Backpacking into the Grand Canyon… Part II

September 20, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 17 Comments

Looking down from Lipan Point at the start of the Tanner Trail. Then sharp bend in the Colorado River... far away, is where I am heading. (The photos of the trail down I actually took several years later when I backpacked down with Peggy.)

Looking down into the Grand Canyon at the start of the Tanner Trail. By the end of the day I would be near the sharp bend in the river. At the beginning, my body was having serious doubts about whether it wanted to go there. It wasn’t the distance. It was the drop of several thousand feet which can be tough on both knees and downhill brakes.

You may (or may not) recall that I left you hanging on the edge of the Grand Canyon when I took my summer break from blogging starting in July. I had hoisted my 60-pound pack and was preparing to drop off the edge of the world following one of the Canyon’s toughest and least traveled trails several thousand feet down to the Colorado River. My body was having a serious discussion with my mind over the wisdom of the decision. You may want to go back and read Part I of the Grand Canyon Odyssey to refresh your memory.

Tanner trail dropped away under my feet as I began my journey and descended through millions of years of earth history. About a half of mile down it disappeared, having been washed away by winter rains. “I told you so,” my body whispered loudly as I mentally and physically hugged the side of the Canyon and tentatively made my way around the washout.

Although this photo is a little blurry and from another Grand Canyon trail, I included it because it provides a perspective on the trails into the Canyon that receive minimal attention from the Park service. Main tourist trails are like freeways in comparison.

Although this photo is a little blurry and from another non-maintained Grand Canyon trail, I included it because it provides a perspective on the trails into the Canyon that receive minimal attention from the Park Service. Main tourist trails are like freeways in comparison.

Steep drop offs are a common factor in all trails leading into the Grand Canyon. The first trails were created by Native Americans. Later miners, rustlers, and companies interested in promoting tourism would enhance the original trails and create new ones. The top of the photo reflects the different rates of erosion that create bluffs.

I am not sure when my legs started shaking. Given the stair-step nature of the trail and the weight on my back, not to mention an extra 20 pounds of winter fat, my downhill muscles were not having a lot of fun. Fortunately, Mother Nature provided a reprieve. The erosive forces of wind and water that have sculpted the mesas and canyon lands of the Southwest are less challenged by some types of rocks than others.

Somewhere between two and three miles down I came upon the gentle lower slopes of the Escalante and Cardenas Buttes, which allowed me to lollygag along and enjoy the scenery. I escaped from the sun beneath the shadow of a large rock, drank some of my precious water, nibbled on trail food, and took a brief nap. It would have made a good place to camp. Others had obviously taken advantage of the shade and flat surface, but the Colorado River was calling.

Ignoring the screams of my disgruntled body parts, I headed on. At mile five or so my idyllic stroll came to a dramatic halt as the trail dropped out of sight down what is known as the Red Wall. (It received this imaginative name because it is red and looks like a wall.) Some fifty million years, or 625,000 Curtis life spans, of shallow seas had patiently worked to deposit the lime that makes up its 500-foot sheer cliff. It is one of the most distinctive features of the Grand Canyon.

My trail guide recommended I store water before heading down so I could retrieve it when I was dying of thirst on the way out. I could see where people had scratched out exposed campsites here as an excuse to stop for the night. The accommodations weren’t much but the view was spectacular.

The rest of the five-mile/five month journey was something of a blur. (It was closer to five hours but time was moving very slowly.) I do remember a blooming prickly pear cactus. I grumbled at it for looking so cheerful. I also remember a long, gravelly slope toward the bottom. My downhill muscles had totally given out and the only way I could get down was to sidestep. I cackled insanely when I finally reached the bottom. I was ever so glad the Sierra Club guy (see Part I) wasn’t around to see me.

As tired as I was, I enjoyed the beauty of the inner Canyon.

I was so tired, I could hardly enjoy the beauty of the inner Canyon. (These photos are from a later trip I took down with Peggy. I waited until after she said “I do” before introducing her to the Tanner Trail. Otherwise she might have said “I don’t.”)

I smiled at the Prickly Pear Flowers on my way out of the Canyon that I had growled at coming in.

I growled at a prickly pear for looking so cheerful.

Looking back up the trail provided a perspective on how far I had come. The small, needle-like structure is Desert View Tower, about a mile away from the Tanner trailhead.

Setting up camp that night was simple. I threw out my ground cloth, Thermarest mattress, and sleeping bag on a sandy beach. Then I stumbled down to the river’s edge and retrieved a bucket of brown Colorado River water that appeared to be two parts liquid and one part mud. I could have waited for the mud to settle but used up a year of my water filter’s life to provide an instant two quarts of potable water.

My old yellow bucket, a veteran of dozens of backpacking adventures, holding Colorado River water. It retired after my second trip down the Tanner Trail.

All I had left to do was take care of my food. Since people camped here frequently, four-legged critters looked on backpackers as a major source of food. I could almost here them yelling, “Dinnertime!” when I stumbled into sight. Not seeing a convenient limb to hang my food from, i.e. something I wouldn’t have to move more than 10 feet to find, I buried my food bag in the sand next to me. Theoretically, anything digging it up would wake me. Just the top was peeking out so I could find it in the morning.

As the sun went down, so did I. Faster than I could fall asleep, I heard myself snoring. I was brought back to full consciousness by the pitter-patter of tiny feet crossing over the top of me. A mouse was worrying the top of my food bag and going for the peanuts I had placed there to cover my more serious food.

“Hey Mousy,” I yelled, “Get away from my food!” My small companion of the night dashed back over me as if I were no more than a noisy obstacle between dinner and home. I was drifting off again when I once more felt the little feet. “The hell with it,” I thought in my semi-comatose state. How many peanuts could the mouse eat anyway?

The river water I had consumed the night before pulled me from my sleep. Predawn light bathed the Canyon in a gentle glow. I lay in my sleeping bag for several minutes and admired the vastness and beauty of my temporary home. The Canyon rim, my truck and the hoards of tourists were far away, existing in another world. My thoughts turned to my visitor of the previous evening.

I finished my last blog with a picture of the view across the Colorado River from my camp near Tanner Rapids. This and the photo below demonstrate how much colors change depending on the time of day.

The early morning view from my camp site near Tanner Rapids on the Colorado River.

Out of curiosity, I reached over for my food and extracted the bag of peanuts. A neat little hole had been chewed through the plastic but it appeared that most of my peanuts were present and accounted for. My small contribution had been well worth my solid sleep. I then looked over to the right to see if I could spot where the mouse had carried its treasure. Something on the edge of my ground cloth caught my eye. It was three inches long, grey, round and fuzzy.

It was Mousy’s tail!

