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themirthfulroadrunners · 10 months

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Cotapaxi, Colorado

We have wanted to return to the Salida, Colorado area ever since last there. We thought we had the perfect opportunity. Well, we were in Salida three times this past week, but while our trip was really nice (and an escape from the heat and storms of home), it turned out to be Cotopaxi based. Had it been actually in Salida, we could have ventured to places of our dreams and memories. Instead, we were an hour drive from Salida, which included 25 minutes of climbing 3000 feet of twisty dirt road.

Our stay was at 9000 feet in a very nice house with great views, as you could imagine. It was our first “off grid” house sit which was initially a bit concerning, but that fact turned out to need only small adjustment. No worries, especially for only one week.

The Welsh Terrier we house sat for was great, the first dog we considered bringing home with us. Fergus barked only when he had chipmunks cornered out in the boulder-strewn yard. But he prob’ly would have really barked at the 500-600 lb bear that lumbered across the road 50’ in front of us down the road (in the car).

Regarding the storms we left behind, we had to leave home with the electric power having been off for two days and not restored until a day after we were gone. And power went out again for another day during our absence. We lost all our cold and frozen stuff, but the fridge is fine. (We emptied it before leaving, pre-empting the nasty mess of 1.5 weeks of food sitting in a hot box.) What we’d given neighbors, they lost as well. Oh well. We tried.

The mountains in Colorado were spectacular. The trails were great. The food was good, except for Wayne’s turkey sandwich that was seasoned with ammonia (okay, maybe it was horse-radish). He ate most of it while bawling his eyes out. (Note from Debbie: his eyes instantly went red as fire and he said his whole scalp “tingled.”) Debbie’s sandwich that day was chicken salad on stiff bread that was difficult to manage but at least I didn’t have smoke coming from my ears.

We still dream of returning to Salida. The Arkansas River is at its rowdy toddler stage there and whitewater rafting is big business this season. The river rushes through incredible scenery … mountains of many colors and textures. Calendar pictures around every bend in the road which was constructed for maximum views of the waterway that is unrecognizable from itself as a utilitarian, barge-carrying river back at home. But this trip, though it didn’t satisfy our desire for a favorite city’s charms, gave us whole new areas to covet for future returns. Colorado is one of our top Happy Places.

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themirthfulroadrunners · 10 months

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Arkansas International

Recently challenged by a Texan’s intrastate-international vacation, we knew that Arkansas could not be easily beaten. Starting just up the Arkansas River, practically in our backyard, we began our trip with the first stop in London, a city with as strong a tie to America as any, stronger than most. Only a half-an-hour or so up the road we arrived at Paris, where we enjoyed the tower of fame. Really, they have one. Barcelona was next on our itinerary. And who wouldn’t want to see the largest unfinished church in the world – the Sagrada Familia Church?

The hard to see pins represent our travels.

Next is the coup de grass. (You’re in Arkansas, remember?) Venus, only 59.87 million miles from Barcelona. No wait. I got ahead of myself. Venus, Arkansas, is actually 111 miles from Barcelona, in Madison County. From Venus we head east to Melbourne, spelt the way the Brits wanted it spelt. From Melbourne where we arrived in time to enjoy Arkansas’ best Cave City watermelons, we turned south, believe it or not, to Denmark. South of Denmark is Warsaw. And south of Warsaw is Stuttgart. Arkansas is as rich with German flavor as Stuttgart is in ducks. (Look it up.) From Stuttgart we continue south to Moscow where we race through to Hamburg and then Berlin. (Recall what I said about Germany in Arkansas.) After Berlin we turn west to Venice. Don’t blink, and don’t look for any gondolas. Lisbon is next. Lisbon is famous for, among other things, Jeronimos Monastery. But I think Geronimo spelled his name differently, and prob’ly didn’t have a monastery named after him.

From Lisbon it’s on to Cairo after passing through El Dorado. Don’t ask why they named it The Golden, cause it ain’t. It’s more like the West’s first oil boom town. After Cairo it’s back northward to Bismarck. The Caddo Indians might could tell you something about Bismarck; ‘cause I can’t.

Continuing north, we get to London’s cousin, Dublin. Dublin is only a stone’s skip across the river from London and our Crow Mountain home. In total, our international journey took us 1036 miles, after deducting the wrong turn miles and “recalculating” miles. We’re excited to remind you of the Cave City watermelons (followed closely in sweetness by those from Hope, Arkansas) and also wish to tell you about the pristine pleasures found in and on the Buffalo River, as well as the world-famous cold-water trout fishing on the White River.

As hinted, Stuttgart has more duck hunting than just about anywhere. And we took you right past the only place anywhere that you can keep all the diamonds you can find – right on top of the ground. Cotton, rice, and timber are the money crops, though cattle folk might quibble about inclusion. And bass fishermen would be upset if they didn’t get a shout out. For us, give us the 165-mile Ozark Highlands Trail with the two thousand feet (approx.) elevation uppin’ and downin’, and the hundreds of waterfalls. And also, the Buffalo River Trail is a must for hikers.

On a map, the route looks like Thor’s hammer – and is just about as much fun. (huh?)

Now, should you, for whatever reason, wish to replicate this Arkansas tour on a global scale instead of within the confines of Arkansas, one route, using a combination of transportation modes, would take you about 27,000 miles. (Efforts were made to attempt efficiency) For the sake of continuity, let’s begin, again, in London, the United Kingdom this time, shooting directly to Denmark. For convenience, we’ll say Copenhagen where flight connections are prob’ly better. From there we would fly to Hamburg, Germany. At Hamburg we rent a car (because that’s how we roll) driving 289 km (sorry) to Berlin, Germany. Then we drive south some more to Bismarck, another 634 km (sorry) circling around Nuremburg. South again 127 km (sorry) takes us to Stuttgart.

If you’ve managed to stay away from the beer steins (Don’t go in Oktober), then you can now head east to Warsaw, Poland of course. If you drive, it’s 1121 km (sorry) and a long drive. You might want to fly since the next leg is on to Moscow, Russia. Unless you have an itch to visit a Gulag, you might skip these 1260 km (sorry). Next after Moscow is a long flight (hopefully) to Melbourne, Australia. We sincerely hope you made it. From Melbourne it’s another long flight to Cairo, Egypt. The miles to the sights are not included in the official itinerary.

Venice, Italy is next. Since driving would take you 28 hours to drive the 2524 km (sorry), we’d fly. Now you can ride the gondola.

After driving 1239 km (sorry), assuming you rented another car, you arrive at Barcelona, Spain. Oops. This is where you get to see the big, unfinished church. West another 1250 km (sorry) west is Lisbon, Portugal. Remember the Monastery?

Paris, France is next – the real Eiffel Tower and the Louvre, and trading German beer for over-priced French wine (as if I would know anything about either one). That leg is 1735 km (sorry). We’d fly, ourselves. But then, great things have been said about the European rail systems.

And as in the Arkansas trip, Dublin, Ireland this time though, is the last city before returning to London. To Dublin is 1052 km (sorry). Again, better to fly, especially since there is no bridge from England to Ireland. Dublin back to London is 361 miles (yay!), but only takes an hour to fly. The total trip was (after doing what Brits and Aussies call maths) 26,993 miles. Now, should you wish to add considerable time to the already exciting adventure, you can take off on a down-and-back trip (up-and-back, actually – What do we know, you might have to rocket off from the bottom of the globe) Anyway, you can take off from anywhere you would like – to Venus. (Moscow not recommended) That jaunt would add a mere 59.87 million miles, depending on the day of travel.

Debbie and I, we love Arkansas, leaving off having to learn the eight foreign languages, eleven if you consider what the British, Irish, and Aussies have done to English. Considering the Venusians – better take one of those Dummies or Idiots books along.

And, should we take a notion, we can repeat this project focusing on a 28 Arkansas towns Holy Land trip! After all, Jerusalem is just a spit an’ a holler up the road.

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themirthfulroadrunners · 1 year

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Gulf Breeze

Gulf Breeze is the island between Pensacola and Pensacola Beach. If king for a day, we’d make some changes. One would be to rename Gulf Breeze to Pensacola Island. But then, whoever heard of Pensacola. You got Pepsicola, Cocacola, Royal Crown Cola, and Diet Rite Cola. I have never seen Pensacola on a shelf anywhere.

