trail got steeper and steeper, Dave went slower and slower, and it was soon apparent that he was not going to make it. So, by almost superhuman effort, we managed to shove push and carry him to the twenty-five dollar point, where we gave up and phoned for the mules.

So Dave finished the trip on the mule, and his color had turned beet red. Since his complexion was fair anyway, he was sure he was burned to a crisp. I told to go clean up and then worry about it, and he found when he took a shower, all the red washed off, as it had been only dust, and his only problem was that he couldn’t sit down.


My most memorable canyon trip, though, was the day many years later when I had a Cessna 185 aircraft at my disposal for a business flight from Page UT to Las Vegas. So I took advantage of this situation to make a low level flight THROUGH the Grand Canyon. Previously, as I said, I had flown over the top, had hiked to the bottom and back up, and now I had flown through it.

Anyway, I have also written a couple of stories about Grand Canyon Adventures, so for better or worse, here they are.


GREAT GRAND CANYON CAMPING TRIP

In late April, son in law Hugh and I decided to take a camping trip to the Grand Canyon.

The plan was for me to leave from Palm Desert, Hugh to leave from Tucson, and both meet at a small town just outside the Park, at 5:30 Friday afternoon.

I drove my Mustang, and since it has a propensity for traveling about a hundred miles an hour, I got there at about 3:00 PM. Hugh on the other hand, along with his trusty dog Cal, a very large Labrador retriever, had got hung up at work, and in Phoenix traffic, and didn’t arrive till 8:30 PM. By this time, of course, it was dark, and the temperature was down to about forty degrees, but we decided to set up camp anyway.

So we find a campsite, and unload the gear, all of course in the dark and cold. At this point I make the startling discovery that although I have my tent, the tent poles some how got left in Palm Desert. Hugh’s tent is an affair that goes over the back of his Toyota pickup, and turns out to be a bit snug for three, but we have to make do.

I put a Mexican blanket over my sleeping bag to ward off the chill, and we finally all get settled in. We are nicely asleep when Cal (the dog), feeling a little cold himself, paws the blanket off my sleeping bag and makes himself a nice dog bed. How considerate of you John, to bring a blanket for me, he said to himself. Of course I eventually wake up, freezing cold, figure out what happened, and have to fight the dog for possession of the blanket. After this happened about three times, Cal gave up, and slept on my feet the rest of the night. So, in the morning, two of us wake up stiff and sore, but one, and you can guess who, is bright eyed and bushy tailed.

Anyway, Hugh gets busy making breakfast, and with hot coffee inside, (unfortunately we forgot to bring sugar) and the sun sharing some feeble warmth, things don’t look too bad. Particularly as I am now wearing every stitch of clothing I own.

About this time, we discover that we are in the wrong camp spot, so we have to go register with Ranger Rick, and move our site. The one good thing about this is that since I am a senior Citizen, we get to camp for half price.

Hugh then takes a six mile hike with the dog, and I busy myself driving along the canyon rim and taking pictures with my new digital camera. Hugh and I then spend the balance of the day touring the area, with the dog asleep in the back seat of the ‘stang.

We decide to treat ourselves to dinner that evening, so Hugh and I live it up at the fancy lodge restaurant, while Cal is sacked out in the Mustang. The restaurant turned out to be a good choice. Good service, good food, and most importantly, a chance to warm up.

We had bought some firewood at the park store for inflated prices, so we return to camp, build a great, (about $20 dollar) fire and chug down a few beers.

Sleeping arrangements that night are uneventful, as the dog is so pooped from the six mile hike, that he is zonked out for the duration.

Next morning, after another excellent Hugh breakfast, we broke camp and headed for home. Getting to a lower altitude, the weather finally warmed up, I put the top down, got thawed out, and incidentally, sunburned.

After I got over the altitude sickness and the sunburn, I had no lasting ill effects. In fact Hugh and I decided to do the whole thing over again in Colorado later in the summer. And this time I will remember to bring the tent poles.



GRAND CANYON FOR FREE

Now, here is another Grand Canyon Adventure, completely unlike the first one.

Seems that Mary and Bill were arranging an expedition to the Grand Canyon, but everyone but Pat and me begged off. But then we found out that the trip was free. Comped by a friend of Mary and Bill’s son Mike, who had apparently done someone a big favor. So then, everyone wanted in again, but no dice, they had already had their chance.

So, all of us pile into the ol’ Cadillac and are off on the great Grand Canyon adventure. All goes well for about 10 miles, and then somebody needs a pit stop. That taken care of, we finally get to Arizona, and thence to Williams, where the temp was about 45 Fahrenheit with a wind chill factor of about –20, or so it seemed.

What a surprise, the hotel was really nice inside, and when the desk clerk heard Mary and Bill’s name, she almost turned herself inside out, she was so eager to please. We got registered in about 30 seconds flat, and were assigned to what were allegedly the best rooms in the hotel. We also got a stack of vouchers about a half inch thick, for free this and free that. The clerk then sent us to the railroad station to arrange the train (We were taking a train from Williams to the Grand Canyon) and called ahead to announce that we were coming. At the station it was a repeat performance. The ticket clerk bowed and scraped, gave us tickets for first class to the Canyon, and parlor car on the way back, plus a free bus tour of the Canyon’s south rim.

Hey, this trip is looking better and better, we said as we went back o the room to unpack. When we got to the rooms, would you believe, a magnum of champagne awaited. Well, first things first, so we drank the Champagne, then unpacked, which put us in the mood for food. Going through the stack of paper we were given, we found a voucher for dinner, and wended our way to the restaurant. The dinner was surprisingly good, or maybe it was the champagne. Anyway, we ate well, and then, back to the hotel and into bed.

The next day dawned even colder and windier than ever. The wind chill must have been down to –40, so we skipped the Wild West Show and made our way to the first class car. This was a vintage train, with cars from the 1920’s thru the 50’s, pulled by an Alco diesel built in Schenectady, of all places, in 1969.

Our car was of circa 1950, was surprisingly nice, and came equipped with a pleasant young lady, who kept us in drinks and snacks the whole trip. There also was entertainment inside the car. A Wild West marshal, cowboy singers and such. It’s a good thing, as the scenery outside was pretty boring.

So, two and a half hours later, we arrived at Grand Canyon depot, and the weather, while clear as a bell, was windier and colder than ever.

The canyon was awesome. A big ditch 5000 feet deep, and ten miles wide, with the angry Colorado flowing at the bottom. Some of us had seen this sight several times before, but it was still breathtaking.

In due time we got on a tour bus, with a neat German driver named Helmut, who charmed us with his commentary, while showing us the sights.

