Photo: Ezra Millstein

Haiti: A Land Forgotten

By Dan Reiter

Last November, I took a charter flight into the city of Port-au-Prince, Haiti, with Habitat for Humanity’s annual Carter Work Project. Our mission: to build 100 homes for Haitian families displaced by the 2010 earthquake. The quake — a result of 250 years of bottled-up stress on a Caribbean fault line — demolished nearly every building in the capital city, killed 316,000 Haitians, and exiled over one million people to homelessness among the ruins.

One-time President Jimmy Carter flew on the airplane with us. His eyes sparkled as he passed down the aisle to shake hands with each passenger. His voice was spritely and polished, his back slightly hunched. He moved much like a man on the campaign trail.

As we descended upon the island, our plane buckled in heavy turbulence. A nervous tremor rippled through the cabin. Below us, shadows passed wraithlike over scalped brown mountains, a white crescent reef, a turquoise sea. Someone bolted for the bathroom.

Photo: Ezra Millstein

Two years have passed since Haiti’s grande catastrophe. Two years since waves of the injured and the damned poured into tent cities. Since the world wept over Port-au-Prince’s mass graves. More avant-garde disasters have since taken center stage in the collective consciousness: the Gulf oil spill, the Japan tsunami, the Fukushima fallout.

Many countries who pledged aid to Haiti have reneged on their promises. Less than one third of international relief funds have been distributed. An estimated 98% of Port-au-Prince’s rubble remains where it fell. Refugees are consigned to pestilence and oblivion; they huddle under rotting tarps, without clean water, sanitation or food — vulnerable to outbreaks of cholera and malaria, those afflictions of a bygone age.

From above, rivers the color of spoiled milk snaked through the frayed fields at the outskirts of Port-au-Prince. As we descended onto the island, an urban wasteland stumbled into view, a crush of third-world stone boxes, rusted roofs, great mounds of garbage, legions of blue and gray tarps. We put down, taxied past an airplane abandoned in tall weeds. Trash bags fluttered on the barbed wire of the airfield wall. We filed down the steps, quietly, solemnly. Everything seemed hazed in steam.

Photo: Habitat For Humanity

Haiti has long been a nation on the brink of collapse. In 1804, it became the world’s first black republic, and was subsequently squashed under the thumb of sugarcane embargos, pre-packaged wars, and villainous political leaders. At the time of the quake, Haiti was already the poorest nation in the Western Hemisphere, already well acquainted with disaster.

A convoy of police cars and SUVs escorted our buses to our camp in Léogâne, near the epicenter of the quake. For two hours we bumped through some of the poorest slums in the Americas. The stink of garbage, the naked children bathing in sewage ditches, the half-dead dogs, the black, sickly goats tied around the necks, and the chronic rind of styrofoam and plastic, knee-deep along the embankments, were too much for some to bear. Others took pictures. Street vendors — beautiful, lithe women — crouched in the filth, hawked black plantains, honey, sugarcane, fly-infested meat. The children’s eyes, at once distrustful, spry and innocent, were yellowed, jaundiced somehow by the proximity to death.

We slept ten to a tent, barracks-style, on light-gauge aluminum cots with flimsy canvas straps. We had come to work, not take vacation. My tentmates were a scattered bunch, hailing from all corners of the continent. One, a computer engineer from Toronto, sat at the edge of his bed, brooding. “I can’t believe how bad it is. Broken concrete everywhere. You would have thought there would be more trees.”

Photo: Steffan Hacker

The old man on the cot next to me, who did not seem suited to a construction site, raised a bony finger. “The sugarcane companies clear cut the whole damn island,” he said. “Ain’t a damned tree left for lumber.”

A sturdy black fellow dressed in khaki unloaded his army-issue duffel bag and took up a more optimistic tone. “Life is calling you boys! Can you hear it?” His voice boomed throughout the tent. “It feels good to get out and help, don’t it?” This was Willie, maven of twenty Carter builds, ex-Peace Corps volunteer, Vietnam vet.

“Did you see the looks on the children’s faces?” the Canadian said.  ”How can they smile among all that devastation?”

“Left ‘em in tent cities with million dollar views,” the old man said.

“Just do what we can,” said Willie. He set his tool belt on the bed, careful not to test the frame. “Ain’t no more to it than that.”

That evening, a Haitian singing group performed for us on a makeshift wooden stage. President Carter provided a rousing introduction. It was a strange contrast — the Parisian mannerisms, the French pursing of the lips coupled with the dark, tribal dances. But Haiti is a country of contradictions. They are the poorest people in the world, but in many ways, the most lovely, living on an island in the middle of the hurricane belt, where drinking water is in short supply. The cities are desperate for reconstruction, and yet they sit atop a lode of concrete stone. A paradox, Haiti. Broken, fissured with incongruities.

We awoke before dawn, filed into the mess tent for bangers and mash, collected our tools, and loaded the buses to the job site. Thus commenced our weeklong toils in the sun and heat of Léogâne.

The work week blurred by. I hefted up walls, slammed thousands of metal twist straps into lumber, bloodied my fingers, soaked and dirtied every inch of my clothing, nearly died from heat exhaustion, sat in a delirium atop the aluminum roof, gloves torn, to bear witness to stunning sunsets over water-carved mountains. Pascal and Marie, two Haitian homeowners-to-be, worked alongside our team, thrilled with these shelters — the size of a small room, with no plumbing or electricity — where they would be living six to a box.

Photo: Habitat For Humanity

The President of Haiti, the copa singer Michel Martelly, appeared for a shining instant, his arm in a splint. Garth Brooks worked among the volunteers, sporting a Stetson hardhat, carrying a drill, a hammer. One sultry night, Garth and his wife, Trisha, gave an impromptu performance on the camp’s stage.

We sweat until we near fainted, waited blurry-eyed in meal lines, slept like the dead in our cots, ate beef and Guinness cottage pie. On Veterans Day, we stood in bowed silence as someone read “In Flanders Field” over a megaphone.

During a week of cold showers, blisters, bruises, and backaches, we became united by the rhythm of our labors, like some gang of mercenary carpenters. We knew we were building more than homes, more than a village. We were building an example. Camaraderie between nations. Good karma.

Jimmy Carter, at age eighty-seven, was proficient with the tape, the pencil, the handsaw. He worked the long days, proselytized the nights.

“We want to help the Haitian people in a way that doesn’t debase them, nor elevate us,” Carter said, his white hair shining in the stage’s spotlight.

“Say what you want about his Presidency,” the Canadian said. “But what a remarkable man.”

Photo: Steffan Hacker

I befriended a young Haitian carpenter, who regarded me with great love in his eyes and taught me how to chew the sweet black sugarcane. We sat under the shade of a Royal Poinciana tree, in a country mired in tragedy, overflowing with love and grace.

Tall palms sway above it all, the children sleep, dream, the sea roils, bright bougainvillea flourish among the wreckage.

In Haiti, the shortest way from one place to another never lies in a straight line. The politics are muddled, the land rights swamped in bureaucracy. But there are some who still believe. Dreamers like Harris Rosen, an Orlando hotelier, who envisions Caribbean kibbutzes, self-sustaining Haitian communes with modular, solar-powered homes. Or Jeffree Trudeau, of the World Bamboo Organization, who hopes to spawn a new lumber industry on these desolate hills. My Canadian tentmate, even, had his own revelation: “Why not just ship in a track hoe and some dump trucks? Gather up all the broken blocks and garbage?”

It all seems logical. The ideas flow into Haiti, but they are polluted somehow on their way into the cities, like the rainwater, sun-bleached by indifference, desiccated as those sickly white rivers.

On the last day, I gave up my tools, my boots, my bedding, and my extra clothing to my Haitian friend. I left camp with a bag as empty as my spirit. I hadn’t shaved or looked in a mirror for seven days.

As our plane soared away from Port-au-Prince, I said a silent prayer for the people of Haiti. I vowed to return. Maybe our 100 homes were a drop in the ocean, but they were tangible enough, proof of what can happen when man and material work in concert. They were sturdy things, anyway. And the roofs would not leak.

To donate to Habitat for Humanity, or to volunteer for the 29th Carter Work Project, which returns to Haiti in 2012, visit: http://www.habitat.org/cd/cwp/participant/participant.aspx?pid=93531977. All donations received will go directly toward the scheduled trip with a goal of building 250 more homes in Léogâne.

Estonia: Land of Song
By T. Bennison

“So he paused. And the Grinch put his hand to his ear.
And he did hear a sound rising over the snow.
It started in low. Then it started to grow.
But the sound wasn’t sad! Why, this sound sounded merry!
It couldn’t be so! But it WAS merry! VERY!
He stared down at Whoville! The Grinch popped his eyes!
Then he shook! What he saw was a shocking surprise!
Every Who down in Whoville, the tall and the small,
Was singing! Without any presents at all!
He HADN’T stopped Christmas from coming! IT CAME!
Somehow or other, it came just the same!”

It’s uncertain whom Theodor “Dr. Seuss” Geisel was thinking of when he created the Whos — they’re most likely a composite of several disenfranchised peoples — but he would have found much to inspire him in the story of the Estonians.

It was 1957 when Seuss published “How the Grinch Stole Christmas,” and the small Baltic nation, then under the heel of the Soviet Union and largely forgotten by the rest of the world, was making barely a peep. But in 1990, something incredible happened: Against overwhelming odds, Estonia won its long-yearned-for independence, not through war, but through resounding song.

Estonia has long prided itself on its rich choral tradition. In the city of Tartu’s Literary Museum is a collection of over 1.3 million folk songs, the second largest behind Ireland. It’s estimated that one in three Estonians is active in a choir or vocal society, and the national anthem, “Mu isamaa, mu õnn ja rõõm” (“My Fatherland, My Happiness and Joy”), springs quickly to the lips of both young and old.

Written in 1869 by journalist and poet Johann Voldemar Jannsen, “Mu isamaa” sparked what is now known as the Estonian National Awakening. Twelve years earlier, the first Estonian language newspaper appeared, and in its pages can be found the first use of the term Eestlased (“Estonian”) as a new way for people to identify themselves. Prior to that, maarahvas (“country people”) was generally accepted, despite its hickish connotations and roots in serfdom under the Russians.

Though they’ve existed as a distinct people since the age of the Roman historian Tacitus, who described them as abjectly poor, but “so well content that they do not even need to pray for anything,” Estonians have rarely been masters of their own land. The smallest of the Baltic nations (the two others are Latvia and Lithuania), Estonia is also the richest in the region, both in terms of its natural resources and strategic position on the Baltic Sea.

Exploited almost continually since the 4th century by Slavs, Danes, Teutons, Swedes, and Russians, the country didn’t get its first taste of independence until 1905, when the All-Estonian Congress convened to demand autonomy from Tsarist rule. A potential revolution was soon quashed by martial law, but in 1918, one year after a demonstration by 40,000 workers in the capital of Tallinn, Estonians declared independence. Struggles between rival factions ensued, but Estonia succeeded in adopting its own constitution in 1920, followed by admittance into the League of Nations one year later. Lasting freedom, however, was to be short-lived.

The Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact of 1939, an agreement forged between the Soviets and the Nazis, resulted in Russia’s absorption of Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania in exchange for a promise of non-interference in Hitler’s push eastward. Occupied by Soviet troops and with tens of thousands of its people carted off to Siberian work camps, Estonia became a republic of the USSR in 1941. When the Nazis ignored the Pact later that year and invaded Russia, Estonia naively welcomed them as liberators. But by the end of Word War II, the country had lost over 280,000 lives as a result of the German occupation. Of that number, some 75,000 were shot or died in concentration camps. Countless others who weren’t conscripted by the Nazis fled to Finland.
During the Stalin era, Estonia was flooded by Soviet immigrants in a move to Russify the country and rape it of its timber, fisheries, and vast mineral deposits. Seuss’s Lorax would have wept at the scene: pristine lakes reduced to fetid cesspools, whole forests cleared, and an impenetrable, gray pall of pollution hanging over its towns and cities.

At the height of Gorbachev’s Glasnost reforms in 1987, Estonians began a strategy of gathering en masse for impromptu “singing” demonstrations, culminating in the 300,000-strong “Song of Estonia” festival held in Tallinn’s Song Festival Grounds. Anthems and folk tunes hitherto forbidden by the Communist regime reached the ears of the international community, and the sight of more than a quarter of the country’s population joined in song stirred Estonia’s Baltic neighbors to hold similar peaceful events.

In 1989, on the 50th anniversary of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, over two million Estonians, Latvians, and Lithuanians linked hands in an uninterrupted human chain that spread some 370 miles across the Baltic. Deterred from restoring order at every turn by peaceful demonstrations and human shields, Russia began withdrawing its troops from the region in 1991, and by 1994, Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania were granted independence.

Theodor Geisel surely witnessed these events unfold before he died in 1991, and it’s tempting to imagine his pleasure at having inspired, if not presaged them. His gentle, peace-loving Whos, whose weapons were their indomitable spirits and voices, would have been pleased as well.

Bok Tower Gardens
• Vern Hobbs

This month, as we honor our veterans and observe Thanksgiving, consider a destination, not far from home, that represents one man’s gratitude to his adopted nation. Bok Tower Gardens, near Lake Wales, Florida, was conceived by Edward Bok as a symbolic gesture of appreciation to the United States for providing him with opportunities that transformed him from an impoverished immigrant into a wealthy entrepreneur.

Bok arrived in New York from Holland at the age six. Seven years later, with only a minimal education, he left school to work as a Western Union messenger boy, but soon landed a job with Scribner’s Sons Publishing. Through hard work and determination, Bok learned the publishing business from the ground up, becoming Scribner’s advertising manager, and later, editor of The Brooklyn Magazine. Eventually he founded his own company, Bok Syndicate Press, which produced The Ladies’ Home Journal. Though his achievements made him wealthy and influential, Edward Bok never took these gifts for granted. Striving to share his good fortune, he became a prolific philanthropist who established numerous charities. Still, he wanted to create a physical symbol of his appreciation to the American people, and believed that a place of beauty, serenity, and peace would be the perfect gift.

To create this most personal endowment, Bok purchased 250 acres near Lake Wales and commissioned famed landscape architect Fredrick Law Olmstead, Jr. to morph this pine-covered sand hill into “a spot of beauty second to none in the country.” Olmstead worked continuously for the next five years, creating a world-class botanical garden that is nothing short of inspired artistry. Seasonally arranging the native foliage, he insured that some portion of the park would always be in bloom. Terracing the gardens along the slope of the curving hillside, he created a pleasing illusion of depth and height far greater than nominal elevation rise would suggest. Bisecting these terraced gardens with shaded, meandering pathways and gently flowing pools, he created the atmosphere of solitude Bok insisted the park must purvey.

Edward Bok was no doubt pleased with Olmstead’s grand creation, but being a man driven to superlatives, he felt the park needed something more. Recalling the carillon towers of his native Holland, Bok resolved to complete his votive park with just such a structure — a singing tower.

Carillons, numbering fewer than 600 the world over, are not merely bell towers, but huge musical instruments in their own right. Bells of various sizes — 60 in the case of the Bok carillon — are positioned within a stone tower. At the base of the tower a mammoth keyboard controls clappers which strike the individual bells, producing resounding yet clear and gentle tones. Skilled musicians known as carillonists, themselves quite rare, produce music by striking the giant keys with their feet and fists. The result is a sound totally unique, and once experienced, totally unforgettable.

Olmstead was joined by noted Philadelphia architect Milton B. Medary and a select cadre of stone cutters in 1927. Edward Bok decreed that the crowning jewel of his garden would be no mundane or uninspired tower, but rather a magnum opus. Railroad cars delivered blocks of Georgia marble and north Florida coquina, as well as the one-of-a-kind bells, ranging in size from 16 ounces to 11 tons. Celebrated New York sculptor Lee Lawrie soon joined the crew, and was charged with creating sculptures and bas-relief impressions befitting the grandeur of the monument and celebrating the creatures native to its surroundings. The magnificent project was declared complete on February 1, 1929, when President Calvin Coolidge dedicated the tower and gardens to the American people.

Eighty-two years after “Silent Cal” spoke what were certainly few words, Bok Tower Gardens remain open to the public every single day of the year. Edward Bok’s inspiration, a quote from his grandmother, is spelled out above the visitors’ center archway — “Make you the world a bit better or more beautiful because you have lived in it.” Those simple words are the credo faithfully upheld by the professional and volunteer staffers that maintain the gardens today. Serenity embraces you the moment you begin to saunter along the shaded pathways. The cacophony of modern life recedes, supplanted by gentle fragrances, shafts of sunlight filtering through the leafy canopy, and the lilting song of birds. Just as you imagine the moment could be no more beautiful, the crystalline notes of the carillon waft through the air.

In addition to providing a place of respite from a hurried world, the gardens are dedicated to learning and environmental preservation. Garden Campus Programs offer interactive educational opportunities through universities and local schools. The horticultural staff has recently created the Endangered Plant Garden to showcase their efforts to save threatened native flora.

Bok Tower Gardens receives limited funding from the Florida Division of Cultural Affairs and the National Endowment for the Arts, but is sustained principally through private donations and memberships, and operates as a non-profit organization governed by a board of directors.

Despite escalating costs, admission is only $10 for adults and $3 for children. Fees are sometimes increased for special events, but throughout the year free-admission days recognize select groups, such as grandparents, and anyone is admitted without charge on their birthday. A gift shop is located on the grounds, and while The Blue Palmetto Café offers light, healthy fare, picnicking is not only allowed, but encouraged.

