MAPLE LEAF RAG Part 3: Ohio Is All That

Right now we are in the singular Acadia National Park in Maine where today’s cold drizzle and grey sky has done nothing to extinguish the flaming Fall foliage or our high spirits. We’re digesting a fabulous scallop, shrimp and haddock sea food platter from Chase Restaurant in Winter Harbor. When our nap is over, we’ll start prepping for the border crossing into New Brunswick tomorrow. But first, back to Ohio.

Kentucky gave way noticeably as we crossed the state line into Ohio. Everything seemed to ease out a bit as we headed north toward Buck Creek State Park near Dayton. It was a little like moving into a larger house. The vistas spread out farther giving us Texans a chance to exhale. “That’s better,” said Dahna. “Kentucky’s nice, but I think I’ll be more comfortable here.” The forested areas were free of the underbrush of Kentucky, and seemed to invite you to cut a stout walking stick and hike among the trees like you might do through an English wood. The cultivated fields were larger and they spread out and away opening up a bigger sky. It just got better and better as we approached the park.

I think state parks are like dogs. Some, like Sacha, are prettier than others but they’re all great and Buck Creek was no exception. Our campsite was fine too, only that it was a blind side back in–the bête noire of middling trailer backer-uppers like me. Still, it was the easiest site to get into park-wide thanks to Dahna’s foresight when she picked it out months earlier. Even so, it took a few tries to get the camper in square and lined up with the electrical box and the…the…”Where the hell’s the frickin’ water faucet?” I asked politely, considering my mounting horror. Dahna’s eyes were like splintered glass (J. Agee), “There isn’t one. I think we have to go back out and find a tap and fill our own freshwater tank.”

Well…shoot.

Buck Creek State Park Marina

Buck Creek Marina

I did a better job backing in the second time and an hour or so after that Bud and Deb brought their drinks over to join ours. They were winding up a months long trip to the Northwest and were headed home the next day to their place in northern Ohio, dead tired. They were recently retired from a lifetime of the kind of honest productive work you probably associate with Ohio and the American ideal. Making things. They helped bring into view the heart of our country where we happened to be sitting.

Bud’s blunt manner of speech reminded me of my neighbor Ray so I looked at his hand curled around a rum and Coke. Sure enough, his hands showed the effects of a lifetime of hard work. It was a little incongruent that he and Deb were driving a large expensive motorhome stereotypically associated with soft-handed, hard-hearted rich people.

There’s a bit of crosstalk among RVers about class differences between fancy motorhome drivers and trailer draggers like us but most of it is bullshit. True, there’s been some examples of Class A snobbery and trailer dragger crassness but, like most stereotyped things, they dissolve into the gooey soup of statistical norm.

At bottom, it’s simple biology. People are pretty much the same if you get the chance to  sit down with them. It’s true that some people tip over into sociopathy, and it’s also true that sometimes they get together in great numbers for the purpose of destroying, say, a nation now known as a “homeland.” But, all of us want pretty much the same things as it turns out, and traveling brings that into high relief. It eases our fears and anxieties, and soothes the savage breast. Except during a blind side back in.

Our brief time with Bud and Deb was a nice Ohio prelude to our visit with Linda and Jeremy, our friends from Texas, now happily living in Bethany Village near Dayton. Jeremy is one of Dahna’s favorite professors, now retired, whom she met as his student in the summer of ’86. Dahna previously determined that since we were in our mid and late 30s, we were finally mature enough to finish school. So, back we went.

Jeremy had pulled the short straw and was teaching a core Texas Government class that summer. I doubt if he was thrilled about it but Dahna sure was. Several years later when she graduated at the top of her class as an organic chemist, Jeremy remained in the small circle of her favorites. A few years after that I taught their son John at our little high school in Hico, Tx.

Bethany Village is an immaculate planned community of retirees that was founded about 70 years ago near Dayton, Linda’s home town. It is a full service campus of everything from independent living in houses or apartments to full nursing care. Absolutely everything inside or outside the home is taken care of by management, and if anything at all goes wrong, all you need is their phone number on speed dial. In Comanche we have thousands of dollars in a tractor, lawn mowers and a shop full of tools and it’s still not enough but hey, we’s “management.”