There was a little excitement at one stop. Helmut, looking over the rim, saw what looked like a dead donkey a few hundred feet down the bank. Being a good citizen, he got on the radio and reported it to a Park ranger. Within a couple of minutes, a helicopter with two Rangers landed by the donkey. The rangers hooked a cable to the donkey and prepared to take him away. But what did they find beneath. A dead Mexican, smashed almost flat, with a sign around his neck that said “Evel Kneivel Gonzales”.

So, back to the Depot and then aboard the train. The parlor car was even better than first class, with deep leather armchairs, and an even nicer young lady to bring us more drinks and snacks. Again, more cowboy singers and entertainment. Surprisingly good, I might add.

There was a bit of excitement on the way back. A band of outlaws on horseback stopped the train to rob the passengers. Our lady attendant explained that the train stopped because the company only paid the outlaws minimum wage, and the outlaws refused, for that pay, to take the risk of jumping from a moving horse to a moving train.

Anyway, the outlaws came through the train, firing their guns and making quite a spectacle. When they got to our car, Pat gave them a dollar, and one of them remarked that they could all now go to MacDonald’s. A little nine year old girl, in our car, was almost sure that these guys were real robbers, and hung on to her dad for dear life.

After another dinner and a good sleep, it was back in the car the next day for the return trip to Palm Desert. Everything was pretty uneventful, except Mary wanted to go across the desert on old Route 66 to visit the thriving metropolis of Amboy.

A sign at the outskirts announced a population of 20, not counting the two stray dogs. Gas was $2.99 a gallon, but when we tried to purchase some, the proprietor announced that the tanks were empty. OK, so we will use the restroom, but the complex was locked with a big chain and padlock. We finally got the thing unlocked, only to find there were no doors on the restrooms, and no water. At this point the boys went behind some bushes, and we are not sure how the girls handled the situation.

Mary was bound and determined to salvage something out of this fiasco, so went across the street to the Post Office to purchase some stamps. You guessed it, the Post Office was closed. Mary, being a determined person, and seeing some movement inside, pounded on the door, and persuaded the Postmistress to open up. Triumphantly waving the stamps, Mary and the rest of us piled into the car a final time, and headed back to Palm Desert.

We arrived safe and sound, and regaled, or bored, our friends with war stories for the next week. By the way, I made up the part about Evel Kneivel Gonzales, but the rest of the story is pretty much true.


SOUTHWEST SHENANIGANS

Now for a story about a trip not far from the Grand Canyon, and to two interesting cities.

Bright and early Monday morning, Jurgen, Diana, John, and Pat fire up the ol’ Mercedes and head out from Palm Desert for a few days of debauchery in Las Vegas and some baseball in Phoenix.

But before we head out, we have to pack the car, and this poses a small problem. Ya know, like putting ten pounds of beans in a five pound bag.

Anyhow, by the time we got all the appliances, coolers, suitcases, and miscellaneous junk in the car, there was no room for four people. So, the golf clubs, and some other miscellany was left behind, but not the beer.

Jurgen insisted on the “scenic” route thru the desert, so it was I-10 to Blythe, then some back road up the Colorado to Parker Dam, Then to Lake Havasu City. In Havasu we had to check out the “London Bridge”, we got kind of confused though, and drove across it three times before we realized that this was really the famous structure. The schlocky fake English mall near the bridge didn’t look as bad as last time, ‘cause it was pretty much taken over wall to wall by tacky souvenir tents. Looked like a cross between Quartzite and the College of the Desert flea market.

Then it was on to the famous Route 66 of fable and song, and a visit to Oatman, which is right in the middle of the worst stretch of this convoluted mountain road which you can imagine. No wonder they abandoned the highway. Oatman, incidentally, has become quite a tourist trap. It lives and breathes Route 66 nostalgia, and accordingly is in a 70 year time warp. One big tourist attraction is the 200 or so wild burros which freely roam the town, eating anything the tourists have to offer. We didn’t tarry long in town, because it looked to Jurgen like the burros were ready to eat the paint off the Mercedes.

Then it was on to Los Vegas, with a brief stop at Hoover Dam. They are building a high bridge over the canyon to keep traffic off the dam. It is awesome.

The Vegas strip looked like a ghost town. Construction shut down on half a dozen partly finished hotels, little traffic on the streets, and the casinos less than half full. On the bright side, though, we got rooms in one of the best hotels in own for eighty dollars a night.

We thought there might be some action downtown on Fremont Street, but it was even deader. Casinos were enticing people in with two dollar drinks and ten dollar dinners, with little success. The light show on the street, though, was worth the trip. Think of a TV set four blocks long and a hundred feet wide. Awesome!!

The slots, incidentally, were not cooperating. I think they had them set to make up all the revenue they were losing elsewhere, ‘cause they hardly paid off at all.

So then it was on to Phoenix. Another long drive through a godforsaken desert, But we did spy one mangy coyote.

At this point I should mention Frau Garman, Jurgen was in love with this lady, who was the voice of his GPS navigation system. She did OK on the highway, but how can you get lost on the Interstate anyway, but was not so good in Vegas, and totally useless in Phoenix.

Phoenix for any of you who have not been there, is the ultimate in urban sprawl, with three million people living in a megatropolis fifty miles across.

Anyhow, Jurgen punched in the street address of the hotel, and the Frau took us on a fifty mile, two hour tour thru the seamy side of Phoenix before we found it.

By this time, Jurgen, who was expecting to get carjacked at every stoplight, is getting really stressed, and when we get to the hotel, which is in one of the less desirable areas near downtown, he is totally freaked. It is a Day’s Inn, in process of renovation. The rooms were newly remodeled, but the rest of the place looked like it had been thru a war. And to make life more interesting, there were a few skuzzy looking characters hanging about. Jurgen was sure that if he didn’t sleep in the car, it would be up on blocks in the morning with the wheels and engine missing. But I told him that it was his own fault, as he was the one who set the one hundred dollar a night limit on hotel rooms, and this one was only eighty. In fact, I negotiated it down to sixty five. (A hell of a deal, really, for a downtown big city hotel at the height of the tourist season).

Actually it really wasn’t so bad, but next day, at Jurgen’s insistence, we moved to a slightly worse hotel in a somewhat better location, which only cost fifty dollars a night more. (Must have been charging for the Scottsdale address).

And speaking of Scottsdale, that’s about as far from the ballpark as you can get. A forty five minute ride on the freeway, and who knows how long on the surface streets.

By this time we had regulated the Frau to the glove box, after she had led us thru a golf course and two apartment complexes, on the way to dinner one night, when we should have gone straight down Scottsdale Road. John’s built in nav system, which we used from then on, turned out to be a much more reliable and better bet.