After having been to Destin, Florida in December, and Pensacola in April, we have determined that northern Florida is (for us) better in the summer and fall months. There are too many storms, high winds, sea mist and cool-ish temperatures. We managed to enjoy some lengthy beach walks and a few hours of beach sits, but ….

St. Augustine brags of being the oldest continuously inhabited settlement in the contiguous United States. We love the qualifiers. Of course, Hawaii would have the very oldest. And no doubt argument could be made for an Inuit or Eskimo group in Alaska, or a few Indian tribes somewhere in the lower 48. (Except for them being routed.) But St. Augustine (1565) followed Pensacola (1559) by six years. Ah, but the continuous part. Pensacola was stormed out for a bit and disqualified by that qualifier. Too bad. Lost your infamy. (Hate when that happens.)

We almost missed the old town, only finding it when we searched for the British car show. Yay! The Christ Church, same name as the one we documented on our Philadelphia visit, is the oldest church on its original site in Florida. Ah, two qualifiers. It’s Episcopal. Wonder if the one in Philly is Episcopal?

We did see the site of the earliest church service in Florida (1559), and quite possibly the first Christian service anywhere in the U.S., even the southwest where Spaniards ventured northward. Alas, the Florida site was most likely not continuously anything.

Our pet sitting experience was a bit short of perfect. Alas, we cannot recommend two-year-old male Golden Retrievers. This one could pull your arm from its socket in the quest of a squirrel. He could also knock you silly insisting on continuous petting. (This high-maintenance pooch gets the prize of all our experiences.)

Our advice to this owner is that they should restrict sitters to people between the ages of 18 and 18 ½. And meth users welcomed – they will need the energy and the meth might be the best way to sleep.

Our favorite part was the National Seashore beaches south and east of the developed beaches and condominiums. Far better seclusion and fewer people … and most beaches prohibit pets! Yay!

After spending time in 2 Florida panhandle cities, we are more convinced than ever that our best-kept-secret beach at Gulf Shores, AL stands up to whatever charms of the better-known tourist beaches. Gulf Shores’ vibe (outside of their city festivals and spring break) suits us to a T. The bonus is that Gulf Shores is slightly closer to home too. Win-Win.

Dar, I had a few words for this young man.

Beep, beep.

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themirthfulroadrunners · 1 year

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The Gnome Home in Debbieton

Debbieton is a real place. By water, it’s downstream by way of Baker’s Creek of the Illinois bayou, which feeds into the Arkansas River at what was formerly Dwight’s Mission, the westernmost Indian church/school. No, it wasn’t the kind that kidnapped and tortured Indian kids. The land route from Debbieton to the Russellville settlement takes you over Crow Mountain. Until the Fowlers built the switchback highway, that route was impractical, if not impossible. Blood, sweat, and broken bones, plus engineering genius, and the trip to the Walmart General Store was reduced from all day affair to minutes, at least once out of the hollow and up to Fowler’s Roost, sometimes known as Rocky Waters Peak.

Rocky Waters Gorge has been a destination site only dreamed of, the perfect location for experiencing the primitive charms of Ozark Mountain life: waterfalls, white water cascades, swimming holes, amazing rock formations, exotic wildlife, and wilderness peace and solitude.

Eventually, the modest settlements of Debbieton and Fowlerville came to be, nestled snuggly within the confines of the holler. Mr. and Mrs. Gnome, the caretakers and only residents of Debbieton live at 1010 Rocky Waters Trail. Though they are prepared, mail service is yet to be established, giving lie to the United States postal Service claim service to every address in all fifty states.

Visitors are welcome in both Debbieton and Fowlerville, though the only modern accommodations are at the B&B in Debbieton. The Gnomes tout shelter from the wilds, and running water as their featured attraction. Offered activities are fishing, boating, swimming, birding, wildlife viewing, and of course, rock climbing and mountain bluff repelling. Amenities include black-out nights, and the soothing comfort of the gurgling stream for restful sleep. For the more genteel, coffee and the like is available only 375 feet away, up Rocky Waters Steep maintained year-round by the Fowler Department of transportation (FoDoT).

Come back soon, hear!

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themirthfulroadrunners · 2 years

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On the Road Again … and again … and again

Old Faithful with rainbow.

The impetus for this lonnnnnnnnnnnng road trip was a house sit in upper Idaho. It took 3+ days to arrive there, but we admit to some serious lollygagging, as this was definitely a bucket list trip which would likely not be repeated. It was a seriously restful week in a beautiful mountain house on rural acreage. In Idaho I learned that actual dark night is rather fleeting. Geezer hours had me in bed way before dark only to arise when the sun had already lighted up the scene. Wayne is an even earlier bird and reported that he did see actual stars. Here are a couple of pix of the views from the house.

Deadwood

On our second day we dropped into a very busy Deadwood, SD during some kind of festival. There was a street reenactment of ye olde western days which was played kinda straight, to try to keep the facts in place … not much cutesy, over-the-top humor as is usually added in such performances. The mandatory Deadwood tourist trap ice cream shop offered a unique Licorice flavor and Wayne-the-licorice-lover gave it a shot. I know, sounds yucky, but it was actually quite tasty.

With said lollygagging time built in, we toured George Custer’s last fall (-ing spot).

We stopped at a bunch of ‘Historical Points’. Of course, many were of the Lewis & Clark nature. One, though, was to record a spot where there was nothing to look at, telling us that the ‘golden’ railroad spike (which was a busted event) took place some three miles distant. Whose dumb idea was it to commemorate that spot?

Garnet Ghost Town

Montana’s Best Preserved Ghost Town absolutely lives up to this claim. I don’t know if it’s the 6,000 ft elevation that facilitated many of the original 1895 buildings to remain viable even here in 2022, but the buildings are strong enough for humans to enter, inspect, and photograph, a quality not shared with a lot of other ghost towns. Mining the red-brown garnet stone, this town had the requisite wild features that rowdy miners desired, but was somewhat unique in that many families also lived there. This is a bit of a drive east of Missoula, but go see it if you’re in the area. I’ll let the pictures convince you; I wonder if it isn’t a great resource for filmmakers designing authentic sets for westerns:

Scenic Idaho

We were pleasantly surprised at Idaho’s scenic farm beauty. Ever-present midwestern farmland is relatively flat and static – we’ve driven through a lot of it on frequent trips through Illinois. But the northwest rapeseed (produces canola oil) fields, planted on gently rolling mounds throughout the region pushed Idaho’s picturesque value high up on anyone’s list, and we’re pretty picky. Other grains (wheat) and hay grasses thrive in this region as well. Those fields make great contrast for the sunshine-colored rapeseed, producing giant patchwork quilt scenes.

Water Water Everywhere

Throughout our road trip we were able to see many scenic waterways, the first of which was in the Lolo Forrest which began on Hwy 12 out of Missoula, MT and took us across Idaho, almost to Washington. Gorgeous vistas pulled at us to stop a million times and add to our growing photo collection. The evergreen woods here were very fragrant with a camphor/pine/citrus-y scent. Elk River waterfall trail was a great hike, and yielded 3 waterfalls, zooming it up very high on our “Best of” list. And then the rest of the week we found new opportunities everywhere.

Saturday Treat

Our house-sit hosts recommended the Moscow Farmers Market, Idaho’s largest. It was a fun way to spend a beautiful Saturday morning. There were lots of produce, baked goods, crafts, jewelry, and artwork, but my favorite feature was a band of, ahem, geezers, playing 60/70s music, a virtual magnet for us Baby Boomers. Beatles, Jimmy Buffet, Simon & Garfunkel, Neil Diamond among others, all very well played. We sat and rocked for about an hour, loving the tunes and watching the other Boomers in the crowd, some of whom danced or at least sang along. One could only imagine the distant memories conjured up in each heart and mind.

VRBO and Canada

After our house sit, on to our VRBO-with-a-million $$$-view in Moyie Springs, ID, about an inch from Canada. We made a quick dash through the mountains across the border and then took a scenic route back through western Montana. Our original plan to drive the Going to the Sun Road in Glacier National Park was skunked when we learned - too late - that one must reserve their coveted spot a gazillion days early. So we settled for Highways 93 and 2, lunching in Whitefish, MT.