We intended to board Sacha for the day so we could all tour Dayton dogless. But, friends being friends, they said she could stay in their house. Sacha promptly reciprocated by marking their territory as her own and we all had a big laugh. No we didn’t. But we did have a big day—a real highlight of our trip. In fact, the entire day was a series of highlights thanks to our friends.

Linda had earlier promised to cook for us and she delivered big time with a wonderful lunch followed that evening by fresh sweet corn and a chicken pot pie to kill for. Fortunately, Linda handed over the recipe voluntarily.

After lunch they took us on a perfect tour of Dayton which ended, perfectly, with the ringing out of “As Time Goes By” by the famous Deeds Carillon. Linda asked a guy with a badge if we could pick out a song and he said, “Sure,” and handed us a list to choose from. Dahna and I both said, “That one,” simultaneously and the big bells followed us in our slow walk out to the car. Dooley Wilson would have approved, I think.

Rick and Ilsa might always have had Paris, but Dahna and I will always have Dayton. Linda chauffeured us and Jeremy through much of the city including the parts that were off limits to her strict Catholic upbringing when she was a girl. The streets there were a little twisty and tight with numerous small establishments that once exerted a slightly profane gravitational pull on Dayton’s teenagers in the 1960s. Maybe even for a young girl like Linda destined to become a nun for a time. But as she drove us out into the larger city we saw muscular brick smokestacks adjacent to the huge buildings that once manufactured the products for a confident and increasingly affluent people. Today, these big campuses are largely “re-purposed” to worthy ends but they’re also useful in nefarious ways.

Our political opportunists point to them as artifacts of a vanished Golden Age and promise to return us to those halcyon days. In thrall to the very forces that depopulated those buildings, they intend nothing of the kind nor do they have anything in common with the men and women who built them. In fact, they would have loathed a man like John Patterson, the founder of Dayton’s National Cash Register.

Patterson was a visionary of the late 1800s and early 1900s whose workplace ideas helped seed the labor friendly policies of the New Deal. He opened his buildings to daylight with numerous large windows, established innovative safety and security protocols for his workers plus health care, child care, schools and he paid them well. His long range business strategy built a powerhouse company that produced enormous numbers of high quality business machines, satisfied customers and employees. NCR made a huge positive impact on Dayton’s and Ohio’s and America’s wealth.

This guy not only knew how to run a business to perfection, he also knew how to save a town, literally. Do yourself a big favor and Google this man. Check out how he anticipated the terrible flood of 1913 and instantly converted his factories to boat building and bread baking. His actions saved a lot of people that day and that’s why you see his name everywhere in Dayton. We still have people like that. If you remember Hurricane Katrina, you should also remember the Cajun Navy, the flotilla that saved countless lives in New Orleans in 2005. We met one of those guys a few days ago in Alma, New Brunswick. (We met a lovely Irish lass there too, but that’s another story for later.)

It’s impossible to overstate the impact Dayton’s Wright brothers had. It’s only coincidence, but the town of Baddeck on Cape Breton, Nova Scotia where we camped is actually the birthplace of Canadian aviation. I’ll say more about that later, but you might be interested to know that Alexander Graham Bell was a big part of it. The idea here is that Dayton isn’t the birthplace of American aviation but of aviation itself. Big difference, or as Bernie might say, “YUUGE!”  That other guy might say it too if he knew anything about history.

Wright Brothers Museum

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Before the bells of Deeds Carillon personally ushered us out of the Carillon Historical Park, we toured most of the exhibits there including a full-size recreation of the Wright brothers’ shop. It included a mock up of their manufacturing equipment which looked decidedly Dickensian with a touch of Steam Punk. You wouldn’t want to build their bicycles or airplanes wearing a tie or even a ring.

Their first production bicycle was called the Van Cleve after the Wright family’s ancestors. As Jeremy and I took in the lines of an actual Van Cleve, I ventured that they looked a lot like modern bikes. Actually the Wright bike looked a lot more like my 1957 Schwinn Corvette than a modern bike and when I realized that a few weeks later, I winced a little. Jeremy was decently mum on the subject.

The Wright bicycles were early “safety bicycles” with two equal sized wheels that quickly replaced the more dangerous high wheeled types. You’ve seen these pictured with a derby-wearing daredevil sporting a handlebar mustache sitting atop one of the ridiculous things. It occurs to me now that his ‘stache was named after the deathtrap’s handlebars the damn fool was gripping for dear life. Mystery solved. Ah…bicycles.