Autumn is a wonderful time to visit Bok Tower Gardens, and special events are scheduled throughout November. The Orlando Philharmonic Orchestra performs their Sunset Symphony Fall Concert, November 5, from 6 to 8 p.m. A musical salute to America’s veterans is set for November 11, from 1 to 4 p.m., and you can join visiting astronomers on November 18, between 7 and 10 p.m., to observe the Leonid meteor shower. Thanksgiving is celebrated November 24 with a carillon concert from 1 to 4 p.m. Special events continue through December. Learn more at: www.boktowergardens.org.

In this month of remembrance and reflection, treat yourself to a Bok Tower Gardens visit. Stroll up the hillside until you reach the reflecting pond and stand before the splendid carillon tower. As the shadows lengthen and the sunlight plays on the marble, remember that this place was created — out of pocket and at great expense — by a man who simply wanted to say “Thank you” to a benevolent nation. In the presence of such a legacy it becomes impossible not to consider the many things for which we are individually thankful. For most of us, as it was for Edward Bok, the list is long.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

Transylvania
• By Dicky Funston •

“… Sometimes, as the road was cut through the pine woods that seemed in the darkness to be closing down upon us, great masses of greyness which here and there bestrewed the trees, produced a peculiarly weird and solemn effect, which carried on the thoughts and grim fancies engendered earlier in the evening, when the falling sunset threw into strange relief the ghost-like clouds which amongst the Carpathians seem to wind ceaselessly through the valleys…” — from Dracula, Bram Stoker (1897)

Had Bram Stoker never chosen Transylvania as the backdrop for his Gothic masterpiece, it would still be a strangely foreboding place. As it is, this mountainous region of northwest Romania is forever linked in our minds to the vampire myth.

Stoker himself never set foot here, instead relying on travelogues and secondhand accounts he found in London libraries for his descriptions, but he should be commended for accurately capturing the mystery of what was then — as now — one of the wildest and most misunderstood corners of Europe.

Girt by the Carpathian Mountains to its east and south, Transylvania contains the highest concentration of large carnivores in Europe. It is home to half the continent’s bear population and a third of its wolves. As early as 2004, two hikers were mauled by a rabid bear within sight of Brasov, Transylvania’s metropolitan hub.

Roughly 86 miles to the south, in Bucharest, Romania’s teeming capital, officials are at pains to downplay the threat of roving packs of wild (often rabid) dogs, the numbers of which are estimated to be between 100,000 and 200,000.

But it’s really in Transylvania that one feels the unsettling closeness of untamed nature. Elsewhere, societal order and civilization can be seen to encroach on the surrounding forests, swamps, and moors. Here, the opposite seems true. It’s as if the walls encircling many of the cobbled, medieval hamlets were built less for protection than for a delusionally comforting peace of mind, a kind of admission that nature will win out in the end.

Known as Dacia to the ancient Romans, Romania has long had a reputation for wildness. To a 3rd-century legionary garrisoned near the Transylvanian frontier, the embattled Welsh marches must have seemed a veritable Club Med by comparison.

In the centuries following the Roman withdrawal in AD 271, Transylvania bore incursions from Goths, Huns, Saxons, Slavs, Mongols, and Magyars before being put to the yoke by Ottoman Turks in the 1400s.

Vlad III, the inspiration for Count Dracula, was the son of a Wallachian duke who led a fierce resistance against these occupiers. Known as Vlad Dracul (or “dragon,” from the Latin “draco,” an honorific bestowed by the chivalric Order of the Dragon to which he belonged), Vlad III’s father named him Draculea, or “Son of Dracul,” shortly after his birth in 1431. It was much later that he earned the epithet Tepes, or “Impaler,” due to his predilection for the brutal practice.

Imprisoned in Turkey as a youth, perhaps as part of a ransom, young Vlad no doubt suffered at the hands of his captors. That he was regularly raped by members of the Turkish court is likely fantasy, but might explain why, years after his release and return to his homeland, he put so many of them to the stake in this way. It’s said he impaled between 40,000 and 100,000 Turks and Greeks for harrying the borders of his realm.

The practice was by no means unusual for a 15th-century warlord, but Vlad seems to have employed it with particular relish. Done in such a way as to avoid piercing any vital organs, victims might hang aloft in agony for up to two days before succumbing. However ruthless he may have been, Vlad ultimately succeeded in staving off a full-blown Turkish invasion during his fitful reign.

Today, Transylvanians regard Vlad as a mixture of folk hero and founding father. Mention of Stoker’s Dracula, however, is usually met with bemusement, if not outright disdain. Still, locals — especially those from Sighisoara, the town where Vlad was born — play along gamely in the many shopping and tourist districts, hawking vampire-themed mugs and t-shirts with a verve normally accorded to the sale of saintly relics.

Interest in Dracula accounts for a high percentage of visits to Transylvania, and Romania as a whole has come to depend on the income vampire tourism brings in.

After landing in Bucharest, morbid pilgrims usually head north toward Bran Castle, otherwise known as “Castle Dracula.”
The purported site of the fictional castle is open to debate — Stoker seems to have made it an amalgam of several citadels — but Bran does features several decidedly fanglike turrets in the midst of some breathtaking, heavily forested terrain.

Vlad Tepes’s real castle — or at least one of the ones he frequented — is miles away in the southern region of Wallachia.

Yet everyone here gives a collective shrug when faced with the facts of Bran’s connections; it’s been attached to both Dracula and Vlad for far too long to merit emending the legend.

Myths of all kinds hold powerful sway over Transylvanians, but the same could be said of any other people with strong ties to their land. It’s just that in Transylvania, somehow, the walls separating fact from fiction are, much like those surrounding the hillside towns here, put up as a courtesy, to delineate rather than defend.

And if the odd ravenous wolf skulks through the town gates in search of a meal, so be it.

This is, after all, his domain.

Southeastern Arizona
- In the Footsteps of Buffalo Soldiers, Gunslingers, and Miners

By Vern Hobbs
www.flying-fish-creative.com

“Draw, varmint!” I said in a low voice, bent slightly at the waist, eyes squinted, right hand poised inches from my Colt Peacemaker. I couldn’t help myself!

I was standing in the O.K. Corral in Tombstone, Arizona, the very place where the Earp Brothers and Doc Holliday settled matters with Ike Clanton and his gang. Uttering a cliché derived from hours of sitting dangerously close to the black and white TV of my childhood seemed totally appropriate.

Our tour of southeastern Arizona, a pilgrimage to visit familiar places and rekindle old relationships, began a few days earlier in Tucson. Often overlooked as a travel destination, Tucson offers an inviting blend of cosmopolitan sophistication and southwestern charm. There are many things to see and do in the “Old Pueblo,” but two should not be missed: Old Tucson and the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum.

Located just 15 minutes from downtown, Old Tucson will have you saying, “I’ve seen this place before!” If you’ve ever watched a western, chances are you have. The rugged, cactus-strewn mountains provided the perfect backdrop for many films, convincing Columbia Pictures to construct their rendition of the quintessential Wild West town here in 1939. Such classics as “Rio Bravo,” “Cimarron,” and more recently, “Tombstone,” were filmed here. Despite the declining popularity of westerns, Old Tucson remains a significant filming location, and the baby-boom generation’s penchant for nostalgia has made it one of the southwest’s leading tourist destinations.

While Old Tucson is a “wild west fantasyland,” The Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum brings us intimately close to the very real beauty of the southwestern desert. Best described as a zoo, natural history museum, and botanical garden all rolled into one, the museum provides interactive learning experiences that cement an appreciation for the unique ecosystems that thrive in this seemingly foreboding land. Ecologically sensitive trails course through the arid landscape, allowing visitors to experience the desert firsthand — seeing, touching, and smelling the diverse flora while observing the native wildlife in spacious, protective enclosures that replicate the animals’ natural habitat.

After our visit to the Museum, it was time, as Mark Twain once said, “to light out for the territories.” First stop: Fort Huachuca, to honor the memory of some all-but-forgotten soldiers. Logic (and a rental car’s GPS) would suggest an eastbound drive on Interstate 10. “I know a better way,” said my native Arizonan wife, Sally.

Highway 83 departs the more traveled I-10 just outside Tucson and winds through the hills and ravines of the Sonoita Grasslands. Here is the Arizona celebrated for some 85 years on the pages of “Arizona Highways,” the state’s official monthly photo album, known for its breathtaking pictorials from contributors like the late Ansel Adams. Yellow, diamond-shaped road signs displaying the black silhouette of a steer, and the written warning, “Open Range,” remind us that the day of the spring roundup and the working cowboy have not yet passed from these vast, unfenced ranchlands.

At the town of Sonoita, comprised of little more than a few ranch houses and cattle pens, we turn left on highway 82 toward Huachuca City. Halfway there, an imposing mesa flanking the highway’s south side induces that same sensation of déjà vu experienced at Old Tucson. Known locally as Turtle Rock, this promontory has “starred” in a multitude of western movies and TV shows.

Nestled in the foothills of the mountain range from which it takes its name, Fort Huachuca represents and divergence of the historic and the futuristic. Testing ground for the Army’s most sophisticated cryptographic and intelligence gathering systems, it seems ironic that this modern military installation began as a rough-and-tumble cavalry outpost. Established in 1877, Fort Huachuca was once home to the 10th U.S. Negro Cavalry Regiment, better known as the “Buffalo Soldiers,” a title of respect given them by the Indian warriors against whom they fought. Today, “Old Fort,” a quadrangle of stone barracks and officers’ quarters surrounding the cottonwood-lined parade ground, is preserved in memory of the Buffalo Soldiers. Their hard life and heroic exploits are showcased at the Military Museum, which is open to the public, free of charge.

Departing the Fort, we headed north again to follow the old stagecoach route to notorious Tombstone. Tombstone’s place in American pop culture has been indelibly forged by a century of cinematic renditions of the infamous gunfight at the O.K. Corral. Filmmakers have unanimously decreed the Earp brothers and Doc Holliday the heroes, standing for law, order, and American virtue, while the Clantons will forever represent corruption, vice, and general disgracefulness. Most historians, however, consider the fabled feud to be more akin to the gang wars of 1920s Chicago. Whatever opinion you favor, the physical trappings of the legendary shoot-out remain largely unchanged since that fateful day in the fall of 1881. The Crystal Palace Saloon, where the Earps and Doc Holliday gathered before going to face the Clanton gang, is still serving drinks. The O.K. Corral itself is preserved, along with the Bird Cage Theatre and the Cochise County Courthouse — all just as ol’ Wyatt would remember them.

While Tombstone was shooting its way into history, nearby Bisbee was rivaling the big cities of the east for wealth and opulence. Site of the Copper Queen Mine, which produced ore containing an incredible 23% copper content, as well as the most sought after turquoise on the planet, Bisbee literally became richer by the shovelful. The city fathers imported culture from back east in the form of operas, ballets, and the most popular stage performers of the time. They also built magnificent examples of Victorian era architecture that remain today. The Copper Queen continued to produce for an amazing 95 years, but by 1975 the resource was exhausted. Mining ceased and the local economy faltered, but like its neighbor, Tombstone, Bisbee was too tough to die. Today, the city is engaged in an ambitious renaissance, transforming itself from an old mining town into a modern center for the arts.

Circling the Chirichaua Mountains on highway 191, we took the long way back to Tucson so we could pay respect to perhaps the greatest figure in Arizona history: the great Apache chief, Cochise. Caught in the vortex of radical change, Cochise both fought and negotiated with the advancing European races, always seeking the best possible compromise for his people, and likely preventing their extinction. His final resting place remains unknown to any white man. Apache folklore declares that his distinctive silhouette took shape in the peaks of the Chirichauas. On the face of a splendid Arizona sunset, I saw for myself that the legend is true.

The Mothman Festival, Point Pleasant, W.Va.
M. Alberto Rivera

If all you know about the Mothman comes from that unwatchable snoozefest of a film starring Richard Gere, then take a moment to wipe it from your memory.

The legend of the Mothman, as it pertains to Point Pleasant, West Virginia, is as follows: On November 15, 1966, two young Point Pleasant couples, the Scarberrys and the Mallettes, along with a younger cousin, Lonnie Button, were driving past the abandoned World War II-era TNT factory. They noticed two red lights near the old generator plant by the factory gate. When they stopped to investigate, they realized the red lights were the glowing red eyes of a man-shaped creature that stood “six and a half, maybe seven feet tall with big wings folded against its back,” according to testimony from Roger Scarberry. Naturally terrified, they drove to Route 62 where they were pursued by the creature at speeds of over 100 mph.

There were other sightings of a winged creature that same night and they would continue with increasing regularity over the next few weeks. Most people who reported seeing it never tried to cash in on or seek out publicity for themselves and their credibility has never been in question. On January 11, 1967, the Mothman was reported to have been sighted hovering over the Silver Bridge, which spans the Ohio River and connects the towns of Point Pleasant and Gallipolis, Ohio. It was seen repeatedly over the bridge throughout the remainder of that year.

It’s said that the Mothman appears before disasters in an attempt to warn people of imminent danger. When the Silver Bridge collapsed on December 15, 1967, investigation of the wreckage pointed to the failure of a single eye-bar in a suspension chain due to a small manufacturing defect. When it collapsed, the bridge was full of rush-hour traffic and resulted in the deaths of 46 people.

There are as many theories as to the origins of the Mothman as there are people who know about the creature. Some learned and sober-minded people will tell you it’s a specimen from another planet, escaped from alien visitors. Others back the claim that it’s the ghost of an Indian shaman. After all, the local Shawnee tribe used to adorn themselves with feathers to create wings for their Eagle Dancer ceremonial costumes. The TNT factory also happens to be built over a Native American burial site. There are enough “X-Files,” “MonsterQuest,” cryptozoology, “in search of” theories, both for and against, to fill several volumes of texts. So what’s a town to do when it’s been burdened with a strange legacy? Throw a party and have a good time.

Behold the Mothman Festival, which celebrates its 10-year anniversary this September 16-18 in downtown Point Pleasant. The Festival was started in 2002 by Jeff Wamsley, Carolin Harris, and the community of Point Pleasant as a response to the enthusiasm for the entity known as the Mothman. The Festival has grown exponentially since its inaugural event with visitors coming from around the world to attend. This year’s event will feature guest speakers, a hayride through the TNT factory area, vendors, live music and, of course, a Miss Mothman Pageant. An estimated 200,000-plus visitors come annually to the area in an attempt to get a glimpse of the elusive nocturnal creature.

Located at 411 Main Street in Point Pleasant is the Mothman Museum. It features movie props, a great selection of swag, information on the Silver Bridge collapse, including handwritten accounts by witnesses, and lots of different artist renderings of what people believe they saw. Around the corner from the nearby giant silver Mothman statue sits the Point in the River Store, which also has many unique shirts, hats, and Mothman-related regalia that can’t be purchased anywhere else. Run by retired trucker Robert E. Landram (who seems to have walked straight out of “X-Files” central casting), the Store is a great place to hear stories that will make you wish they rosary beads and holy water as well. He and his son Robert L. Landram are personable and well-informed on all things related to the Mothman. And when all of this still leaves you wanting more? Visit Village Pizza (3004 Jackson St.) and order, what else? “The Mothman Pizza.”

The nearby The Lowe Hotel opened for business in 1904 and is the oldest family-owned hotel in West Virginia. It sits across the street from the Mothman statue, and is well rumored to be haunted. ”I don’t mind people coming here because of the ghost stories they’ve heard, but I can’t guarantee they’ll see one,” says current owner Rush Finley. “I can guarantee clean rooms and good service.”

Finley admits he’s never seen any ghosts, but has heard guests say they’ve seen a small child riding a tricycle on the second floor hallway. Finley maintains a sense of humor about the stories surrounding the building and himself. “I’ve seen where people refer to me online as ‘the Little Ol’ Man,’ which is fine, because I am.” He and his wife bought the hotel after retiring. Finley enjoys the fact that the Lowe is not another “cookie-cutter hotel” and says the part of the job he enjoys most is being able to give guests his personal attention.

Don’t let your belief in ghosts (or lack thereof) keep you away from the Lowe Hotel. The turn-of-the-century craftsmanship inside is extrordinairy. The staircase is made from Italian marble and the fireplace in the lobby was made with highly collectible Rookwood ceramics. To quote Mr. Finley, “Someone came and appraised the fireplace (and) told me it was worth more than the whole building.” The hotel also boasts several period pieces, such as the old-fashioned telephone operator’s switchboard on display in the lobby. The windows in the upstairs dining room are original Tiffany’s, installed when the building was completed in 1904. ”The morning light streaming through the glass is particularly beautiful,” says Finley. For rates and availability call (304) 675-2260 or visit them online at: www.thelowehotel.com

After the original eatery was featured on the Travel Channel’s “Diners, Drive-ins and Dives,” Hillbilly Hotdogs now has three locations within the vicinity. The original is located in Lesage, the second in downtown Huntington, and the newest store can be found just across the river in Chesapeake, Ohio. Adorned inside and out with country and junkyard finery, the menu offers more than 20 different types of hot dogs and the featured entrée/eating challenge: “The Home Wrecker,” 15 inches of all-beef hot dog stacked high with all the fixings. Consume it in under 12 minutes and you’ll receive a free Home Wrecker t-shirt; beat the current record and get your Home Wrecker free as well. The current time to beat, should you accept this ingestion challenge, is 2 minutes, 50 seconds. Hillbilly Hotdogs is definitely worth the 50-minute drive from Point Pleasant.