Yellowstone and Tetons

We sweated gaining entry to the famous park, it being a scant few weeks past a devastating flood in its northern portion and knowing the park’s popularity as a mid-summer destination. But our senior pass sent us sailing through the gate feeling a little like we got away with something. Old Faithful was our destination but we stopped at the geyser fields to gape and marvel. Postcards purchased at the visitors center and we headed south to glimpse the Tetons.

Wyoming

We drove the length of Wyoming toward Nebraska. Ever-changing geology again kept my head swiveling.

Four (!!!!!) days’ travel back to Arkansas were somewhat arduous to travelers of our demographic, but with all these fresh experiences and memories lodged in our still-functioning gray matter, we’re calling it worth every one of the 5,800+ miles, every questionable hotel, every stretch of road-construction, every other inconvenience whether minor (no free breakfast at some hotels) or major (no curb service at a Sonic “Drive-In”) and the mild jet lag from losing 2 hours for over a week. A major blessing was getting home before lunch! (We love our home, even though readers might not get that, considering all our travel!)

We Meepsters are nailed down in Arkansas again ... until the next trip ...

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themirthfulroadrunners · 2 years

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Badlands Followed by a Bad Man (Aces and Eights)

Visiting dear friends in Nebraska the afternoon and evening of the first day of our trip to Montana, Idaho, Canada, and Yellowstone allowed us an opportunity to see the Badlands the next day, a bucket list entry for both of us. We were not disappointed – either with our friends, or the National Park.

Our friends, recent Arkansas evacuees, bought our supper – Runza! (our choice) If you’ve never had one, you should! Our trip of 5,000 miles over 2 ½ weeks was off to a running start – until it came to a dead stop. Our battery died dead at the restaurant, and after a long visit, we didn’t discover the problem until 7:30, or so. John, the husband of our coupled friends, offered to take Wayne to a neighboring town 30 minutes away where I could get a new battery. It was after 10:00pm when we got to bed – several hours after our usual bedtime!

Happily, the motel offered breakfast at 5:00AM! Yay! So, we were in the Badlands with enough time to experience it. Here’s some pics, though they can only whet your appetite for the real thing.

We also, thanks to an early start, had time to see Deadwood. It’s too bad that we didn’t get there in time to save Wild Bill Hickock. We did get some good licorice ice cream, though. The bad man of the title is Wild Bill’s killer.

After a terrible night at a “Quality” motel chain that tried, but failed to convert/upgrade a former Motel 6, we were again on the road bright and early the next day with time enough to see where the Boy General, Col. George Armstrong Custer bit the bullet, uh, arrow. Many of the soldiers were buried where they fell. Custer’s is the black marker, but he was actually moved to West Point. There are some things about Ol’ George that were deleted in this space.

To this point our trip has been bliss – if you can call burning up thousand dollar/gal for gas bliss. But it couldn’t last. The dead battery was just a blip considering our disappointment at Missoula, Montana. We were all set, mouths palpitating, for a slice of pie from none other than The Pie Hole restaurant! Yay! Pie Hole! Ours would be shut by a piece of fruit pie of any variety; we didn’t care. That is, as long as it was fruit, and not cheese. Yup. Turns out, The Pie Hole is a pizza pie joint – offering pizza by the slice, but the shoe leathery-looking pizza on display - we passed. We were not happy. There are no pictures of pie to close this blog. At least one of us went to bed crying.

Meep, wah-wah meep. (smiley face)

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themirthfulroadrunners · 2 years

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The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (Chicago Style)

Have you ever wondered what it might be like to live in a sitcom inner city apartment? Imagine living in Seinfeld’s one bedroom unit, the buzzer announcing a visitor, the kind of buzzer that bad guys use to punch everyone’s buttons, knowing that someone was expecting a visitor and would unlock the entry door electronically. Or that some other bad guy waiting to enter illegally, up to no good, would slide in behind a tenant’s opening the door. What would you do? Tell some behemoth sporting brass knuckles to get back out? I digress.

Debbie and I house/cat sat such an apartment in (might as well have been) Chicago. The occasion was Wayne’s grandkid’s high school graduation party. Free housing, privacy, not putting family members out, an adventure. Why not?

Well glad you asked. Here’s the why not.

You might get shot. We didn’t, but the thought ran through our minds.

The traffic – bumper to bumper on the teeth-grindingly abundant freeways, comin’ and goin’, toll roads most of ‘em. At times it’s 80mph, but sometimes fully stopped.

Parking in the city. Every sitcom joke is based on reality. We had to consult the parking authority online DAILY to get permission to park overnight - zone specific depending on where you found a spot.

Restaurants aren’t pricey, they’re expensive. Everywhere we went, their menu prices, even for breakfast, were in whole dollars: 2 eggs $23, toast $14, fruity oatmeal $37. Like that (please allow for a bit of artistic license here – aka exaggeration). Here at home in small-town South you can still see: 2 eggs $3.75, toast $1.90, oatmeal w/fruit $5.45. More like that (no artistic license required).

GPS. It might send you from A to the very same B six different ways on consecutive days. It might change freeway exits mid exit (actual events, folks). Of course, then they have to turn you around (recalculating). We were in Chicagoland and the nearest turn back place was in Canada (re: above note about exaggeration). Once, Google Maps couldn’t even find our destination. What to do then with 8 million people all wanting to be exactly where you are at that very moment?

Noise. I remember a movie about a couple trying to entertain in their apartment (Seven). It was loud. Well, our apartment was inches from a freeway AND the blue line train. AND in a neighborhood of busy cross streets. Sidewalks were frequented by the health-conscious neighbors who chatted freely, inches from our ground-floor windows. AND, a firetruck from a station across the tracks liked to run our little road with its siren blaring. The few times that we attempted TV we had the volume on 80. Pity our neighbors.

HVAC – heating and cooling. During our week+ long stay, we needed both heat and air. The heat was supplied by radiator pipes, totally out of our control. The cooling as by opening windows. (re: above about noise)

Our charge was a Maine Coon cat with very long shedding hair. The air and surfaces were virtually full of tufts of hair. Needless to say, after our hard work, the place was cleaner when we left. I wonder if the owner wasn’t at a friend’s place across the street, just gone long enough to get her house cleaned for free (our online reviews give us 5 stars for cleanliness). The cat, though friendly enough (unlike the one who bit both of us at one of our Colorado sits), apparently took offense at our absenting ourselves (a few to several hours most days). We saw the poop on the bed in time. Not so lucky the kitchen rug or the bathroom rug. Note that there was present a fully functional, trés modern, electric litter “box.”

And speaking of bathrooms. The house-sit websites that we use offer house photos that we peruse to help make our decisions whether or not to apply to do the sit. They don’t always show the bathroom, but even when they do, what can you really tell? This one was positively Lilliputian - smaller than those offered on ocean cruise liners.

Covid. Enough said.

So we do not look to repeat these experiences, but we did find a few silver linings:

The neighborhoods of Oak Park are seriously charming. Large, interesting houses, some with lovely landscaped yards. Walks/strolls were refreshing highlights to our days.

We had some great visits with the fam. Many LOLs were had, memories made.

We toured the Frank Lloyd Wright home and studio in Oak Park. Fabulous design details abound, as you would expect, and a magnet for stained/leaded glass fans. A few pix:

And finally, as easily entertained as we relentlessly are, we took note of a couple of interesting business signs:

Meep, meep. Next stop on the house sit tour – Idaho/Montana. Stay tuned, kiddos.

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themirthfulroadrunners · 2 years

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A Different Kind of Vacation

My brother asked if we (Debbie and I) would be interested in helping them remodel their house, one that was for sale. He refused our offer to work free, insisting on rewarding us. Okay, we took him up on his very generous offer and rented a church. Well, actually it was a VRBO that was a church built in 1926 and subsequently converted to a three-bedroom house. The furnace was not working upon our arrival. And it was North-Pole-cold outside. It snowed on April 8th.

The chores were mostly fun work, but still challenging. Off-the-list duties were installing a hanging/cabinet microwave and changing out several ceiling lights. Older brother Steve, and my son Mathew, helped a lot.

As I said, this was a working vacation, so no treks to discover interesting, fun or scenic sites. But we did manage to see jet black squirrels and four bald eagles (maybe it was the same two, seen twice). We also saw a few Yankee coyotes. Sorry, we have no pictures of any of the critters. We also have no pictures of a couple cool signs. One was actually a decal on a car window: a trash can with the word white across it. Another cool sign had letters mounted on a farmer’s fence posts spelling B·L·A·C·K·C·A·L·V·E·S·M·A·T·T·E·R

Mr. Gnome did not seem to have missed us, or needed anything while we were gone.

