The Day of the Iguana… Adventures in Puerto Vallarta

November 18, 2015November 17, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 32 Comments

As the iguana stared balefully back at me, his eye seemed to grow.

Peggy and I are in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. While she works on her next Cotswolds post, I decided to slip one in on Puerto Vallarta.

I was home alone when I heard the scratching on our door. Peggy had gone off with our friends Ken and Leslie in hopes of finding Wi-Fi in the hotel lobby. I had wished them luck. The Internet is an on again/off again proposition here at the Krystal Hotel in Puerto Vallarta.

I looked up, thinking maybe the maid had come early, or the pool man. But usually they knock and shout “Ola.” No one was there. I went back to writing. I was editing Peggy’s blog on the villages of the Cotswolds.

SCRATCH, SCRATCH, SCRATCH. “What the…?” I thought, looking up again. The villa has these large, arch-shaped doors made of frosted glass that let in light but not prying eyeballs. Off to the right I spotted what appeared to be large, scary head staring at me through the opaque glass. I recognized it.

The doorways to our villa in Puerto Vallarta were arched. The iguana appeared in the lower right window.

The head of the iguana appearing through frosted glass reminded me of the Creature from the Black Lagoon.

“Aha!” went racing through my mind, “Senior Iguana is here for a visit.” I rushed over to the door and opened it, wondering if he would come in. It would be amusing to watch Peggy, Ken and Leslie’s reaction to finding a large lizard hanging out on the floor of our living room. Maybe I could entice him up onto the couch with a banana.

I found the Puerto Vallarta iguana outside scratching at our window. Was it asking to come in?

“Ola, Buenos Dias Senior Iggy. Welcome!” I proclaimed. Senior Iggy stared up at me balefully and said not a word. Maybe he didn’t like being called Iggy. He went back to scratching the window with his long claws.

I went inside and retrieved a banana. Back outside I sat down on the porch step, peeled the banana, and tossed a piece to the iguana. He ignored it, like he was ignoring me. It was then that I noticed that Iggy was staring at the window, not through it. He had found true love in a perfect reflection of himself. What’s a puny banana in comparison?

I discovered the iguana was admiring its reflection in the window and wondered if it was breeding season and the large Puerto Vallarta lizard believed he had found true love— or possibly a rival.

I was still sitting on the doorstep when Ken, Leslie and Peggy returned. I heard them laughing with one of the gardeners when they spotted me sitting with the iguana. “They are good to eat,” the gardener told them. “They taste like chicken.” Naturally. My friends approached quietly, not wanting to scare Iggy.

“Don’t worry, the iguana is in love.” I doubt that a brass band would have disturbed him. Ken, Leslie, and Peggy each sat down on the porch step where I had been to admire our new best friend. We went inside with the iguana still staring at himself, deeply in love, or perhaps lust. He was still there when we left 45 minutes later, but had departed when we returned in four hours, undoubtedly heart-broken.

Peggy sat where I had and admired the iguana as he tried to reach his reflection.

Two days later Peggy and I noticed that another iguana was outside, this time at the door leading to our pool. “Do you think he will come in if we open the door this time?” Peggy asked. “One way to find out,” I responded. Sure enough, a few minutes later we saw a head peaking in. And then the whole iguana followed. Peggy quickly jumped up and closed the door to our bedroom. We might find an iguana in our living room and kitchen amusing. Sleeping under our bed or in our shower would be another issue. He (I am assuming it was a male) wandered around looking for the beautiful girl iguana he knew lived in our villa. He stopped to eat a couple of mosquitos, his big tongue lashing out. (“Go big fellow!” we urged.) Finally, I opened the front door. Off he went.

We left the door open to see if the iguana would come inside searching for the other iguana. We were thrilled to see his head appear…

…Soon to be followed by the rest of the iguana.

The iguana settled onto the floor and checked us our. He looked much less beat up than the first iguana that had come to visit. Note the size of the claws.

The iguana settled onto the floor and checked us out. He looked much less beat up than the first iguana that had come to visit. Note the size of the claws.

He was truly a handsome specimen.

Iguanas are common in Puerto Vallarta. We often spot them on the Rio Cuale, big fellows hanging out in the trees above the river— and this isn’t the first time we have spotted them at our villa. Their images are captured in everything from tourist trinkets to expensive art. They even played a major role in Puerto Vallarta’s top industry: tourism.

This big fellow was taking his afternoon siesta in a tree next Puerto Vallarta’s attractive River Cuale.

This small vase with a beaded iguana was made by our friend, Ernesto, a Huichol Indian, for our grandson Ethan whom he had met two years ago.

We found this large mural of an iguana in Old Town Puerto Vallarta.

In 1964, Hollywood director John Huston brought his all-star cast of Richard Burton, Ava Gardner, and Deborah Kerr to the area to film The Night of the Iguana (thus the title of this blog), which was based on a play written by Tennessee Williams in 1961. To add a little spice, Burton, who was still married, brought along his future wife, Elizabeth Taylor. Hollywood had discovered Puerto Vallarta, and, because of the scandal between Dick and Liz, the world did as well.

Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor had adjoining houses connected by a bridge when they were in Puerto Vallarta for filming The Night of the Iguana in 1964.

Walking the Villages of The Cotswolds… by Peggy Mekemson

November 15, 2015November 15, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 28 Comments

One of my favorite thatched roof homes found while wandering streets away from the village centers.

Yes, the gardens were beautiful, and the tour allowed us to see a wonderful variety of them from one acre to 5000 acres. My favorite time, however, was wandering the villages in the Cotswolds. Here we had free time to enjoy a lunch and roam at will. The challenge: we only had two hours! Jane and I found the visitors’ centers, gathered maps, asked about recommended walking paths and highlights, and hit the road running— or at least walking fast.