As to dinner, we managed, after many e mails and a few false starts, to get together with our old China friends (from Iowa and El Paso, TX respectively) for food, drinks, and good conversation. In fact, we closed the restaurant.

As to the Mariners, that was another story. The pitching was really bad, and Ken Griffey did not seem to live up to expectations. The Mariners even got beat by an Australian baseball team. And would you believe, the stadium was less than half full, for each game. Must be the long arm of the recession.

Anyway, the Mercedes came through unscathed, we didn’t spend much money, and a good time was had by all. And we are just about rested up, and still friends enough to repeat the whole gig in San Francisco next week. But the hundred dollar a night hotel room limit, and Frau Garmin, have both gone by the wayside.

And maybe, we should be giving some thought to slowing down. But we’ll worry about that next year, after we run out of money.



KASEBEER KAMPOUT

Just got back from the “Kasebeer Kampout”, hosted by my cousin and good buddy Lee, and his lovely wife Kris.

Since Lee and Kris are kind of homeless at the moment, the event was held on their Eastern Oregon farm, which is complete with both cows and barn. As well as a Porta-Potty brought in for the occasion.

Since camping in a cow pasture was not really appealing to Pat, we “camped out” at a motel in nearby Redmond OR, and commuted to and from the site. The last hundred yards or so of the commute (Through the pasture itself.) was fairly interesting, as one had to dodge both potholes and liberal amounts of fresh cow dung. The kids who washed the cow poop off the car later thought it pretty weird that someone would be using an old Thunderbird to round up cows, and we didn’t tell them anything different..

But the cow dung did not totally go to waste, ‘cause the highlight of the reunion was a cow pie pitching contest, which was held in two heats, Saturday and Sunday. I don’t recall who won, but I barely escaped last place thanks to a five year old girl, who threw her pie just a bit shorter distance than I managed with mine. Personally, I prefer pitching horseshoes. Considerably less messy.

After the contest, most of the girls headed for the town of Sisters, while the guys, after drinking a fair amount of beer, decided to help Lee install an old patio sliding door which he had scrounged somewhere. Anyway, the installation, done by the guys after a few beers, while supervised by two engineers, was a sight to behold. And neither the town, or the barn, will probably ever be the same.

My cousin Linda, with her friend Ken (and their two dogs) showed up as well, and also had the good sense to hotel it, rather than camp. Linda brought along a third dog, which had belonged to her mother, and presented it to Pat and me. Fortunately, being made of plaster, he is easy to care for, and now resides in the breakfast room of our Edmonds home.

To sum things up, we did meet some real neat young folks, and got reacquainted with some older ones as well. And being the eldest of the revelers, Pat and I did get a little (very little) respect.


RENO AIR RACES

Ever since my son Mark and I returned from the Reno Air Races I have been trying to write a story, but it is hard, because nothing interesting happened.

Oh yes, I bent two wheels on the Mustang on the way from Palm Desert to Reno, but it didn’t make the car shake much if you kept it over 85MPH. Of course, at that speed, I couldn’t dodge the coyote who ran out on the road between Reno and Las Vegas so I hit him. Fortunately, there was no damage to anything but the coyote. Also on the way to Vegas I passed through Tonopah Nevada. I had wanted to do this ever since I was an eight year old kid, but never had the opportunity. The reason that Tonopah was so important, was that My buddy Billy and I were train nuts, we had heard of a railroad called “The Tonopah and Tidewater”, and wanted to see where it started. Well, I saw Tonopah, but no sign of a railroad. Probably was abandoned in the meantime.

The races were also kind of fun, even though I almost caught my death of cold. Particularly interesting were the “Hot Rod” modifieds, made by stuffing a 28 cylinder Pratt and Whitney R4360 radial into a WW II Corsair or Bearcat airframe. The 4360 designation means 4360 cubic inches, roughly 15 times larger than the V8 in my Mustang. That engine pumps out 3500 horsepower, and would make those little airplanes go 500 MPH. They actually made better time around the course than the jets. As you probably know, the races are run at almost ground level around a 5 to 8 mile closed course oval. Rules are similar to hydroplane racing.

Anyway, Mark and I drank a lot of beer, along with some real good male bonding. And it only cost me $500.00 for new wheels.


SAN FRANCISCO

Now for a couple of stories about San Francisco, one of our favorite cities in the entire world.SAN FRANCISCO MINI VACATION

At an ungodly hour in the morning, Joe from La Quinta Travel wheeled his van down the streets of Palm Desert, picking up five sleepy couples, for the long trip to Ontario (CA).

Arriving at the Ontario airport, they braved the lines at the Southwest ticket counter, and the dreaded TSA security check, grabbed a quick cup of coffee, and lined up to board the Oakland nonstop, which John’s travel agent had booked for a total fare of Seventy Eight dollars US, round trip, no less
This intrepid bunch of friends was headed for San Francisco on a five day mini vacation. Would they still be friends after five days?? Read on and find out.

They were met at Oakland airport by a braless dyke lesbian driving a black stretch limo. Welcome to San Francisco.

The hotel in San Francisco (Beresford Arms) had been there since the Fire, and did have a certain charm. It, however, was almost totally remodeled, clean, with a great downtown location, and most important of all, cheap. (Rooms went for $89, and suites for $119). The staff persons were all super attentive, and put on a great wine tasting every afternoon at 4:30.

The group decided on dinner at a famous Fisherman’s Wharf seafood restaurant, and another stretch limo driver, this time a male heterosexual type named Freddy, who was hanging around the lobby, offered to deliver them there for the princely sum of three bucks a head.

The ride and the restaurant were both wonderful, and afterward the one other couple and us headed to Broadway for some jazz, while the others retired.

The next day the group, less Pat, had lunch at a great oyster bar, and while the rest went shopping or sightseeing, John and Pat hiked out to Japan town for a taste of the mysterious east.

On day three, most of the group explored the Exploratorium, where they had to pry Jay away from the smoke ring machine, while the the rest of us took a “sightseeing tour” with the same male limo driver, who Bill had now hired for $40 bucks an hour. Problem was, by that time, the famous San Francisco fog had rolled in, and you could see maybe twenty feet in front of you. The highlight of the tour was a photo op from Coit tower on Telegraph Hill. They call it Telegraph Hill, incidentally, because in the REAL old days, they stood on the hill and signaled the arrival of sailing ships coming through the Golden Gate. Anyway, Freddy, the driver, pointed out the Transamerica Tower, Alcatraz Island, the Golden Gate Bridge, and other famous San Francisco sights. Problem was, everywhere one looked, there was only a uniform shade of gray.

After the tour, we had lunch with some old friends of our fellow travellers. The guy was great, and the lady was charming. She was eighty and looked fifty five, or was it she was fifty five and looked eighty. After all the wine, I kind of forget.