Here are a few pictures of trails that we did not get to hike on our vacation. Happy trails. Meep, meep.

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themirthfulroadrunners · 2 years

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Baby Boomers @ Golden Years

Contrary to the oft-reported dis from Gen Z/Millennials - some of whom roll their eyes or LOL as they verbally write off The Most Famous Generation (OK Boomer), don’t call us cancelled just yet. But it is obvious to those of us who own 58 to 76 year-old body parts that we have not, after all, figured out a way to stave off old age. We suddenly find ourselves WAAAAY past that once-dreaded age of 30 that we famously chanted as being doomsday for trustworthiness, coolness and usefulness.

Not too feeble to be able to zing around the internet, we have held our own here in the 21st century, even when we must grudgingly ask the youngsters for assistance on one level or another (“Hey Teen, I’ve got the Twitter thing down, but I can’t find the TikTok button, lol, smh”). One ubiquitous online ad headline I keep running across goes something like: 40 Uncool Things Boomers Still Wear. Not being one to nurture click bait, I’ve resisted the urge to find out just exactly how officially square we are now being deemed.

Now, I CANNOT make myself care what items might inhabit such a list and here’s why: The coolest fact about the Coolest Generation is that we don’t concern ourselves with what other demographics deem to be cool and uncool. Knock knock knocking at the door of our golden years gives us that freedom and we’ll own it. “Freedom’s just another word for nothin’ left to lose,” wrote Kris Kristofferson. Kool.

True story: in a store the other day, I was wearing Chuck Taylor sneakers and asked a very young clerk for help with something. She pointed to my shoes and said she loved them. There are definitely a few well-chosen cracks in modern youngsters’ armor … they also reportedly respect and admire the music that was the background theme of the boomers’ wonder years. Great music may indeed be timeless.

But back to those antique body parts that have now grouchily become boomers’ chief agenda. Our calendars are clogged with medical appointments around which we make any other plans, even those we love to make with our grandkids/family/BFFs. Physician visits, tests & procedures, and pharmacy pick-ups take up a lot of our time, especially since we move more slowly than back when we boogaloo-ed, watusi-ed, mash-potato-ed, strolled, swam, jerked or twisted the night away. Our google histories contain more searches for symptoms/diseases than for general curiosities. We laugh with each other about the inevitable “going to bed with the chickens” syndrome that robs us of late-night TV impressions we once shared as a community (remember the shock of discovering the original Saturday Night Live?). But, with props to modern technology, we do have the options of YouTube versions during the saner hours of daylight when we geezer chickens are out and about - hunting and pecking, or bossin’ around Gens X/Z/Millennials.

And we DO heart our memories, though many times the cloudy-edged mid-20th century past is easier to recall than what we meant to do when we went into the other room, that girl’s name I met the other day, what’s the word I’m looking for? or what day is my appointment with the ophthalmologist?

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themirthfulroadrunners · 2 years

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Fowlerville

Some call it Fowler Holler. Not a house-sit, a VRBO or AirBnB excursion, or even one of their simple adventurous trips, they pioneered and explored the gorge behind their house. Long, long ago, long before the Fowlers settled in Pope County Arkansas, indeed long before anyone, even Asian immigrants crossed the Aleutian Strait, rushing water eroded the Crow Mountain Plateau, undercutting house size boulders, sending them cascading and crashing into what became Rocky Waters Gorge. The bluffs made by the steady erosion continued to break away, smashing into the sandstone boulders. Shale rock, agate, and ordinary soil was fair game to the seasonal torrents that dug the gorge to a depth of a hundred feet. Iron deposits paint the several springs as well as decorate rock with ribbons of the hardened, slower eroding mineral. The cut is a typical erosion ‘V’ as opposed to a glacier made ‘U’ shaped trough.

Wayne and Debbie Fowler arrived on scene in time to witness waterfalls, waterslides, sculptured rock, under-rock spring-fed rivulets even in the dry season, ponds and pools teeming with tiny little fish.

The bluff immediately behind their home is a sheer drop of 20-30 feet beginning at a waterfall (seasonal). The bluff runs for about 150 feet. Below the bluff is a shelf ranging from very narrow to a few feet wide. It drops the rest of the way down at about a 60-70 degree slope. Where the bluff ends, the slope varies at roughly the same degree, but with terrain vagaries. The Fowler side of the gorge is a viny, brushy, tree, fern, weeds and wildflower undisturbed tangle interspersed with large rocks and areas of rock slides. The trees are mixed hardwoods, but mostly oak.

Back yard view, above the gorge.

Over the bluff view

Oh, and the term undisturbed is qualified. Some kind soul(s) (bless their hearts) thought that the gorge was their personal dumping ground, sending tires, appliances, and a variety of household furnishings over the bluff. Opposite the Fowler side there is no bluff, but hillside littered with the aforementioned house-size boulders, beginning with the ones actually in the gorge bottom. The hill ultimately tops 50-60 feet higher on that side.

Obvious to all, the gorge needed explored, pioneered, and settled.

The first effort was fairly calamitous, requiring a trip to the ER, an X-eray machine, a bone doctor, and therapy. Climbing out of that hole with neither road nor trail with what Wayne thought to be a broken leg but turned out to be a bruised bone was tough. His injuries: a torn rotator cuff, bruised ribs, and certainly a broken finger, would have been enough to send Daniel Boone hightailing back to North Carolina. But Fowlers ain’t Boones, no sir, they ain’t. There were more falls, but no more trips to the ER since Wayne learned to use a one-handed skyhook.

The first step in trail-building is the destination, deciding where you want it to lead. The route is second. Wayne began, as was the case for most trail blazers, by following a game (deer) tail. That worked until it became obvious that it would not lead to the desired destination. Deviating from the deer trail, the trail’s first goal was a rock outcropping where stairs could be anchored to the earth. Getting there required every rock within easy, and not so easy, scrounging distance. Speaking of scrounging, Wayne used whatever materials were available, from scrap wood, old concrete blocks, cedar trees, to deck boards cannibalized from his and Debbie’s home, and even some of the aforementioned debris pitched down the gorge, like an old table umbrella pole.

Ordinarily, rock steps are constructed from the bottom up, setting a base, and building on it, staggering added steps with off-sets that secure each added step on top of the solid base. That isn’t so easily accomplished when the trail begins at the top. Also, remember when we said that the bottom of the gorge was filled with rocks? Well those rocks do not carry themselves up the gorge side, specially without footholds. Tumbling down the bank to begin every workday, and then scrambling/clawing back up for more materials (or food and water) was not Wayne’s idea of fun.

So after running out of handy rocks (most of which required pick work to extricate from the ground), Wayne hauled dozens of them from as far away as 300 feet, from the creek bed that fed the waterfall on the opposite end of the property, and even from the gravel road in front of the house (far away from the gorge). And speaking of pick work, there was plenty of that.

Whole days of labor were scrapped having decided on a different route once reaching a too difficult obstacle. The funny part of that, though, is that reaching another similar difficult spot and building a bridge, or retaining wall of substance, the first obstacle could have received the same treatment and would have been fine. But at the time unwilling to spend more than a dime, or two, available materials determined the route.

Speaking of scrounging for rocks, laboriously extracting from their grip where they are embedded, and then hauling them by hand to the desired location part way down the slope only to watch them cascade all the way to the bottom of the gorge as soon as they are set down is rather discouraging.

Rope is good – sometimes better than sliced bread. A rope tied between a couple trees can save a person from a lot of tumbles, even when gripped by only a couple fingers as the earth slips from beneath cartoonishly scrambling feet. Trees are also good, saving a person from falling all the way to the bottom, breaking his fall simply by being there. Yay trees and rope!

House lumber makes good trail lumber. Hah! Wayne was going to replace deck boards anyway. Now is as good a time as any. And who needs a gate. Wayne and Debbie have no dogs, so they need no gate … trail lumber. Sheer strength of a 16d nail is 500 lbs. Two is overkill. Pull one and straighten it … trail material.