Of course it was not enough time to do justice to each village, but what I saw made me want to return. Following are the visual highlights and a few fun stories.

Our trip started with Highclere Castle, AKA Downton Abbey, a major destination on our tour before we headed to the Cotswolds. Even more fun for me, though, was the visit to Bampton, which is the village featured in Downton Abbey for the weddings, the shopping and general villages scenes. I loved the story that it was chosen not only for its atmosphere but also for the lack of street markings and signs, which made it easier to represent the early 1900s when the story takes place. It was interesting to compare how the village and church look on the TV series with how it looks in reality. I liked the reality; Bampton is a lovely, quaint town.

The Bampton chapel and cemetery was the site of the weddings featured in Downton Abbey.

This tree overlooking the Bampton graves captured my attention.

Taking a Bampton walk about.

One has to admire the Cotswold stone hamlet with its gorgeous flowers.

Villages visited were Malmesbury, Chipping Campden, Cirencester, Tewkesbury, Misarden, and Ledbury. Malmesbury, the oldest inhabited town in England, and Tewkesbury, a medieval village with one of the largest parish churches in the country, will be featured for their abbeys in my final blog on the Cotswolds.

A village scene from Cirencester, known as the “Capital of the Cotswolds.”
The term “cester” means Roman fort indicating the origin of the village.

A scene captured during a walk about in Chipping Campden, a favorite village of mine, one to be revisited!

While in Chipping Campden, Jane and I noticed a children’s bookstore called A Festival of Books. Greeted by the owner, Emily Dunn, we asked about local children’s books (we both have grandmother duty, grin), and had a delightful surprise. Emily is the author of The Tale of the Cotswold Mice, a book written for Princess Charlotte and embraced by the royal family. Our luck continued! The illustrator and gold/silversmith, Aneata Boote, owns the shop next door. Not only did Aneata illustrate the book, but she also designed silver napkin rings (complete with the mice) to accompany the book. Naturally we bought a signed copy. As a retired elementary school principal, I highly recommend it for young children. Although the first printing sold out, it is being reprinted with a percentage of the profits going to a children’s art fund. Check out their website www.cotswoldmice.com

The Tale of the Cotswold Mice along with two napkin rings were presented to Princess Charlotte after her birth.

The author was Emily Dunn, the owner of bookstore, A Festival of Books, located in Chipping Campden. The silversmith and illustrator was Aneata Boote who owned the shop next door. Both were welcoming and charming!

While many of the homes and businesses were architectural eye candy, two features caught my eye over and over again: the famous honey-colored Cotswold stone and the thatched roof cottages. My sister had to drag me away from several of the structures in order to catch the bus on time. Just when I thought I had seen the best examples, I would walk another block and then— Wow!

How could I resist this rooftop view with its chimneys.

How could I resist this rooftop view with its fairytale chimneys.

Then there were the markets. Once the centers of agriculture, wool, and silk spinning, the villages are making an economic come back with a refocus on farmers’ markets and crafts. I couldn’t resist the basket market.

Basket market in Cirencester, a city founded by the Romans.

The market in Ledbury, a photo taken from the bus as we left town.

The historical market in Ledbury, a photo taken from the bus as we left town.

The historical market in Chipping Campden.

While exploring the village of Misarden (previous garden blog), we discovered a home being renovated. The three young men working on the house noticed our interest and rushed out to invite us inside to admire their work. Their enthusiasm and humor were catching. One, the future tenant, had grown up in the area, and was looking forward to returning home. His plumbing skills were being put to good use in the renovation. Having once remodeled a colonial house, I appreciated what the young men had accomplished and how much work they still had to do.

These are the three men who welcomed us into the cottage they were renovating. They were such fun I promised them I would post their photo!

After leaving the renovation house I came across this garden.It was a a good reminder to take the time to stop and look around, behind, beside, up, down…

After leaving the renovation house I came across this tucked away garden.It was a good reminder to take the time to stop and look around, behind, beside, up, down…

Ledbury, the home of Elizabeth Barrett Browning (memories of English-lit days), is an ancient borough with centuries old timber-framed buildings. As we wandered the town, we stopped outside a building described as a 16th Century Painted House. Curious, we stepped inside only to discover the guide was closing things down. When we insisted we would only take two minutes to see the famous room, she hesitated, took a deep breath, and then led us upstairs. Our two minutes turned into 20. Apparently, a couple was preparing the walls for new paint when they discovered curious painted patterns under the layers of old paint they had removed. What they discovered dated back over 600 years.

I loved the winding streets in Ledbury with their surprising views, such as the church.

Ledbury is known for its centuries old timber-framed buildings. The clock tower made a picturesque addition.

The 16th Century Painted House was tucked away in the narrow bend of the street. My sister Jane knocks at the door.

Trying to capture the 600 year old painted walls was challenging but worth the try!

I was captivated by what I saw in each village and would return, without hesitation, to continue my explorations. The history, beauty, care, friendly people, and, delicious food all make a visit worthwhile.

This doorknocker found in Chipping Campden seemed a fitting end to this blog. It was hard to resist knocking on this door. I will be back to try it out!

My Fantasy: Living on a House Boat

November 11, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 24 Comments

House Boats in Sausalito come in a wide range of shapes, colors and sizes.