The following day was the high point of the trip, a tour of the fabulous wine country. John had rented a van which was only slightly smaller than a Greyhound bus, and Dean had volunteered to drive it, before he found out how big it was. It was also about three feet off the ground, and watching the group enter and exit was a sight to behold. This situation was alleviated somewhat, though, when Joe “borrowed” a beverage crate from the publican at a nearby Sheraton hotel, and pressed it into service as a step.

Joe and Jay were the navigators and they found this shortcut, which turned out to be a one lane road over a 4000 foot mountain pass. Thankfully, the fog was so thick that one could not see the horrendous drop-offs.

The second winery we visited we really scored. Turns out that the owner, Joseph Phelps, was an old college sweetheart of Jan’s, and when the staff found that out, they pulled out all the stops. We finally had to beg them to stop pouring the $40 dollar bottles of wine down us.

Then on to Sonoma, the last stop of the trip. Sonoma is steeped in history, being among other things, the Capitol of the short lived California Republic, and our hotel was right in the middle of it all. The hotel was rumored to have been General Vallejo’s headquarters, (When California belonged to Mexico), and certainly had not been remodeled since California became a state. John thought it was quaint, but some others thought that dump was a more appropriate description. Oh well, one can’t have everything.

The last day began early, when Dean rousted everyone out and into the van at the crack of dawn, in order to catch a three thirty airplane. It turned out that they made it with hours to spare, and on top of that, the airplane was an hour late.

One good thing did happen though. The gate agent took one look at that beat up, infirm, elderly looking bunch and immediately decided that they qualified for pre boarding, thus avoiding the dreaded rush for window seats when the flight was called.

The flight was uneventful and Joe was there to carry the folks back home to Palm Desert. Everyone soon arrived home tired, reasonably happy, and best of all, still friends.


SAN FRANCISCO AGAIN

Jurgen and Diana, after hanging around the Southwest since early January, had just about run out of free places to stay, not to mention overrunning both their wine, and their golf budgets, and so it was time to head for home.

But on the way, they decided on one last fling with us in San Francisco, and with Diana’s sister and family in Napa.

So on the appointed day, we all load up the Mercedes for the last time, and head north.

The car, though, is more than a little crowded, with their luggage, the wine they bought in CA, the two of us, and our suitcase. As a result, the two backseat passengers were a bit like sardines in a can, with freight packed pretty much all around them.

We decided to take the gold rush trail, California State Route 49, and do some sightseeing along the way. We saw some great old towns (150 year old buildings) soaked up some fantastic scenery, and after a couple of arguments with Frau Garmin (the navigation system) arrived in Sonora, our destination for the evening.

The 100 year old hotel looked like fun, but after we had negotiated the rate down from $85 to $61, we found ourselves in the annex. Which was definitely not 100 years old, but certainly looked like it.

Next morning it was on to San Francisco, with a stop at a couple of wineries near Lodi. So, we now have a couple hundred dollars more wine aboard, and the Mercedes is seriously overloaded.

Anyway, we finally arrive in San Francisco, and pull up to our favorite hotel, The Beresford Arms. This place has been around since the “Fire”, but has lots of charm, and is still in great shape. A four thirty PM wine hour, (Complementary, I might add.) an attentive staff, and just steps from Union Square, what more could one ask. And it was so cheap, we sprung for a suite.

A great dinner at our favorite place on Fisherman’s Wharf, a couple of drinks, a bottle of wine in the room, and we were ready to call it a night.

Next day was sightseeing. Haight, the Castro district, Chinatown, Mission Dolores, all the desirable, and less desirable parts of town. One downer, the cable cars now cost five bucks, with no transfers, no senior discount, no nothin’. But the streetcars were fifty cents after the senior discount, and the cabs were cheap.

By the way, there is a WW II US submarine tied up at Pier 54, which is a must see. Going through it gives one a real appreciation of the sailors who served in the “Silent Service”.

Dinner was at Schroeder’s, a favorite German restaurant that has been around since 1885. The venerable San Francisco waiters, though, have been replaced by attractive ladies from the Czech Republic, but I guess that’s a sign of the times.

Then on to Enrico’s. Enrico’s is another San Francisco institution, kind of a cross between a bar, a café, and a coffee shop. It’s on Broadway, smack in the middle of the Barbary Coast, the SF red light district. It’s worth the price of admission just to see the characters passing by, and the street people wandering in and out of the place. And they do have some cool jazz.

Anyway, we wander in, and the place is packed to the rafters. The Maitre d’, seeing us two elderly couples, assumed we must be lost, and had wandered into the joint by mistake, (we had at least 25 years on anyone else in the place) When we assured him that we had been devotees of the place for 50 years, and had come for drinks and jazz, he (Who turned out to be the new owner) quickly found us a ringside seat, and we were kind of the guests of honor all evening.

In fact, when we finally did get ready to leave, he urged us to stay, told us we didn’t need to buy more drinks, and offered us free snacks. Real San Francisco hospitality.

Anyway, the three days flew by quickly, and a good time was had by all. Jurgen and Diana dropped us at the Airport on their way to Napa, and we flew home to Palm Desert, to rest up for the next adventure. (Which turned out to be four wheeling in the Mojave, but that is a story for another time.)


VANCOUVER MINI VACATION

Pat and I decided that we needed a mini vacation, we both like big cities, and Vancouver BC sounded like a neat place, so out goes a call to Judy, our trusted travel agent, to see what she could work out.

Since most of you know that our Edmonds place is only two blocks from the train station, and all passenger trains stop there, it seemed like a good idea to take the train. Amtrak’s fancy European type Talgo train on the Seattle-Vancouver run, looked good, as well, and the fact that there is business class on this train clinched the deal.

Next came the question of where to stay. Downtown is where the action is, but downtown hotels are horrendously expensive. Finally, on the Internet, I found a small “European” style (read quaint) hotel, which was smack in the middle of downtown. Then Judy used her skills to negotiate $25 per night off the best rate which I had been able to get. She made up for it though, by charging us a $50 commission on the train tickets.

So, the big day comes, and we hop on the train at the ungodly hour of 8:07AM. And this train really exceeded our expectations. Two and one seating, about 20 seats per car, today’s newspaper and an attentive porter. Other amenities included a diner and a bar car, with three dollars off the first drink. Even though the diner was really posh, the food, unfortunately, was little better than airplane food, but what the heck, one can’t have everything.