To find out more about the 10th Annual Mothman Festival, visit: www.mothmanfestival.com

South of The Border: Hamer, SC
M. Alberto Rivera

It’s hard to beat South of the Border for classic, roadside Americana kitsch. If you’ve ever driven on I-95 in either North or South Carolina, then you’ve driven past a billboard announcing the storied landmark and all it has to offer.

Built in 1949 by Mr. Alan Schafer, it was originally known as South of the Border Beer Depot. Situated adjacent to dry counties in North Carolina, business here boomed. A few years later, a 10-seat grill was added and the business was re-named South of the Border Drive-In. In 1954, 20 motel rooms were added and the name of the business was shortened to South of the Border.

Presently there are around 175 billboards located north and south from the Virginia/North Carolina state lines to the South Carolina/Georgia state lines. At one time there were as many as 250 from Pennsylvania to Daytona Beach, all of them designed by Mr. Schafer himself. Love them or loathe them, they are memorable and plentiful.

Here at South of the Border there’s the distinctive 97-foot Pedro statue standing adjacent to the Mexico Shop East and the Sombrero Restaurant. He stands 18-feet deep in solid clay and has become the well-known public face of SOB.

Whether you stop just to gawk and purchase some knickknacks from the SOB Sno-Globe — refrigerator magnets or your very own Pedro doll — or pull in for the night, SOB offers much more than anyone can process in a few moments flying by on the highway. They sell most anything imaginable, and then some. T-shirts, mood rings, beach towels, magnets, shot glasses and hillbilly couture — there’s something for every price range if not every taste.

Fort Pedro and Rocket City sell fireworks for those who are stuck living in states with unrealistic statutes concerning explosives. Here’s your opportunity to stock up on everything from sparklers to mortars with which you can display your patriotism and scare birds off your property at the same time.

Recently added is the Crocodile Conservation Institute’s Reptile Lagoon, which boasts the largest indoor reptile exhibit in the U.S. Nearby Pedroland has an assortment of fun rides just for the kids. Some of these diversions include a carousel, the SRV Reality Ride (a simulator), Mini-Himalaya, Ferris wheel, train, Quadzilla, antique cars, Red Baron airplanes, video arcade, and bumper cars. Pedroland Park also features two championship miniature golf courses with 18 holes each. There’s also an air-conditioned arcade if video games are your preference. The El Toro Arcade is located at the base of the Sombrero Tower, with others dotted throughout the complex.

Accommodations include a motor hotel with two pools, one of which is indoor and heated year round. There are 200 rooms available, all state of the art, built circa 1971. Wi-fi and cable are available in each room and continental breakfast is included in the price of the motel stay. For the more adventurous, there’s also a campground equipped with 100 hookups. Propane is available on the premises, as well as use of the pools and all the available facilities. Five restaurants ranging from fine dining to diner and fast food fare are all within walking distance. There’s also a drugstore on site and two full-service gas stations/service centers.

Very little of South of the Border is slick or gives the feel of the 21st century, but everything — every store, restaurant, and restroom — was immaculately clean and the staff were all refreshingly polite. There are people who grouse about the need for SOB to be updated and modernized, to which I can only ask the question, “Why?” The prices are reasonable. The buildings are well-maintained, and nobody needs a high-tech interactive Pedro. SOB comes from a simpler time, and should be allowed to exist in that unhurried temporal state.

When South of the Border gets mentioned in conversation the usual reaction is, “I stopped there as a kid,” followed by vivid memories and recollections. It has managed to maintain its distinct charm after all these years, and for those among the populace who don’t get it, just keep on driving.

Whether you stop long enough to fill up, stretch your legs, buy a souvenir or stay for several nights, there is only one South of the Border — and it should be experienced at least once in a lifetime.

For rates and reservation information call toll free: 1-800-845-6011, or visit them online: www.thesouthoftheborder.com

View Larger Map

“It’s the part that looks like a lobster claw,” my wife said, explaining Cape Breton Island’s geographic relationship to the rest of Nova Scotia. It was time to escape the equatorial heat of deep summer, and Sally’s Internet search for places cool in both climate and character had led her to NovaScotia.com, where the notion of a road trip had taken root.

“There’ll be seaside towns, rustic taverns, lighthouses. We’ll see whales, seals, puffins…”

“Puffins?” I interrupted. She had me at tavern, but puffins? Who wouldn’t drive around one of the most remote parts of Maritime Canada on the off chance of seeing a wild puffin?

Several travel options were appealing. If we wanted a real road trip we could simply hit I-95 North to Bar Harbor, Maine, then take the ferry to Nova Scotia. A variation of that plan involved flying to Boston and renting a car. Flying directly to Halifax saves a few days, some frayed nerves, and with today’s gas prices, possibly a few dollars. Most major airlines offer service from Orlando at round-trip prices ranging from $282 to $556. Non-stops are not available; all flights require an intermediate connection.

We were pleased to learn that an international driver’s license is not required to drive in Canada; our Florida Class Es and a major credit card were all we needed. It was, however, a good idea to review our auto insurance policy before leaving home. Coverage to plug up the few gaps we found was affordable and available from the rental agency. Canadian traffic laws are very similar to those back home. The few exceptions, such as no turns on red in certain areas, were outlined in the rental company’s brochure.

Following a relaxing night in a Halifax hotel, our road trip began. Three hours later, we crossed the Canso Causeway onto Cape Breton Island. Baddeck, our first overnight stop, was another 44 miles away, but the breathtaking beauty encouraged us not to hurry. Pristine meadows dappled with wildflowers and grazing sheep swept away from picture-perfect farmhouses and storybook barns. Simple, unadorned wooden churches, testaments to Nova Scotia’s protestant heritage, patiently awaited the coming of Sunday morning. Forests of shimmering birch and white spruce punctuated the pastoral landscape. The country was open, scarcely developed — no neon signs or fast food franchises as far as the eye could see.

We reached Baddeck as both nightfall and a fast moving storm approached. The gracious hostess at our shoreside bed and breakfast insisted we stay indoors as gale-force winds and heavy rains were forecast. The storm intensified through the evening, the wind howling and rain rattling against the windows. Despite the rising crescendo, we felt safe, even cozy, in the old two-story Victorian. We awakened to bright sunshine and a cloudless sky before continuing our journey. Situated on the Bras d’Or Lake, an inland sea connected to the Atlantic through a series of natural channels, Baddeck is a tiny town with a large cultural relevance.

Present day Baddeck was the spiritual center of the aboriginal Mi’kmaq Nation, and nearby Mniku Island remains an important First Nation pilgrimage site. French missionary Abbe Maillard was the first European settler, building a mission here in the late 1600s and establishing a tradition of peaceful coexistence with the Mi’kmaq that has endured for four centuries. Scottish immigrants began arriving in 1790, bringing with them a strong Celtic culture that remains to this day. Perhaps the most fascinating Baddeck resident was noted scientist Alexander Graham Bell, himself a Scottish immigrant, who constructed a summer home here in 1886.

Bell’s Scottish roots may have drawn him to Baddeck, but the broad, protected waters of the Bras d’Or kept him here. Remembered for his invention of the telephone, Bell also designed hydrofoils and was instrumental in the early development of seaplanes. The Lake was the perfect proving ground for his experimental water and aircraft, prompting Bell to attach a research laboratory to his summer house. Glenn Curtiss, Bell’s associate and test pilot at Baddeck, went on to found his own company and develop the first ship-launched aircraft for the U.S. Navy. Bell’s house and laboratory are open to the public.

Just a few miles north of the Bell home, the Gaelic College of Celtic Arts dominates the tiny village of Saint Ann’s. Founded in 1938 by A.W.R. MacKenzie, a Cape Breton native who was alarmed by the erosion of Scottish culture, the College is now considered the foremost Gaelic language school in the world.

Baddeck also marks the start of the Cabot Trail, a 185-mile scenic route around the perimeter of Cape Breton — the perfect road trip highway. Following the rugged east coast of the island, the Trail slices perfectly through that magical boundary between landscape and seascape. Every few miles we careened onto the shoulder, grappled for binoculars, and marveled at seals surfing the crashing swells.

Ingonish, a picture-perfect maritime village famous for fresh lobster, snow crab, and its long crescent beach, is the gateway to Cape Breton Highlands National Park. Here, the Cabot Trail turns inland, but not before affording sweeping ocean vistas at Neils Harbor, White Point, and Dingwall. The informative Parks Canada website said sightings of moose and lynx were not uncommon in the highlands, so we proceeded slowly with eyes peeled. The Trail morphed from a coastal byway into serpentine mountain road before depositing us on Cape Breton’s western shore where the prominent Celtic culture gave way to something totally different.

On the outskirts of the hamlet of Chéticamp, a funky roadside café advertised “Moules et Frites,” marking the beginning of Cape Breton’s “French Coast.” Though proudly French Canadian, the locals here are quick to proclaim themselves, Acadian, not Quebecois, and may mention that their nearest North American cousins are more likely to reside in Baton Rouge than Montreal. In 1763 the British seized control of what is today Canada, demanding that all formerly French citizens swear allegiance to the English monarch. Many of the staunch Acadians of Cape Breton chose a self-imposed exile by migrating to Louisiana and adopting the less formal moniker, Cajun. Others remained, defying old King George by jealously preserving their rare heritage in language, food, song, and dance.

Whether of French or Scottish influence, music is a common passion throughout Cape Breton. In Ingonish we were invited to a caleigh at the Presbyterian Church. These raucous song and dance parties, often lasting all night, are a centuries old Celtic tradition. In Chéticamp, fiddles and accordions blended to produce jaunty tunes that celebrated Acadian history, told of life in this rugged land, and invited even the stodgiest party pooper to shuffle his feet. In Mabou, our innkeeper boasted of her nieces’ angelic voices. Only later did we learn that these girls were the Rankin sisters, celebrated vocalists who helped mold “the Cape Breton Sound,” a surging genre embraced by many American musicians, including Emmylou Harris.

All too soon our Cape Breton road trip was over. We had discovered a spellbindingly beautiful island, one inhabited by hardy people who are fiercely proud of their diverse cultures. It’s an island that welcomes you with songs, both happy and haunting. And yes, there were puffins!

By M. Alberto Rivera

By the time this hits the newsstands, gas prices will probably have reached $5 a gallon or more and your side will most likely cramp with pain, real or imagined, as you reach pay for your full tank.

But you’re sick of being in a town overrun by visitors enjoying their time away from home, and your own personal wanderlust is reaching epic proportions. The kids have wised up to the fact that Super Walmart isn’t really a low-rent amusement park and now you’re unsure of how to proceed as everyone in your home grows increasingly stir crazy. The constant commercials for fun Florida getaways we’re bombarded with don’t help.

What follows is a list of things to do right here in Brevard County, and most of them aren’t your typical suggestions. Let’s see if we can stretch the meager remains of your wallet into something that resembles getting away, even if it’s just for a little while.

Refuge lands at Merritt Island National Wildlife Refuge (SR 402, 4 miles East of U.S. 1 in Titusville) are open daily from sunrise to sunset, except during periods of Shuttle launch operations. Both the Titusville and Merritt Island’s SR3 entrance close 24 hours prior to a launch. The Visitor Information Center offers Refuge information, educational displays, wildlife exhibits, and a 20-minute video about the area. A 1/4-mile, universally accessible boardwalk located behind the VIC crosses over a pond, through an oak hammock, and leads to a freshwater marsh overlook. The VIC is open Monday through Friday from 8 a.m. to 4:30 p.m., and 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. on Saturdays and Sundays (closed Sunday April though October).

In addition to the trail at the VIC, three other trails are offered: Oak Hammock Trail (1/2 mile), Palm Hammock Trail (3 miles), and Cruickshank Trail (5 miles). Newer trails include the Scrub Ridge and Pine Flatwood hiking trails. Bug repellent is recommended for all trails, especially from March through October. The Oak Hammock trail is perfect for people with younger children. It gives them the opportunity to get out and about in nature without getting exhausted. Bringing your own drinking water is recommended.

Opened in 1964, The Moonlight Drive-In (1515 S Washington Ave. — Route U.S. 1 — in Titusville) is still run by the Raymond family. With a name inspired by the space race, this eatery offers chili dogs, fried seafood baskets, burgers and more. There’s no faux nostalgia being served up here. This is the real deal — service with a smile, reasonable prices, and good food. Take the kids and allow them to experience an authentic bit of near forgotten Americana. If you choose to head north on U.S. 1, forgoing the quicker, less interesting I-95, you can glimpse some of the funkier mom-and-pop motels and quirkier businesses. This corridor into Volusia County offers some of the flavor of Florida before every town became a cookie cutter replica of one another. For fans of Tim Dorsey, there are the same of sort establishments that inspired “Hammerhead Ranch Motel.”

Dunlawton Sugar Mill, the ruins of Bongoland, and the Sugar Mill Gardens (950 Old Sugar Mill Rd., Port Orange) are a trifecta of attractions. There’s forgotten roadside kitsch in the ruins of Bongoland, the beautiful and serene botanical gardens filled with native plants and the historical ruins of a sugar mill plantation.

Bongoland was an amusement park built in 1948 and named for “Bongo,” a large baboon who lived there. It included a replica Seminole village, miniature train, and a dozen “prehistoric monsters” made by M.D. “Manny” Lawrence out of concrete and chicken wire. Five of the sculptures still stand. They are scattered throughout the 12 acres of the park and fit well with the landscape. Their paint is long gone and their bodies are weathered from exposure to the elements. The Triceratops is a plausible dinosaur reproduction, but the T-Rex is a laughable attempt. But this makes for some of its hokey charm. The park eventually closed in 1952 according to a sign next to the Stegosaurus, which states the park closed “for lack of public interest.”

The Dunlawton Sugar Mill is now reduced to the coquina and brick ruins of an 1830 sugar mill complex and an assortment of sugar processing equipment. The sugar mill was destroyed in 1835 during the Second Seminole War. In 1846, attempts were made to reestablish sugar production here. This endeavor didn’t fare well either, marking the end of sugarcane cultivation in the region.

Because of its beauty, Sugar Mill Gardens is a popular location for weddings. There are butterfly gardens, a towering canopy of ancient oaks, and flowering plants. The Confederate Oak is a 250-year-old live oak where Confederate soldiers made their camp. Hours of operation are dawn to dusk daily. There is no admission fee, though donations are appreciated. The gift shop is open Wednesdays and Saturdays. You may call the gift shop at (386) 767-1735.

Just five miles away is the Lighthouse Point Park in Ponce Inlet (4300 S. Atlantic Ave., Ponce Inlet). Since you did drive all the way out there and it’s just around the corner from Sugar Mill, you may as well check it out. This is the tallest lighthouse in Florida — and second tallest in the U.S. — measuring a 175 feet in height. It’s a quick 203 steps to the top, where you get a bird’s-eye view of the Ponce Inlet jetties and the Indian and Halifax Rivers. Besides the lighthouse, the Park has several interesting historical exhibits, most of which have been restored to their original condition by the museum. The Park covers 52 acres of pristine land and features fishing, nature trails, an observation deck and tower, swimming, and picnicking. Admission for adults is $5; Children under 12 get in free. For more information, call (386) 756-7488.

Now armed with this travel guide and enough money to fill your tank, go get out of town. Enjoy yourself, give the kids something to write about in their “What I did on my summer vacation” essay when they get back to school in three short months.

And take lots of pictures to post on Facebook to make your friends ask, “Where did you go?” If you like them, tell them. Otherwise, say it’s a well-kept secret.

PRAGUE
By Vern Hobbs

They say forbidden fruit is sweeter, and everyone knows the grass is greener on the other side of the fence. So it was three decades ago, when I was first smitten with the charms of Europe. My rich uncle, Sam, sent me on a three-year sabbatical, asking that when not touring I guard against communist aggression. Those pesky communists not only instigated global tension, they hampered my all-expense-paid European vacation, confining my travels to points west of their imposing Iron Curtain.

Things change, and sometimes for the better. The border, once so absolute, simply ceased to exist, erased by the better nature of mankind. Eastern Europe was no longer off limits, and we were anxious to pick the once forbidden fruit. We settled on Prague, in the Czech Republic, as the perfect destination, noting that the city is known as the “Paris of the East.”

Our journey took us first to Frankfurt. We eased our jet lag with a few German beers, then boarded the overnight train. Morning overtook us in a vineyard-lined valley south of Dresden as we rolled toward the Czech border. Watching hilltop castles drift past, I recalled that many of the classic fairy tales we learned as children originated in this region, and I found it easy to imagine a storyteller’s mind leaning toward the extraordinary in such surroundings.

We’d neglected to make hotel reservations. Though armed with a trusted Lonely Planet guidebook, apprehension grew as our destination neared. Trepidation was replaced by confusion as a surge of people brandishing lodging advertisements surrounded us the moment we stepped off the train. Some pressed us with glossy brochures, but one unimposing gentleman presented a photo album and a few phrases of polished English. We were soon his new tenants, unpacking in a one-bedroom apartment situated conveniently above the neighborhood grocery store. One week’s rent was less than a single night at the Crowne Plaza and promised a much more thorough immersion in Czech culture.

Our host, a dedicated capitalist who cracked jokes about the old communist regime, provided a wealth of insider information: how to get around, the best places to eat, the must-see sights. He also mentioned things better avoided: guided sightseeing tours, for one; they’re overpriced and Prague is best discovered by public transport and on foot, he counseled. Cab drivers, he warned, were notoriously dishonest. Finally, he advised us to exchange money only in established banks.