Something had sat on the edge of my sleeping bag during the night and dined on peanut stuffed mouse. Thoughts of a coyote, or worse, using my ground cloth as a dinner table sent a shiver down my spine. I ate a peanut in honor of Mousy’s memory and threw a few over near his house in case he had left behind a family to feed. I also figured that the peanuts would serve as an offering to whatever Canyon spirits had sent the night predator on its way.

I visited a bush to meet the demands of my bladder, fired up my MSR white gas stove, and soon had a cup of coffee in my hand and hot morning gruel (oatmeal) in my tummy. I dutifully downed my daily ration of five dried apricots. (This may be more than you need to know, but they help keep you regular, an important consideration in wilderness travel.)

With breakfast out of the way and a second cup of coffee to enjoy, it was time to get out my topographic map and contemplate the adventure of the day. My intention was to work my way up the Colorado River following the Beamer Trail to where it was joined by the Little Colorado. The odds were I would have it to myself. The trail was named after a prospector who had searched the area for gold in the 1800s but it also incorporated ancient sections of trail the Hopi Indians had used to reach their sacred salt mines.

Hopi legend claims that their ancestors emerged into this world from a cave in the bottom of the Little Colorado River Canyon. I found the combination of history, mythology, isolation and scenery quite attractive and was eager to get underway. Unfortunately, my body had other plans. It was going on strike.

NEXT BLOG: I declare a layover day where I hardly move and then begin to explore the beauty of the inner Canyon.

Home Invasion Part II— When a Rattlesnake Comes to Visit

September 17, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 21 Comments

Each boy has his own trail on our five acres. And each trail is substantially different. Ethan’s trail incorporates a spring. Ethan is standing next to the sign with his brother Cody.

This is a continuation of my previous blog.

I had a major task before the boys showed up: finish the hiking trails that cut back and forth across our five acres of forested property. It seriously resembled work. I ended up using my weed whacker, leaf blower, tree pruning shears, rake and a mattock. For those of you who don’t know what a mattock is, think really heavy hoe combined with a pick. The last time I had used one I was 18, fighting a forest fire in Northern California over terrain that was so steep that I had to hold on to brush with one hand while I chopped a fire trail with the other. Although I didn’t have a fiery inferno rushing down on me for inspiration, the hill I cut a trail across for the boys was equally steep. And, news flash, I am no longer 18. Peggy came out of the house frequently to look down the slope and make sure I was still alive.

Each boy ended up with his own unique trail with a special sign made by Peggy. There were Chris’s Mountain Trail, Ethan’s Hidden Springs Trail, Cody’s Bear Trail (it is the actual trail the bear uses when he comes in to check out our garbage can), and Connor’s Jungle Trail (chopped out through vines and blackberries). The two-year-old Cooper was too young for a trail, so I made him a secluded nook under some tall brush that could also accommodate his brothers and cousins: Cooper’s Hide-a-Way. When we took the boys down to check it out, a momma deer and her two fawns had adopted the hideout and were happily ensconced on the outdoor carpet I had put down.

I warned the boys to watch out for rattlesnakes since our neighborhood seemed to have an infestation of them over the summer. Peggy took this photo of a rattler in the spring when we were traveling through Death Valley.

The boys got a lecture before venturing out on their own. “This is what poison oak looks like. Watch out for rattlesnakes. If you go off the trails, your socks will be filled with burrs and the burrs will get in your underwear.” I added the latter for emphasis. And it is true; somehow doing the laundry automatically transfers burrs to places you definitely don’t want them— believe me. (Of course the boys went off of the trails.) As for rattlesnakes, I had to dispatch one with my mattock next to the water gun filling station at the side of our house the day before the boys showed up. It was a Diamond Back about three-feet long with ten rattles. Normally I would have just shooed it off, but I worried it might come back. “Look, Grandpa, a snake! Can we catch it?” (Our grandson Ethan is an expert at rounding up lizards. Why not snakes?)

There wasn’t a second of down time for the whole three weeks. There were games to play, swimming holes to explore, and must-see places to visit, such as the Railroad Park in Medford. In the middle of all of this, Peggy went paragliding and jumped off of a local mountain to celebrate her 65^th birthday. Talk about a role model. Our daughter and son joined her. It was my responsibility to take photographs and survive. Can you imagine how warped the boys would be if I were put in charge of raising them?

Everyone climbed on the train at the Medford Railroad Park. Our daughter-in-law Cammie is number five in the row. Tony is behind her holding Cooper.

Cooper proudly displays his Spider face paint he picked up when we visited the Civil War reenactment camp. The boys were quite excited to see cannons fired.

As you might imagine, the boys found burying dad in rocks, as Connor is doing here, to be quite amusing.

Chris found hanging out in a hammock with Grandpa and sharing secrets to be quite entertaining until the wasp stung Grandpa. Some new word were learned.

Chris found hanging out in a hammock with Grandpa and sharing secrets to be quite entertaining until the wasp stung Grandpa. Some new words were learned.

Missy the Deer made out like a bandit as soon as the boys— and Dad, Clay— discovered that she like to eat apples. Several times each day we would hear, “Missy is outside wanting an apple.” Of course she was. Missy recognizes a soft touch when she sees one.

One evening we enjoyed an incredible sunset (this is not photoshopped) followed by a thunderstorm, which is never welcome in the summer due to the danger from lightning fires.

Tony, Peggy and Tasha stand on the pilots’ block and prepare for their assisted paragliding adventure. Peggy was quite proud of the fact that she flew higher and longer than either of her two children.

Peggy paragliding over the Applegate Valley.

And climbing high into the sky.

Our house was even more crowded than our time. Each room had a designated use. The Library, for example, became Lego Central. Even the outdoor patio and porch were drafted to house carefully gathered sticks and rocks, not to mention water guns. Our bedrooms and bathrooms were crammed with kids, grandkids, clothes, first aid supplies for stubbed toes (they hurt), and all of the other paraphernalia of daily life. Peggy and I retreated to our small RV each night to sleep.

Our library became Lego Central. Tony grew up with Legos and many that the boys are using came from his original collection.

Among other things, our living room was give over to reading. Peggy has the boys full attention on this one.

Among other things, our living room was given over to reading. Peggy has the boys full attention on this one.

Eventually the last family was packed up and sent on its way. It was time to reclaim our house. While Peggy worked inside, I tackled the outside. Robota, our robot vacuum cleaner, joyfully scooted around on the floor and searched under couches, beds, chairs and tables for lost Legos, absent autos, and misplaced marbles.

Peggy and I had all of 12 days to reestablish our lives before heading off on our next adventures. Peggy went to England for a couple of weeks with her sister, Jane, on a garden tour that included, among other things, Downton Abby (Highclere Castle). She has offered to guest-write a few blogs on her experience and has been wrestling with how to pare down her thousand plus photos. (Welcome to my world, Sweetie.)