Among companions in our car were two couples from Nebraska, who were heading to Vancouver to board a cruise ship. They asked interesting questions like “Is that water over there part of the ocean?”, as a 100,000 ton container ship steamed by. I told them that if it wasn’t the ocean, that ship was certainly lost. They also wanted to know every five minutes if we were in Canada yet. As we passed the San Juans, I really expected them to ask where they put the islands in the winter. They also couldn’t figure out the Canadian customs form, till I suggested that they read the English side and not the side printed in French.

The train pulled into the station on time, we got through customs with no hassle, and decided to take the Skytrain to our hotel. For those of you who might not know, the Skytrain is Vancouver’s light rail transit, and is really neat. The train though, was really in the sky and could only be reached by traversing a couple of hundred steps. We gave out about halfway up, and accepted a kind oriental girl’s offer to help. When we finally attained the platform, we were confronted by a formidable ticket machine, complete with flashing lights, chrome knobs, whistles and indecipherable instructions. Neither of us, or any of the other tourists, for that matter, could figure the thing out, so we bypassed it and hopped on the next train. Strangely enough, bells didn’t clang, no cops jumped out, and the train moved off smartly, just as if we had paid.

A five minute ride took us to a station a block from the hotel, but the Skytrain had by now morphed into a subway, and there were another 200 steps up to get out. Fortunately, though, we found an elevator, so all was well.

Arriving at the hotel, we found that it really was a quaint European place. A postage stamp lobby, an elevator only big enough for two, and a small restaurant in the basement. We had a deluxe room, which was fine, but so small that one could not get up on the wrong side of the bed. I wonder what the standard rooms were like.

To top it off, the staff was extremely accommodating and helpful, and there was a free shuttle available to anyplace in downtown Vancouver.

Our fellow guests didn’t seem to like the place much though, but they were mostly cruise ship passengers from America’s heartland, so what do they know?

After getting checked in and organized we found ourselves in need of a libation, and guess what, there was a “genuine” Irish Pub next door.

So we spent that day and the next exploring Vancouver. It always had reminded me of Hong Kong, and now even more so. The place was about 70% Orientals, and the architecture, and the busy harbor certainly looked like Hong Kong as well. Ships from all over the world in the harbor, and high rise condos everywhere. (just like Hong Kong apartment buildings) Vancouver has the third largest Chinatown in North America, but the whole downtown has a definite oriental flavor, complete with signs in Japanese, Chinese, or Korean. One night, for example, we wanted sushi, which was not hard to find, as there were literally one or two Japanese restaurants on every block.

Some of you may know that I worked in downtown Vancouver years ago, and after some searching we found the old building. A bit the worse for wear, but still standing.

The third day, we decided to go for Grouse Mountain, which is a peak across the harbor from downtown, reached by a gondola ride. Somewhat like the Palm Springs tram ride or the lift up Victoria Mountain in Hong Kong. Since we didn’t have a car, the only way to get there seemed to be joining a $100 tour, but the hotel staff convinced us we could make it on local transportation.
The first step was a ferry, not unlike the Star ferry from Kowloon to Hong Kong Island, then a bus to the gondola station. But the price was right, $4 return against $100 for the tour.

But when we got to the top, the whole thing was socked in, and instead of the advertised view, all we got to see was a couple of scruffy Grizzly bears in a wire cage. And to top it off, there was no bar.

So we retraced our route back to the Irish pub, fell into a booth, and refreshed ourselves with a couple of pints of Guinness. (Pat says “Speak for yourself.” She had a Pepsi)

The trip home was uneventful; except for an unscheduled 20 minute stop at the US border while the Border Patrol shook down the train for drugs. Turned out that the guy we talked to had been stationed at Ajo AZ, so we had a good chat about that town, and he refrained from sicking the drug dog on us. (We had cleared US customs and Immigration in Vancouver.)

Oh yes, just before the train stopped in Edmonds, the conductor came around and asked if we needed any help. We said no, but he took our bags off the overhead anyway, and set them in the aisle. Then when the train stopped he deposited bags and Pat on the platform, and wished us a pleasant evening. Maybe being a senior citizen aint so bad after all.


WEST INDIES ADVENTURE II

This is anoter article I published in a local newsletter.


Some of you may remember reading about John and Pat's West Indies trip of a couple of years ago. We now bring you a rousing tale of our recent return to that part of the world.

We left sunny Palm Springs for San Juan, Puerto Rico early in the morning, with a plane change in Dallas/Fort Worth. We had a little less than an hour to change planes, and had to walk from one end of he terminal to the other. If they had made the concourse just a little longer, we could have walked all the way to Puerto Rico.

Anyway we arrived in San Juan and got settled in our hotel room about 10:00 PM. We then went looking for an exotic Puerto Rican culinary experience, but found Burger King instead. Due to the lateness of the hour, it was the only thing open.

Early next morning we caught a plane to St. Kitts. It was a small plane, but the airline, American Eagle, was reasonably efficient. Arriving in St. Kitts, we went thru customs and immigration. St. Kitts is a country with a total of 35,000 people, but they have their bureaucrats. If a 747 had ever come in, it would have taken till a week from Tuesday to process everybody. By the way, the country's real name is St. Christopher and Nevis, but everyone calls it St. Kitts.

Our hotel was billed as an "exotic beach front resort", but the room was something else. For the $225 per night rate, we got a malfunctioning air conditioner which didn't cool, but did throw water all over the room at odd times. Other amenities were a broken screen door, a coffee maker without a pot, and a continuously running toilet. If this was a deluxe suite, we would have hated to see a standard room.

The next day we rented a car to see the island in style. It was a Daihatsu, was about the size of a carnival bumper car, and looked like it had been used as one before it became a rental. The price, though was right, only $75 per day.

We did have a good time touring the island for 3 days, renewing acquaintance with grand old plantation houses, and local artists. We also looked over the local wildlife, consisting of wild cows, donkeys , goats, and monkeys, and revisited some favorite restaurants. One of the high points was a back road and jungle tour by a self appointed 15 year old local tour guide. The livestock, incidentally, were dropped off by sailors in the early fifteen hundreds, to serve as food for later arrivals, and have flourished ever since.

Then it was on to Nevis. The airline was Nevis Express and the airplane was a 35 year old Britten-Norman Islander, but the wings didn't flap too bad. The operation was kind of informal. You gave the ticket lady $20, walked out to the airplane, threw your bags in the back, and got on.

On Nevis we had a nice beach front room where everything worked except, you guessed it, the air conditioner. This is a nice little island and we toured by taxi, this being cheaper than a rental car. An interesting spot was the Royal Nevis Golf Course. A total of two holes.