Although the Czech Republic is a member of the European Union, they have not yet adopted the Euro. Conversion is expected, but for now the Czech crown (Kc) is the common currency. Exchange rates fluctuate. Recently, 100Kc was equal to about $5 U.S.

Following our host’s advice, we hopped aboard the next tram bound for downtown. Prague’s public transportation system, Dopravní podnik (“DP” to the locals) is convenient and very inexpensive. Tickets, accepted on trams, buses, and the subway, may be purchased from automated kiosks at DP stations, or at newsstands and tobacco shops. Single ride fares range from 18 to 26Kc.Day fares, allowing unlimited travel over a 24-hour period, are the better value at a cost of 100Kc.

Anticipation swelled as we crossed the Vltava River into Staré Mesto, Prague’s famous Old Town Square. Surrounded by meticulously restored buildings dating to the 12th century, including the Church of Our Lady, Saint Nicholas Cathedral, and the imposing town hall, this sprawling pedestrian plaza is the heart of central Prague. Though antiquities abound, the air is electric with a vibrant and youthful energy. Swank coffee shops, chic cafés, and upscale boutiques mesh seamlessly into the facades of gothic and baroque architecture. Central to Staré Mesto is Prague’s world-renowned astrological clock. This mechanical masterpiece of middle-ages technology tracks not only the hours of the day, but the phases of the moon and houses of the zodiac. We settled into one of the many upstairs cafés to await the chiming of the noon hour while enjoying the one commodity our host assured us would be of top quality no matter where we purchased it: Czech beer.

Just south of Staré Mesto, we wandered into Prague’s second-most famous gathering place, Wenceslas Square. Named for the gracious Bohemian king celebrated in the fabled Christmas carol, Wenceslas Square is adjacent to another of Prague’s famous landmarks, Karlovy Most — the Charles Bridge. A classic example of early civil engineering, Karlovy Most has spanned the Vltava for six centuries. Now restricted to pedestrian use, the bridge is decorated with unique sculptures, each a vignette of Bohemian history and folklore. The bridge links central Prague to Letna Park, a generous urban green space affording spectacular views of downtown.

Pleasantly weary and full of Pilsner, we left Letna Park seeking the familiar tram or subway sign only to find ourselves in a maze of narrow, winding streets lined with charming restaurants, pubs, and specialty shops. We had stumbled into Malá Strana (the Small Quarter), a quaint section of the city sandwiched between the looming Prague Castle and the Vltava, home to foreign embassies, known for its fine dining, and considered by many locals to be their favorite part of Prague.

On subsequent days, after downing hearty breakfasts made from fresh ingredients purchased in our downstairs market, we used Old Town Square as the starting point for our explorations. North of the square we discovered Josefov, Prague’s Jewish Quarter since 965, site of Europe’s oldest surviving synagogue, and a curious tower clock designed to run backward. The existence of this ancient Hebrew community might suggest that Prague somehow escaped the anti-Semitic wrath of Nazi Germany. Sadly, this is not the case. The preservation of Josefov is due to a bizarre scheme in which Adolph Hitler proposed to conserve the quarter as a museum of an extinct race. Should any delusions remain about the brutality of the Nazi occupation, one need only visit the nearby Terezin concentration camp.

Through good times and bad, Prague has stood at the crossroads of central Europe. The result is a culture rich in contributions from the surrounding lands yet resolute in its own distinct flavor. This fusion is embodied in the city’s culinary offerings, derived from every corner of Europe. The Czechs appreciate tastes and delicacies from wherever they may originate, yet always manage to add that certain Bohemian flare that makes any dish uniquely their own. The same is true of the performing arts. Ballet, classical orchestra, live theatre, and operatic performances are abundant and affordable. Museums proliferate in every quarter of the city — a testament to the Czech appetite for the visual arts.

At first, we were inclined to agree that Prague is the “Paris of the East.” A city so vibrant and rich in culture certainly deserved the title. But as we peeled back the layers, we had to differ. Prague is Prague, a city of its own making, shaped by the currents of history yet ever looking forward, defined by the strong character of its citizens, and unique as a snowflake.

John & Mary Nolan’s Ireland

As tourist destinations go, it’s hard to beat Ireland for overall satisfaction.

Its small size makes it easy to see many of the main tourist attractions with room to stop in a wealth of out-of-the-way spots within a relatively short span of time, and it boasts some of the oldest, most historical sites in Europe. Whether you’re in metropolitan Dublin or sleepy Doolin, you’ll experience Ireland’s genius for embracing both the past and the future, and its verdant countryside and dramatic coastline offer some of the most inspiring vistas in the world, all in a temperate climate that’s not always as drizzly as its reputation would have you believe.

But the biggest lure for most visitors to Ireland is its people. Known the world over for their warmth, humor, and hospitality, the Irish people play the principal role in the total Irish experience. Whether you’re in a crowded pub or strolling down a lane in the country’s interior, you’re sure to meet someone you’ll remember fondly till your dying day.

John and Mary Nolan, the owners of Tours Galore, know that establishing a connection with the Irish is key to each traveler’s enjoyment of their tours, and they imbue each trip with the human element so often forgotten by other travel companies. By working closely with CIE Tours International, Mary is able to create finely-tuned, detailed itineraries that make the most of travelers’ limited time. The Nolans also work closely with their good friend, CIE driver/guide Dave Yeates (who’s visited Cocoa Beach several times), a native of Ireland who know the country like the back of his hand.

“Dave is just amazing,” Mary beams. “There’s nobody better to talk to than a driver. You can talk to people behind a desk to help you come up with tours, but a driver can tell you how long it will take you on a coach and how many stops you need to make. Dave and I communicate a lot to create the trips and he suggests interesting detours after asking the rest of the group if they’re game. Last year, he took us up to Enya’s father’s pub in Donegal out in the middle of nowhere. Enya’s brother was there and he brought in a bunch of musicians to play for us all. It’s the little things like that Dave does for us that make our tours so unique and fun.”

Together, John and Mary represent everything Irish in Brevard County. John, who is originally from New Ross, Co. Wexford, and the Duluth, Minnesota-born Mary (whose roots also reach back to Co. Wexford) also own The Irish Shop in downtown Melbourne and Nolan’s Irish Pub in Cocoa Beach, popular places that have succeeded precisely because of the Nolan’s understanding of Ireland’s essential charms. Through Tours Galore, the Nolans inform trips with their intimate knowledge of the country, its history, and her people, factors that combine to set their itineraries well apart from impersonal, corporatized package tours.

“We provide tours for people who don’t like tours,” Mary told us. Characterized by late-morning departures, short bus journeys, loads of free roaming time, and a relaxed, laid-back tempo, the Nolan’s tours cater to all manner of customers and often include repeat travelers ranging from 20 to 80 years of age.

“It all started back in 1989,” says Mary, “when I made my first trip to Ireland with a group from Our Saviour’s Church in Cocoa Beach. Father Eamon Tobin was leading the group, but while traveling, I noticed that he could use a little help. When I returned, I thought to myself, I can do this.” Mary then went on to become an outside travel agent for a local agency before her marriage to John in 1994. She and John continued to arrange travel plans, but found it difficult to do without an office, hence the funding of the original Irish Shop in Cocoa Beach.

“We decided that if we opened a little Irish shop and got people in the door that we could interest them in traveling to Ireland with us,” says Mary. After two years, they outgrew that first location and later opened another store in downtown Melbourne, the one that remains today. Throughout that time, the Nolan’s helped foster an enthusiastic Irish American community throughout the area, organizing the first Irish American Club and sponsoring an array of different events and concerts. They’ve since gone on to open the hugely popular Nolan’s Irish Pub in Cocoa Beach, which features live Irish music and delicious pub grub in an authentic atmosphere.

Though they’ve also guided tours in the Mediterranean and along the Danube through Prague and Budapest, Ireland remains the Nolan’s abiding passion. “Ireland: Leisurely & Lively,” their new 12-day tour, which is set for August 30 through September 10, 2011, efficiently traverses some of Ireland’s most beautiful areas, yet still finds time to veer off the path for more intimate visits in places like the villages of Adare and Sneem.

After a morning arrival in Dublin, the tour continues to Galway on the west coast of Ireland before making stops at the Cliffs of Moher, Dingle, Killarney, the breathtaking Ring of Kerry, and Blarney. The trip also features a visit with the Nolan’s longtime friend, storyteller Batt Burns and an excursion to John’s hometown of New Ross.

If you’ve ever considered a trip back to “the ould sod” and feel intimidated by the vast choice of sights that abound there, consider a visit with John and Mary Nolan. They’ll see that you discover the best Ireland has to offer and will make your journey more pleasant and memorable than you ever imagined.

Tours Galore’s “Ireland: Leisurely & Lively Tour,” August 30-September 10, 2011, costs $3,299 per person, based on a minimum of 20 passengers. Tickets require a $200 deposit, due by May 22. To get a detailed itinerary and for more details, call Mary Nolan at (321) 212-8182. The Irish Shop is located at 818 E. New Haven Ave. in downtown Melbourne (723-0122) and Nolan’s Irish Pub is located at 204 W. Cocoa Beach Cswy. (SR 520) in Cocoa Beach (783-8499). Visit these sites for more information: www.toursgalore.net; www.the-irish-shop.com; www.nolansirishpub.net

NASSAU
By Vern Hobbs

“Nassau! Cool! Are you staying at the Atlantis? I hear it’s fabulous! Maybe the Crystal Palace — largest casino in the Caribbean, you know,” my favorite bartender exclaimed upon hearing our plans for a weekend escape down island.

“No, we’re going ‘anti-tourist,’” we smugly replied. Anti-tourist, I hastened to explain, is our favorite, though not exclusive mode of travel. It means we avoid chain hotels, theme parks, and the novelty attractions. Instead, we “go native,” striving to see a particular destination through the eyes of the locals. We stay in bed and breakfasts, hostels, or mom-and-pop hotels, eat in neighborhood cafes, and bypass the rental car counter in favor of public transportation.

Not so long ago, chic travelers flew to Nassau aboard a vintage seaplane operated by Chalk’s International Airline, boarding at their Watson Island Terminal in downtown Miami and landing right in Nassau Harbor. Sadly, Chalk’s ceased operation in 2007, taking the last vestige of romantic air travel with it. Modern, though less elegant air service is offered between Orlando International and Nassau by Jet Blue and Bahamasair. More frequent service is available from either Miami or Fort Lauderdale.

After clearing customs to the sound of a live calypso band, we hailed a cab and set out for the Orange Hill Beach Inn, a serendipitous discovery made between the covers of a Lonely Planet guidebook. The description of this 32-room, family-run hotel made it sound ideal for the anti-tourist, but when we spotted the sign over the door: “Fawlty Towers — Nassau,” we knew we had chosen the perfect place! Judy, the proprietor, told us about some of the unusual amenities as we checked in: the honor bar, for instance, where you select your drinks and write your name on the clipboard, the free weekly barbecue, and complimentary snorkeling gear. Add to this the totally bohemian atmosphere and a pristine, almost deserted beach, and you have an anti-tourist heaven.

Although our original plan called for a preliminary exploration of Nassau right after check-in followed by dinner on the town, the charms of the Orange Hill Beach Inn quickly won us over. After dinner there, we popped in at the honor bar where we got to know Judy a bit better, and met her husband. Together, they have owned and operated this wonderfully eclectic hotel for over 30 years. The atmosphere was that of a neighborhood pub, as we swapped stories with our hosts and met fellow wanderers from as far away as England, Australia, and Switzerland.

Orange Hill, located near Lyford Cay on the northwest corner of New Providence Island, is 10 miles removed from the glitz of Cable Beach and downtown Nassau. Thanks to an organized bus network, this proved to be no handicap. The buses are run by private operators, are government regulated, and are locally referred to as “jitneys.” Fares, which are quite cheap, are set by zone and payable in either Bahamian or U.S. currency. However, exact change is required. After breakfast, we boarded the bus for downtown and were instantly introduced to a pleasing facet of Bahamian culture when everyone shouted, “Good morning!” each time new passengers boarded. We were chiming in like seasoned locals by the time we reached the central bus exchange at the corner of Blue Hill Road and Bay Street.

Bay Street is the principle boulevard through Nassau’s celebrated shopping district. Designer clothing, jewelry, fine art, and duty-free perfumes are in abundance, but be prepared for crowds, as throngs of cruise ship passengers disembark for their much anticipated day of shopping in Old Nassau. So, why would avowed anti-tourists be caught dead on this avenue rife with tourists? Because a walk down Bay Street is a stroll through history. You’re literally walking in the footsteps of pirates, blockade runners, and bootleggers, not to mention dukes, duchesses, and a colonial viceroy or two. First settled in 1684, Nassau has been fought over by the English, Spanish, Dutch, and French. It was even declared a Pirate Republic for a few years. Through it all, Bay Street has served as the city’s hub of commerce, and her taverns have been the preferred gathering places for heroes and scoundrels alike.

Bay Street also leads into Rawson Square and the Houses of Parliament. Set before these exquisite examples of Victorian architecture is an imposing statue of good queen “Vicky” herself, along with a studious likeness of Sir Milo Butler, the first Governor General of the Bahamas, elected after the island nation was granted independence in 1973. Further down the square we discovered a statue that was more moving than all those of monarchs and great men of politics combined. A life-sized bronze effigy of a young woman, baby cradled in her arms, pays tribute to the Bahamian Woman and her quiet resilience that has held her family, and her nation, together through bad times and good.

No self-guided tour of Nassau’s colonial landmarks would be complete without two more stops, so we trudged up Mount Fitzwilliam, the prominent ridge flanking downtown, to the famous Queen’s Staircase. These 66 steps, carved directly into the limestone face of the ridge by slave labor, gave English troops access to Fort Fincastle. Today, the staircase is flanked by cascading waterfalls and shaded with lush tropical foliage. Four blocks west, along East Hill Street, we found Government House, residence to the Governor-General and sight of the twice monthly changing of the guard, a display of military pageantry unequaled this side of Buckingham Palace.

With proper respects paid to Nassau’s colonial past, we trotted back down Mount Fitzwilliam to witness a feeding frenzy.  The Atlantis Resort, located across Nassau harbor on Paradise Island, is home to the world’s largest open-air aquarium, featuring a vast collection of Caribbean marine species. The morning and afternoon feedings produce a spectacle not to be missed, as sharks, rays, and countless tropical fish, large and small, swirl around the multi-story tanks snapping up every available morsel of food. Paradise Island and the Atlantis Resort are readily accessed via the Paradise Island Bridge. We anti-tourists, however, prefer hopping a water-taxi from the downtown waterfront along Woodes Rogers Walk. Water taxis are inexpensive, and the voyage usually includes an impromptu guided tour of the harbor chock full of local flavor.

Speaking of local flavor, the richest helping imaginable is found beneath the Paradise Island Bridge on a tiny islet called Potter’s Cay. No-holds-barred free enterprise is conducted daily from 6 a.m. until 11 p.m. in an open-air market where every variety of fresh fish and produce from throughout the Bahamas is on hand. Along the wharf, a curious collection of small, inter-island freighters come and go, offering inexpensive passage to any soul adventurous enough to climb aboard. Here is the storied Caribbean port so often portrayed in novels, movies, and song, ours to relish for the price of a dozen fried conch fritters wrapped in yesterday’s newspaper.

Ah, such is the sweet life of the anti-tourist.

* Note: A tip from the “anti-tourists” to all our friends boarding cruise ships at Port Canaveral: the adventures described in this story may be easily and inexpensively enjoyed during your one-day layover in Nassau.*

Hollywood: A Local’s Guide to Bargain Fun
Words and photos by L. Paul Mann

Hollywood is well known the world over as California’s ultimate tourist destination. Millions of tourists visit the iconic bastion annually to mingle among the stars while shopping and eating in extravagant establishments. But savvy locals know how to enjoy their neighborhood playground without spending a lot of money.

One of the most popular activities for locals and tourists alike is to drive up and down Sunset Strip during the evening. It doesn’t cost anything to cruise the famous strip and take in the spectacular movie and advertising billboards or observe the colorful characters who frequent the area. The famous strip stretches about a mile-and-a-half through West Hollywood, and is world famous as a glamorous rendezvous for rock stars and fans from across the globe. A great way to become immersed in the club experience on a budget is to attend the annual Sunset Strip Music festival.

This Festival, one of the best deals in the realm of live music events, takes place annually at the end of August. This years’ 2nd Annual Sunset Strip Music Festival began with two nights of various club dates along the famed Strip and ended with an all-day street and club extravaganza. Opening night offered a host of club shows to choose from, including indie favorites Filter at the famous Roxy. But the real showcase concert of the evening featured a tribute to guitar hero Slash (of Guns N’ Roses fame) at the House of Blues. On Saturday, several blocks were closed to create the ultimate party zone, bookended by two massive stages. The all-day event featured the Smashing Pumpkins and Slash, joined by Fergie (of the Black Eyed Peas) and rock singer/guitarist Myles Kennedy. Hip hop fans were mesmerized by performances from Kid Cudi and Common, and a slew of contemporary indie music stars like Neon Trees kept the outside stages rocking until well after dark.

Legendary clubs within the zone, including the Whiskey A Go-Go, the Roxy Theater, and the Key Club, offered an exhausting lineup of live bands throughout the day and into the early morning hours. Admission to all the clubs was included with the price of a Festival ticket, on a first-come, first-serve basis. Other restaurants, comedy clubs, and businesses in the zone also offered a wide range of specials during the event. For the price of a single normal concert ticket, avid music fans could spend the day listening to dozens of their favorite bands.