Peggy and I are in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. Since the beautiful sandy beaches and an occasional margarita have pulled Peggy away from her guest blogging, I decided to do a quick post on houseboats. Peggy may have soaked up enough sun to get back to blogging later this week. (grin)

As water people go, I’d place myself on the lower end of want-to. Even though I’ve travelled by sailboat, water taxi, gondola, fishing boat, raft, kayak, canoe and cruise ship, I prefer other means of transport— like walking, or bicycling, or driving, or flying. (The flying part, however, thanks to security hassles and the modern cattle car approach to air travel, has worked its way down the list over the years, while kayaking, which I’ve come to think of as walking or backpacking on water, has worked its way up.)

I have a confession to make here, though; I have always dreamed about living on a houseboat. I can’t really explain why. Somehow, it seems romantic. Maybe it appeals to the nascent hippie in me. My introduction to these floating fantasies was in Sausalito during the late 60s. I’d wandered into the town on a whim and there they were: beckoning. I was a responsible adult at the time, however, or at least trying to be. I had a wife, a job, an apartment, and a large basset hound named Socrates who drooled a lot. How much more responsible can you get? (Yeah, I know, have babies who drool a lot.) Anyway, I banished the thought of living on a houseboat and returned to my exciting life in Sacramento.

On my August trip up the Northern California coast, I learned that Don McCoy had helped establish Sausalito’s houseboat community in the mid-60s before he had tuned in and dropped out to found the Chosen Family commune at Olompali. This fact led me to drive thirty minutes south down 101 from Novato to re-explore my lost youth.

Sausalito has changed almost beyond recognition. At least it seems that way to me. I spent most of my time dodging tourists. There were at least a million (slight exaggeration). I didn’t have time to look around when I drove through town for fear of running over one. But the houseboat community felt familiar. Each home had a unique personality, emphasized even more by art and plants surrounding it. If there were a major difference from the 60s, it was in who could afford them. The days of naked hippies joyfully cavorting on the decks had long since passed.

How you build your houseboat is only limited by your imagination. And I might add, the size of your pocketbook.

How you build your houseboat is only limited by your imagination. And, I might add, the size of your portfolio.

Ditto the above with art and plants.

This driftwood crocodile was lurking on a ledge.

And this guy popped out of a flower-pot.

The houseboat docks were decorated with flower gardens. The flower head here seemed like it was lit from within.

The houseboat docks were decorated with flower gardens. The flower here seemed like it was lit from within.

Other areas also have their houseboat communities. Victoria, British Columbia is one. Peggy and I stopped by to check them out on our way home from a weeklong kayak tour on the north coast of Vancouver Island last year.

We discovered this little yellow jewel on the Island of Vancouver in Victoria, BC

We discovered this little yellow jewel and its perfect reflection on the Island of Vancouver in Victoria, BC

Several Victoria, BC houseboats with downtown Victoria in the background.

We found a different kind of houseboat in England. They were six feet wide and up to sixty feet long. (Think of it this way: If we were configured in the same way, our noses would stretch out some 20 feet. Pinocchio would be jealous.) Three summers ago Peggy and I, along with Peggy’s sister Jane and her husband Jim, spent a week piloting one of these “narrowboats” along the Trent and Mercey Canals near Robin Hood’s old hangout. It was a kick— maneuvering our long boat, stopping at pubs and villages along the way, and pulling off at night to camp along the canal. This inexpensive, gypsy-like lifestyle has great appeal for some people and they’ve turned their narrow vessels into gaily painted, imaginatively named houseboats. Sign me up.

Here I am, piloting our 60 foot boat down the Trent and Mercey Canal. It’s a good thing we only travelled 3-4 miles per hour.

Our crew. Peggy and Jane operated the locks. Jim and I piloted the boat.

As this photo suggests, the Trent and Mercey Canal Canal can be quite scenic.

As this photo suggests, the Trent and Mercey Canal can be quite scenic. Low underpasses limit the height of the narrowboats.

How would you like to have a house named Belly Button? Fun names, plants and unique paint jobs give narrow boats personality.

How would you like to have a house named Belly Button? Fun names, plants and colorful paint jobs give narrowboats their personality.

A community of houseboats, Trent and Mercey Canal style. They could be gone the next day.

We spotted this water cask with its realistic portrayal of a dog on top of a narrowboat.

Next to the boat, sitting on the owner’s lap, was the dog.

NEXT BLOG: Peggy will post her blog on the small towns of Cotswold, England.

A Garden of Weeds— and More… in the Cotswolds by Peggy Mekemson

November 6, 2015November 5, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 13 Comments

Yes, Anne, the host AKA “Bad Tempered Gardener,” shared that there were gardens of weeds throughout her garden. Still beautiful…but I did have a massive allergy attack after wandering around. It was still worth the visit!

Today, I wrap up my tour of English gardens with Cerney House, Overbury Court, Whitcombe House, Wyndcliffe Court Sculpture Gardens, Veddw House Gardens in Wales, and Hellens Manor. (I have two more blogs on the Abbeys and Villages of Cotswolds, however. And I may do one on the Tower of London.)

Cerney House was described originally as a romantic, secret place. (It’s also known for its goat cheese.) Built in 1660, it was renovated in 1983 by Sir Michael and Lady Angus. It is still a work in progress with “a pleasantly un-manicured garden, happy plants…unrestrained.” We enjoyed pigs in the woods, Roman snails in the garden and delicious tea and cakes! Rather unique…

The residence had a unique look compared to our other experiences.

This was part of the garden in front of the house. How could I resist this rooster?

Overbury House was rebuilt after a fire in 1738. Constructed of the golden, ashlar faced stone famous in the Cotswold, it is privately owned. The head gardener treated us to the tour of the three acre garden and the lush parkland surrounding the house. The owners were present so we were kept discretely away from the main house. The 3000 acres included 2 villages— yes, they own the villages also. This estate is surrounding by 3 rivers and is subject to flooding according to the gardener, perhaps the reason for the lush parkland and simplicity of design!