Next stop was Saba, and to get there we had to rely on Winair. Winair has old and small Twin Otters, but they are STOL, and the only airplanes in the Caribbean which can land on Saba's 400 meter airstrip. For all you folks who aren't into metric, 400 meters is considerably less space than the fairway of the par four in our front yard. Needless to say, landing there, (Saba, not the golf course), and taking off as well, is some experience.
Saba is a gem of an island, essentially a big mountain of five square miles covered with jungle. It is inhabited by whites, originally from Scotland and Holland, who have lived there for hundreds of years. There are 1400 of them, they are gracious hosts, and the hiking and scuba diving are superb. In the sixties they finally built a road connecting the settlements. It is one lane with grades up to 41%. Your car never gets into top gear, and brakes last about four months. We had excellent accommodations, and found an exotic restaurant with an excellent steel band and a waiter who spoke five languages.

Then it was Winair back to St., Martin and the dreaded LIAT (Airline) to Antigua. Some say that LIAT stands for "Leaves Island Any Time", while others swear that it means "Lands In Any Terminal". They fly ancient deHavillands, are NEVER on time, but sometimes really do land on the island where they are scheduled to go. That day we were in luck, we actually got to Antigua, and only four hours late. While hanging around the St. Martin airport waiting for LIAT to get their act together we ran into the vendor who had sold Evelyn Beam a bunch of stuff on our last trip. This helped pass the time and we only spent $25. (Considerably less than it cost Evelyn).

Antigua is now independent, but was an important British West Indian Colony. In the 18th century there was a major Royal Navy base there which was, for a time, commanded by Admiral (then Captain) Horatio Nelson. It has now been restored, and made a National Park. One of the buildings was converted into a hotel, and that is where we stayed. The room was fine, but was somewhat smaller than a travel trailer, (particularly the bathroom) and of course there was no air conditioning. The hotel had a good restaurant and a West Indies steel band who were really into the classics. You should have heard them playing Swan Lake.

Antigua's main industry seems to be offshore banking. Since John's clients are overseas, this has always interested him, so we looked up a banker, got a good briefing, and lots of literature.

Next stop was St. John in the US Virgin Islands, by way of St. Thomas. To get to St. Thomas, of course, we had to fly LIAT. LIAT was in good form that day. They decided to send the St. Thomas flight to St. Kitts instead. Luckily, using mental telepathy, we figured this out and didn't get on the plane. (There were no announcements of course.) Eventually they brought in another deHavilland and we were off to St. Thomas. By this time we were so late that we almost missed the last ferry to St. John.

St. John is one of our favorite islands, and since John lived there off and on for a year we know it well. We stayed in a neat little Inn. (The air conditioning worked), rented a jeep, and explored all the old haunts. Most of the island is a national Park which was donated by Laurence Rockefeller, so is relatively unspoiled, although the Park Service maintenance does leave something to be desired.

The last stop was St. Thomas. This island is an old pirate hangout (for real), which was run by the Danish West Indian Company. The pirates did their thing, then sailed in to town, and the merchants relieved them of their loot. It is now the major cruise ship port of the Caribbean, but nothing has really changed. The cruise ships sail in, sometimes seven or eight a day, and the cruise lines conspire with the merchants to relieve the passengers of their money. The present day pirates, however, run a much better organized and more lucrative operation than in the old days. It's really interesting to watch thousands of unsuspecting cruise ship passengers milling around like cattle and being told they are having a good time while the merchants are laughing all the way to the bank.

All in all, it was a good trip., although El Nino made it a little warmer than usual. As you have probably figured out by now, the West Indies are not for everyone, particularly the faint of heart or light of wallet, but If you can remember that you are in third world countries and can go with the flow, you will have a good time.

A GREAT OZARK FISHIN’ TRIP

I’m a couple of hours early at Sea-Tac to catch a plane for Dallas when the bad news starts. Thunderstorms at Dallas Fort Worth, and three flights in a row are cancelled.  Not a very auspicious start for a fishing trip to the Ozarks.

But a couple of minutes before I would have missed my connection in Dallas, the field opens up and an airplane prepares to leave SeaTac.  Only thing, there are about 2000 folks fighting for the 150 seats.

Turning on the charm, I convince the Gate Agent that I am handicapped and I snag a precious seat.  Things begin looking up even more, when the cute young flight attendant feels sorry for me and sneaks me free beer all the way to Dallas.

But then comes the dreaded American Airlines terminal at DFW.  150 gates, and the one where your departing flight leaves is always at least two miles from where you arrived.  I think that if they extended the concourses a bit farther, you could walk to your final destination.

Anyway, I sink into a cart for the handicapped, and it takes me about 200 yards to the end of the line. And guess what, the moving sidewalks are not running, so it is hoof it the last mile.

 So I just manage to catch my connection for Springfield MO.

Which turns out to be one of those little Embraer jets.  But not too bad, really.

Anyway, Hugh and Michelle meet me at the gate, and it’s a good dinner and then crash in the sack.

Next morning its up and at ‘em first thing.  So out we roll with the camping trailer, behind the big truck, and we are on our way.  No tent this time, thankfully.

So we arrive at the campsite and settle in. Just steps from the potties, the store and the boat launch.  Thing is, it’s about a forty five degree slope down to the boats.  Not bad going down, but Hell to get back up.

So we grab our poles, and go rent a boat.  But guess what, a thunder storm is coming in, and they won’t let us on the water.  And by the time the storm passes it is too late for fishin’.  Lucky Hugh had us well stocked with Coronas, so it wasn’t too bad.

We had planned to hire Hot Dawg Curtis, the self styled “Fish Acquisition Specialist”, for the next days fishing, but by the time we got through screwing around, he was booked.  So we rented the last boat, and guess what, the motor wouldn’t start.  The rental guy assured that the motor would be fixed momentarily, but that turned out to be Ozark time, and we finally got on the water about 11:00 AM.

We didn’t have a clue what we were doing, but we finally managed to catch a few fish, even though two lunkers broke my six pound line, and several more got off Hugh’s barbless hook.

On the plus side, the river was scenic, the weather was perfect, and the boat guy let us have the boat all day for the half day rate. And as I remarked, the fishin’ was great, but the catchin’ did leave something to be desired.

Arriving back at camp, we found about one hundred Boy Scouts had invaded our campsite, and it rained most of the next day.  But with the help of a fresh supply of Corona, we coped.

Anyway, it was a good outing, lots of Corona and male bonding. And the trip was a real bargain.  I figure that the fish only cost about $100 per pound.

 But next time, I think we will take advantage of the Hot Dawg Curtis guide service.

CHINA ADVENTURE

Below is another newsletter article about our China trip

John and Pat spent most of May doing China, with a stopover in Bangkok thrown in for good measure.

We covered it North to South, and East to West. Five major in country airplane flights, a five day cruise up the Yangtze, several other boat rides, with a train ride thrown in for good measure, and of course, lots of busses.