One of the other most popular pastimes for tourists is to explore the Hollywood Walk of Fame. The best place to base an exploration of the star walk is the massive Hollywood and Highland Shopping Center, which offers restaurants, nightclubs, movie theaters, and shopping options for most any budget. The huge parking structure provides validated parking and puts you in the center of the star walk, which is located just in front. There is also a speculator view of the famed Hollywood sign from the top of the complex.

A little further up Hollywood Boulevard, in the Los Feliz neighborhood, next to Thai Town, is a lesser-known gem of a live entertainment venue. The tiny Steve Allen Theater is a proving ground for some of Hollywood’s brightest talent. A series of comedy shows, concerts, and events come together to create a sort of old-time vaudeville show, often with surprise appearances by comics like Louis CK and Sarah Silverman. The small theater usually attracts an audience of hardcore fans, so you may want to buy tickets in advance. The cover charge can be as low as $5 and shows sometimes last all night. For locals in the know, this is truly one of the best entertainment values in Hollywood.

Just up the hill from the Theater lies Griffith Park. One of the largest urban parks in North America, the verdant mountainside area comprises over 4,200 acres. During the summer season, the park’s Greek Theater offers concerts by some of the biggest names in pop music in a spectacular outdoor setting. Many music fans pack a picnic basket and arrive early to enjoy the scenery in the surrounding grounds before the shows begin. Stargazers can enjoy a variety of activities at the recently renovated Griffith Observatory and Planetarium nearby. The park also contains the Los Angeles Zoo and the Museum of the American West. The Museum, dedicated to and founded by Hollywood’s most famous cowboy, Gene Autry, houses one of the largest collections of Native American art and Western memorabilia in the world.

Wherever you go, Hollywood never fails to dazzle — with both its otherworldly glamour and unassuming accessibility.

Germany’s Christkindlmarkten
By Vern Hobbs

“Oh, neat! What exactly is this?” my untraveled friend asked, examining the intricate, wooden, rotating nativity scene that has graced our dining room table for many, many Christmases.

“It’s called a ‘pyramid,’” I answered. “It’s from Germany. We bought it years ago when I was stationed there in the service.” Lighting the votive candles whose rising heat would soon set the carved ornament in motion, I began to name some of the more common holiday traditions drawn from Germanic culture. “The Christmas tree, ‘Silent Night,’ Advent calendars…”

“And, don’t forget Christmas shopping,” Sally, my wife, interjected. “Remember the Christkindlmarkt?”

A Christkindlmarkt, which translated to English literally means, “Christ Child Market,” is an open-air street market typically held in the public squares of German towns during the weeks just before Christmas. Holiday-themed crafts, produced by local artisans, as well as a myriad of seasonal food and beverages, make the Christkindlmarkt a warm and cheerful gathering place on what would otherwise be cold and foreboding winter evenings.

This centuries-old tradition began in southern Germany, Austria, and the Alsace region of France during the late Middle Ages. Many historians believe the markets date back even further, and are probably rooted in pagan festivities surrounding the winter solstice. The Catholic Church of the era vigorously discouraged the observance of secular rituals as a means of diminishing the influence of what it considered to be heathen religions. However, the winter markets and a few other seasonal traditions, such as decorated evergreen trees, were so much a part of the popular culture that the Church wisely embraced them, making them forever part of the Christmas celebration. While many of the grander markets have undeniably become more commercial and less religious, the practice remains steeped in Christianity. Held during the four weeks of Advent, a Christkindlmarkt unfailingly opens on the fourth Sunday before Christmas with a pageant welcoming the Christkind, or Christ Child, to the city. The parts in these homespun productions, including the leading role of baby Jesus, are normally played by local children.

Over the centuries, the products sold at Christkindlmarkten have themselves become iconic symbols of Christmas. The classic wooden nutcrackers, or Nußknackers, carved in the likeness of a toy soldier; Zwetsschgamannle, animal figures made from dried plums; Rauchen, incense burners depicting an array of archetypal German characterizations; intricate lace tablecloths; hand-painted advent calendars, and of course the immortal candle-powered, rotating nativity scene, the pyramid, are all as much a part of Christmas as Saint Nick himself. As the more popular markets grew exponentially, these traditional handmade ornaments began to be supplanted by mass-produced imitations. An outcry was raised all across Germany by artists and Christkindl aficionados alike, resulting in the establishment of strict vetting processes that assure the authenticity of both the handcrafted products and the markets themselves.

No German festival is complete without bountiful eating and drinking. The Christkindlmarkt is certainly no exception. In addition to the staple of grilled sausages: bratwurst, rotewurst, knockwurst, weisswurst, or whatever the local wurst may be, the Christmas market vendors add seasonal delicacies such as Lebkuchen, a soft gingerbread; Christstollen, a fruitcake variation; Plätzchen, a variety of holiday cookies, and chestnuts roasted in a bed of hot coals. All these treats are of course best washed down with a liter of German beer, and the local breweries are not to be counted out when it comes to promoting the Christkindl spirit. Most brewers concoct special holiday potions just for the occasion. Look for beers labeled Weihnachtsbier, or Weihnachtsbock. To partake of the most traditional of all Christkindl drinks, however, search out the kiosk dispensing hot Gluwein, a spicy, mulled wine sure to warm both body and spirit.

Today the more celebrated Christmas markets, namely those held in Nuremberg, Dresden, Stuttgart, Erfurt, and Augsburg, have taken on Mardi Gras-like proportions. Once celebrated for their humble simplicity, these markets have become must-see, must-do, must-have-the-t-shirt events in the eyes of hip travelers. Last year, over two million people attended the market in Nuremberg, perhaps the most popular internationally, while the city of Stuttgart reported 3.6 million in attendance at their Christkindlmarkt. Tour buses from all across Europe stream anxious shoppers and curious tourists into the markets from every corner of the continent, while tour industry leaders such as Globus promote Christkindl market tours the world over.

Not surprisingly, this fount of popularity has spread the Christkindl market tradition far beyond the Alpine region where it was born. Northern German cities began to host similar holiday bazaars, commonly called Weinachtsmarkten, not long after the original idea had taken root in the south. In recent years however, the phenomena has spread to parts of Europe where the custom was not previously observed, including Scandinavia, the Low Countries, and even England, Scotland, and Ireland. Nor is the popularity of the Christmas Market confined to the old continent. Christkindl markets are now annual events in Chicago and Denver, plus many smaller cities and towns such as Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.

Despite their recent trendiness, German Christkindl markets, especially those held in the small towns and villages of the Alpine region, remain simple affairs; open-air bazaars selling Christmas decorations and novelties created by local craftsmen, while continuing to honor the sacred Christian observance of Advent. My fondest memories from the three Christmases we spent in Germany do not include the sprawling Christkindlmarkt in Stuttgart, which we visited back when it hosted a mere 1.5 million visitors. Nor is it the Nuremberg Christkindlmarkt, despite its picture perfect setting in a cobblestone-paved plaza surrounded by the gingerbread edifices of steep-roofed, half-timbered buildings. No, when I think of Christmas in Germany, I recall the simple Christkindlmarkt of a medieval village tucked in the cleft a steep Bavarian valley. The market was comprised of no more than a dozen kiosks lining the main street that led up to the ancient stone church with its onion-top steeple.

A thousand tiny, twinkling, lights outlined the silhouette of each kiosk and cast a warm glow upon the snow-covered street. Mothers and fathers, dressed in full-length wool coats and thick knit scarves, sipped from steaming cups of Gluwein while their children scurried from hut to hut marveling with fresh, bright eyes at the magic of the Yuletide season, just as the children of this village had for perhaps seven centuries. Something much larger, more meaningful, and more everlasting than a street market was taking place here. Christmas, with all its hope and promise was being celebrated, and everyone was equally welcome and equally important: rich and poor, boss and worker, and even those curious foreigners called “G.I.s.”

Frohliche Weihnachten, Merry Christmas.

Cumberland Island, Georgia

By M. Alberto Rivera

Georgia’s Cumberland Island is a different sort of day trip. Getting there requires a 45- minute ferry ride from St. Mary’s, Georgia, and when you arrive you will be stepping back in time — back to the roaring ’20s, the Civil War, or even pre-Revolution America, depending on where you are at any given moment — but the go-go-go feeling of the 21st century will not encroach upon you here.

Cumberland Island is the largest and southernmost of Georgia’s barrier islands. It’s also a National Park that features pristine unspoiled beaches, dunes, dense salt marshes, and freshwater lakes. In addition to the natural features, the seashore includes some historic properties, such as the ruins of Dungeness and the Plum Orchard estate. The Greyfield Inn is another historic estate, which was converted into a hotel. And did I mention the wild horses?

Along with the natural habitat of loggerhead turtles, there are over 300 species of birds, white-tailed deer, manatees, dolphins, and horses, approximately 150 of which are feral. It is widely believed the horses were left here by Spanish explorers in the 1500s. The horses have free reign of the island. It’s not uncommon to see them grazing on the lawns of the abandoned estates or walking in the shallow surf of the beach.

If your curiosity is now sufficiently piqued to want to visit, let’s get started with planning the details of your trip. There is a strict limit of 300 visitors to the island daily. According to the National Park Service, reservations are strongly encouraged and can be made up to six months in advance. However, in the event that ferry reservations are unavailable, visitors are welcome to arrive at the mainland visitor center, check-in, and be put on a standby list. Private charters are also available through the reservation office. The best time of year to visit is in the fall or the spring, when temperatures are mild.

The city closest to Cumberland is St. Mary’s. Accommodations can be made at any number of hotels, most within a 10-minute drive to the dock where the ferry, The Cumberland Queen, departs four times daily. There are no amenities on Cumberland Island, so you will be asked if you have a lunch and water with you as you buy your ticket.

You will arrive at Sea Camp Dock, near the Southern end of the island. There is no transportation provided on the island, so plan on walking and wear comfortable shoes. If you wish to rent a bicycle, they are available at Sea Camp. You must check with the Ferry deck hands to rent bicycles; Park Service staff do not handle bike rentals. You may bring your own bicycle, but you will not be able to bring it on the ferry. For this you’ll have to arrange for a private charter.

The Dungeness property is closest to the Sea Camp. There is too much history around the original and changing estate of Dungeness to cover here, but it dates back to a hunting lodge built by James Oglethorpe in 1733. This winter retreat belonged to Thomas M. Carnegie, brother of steel magnate Andrew Carnegie. Construction began in 1884, but Carnegie never lived to see it completed. His wife, Lucy, and nine children lived in the opulent 59-room home, complete with indoor swimming pool and a golf course. Lucy went on to purchase 90% of the island, and she and her heirs built Cumberland’s most famous buildings, including the Greyfield, Stafford, and Plum Orchard.

Forty Smaller buildings were built as well for the 200 servants required for the running of the large household. The home was left vacant after the Great Depression, and much of it was consumed by a fire in 1959. Designed after a Scottish castle, the ruins offer a window into a world of unimaginable wealth. The walls are covered in growing vines as nature slowly reclaims what was once hers. Just West of Dungeness, a small tabby house is all that remains of the Greene-Miller-Shaw estate. Built around 1800, it is believed to be the oldest structure on Cumberland. Nearby is the Greene-Miller cemetery, where Lighthorse Harry Lee, father of General Robert E. Lee was once buried.

Toward the center of the island is Plum Orchard, an 1898 Georgian-revival mansion administered by the Park Service. Plum Orchard was another building project of Lucy Carnegie. Named for the plantation that stood there previously, the 21,000 sq. ft., 20-room mansion was built in 1898, for son George Carnegie and his wife, Margaret. At the northern end of the island sits a simple red and white church, a one-room structure built of whitewashed logs with three windows on each side. It is adorned with a rustic cross made of sticks bound together by string. Eleven handmade pews seat 40 people. Built in 1937, to replace the original which was built in 1893, the First African Baptist Church serviced the spiritual needs of freed slaves working on the island. They lived nearby, in the High Point-Half Moon Bluff community, also known as The Settlement. This church gained notoriety in 1996, when it served as the wedding site of John F. Kennedy, Jr. and Carolyn Bessette.

All of this is too much to try and do in one day, so you may wish to carefully consider which part of the island you want to get to know. There is camping available, but only one camping area with running water and bathrooms with cold showers; the other camping sites do not have facilities. All food, ice and supplies must be shipped from the mainland, as there are no stores on the island. There is one hotel available on island, The Greyfield Inn. While pricey, it’s well worth it if you wish to stay in something other than a tent.

With a total of 50 miles of hiking trails that weave through maritime forests, interior wetlands, historic districts, marsh ecosystems, and beautiful beaches, Cumberland Island is a hikers paradise, heaven for birdwatchers, and a delight for history buffs. The book “1000 Places to See in the U.S.A. and Canada Before You Die” cites Cumberland as a must-visit recommendation. Whatever your interest or budget, there is something for you to enjoy there. It’s truly a place of natural beauty, where everything has slowed, allowing us a glimpse into another time.

Time Traveling Down East
• Vern Hobbs •

“Maine! There’s a good escape from the doldrums; as far north as we can go without passports and 75 degrees constitutes a heat wave!” I declared, voicing my choice for a late summer getaway.

A quick tango with the Internet and we were off to the land of lighthouses and lobster — all the lobster we could eat. A popular tour book named Bar Harbor as the ultimate Maine experience, yet glossed over the fact that vast crowds inundate this lovely port town in the summer. Were it not for the pine trees, I might have sworn we were crawling down A1A in mid-March!

Oh, don’t get me wrong, Bar Harbor was delightful, and should be part of any Maine vacation. Still, I longed for the magical place I had imagined: A place where the Atlantic crashes against a granite shore, where majestic lighthouses guard hidden coves, and rugged individualists earn their living from the ocean; a quiet place that offers solitude and invites reflection.

“Isle au Haut,” said a grizzled old man wearing a deeply creased face rimmed with a wiry, white beard. Was he reading my thoughts, or had I been mumbling out loud, reduced to a stupor by endless hours in t-shirt shops?

“Quiet out there, it is,” he added. “Only a few families livin’ on the island year round. ‘Course, ’tain’t easy to get there — mail boat’s the only way.”

I searched the crowd for Sally. She had to meet this curmudgeon and hear what he was saying, but suddenly, the old man was gone. I asked the clerk. No, she hadn’t seen anyone who looked like the “Gorton’s Fisherman.” Had he been a figment of my imagination? Real or imagined, he’d sown the seeds of curiosity. Was there truly a place called the Isle au Haut? Was it really the embodiment of what I imagined Down East Maine to be? What was that about a “mail boat” being the only way to get there?

We soon confirmed the existence of the Isle au Haut. Piecing together directions, we reached the town of Stonington where we found the motor vessel, Miss Lizzy, one of Maine’s few surviving mail boats, and yes, the only way to get to the Isle au Haut.

Mail boats were once as common along the Maine coast as lobster-stuffed tourists are today. Communication and trade between the isolated island communities relied on these stout vessels and their hardy crews. Over time, shifting economies rendered most of the island towns extinct, and with them the mail boats. Changing times, however, have somehow bypassed the Isle au Haut. For as we would soon learn, Miss Lizzy is more than just a mail boat, she is a time machine.

When we returned the next morning, Miss Lizzy’s two-man crew was loading freight, a handful of passengers, and of course, the mail. Too busy to bother with tourists and their idiotic questions, the deckhand directed us to the nearby ticket office where we learned that Miss Lizzy makes two daily round trips between Stonington and the Isle au Haut town landing. During the summer, a third round trip is added with a stop at the Duck Harbor campground. Adult fare is $16, children ride for $8, pets for $4, and there is an $8 surcharge to transport bicycles. The agent cautioned us that this was no tourist excursion. “She’s every inch a working vessel,” he said in his Down East drawl.

After the freight and mail were loaded, we clambered aboard with five other passengers. The lines were cast off and the seasoned captain skillfully slalomed Miss Lizzy through Stonington’s harbor, which was strewn with lobster pots. Forty minutes later, Isle au Haut revealed herself in an unfolding panorama beginning with the steeple of her stately church and ending at the base of her rugged lighthouse. In between, the components of a classic Down East fishing village were arranged in perfect order: grammar school, post office, general store, lobstermen mending their tackle. At the center of it all was the town landing, where the Post Mistress leaned against her antiquated pickup truck waiting for the morning mail, a mini-van stood ready to whisk guests to the inn, and a few spectators gathered to observe the mail boat’s arrival, as has been the twice daily ritual here for more years than anyone remembers. Just as the ticket agent fittingly stated that Miss Lizzy was no tourist excursion, likewise, Isle au Haut is no theme park designed around a “rustic fishing village” motif. This is the real thing — a working waterfront town that always has, and always will earn its living from the sea.

Isle au Haut, French for “High Island,” was discovered by explorer Samuel de Champlain in 1604. Today, about half the island’s 18 square miles are part of the Acadia National Park. The rest is privately owned, mostly by families who rely on lobster fishing for their livelihood, as did their ancestors who came here over two centuries ago. Aside from modern conveniences like electricity and a few automobiles, it’s easy to imagine that life that hasn’t changed much at all in those two centuries.

Bicycles are an excellent way to explore the twelve miles of country lanes that crisscross the island, providing countless vistas of rugged shoreline and pastoral landscapes. Park Service policies, however, prohibit bikes within the park boundaries. Here, hiking is the preferred way to go. An extensive trail network radiates from the Duck Harbor campground. My favorite, the Western Head Trail, courses along a series of high bluffs affording breathtaking views of the ever-changing sea and the many surrounding islands.