I packed up our pickup and drove over to the northern coast of California above San Francisco. It is one of my all-time favorite areas. I had enough adventures to fill a book, or at least several blogs. For example, I was taking photos of an old Nike Missile site by myself when I heard creaking doors and a Nike Missile came out of the ground. It was pointed directly at me. I raised my arms and surrendered.

In Fort Bragg I discovered the very interesting Triangle Tattoo Museum and Parlor. None other than the divine Madame Chinchilla, a 69-year-old tattooed woman who looks like a grandmother, gave me a two-hour personal tour. It was fascinating. Her husband/partner, Mr. G, was busy tattooing his pharmacist. They were discussing side effects. “Are you talking about prescription drugs or tattoos,” I asked. “Both” was their mutual response. I bought a book Chinchilla had written about their best friend, now diseased, a world-renowned sword swallower: Captain Don Leslie.

Entrance to the tattoo museum in Fort Brag.

Entrance to the Triangle Tattoo Museum in Fort Brag.

And, there was more, of course.

I visited an old Grateful Dead hangout that morphed into a 60’s hippie commune
Stopped off at the Marconi telegraph site at Point Reyes where Morse code signals are still sent out to the Titanic (no answers yet)
Took photos of a church that Ansel Adams made famous
Rubbed shoulders with an Alfred Hitchcock mannequin in the small town of Bodega, which was made famous by the Hitchcock film The Birds
Wandered among the fascinating houseboats of Sausalito
Roamed the streets of the quaint seaside town of Mendocino

Some of the fun houseboats in Sausalito just north of San Francisco.

Returning home, I managed to score a ticket to Burning Man with the help of friends two days before the event was to start. So I made my annual journey out to the remote desert in northern Nevada. This past weekend I attended a conference on writing for change in San Francisco. Today I did an interview for a book about the international effort to get tobacco out of the movies, an effort I helped initiate 20 years ago.

As I have each year, I will be doing a series of blogs on Burning Man. This is the 2015 Temple.

This is the 2015 Burning Man Temple at sunrise.

I’ll be blogging about all of these over the next few months. Stay tuned. 🙂

Grand Canyon Odyssey, Part I… The Wilderness Cure

July 3, 2015June 28, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 39 Comments

The Grand Canyon is a world treasure. I’ve backpacked into it several times and rafted the Colorado River through it. Once, I even rode a mule into the Canyon. The mule carried me over the trail you can see right front center.

I followed Highway 50 east out of Sacramento, cut off at Pollock Pines and picked up the Mormon-Emigrant Trail. Soon I was on Highway 88 climbing up and over Carson Pass. Newly dressed aspens, snow-covered mountains and frothy creeks reminded me that summer was still two months away.

Kit Carson came through here in February of 1844 along with John C. Fremont. The snow was deep and food was limited. They ended up dining off of their horses, mules and the camp dog. The dog apparently went quite well with pea soup. Later, the trail they discovered would become a major entry point for the 49ers and run through the foothill town of Diamond Springs where I was raised.

By evening I had driven down the east side of the Sierras and made my way into Death Valley. I was setting up my tent under a convenient Mesquite tree when the sun sank behind the Panamint Range. Coyotes howling in the distance lulled me to sleep.

I walked out from my campsite in Death Valley as the sun set and listened to coyotes howl in the distance.

By ten thirty the next morning I was in another world, investing quarters in a video poker machine at Circus Circus on the Las Vegas Strip. Luck was with me. Two hours later found me crossing over Hoover Dam with an extra hundred dollars in my wallet. It represented two weeks of backpacking food. I zipped across the desert, picked up Interstate 40 at Kingman and cut off toward the Grand Canyon at Williams.

A little treat for those of you with Coulrophobia, the Circus Circus Clown. No wonder people fear clowns.

I wasted little time checking in at Mather Campground. The Canyon was waiting. An unoccupied rock off the trail near Yavapai Point provided a convenient spot for dangling my legs over the edge. Nothing but several hundred feet of vacant space existed beneath my hiking shoes. A slight breeze on my back reminded me of my mortality.

Sitting on the edge of the Canyon isn’t for the faint-hearted. One can fall hundreds of feet.

My musings were interrupted when a fat Golden-Mantled Ground Squirrel poked his furry head up next to me and demanded payment for my front row seat. I recited the Park’s rule on feeding animals and told him to go eat grass. He flipped his tail at me and squeaked an obscenity as he scrambled off in search of more gullible victims.

Twilight was painting the Canyon with a purplish tinge but I could still make out the distinctive colors and shapes of the rocks. While my right-brain admired the beauty, my left-brain was busy considering eons upon eons of earth history. The dark, tortured walls of the inner canyon, now obscured by evening shadows, reached back over a billion years to the very beginnings of life on earth when our ancient ancestors had frolicked in even more ancient seas.

While the sun still touched the rim of the Canyon, the inner walls turned a dark purple. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Erosion had given these Precambrian rocks a flat top, shaving off some 500 million years of earth’s history and creating what is known as the Great Unconformity. Since then vast seas, Saharan size deserts, lakes and rivers had patiently supplanted one another as they marched through Paleozoic time depositing layer upon layer of the canyons walls.

My present perch was made of Kaibab limestone created by an inland sea some 250 million years ago. Dusk slipped into dark and my thoughts turned to my impending backpack trip.

I had backpacked into the Canyon several times. My objective this time was to explore the Tanner Trail on the eastern end of the South Rim road.

The next day was devoted to careful preparation. Seventeen years of backpacking in all kinds of terrain and climate had taught me that there was no such thing as being too careful. I approach compulsive when it comes to backpacking alone. Had I resupplied my first aid kit? Was my stove still working? Did I have adequate fuel? Did I have my flashlight, signaling mirror, whistle, compass and maps? Did I have enough but not too much food, water, reading material, etc. etc. etc.?

Safety, comfort and even entertainment are important but weight is always an issue.

Having satisfied myself that I could survive seven to nine days in the Canyon, I headed off to the backcountry permit office. The more environmentally inclined within the Park Service are seriously into minimizing impact and promoting safety. Requiring wilderness use permits is their primary tool in achieving these goals.

I patiently waited behind six other would-be canyon explorers and had memorized the minimum impact lecture by the time my turn was up. The ranger frowned when I mentioned the Tanner Trail.

“The trail is poorly maintained, rarely used, 10-12 miles long and arduous,” she cautioned strongly.

“And that,” I replied, “is exactly what I want.” I was especially enamored with the ‘rarely used’ part. I had no desire to share my experience with dozens of other people, much less armies of cantankerous mules that leave lakes of fowl smelling pee on the trail. If I had to face a particularly tough physical challenge and be extra careful to avoid a tumble into the Canyon, it was a price I was happily willing to pay.

I was leaving the office when a skinny guy wearing a short-sleeved khaki shirt, blue shorts and hiking boots stopped me.