China is geographically a large country, bigger than the United States, with just over a billion inhabitants. The country, however does not seem crowded. Even in the larger cities, with 20 million or so people, there are wide streets, sidewalks and open spaces. One does not get a hemmed in feeling, like in Tokyo, Jakarta, or even Bangkok.

China is not great on spectacular attractions. The Great Wall and the Terra Cotta Soldiers are about it, and both are thousands of years old. Medieval period buildings tend to be plain, Modern architecture is uninspiring, mostly communist style East European, with some of the newer office buildings copied from the West. Many of the temples and churches were destroyed in the Cultural Revolution, and have not been rebuilt. One can see more spectacular sights in Bangkok in a half day than in a month in China.

We visited everywhere, from the two largest cities to small farming villages accessible only by water, and everything in between. We think that we got a fair feel for the people and how they live, at least as much as a foreigner with a language problem can. We visited two homes, one as a guest of the Government and one entirely on our own, talked to kids in two schools, and wandered endlessly through cities and villages, both large and small. One thing that amazed us was the widespread use of English, even in remote areas, and the number of signs which were bilingual, much more so than, for example, in Japan. The kids all knew who Michael Jordan is, and when we said that we were from California, they connected that with Disneyland.

It’s easy to see where Japan got their culture. They “borrowed” it from China, then mixed in European and American. China seems different. There is definitely a Chinese culture, going back into antiquity, and recent Western culture is overlaid on this, but not assimilated. This is hard to explain to one not familiar with Asia, but old Asia hands would instantly recognize the difference between China and Japan, Malaysia, or Singapore.

China is definitely a Communist country. Although relatively few wear the Mao pajamas uniform, one is continually reminded of Chairman Mao and the great revolution. His picture is posted prominently, and posters and monuments extolling the Revolution are not uncommon. There is little military presence, but police are everywhere. There seems to be little tolerance for dissent. While visiting Tienaman Square we happened upon a small innocuous demonstration. The demonstrator was immediately whisked away by the police and a foreign tourist who was incautious enough to record the scene with his camera, had his film confiscated. He would have also been detained if not for the aggressive intervention of a Government tourist guide who was responsible for him. Yes we did have Government guides the whole trip. They would meet us at the airport and stay with us till we left their area. They were very good at explaining the virtues of communism, and putting the best face on everything. They were also extremely good at getting us to spend hard currency for local arts and crafts, most of dubious value. We were free to move about on our own, which we did to some degree, but encouraged to stay with the guide.

Internal travel by Chinese Citizens is controlled. (They have travel documents resembling a passport) Also the area of the country they can live in, and where they can work. Most business is still owned or controlled by the state, and state employees seemed to get better wages and fringe benefits than those employed privately. Speaking of wages, they vary from $500 per month for say a computer programmer in a large city, to $50 per month for a worker in a small town. We were told that in some of the more remote areas in the west, that $20 per month was a fair wage. In the cities, at least, the average Chinese lives either in a few rooms in what we would consider a shantytown, or a 250 to 400 sq. ft apartment in a high rise with shared kitchen and bath facilities. Most shops look like a US mini storage building, complete with roll up shutters, but many shops and even restaurants exist totally on the sidewalk. There is nothing remotely like this in the US, and it appears to be a step down from the average in Indonesia, Pakistan, or the worst cities in South America.

China is a real mixture of the old and the very new, with the Government almost desperately, it seems, (and spending massive sums in the process) trying to pull the country into the twenty first century. It is, of course, a planned economy. The government, for example is spending 25 Billion on the largest dam in the world, and in the process relocating. almost one and a half million people. The farmers till the soil with primitive plows pulled by water buffalo, with very few tractors in evidence, but are being relocated from their traditional farmhouses to high rise apartments in the villages. In the cities most people live in housing as described previously, but almost all have TV, and most have a cell phone to their ear. Sometimes in the rush to modernize they seem to have skipped whole levels of technology, such as wired phones. New office buildings are being built frantically, it seems, but many are almost empty. They say that they are building for the future. In this regard, they are convinced that in 20 years Shanghai will be the transportation, banking, commercial, and cultural hub of Asia, they won’t need Hong Kong, and Tokyo will be obsolete.

Air travel was a pleasant surprise. The old Russian airplanes are all gone , replaced by brand new Boeings and Airbusses. The planes are clean, run on time, and cabin and ground service is excellent. Generally the airlines compare favorably with US domestic, although not yet quite on a par with Europe or Southeast Asia. Trains are also fine. Boats, however are not quite so good, being generally comparable with Eastern Europe or Russia. Our “cruise” ship was actually built in East Germany for a Russian customer.

Hotels were, with one exception, uniformly excellent. The large city hotels while not the Peninsula or the Shangra La, are comparable with the better US chains. Even in the smaller towns accommodations are on a par with Europe.

Medical care is also surpassingly good. While we personally stayed healthy, some fellow travelers had relatively serious problems, so we got to check things out first hand. In the large cities, emergency and hospital care is comparable with the US, with western trained doctors and nurses. In the smaller towns the medicine is more a mixture of Western and Oriental, but still is efficient and effective. Medical personnel seem to be really interested in their jobs and to care about their patients. Some said that this treatment is only for foreigners, but we doubt that.

There are freeways throughout the large cities but literally no private automobiles there, or anywhere in the country, except perhaps for high officials and some foreigners. (But lots of trucks and busses for sure.) There are also relatively few motorcycles. Bicycles, however abound. 6 million in Beijing alone and 200 to 300 million in the whole country. As you know, our friend Al Gore is urging us to get out of our cars and onto bicycles to fight pollution. Why is it then, that although China has almost no cars but lots of bicycles, it is, hands down, the most polluted country in the world. Maybe it is the gas passed by all those bicycle riders.

Seriously, the pollution, even in the remote areas, is the worst we have seen anywhere. We did not see the sun for the entire trip, and visibility was often one half to one mile. Our eyes smarted, our noses ran continuously, and John developed a nasty cough. It seems that the soft coal that is burned everywhere causes much of the problem.

We wound up the trip in Hong Kong and Bangkok. Hong Kong is doing OK under Chinese rule, although real estate prices are down about a third, consumer goods prices are up, and there is almost a total absence of Caucasian tourists. This shortfall is to some degree made up by greater numbers of mainland China and Southeast Asia visitors.

It’s always a pleasure to visit Bangkok. So radiant and full of life, and so much to see. Thailand seems to be recovering nicely from the recent recession, with even the Bangkok red light district again going strong. The only real reminder of the recent hard times are the skeletons of 360 partially completed hi rises in Bangkok.