Duck Harbor campground is described in Park Service literature as “primitive,” meaning that camping is limited to a small number of lean-to shelters. There are no shower facilities, and drinking water is provided at a communal manual pump. Despite the spartan accommodations, camping is popular, requiring reservations and the payment of a modest fee. Day use of park facilities is free, and most visitors are day-trippers. The morning and evening mail boat schedules allow adequate time to explore the village or enjoy an invigorating hike in the park, but do pack a lunch. The general store, located at the town landing, features a snack bar with a limited bill of fare, but there are no other eateries on the island. Learn more about the park facilities and policies at: www.nps.gov/acad/anp.html

If one day isn’t enough and camping isn’t your cup of tea, gracious accommodations await you at the Inn at Isle au Haut. Expect to be pampered and to pay upwards of $275 per night, meals included. Reservations are required. Visit: www.innatisleauhaut.com for details.

Our visit to Isle au Haut ended all too soon. Waiting to re-board Miss Lizzy for our return journey to the 21st century, I noticed an elderly couple among the half-dozen passengers that disembarked. They walked up the dock arm in arm, boarded a 1930-something Ford sedan, and drove slowly away. For an instant, I thought it might just be 1930-something. After all, we came here aboard a time machine — cleverly disguised as a Down East mail boat named “Miss Lizzy.”

San Diego
• L. Paul Mann •

Tourists have long known that San Diego is a great vacation destination comprised of iconic surfing beaches and a vast array of theme parks like Sea World, The San Diego Zoo, and Legoland. But what few vacationers realize is that the city also offers a vast network of world-renowned museums, little-known historical points of interest, and a thriving live music scene.

Just across the Point Loma area that lies to the west of the city proper, a spectacular drive along the cliffs leads to Cabrillo National Monument. This sprawling Park includes the monument to Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo’s discovery of San Diego bay in 1542, the Old Point Loma Lighthouse and museum, and an old radio shack museum, which highlights the military history of this strategic peninsular point. The 360-degree view of San Diego Bay and the open Pacific Ocean is unparalleled and well worth the drive.

If museums are your thing, there are two locations less than five miles away that are must-see destinations for curious visitors. Old Town San Diego State Park lies just down the road about four miles from Shelter Island at the intersection of the Interstate 5. The original site of the City of San Diego, established in 1769, the park is a unique mix of historic buildings, the original graveyard, museums relating to the history of the area, and modern day shops and restaurants, mostly with a Mexican and Spanish theme. Most exhibits are free, and by day the region is a popular tourist destination. But at night it becomes a lively dinner destination, with music blaring from outdoor dining areas and bars filling with college-aged partygoers. Although relatively quiet during the week, it can turn into a rowdy crowd scene on late night weekends.

The ultimate museum destination for any visitor to San Diego, however, has to be Balboa Park. The nation’s largest urban cultural park, it is made up of no less than 15 major museums, several performing arts venues, spectacular gardens, incredible architecture, and a beautiful artist village. There is a museum for almost any taste in the park, including ones dedicated to sports, the automotive industry, and art and history, both ancient and contemporary.

The world-renowned San Diego Natural History Museum, founded in 1874, is the second oldest scientific institute in Southern California. The spectacular structure houses a variety of exhibits including a current popular dinosaur display. The Mingei Museum, dedicated to the art of world cultures, is one of the most unique museums in the world. Employing multi-media technology like photography, video, and sound to illuminate traditional artistic materials of world cultures, the museum creates a vivid storytelling technique unlike any other museum. The nearby Museum of Photography currently offers an exhibit on the history of rock, with many intimate photos of some of the biggest rock stars of the last 50 years.

Balboa Park also boasts an array of shops and restaurants for almost any budget. For those looking for an artistic, upscale dining experience without busting their budget, The Prado is my recommendation. Within its beautiful garden setting, this award-winning eatery offers a wide array of sumptuous, artistically prepared dining treats. The lunch menu offers a choice of small or large portions; the smaller items are very affordable and more than enough for the average diner. The restaurant and its impressive full bar have destinations unto themselves for many generations of San Diegans. Also worth noting is the beautifully designed artist’s village, where you can watch local artists at work, painting, sculpting, and glass blowing. Balboa Park offers several passes designed to make a day at the park affordable for families and lone sightseers alike.

From Chula Vista, just south of the city near the Mexican border, to Oceanside, 40 miles to the North, a large municipal swath offers a wide range of live music venues. Ranging from small intimate clubs, to an array of arena-sized venues, the metropolitan area of San Diego could soon become the newest live music capital of the world. Although Austin, Texas has long claimed this title and could no doubt strongly dispute other claimants, San Diego is certainly poised to give it a run for its money.

Lo Cal Music, a website that lists San Diego music spots, includes information on over 150 venues. Among them: Anthology, in San Diego’s Little Italy district, is patterned after a classic 1940′s supper club, but with a modern twist. The venue boasts an eclectic line up of jazz, rock, blues, and roots music. The Casbah, also in Little Italy, is the unofficial home of indie rock in San Diego. A steady stream of the genre’s most exciting bands keeps the place rocking. In the historic downtown Gaslamp Quarter, Croce’s restaurant and bar hosts some of the best live jazz bands from across the globe. Ingrid Croce established the restaurant as a tribute to her late husband, the iconic pop star Jim Croce. The restaurant is praised for its fine dining, and Croce’s now boasts three separate cafe, bar, and live music venues. The Belly Up Tavern, up the coast in Solana Beach, is one of the best places to catch live world beat, hip-hop, and reggae music. The Belly Up has been consistently voted “San Diego’s Best Live Music Venue” by the Sand Diego Union Tribune and other local publications.

But one of the most interesting and unique venues has to be Humphrey’s on the Bay, on Shelter Island. Originally just a sand spit in the bay of San Diego, Shelter Island was constructed in the 1950s to create marinas and space for hotels and public park lands. Hotels built on the island adopted a Hawaiian/Polynesian tiki theme early on, an aesthetic that still dominates the area today. Humphrey’s Half Moon Inn is a beautiful hotel and restaurant built right on the edge of the bay and a marina. Throughout the rooms and hotel grounds, the kitsch tiki them echoes back to the ’60s, but with an elegantly updated and modern feel. The concert venue within, one of the most unique anywhere, is bordered by hotel suites on one side and the marina in the bay on the other. In fact, many locals launch their kayaks from the dock and float in the bay to listen to the live music shows for free. The venue itself is small, with less than a thousand seats available. But from May through October the venue offers a world-class lineup of some of the biggest names in pop music today.

Humphrey’s also offers special package deals for most shows, including a dinner package with seats in the first 10 rows and a hotel package with seats in the first four. But even if you’re staying at the hotel without tickets, you can lounge just behind the stage by the beautiful poolside. You can order tiki drinks (with 20-year old Jamaican rum, if you like) from the poolside bar. With just a glimpse of the stage through the palm trees you can relax and listen to a free show, like one by Lyle Lovett, who played a lively set on the second night of our stay.

Just a short walk from Humphrey’s is the Bali Hai Restaurant, a favorite with both locals and tourists for over 50 years. The vast round dining room built on the edge of the bay has an unsurpassed view of the San Diego skyline sparkling on the water. The upscale dining room offers a delicious Polynesian-themed menu and full bar.

During my recent visit I learned that there’s much more to San Diego than just zoos, aquariums, and surfing. There’s certainly even more I didn’t discover, but one of San Diego’s strongest charms is its ability to keep you guessing — and yearning for more.

Disneyland, 1962 — New Mexico, 2009 — Wherever, 2010
By James Lasley
http://www.jlasley.com/

Travel is the spice of life, they say.

In the summer of 1962, my father and I hitchhiked 2,512 miles from North Carolina to Disneyland in Anaheim, California. The “spicy” mode of transportation was Dad’s idea. He could have said, “Son, we’lll fly to Disneyland on the back of a dairy cow” and in five minutes I’d have been packed and waiting at the door.

You see, I was eight-years-old then and my father was a sly jokester. He could have easily afforded to fly us to Disneyland, but I realize now he must have believed I’d quickly putz out at the thought of hitchhiking and be content to sit at home with my pile of MAD magazines, my trusty beagle dog, and huge bowls of popcorn in front of the tube. But I called his bluff.

My mother dropped us with our two tiny handbags by the side of the highway and joyfully waved goodbye. We popped out our right thumbs and in an instant it was showtime. Our first ride was a huge, 18-wheel tanker truck full of glue driven by a young Native American with long, black hair wrapped in a bright bandana. “Hell, yes!” I thought, as I climbed into cab. I rode high above the other cars, bouncing around like a pinball with each grinding shift of the gears. We were trucking now, on down the line to the Golden State, passing Greensboro, Winston-Salem, Hickory, and on into Asheville. Our driver’s eyes were full of envy when he stopped to let us out. As I jumped down from the towering cab to the black asphalt, it hit me. My old man had selected a real kick-ass way to travel!

That night we found a motel room with a “Magic Fingers” bed massage unit and a 25-cents-for-15-minutes television. The next morning we cruised in comfort all the way to Nashville in a big, air-conditioned Plymouth Fury driven by a traveling salesman, and the day after that we hitched a ride with two crazy teenagers who drove 100 mph to road test their friend’s car. The raw speed and the expression of fury on my father’s face when he told them to stop are two things I’ll never forget. Later on that same day a quite man in a business suit driving a large sedan picked us up and drove us many miles, all in complete silence. When he finally dropped us off, he gave me a very nice key chain with a tiny oil well drilling bit on it. Years later, I thought of him and recalled his resemblance to Howard Hughes once I read how the famous recluse would drive for hundreds of miles in the desert by himself.

By the third day of hitchhiking on four-lane interstate highways we had reached Oklahoma City. From this point on, the blacktop beneath my white, high-top Keds would be the legendary Route 66. We had been downsized from four to two lanes of narrow highway now, and we’d continue in this fashion all the way to Los Angeles. John Steinbeck called Route 66 the “Mother Road,” but in my case it was the “Daddy-O Road.” Wandering west on Route 66 felt like we were on God’s own supernatural putt-putt golf course with a changing troop of characters, vehicles, and cheap motel rooms.

From 1960 to 1964 a production crew of fifty shot the television show “Route 66″ on-locations all over the western United States. Stirling Silliphant’s writing for the show has been called “Shakespearean” and “free-verse poetry.” Searching for truth, justice, and human compassion with your best friend in a hot, red convertible Corvette was the theme. Without cameras, script or actors, Dad and me produced “The Hitchhiker” episode, which never aired on any of the major networks, but is still enjoyed regularly in the twilight zone of hyperspace.

But that evening in our unusually nice Oklahoma City motel room, Dad told me that he’d had enough of the road and wanted to go back home. What? Was my father, my noble pater patris, now lowering his beefy right thumb? I couldn’t comprehend it. We had made it halfway to Disneyland; how could we stop and turn back now? He said, “Son, if we stop here, I’ll fly us home first-class.” Speaking to me as if he were bribing a baby with candy really upset me. I was a full-blown road-rat now. We had ridden in the wild-eyed Indian’s glue-filled, 18-wheeler. Our own feet had walked across the high bridge over the mighty Mississippi. Together, father and son had survived a certain death at the hands of teen-devils. I had a heavy heart that night when I looked into his big, sad blue eyes and said: “No thanks, Dad. I want to go on to Disneyland.”

I wish I could say that my father had acted differently the following day, but he didn’t. He never really showed any emotions. However, I could tell that he had changed — that he had had an epiphany. It gradually occurred to me that the road gods had revivified his guitar-picking, hitchhiking thumb and sanctified our glorious road trip. He was whole again.

The view we suffered of Oklahoma while riding in the bed of a broiling, rusted-out pickup truck was like touring the Sooner State inside a mobile chicken rotisserie. Our four-hour Arizona desert walking tour (without water) was nearly our last, until a saint of a guy in an El Camino raced past us before stopping in a huge cloud of white smoke. “I would have passed you up mister,” he said, “but when I saw the little kid, I knew I had to stop.”

On the fifth day we reached Needles, California. It was 104 degrees in the shade. Dad’s salutation to the Golden State was, “No way! I am not hitchhiking across the Mojave Desert!” I worried about him and his lack of endurance, but I never showed it. Later on, with head hanging and full of shame, I did take my seat next to him in the air-conditioned Greyhound to Anaheim. Hours later, I could see the tip of the Disneyland Matterhorn sticking up through the yellow urban smog. Cold chills of excitement shot through my skinny frame as I watched every surreal detail pop from the bubble of Disneyland’s delicious delusions. All regrets about our disgrace of surrendering to the Mojave instantly disappeared. Dad could go back to North Carolina now. I wanted to stay here and live in Fantasyland forever and ever.

When dad died in 2005, I thought about our time together in 1962 crossing this great country. In 2009, after 47 years, I had the opportunity to go back out West. I bought a cheap ticket to New Mexico and rented a Kia Sportage. Driving out of Albuquerque I felt a familiar presence. The light was still clear and bright on the treeless mountains as I drove to pick-up my rental bicycle. I passed a few of the old-style drives-ins and an occasional authentic looking pawnshop. Most of the businesses looked corporate and franchised, but the bike shop turned out to be an old-school operation. The young, tattooed owner set me up with a terrific hard-tail mountain bike, and that evening I rode the 16 paved miles of the Paseo Del Bosque trail, which runs along the Rio Grande valley. I could hear the constant drone of traffic on Interstate 40 as I friendly people walking, jogging, and on horseback. Buried under all that I-40 asphalt were the bones of my old friend, Route 66, which had been decommissioned in 1985 after 58 years of service. Two narrow, winding lanes of blacktop escapism are now six lanes of Autobahn-style racetrack, yet I understood that things change and it made me very aware and thankful for the priceless experience I’d shared hitchhiking west with my father.

On my last evening in Santa Fe I thought about how much I wished that my father were still alive and with me. I’d take him down to “The Bull Ring Cafe” for a T-bone steak dinner. We’d shoot the breeze and I’d try and talk to him about my problem. I’d ask him if he thought I was an incurable travel junkie. I’d ask him why I spend all my money on going places just to walk around by myself. I’d ask him why the road outside my front door keeps pulling me, keeps singing for me to come back and then go away. Then I’d thank him for the balls it took to hitchhike 2,500 miles with his eight-year-old son all the way to Disneyland.

Toronto
• Words and photos by Vern Hobbs •

“They walk among us, undetected,” warned the stoic TV reporter, thus inspiring Sheriff Bud Boomer’s ridiculous invasion of Canada. “Canadian Bacon,” the 1995 cinematic gaffe that might explain director Michael Moore’s switch from comedies to documentaries was not my reason for traveling to Canada, but it was on my mind as we descended toward Toronto’s Lester B. Pearson Airport.

Pearson, like many metropolitan airports, is far from downtown. Frommer’s Canada warned of $90 cab fares, making the Airport Express a bargain at $19 one-way. Always the frugal travelers, we visited the tourist information kiosk just outside the customs arrival hall where we first encountered the polite helpfulness for which Canadians are famous. Gracious volunteers explained convenient bus and subway connections on Toronto’s efficient public transportation system, the TTC. In less than an hour, we were in the heart of Toronto for less than five bucks. Make that five “loonies” — the accepted slang term for the Canadian dollar.

Next, we rolled the dice with Priceline.com’s, “name your price” option and scored a choice room at the Sheraton Centre. A more central location cannot be found! The fact that our visit began mid-week helped the gamble pay off, but just in case it didn’t, we had researched Lonely Planet: Toronto and found a wealth of low to moderate priced accommodations, including popular chains, boutique hotels, bed and breakfasts, and even youth hostels that aren’t especially strict about one’s degree of “youth.” If cost had not been of concern, however, we might have chosen the Fairmount Royal York Hotel where Queen Elizabeth II stays on all her state visits. When first constructed in the early 20th century, the York was the largest hotel in all the British Empire. Even if you stay elsewhere, a stroll through the York’s magnificent lobby and mezzanine is both an elegant experience and an invaluable history lesson.

Meanwhile, back at the Sheraton, the most affable concierge (are they all this friendly?) informed us we had arrived on the first truly warm day of the year, and that meant the place to be was the lake. The shore of Lake Ontario literally becomes Toronto’s front lawn during the summer months. The lakeshore, or “harbourfront” as it is also known, lies at the south end of Yonge Street, downtown Toronto’s principle north-south thoroughfare. The bustling harbourfront extends from the Distillery District on the east side to the Rogers Centre and CN Tower on the west. Toronto locals throng to the lakeshore to enjoy amphitheatre, art galleries, outdoor cafes, water excursions, bars, clubs, sporting events, and the sprawling public parks on the Toronto Islands, just offshore.

The unique Distillery District is a clever melding of old and new. National Geographic has declared the restoration of the sprawling Gooderham and Worts Distillery to be the most extensive restoration of Victorian era industrial structures in the world. Twenty-first century architecture is tastefully intermingled; modern buildings literally sharing walls with gracious edifices of the past. Within this fusion of modernity and antiquity are shops, cafes, galleries, and residential condominiums.

Queens Quay, at the foot of Bay Street, is home to the Toronto Island Park Ferry Terminal. Here, six-and-a-half “loonies” will buy you a short ferry ride to the largest car-free urban environment in North America. Toronto Island Park encompasses Centre Island, including the Ward Island neighborhood, as well as Algonquin and Olympic Islands. The respite from city life offered by this sprawling green space makes the islands a favorite weekend destination for Toronto’s 2.5 million urbanites.