About 1970, I was riding my Japanese 10 speed bike home in Houston’s Montrose around midnight. I had a strong Gulf breeze at my back and I was young and strong, so I decided to “stand on it” to see just how fast that heavy monster would go. I shifted into 10th gear just about the time a big “cowboy” staggered out from the pool hall up ahead. He saw me coming in the street lights, my long hair flowing. It pissed him off.

He made an unfortunate snap decision that factored out velocity from momentum’s equation: p = mv where p stands for momentum, m for mass and v for velocity. I figure his mass was roughly equal to mine plus the bicycle, but his velocity was negligible compared to my own. When we met he put his shoulder into it and so did I. The impact caused the bike to wobble as if he were a puff of wind, and when I looked back he was on his keister spinning like a top.

It was a perfect example of the conserving and  converting of linear momentum into angular momentum, poor boy. I’m sure whoever held his beer had a good laugh before calling the ambulance. My Physics students got a laugh out of it too. Well, the cowboy lost that night but I guess he won in the long run, or thinks he did. Be sure to vote.

Linda and Jeremy visited us at Buck Creek the next day for dinner. Dahna grilled sweet chili chicken and I fixed them our Old Crow house drink which they politely sipped. We talked past dark, my favorite thing to do with smart, lovely people. They’re well-traveled citizens of the world and we’re lucky to be their friends. Luckier still, they’ve contributed several fine pieces for this new blog to be published soon.

Mute Swan

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When we left for Geneva State Park the next day it was with a twinge of regret. I said, “This deserved way more than three days.” Dahna said, “Yup, I could live here.” I said, “What? And leave Comanche and the Chicken Express behind?” She said, “Pppth.”

Canada Geese

BCGeese

MAPLE LEAF RAG Part 2: Goodbye To All That, Texas

It is possible to drive out of Texas if you try. We didn’t try hard enough but we did manage to reach Cooper Lake State Park out east of Dallas near Sulphur Springs.  We traveled about 250 miles to get there and that equals the fuel range of a 3/4 ton pickup pulling nearly four tons of tall trailer. It also equals 7 mpg in case you might be thinking of doing something like this the way we do it.

Cooper Lake S.P. is a nice park but we didn’t stay long enough to enjoy its many charms. We were anxious to get out of Texas and its summer heat wave and kick back in more temperate northern climes. Well, ha ha. Sometimes where you’re going is precisely where you are not going. If that sounds a little too Rumsfeldian, take a few minutes and read, or re-read, Maugham’s very short,  Appointment In Samarra. Sure, it was hotter than Hell in Texas, but at least it was dry heat as they say. Up north it was hot and humid, so much so that in Kentucky, even Ohio, I could have sworn I was in Houston. Reality bites again.

In our attempt to escape the frying pan, we only camped two nights at Cooper Lake. Our normal minimum stay anywhere is three nights which gives us a little time to both rest and see the sights. Two nights in a place barely registers unless there’s a murder or something. Frankly, I can’t remember much about the park except that the lake was way down due to the general drought conditions Texas has suffered for a number of years now. Climate change, aka global warming it is.

The people who run this country at the moment seem to take issue with the reality of this issue which is the Mother of All Issues and that is not an opinion. There might be plenty of reasons to replace a lot of them in November, but this particular one will do all by itself. Speaking as a guy who has dabbled in science, I can assure whoever might want to listen that the chemistry involved in this phenomenon is simple and quite approachable. If you’re willing to objectively search that half of the internet not devoted to porn and cat videos, you’ll be able to figure it out on your own. Or… you can swim in denial but watch out for crocodiles. Better to soak in the clear restorative waters of reason.

Speaking of restorative waters, our next stop was at Lake Ouachita State Park near Hot Springs, Arkansas. You might want to write that down. Without doubt, this park is beautiful beyond words and the maintenance is superb. Looking out at the shimmering lake we both had the same simultaneous regret. I said, “Damn! We shoulda’ brought the kayak.” Dahna said, “Yeah Pat, why didn’t you bring the kayak?”

A couple of years ago we splurged on a couple of Hobie pedaling kayaks. These things are great for fishing, birding, hunting or whatever you want to do with your hands totally free while using your much stronger legs to zip across the water. Geezers like me love them because once you get them into the water they glide along almost effortlessly, fast enough to leave a satisfying wake. You can even sail them, an option that sold me on the spot.The only problem is getting them to the water because they’re heavy. Oh yeah, they’re kind of expensive too.