Digging post holes in Rocky Waters is not an option – rocks, big rocks, live beneath the surface. So Wayne sacrificed his morals and bought a few steel posts, sinking them into rock crevices where he could. He also bought more rope.

Trail completed, it quickly became evident that from bottom-sight, there might be a better, safer route. Break out the pick, haul more rocks, cut more cedar trees, and disassemble more house.

And then how about a 9-1-1 access to the gorge. And then how about a ledge trail connecting the tree ladder to the by-pass trail? Hah! Done.

Now, after more than 800 feet of trail, Wayne thought about safety (with a little encouragement from Debbie). After prying away a few C-notes, limited safety was secured.

But what about all the ancient debris? Hmmm. An old refrigerator, a couple oil-burner stoves, a ringer washing machine, a million pieces of metal … Hmmm. It would be nearly impossible to get the stuff up and out of the gorge – a 300 ft rope, a wench, and a whole lot of mess and trouble. And then what? You’d have to pay to get rid of that rusty crap. That stuff needs to be in a house. A house! Hmmm.

Now, a 500 foot direct route with 50 stair steps, 5 bridges, 8 retaining walls, a thousand rocks, and hand rails and rope guides, the trail leads to a park-like setting featuring a furnished Gnome home.

Fowlerville was born.

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themirthfulroadrunners · 3 years

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Between Home and Maine

Boston Day was an experience in history, stolen from the middle of our Maine bucket. We began with advanced degrees at Harvard, having both of us successfully made it through the University, saying hello to Mr. John Harvard. Debbie’s less-noble enjoyments of the city (she don’t know much about history, shallow girl) were Harvard yard, Beacon Hill and the Bull & Finch Pub which was the inspiration for the TV show Cheers. Illogical expectation for an IQ boost – osmosis from Harvard – uh, didn’t happen.

In Boston, the Adams family (Sam and John), Ben Franklin, and Paul Revere (his home and the church where he hung one lantern for the attack by land), played large. We saw the oldest (surviving) church in the colonies, built in 1633. Don’t know whether or not this was the one that gave Roger Williams the boot for his religious views. (Odd, since the Pilgrims left the Old World for religious freedom.) He was shown the door in 1636, making his home in what became Rhode Island. Anyway, Boston has a lot of very cool, old churches, meeting houses, and burying places (their name for graveyards). We enjoyed the visit, even though the city was quite crowded for this late September Sunday. (We counted six thousand hundred cobblestones, sixteen cajillion bricks, and many European-style, very narrow streets that most places call alleys.) Oh, and we counted 11 or 12 people before Debbie visually convinced Wayne to stop it. He just loves the special looks she gives him.

Boston is a hugely large metropolis with street layouts that make little logical sense and tooooooo many people desirous of sharing tight spaces. A fusion of old, new, hip, and quaint, it is a gorgeous jewel of an American city, tho, and we’re so glad for the opportunity to see it. Did you know that nearly 800 acres of Boston proper is the back bay filled in by hand, begun in the early 1800’s? Here are some Boston shots.

The drive home from Maine bypassed Boston, despite an urge to go see the missed landmarks, (next visit) and south to Plymouth Rock, which may, or may not, have been the actual rock. But since we like rocks, Debbie being an avid collector ala Lucille Ball of I Love Lucy. But really, how can you drive right past a historical milestone (hah!) and still call yourself a rock fan? (hah again! – double entendre intended) I mean, except for Christopher Columbus sailing the ocean blue, what else besides the Pilgrims’ landing claims as memorable a place with respect to America’s discovery and settlement? Maybe Leif Erikson, Francis Scott Drake, and the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan show. The question of the day is which rock is most photographed, or alternately, which photographed rock is most viewed: Plymouth Rock, Mt Rushmore, Georgia’s Stone Mountain, Yosemite’s Half Dome, Gibraltar, or the Hope Diamond? This is the rock we photographed, the one with the commemoration plaque, okay?

New York City????? Yup, the home of Picante sauce. Are we the only ones that know the commercial? We followed great advice, leaving our Connecticut motel at 4:30AM and arriving in The Big Apple in the dark. The advice wasn’t to get there in the dark, but how to avoid bad traffic. Getting to Times Square before daylight was awesome.

We saw the Statue of Liberty, but only as we raced through New Jersey. Of course, on a run through town like this there are major omissions to a good tour.

Then it was on to Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love, in which we found immediately a street vendor of … what else, but a Philly Cheese Steak. It was great, as was the vendor, a smiling guy that we should have photographed.

History in Philadelphia runs from well over 300 years ago, including the Liberty Bell and Constitution Hall, to merely 45 years past at the steps to the Arts Museum where Rocky Balboa ran the steps. Driving out of Philadelphia during rush hour shifted the very visitable city over to our never-again list. Sorry, much love, Brothers.

Meep

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themirthfulroadrunners · 3 years

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Wish List, Untitled Dreams… Bucket List

What do you call the set of dreams that you wish to do, or see, before your final croak? Well, we just knocked off a major one. While Debbie has always wanted to go to Maine, Wayne’s list contained New England in general. There remains, for both of us, places to go, things to do and see, but … this was a nice one.

The drive up was long and arduous. We’d traveled I-40 through Tennessee enough to be inured to its beauty. This trip, we opted for a different route getting to our destination, cutting left at Nashville and heading up through Louisville, Cincinnati, Columbus, Cleveland, Albany, Pennsylvania, Vermont and New Hampshire. We were able to skirt some of them, but Cincinnati, Philadelphia, and Cleveland definitely get added to the cities we never want to see again – TOO MANY PEOPLE, TOO MANY VEHICLES!

The corner of Pennsylvania we saw in between heavy rain showers was packed with vineyards, all loaded with grapes this September day. Upstate New York offered us a few viewings of the Erie Canal, more interesting to Wayne than Debbie. It turned really pretty once we hit the Catskills. They reminded us a lot of the most rugged of our Ozarks.

On our second day we stopped early enough to hike the trail to Bash Bish Falls, a very nice break from 20 hours in the car. On the third travel day we went through parts of Massachusetts and Vermont, extending the trip with a little trekking through the lush green back roads of Vermont, and then into New Hampshire – they were delightful. We were both surprised at the undeveloped regions of Massachusetts, having stereotyped the area as mostly urban. Vermont and New Hampshire did not disappoint. The region is really quite mountainous -- well, okay -- hillyous.

The Maine coast is spectacular – way better in person, of course, than our photos represent. It seems strange that not too long ago we watched waves crashing on very different types of rocks onto America’s west coast, and now …. And you wouldn’t believe the history in this state! 300 and 400 year-old buildings abound. Old, tiny graveyards on every other hill. One-room schools everywhere. Most are converted to modern use, or left somewhat intact for curious looky-loos like ourselves.

One thing we noticed about old farm houses, which were by far and away larger than all the old Arkansas homesteads, was the propensity to connect the house and barn, not with breezeways, but with entire houses – two-story outfits with gables, dormers … the works, all trimmed out like the original home. Depending on the setting, they connected in every geometric fashion feasible, some additions were beside the house, others behind.

We walked over the shortest suspension bridge in the world! Wiggly Bridge in York. Majestic old churches in abundance, some of them with marquee slogans and sayings to make a modern fundamentalist heart leap with joy. In fact, there are so many really quaint and cute churches, seemingly all built on the same theme (salt box?) but with varying degrees of trim and garnishment, that we had to stop taking pictures of every one we liked. We like ‘em all. With the number of churches we see, it puts us in mind of Mountain Home – five super-churches holding over a thousand each, and dozens of smaller ones, but only enough seats for half the population. The old Portland edifices are truly grand, as is the Saints Peter and Paul Cathedral in Lewiston, but no matter how tall, you can only put so many pews. We are wowed-out on the really cool churches, there are so many. In days past we’d photograph all of them, but in Maine, that’s all we’d be doing, and as Debbie continually cracks herself up by commenting – my iPhone might run out of film!

On to lighthouses (that Maine calls lights or light stations). There are at least 67 lights out there that either do, or did, direct ships. Some are dilapidated, others are converted to private residences – all are pretty cool to landlocked Arkansas people. (Although we did hike previous beachfront land in south central Arkansas.) Speaking of people, Wayne continues to use the old, somewhat archaic term Arkansawyer, while modern newscasters have managed to persuade the country of Arkansans. Uppidity, Wayne decrees. For Maine, Debbie coined Mainiacs while Wayne prefers Mainards. He would. We haven’t found many very rich in the Downeastern brogue, but of course all of them talk funny to some degree.