Overbury Estate

The head gardener shared that staff would often enjoy a swim here when work was completed. I like that thought!

This gives you a sense of the manicured grounds with a view of the estate chapel.

Whitcombe House is literally next door to the Overbury House. It voluntarily participates in the National Garden Scheme, where revenues raised through entrance fees are donated to various charities. We were excited about its lovely one acre garden. We had finally found something we might hope to replicate. We were treated to homemade cakes and tea by the family, while grandchildren ran free with the dog . The personal touch was a delightful change from our previous experiences of estates…. manors….. courts….etc.

Our first view of Whitcombe House from the bus.

I love stone walls. I wanted to take this one home!

Part of the backyard garden, full of delightful surprises, all in one acre.

Wyndcliffe Court Sculpture Gardens was not on our original agenda. It turned out to be one of my favorites. Described in the “arts and crafts” style, this estate hosted two sculpture shows during the year featuring hundreds of sculptures throughout the gardens. (There are never enough; I was one happy visitor!) The original gardens were completed in 1933. Eventually, the owner left his fortune to his gardener. Together they had created sculpted yew hedging, topiary birds and animals, and long grass bowling greens, a perfect venue for the present day sculpture displays.

Wyndcliffe Court

This bench awaited us as we entered the grounds. Jane and I could not resist. I wanted to bring it home!

Like this nymph one had to look closely to spot many a hidden delight.

From large metal dragonflies in the forest to these glass sculptures, the variety was amazing.

Just plain fun…..

Veddw House Garden, in Wales, was truly unique in that it was designed and cared for by “The Bad Tempered Gardener” and her husband. Anne, our hostess, shared with us that she loved gardens but hated gardening! Despite her challenge, they have created what is described as “a modern romantic garden.” Using two acres for gardens and two acres as woodland, the quirky garden was dominated by incredible hedges and LOTS of wild flowers including flowering weeds— yup, I had a massive allergy attack and used up half of England’s supply of Kleenex.

Each view brought a smile, such creativity.

This was a favorite. What you do not see is the reflection pool, also mesmerizing.

Hellens Manor was our last garden to be visited. More than a garden, Hellens was a historical monument to centuries of history including stories of Ann Boleyn, Mary Tudor, the Earl of Essex, ghosts, and more. The manor was granted to the Bolem Family in 1096, one of whom witnessed the signing of the Magna Carta. Our focus was on the house this time. We had a delightful tour guide who had many stories to tell, including one about surprising guests in a bedroom while leading a tour. The owners created a charitable trust, which runs the estate today. The curator is both American and English, not so unusual apparently based on our experience. The gardens are a work in progress, but did include animal sculptures, a yew labyrinth (easy solved!), and a walled knot garden.

Hellens Manor in the town of Much Marcle.

A favorite part of the garden near Hellens Manor.

As you can imagine, there was so much more to see and describe with the gardens. This was just a taste of our experience, which was absolutely delightful and magical.

Next Blog:

On to the colorful towns in Cotswold were we were free to eat and walk and discover on our own! My kind of touring…

Note: Peggy and I will be traveling in Mexico for the next couple of weeks. We should have Internet but if not we will be off line. –Curt

More Beautiful Gardens in the Cotswolds… by Peggy Mekemson

November 4, 2015November 3, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 27 Comments

Hidcote Manor (hedged rooms and sculptured hedges)

Hidcote Manor is known for its “outdoor rooms,” which include sculptured hedges and dramatic plantings.

In my last blog we visited the gardens of Highclere Castle, Camers, and Abbey House. Today we move on to Hidcote Manor, Kiftsgate Court and Misarden Park.

First up. Hidcote Manor is referred to as the garden of “hedged rooms” and sculptured hedges. In fact, I read that the four miles of hedges require gardeners to work four days a week for seven months just to maintain them! An American horticulturist and later a naturalized British citizen, Major Lawrence Johnson, spent 40 years creating the gardens on land his mother had purchased in 1907. In 1948 he gave this estate to the National Trust. The Trust now advertises this site as an Arts and Crafts Garden.

Despite overcast days, the colors were still striking.

An example of a hedged room.

Jane and a sculptured hedge.

The Long Walk at Hidcote Garden.

The village of thatched stone cottages behind the manor was a wonderful surprise. They were once home to Johnstone’s gardeners. Now the Trust rents them out.

We visited Kiftsgate Court on a rainy day. Having just come from a very dry summer in Oregon, I was thrilled to soak up the rain. With rain comes green, green, green instead of drought, drought, drought! I thoroughly enjoyed the fountains and the reflection pool, which, we were told, is a great swimming hole. The colors that popped out on the rainy day were another treat, especially the blue door leading to who knows what treasures. Your guess is as good as mine.

Kiftsgate Court

We were told that we had missed the prime time for full blooms. However, I was pretty impressed by what I saw.

The blue door with its overgrown path was quite intriguing.

Our path took us to this reflection pool. We learned that this was also used as a swimming pool. I was tempted! Just below this overlook was a herd of sheep, quite a magical contrast of white on green.

Misarden Park/Estate began as a 17^th century manor house, including 3000 acres and most of the village of Misarden (only the pub and school are not owned by the estate). The Wills, a tobacco family, bought this estate and village in 1913 and takes pride in both “the environment and the wider community.” For example, all electrical lines are buried. They will only rent to tenants who will contribute to the maintaining of the community and the estate. We were delighted to meet a future tenant and his friends who were renovating one of the cottages and happily took us on a tour.

My first view of the residence, which is privately owned. It was occupied when we arrived. We respected the family’s privacy and gave the house wide berth.