We (and I say “we” with authority) decided not to bring the 100 lb. tandem “Oasis” in order to save gas. It occurs to me now that at 7 mpg, you’re already screwed and that a kayak sitting atop your truck isn’t going to make that much difference. Only three weeks out and we’ve already seen several Hobie kayaks like ours strapped to vehicles, not to mention hundreds of other types. New Rule: When you plan to spend three months constantly camped beside a stunning lake, river, or ocean, take the frickin‘ kayak, Homer.

Us at Lake Ouachita State Park

AF235W Ouachita

The only thing missing at this extraordinary park was birds. It was weird because if some other place seemed more hospitable to birds, I didn’t know it. Actually, most places experience bird dropouts at certain times each year as they move on. Dahna was a bit miffed, but unruffled, knowing about this. She figured some would show up before we left in a few days. That didn’t happen because we had to skip out of there early.

Our neighbor Steve came by to visit the on the morning of day two of a three day stay. He was wearing a Natchez Trace State Park t-shirt, and when I told him that was our next stop he gave me a little tip about the place. He said, “If that big ass vapor light down by the fish-cleaning station bothers you, just cut the white neutral wire.” Steve had a career as a street light installer but, even so, I won’t take his advice because of Lou Coin.

When I was about 12, my dad came in my room and asked me if I remembered Lou, the diminutive Lebanese electrical engineer that was on his bowling team.

I said, “Sure.”

He said, “Well, Lou’s dead. He electrocuted himself in his attic working with the wiring hot and he grabbed a water pipe and that was it,” he snapped his fingers . “Don’t ever work with electricity when it’s hot, understand?”

I said, “Yeah.”

He looked in a little deeper and said, “Did you hear me, boy?”

I said, “Yes sir,” and I sure did.

Steve also said, “By the way, you might want to check the weather.” When he left, I did just that. Sacha jumped straight up when I shrieked, “HOLY SMOKES!” or something to that effect. Tropical Storm Gordon had come ashore in Mississippi and was taking a slanty northwest course designed to bring it directly over our campsite the very next evening. Local Hot Springs forecasts predicted dire flash flooding and so, discretion being the better part of valor, we got hell out.

The ranger at headquarters knew the forecast, and as he took in my tale of woe I was careful to add my mostly heartfelt praise of his beautiful park. He refunded our last day’s fee and I promised we would come back soon, a promise I intend to keep probably.

The plan was to hotfoot it to Natchez 325 miles to the west, beat Gordon, then rest and relax for four days in the Volunteer State. But, instead of the originally planned three days, or the tropical storm-modified four days, we ended up staying at Natchez Trace S.P. for five days because of hurricane Florence.

Dahna and I grew up in Houston on the Gulf Coast and that’s where we expect these storms to stay at all times. It’s just part of our culture and we’re proud of it in a dumb kind of way. We remember the big ones like Allison and Alicia, Betsy and Carla, Katrina and Rita, and Ike and Harvey. We could fill out the rest of the alphabet with the names of other monsters that hit our hometown or nearby. The beach house we lived in a dozen years ago on Bolivar Peninsula lies in pieces at the bottom of East Bay right now thanks to Ike. It’s just that we don’t associate these storms with camping deep inland much less getting pushed around by them up here. Well, we had an appointment in Samarra.

Fortunately, Natchez Trace is a nice state park even if it is a little bit small. [Aside: Is it odd that the last three words of the previous sentence make sense in context, yet each one has the same meaning individually? You never see this in science.] We had our doubts at first because its approach is blanketed in kudzu rendering the underlying native foliage a mystery of green lumps. You citizenry of the North Country might not know about this stuff or fire ants or nutria or killer bees, but don’t worry about it. Just stay away from the climate data.

The kudzu was beautiful in a disturbing alien way but it wasn’t to be seen in the park’s camping areas. I suppose the rangers had some method of hacking it back and a good thing too. It’s no stretch for southern campers to have nightmares of becoming entombed by the stuff in their RVs.

Kudzu

Natchez Trace SP Kudzu

Natchez Trace S.P. had the beautiful lake you would expect in Tennessee, further rubbing it in about the kayak thing. We weren’t able to directly enjoy the lake by boating on it, but we certainly got the benefit of the crappie that live in it. Thanks to the generous family of fishermen next to us and the well-lit fish cleaning station (with its white wire intact), Dahna and I plus half the people in the camp ate like royalty.