Bath Iron Works was impressive, as was the really cool town of Bath – but nobody was (taking a). We had pizza for lunch here, mostly because pizza seems to be the native favorite food if one judges by the high number of dining establishments with pizza in the title. The wood-fired variety we lunched on was superb. Wayne got a look from the waitress who asked how we liked it. “It was good but I like Pizza Hut better.” He got a similar look from his wife, too.

Boothbay Harbor is a tourist town to beat all. We only ran over 20 slow people and side-swiped 8-10 cars. Here’s a sign just outside town that help set the tone.

We got a treat in that leaves were turning a little early this year – Yay bang! We were also treated with roadside waterways all around this very moist state.

While we hiked some: parts of the Appalachian Trail, a steep mountain climb on a granite slope, and some beach walks, Debbie’s sprained ankle hampered her more than she liked. You can bounce off a rock, but bouncing off a hole in the trail isn’t quite the same. Wayne is just glad that Debbie isn’t a horse and that her leg didn’t break!

We experienced what we refer to as a Nor’easter with rain that lasted an hour, or so. The next day we saw its contribution … many trees had peaked up in the mountains and we were the benefactors.

Some years ago, we collected a lot of American town names (photos of their city signs) of foreign cities and nations: Paris, Moscow, Sweden, etc. We also garnished a buncha Bible names: Palmyra, Hebron, Bethlehem, and etc. We could add to both lists by the scores here in Maine and its environs.

The last few days of our stay in Maine we travelled into the mountains. Yes mountains, since they project skyward with sudden thousands of feet elevation. Going west, you have to get to the Rockies to get higher. Eastward … Norway? We’re too early for the best leaf colors, but we were impressed with the offerings, nonetheless. Oh, and more Appalachian Trail and more waterfalls!

Rangely boasts of being halfway between the Equator and the North Pole. With their lake and their fabulous mountain views, they deserve bragging rights on a number of levels, as does most of Maine. And speaking of lakes, Maine has ‘em. And ponds. And rivers. And a very jagged coastline. We’d wager that per acre of dry land, Maine has as much, or more coast, beach, and bank than any state in the Union (except maybe Hawaii).

Why does Maine need the silent e anyway? But that’s the subject of another blog.

A pleasant, but impractical thought, is that we are halfway through our bucket list. Here’s some pictures.

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themirthfulroadrunners · 3 years

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New Mexico Just off the Turquoise Trail

The first two days of this trip were troublesome, nearly problematic… sorta. We got an early (early!) start, leaving home at 4:45. Traffic wasn’t bad, not even the trucks. Of the 8 construction zones that Google maps identified, which turned into 11-12, none of them slowed us down much. No merging problems, and never below about 60mph. So we arrived at our reserved hotel at about lunch time – much earlier than we usually stop driving. (Exaggeration maybe, and gaining an hour at the New Mexico border did affect our timing. Plus, we had reserved a hotel, due to so many travelers escaping lockdown). But we used the free afternoon to drive a scenic road that was actually more cool than scenic with the find of some awesome old churches. And the location of where Coronado stopped over for 4 days to build a bridge across the Pecos River. We tried to find Pecos Bill. Maybe next time.

The troublesome, nearly problematic parts were in the area of our energy. After the activities of the 2nd day, we were toast. Debbie was so weary as to be sick from it. The hotel bed was heavenly, tho, so good rest was had.

The morning drive out of our stop (Santa Rosa) was horrific with the truckers. The rudest in the world apparently drive I-40 going west from Santa Rosa and we interacted with many of them. Speaking of Santa Rosa, the California city that was burned up in 2020, is where Wayne moved from in 1979 to return to the land of ancestry (on his dad’s side), Arkansas. Working in the Post Office in Santa Rosa, CA, he saw a ton of misdirected letters that should have gone to New Mexico. Conversely, a lot of Santa Rosa, CA mail that was supposed to go to another address in Santa Rosa, CA, took a side trip to Santa Rosa, NM first.

Our next hotel in Albuquerque, the city of Debbie’s birth (thanks to the United States Air Force) was touted as a ‘full-service’ facility, which means no free breakfast. Don’t know about you, but for 150 million bucks, we want free waffles! (and yogurt) And we ain’t payin’ no $25 for a hotel breakfast where you can’t even order what you want (free waffles!) Also, now, mind you that this is during the Covid19 Delta-variant-surging-wave, one of the two elevators in a 6-floor hotel is closed. Once while we were on the only operative one, descending from the 5th floor, it stopped at the 3rd where 2 employees and a customer charged in to join us. NO! We scored a strike bowling them down as we clamored over them to get out. WHAT’S A’MATTER WITH PEOPLE? (Besides bein’ knocked out.)

We got to our house sit and guess what? The promised hot tub doesn’t work, the homeowner had compromised the wiring while tryin’ to electrificate a tree that grows through the deck. After immediately kicking their two dogs (NO, we didn’t), the homeowners pledged that the promised hot tub would be repaired before our house sit was to start. Afraid for their pets’ lives, they did, it was, and a hot tub at 7000’ is sublime. All is well in New Mexico. And even better yet, the owners invited us back before we even unpacked. Now we feel bad for our earlier disappointment.

Speaking of hot tubs, this trip afforded us the best in terms of stars, satellites, and shooting (falling?) stars. They were awesome.

New Mexico, which should change its name to Carson State, or Navajo State, seems to have a distinct lack of historic, or cultural, heroes. Coronado, the famed Spanish explorer abused the native Indians (Pueblo, Navajo, Zuni, Apache, Comanche, Ute, Kiowa), and probably more, to the degree that they revolted in 1680. There was blood, followed by bad blood. Coronado was solely interested in exploiting both the people, and their wealth, had he ever found the lost cities of gold. Coronado aside, there were famous trappers and hunters, but none who benefitted the development of the state, or any people groups within. Kit Carson seems to be the singular stand out as far as heroic figures go. (There may be a bunch of indigenous folks, or folks of Spanish ancestry worthy of the acclaim, I don’t know.) Starved for notoriety of some sort (even bad press is better than no press), modern New Mexicans (Carsonians) point to Billy the Kid – almost to the degree of the George Washington slept here hype. While eastern states laud actual heroes: Daniel Boone, Davy Crockett, John Paul Jones, Paul Revere, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, General Anthony Wayne (hah!), Ashley McBride (ha-ha!), and the like, New Mexicans extol a murdering punk, a villain. Oh well, even bad publicity …

Despite the obvious lack of historical heroes, New Mexico does not lack for historical enchantment. The sights are spectacular, especially the mountains and even the smaller rock formations. The people are friendly (excepting the murderous Billy). The food is great. Wayne prefers the red chili peppers while Debbie, the green. Wayne likes to actually see the mold in his food.

After a short two-mile hike with a thousand-foot elevation gain, it was time for Sparkly, our glittery black Ford Edge, to finally get his way, a trip up a bona fide Jeep/ATV road/trail. It used to be a road. In fact, we drove it with ease two years ago. A local told us that the monsoons they’ve had washed it away. Sparkly wanted to go fast, so Wayne let him have his head, doubling the recommended 2mph. Sparkly was sometimes difficult to restrain.

The adventure was worth it, offering a Stephen King Misery experience. A mountain lion crossed the ‘road’ just ahead of us. Wayne stopped and got out of the car to check out where it had headed. (maybe not the most clever of options) Low and behold, (BTW, we loathe and despise cliches, but sometimes it’s better than a sharp stick in the eye) A hundred or so feet down the nearly 90 degree drop-off was a vehicle smashed into a tree. Though there were no obvious signs of a recent departure from the ‘road’, it could have fairly flown over the nearby brush. Or it could have gone over when there was snow cover. Or … anyway, going down to check whether there was a corpse in the vehicle while theoretically possible, didn’t seem very well-advised considering that there might very well be a mountain lion finishing up what might be left and much preferring the live meat presenting himself on a veritable platter – Wayne.

Surprisingly, there was cell service in this remote mountainous area. From a Sandia Mountain trail map handout, we got through to someone who transferred the call to the proper authority. While they appreciated our call, they’d been aware of the vehicle and that it had been there for some time. But how weird, that the mountain lion crossed exactly where we could see the crashed vehicle. What if it wasn’t the same crash that the authority thought they knew about? What if the driver was just then coming to, only to see a mountain lion eating his face? (Limiting Wayne’s Stephen King intake.)