“Canuck central…,” Rea Pearlman’s character, Honey, declared as she plotted her one-woman assault on what she mistakenly took to be the capitol of Canada. That screwball movie has crept back into my brain as I stare up at the majestic CN Tower. Originally built as a communications tower by the Canadian National Railway, the CN Tower was the world’s tallest freestanding structure for over 30 years, having been only recently surpassed by Dubai’s Burj Khalifa Tower. This iconic symbol of Canadian engineering prowess still fills its original role, but also provides panoramic views that stretch as far as Niagara Falls, as well as fine dining in its award winning restaurant, Three-Sixty. Co-located with the CN Tower is Rogers Centre, Toronto’s premier entertainment venue with seating for 50,000 and home to the Toronto Blue Jays.

It was tempting to spend our entire visit right there at the lakeshore, but intrepid explorers must explore and so we were off to the Toronto Zoo, one of the world’s best. Toronto Zoo has earned much of its well deserved acclaim through its pioneering efforts to maximize the use of habitat simulation — presenting animals in spacious surroundings designed to replicate their natural environment while fencing in the human spectators. Toronto Zoo has also won accolades for its captive breeding program for the endangered cheetah. This project has succeeded where others have failed, helping to insure the survival of this magnificent, yet threatened species. The tiny cheetah cubs we watched frolicking with their mother may well prove to be our most endearing memory of Toronto.

On our last day, we opted to simply stroll around some neighborhoods to see how the locals lived. First stop, the Kensington Market, an open-air bazaar often compared to the famous street markets of London. That’s where we discovered something many Americans fail to realize about Canada — its ethnic diversity. Every nationality on the planet was seemingly represented on Kensington Street. Toronto’s ranking among the world’s great melting pots is further evidenced in the names of her principle neighborhoods: Greektown, Chinatown, Koreatown, Portugal Village, Cabbagetown (the Irish district), Corso Italia… With all this mixing of cultures, I wondered how Canada appears to avoid the racial tensions that have long plagued my country. Is it a façade? Is there trouble bubbling just below the surface, or do they really all get along?

Heavy thoughts like these are better weighed over a cold beer, so we popped into a nondescript bar called The Horseshoe Tavern. The Horseshoe, it turned out, is anything but nondescript. It is, in reality, one of Toronto’s hottest nightspots. Top-billed performers from Gordon Lightfoot to The Rolling Stones have played The Horseshoe, and big name artists still count this Toronto institution as a “must play” venue.

The Horseshoe was quiet the afternoon we stopped in, allowing us a casual chat with the bartender, a Toronto native who left years ago to wander the globe, only to return after realizing that there was no place she’d rather live. After learning the Horseshoe’s colorful history, looking at photos of the greats who have performed there, and downing a few rounds, I posed my question about Toronto’s public face of virtual crime-free harmony. The salty bartender put it simply, “We’re all proud of our heritage, but there are no hyphenated Canadians — just Canadians.”

Flying home, the closing scene from “Canadian Bacon” flashed into my mind: Bud Boomer crossing back over the Niagara River in a stolen boat, having learned absolutely nothing from his adventure in Canada. Like Sheriff Boomer, I too was happy to be homeward bound, but unlike ol’ Bud, I had learned a thing or two north of the border.

Jackson Hole, Wyoming
• Word and photos by L Paul Mann •

When you’ve grown weary of prepackaged theme park vacations, you may want to consider a family getaway to the gateway to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, well known as a skier and snowboarder’s dream destination in the snow-cached winter months, but recently coming into its own as a year-round adventure paradise.

Its small, sleek airport, perfectly situated on a flat plain protected by towering mountains, allows virtually nonstop travel into the surrounding region. But this historic Old Western town, so popular with tourists, is also the gateway to a veritable wealth of outdoor summer activities, and two of the country’s greatest national park treasures: the Grand Tetons and Yellowstone.

The town itself is an interesting hodgepodge of affordable motels, tasty restaurants, odd little museums, and artistic shops all catering to tourists’ desires. The Visitor’s Center is a great first stop on any adventure vacation to the Jackson Hole area. Staffed by folks from multiple organizations, the center offers interpretive displays, a lavish gift shop, trip planning assistance, and a central place to acquire myriad adventure permits, maps, and brochures. During winter, the center and museum also serve as gateways to a sleigh or cart rides into the massive herd of sheltering elk in the National Elk Refuge, situated in the large marshes just outside of town. In the summer, these green marshes become a bird watcher’s paradise, with countless species nesting in the open lands framed by dramatic mountain ranges.

There are a multitude of outdoor adventures to pursue, all within easy access of your Jackson Hole base. Some of the most popular include hiking, river rafting, and horseback riding. Of course, you can pick up a map at the tourist center and hike out on your own, or wander around the elk sanctuary for free. But if your time is limited and you want an enriching learning experience as well as a great hike, you can hire a guide from several experienced tour operators. A guided hike is a great idea, especially for families with children, and the guide can tailor the route to your specific interests and capabilities.

One such group, The Hole Hiking Experience, arranged a tour for my extended family. Comprised of my girlfriend and myself, my brother, my three- and six-year-old nephews and their grandfather, our crew covered the whole gamut of age groups. We met our guide in town and piled into her van for a ride to a fantastic and little-used hiking area in the nearby mountains. She tailored the choice of terrain to our needs, the relatively mild incline perfect for the older and younger members of our group. The first thing noticeable on any significant hike in the area’s mountains is the spectacular array of wildflowers. In the summer, the region explodes in color, a phenomenon witnessed only in spring in most coastal mountain ranges. Spring, summer, and fall seem take place all at once before your very eyes in the short summer months of this region. It’s also not unheard of for snow to fall on the July 4th festivities — but awesome thunderstorms are far more common this time of year.

Not only can your guide provide valuable information about the local flora and fauna, but he or she can also reveal some of the hidden treasures of the area, like the footsteps of a mountain lion or where a great grizzly bear scratched his back on a tree. Speaking of grizzly bears, this is their prime territory, and these massive creatures can be very dangerous. There are several common sense procedures to greatly limit your risk in the remote areas if you’re unaccompanied by an experienced guide. The local tourism office can provide bear information and precautionary suggestions. Bears or no, our hiking guide made our trek a fun experience for my little nephews by quizzing them on the information she dispensed and handing out snacks as we went. She also provided fanny packs stocked with healthy treats and bottled water for everyone.

For more adventuresome tourists, river rafting is one of Jackson Hole’s most popular summer activities. Again, there are many great tour companies to choose from. Teton Whitewater, a company located just outside of town along the Snake River, boasts well over 40 years experience in whitewater rafting. Four trips daily (lasting about three hours including drive time) provide a great opportunity for tourists on a tight time schedule. My oldest nephew was happy to hear that even a six-year-old could run the rapids. No particular skills are necessary to run the river and trips are geared to the specific skill levels of each group. Everyone runs the same river course, but the experienced guides can bypass or run the most dangerous rapids depending upon the group’s skill level.

The Snake is a spectacular winding mountain river that lends itself perfectly to running rapids in the months following the winter snow melts. It’s also perfect for trout fishing at the end of the summer, just about the time the river calms and the rapids dissipate. But most of the summer offers an exhilarating run down the rapids. My youngest nephew beamed every time we ran a new gauntlet of foaming whitewater, loudly proclaiming “I like this!” to the delight of the group. Trips even offer time for a quick dip in the freezing water between raid runs. A company called Float-O-Graph takes photos and videos of your group as you crash down the largest rapid.

Horseback riding is another great way to enjoy the remote wilderness surrounding Jackson Hole. The Turpin Meadow Ranch, which offers a breathtaking view of the Grand Teton Mountains, is an ideal place to go for a horseback ride. The Ranch resort offers loads of outdoor activities throughout every season, but summertime is best for riding, and the ranch offers a variety of equestrian opportunities, from simple rides around the ranch to multi-day treks into the most remote wilderness. With a stable of over 80 horses and ten different riding trails to choose from, even a short three-hour ride becomes an adventure. Winding away from the ranch into the mountains, you pass magnificent gorges with the Snake River below, beautiful meadows covered by wildflowers, and of course the magnificent view of the glacier- capped Tetons.

But the biggest adventure in Jackson Hole lies to the north, through the gateway into the tranquil Grand Tetons National Park and America’s most beloved national park, Yellowstone. The two parks combined offer the highest concentration of wildlife in the lower United States, and each caters to two distinct moods. If you’re looking for a serene setting with spectacular mountain views, you might want to stay in one of the lodges in the Tetons. Yellowstone offers a much more varied, albeit crowded atmosphere in peak summer months, a rich landscape replete with a geysers, gorges, lakes, streams, and waterfalls.

Either park can be visited from downtown Jackson Hole with ease — and within time for a dinner return. No matter what time of year you go, Jackson Hole is the place for outdoor adventure and family fun.

Zulu Nyala, South Africa

Story and photos by Laurie Bautz

This past January, my husband and I went on vacation to South Africa. It was the trip of a lifetime; the kind many dream about, but never get the chance to take.

We were able to make ours a reality thanks to our winning bid for a safari at a charity auction a few months prior. Our six-day safari at Zulu Nyala, located in the northeastern corner of South Africa, included two game drives a day and offered three types of accommodation: tents (No, thank you), a game lodge situated right on the reserve, or more hotel-like quarters. We chose to stay directly on the reserve, at the lodge.

The day we checked in, we were greeted by the sight of nyala (South African antelope) and wild warthogs, their babies in tow, roaming the property. It turned out that January was a good month to go, as most of the animal species had offspring that were anywhere from two- to six-months-old. But what I’d really come for were elephants. With any luck, we’d witness these majestic creatures in their native habitat before the end of our stay.

The game drives usually left after breakfast and our first, the next morning, was simply amazing. We all loaded up in the vehicle and took off, cameras in hand. The drive took us over gravel roads deep into the reserve property. We continued to see a lot of nyala and warthogs as well as impala. The game driver would stop as he spotted various animals along the way so we could take our pictures, telling us about each and pointing out the differences among them. The drivers were native and highly knowledgeable of the area, and each had a unique personality and approach to the outing that kept each drive interesting. Navigating according to signs of recent activity — fresh dung or footprints — they also knew which animals were usually at the watering holes in the late afternoon.

During the second drive of the afternoon, we were just coming over the top of a hill when we saw a watering hole below us crowded with meandering giraffes. I didn’t expect us to go much further, but we forged right down into the middle of it all. The giraffes stopped for a few minutes to watch us, but decided we were of no threat to them and continued drinking. It was a spectacular experience.

Over the next couple of days we found ourselves in the middle of a grazing, cape buffalo herd; we sat and watched two hippos do nothing but go up and down for air in the watering hole for an hour, and we chased zebras in the truck, trying to get our “perfect picture.” Zebras were the most difficult to capture on camera, but finally managed to pull up pretty close to them and they decided to stay and smile for the camera. Late one day we pulled up to another watering hole to find three rhinos lounging about in the mud. We caught up with them on the road later that week and snapped some photos. By that time we’d been spoiled, always expecting to get just a little bit closer than last time.

By day three, we still hadn’t spotted the elusive elephant. The reserve had only three, so it seemed that we’d have to go to a bigger, more populated park to ensure a sighting. We took a side trip to Tembe Elephant Park near the Mozambique border, about two hours from our lodge. After an interesting 8-kilometer drive through a few Zulu towns on a road I call “Pothole Highway” (we later returned the rental car, minus a hubcap), we found the park, met up with our driver, and loaded right up into his truck. I remember seeing a sign at the beginning of the road that read “DUNG BEETLES HAVE RIGHT OF WAY.” Huh? What? Thinking of them as hummingbirds helped me get through the initial part of the drive. I had mixed emotions about this leg of the journey; I wanted to see elephants, but I had no idea flying, bird-sized insects were part of the deal! I contained myself. We were committed and the driver was not turning back. My husband informed me that under no circumstances was I allowed to scream.

All was forgotten the minute we spotted the elephants at their watering hole. There were six or seven with a couple of babies, spraying themselves, drinking, and just wandering around the hole. It was like something out of a movie. We stopped and turned off the truck and watched them for about an hour. During that time I snapped a picture of them just after they had gotten wind of us. They all put their trunks up in the air to smell us (even the babies), decided we were not there to hurt them, and continued with their routine. It was so peaceful just sitting there quietly watching them, but sadly we had to leave.

When we returned to Zulu Nyala we showed everyone our pictures and told the story of our day’s adventure. Dinner at the lodge is a bit like mixed dining on a cruise; you sit with other people and discuss the drives and side trips you took that day. Others had gone off to different parks and new people had arrived for their week at the lodge. We gave them some advice and pointers. By that time we felt like old pros.

For the remaining two days we took our daily game drives and relaxed at the pool in between. After the elephant adventure, everything else seemed uneventful. We did continue to track the elephant at our own park, and on the last day our driver got a walkie-talkie call that they had been spotted nearby. Of course we were on the other side of the park, but we quickly raced over the terrain and met up with them in a field making their way through the trees. This time one came right up to the truck and nudged it. I guess she didn’t mind us; we were still standing on all four tires by the time she left.

At the end of the week it was time to pack up all our khaki clothes, bug spray, and sunscreen. We were ready to leave with some fabulous photos and some great experiences, but decided to take in one more game drive with our own car through Hluhluwe Game Reserve. We were already going through safari withdrawals, but were also excited about moving on to Cape Town. Luckily, friends who had been to Cape Town told us about a beach where penguins roamed freely. We charged up our camera batteries and we were off on our next adventure…

HIKING TOWARD MY ROOTS: A Trek on Virginia’s Creeper Trail
By Vern Hobbs

The mountains and meadows were luminous with the emerald hue of the Appalachian spring. The excitement, especially mine, was palpable as we unpacked our gear at the Abingdon trailhead. Melodramatic as it might sound, I owe my very existence to this humble hiking trail, or at least to the railroad from which it takes its name.

The Virginia Creeper National Recreation Trail stretches 34 miles through the Southwest Virginia highlands and is a showpiece of the national rails-to-trails movement, a collective public and private effort to convert abandoned railroad rights-of-way to public use. The trail takes its curious name from local folklore. Completed in 1909, the Virginia and Carolina Railroad was a classic mountain railway comprised of countless serpentine curves and steep grades, relegating trains to a lumbering pace and earning it the nickname, “Virginia Creeper.”

The Norfolk and Western Railway purchased the floundering Virginia and Carolina in 1919, and continued to operate the line until 1977. Soon after abandonment, efforts were undertaken by local hiking groups to acquire the line and adapt it to hiking, bicycling, and equestrian use. Their efforts received and enormous boost when the Forest Service designated portions of the route within the Jefferson National Forest as a National Recreation Trail. Subsequently, sections of the right-of-way that traversed private land were purchased, creating an unbroken pathway through one of the most beautiful regions of the south.

Abingdon, Virginia, located near the Tennessee border, just off Interstate 81, was the capital of the Southwest Territories in colonial days. Today, Abingdon boasts a well preserved historic district, is home to the famous Barter Theatre, and marks the western end of the Virginia Creeper Trail.

A steam locomotive rests silently beneath an open air shed at the Abingdon trailhead on Railroad Avenue. For me, this now silent, fire breathing behemoth represents my ancestral connection to the Virginia Creeper Trail. A long time ago, my grandfather worked on this railroad, no doubt passing many a day behind this very locomotive. Familiar old family stories flood into my mind as we strike out. Closing my eyes, I imagine that I am walking between two parallel ribbons of steel, smelling the aroma of coal smoke, and hearing in the far distance the lonely wail of a steam whistle.

Between Abingdon and Damascus, a distance of 16 miles, the trail holds an average, gentle grade of 1.3 percent. Evenly divided between up and downhill slopes, this makes for a good single day trek even for a novice hiker like me. Public access to the trail is provided at Abingdon and Damascus and at two intermediate trailheads: Watauga Trestle and Alvarado. Camping is not allowed along this portion of the trail.

Stately farmhouses and rustic barns look down over sloping green meadows where cows and the occasional sheep lazily graze. Concrete mileposts, a vestige of the railroad days, mark our progress as we proceed surrounded by pastoral beauty. At milepost eight, we cross the Holston River atop a bridge immortalized in a 1957 photograph by Winston O. Link and published in his book, “The Last Steam Railroad in America.” This is the longest of the 110 bridges on the trail, and also marks its lowest point: 1,900 feet above sea level. For the next eight miles, we follow the meandering river past Alvarado, now a ghost town, and finally into the mountain hamlet of Damascus, midpoint of the Creeper Trail.

Damascus is a world renowned backpackers’ town. Centrally located along the popular Creeper Trail (as well as the fabled Appalachian Trail), Damascus offers plentiful camping and lodging, a backpackers’ hostel, and three well-stocked outfitters offering everything a hiker might need, including shuttle service to various trailheads. The Forest Service Visitors’ Center, located in the red caboose, provides current info on all matters that might concern trail users.

I was disappointed to learn that the Damascus depot, a fond memory from my childhood, has since been demolished. That simple structure represented my deepest connection to the railroad that was, for it was here that a young woman observed her Sunday afternoon ritual of waving to the arriving train. On one particular Sunday afternoon, she caught the eye of a young trainman — my future grandfather. The rails, the depot, and sadly even my grandparents themselves are gone, but my memory of them lives on, and is especially poignant in this lovely mountain village where the Virginia Creeper once stopped.