I was reading at the picnic table when Brittany came over and introduced herself and asked if we would like a plate from their big fish fry. I was noncommittal since Dahna was off birding but that didn’t matter. Fifteen minutes later Brittany’s mom brought over a huge styrofoam clamshell full of perfectly cooked crappie, fries, and a bunch of her justifiably famous hush puppies.  When Dahna got back we tore into it like Sacha into a wiener dog. Bogart once said that a hot dog at the ball park tastes better than a steak at the Ritz. That goes for fresh crappie at a state park too. Man, you meet the nicest people out here.

Natchez Trace State Park

Natches Trace State Park

Brittany is a country girl with kids in high school who looks like a high schooler herself. It could be that her youthfulness derives from a career of good works. She is a helicopter-borne EMT and has cared for thousands of critically ill or injured patients over the years. It was a delight to meet her, and she joins a number of smart tough women we’ve met on the road. A lot of them like our new friend Laura travel far and wide and do it alone. It seems to me that more women than men do this.

I once got a laugh out of Dahna when I remarked on all the “ramblin’ man” songs out there: Dylan’s “Don’t Think Twice”, Lightfoot’s “That’s What You Get For Lovin’ Me,” the Allman Brothers, etc. I said, “Shoot, it’s hard getting around with all these ramblin’ men all over the place getting in the way.” Truthfully though, there really are a lot of ramblin’ women out there.

I first “noticed” Laura when I looked out the window and saw her talking to Dahna at the picnic table. They were talking about the merits and failings of various travel trailers, but I had no idea what the subject was. They could have been discussing String Theory for all I knew since they both were intently into whatever it was. So I kept my distance. She was wearing a well-worn cowboy hat which makes a lot of sense when you meet her, and I did later that day.

Laura is attractive, middle aged and recently retired as a physical therapy assistant. She is in a long term love-hate relationship with her home town of Nashville and travels not only for pleasure but also steam release. At the moment she pulls a new 20 ft. Coleman trailer with her trusty Silverado but misses her high quality T @ G teardrop. I think her real love is motorcycling and she’s lost count of all the bikes she’s owned. Neil Young wrote a pretty good song about a woman and a motorcycle on “Harvest Moon” and it reminds me of Laura a little. She describes herself as a gear head, and she is that and more.

We took her to lunch on our last rainy day at the park’s surprisingly tony restaurant. It was a good meal in good company and when I paid the check Laura said, “Next time it’s on me.” I told her I would hold her to that and I will. She briefly entertained the idea of caravanning up to Kentucky with us on a lark but, unfortunately, had business back in Nashville. We parted the next day but are staying in touch. You might be hearing from her in these pages as we go along.

The next day we headed to Taylorsville Lake State Park. Kentucky is a beautiful state as towns with names like Bowling Green attest. Almost 50 years ago a friend and I hitchhiked from Houston to his hometown of Pineville in the southern part of the state. It wasn’t beauty that caught my eye then, rather the poverty. While there I drove out of town with his brother to a spot where we parked. Then we walked across a set of railroad tracks and out to a miserable shack in the distance. An old woman in rags was scrubbing laundry on the open porch and inside her son and grandson stood in near darkness.

They quietly small talked with my friend’s brother for a long time. With long pauses between topics they eventually got down to the delicate business of bargaining for a car part. The courtesy shown back and forth between the men was remarkable and humbling to me. I never said a word, just nodded hello and goodbye. I think I understand what changed Robert Kennedy’s heart when he went to Mississippi and Appalachia after Jack was killed. It is sad beyond words to me that those two brothers and Martin Luther King Jr. will always stand for the high road, the one not taken.

The hurricane lopped off a day of our stay in Kentucky and my memory of it is a gray and drizzly blur. We managed one day of driving around the serpentine lake that wraps around part of the park to look for birds. Fat chance on a day like that though. The thing I remember vividly is the narrowness of the rural roads. At one point we met an oncoming pickup that we only missed by inches. I pulled off the road into a driveway and pushed my side mirrors in to the retracted position. The other thing was the beautiful homes that dotted the lush countryside.