Another mile down the ‘road’ we saw a mountain lion kitten, though it was barely a kitten, nearly as large as its mother, and almost devoid of kitten colorations and markings. We watched it in awe for some time before thinking to take a photo. You just have to believe us (or not) that the blond blur in the below picture is the kitten.

Another quarter mile brought us to our promised hike, a trail to what was described as a Cave Man Cave. Unless we’d unknowingly driven across the Atlantic, it is doubtful that cave men had ever seen New Mexico, let alone inhabited this cave. More than likely the occupants, for which sufficient evidence supported the probability, were ancient indigenous people, no doubt using the cave to hide from mountain lions at night. The cave was cool, but there are better in Arkansas.

A serendipitous hike in the Sandia Mountains showed us a plethora of wildflowers; most were varieties this Arkansas couple do not normally see. But the star of the show was a large mule deer buck who calmly sauntered in the trail behind us when we stopped for a rest (hiking at high altitude is hard, y’all!).

A retracing of a trip up the Turquoise Trail from 2 years ago put us re-hiking a trail in Cerrillos State Park, just south of Santa Fe. Several old mineral mines dot this trail and their history is revealed in very good signage. Passing through Madrid (unlike the one in Spain, this one is pronounced MAA’-drid), we were stopped for several minutes on Hwy 14 due to a ‘special event’ which we could not see. When allowed to pass through the artsy, cutesy town, we saw evidence of a movie being filmed. After exploring Cerrillos, we returned to Madrid for ice cream and got to watch some of the preparations for more filming. We did not get to see the part where the clipboard snaps and someone yells, “ACTION!” but it was enough. This same town was used for some of the scenes in the motorcycle film Wild Hogs and one building still boasts the ‘Diner’ sign that was added only for the film. Sign on the door says they do not serve food there. One can understand the confusion for tourists. We found out the movie being filmed during our trip is titled Robots and is a futuristic comedy starring Shailene Woodley and written by one of the writers on Borat. Cool beans. We ran into the film company yet again a day or two later, this time in a couple of sites in the Sandia Mountains. Whether the finished movie turns out to be good or meh, we’ll be watching it to catch glimpses of the gorgeous New Mexico countryside. New Mexico and Colorado have several movie ranches sprinkled in the very scenic areas.

15 months, or so, ago we were house-sitting in Durango when paper Closed for Covid signs went up on doors in business-after-business. Here’s one for the whole town.

While touristing Old Town Albuquerque we suddened upon a shop managed by a very personable guy who gave us a cup of Arabica/piñon coffee. When we house-sat in Sante Fe last year we talked to a State Park Ranger dude who told us all bout people picking piñon nuts. Having marvelously (Debbie word) passed the aroma tests, we bought a box of K-cups of this unique, pinon flavored brew. The personable guy turned out to be the artist, David Behrens (DavidBehrensGallery.com and Facebook.com/DavidBehrensGallery).

This trip ranks among the best, or at the top of the list: obedient and FUN pets, very clean and comfortable home, fantastic hiking and scenery (despite the photo-compromising smoke), and very gracious hosts who offered us their entire refrigerator! Regarding the smoke, we shouldn’t be too self-centered considering it may be what’s left of someone’s home passing overhead.

Here are more pix from the trip. Enjoy!

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themirthfulroadrunners · 3 years

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Rocky Mountain High

Bayfield, CO

We’ve slowed down on stopping to take pictures of every wow moment, this being our 4th or 5th trip to Colorado and the New Mexico region, but not on repeating WOW! to one another. Our house-sit to Bayfield, Colorado was the best yet in terms of comfortable, clean home, easy pets, and centricity to hikes and sightseeing. We missed being able to watch their horses. They were pastured at a neighbor’s, saving us the hassle of seeing to them. Grrrr!

We hiked a mountain creek during pour-off in New Mexico before we ever reached our destination. In a very quaint and picturesque cemetery in Cimaron, New Mexico, there was a marker stating that the inhabitant, a preacher, was assassinated in 1875. Being a large monument, I trust he was respected.

Our first day in Colorado, we drove to a true ghost town, Pagosa Junction. Being in the Ute Indian land probably accounted for its unmolested condition – not even any graffiti! We were respectful. The route also took us to the community of Allison, giving us a couple abandoned churches to add to our collection.

Our last Colorado trip was to Gypsum with two major fires not only consuming nearby forests but smoking the place up and restricting us from several travel experiences. This house-sit in Bayfield, we received extensive instructions regarding potential evacuation in the event of a new fire: move 5 vehicles to designated area, watch for neighbors and relatives to come get vehicles and equipment, crate up the pets (expect resistance), make phone calls, meet at … blah, blah, blah. It’s a 42-acre horse ranch at the 7000’ elevation mark in a pine forest.

The biggest difference among our several house-sits in Colorado was the heat wave in place when we arrived in Bayfield. Yikes, it’s famously fabled that drier and higher air is more comfortable even when the thermometer spikes, but that’s just not true, folks, and I wonder who started that vicious rumor! This high-elevation, dry heat envelops, melts and assaults. But in the early morning before the day of 99 degrees, the temp was in the 50s! Good luck with your wardrobe, travelers!

On the Continental Divide Trail: “It’s perfect weather for a hike,” Wayne said as they neared the 11,000 feet elevation mark. “I’d like it to be 5 degrees warmer,” Debbie replied. Wisely, Wayne said nothing. We let three male hikers pass us. The two younger ones were carrying openly. We wondered if they were taking the third, an oldster out to shoot him. Wayne, unwisely, piped up, “You never know when you might wanna shoot somebody.”

And speaking of graves and cemeteries, one of our eccentricities, we found where Bob Ford was buried. Yup, the Robert Ford. Recall in past blogs we found Clifton Clowers’ grave on Wolverton Mountain, William Bonnie at Ft Sumner, Kit Carson in Sante Fe, Buster Brown/Tom Thumb in the Missouri bootheel, and Absalom Fowler in the locally famous Holly Cemetery in Little Rock. And of course, we’ve been to JFK’s eternal flame in Arlington as well as Abraham Lincoln’s tomb in Springfield, Illinois. But even after all our graveyard treks, we still don’t know who’s in Grant’s tomb. Oh, and Bob Ford? “Well that dirty little coward,” (to the tune of ??) “that shot Mister Howard, he done laid poor Jesse in his grave.”

Crossbucks are a “thing” out in the wild wild west. Every style, from humble to grandiose.

Creede, Colorado, a town named after a man who bought the right, was a mining town that survived the ore: silver, copper, lead, zinc, amethyst. Bat Masterson was a deputy for a bit there. Returning to modern times, the move The Lone Ranger was filmed, in part, in Creede, particularly the train scenes. At the start of the Bachelor Loop, a drive through the mining region, you pass the local fire department where they park their vehicles inside the mountain in old mines. The cavities are huge. The ghost town of Bachelor, the city in the clouds, where over a thousand people lived is but an empty meadow, the remains of one lone fallen-down building at the forest’s edge. There’s a plaque with a photograph of the once-upon-a-town. Amazing that it’s just gone, as are so many of the west’s ghost towns. Some exist only as residential neighborhoods, the town no longer to be. Some, like Peppersauce in Calico Rock, Arkansas, are completely surrounded by the new town, the old abandoned structures still in place.

Silverton and Ouray were just as fun as our last trip there, though not as picturesque due to the smoky sky, the result of fires further west, California, Idaho, Oregon. What we do know for sure is that it appears that Texans have annexed the Rockies, but who can blame them? (besides Wayne)

The Four Corners Monument is controlled by the Navajo Indian Nation, since it’s on their land. Covid-19 restrictions limit visitors to 50% capacity causing an hour, or longer, wait. Wayne’s been there, Debbie not, but since both have been all around it, we opted to pass on standing on the exact dot at the cost of $20 per car after a 2-hour drive. A modern, more sophisticated survey would prob’ly move it a mile or so anyway.

We hiked the Colorado Trail, well, part of it, enough to have enjoyed it a lot. The views were, of course, fabulous.