In summary, if one is interested in Asia, and has the time and means to really explore the country, a trip to China would be worthwhile. Otherwise do Beijing, the Great Wall and the Terra Cotta soldiers in Xian, and skip the rest, or don’t go at all.

SOUTHWEST SHENANIGANS

Bright and early Monday morning, Jurgen, Diana, John, and Pat fire up the ol’ Mercedes and head out from Palm Desert for a few days of debauchery in Las Vegas and some baseball in Phoenix.

But before we head out, we have to pack the car, and this poses a small problem. Ya know, like putting ten pounds of beans in a five pound bag.

Anyhow, by the time we got all the appliances, coolers, suitcases, and miscellaneous junk in the car, there was no room for four people. So, the golf clubs, and some other miscellany was left behind, but not the beer.

Jurgen insisted on the “scenic” route thru the desert, so it was I-10 to Blythe, then some back road up the Colorado to Parker Dam, Then to Lake Havasu City. In Havasu we had to check out the “London Bridge”, we got kind of confused though, and drove across it three times before we realized that this was really the famous structure.  The schlocky fake English mall near the bridge didn’t look as bad as last time, ‘cause it was pretty much taken over wall to wall by tacky souvenir tents.  Looked like a cross between Quartzite and the College of the Desert flea market.

Then it was on to the famous Route 66 of fable and song, and a visit to Oatman, which is right in the middle of the worst stretch of this convoluted mountain road which you can imagine. No wonder they abandoned the highway.  Oatman, incidentally, has become quite a tourist trap.  It lives and breathes Route 66 nostalgia, and accordingly is in a 70 year time warp.  One big tourist attraction is the 200 or so wild burros which freely roam the town, eating anything the tourists have to offer. We didn’t tarry long in town, because it looked to Jurgen like the burros were ready to eat the paint off the Mercedes.

Then it was on to Los Vegas, with a brief stop at Hoover Dam.  They are building a high bridge over the canyon to keep traffic off the dam.  It is awesome.

The Vegas strip looked like a ghost town.  Construction shut down on half a dozen partly finished hotels, little traffic on the streets, and the casinos less than half full. On the bright side, though, we got rooms in one of the best hotels in own for eighty dollars a night.

We thought there might be some action downtown on Fremont Street, but it was even deader.  Casinos were enticing people in with two dollar drinks and ten dollar dinners, with little success.  The light show on the street, though, was worth the trip.  Think of a TV set four blocks long and a hundred feet wide.  Awesome!!

The slots, incidentally, were not cooperating.   I think they had them set to make up all the revenue they were losing elsewhere, ‘cause they hardly paid off at all.

So then it was on to Phoenix. Another long drive through a godforsaken desert, But we did spy one mangy coyote.

At this point I should mention Frau Garman, Jurgen was in love with this lady, who was the voice of his GPS navigation system. She did OK on the highway, but how can you get lost on the Interstate anyway, but was not so good in Vegas, and totally useless in Phoenix.

Phoenix for any of you who have not been there, is the ultimate in urban sprawl, with three million people living in a megatropolis fifty  miles across.

Anyhow, Jurgen punched in the street address of the hotel, and the Frau took us on a fifty mile, two hour tour thru the seamy side of Phoenix before we found it.

By this time, Jurgen, who was expecting to get carjacked at every stoplight, is getting really stressed, and when we get to the hotel, which is in one of the less desirable areas near downtown, he is totally freaked.  It is a Day’s Inn, in process of renovation.  The rooms were newly remodeled, but the rest of the place looked like it had been thru a war.  And to make life more interesting, there were a few skuzzy looking characters hanging about. Jurgen was sure that if he didn’t sleep in the car, it would be up on blocks in the morning with the wheels and engine missing. But I told him that it was his own fault, as he was the one who set the one hundred dollar a night limit on hotel rooms, and this one was only eighty. In fact, I negotiated it down to sixty five. (A hell of a deal, really, for a downtown big city hotel at the height of the tourist season).

Actually it really wasn’t so bad, but next day, at Jurgen’s insistence, we moved to a slightly worse hotel in a somewhat better location, which only cost fifty dollars a night more. (Must have been charging for the Scottsdale address).

And speaking of Scottsdale, that’s about as far from the ballpark as you can get. A forty five minute ride on the freeway, and who knows how long on the surface streets.

By this time we had regulated the Frau to the glove box, after she had led us thru a golf course and two apartment complexes, on the way to dinner one night, when we should have gone straight down Scottsdale Road. John’s built in nav system, which we used from then on, turned out to be a much more reliable and better bet.

As to dinner, we managed, after many e mails and a few false starts, to get together with our old China friends (from Iowa and El Paso, TX respectively) for food, drinks, and good conversation.  In fact, we closed the restaurant. 

As to the Mariners, that was another story.  The pitching was really bad, and Ken Griffey did not seem to live up to expectations.  The Mariners even got beat by an Australian baseball team.  And would you believe, the stadium was less than half full, for each game.  Must be the long arm of the recession.

Anyway, the Mercedes came through unscathed, we didn’t spend much money, and a good time was had by all.  And we are just about rested up, and still friends enough to repeat the whole gig in San Francisco next week.  But the hundred dollar a night hotel room limit, and Frau Garmin, have both gone by the wayside.

And maybe, we should be giving some thought to slowing down. But we’ll worry about that next year, after we run out of money.

CASCADE WAGON ROAD

Today, we explored a bit of Washington history, but let me explain.

For hundreds of years there had been, and still is, a trail across the North Cascades, over Cascade Pass, between Marblemont and Twisp. It was used by Indians, miners, trappers and the like, and in the 1850’s somewhat grandly began to be called “The Cascade Wagon Road”. Although hardly fit for such a conveyance. 

Anyway shortly after Washington became a state, in 1895, to be exact, the legislature decided that this trail would become a State Highway (Eventually called State Route 17, and decreed that it be surveyed and built.

For the next 65 years or so, the state guys labored mightily in getting this road built, and actually got a pioneer road up both sides to within a few miles of each other.

But then faced with getting a road through rock slides and glaciers up the last couple of miles of the steep west side, (behind where Pat is standing in the pic), they abandoned the whole thing and built the present North Cascades Highway, State Route 20, a few miles to the North.

North Cascades National Park has the most glaciers of any Park in the Lower 48, and the pioneer road from Marblemont, almost to the top of the pass, is the only road in the Park. (They actually drew the boundaries of North Cascades National Park to exclude the North Cascades Highway)

Anyway, today, wanting to check out the four wheel drive capabilities of the Explorer, and breathe a little mountain air, we followed the old road to its terminus, and had a grand picnic in a mountain meadow at the foot of the pass.

Following are some pics recording this adventure.