“Excuse me,” he announced, “I am with the Sierra Club and I couldn’t help but hear you are headed down the Tanner Trail. Given your condition, I would strongly advise against it. You should hike down the Bright Angel Trail. It’s a lot easier and there are lots of other people hiking it in case you get in trouble.”

Now I confess that having just emerged from nine months of hibernating in Alaska I was pasty white and pudgy. I will also allow that the guy was operating under good intentions.

But his arrogance, especially in announcing his Sierra Club membership as somehow making him a wilderness expert, irritated me. Over the years I had known and worked with lots of Sierra Club folks. I am a strong supporter of their efforts to protect the wilderness. I have even run into some who have had more wilderness experience than I. John Muir, the Sierra Club founder, is one of my all time heroes.

Had my unofficial advisor started off with something like, “I have been up and down the Tanner Trail several times, would you like some suggestions?” I would have been quite willing, even eager, to hear what he had to say. But his uneducated assumptions about my lack of knowledge absolutely turned me off. It was everything I could do to maintain a civil tone of voice as I thanked him for his advice and politely told him to screw off.

At 8:30 the next morning my pasty white pudgy body was having an animated discussion with my mind over why I hadn’t listened more carefully to the Sierra Club ‘expert’ the day before. I had started my day by splurging for breakfast at the elegant El Tovar Hotel and then driven out to Lipan Point.

I was now poised to begin my descent into the Canyon. It looked like a long way down. I gritted my teeth and banned any insidious second thoughts.

They came rushing back as I struggled to hoist my 60 plus pound pack. It was filled with seven days of food, extra water and all of my equipment. I had cursed the day before as I struggled to find room for everything. Now I was cursing I hadn’t left half of it behind. I had the irrelevant thought that my journey down would either kill me or cure me.

Sorry to leave you hanging here as I begin my descent down into the Canyon, but I am going to take a break from blogging for a couple of months. It’s going to be tough. I love blogging and I enjoy keeping up with all of my Internet friends. It’s a special group. But five grandsons are descending on our house and I think Peggy and I will be a little busy (understatement). After that I am going to do some traveling— who knows where? (Peggy will be off in London with her sister Jane.) I also need to spend some time marketing my book. Time simply hasn’t allowed me to put in the effort I should.

And finally, I received two notices from Word Press this past week. One congratulated me on my fifth anniversary with Word Press. The second congratulated me on posting my 500^th blog. I realized I hadn’t taken a break from blogging since the beginning. So it’s time I did. I will be off Word Press until the second week in September when I will once again be posting blogs, catching up with the folks I follow, and making comments. Have a great summer and thanks ever so much for following me. —Curt

A final view of the Canyon with its multiple layers that represent deposited from oceans, deserts, rivers and lakes.

A final view of the Canyon with its multiple layers that represent deposits from oceans, deserts, rivers and lakes over hundreds of millions of years..

Where Glass Borders on Fantasy… The Work of Dale Chihuly

July 1, 2015June 30, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 30 Comments

I had the feeling that this sculpture by Dale Chihuly, set off by a reflecting pool, should be waving its tentacles. (This and the following photos are taken by Peggy Mekemson.)

When I closed my eyes and scrolled through my iPhoto collection to come up with today’s photo essay, I landed on a series of photos featuring Dale Chihuly’s imaginative glass sculptures.

It seems like Chihuly, the world’s most prolific creator of glass blown sculpture, is everywhere these days. His works are found worldwide. Peggy was in Tennessee with our daughter Natasha five years ago when a Chihuly exhibition was held at the Cheekwood Botanical Garden in Nashville. Fortunately, Peggy took lots of photos so I could enjoy the show as well. I found a flock of flamingos that Peggy captured on her camera at the botanical garden to be equally fascinating.

I thought of this creation as a fruit basket.

Chihuly is an expert at placing his work in natural settings.

Chihuly is an expert at designing his pieces to complement natural settings.

Another example how his work complements a natural setting.

And how about this towering glass sculpture next to the tree?

And how about this towering glass sculpture next to a tall tree?

My grandson, who was two at the time, checks out one of Chihuly’s sculptures. I wonder what was going through his mind?

A new take on a Zen garden?

These reminded me of colorful cloves of garlic.

These gracefull birdlike sculptures reminded me of Peggy's Flamingos.

These graceful birdlike sculptures with their interesting poses reminded me of Peggy’s Flamingos.

Flamingos can assume some interesting one-legged positions but this one went above and beyond. Check out the shadow.

Another interesting pose for both kids and adults.

A final contortion of Flamingo parts.

I'll use this blue and green contrast by Chihuly to end this post. NEXT POST: On the way to He Grand Canyon and a two month break from blogging.

I’ll use this blue and green contrast by Chihuly to end this post. NEXT POST: A continuation of my Friday Essays. The Grand Canyon trip. Also, Friday marks the beginning of a two month break from blogging.

Escape from Alaska… Part I

June 19, 2015June 18, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 32 Comments

I was drawn to Alaska by its incredible wilderness. Lisa Murkowski, one of Alaska's Senators, recently introduced legislation to sell off all of America's public lands including national forests, wilderness areas, national historic sites and national seashores (everything except National Parks) to private developer so they can make money off of the lands.

The Wrangell-St. Elias Mountains. I was drawn to Alaska by its incredible wilderness. It may not be there for our children. Lisa Murkowski (R-Alaska) recently introduced a non-binding budget amendment to the US Senate that would allow states to sell off all of America’s public lands including national forests, wilderness areas, national historic sites, etc. (everything except National Parks) to private interests so they could turn our national heritage into profit.

The story of my involvement with California’s Proposition 99 tobacco tax campaign began on my 43^rd birthday when I escaped from Alaska— and escape is the appropriate term.

My three years in Alaska had been a great adventure. I had explored the state’s magnificent wilderness areas and accomplished a fair amount in my role as Executive Director of the Alaska Lung Association. The organization had a great board and staff. We had taken a sleepy organization and turned it into a powerhouse on air quality and tobacco issues. I had led backpack, bike, and cross-country ski trek fundraisers, substantially increasing the organization’s income, not to mention giving myself an excuse to play in the woods. (As if I needed an excuse.)

But I am not cut out for the Executive Director business— or any other long-term, high stress job, for that matter. I only know one speed: fast forward. In time, the job starts to feel like I am locked in a steel cage, which just happens to be dangling from a frayed rope, hanging over a dark abyss. If that sounds to you like an imaginative description of depression, you are right. It is something of a curse on my mother’s side of the family, or to be more scientific, call it a genetic disposition.

Unfortunately, I am a slow learner. I had been executive director of several environmental and health nonprofits, done my job, and moved on. It seemed like a natural fit; so I persisted. But each time, it was like I was flirting with the dark side of my mind. I had learned I made a better ‘consultant,’ where I created the jobs I would work on. For example, I developed the wilderness trek program as a fundraiser and then became the American Lung Association’s national trek consultant. The consulting work was intense, but it had a definite beginning and a definite end. Afterwards, I would go play.