We had been looking for roses and finally found them— beautifully entwined in this old tower.

A Hobbit tree? Let your imagination go on this one. Yes, that is a tree packed with stones, all merged for a unique fence.

Gateway to another Long Walk. How can one resist following it to the end?

A final view of the residence with its Cotswold stone roof. I will feature scenes from the village in another blog which captures the character of the small villages in the Cotswolds.

NEXT BLOG: Cerney House, Overbury Court, Whitcombe House, Wyndcliffe Court, Veddw (that’s Welsh, not a misspelling), and Hellens Manor gardens.

A Garden Tour of England’s Cotswolds… by Peggy Mekemson

November 2, 2015November 1, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 32 Comments

Jane and I sit among magnificent Hydrangeas at Highclere Castle (Downton Abbey). A taste of things to come.

Jane and I sit among magnificent Hydrangea at Highclere Castle (Downton Abbey). A taste of things to come.

While I was off touring the California coast north of San Francisco in August, my wife Peggy was on a garden tour of the Cotswolds in England with her sister Jane. She’s been eager to blog about her experience, but I had to finish my Olompali series first. Please join her as she shares the beautiful gardens and charming towns she visited over the next couple of weeks. —Curt

My sister, Jane Hagedorn, loves gardens and she loves England. I love my sister. So when Jane called and asked that I join her for a garden tour in the Cotswolds, of course, I said “yes.” I did little research other than reading the notes sent to us by the tour company and checking the weather in England in August. I was going into this with a completely open mind wondering what my impressions would be….and of course, what kind of photographs would reflect this journey of 12 gardens, several abbeys, a cathedral, and seven English villages. The camera was packed!

We extended our stay to join my brother John and his wife Frances for a few days in London. They had been traveling via auto throughout Europe for 5 months. We had some catching up to do. John also had been blogging about their adventures, a great read. Check it out: http://dallen.posthaven.com

When Curt suggested I put together 4-6 guest blogs, I delayed, delayed, delayed! How could I take 800 photos and select a mere 50-75 to share on the blogs? What would I say— Curt is the writer in this family! Nevertheless here you are, beginning with three blogs featuring a brief photo journey of gardens in the Cotswolds. Following the gardens I will feature the Abbeys and small, colorful towns of Cotswolds.

1^st Blog: Highclere Castle aka Downton Abbey, Camers in Old Sodbury, and Abbey House Garden aka Home of the Naked Gardeners in Malmesbury.

Let me start by noting that all of the gardens were gorgeous. The colors, the size of the flowers, the hedges, the orchards, the kitchen gardens, sculptures and water fountains— wow! It was really, really hard to limit myself to 15 photos per blog that Curt suggested. I quickly learned that gardens came in all shapes and sizes ranging from 1 acre to 5000 acres. They were attached to castles, farmhouses, abbeys, manors, courts, parks, and houses. Also, I love architecture, so I have included photos of the various residences.

Historically, what was once a medieval palace became a house and then a castle rebuilt between 1838-1878. Over 1000 acres, it is considered a parkland featuring lawns, cedars, and deciduous trees….and a few gardens.

Historically, what was once a medieval palace became a house and then a castle rebuilt between 1838-1878. Over 1000 acres, Highclere Castle is considered a parkland featuring lawns, cedars, and deciduous trees….and a few gardens.

First stop on the garden tour: Highclere Castle aka Downton Abbey. Although its location is actually in Berkshire, it was on the way to the Cotswolds and….we had tickets! With the popularity of the PBS series Downton Abbey, Highclere Castle has become quite a challenge to visit. It is open to visitors only 60-70 days a year. It is privately owned and family still lives in part of the castle! Add to this the fact that August is also a heavy month for tourism— well, there were a lot of people wanting to share this experience.

Second stop: Camers in Old Sodbury (love the English names) was an absolute delight! It is an Elizabethan farmhouse and is part of the National Garden Scheme. That means it is open occasionally for the charity to raise money. We were greeted by the elderly couple who, with their son, own and manage the gardens. They now live in the converted outer building while the son lives in the farmhouse (not open to the public).

We wandered the 2 ½ acre garden which is part of the wooded 4 acres. It was amazing how much color and variety could be found!

As I soon discovered, hedges are everywhere…all sizes, shapes, and forms.

One of many intriguing garden walkways at Camers.

This got our attention. Jane provides perspective! There must be plenty of water in England.

Brilliant colors galore. My last photo at Camers.

The final stop today is Malmesbury, the oldest inhabited town in England. Abbey House Gardens is also known as the Home of the Naked Gardeners, Ian and Barbara Pollard. (Their web-site claims clothing is optional on six Sundays during the year.) I couldn’t help but wonder what the monks who lived here in the 12^th Century would have thought about going naked. The Pollards purchased the residence and abandoned 5.5-acre garden in 1994 and revitalized it, adding their own touches. I found their design both amusing and eclectic.

I found the Abbey Gardens eclectic and amusing.

The gardens can be almost overwhelming when trying to capture the design, color, depth, lushness, and uniqueness. However, I had a good time trying!

Leaving the Monastery one is greeted by this sculpture at the entrance to Abbey House Gardens.

Leaving the 12th century abbey grounds, one is greeted by this sculpture at the entrance to Abbey House Gardens.

Next blog: On to Hidcote Manor, Kiftsgate Court and Mismarden Park.

From Miwoks to Ewoks— Plus the Bear Flag Revolt… Olompali: Part II

October 9, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 23 Comments

I found this ancient fence at Olompali State Park. It was likely built by the Black/Burdell Families who owned the property between 1852 and 1940.