Kentucky is rightfully known for faster horses and older whiskey. One thing in abundant supply there is charred oaken barrels. You can’t call your rotgut “bourbon” without aging it in these specific barrels and bourbon is the whiskey of choice in Kentucky. They even have a famous Bourbon Trail for tasting the various brands. It’s like the Appalachian Trail only less straight.

Eastern Bluebird

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Dahna and I are bourbon drinkers and are faithful to one brand and one brand only and that’s Old Crow. None of our friends like the stuff but oddly enough seem to enjoy our house drink which is loaded with it. When we offered Laura one, she was hesitant at first but, feeling adventurous, said, “Oh hell, I’ll try anything once.” After a few sips she said, “Hey, I like this.” Later on she suggested I put the recipe in Trail Writers. Okay, here it is:

1-1/2 oz. Old Crow

Juice of 1/2 lime (1 Tbsp)

1/2  cold can of club soda (we use La Croix lime soda)

1 heaping tsp Splenda or sugar

Lots of ice

Now, you can use “better” bourbon but why bother? Here’s what I know about Old Crow:

  1. It’s cheap.
  2. it won’t give you a hangover.
  3. It’s America’s oldest continuously distilled bourbon.
  4. It’s easier to develop a taste for O.C. than scotch.
  5. U.S. Grant and Mark Twain reportedly preferred it.

We enjoyed our short stay in Kentucky but were glad to leave and head to Ohio and meet our friends Linda and Jeremy. Linda was going to cook for us and we were ready Freddy!

MAPLE LEAF RAG Part 1: Learning to Fly

Dahna and I have traveled quite a lot since ’72 when we headed out west with a battered Whole Earth Catalog to look for land. We bought 80 acres, one half of the homestead of an elderly Dust Bowl couple who still top the list of the sweetest people we ever met. The place sat on a remote mesa in the high desert of southeastern Utah. At 7200 feet of elevation and no electricity or water, or the prospect of either, it was a tough place for two city kids to start out with each other.

We both think the harshness of that place forced us to work as a team and that it was teamwork which led eventually to the kind of love that can sustain a long marriage between two wildly different oddballs like us. This lovey-doveyness might come as a surprise to some of the campers who witnessed us trying to back the trailer into a tight spot on the blind side. Nevertheless.

When we started out back then, we loaded our two dogs into my ’69 Ford E300 cargo van and headed west. It was a brawny one ton beast, but it only had a little six cylinder engine with three speeds on the column, no power anything, radio or A/C. Basically it was Ford’s version of Lenny in Steinbeck’s Of Mice And Men. It was a good old truck and we tricked it out with plywood cabinets over the wheel wells and a big storage box in back that held our Coleman stove and lantern, plus a tent, bed rolls, dog food and other accoutrements of hippie wandering.

Occasionally we’d hitchhike cross country, generally through the Rockies or the desert of the southwest. In ’76, we very nearly lost our lives near Yellowstone when the Teton Dam collapsed and the Snake River crashed through its narrow valley killing a number of people. We were not among them but only by the slimmest of chances. It was exciting in the way Death staring you in the face often is, but I won’t bore you with the details. I’ll just say that sometimes it’s wonderful when you can not catch a ride down by the river to save your life. Life is the operating word.

About 40 years ago my dad offered to buy us a new boat if we’d supply him with a new life, a grandchild. We threw ourselves into the task but, alas, were unable to fork over the goods to cover our side of the bargain. As a result, we went boatless for another 20 years. After that long dry spell, so to speak, it seemed to make sense to buy a French 41’ blue water, ketch-rigged sailboat. It would make sense to any garden variety lunatic because we knew squat about sailing, or even boating in general. We knew traveling but not on water.

S/V Alchemy Anchored at Lydia Ann Channel, Port Aransas, TxDSC00391

So, we taught ourselves to sail the thing in Galveston Bay and later enjoyed a few years of distance sailing in the Gulf of Mexico. If you’d like to road test your marriage (to mix metaphors a little) take your spouse, your soul mate, out on the ocean in a little boat. “Wait,” I hear you say, “A 41’ boat is a pretty big boat.” No it ain’t, and we’ll see how just big your love for each other really is when you return to port, if you do.

Well, all that was awhile back. Now we travel in an RV and not just any RV. This is our third trailer in four years and that scares me more than just a little. For a long time I thought advancing age would compensate for my declining physical strength with an increase in wisdom, or at least a little better sense of knowing my own mind. Sadly, that’s not the case. I am happy to say that Dahna, who shares equally in the decision-making around here, also happily approved of each purchase and was no help at all.