Alaska had sounded really good, however. And it was. There was all of that great outdoors (over 50% of America’s wilderness area), important issues to address on the environmental and tobacco front, and a relationship in Sacramento that needed a serious time-out. So I had taken the bait when Alaska had called— hook, line and sinker.

"It's time to pack your bags, Curt." (Peggy and I took the photos of Alaska and the Alaska Highway two years ago when we visited the state.)

“It’s time to pack your bags, Curt.” Alaskan Brown Bear. (Peggy and I took the photos of Alaska and the Alaska Highway found on today and next week’s post two years ago when we visited the state.)

By the end of the first year, I was climbing the walls. It was time to leave. Except I had made a commitment to myself, and to the organization that I would stay for three years. I struggled my way through the second year, barely keeping my head above the water. But we accomplished some good things— like forcing Tesoro to clean up the air pollution from its oil refinery, creating one of the first state-wide non-smoking laws in the nation, leading an effort to double the state tobacco tax with money going toward prevention, and bringing automobile inspection and maintenance to Alaska. But I was coming to the end of my tether. It was a short rope.

The stress at the back of my head was palpable. Even now, as I write about the experience, I can feel it gathering. It influenced my decision-making. Instead of coasting and turning more work over to my staff, I jumped feet first into the fire. It wasn’t necessary; my board and staff were good folks. They would have been eager to help. But asking for help assumes a rational mind. Mine wasn’t. I started making mistakes— and I started increasing my nightly consumption of alcohol, from two, to four, to six cans of beer. Alcohol was singing its seductive song.

Had I learned to be laid back like this moose, there never would have been a problem.

Over Christmas, I took a break by myself and drove down to Homer on the Kenai Peninsula. There’s a motel that sits out at the end of the Homer Spit providing panoramic views of Kachemak Bay. I got a room and spent hours staring out at the water and distant mountains. And I made a decision. I would return to Anchorage and give a three-month notice that I was leaving. When the time was up, I would disappear into the woods for several months of backpacking. I would take the wilderness cure.

I spent my last day packing the things I wanted to take: a few books and camping gear. I would leave Alaska like I had arrived, with what I could fit in the back of my pickup. I spent the night at a friend’s home, but she wasn’t there. She had disappeared into the lower 48 states so she wouldn’t see me drive away. I had passed on her offer to get married, stay home, write, and raise kids. Her two dogs and cat kept me company.

The views along the highway between anchorage and the lower 48 states are incredible— not that I paid much attention is my mad dash for the border.

The views along the highway between Anchorage and the lower 48 states are incredible— not that I paid much attention in my mad dash for the border. This is the Matanuska Glacier.

These mountains were near the Matanuska Glacier, easy driving distance from Anchorage. 30 minutes from my house, I could be hiking in similar terrain.

Another view of the Wrangell-St.Elias Mountains that I would have passed.

Another view of the Wrangell-St.Elias Mountains shown in the top photo.

I flew down the Alaska Highway the next morning, exhausting myself, searching for green grass and flowers. I almost made the Canadian border the first night. Too tired to move on, I pulled into a closed truck inspection point and crawled into the back of my pickup.

Once I had arranged my sleeping bag on top of my few possessions, I broke out some liquid refreshment to scare off the banshees that were nipping at my heels. My truck was packed with more guilt than goods, a lot more. Some old friends from California— Tom Lovering, Jean Snuggs and a new friend of Tom’s, an irrepressible minister by the name of Jeanie Shaw, had put together a South of the Border Care Package to ease my way toward California. It consisted of several ripe avocados, salsa, chips and a gallon of pre-made margaritas, heavy on the tequila. I held a little party with my staff before leaving. We did serious damage to the guacamole but hardly touched the margaritas.

I knocked off a water-sized glass of the latter. It put me well on the way to oblivion but it wasn’t enough to let me sleep through the horrendous racket of someone trying to break into my camper shell. I sat up with a start and yelled, banging my head against the top. A flashlight with enough candlepower to light up Las Vegas was shining directly into my eyes.

The Troopers flash light had about the same intensity as the sun on this lake that is located close to the Alaska-Canada Border.

The flashlight had about the same intensity as the sun on this lake that is located close to the Alaska-Canada Border.

“You in the truck, what are you doing here?” It was the voice of Authority. An Alaskan State Trooper had been banging on my camper shell with his baton. I thought it was quite obvious what I was doing but wisely decided to refrain from the obscene comment that was perched on the tip of my tongue. I chose a mildly sarcastic response.

“Uh, sleeping?” I hazarded a guess.

“You are not supposed to sleep here,” the disembodied voice behind the flashlight responded. “Why didn’t you go to a motel?” I was obviously a suspicious character, having chosen not to support the Alaskan economy. I was also being interrogated with the bright light of the law shining in my eyes. It was time to think fast.

“I fell asleep behind the wheel,” I exaggerated slightly. “I was afraid I might do serious damage to myself or someone else on the highway.”

That put a serious crimp in his nightstick. I could tell he was pondering my answer by the slowness of his response. He was torn between his job to roust out suspected vagrants and his responsibility to save lives. His good sense won.

“Go back to sleep,” the voice said. It was a lot easier for him to say than it was for me to do.

NEXT FRIDAY’s ESSAY: I reject an offer to run off to Mexico and open an orphanage for homeless children, decide what I should do with a gallon bag of pot I was given as a going away present, and finish my journey to Sacramento— where I am immediately asked to put together a statewide campaign to increase California’s tobacco tax. Instead, I go backpacking.

Quirky Berkeley— I Return to My Roots

June 11, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 33 Comments

Sproul Hall, the administrative center of UC Berkeley, looks imposing. It comes with a welcome sign now but it wasn’t so welcoming when I gave a speech while standing on the Dean’s desk at the height of the Free Speech Movement in 1964.

Last week went on forever. By Sunday, the events at the beginning of the week seemed like ancient history. Maybe that’s not a bad thing; time slowed down. Lately it’s been zipping by like a hummingbird on sugar-water. Zoooooooom!

I began my week by being a guest lecturer in a writing class at Southern Oregon University where I talked about changes in the publishing industry. Mainly I discussed how authors are now responsible for marketing their own books. Grump. It is not my favorite activity. “Go start a blog,” I urged, “at least you can have fun. And it is great writing practice.”

Thursday found me keynoting an author’s day at a local community school. I had jumped from talking with seniors in college to kids. And how in the heck do you tailor a talk for a group with an age range from 7-14? Tell stories, I decided— and started with the tale from The Bush Devil Ate Sam about Rasputin the Cat and the Cockle Doodle Rooster. Afterwards I taught classes of fifth, sixth, seventh and eighth graders. My message was that we are all storytellers.