On a second trip to Silverton, with much better visibility due to recent rain and the Oregon/Idaho/California fires smoke blown on a different course, we travelled to Eureka, another ghost town where there were huge mining operations. The Animas River is beautiful, as well as the many streams feeding it. I have to wonder, though, how clean they were during the peak of the mining days. Environmental concerns were decades in the future.

Walking the dog Zoey on the property (42 acres of pasture and pine), a flock of wild turkeys made their way up the hillside not fifty feet from us. They seemed half again larger than the Arkansas wild turkeys. The squirrels appear different than Arkansas red fox or grays. These are sort of mottled with a silverish belt around their neck area. And I don’t believe I’ve ever seen an Arkansas squirrel sit/stand erect like a ground hog. Research indicates it may be a ground squirrel.

We found a really exciting, back-of-the-mountain road, two actually, that led through ghost towns, naturally. Colorado is truly wondrous, especially when you can get away from the tourists, a difficult process in mid-July.

We found a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, one of our favorite travelling pleasures. The Blue Sky Café in Bayfield. Not being able to decide among the foo-foo descriptions, Wayne settled on a hamburger and sweet potato tots. They were AMAZING! Telling the waitress brought the owner/cook to us – she whispered that she added a mild cajun seasoning. Never had any like it. Their breakfast menu extremely enticing, we were there the next morning at their posted opening time. Nope – a brand new handwritten notice stated that they would be closed on Saturdays. Disappointed, we slunk back to the house for bowls of cereal.

Thus ended our most recent foray into a beloved area of the country. I cannot imagine tiring of this land of exceptional beauty. It’s the eye-candy state!

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themirthfulroadrunners · 3 years

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Home

Home is where the heart is. Well, then, for poor folks, we either have many homes, or an abundance of hearts. We absolutely cherish our home on Crow Mountain, minutes from Ozark Mountain hiking rails and scenic waterways. Our very modest home is neither new nor large. It’s not quaint, or stylish, or ideally economical. It’s just home. And we love it. It’s where our hearts are – when we are here, and admittedly toward the end of a long adventure away from it.

But our hearts are also on a beach somewhere, more than likely a Gulf Shores, Alabama region beach. But wait, our hearts are in the Colorado Mountains, as well, the San Juans, or the Collegiates, or the 14ers. Our hearts are in Salida, and Silverton, Beuna Vista and the sky-high, cringe-worthy highway connecting Ouray to Durango. The headwaters of the Colorado and Arkansas Rivers call to us as might a cow to her calf, urging it to drink in her bounty.

But not only the Rockies or the Sierras, the less celebrated, less brilliant sky-filling majesty of the Smokies, or Ozarks, or Appalachians also tug on our heartstrings. We glorify in their green beauty, their tireless mountain streams and breathtaking waterfalls.

The beaches offer as much restoration and rejuvenation as might a king size bed within the walls of our own personal rooms.

But home, the simple rectangular, seven room structure … and our backyard creek, waterfalls, boulder and bluff, hundred-foot-deep gorge … Home is nice, beloved, compulsory. Home is the goal of every baseball player. Reaching first base is always a thrill, an accomplishment. A double or a triple is exhilarating, but home is the true focus, never out of your eye’s field of vision.

Christians sing of a home to which they’ve never been, the goal penultimate, the mansion in the great beyond, the place prepared. But until then …

Home is comfort: the recliner, the couch, the table and the bed. Home is where we can have ordinary cereal for breakfast and popped corn for supper. And cheap ice cream. And home is work: the lawn, the dishes, the floors, and the laundry. And home is the privacy of the arms of our betrothed, the security of a closed door, the conviction that the only one (ones) in proximity are those you love.

And for us, Debbie and Wayne, home is something a little more than a tree-surrounded building within a bed of grass (and weeds).

Easy Keepers, we.

Pix of our hearts’ homes:

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themirthfulroadrunners · 3 years

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Oh, For St Pete!

You would think that May in the Ozarks would not be the time to escape. You might also think that May might not be the time to go to central/south Florida. Timing is not always within our control. We were selected for this particular house sit back in 2020. Covid-19 cruise cancellations cancelled us, too. Feeling as if they owed us, the people asked us for their 2021 vacation (not a cruise). So here we are. After checking in with them and getting the low-down on Saturday, we spent the rest of the day determining that we would in no way attempt the beach on a weekend in spring. Apparently, May is a good time to be in central/south Florida after all. And, the reports indicated rain storms in our Ozarks for the week – good for waterfalls, not so much for hiking.

And speaking of traffic, we have resolved to never near Atlanta again, ever, for any reason, whatsoever, at all. E.V.E.R. We chose a route home avoiding Atlanta - the entire state of Geogia, just to be safe. Guess what? Yup. Construction traffic - 20 miles of stop-and-go near Mobile.

And speaking of 18-wheelers on US 40, and US 75 …

Saint Petersburg’s traffic can stand up alongside some larger city’s entries in our avoidance contest. Yikes, where did so many cars come from? They’re in the city, they’re on the expressway, they’re at the beach, they’re in the parking lots. Though I must say, most city drivers we encountered were well mannered. A minimum of honking could be heard, but that beats road rage incidents.

Being a lister, not one who stands, or walks, with a tilt, but one who makes lists: to do lists, materials lists, grocery lists, lists of odd towns we’ve visited such as Possum Trot, Toad Suck, Booger Hollow, and Wingo, we have begun a list of cities we need never visit again. New Orleans tops that list. If you can’t guess the reason, you wouldn’t understand our reasoning. NOLA is very closely followed by Atlanta, then L.A. (not Lower Arkansas, either), San Francisco, Dallas, and Houston. We now add the greater St Petersburg metro area. For the complete list send your name and address on the back of an Andrew Jackson.

Indian Rocks Beach on the Gulf was the bomb. Early risers, we, so we got there in plenty of time to snag a prime inch or two of ocean-front real estate for our very, very own. Later in the day the scene more resembled the beach throngs as shown from drone-view on the news. Time for us to skedaddle, but it was close to the time when we begin our daily metamorphosis into Cinderella’s pumpkin anyway.

Having left our hiking sticks in AR, we hoped-for-but-didn’t-expect a nice walk or two. Early birds got that worm with a pleasant but already humid early morning jaunt through Weedon Preserve over on Tampa Bay. Best part was leaving the city noise behind for a short time. City vibe is one we can tolerate for short spells, especially when there is visual or recreational payoff, but we don’t tire of the countryside’s calm. It is our happy place.

2 odd bird stories to report: we packed our lunch on all beach days - chicken sandwiches or pepperoni and crackers along with the requisite cookies. One day, Wayne’s working on a sandwich, minding his own beeswax, when in swoops a sea gull who skillfully, rudely dips in and snags a bite of sandwich while Wayne is eating it! Whoa, too-close encounter with local wildlife! Then on our last beach day, we’d left our bag of picnic supplies under our canopy while we strolled the beach before lunch. When we returned, we found most of the local gull population helping themselves to a sleeve of Ritz crackers that they had stolen from our bag and pecked open! Sure, the beach and its wildlife look all peaceful and serene, but beware gangster birds!!

This bird is not one of the bad beach birds

Two somewhat significant events occurred while we were on this trip. The I-40 bridge over the Mississippi River at Memphis was shut down due to a cracked beam soon after we had traversed it. And the Colonial Pipeline hack put a huge question mark on our prospects for a timely return home. The folks we were housesitting for were in North Carolina at the time, the hardest hit state as far as gasoline shortages was concerned. Thankfully, they were able to drive home which meant that we were free to try to make it back to Arkansas. We actually had minimal gasoline supply drama, yay. Put us in mind of a house sit we were on in March of 2020, when the Covid shutdowns first began. Nothing like significant national/international events to add a bit of stress to travel!

On to the point – the water’s fine; come on in! A sun-burn never felt so good! And in the beach’s defense (many, many named beaches), after having walked/hiked up and down as well as driven the Gulf drive, it would appear that a VRBO on the beach would be fun, and fairly private. But next time, take me to the smaller, less-populated, traffic-friendlier beaches of Gulf Shores, Alabama. Shhhhh, don’t spread the word, those beaches are America’s best kept secret!

After ten days on this Florida trip following the heels of a week in D.C./MD and back, we dreamed of our Rocky Waters home every day. Ahhh.

Other St Pete pix:

Homeland Security?

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