Our First Camper at Silver Falls State Park, Oregon

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The above profligacy led to Branyan’s First Law of RV Motion: When the number of campers you buy is directly proportional to the number of years you own them, then you, sir, are a moron.

I’m writing this sitting in the booth of an Arctic Fox 25W travel trailer hard on the shore of Lake Erie, a little northeast of Cleveland. We bought this particular brand because it is a quality “true four seasons” camper and it lets you travel up north where freezing will burst the pipes of lesser units. Its plumbing and various tanks are completely enclosed in the insulated and heated space which greatly expands your range as the seasons change. May lightning strike me dead if I ever buy another.

Like most people, we adapted it with a few custom projects to suit, and it’s helped make the camper quite cozy. A long trip like this one takes a lot of preparation but that’s not all. We also needed a true and trusted friend to housesit for about three months while we’re gone. This person has to coordinate with hay cutters/balers, pecan harvesters, my neighbor and close friend Ray (not easy) and various others, all the while registering voters for the midterms (for God’s sake vote this time!), fighting our crappy internet provider and wrangling my broken down lawn mower. Imagine doing all this for three months in the cultural desert that is Comanche, Tx. where I happily live–Dahna not as much. You’ll agree that that requires a special person, a special friend. That person is Patty.

I’ve known Patty for fifty years almost and Dahna’s known her most of her life. She grew up in tough Pasadena, Tx. as one of three beautiful, strapping Irish sisters along with a cute little brother. She’s spent her entire adult life fighting as a Democratic activist in support of worthy officials, like Representative Lloyd Doggett, who actually try to help working people and the poor. From our house she’s boosting Beto O’Rourke’s senate campaign. Years ago she helped manage the campaign of Beto’s father in El Paso, and she ran a little while with Hunter S. Thompson during the Mc Govern campaign of ’72. Maybe she’ll tell you about it. Maybe not.

Patty is also a brave traveler, par excellence. In the last year, she’s pulled the tiniest teardrop camper through almost every state in the nation plus side tripping to Canada. She’s got a lot of stories to tell and we’re lobbying her to go back out there and get some more. The plan is to help her find the perfect upgrade camper and tow vehicle to go with it when we get back home. She’s done a lot of great things and traveling is just one of them.

Patty with Lemon Drop at Big Bend National Park

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She’ll tell you the best thing she ever did, by far, was raising her remarkable son, Hunter. This kid spent three years in the Peace Corps down deep in Paraguay after graduating with a BA in Philosophy. You might think getting a degree in Philosophy is pretty dumb in this day and age, and you would be right if you’re thinking of the average Joe or Jill. But, it’s great training for someone with the horsepower to understand it and that describes Hunter. It took awhile, but he finally met his match in Meagan. Like Patty before them (and still), they’re dedicating their lives to fighting the good fight. We’d better hope they win. They travel like crazy too and recently hung out in Guatemala working with farmers, Meagan’s specialty. No expensive RV necessary.

Okay, we had our expensive RV all hooked up in the driveway. Sacha was in her backseat with her pretty blue eye, and I was about to strip a mental gear. What did I forget? What else? I saw Patty standing by the truck so I walked up to her and said, “I’m going to give you a hug in a minute so you stay put.” Then I started walking around in tighter and tighter circles until Dahna finally said, “Get in the damn truck and let’s GO!” Hugs and kisses and, at last, the three of us were off to Nova Scotia. Flying.

Whooping Cranes at Goose Island State Park, Texas

WHOOPERS

The Journey Begins

Thanks for joining me!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton

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In May of 1995 I drew my last actual paycheck ever after a year of teaching Chemistry and Physics at Pflugerville High School just north of Austin, Texas. I hired on there from a small school in Hico, a tiny ranching town in north central Texas. My contract had been renewed but I missed my little school and the tough, self-reliant country kids that came with it. Besides, I wanted to do something else even though I loved teaching and it was a good fit for me. Of course, it meant surrendering once again to my recessive “leaf in the wind” gene which, depending on circumstances, can lead to really great things like marrying Dahna or really bad things like losing an arm in Vietnam. The wind blows to a lot of places, and if you’re not careful you’ll find yourself traveling to climes both sunny and dark.  At least you’re traveling.

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