It was fun. The eight-hour drive to Berkeley immediately afterward wasn’t.

I drove down to attend a national conference of Returned Peace Corps Volunteers. I was one pooped pup when I arrived. It was lights out for Curt. I hardly even needed my noisemaker to drown out the clamor on University Avenue.

Berkeley is many things, among them a world renown center of education.

Speaking of tired puppies, I found these hemp collars and leashes on Telegraph Avenue. In addition to being home to one of the world’s greatest educational institutions, Berkeley can be a bit quirky.

I went to the conference to participate in some workshops relating to Peace Corps writers, of which there are legions. I also wanted to hear presentations by Congressman Sam Farr and Peace Corps Director Carrie Hessler-Radelet. Sam had been a Peace Corps Volunteer in South America in the 60s and, like me, worked in Peace Corps recruiting afterwards. He is known as “Mr. Peace Corps” in Congress for the strong advocacy role he plays for the organization.

He argued that Returned Peace Corps Volunteers also needed to become advocates. It’s budget time in Washington, and there are a lot more countries requesting Peace Corps Volunteers, and people who want to be Volunteers, than Peace Corps has money to fund. As usual, the money goes elsewhere. For example, we are spending a billion and a half dollars this year to keep Egypt happy— four times the total budget of Peace Corps.

On the good news side of the equation, Carrie announced that Peace Corps Volunteers would be back in Liberia this week. As you may recall, they were pulled out in the fall because of Ebola. Carrie also mentioned a major new initiative that Peace Corps is working on with Michelle Obama, Let Girls Learn. It is a worldwide effort to provide girls with the same education opportunities boys now have.

We listened to a pre-recorded message on Let Girls Learn from Michelle Obama in Wheeler Auditorium, which was the site of my first class at Berkeley. I had walked right by the classroom, incapable of imagining that there would be over a thousand students in the class. Berkeley gave me a new understanding of mass education.

I must confess— I also had an ulterior motive for the trip. Any journey to Berkeley is a trip into the past for me. I think of it as a pilgrimage, a return to my roots. I still hear echoes from the 60s when I was caught up in Berkley’s Free Speech Movement. This time the echoes were real. A resounding expletive caught my attention. I turned around to see Cliff Marks descending on me. Cliff and I had shared an apartment during out senior year and Cliff had also served in the Peace Corps. The last time I had seen or talked with him was at his wedding in 1969. We had a grand time catching up. Now it is time to catch up on the blogs I have missed this past week and a half.

But first, let’s go on a tour of Berkeley.

Every student who has ever been to Berkeley passes through Sather Gate…

And at some point, stops to admire the Campanile, which is Berkeley’s best known landmark.

The campus looks out over San Francisco Bay. The Golden Gate Bridge can be seen in the distance.

I had spent the day buried in the Bancroft Library and surfaced for a break when I found a young woman crying on these steps. The campus was deathly quiet. “What’s the problem?” I had asked. “They’ve shot the President,” she told me in a broken voice. It was November 23, 1963 and President Kennedy had been killed, shot down in the streets of Dallas.

Sproul Plaza was a major location for student protests in the 60s. This entrance to the campus, at the intersection of Telegraph Avenue and Bancroft Avenue, was the location of Berkeley’s Free Speech Area that the University arbitrarily closed down in the fall of 1964, thus leading to the beginning of the Free Speech Movement.

The Student Union and Ludwig’s Fountain are under renovation. Ludwig was a 60’s type dog who wandered wherever he chose. He came down from his house on the hill daily and frolicked in the fountain that would eventually bear his name. I petted Ludwig and watched as a police car was taken hostage and then used as a speaker’s podium. Jack Weinberg, a Civil Rights organizer, was being held in the car. It was Jack, now 75, who coined the phrase, “never trust anyone over 30.”

I learned as much outside of the classrooms as I did inside at Berkeley. The Cafe Mediterraneum on Telegraph Avenue was my main hangout. It was one of America’s first European style Coffee Houses in the 1950s and proudly claims to be the creator of the caffe latte.

One of my primary forms of entertainment in the 60s at Berkeley was perusing bookstores. It still is today when I visit the city. Moe’s was and is one of the greats. Sadly, my favorite, Cody’s, is now closed.

Amoeba Records is next to the Cafe Meditteraneum. Street booths, like those in front on the left, have become a permanent fixture along Telegraph Avenue.

As one might expect, many of the items for sale have a New Age connection, such as these ‘healing’ quartz crystals.

And these dream catchers.

“If it takes a bloodbath, let’s get it over with.” –Ronald Reagan’s response as Governor of California to students who were protesting his closing down Berkeley’s People’s Park as a community garden in the late 60s. National Guard troops were sent in and local police were armed with shotguns loaded with buckshot. One student, apparently a bystander, was killed and another was blinded. The whole city was tear gassed from the air.

A sign thanking trees that live in the park today.

A mural on the side of the Amoeba record store depicts events surrounding People’s Park as well as other Telegraph Avenue happenings.

The mural.

Berkeley has always been a mecca for young people, both those seeking an alternative lifestyle as well as those seeking a first class education. Many who came looking for alternatives arrived without money, as this young man shown in the mural.

Today, Berkeley is the ‘home’ for numerous homeless people. I took this photo on Dwinelle Plaza on campus.

This homeless man was selling the newspaper “Streetsmart” in front of Moe’s Bookstore. Headlines announced a recent protest that the community’s religious leaders including Christian, Muslim, Jewish and Buddhist representatives had made against the city’s efforts to criminalize homelessness as a means of driving homeless people out of town.

A sign of the times? Not really. Berkeley’s sign boards have always been plastered with notices on top of notices. I was amused to find help wanted notices for Berkeley’s Call Center. I hear from these young people several times a year as they solicit money for Berkeley. I found it interesting that the University, who charges them $14,000 a year in tuition ($38,000 if out-of-state), only pays these kids $11 per hour.

South Hall, built in 1873, is the oldest building on the UC Berkeley Campus. It’s an appropriate photo to end this post, and also to raise a question about the future of public education in America. Tuition was free when I went to Berkeley and I was able to pay for my living costs by driving a laundry truck in the summer. I graduated debt-free. Today’s young people graduate with hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt. It’s close to tragic. All I can think of is how incredibly stupid our state and national leaders are when the future of our nation, and indeed the world, depends upon an educated and knowledgeable population. Germany can somehow find the money to provide a free college education. Why not America?

The Natchez Trace National Parkway, AKA— the Devil’s Backbone

May 27, 2015May 26, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 27 Comments

Peggy and I were driving down the Natchez Trace when we came on this beautiful Luna Moth with a wingspan of about four inches. It was one of many treasures we found along the way. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

It’s Wednesday, time to scroll down through my iPhoto and find photos to feature. This time, my finger landed on the Natchez Trace, one of America’s premier drives— or bicycle trips. If you are ever wandering through Mississippi, Alabama or Tennessee, be sure to include it as part of your itinerary.