I found this ancient fence at Olompali State Park north of San Francisco. It was likely built by the Black/Burdell Families who owned the property between 1852 and 1940.

After 3000 years of relative stability under the Miwoks, the fate of Olompali entered a period of rapid change in the 1800s. Mexican Independence in 1821 signaled the beginning of the end for the mission system in California. By 1834, the Mexican government had decreed that the missions would be secularized. The priests would no longer control vast estates.

It was the intention of the Mexican government to give the mission land to the Native Americans, but this intention was quickly subverted. Californios, California born people of Spanish/Mexican descent, either bamboozled the Indians out of their land or seized it outright for their own use, and then initiated a campaign of terror, stealing whatever the Indians had left— including, on occasion, their freedom.

An interesting exception to the mistreatment of the Miwoks took place at Olompali where, in 1843, the Miwok chief, Camilo Ynitia, was awarded a Mexican land grant. (Ynitia was the only Native American in California to receive one.) His father had built the first adobe house north of San Francisco. Portions of the house, along with Camilo’s, still stand at the park.

Remnants of Camilo's adobe house, and that of his father, still stand at Olompali State Park.

Remnants of Camilo Ynitia’s adobe house, and that of his father, still stand at Olompali State Park.

Ynitia’s Rancho would soon play a role in the Bear Flag Revolt. With encouragement from John C. Fremont, the explorer and future US presidential candidate, a small band of American settlers in Northern California revolted against Mexican rule in 1846. The revolt was short-lived and only one person was killed, which is hard to imagine in any revolution. The point here is that the person was killed at Olompali in a clash between the settlers and Californios.

With bloodless coups in San Francisco and Monterey, Fremont and his followers soon afterwards declared California a republic. A quick flag was created featuring a grizzly bear, a star, and the word Republic. The fledgling country lasted three weeks; the Mexican-American War made it irrelevant. All that is left of the revolution today is the flag. It still flies over California even though there is no republic— or grizzly bear for that matter. The last known grizzly in California was killed in 1922.

The California flag, adopted during the three week existence of the Bear Flag Revolt.

The flag from the three-week republic still flies over California as the California state flag. The hump back of the bear is a defining characteristic of the grizzly bear. I once had a guy like this stalk me in Alaska. It was sneaking through the brush when I spotted its hump.

In 1852 Ynitia sold most of his land to James Black, who was on his way to becoming one of the largest landowners in Marin County. Legend is that robbers killed Ynitia for the money he received, or that he buried the money on the Olompali property, or that members of his own tribe did him in the old-fashioned way, with an arrow. Whatever happened, our history of Olompali now leaves the Miwoks and Californios, and moves into modern times.

Before leaving the Miwoks, I did want to pass on one more bit of trivia I picked up doing research. George Lucas’s Skywalker Ranch is located in Marin County, not far from Olompali. Nearby redwood forests were used for some of the Star Wars scenes for the forest moon of Endor, where the Ewoks lived. Lucas reportedly used the Miwok name as inspiration for the Ewok name.

Sky Walker Ranch is appropriately located on Lucas Valley Road. (The road was there before George Lucas built his ranch there, however. Maybe the road inspired Lucas's choice.)

Skywalker Ranch is appropriately located on Lucas Valley Road. (The road was there before George Lucas built his ranch, however. Maybe the road inspired his choice.)

Black, and his family, through various convolutions, would own the land up to the 1940s. Black gave the land to his daughter Mary as a wedding present when she married Galen Burdell, a dentist. But when Black’s wife died in Burdell’s dentist chair, he reneged on the gift and took Mary and Galen out of his will. When Mary first saw the will after Black’s death, she allegedly ripped her dad’s signature off with her teeth and ate it. Tough woman. She then hired a bevy of top lawyers and managed to obtain Olompali.

A barn built by the Burdells and other ranch structures still stand at Olompali Park. And I have a weakness for old barns. (grin)

A barn, built by the Burdells, still stands at Olompali Park. I think the massive stump on the left is from a eucalyptus tree. Old barns demand being photographed; I couldn’t resist…

A corner shot of the barn looking up for a different perspective.

This old, boarded-up window on the barn had personality plus. Animals must have chewed away at the right side.

Reflections caught in one the barn's windows.

A reflection, caught in one the barn’s windows, showed the ‘salt block’ house next door.

Salt block houses like this with their steep and sloped roofs were commonly built throughout Northern California in the 1850s. With the exception of the adobe houses, this may be the oldest structure at Olompali.

Remnants of an extensive fruit orchard planted by the Burdells still remain. It was said that their oranges matched anything coming out of Southern California. Bananas— not so good.

This large rock with its gorgeous backdrop above the barn caught my attention.

This large rock with its gorgeous backdrop was above the barn.

Camilo Ynitia, Miwok chief, received Olompali as a Mexican Land grant and in turn sold it to James Black.

I thought I would conclude with this close up of the fence I featured at the top of my post…

And this aptly named Fence Lizard I found sunning itself on the fence.

…And this aptly named Western fence lizard sunning itself on the fence.

NEXT BLOG: By the late 40s/early 50s, the University of San Francisco had obtained Olompali with plans to turn the ranch into a retreat for Jesuits. The effort failed. Maybe the Jesuits didn’t go along with the plan. It was this lack of success, however, that eventually led Olompali to become a footnote in the history of the Grateful Dead, as well as a famous/infamous hippie commune: The Chosen Family. But that is a story for my next blog.

Olompali: Miwoks, the Grateful Dead, and a Hippie Commune… The North Coast Tour

October 3, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 36 Comments

I photographed this picturesque oak tree at Olompali State Park. Later I discovered the same tree was featured on the cover of the Park’s brochure. Acorns from oaks were a major source of food for the Miwok Indians.