Large game animals, including buffalo, first used sections of what would become known as the Natchez Trace. Later it served as a major trade route for Native Americans. By the early 1800s, the Trace had been modified by a young United States into a 450-mile transportation corridor between Nashville, Tennessee and Natchez, Mississippi. Soldiers, highwaymen and missionaries travelled the route, but Kaintucks were its primary users.

Kaintucks were rough frontiersmen from Kentucky who operated flatboats on the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers. They would load their boats with merchandise in Nashville and then oar down the Mississippi to Natchez where they would sell their goods for a handsome profit. Getting the money home was the challenge. Rowing up the Mississippi was not an option. Kaintucks were faced with the 450-mile hike back up the Trace— and they were faced with a multitude of folks who wanted to separate them from their newfound wealth.

First came the gauntlet of booze, prostitutes, gamblers, and gangsters in ‘Natchez Under the Hill.’ Assuming the Kaintucks got out of town with fortune intact, they became fair game for highwaymen. It was open season on the rivermen and their cash. For this reason, the Natchez Trace became known as the Devil’s Backbone. Today the Trace is a beautiful National Parkway with no commercial traffic. I’ve driven it several times, and once, I bicycled 370 miles of it from Natchez into southern Tennessee.

A number of lakes and waterways are found along the Trace. We took this photo from our campsite. We also watched a beaver working while relaxing in our camp chairs.

I found this grass growing in the lake the next morning and enjoyed its reflection.

Numerous trails lead off of the Trace, often leading to babbling brooks.

And lots of fungi, including this shelf fungus, which decorated a rotting log.

Miles and miles of dogwood bloom along the Natchez Trace in Spring.

Peggy and I also found these colorful violets.

Meriwether Lewis of Lewis and Clark was found dead in a hotel on the Trace. To this day it is debated as to whether he was killed or committed suicide while under the influence of opium.

Meriwether Lewis of Lewis and Clark was found dead in a house on the Trace. To this day it is debated as to whether he was killed or committed suicide while under the influence of opium. This monument stands over his grave.

I wondered if Peggy had some type of message in mind when she asked me to pose for this photo. The sign is pointing toward portions of the historical Trace that are still found along the Parkway. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

The Phar Mounds located north of Tupelo, Mississippi were left behind by nomadic Native Americans somewhere between 1-200 AD as burial mounds.

These are the brick restrooms at Phar Mounds. I am sure you are wondering why i've included them. They are my favorite restrooms in the whole world, bar none. I hid out in them when I was on my bike trip around North America as a tornado ripped apart the woods a quarter of a mile away.

These are the brick restrooms at Phar Mounds. I’ve included them because they are my favorite restrooms in the whole world, bar none. I hid out in them when I was on my bike trip around North America and a tornado ripped apart the woods a quarter of a mile away. My bike hid with me.

I’ll conclude with a final photo of dogwood. NEXT BLOG: The Friday Essay: Just possibly a ghost is involved.

Bruneau Dunes State Park, Idaho… The Wednesday Photo Essay

May 20, 2015May 18, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 34 Comments

Peggy and I discovered Bruneau Dunes State Park after we had been up in Central Idaho admiring the Sawtooth Mountains.

It’s Wednesday. That means I let my fingers do the walking down through my 20,000 pictures to come up with today’s photo essay. I closed my eyes, scrolled down through iPhoto, and randomly stopped.

I landed on Bruneau Dunes State Park in southwestern Idaho. It’s a gem. Driving south on Idaho 51 heading toward Elko, Nevada, Peggy and I found the park pretty much the same way I found it on iPhoto— randomly. This 4800 acre state park features sand dunes and a small lake that gives the area an oasis feel. It’s noted for having the tallest single-structured sand dune in North America— 470 feet above the surrounding desert. (Photos by Curtis and Peggy Mekemson.)

Peggy and I had been up in central Idaho admiring the Sawtooth Mountains and were on our way to Nevada when we found Breneau Dunes State Park.

Peggy and I had been up in central Idaho admiring the Sawtooth Mountains and were on our way to Nevada when we found Bruneau Dunes State Park.

The small lake backed up by the 470 high dune gives the area an oasis feel.

Moving around the lake provided different perspectives on the dune.

This view provided a reflection.

A view focused on the lake.

Having hiked around to the opposite side the lake, we were rewarded with a view of the dune.

Having hiked to the opposite side of the lake, we were rewarded with a closer view of the dune.

And lots of animal tracks. Coyote possibly.

Bird tracks

Your guess. I am thinking sidewinder rattlesnake.

Later in the day, the dunes took on an almost purple tint as the sun went down.

I liked the sage and other shrubs in this photo caught in the glow of the late afternoon sun.

The sun was almost down.

Good night.

We Visited Jackson, California and Bought a Giraffe. Help!

May 18, 2015May 17, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 30 Comments

Peggy fell in love with this balsa wood giraffe we found in Jackson, California. So the giraffe came home with us. Little did we think it would have a taste for petunias.

And here I thought our deer herd with its greedy appetite was bad. At least they couldn’t reach our hanging plants. It may be our imagination, but it seems that the wooden giraffe we bought in Jackson, California is poaching on Peggy’s petunias! We pretended to drive up the road and then I snuck back with the camera to see what the long-necked marauder was up to.

Aha! He was eating Peggy’s hanging petunias that the deer couldn’t reach.

I caught the culprit purple lipped.

And apparently he was helping himself to all of our other hanging plants.

He was as much a glutton as the deer were.

There was no stopping him!

I confronted the giraffe with the photos. “I was not eating Peggy’s potted posies,” the giraffe replied indignantly. “I was sniffing them.” Yeah, right.

Jackson, California is an old gold rush town located on Historic Route 49 in the California foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. It’s about 30 miles away from where I was raised in another old gold rush town, Diamond Springs. Highway 49, with its logging trucks and cattle drives, fronted our property. Jackson was a long ways off. I’ve driven back and forth across the country a lot more times that our family visited Jackson when I was growing up— seriously.

We also found other wonderful creatures in Jackson on our March visit including a frog, a Hindu monkey king, a topless hula dancer, and a wildebeest. Fortunately we didn’t bring any of them home even though I lobbied for the hula dancer.

I like frogs. And let me assure you, they can get their mouths open this wide when going after tasty morsels such as flies.

We found this marvelous frog at the same shop we found the giraffe, Richard and Sherry’s Collectables. Were you ever told by your mother, “close your mouth or you’ll catch a fly.” Now you know where that come from.

I was also impressed with this Monkey King with his pet snake. I assume he is Hanuman from the Ramayana.

I remembered this, um, hula princess and her surf board from another visit to Jackson. She hangs out, so to speak, on main street and is kind of hard to forget.

Wilbur the Wildebeest lives in the Book Store.

Wilbur the Wildebeest lives in a book store.

Apparently he has lived there a while.

Wilbur the Wildebeest lived in the Hein and Company Bookstore along with a cat, strange masks, columns of books, and a number of other unusual items. It may be the most interesting used bookstore I’ve ever been in. Be sure to put it on your itinerary if you visit Jackson.

In addition to Wilbur, the Hein and Co Bookstore in Jackson is packed full of used books and numerous unusual/interesting items. Or do I mean weird?

Such as this en-gage-ing collection

Who knows what you might find around the next corner?

Certainly made me want to go upstairs and check out books…

Where we found a virtual maze of book shelves and long corridors with mysterious doors and signs. I couldn’t resist walking down to the door to read the sign.

And found the end. Wouldn’t you be slightly tempted to open the door and meet kitty?

Kitty?

No, this was kitty. Many good bookstores have one.

Our visit to the town also included a walk up and down the main street and dinner at the National Hotel, which also dates back to gold rush times. Ladies of the evening made liberal use of the hotel in its early days. They say you can still hear their ghosts giggling at night. Black Bart, the infamous gentleman bandit who robbed stages on foot (he hated horses) and occasionally left behind a poem, reputedly stayed here. As did Mark Twain, Chester Garfield, Herbert Hoover, and John Wayne. Wayne lost $43,000 in a 1933 game of poker at the hotel. His check bounced and the local sheriff hunted him down and made him pay in cash.

A look up main street, Jackson.

The community has done a great job of renovating and maintaining its historic buildings.

The National Hotel that has entertained every one from US Presidents, to outlaws, to movie stars— and possibly ghosts.

We finished off our visit to the Jackson area by checking out several local wineries. I was looking for wine to feature at my book-signing event in Sacramento. By the end of the day, they all tasted pretty good. And no, I wasn’t driving.

Grapevines. Amador County has become an important wine-producing area.

We visited several wineries looking for wine to use at my book-signing in Sacramento.

I thought my fellow bloggers who are into farming would appreciate this sign.

I’ll conclude with a final photo of the giraffe munching flowers. Guilty.

Seaside, Oregon… Caught between the Past and the Future

May 10, 2015May 10, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 21 Comments

A fortune teller had a small shop on the main street in Seaside, Oregon. This dog rested under the table where fortunes were told.

A fortune-teller had a small shop on Broadway Street in Seaside, Oregon. This dog rested on a carpet under the table where futures were foretold. I suspect his future is that he will be well-loved.

There is a certain feel to coastal tourist towns that earned their glory in an earlier era. I’d define it as rundown charm. Shops are crammed full of made-in-China souvenirs. Taffy and ice cream tempt people off of the street. Occasionally, one can hear the unmistakable sound of carousel music as horses and lions and emus and giraffes go around and around to the echoing laughter of generations of children.

Coffee shops have a down-home, utilitarian atmosphere where you can buy a cup of steaming clam chowder, coffee and cherry pie for under ten dollars. The saltines are free. The waitress is likely to have a few thousand miles on her feet. She may even call you honey.

But I am being nostalgic. Such places are a dying breed on the edge of extinction. Boutique shops and upscale restaurants are now the rule. Yesterday’s $7.00 T-shirt has become today’s $200 blouse. Lunch for two can easily cost $50.00. And the ten percent tip (remember it?) is now twenty.

We can thank the yuppies of the 1980’s and 90’s for this. They rolled out of the major cities along the West Coast of America from San Diego to Seattle with money to burn. Sharp entrepreneurs quickly figured out ways to separate them from their cash. Ocean side property was scarfed up and prices skyrocketed. Old buildings were renovated and new buildings built. Everything was impacted. The closer a town was to a major city, the greater the impact.

I am not saying all of this is bad. Things change. I like my designer coffee and handcrafted beer as much as the next person. And I am glad that artists and artisans have profited by being able to sell their work in the upscale shops.

I found a bit of the old and a bit of the new when I visited Seaside, Oregon last fall. Seaside was one of the grand old resort towns, like Santa Cruz in California or Myrtle Beach in North Carolina. It was where you flocked to in the summer if you had money. You can still see the old buildings: now renovated, spruced up and repurposed— to use a modern term. For example, the old courthouse had morphed into a modern brewpub. The single jail cell that once housed Saturday night drunks, now houses kegs of beer. I ate my $12.00 hamburger there and washed it down with a decent porter.

The brick drunk tank in Seaside’s old jailhouse now serves as a cooling room for kegs of beer. The beer taps are built directly into the wall. I am not sure about the skulls. They may have been left over from Halloween.

After lunch I walked downtown. Midweek, clouds, and rain meant I had Broadway more or less to myself. A few tourists, locals, and I scurried between store entranceways, trying to stay dry. I admired the old buildings, checked out the local carousel, and stopped off to visit a dog that was lying under a table in a small shop where its owner sat and offered to read my palm. I opted out of fortune-telling but did buy a book on the future at the local bookstore. Watch out for robots.

I was pleased to find a carousel with its horses eager to be ridden. Peggy loves these things. Had she been along, I probably would have been forced to climb on and ride around with her and the little kids.

A touch of Seaside's glory days can be seen in these buildings along Broadway Street.

A touch of Seaside’s glory days can be seen in these renovated buildings along Broadway Street.

Had I walked downtown before stopping off at the Seaside Brewery, I probably would have eaten at the Pig and Pancake.

Had I walked downtown before stopping off at the Seaside Brewery, I may have eaten at the Pig ‘n Pancake.

This mural was as closes as I got to Seaside’s famous beach. It was not a day for sunbathing.

The sunshine was of the liquid type. Other tourists, locals and I went searching for awnings that protected us from the rain.

It was a good day for being inside, though, and I always enjoy futzing around in antique shops, where I found this dead pig room divider.

And what I believe is Chinese foo dog statue. (Or maybe it is a lion about to eat a horse).

Another shop that caught my attention featured preserved scorpions and tarantulas. I once caught a scorpion like the fellow on the left outside of my house in Liberia and kept it in a jar for a while. Maybe that is when my former wife first contemplated divorce.

Another symbol of historic coastal resort towns was the Penny Arcade. Although the games and prices have changed, the purpose remains the same: capturing youth. It worked for me. I happily mis-spent many hours in such joints playing pinball machines.

Historic street lamps with attached starfish were found along Broadway and seemed an appropriate symbol for Seaside.

Historic street lamps with attached starfish were found all along Broadway. They seemed an appropriate symbol for Seaside and a fitting end for this post. NEXT BLOG: A photo essay on the pregnant deer that has apparently adopted us. Maybe by Wednesday she will have had her fawn, preferably not on our back porch.

Wandering through Time and Place

Exploring the world with Curtis and Peggy Mekemson

On the Road US