When Peggy headed off to England with her sister in August to visit English gardens, I headed off to the north coast of California for a couple of weeks to see what mischief I could get into. Peggy has promised some guest blogs on her experiences. Here is the first of several blogs on mine.

The small community of Novato lies 20 miles north of San Francisco along Highway 101. The little known California State Park of Olompali is just north of Novato. The staff at the Days Inn where I stayed didn’t even mention the park when I asked about interesting places to explore. “Go to the Marin Museum of the American Indian; explore historic Novato; check out the Marin French Cheese Company,” they told me. And I dutifully complied. My adventure started just outside my door.

To me, the coastal ranges of California provide some of the most scenic views in the world. This was behind the Days Inn where I stayed in Novato. I love the contrast between the gold of the grass and the green of the oaks.

To me, the coastal ranges of California provide some of the most scenic views in the world. This view was behind the Days Inn where I stayed in Novato. I love the contrast between the golden brown of the grass and the dark green of the oaks.

One evening I went out and captured the same shot as the sun went down.

It is a good thing that the Marin Cheese Factory isn't located near my home. I'd end up weighing 300 pounds. Its brie cheese is to die for.

It is a good thing that the Marin French Cheese Factory isn’t located near my home. I’d end up weighing 300 pounds. Its brie cheese is to die for.

As for Olompali, I had to find it on my own. It was a mile up the road from the motel, just past the US headquarters of Birkenstocks. It proved to be a very interesting place, indeed.

Once, the area had been home to the Miwok Indians. They had been living in the region for over 3000 years when Sir Francis Drake landed at nearby Point Reyes. Although he was something of a pirate, and would have been an illegal alien by today’s definition, Drake claimed the land for Queen Elizabeth. The Spanish arrived a few years later and claimed the land for Spain. The Miwoks weren’t invited to participate in either decision.

These distinctive cliffs at Drakes Bay in Point Reyes National Seashore were used to help identify where Sir Francis Drake landed in the late 1500s. The tracks in the foreground speak to how popular this beach is in the summer. I had a difficult time capturing a photo that wasn’t packed with people.

By 1776, when Americans were fighting for independence from Great Britain, the Spaniards were busy establishing their first missions north of San Francisco, an effort that was a continuation of the work of Junipero Serra. In return for supplying ‘civilization and salvation’ to the Miwoks, the Catholic priests expected the natives to work for nothing in what can best be described as a system of slavery. Going home to visit family without permission, or even going fishing, could earn a whipping and a jail sentence. And, if ‘civilization and salvation’ weren’t enough, the Spaniards brought the European diseases with them that more or less wiped out the native population and opened the area for white settlement. It’s small wonder that California’s remaining Native American population didn’t celebrate the recent canonization of Junipero Serra with enthusiasm.

The Miwok, for the most part, were a gentle people who lived in close harmony with the land. An area of Olompali State Park has been put aside to display the native plants and housing the Miwoks used. The natives practiced house cleaning in the extreme: They burned down their houses once a year to get rid of bugs and vermin that had taken up residence.

The Miwoks built some of their homes with redwood siding, or at least redwood bark. This example of a Miwok shelter is located at Olompali.

While most of the plants on display were suffering from the drought, an attractive Bay Laurel caught my attention. A signpost reported that the Miwok had eaten the fruit raw. Nuts were dried and then pounded into flour that was used for bread. The leaves were used for spice. A tea made from the leaves was used for stomach-aches, colds and sore throats. Fresh leaves were put on the head for headaches and an infusion of the leaves was used for washing sores. Shoots growing from the tree were used as arrow shafts. Visiting the Bay Laurel, it seemed to me, would have been like making a trip to the grocery store. I found several of the plants the Miwoks made use of, such as the California Buckeye and Harvest Brodiaea, were also common to the Central Valley of California and the Sierra Nevada Mountain foothills where I lived for many years.

The drought that has California in such a tight grip, didn’t seem to impact this Bay Laurel that was growing in the garden of native plants important to the Miwok.

Buckeye trees in bloom along the American River Parkway in Sacramento. Buckeyes, well leeched to remove poison, served as back up food when acorns were scare.

Buckeye trees in bloom along the American River Parkway in Sacramento. Buckeyes, well leached to remove poison, served as back up food for the Miwoks when acorns were scarce.

A close up I took of buckeye flowers while hiking along the American River Parkway. The fruit of the buckeye was also crushed by the Miwok and thrown into streams to knockout fish that were then gathered for food.

A close up I took of buckeye flowers while hiking along the American River Parkway. The unleached fruit of the buckeye was crushed by the Miwok and thrown into streams to poison fish that were then gathered for food.

Bulbs of Harvest Brodiaea were baked, boiled or eaten raw by the Miwok.

Wild animals, like native plants, were central to the existence of the Miwok. An informative book by Betty Goerke, Discovering Native People at Point Reyes, notes that the Miwok considered Coyote the creator of their world. As in much Native American lore, Coyote was also a trickster god, often getting into mischief. His god-like status kept him from getting eaten, however. Other animals didn’t fare as well, but even they deserved respect. “It was necessary and a common courtesy to honor an animal when it was killed,” Goerke notes. Beads were thrown into a fire to honor a dead bear. Even a small bird would receive a dance— “so it wouldn’t feel bad.” I’m not sure the dead bird appreciated the dance, given an option, but I like the sentiment behind it.

NEXT BLOG: How Olompali moved from being home territory for the Miwoks to a temporary home for the Grateful Dead and then the site of one of California’s most famous hippie communes.

Backpacking into the Grand Canyon: Part III… My Muscles Go on Strike!

September 29, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 27 Comments

I am sitting on the edge of the Colorado, red with mud. (Peggy took this and the following photos when I returned down the Tanner Trail into the Grand Canyon several years later. I didn't have a camera on my first trip.)

I am sitting on the edge of the Colorado River, red with mud. (Peggy took this photo when I returned with her down the Tanner Trail into the Grand Canyon several years after my first trip. I didn’t have a camera the first time.)

At the end of my last blog on my backpacking trip into the Grand Canyon, I was getting ready to hike up the Canyon to the Little Colorado River. The day before I had made a strenuous descent from the rim to the Colorado River that had left my downhill muscles screaming for mercy.

I hoisted my backpack and mentally prepared for the day’s journey. On the edge of my campsite was a 20-foot section of small boulders I needed to negotiate to rejoin the trail. Normally I would sail through such an obstacle course, stepping on or between rocks as the situation called for. Not this time. I wobbled uncontrollably when I stepped on top of my first rock; I had absolutely zero balance. My muscles were refusing to function. They had gone on strike! While I didn’t reach the insane-cackle level brought on by exhaustion the night before, I did find myself giggling. Dorothy’s Scarecrow was a paragon of grace in comparison to me. I actually made it a whole hundred yards before declaring that my backpacking day was over.

An overhanging rock provided shade and a scenic view of the Tanner Canyon Rapids. I spent the day napping, reading a book on the Grand Canyon by Joseph Wood Krutch, snacking, and watching rafters maneuver through the rapids. The most energy I expended was to go to the river and retrieve a bucket of water. There was plenty of time to let the mud settle.

I made it as far as an overhanging rock a hundred yards from my campsite. Thirteen years later I pointed out my hideaway to Peggy. It may hold the record for the shortest backpacking trip in history. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Peggy tried out my seat where I sat and read all day and watched bats come though in the evening.

Peggy tried out my seat where I sat and read all day and watched bats come through in the evening.

The view I had of the Tanner Rapids from my ‘cave.’ Eventually I rafted down the Colorado River and would pass through these rapids.

That evening I sipped a cup of tea laced with 151-proof rum and watched bats flit around my ‘cave’ as they gobbled down mosquitoes. They were close enough I could have touched them. It was like I was invisible, as I had apparently been to the Mousy and his stalker the night before. Strange, unsettling thoughts of nonexistence went zipping through my mind. Being alone in the wilderness is conducive to such thinking. The Canyon adds another layer.

Day three arrived and it was time to explore my surroundings and whip my protesting muscles into shape. I still wasn’t ready for primetime backpacking, so I took a day hike up Tanner Creek Canyon. Whatever creek had existed was waiting for future rain, but the erosive power of water was plainly evident. This was flash flood country where a dry wash can turn into a raging torrent in minutes. Dark clouds demand a hasty retreat to higher ground. I had nothing but blue skies, however, so I hiked up as far as I could go. The canyon narrowed down to a few feet and traveling any further called for rock climbing skills I didn’t possess. I sat for a while enjoying the silence— and the thousands of feet of soaring walls. The isolation seemed so complete it was palpable. I was alone but not lonely. Nature was my companion. Reluctantly, I turned back toward my camp.

I spent the next two days hiking along the River. I backpacked up the Colorado following the Beamer Trail to Lava Canyon Rapids the first day and then worked my way back down past Tanner Creek to Unkar Creek the second. My general rule was that if the trail appeared ready to make a major climb up the canyon, it was going without me.

At one point where Peggy and I were backpacking up the Beamer Trail we came to a fork in the trail and went left. (Yes, we did find the fork in the trail.)

At one point when Peggy and I were backpacking up the Beamer Trail we came to a fork in the trail and went left. (Yes, we did find the fork that someone had humorously placed in the trail. I was reminded of the Muppet Movie where Kermit came on a similar fork.)

I am not sure the fork provided good advise. (grin) We had to scramble.

I am not sure the fork provided good advice. (grin) We had to scramble.

The only real excitement came toward the end of the second day when I discovered my left foot poised a few inches above a pinkish Grand Canyon Rattlesnake that lay stretched across the trail, hidden in the shadows. He was a granddaddy of a fellow, both long and thick. My right leg performed an unbidden, prodigious hop that placed me several feet down the trail. There is a very primitive part of the brain that screams snake. No thinking is required. As soon as I could get my heart under control, I picked up a long stick and gently urged the miscreant reptile to get off the trail. He wasn’t into urging. Instead, he coiled up, rattled his multitude of rattles and stuck out his long, forked tongue at me. He was lucky I didn’t pummel him. I did prod more enthusiastically, however, and he got the point, crawling off the trail rather quickly. I memorized the location so he wouldn’t surprise me on the return journey.

My leg’s miraculous leap suggested that my body was beginning to tune up. There would be no more malingering and feeling sorry for itself. The next day I camped at Tanner Creek again and the following day out I hiked out. The trip up took me three hours less than it had taken to hike in. I was tempted to go find the Sierra Club fellow who had demanded that I use a more civilized trail, but opted out for a well-earned hamburger and cold beer instead. My body was demanding compensation for its forced march.

I’ll return to my Grand Canyon adventure next week when a friend joins me to hike back into the Canyon a few days after I returned to the rim. Hostile spirits from another realm join us. Or at least she believes they do.

NEXT BLOG: I start my series on my recent trip up the North Coast of California. First up— Olompali State Park. Located just north of San Francisco, it has a fascinating history stretching from the Miwok Indians to the Grateful Dead to a hippie commune.

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.

Wandering through Time and Place

Exploring the world with Curtis and Peggy Mekemson

photography