East from Damascus, the Creeper Trail winds through 18 miles of the Jefferson National Forest on an average almost totally uphill grade of 2.6 percent, providing a challenging hike. Trail access is conveniently provided along U.S. Highway 58 at the Damascus, Straight Branch, Taylor’s Valley, Creek Junction, Green Cove, and White Top trailheads. Camping is permitted in designated areas along this segment of the trail.

The iron bridge two miles east of Damascus, setting for another Winston O. Link photograph, marks the beginning of the long, continuous climb through some of the most ruggedly beautiful mountains of the Southern Appalachians. Following the course of Straight Branch for three miles, we finally emerged from shady woodlands into Taylor’s Valley, a farming community little changed since the days when the train stopped here. Plunging back into dense forest, the old roadbed shares a narrow gorge cut by the raging current of White Top Laurel Creek to Konnarock Junction, nine miles east of Damascus.

Falling into a comfortable pace, I try to imagine what my grandfather might have thought about this place. He wasn’t a native of the southern mountains; he migrated here from New York, transplanting himself into the last wilderness of the east. I settle on the notion that perhaps he found the raw beauty of these mountains almost as intoxicating as the beauty on the station platform at Damascus.

Seeking the shallowest possible grade, the railroad builders turned southeast from Konnarock, toward the prominent gap between Chestnut and Lost Mountains, where today the small community of Green Cove boasts the only remaining depot from the railroad era. This humble structure, subject of another classic Winston O. Link photograph, is today fully restored and serves as a museum and visitors’ center.

Beyond Green Cove a long switchback, required to keep the grade to a manageable 3.5 percent, climbs toward White Top. At an elevation of 3,576 feet, this once bustling logging town was the highest point east of the Rockies with scheduled rail service. Today, all that is a memory, but the community of White Top, eastern terminus of the Creeper Trail, has experienced a renaissance as legions of hikers come here seeking adventure.

The White Top trailhead affords a breathtaking panorama of the surrounding mountains and valleys and is a fitting place to conclude our journey and reflect on the experience. Satisfyingly exhausted, I look back down the trail and imagine my grandfather standing on the last car of the westbound Virginia Creeper, waving back at me across a century.

Visit www.vacreepertrail.com for more information. You’ll also find details on current policies regarding camping and fire usage.

Towering above the Central California landscape, the mountain continues to be an active geological site. Best known as the tallest ski area in California, it is actually a gateway to outdoor adventures of all kind, throughout four distinct seasons. Centrally located no more than a seven-hour drive from almost every major city in the state, it is a highly popular weekend getaway.

In the summer adventurers come to hike, mountain bike, fish in the lakes and streams, and rock and mountain climb. Ski gondolas are converted to transportation for mountain bikers and hikers and shuttles are available to take hikers and campers into Yosemite and the John Muir Wilderness National Park as the weather warms up. When nearby Tioga Pass opens after the hot summer sun melts the winter snow pack, Yosemite becomes an enticing day trip. But a much closer and less crowded adventure awaits visitors to the John Muir Wilderness area, which covers 584,000 acres in the Sierra and Inyo National Forests.

The area, which gained 81,000 acres from the California Wilderness Act of 1984, extends along the crest of the Sierra Nevada from Mammoth Lakes southeastward for about 30 miles. It then splits around the borders of Kings Canyon National Park to the Crown Valley and Mt. Whitney regions. This is a land of snow-capped mountains dotted with hundreds of lakes, streams, and meadows. Elevations range from 4,000 to 14,496 feet at Mount Whitney and many peaks are above the 13,000-foot range. Lower elevation slopes are covered with stands of Jeffrey pine, incense cedar, white and red fir and lodgepole pine, while the barren higher spots are marked by granite and glacially-carved lakes.

The breathtaking Rainbow Falls and the geological formation known as Devil’s Postpile are just a few of the easy hikes within close reach of Mammoth, but other curiosities like Bodie Ghost Town and Mono Lake have proven equally popular. Bodie State Historic Park, a genuine California gold-mining ghost town, invites visitors down the original streets of a community that once boasted a population of nearly 10,000. The town, named for Waterman S. Body (William Bodey), who had discovered small amounts of gold in hills north of Mono Lake, hit pay dirt when an 1875 a mine cave-in revealed untold riches.

After the Standard Company purchased the mine 1877, people flocked to Bodie, transforming it from a sleepy backwater of a few dozen to a bone fide boomtown almost overnight. Only a small part of the town survives, and interiors of shops remain as they were left, many still stocked with goods. Designated as a National Historic Site and a State Historic Park in 1962, the remains of Bodie are being preserved in a state of “arrested decay.” Today, this once thriving mining camp is visited by tourists, howling winds, and, of course, an occasional ghost. Spectacular summer thunderstorms are common in the area and give visitors a good idea of the harsh conditions residents had to endure.

Nearby Bodie is Mono Lake, geologically one of the oldest lakes in the western hemisphere. Eerily beautiful, reflecting the snow-capped Sierras in its brilliant blue waters, Mono Lake is essentially an immense inland sea, filling a natural basin 695 square miles in size. Its most distinctive features are its tufa towers — mineral structures formed when freshwater springs bubble up through the alkaline waters of the lake. The lake’s salty water not only makes you float like a cork, but sustains trillions of brine shrimp, attracting millions of migratory birds in search of a feast. A paradise for birdwatchers and photographers, Mono Lake also provides hiking, kayaking, interpretive trails, and a peaceful haven for taking in nature in all its grandeur.
A host of other activities keep Mammoth a lively place all summer. Several pro mountain biking races, an incredible July 4th celebration, and an August Blues festival keep the summer fun sizzling in the downtown area, though fall may be the most beautiful time to visit Mammoth. The summer crowds have gone, and cottonwood, willow, and aspen trees explode into a myriad of autumn colors. Lakes and streams gush with fresh summer rains and melted snow pack, and the air is crystal clear, making for spectacular photography opportunities.

But it is the winter season that outdoor adventurers most associate with Mammoth. With an average of over 400 inches of annual snowfall, thousands of acres of incredible terrain from advanced expert to beginner, and an altitude that keeps the snow from melting well into the summer, Mammoth turns winter into a six month-plus season for snow sports. That equates to one of the longest ski seasons of any resort in the country. Twenty-eight state-of-the-art lifts and gondolas lift skiers to the most advanced peaks and a variety of runs for all skill levels (including seven terrain parks).

Mammoth Mountain is rated as a top destination by most well traveled skiers and snowboarders. From the top elevation of the ski resort at 11,053 feet, there are over 3,100 vertical feet of ski area and over 150 trails. Lift tickets can be expensive during peak season, but there are a variety of discounts available, including reduced lift tickets and vacation packages. While nearby June Mountain offers limited runs and a shorter season, it’s also a cheaper alternative if you’re looking for budget skiing during peak season. But the best deals are offered during my favorite time to visit Mammoth: spring. Cheaper lift tickets, warm, sunny weather, and slushy snow (which is better for less experienced skiers and snowboarders) add up to a great Spring Break at the resort.

There are a variety of other winter and spring activities available at Mammoth. For the vertically-challenged seeking a snowy adventure, escape to the serene tree-lined trails of Mammoth’s majestic Lakes Basin. Nineteen miles of freshly groomed skating, classic, and snowshoe trails await cross-country skiers and snowshoers of all abilities. With the beautiful backdrop of snow-covered peaks and the serene sounds of winter birds you can traverse the forest paths on the edge of glacial lakes. If speed is you your addiction, you may want to rent a snowmobile. Mammoth Snowmobile Adventures is the perfect outfitter for first-timers or seasoned experts. Experienced guides and top-of-the-line equipment grant you access to California’s greatest playground, including: thousands of acres of trails, pristine backcountry, spacious meadows, historic landmarks, and lush pine forests.

A plethora of restaurants and accommodations await you in downtown Mammoth. From a Motel 6 to luxury condos for rent with a ski lift right outside your door, there is a place to stay for most any budget. Some of the popular bars and eateries provide venues for live bands and there always seem to be something going on into wee hours.

For more information on where to stay and what to do, visit the Official Mammoth websites:

www.visitmammoth.com/hotels

www.mammothmountain.com

[Show as slideshow]

Wilmington: The Overlooked Sister
By Vern Hobbs

Though often overshadowed by her flashier sisters, Charleston and Savannah, Wilmington, North Carolina is a sparkling jewel among the historic port cities of the American South. Located along the banks of the Cape Fear River, Wilmington beckons to the curious traveler with three centuries of history, vibrant nightlife, a robust arts community, and pristine beaches.

“Historic,” has become an overworked adjective, too often used to embellish a place more accurately described simply as “old.” To truly deserve the label “historic,” a city should be more than a collection of aging buildings. It should embody a connection to significant people and events through which cultures are defined. Few places meet that standard as thoroughly as Wilmington.

In 1524, 96 years before the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock, Giovanni da Verrazano became the first European to lay eyes on what would one day become Wilmington. Giovanni rendered a glowing report to the King of France, for whom he was working at the time, but no settlement was established until the English arrived 137 years later. This early real estate venture failed when the settlers incurred the wrath of the native Siouan Indians who took offense to the colonists’ plans to kidnap their children and indoctrinate them into British culture and Anglican religion.

In 1720, speculators from South Carolina and Barbados tired a more diplomatic approach, negotiating the purchase of lands from Chief Wat Coosa, and christening the new settlement Wilmington. From these beginnings, the history of Wilmington surged forward with all the plot twists of a Pat Conroy novel.

British General Cornwallis located his headquarters here before heading north into Virginia and his rude encounter with an American general named George. Pirates Stede Bonnet and Edward Teach, a.k.a. Blackbeard, made Wilmington their home port while terrorizing the Carolina and Virginia coasts. Confederate defenders kept Union forces at bay until December 1864, making Wilmington the last southern port to fall into Federal hands. In 1898, racial tensions boiled over into rioting that is today known as the Wilmington massacre. The massacre changed the political structure of North Carolina and gave rise to Jim Crow laws throughout the South, a travesty that stood until the civil rights triumphs of the 1960s. As all this history unfolded around her, Wilmington amassed one of the most impressive collections of Georgian, antebellum, federalist, and neo-classical architecture in the U.S., and sired countless sons and daughters bound for greatness, among them, Charles Kuralt, David Brinkley, and Michael Jordan.

The National Trust for Historic Preservation has recognized the richness of Wilmington’s past by naming it among its “dozen distinctive destinations.” Numerous museums and galleries chronicle this colorful history, but modern Wilmington’s connection with earlier times is not relegated to the proclamations of historical societies, nor confined to museums. It lives in her present day citizens.

Strike up a conversation with Trevor, owner of Mugsy’s Grill on Princess Street, and you’ll discover he’s as much curator as restaurateur, anxious to tell about the building’s history and his efforts to preserve it. Johnny, at Cape Fear Beer and Wine, loves to tell the story of a British soldier who was shot on a riverfront wharf, and is doomed to forever haunt Wilmington in general, and his store in particular.

Yes, this city honors its history, but by no means languishes in the past. Wilmington is a progressive, forward looking, and youthful community. Pharmaceutical and telecommunications have replaced the declining shipbuilding and lumber industries. Motion picture and television producers have found that Wilmington’s Old-South ambience makes it a perfect filming location. Recently, EUE Screen Gems Studios opened “Dream Stage 10,” billing it as the largest movie production facility outside California. The University of North Carolina, Wilmington, Shaw University, and Cape Fear Community College infuse the community with a palpable thirst for learning and a youthful enthusiasm.

An exploration of Wilmington is best launched from Riverwalk Park, at the foot of Market Street. Helpful volunteers will point you toward the most popular attractions, or arrange a tour. Motor and horse-drawn trolley tours are popular. Private carriage rides provide individualized sightseeing with the promise of romance. River excursions, dinner cruises, and water-taxis are provided by Cape Fear Riverboats. For a unique sightseeing experience, try a guided Segway tour. Your personal Segway comes with a quick lesson on safe operation.

The Riverwalk, Wilmington’s premier boardwalk, stretches for over a mile along the Cape Fear River. Cafes, hotels, and boutiques are sprinkled along the landside, while visiting yachts, tour boats, and the Coast Guard Cutter Diligence dock along the waterside. Across the river, Battleship Park and the massive U.S.S. North Carolina invite visitors to hop aboard a water-taxi and come hear the story of this mighty ship and the gallant men who served aboard her. Equally inspiring is the story of North Carolina school children who collected pennies to purchase the decommissioned battleship and relocate it to Wilmington where it was transformed into a living history museum.

One block east of the Riverwalk, Front Street is the beating heart of Wilmington’s vibrant downtown. Mornings start with stimulating conversation in the coffee shops, like Java Dog at 313 Front, where Meg, the lovable Golden Lab, personally greets every customer. Mid-day is all hustle and bustle in the cafes and retro diners, like the Dixie Grill at 116 Market Street, satisfying appetites since 1906. Afternoons are a bit lazy, as window shoppers stroll along Front Street, and tourists meander past the mansions on Third. Evening brings the city back to life as bands crank up the jams in genres ranging from metal to reggae. Broadway favorites are performed live at Level-5 on the top floor or the old Masonic Temple, while discriminating diners gather at Circa 1922, and pizza connoisseurs head for Fat Tony’s.

Wilmington is also the gateway to Southern North Carolina’s beautiful beaches. Wrightsville Beach is the nearest, only eight miles east on Route 74. Locals seem to prefer the more laid-back atmosphere of Carolina Beach and Kure Beach, about 20 miles south of Wilmington on the Cape Fear Peninsula. All these beach communities are thoroughly developed, but the high-rise condos so common along our shores are conspicuously absent.  One- and two-story seasonal residences are the rule here, and plentiful mom-and-pop motels lend to the relaxed, beach-town atmosphere.

All development stops south of Kure Beach at the Fort Fisher Battle Site and State Recreation Area, home to the North Carolina State Aquarium and miles of unspoiled dunes and beaches.  From Fort Fisher, $5 buys a 30-minute ferry ride across the mouth of the Cape Fear River to the quaint hamlet of Southport, established in 1792. A stroll around the shaded lanes of this nautical village is time well spent, as is a visit to the maritime museum on Howell Street. Here you’ll hear fascinating tales of pirates, blockade runners, and hurricanes. For lunch, try one of the outdoor cafes along Yacht Basin Street. Then, wrap up a perfect day by hopping the ferry back to Fort Fisher, the beaches, and that lovely, demure, third sister that you’ve overlooked for so long — Wilmington.

Several years ago, a friend suggested we spend New Year’s Eve in Salt Lake City, Utah. My first concern was whether or not we’d be able to find a place to enjoy a glass or two of champagne to celebrate the occasion. I am not a heavy drinker, but I do enjoy a couple of cocktails once in a while, especially on New Year’s Eve.

I was under the impression that the famously Mormon capital city was a dry town. But I was persuaded to go along with the idea after being informed of the terrific vacation packages available, including some of the most affordable skiing and snowboarding vacations in the country.

Some vacation packages include a special ski pass, good at four different ski resorts. The “Ski Salt Lake Super Pass,” also sold separately in increments of one- to six-days, is good over a seven-day period, and is valid at all four world-class resorts in the Cottonwood Canyons area. The pass provides an easy and inexpensive way to experience each of the resorts through a single lift pass while enjoying all the dining, nightlife, and value that downtown Salt Lake has to offer. With extensive websites offering the latest up-to-date information on conditions, you can research the different resorts the night before, deciding which mountain to visit at the last minute.

Super Pass prices start at $114 for a two-day adult pass and goes up to a six-day pass for $336. It’s valid at Alta, Brighton, Snowbird, and Solitude, and is redeemable for a full-day lift ticket at any one of these resorts. To make getting on the slopes from Salt Lake even easier, the Super Pass also includes free transportation on the UTA ski buses and the new TRAX light rail. The direct-to-resort ski buses run on regularly scheduled service, eliminating the need and associated costs of renting a car. In addition to offering the Super Pass, a Salt Lake winter vacation provides a variety of lodging options to fit every interest and budget. From a luxury five-diamond hotel and spa to a variety of remarkably well-priced budget hotels, Salt Lake offers a downtown base camp that is high on value and low on stress. Off the slopes, visitors can take advantage of the other activities Salt Lake has to offer, including a variety of cultural offerings, a happening restaurant and nightlife scene, and endless shopping.

Available for purchase online at www. ski-saltlake.com or through travel agencies, tour operators, and Salt Lake hotels, the Super Pass gives visitors the opportunity to tour all of Salt Lake’s famed resorts from a convenient base camp. Ski Salt Lake promotes Salt Lake and its four Cottonwood Canyon resorts as the ideal winter vacation destination unmatched in accessibility, variety, and snow quality. Located just 40 minutes from the Salt Lake City International Airport, Salt Lake’s resorts each average 500 inches of snow annually and collectively offer more than 7,500 skiable acres.

Alta is a skier’s mountain committed to preserving the traditional skiing experience. No snowboarding is allowed. Skiers consistently rank Alta as one of the best resorts in the U.S. for powder, snow, quality, terrain, and value.

Brighton ski resort does allow snowboarding and has a half-pipe. A little more out of the way than the other resorts, Brighton has been a popular place for locals to ski as far back as the 1850s. It’s also Utah’s only resort that can boast that 100% of its terrain is accessible by high-speed quads.  Their five quads give access to 1,050 acres and 1,875 vertical feet of incredible Utah skiing. Other amenities include The New Millicent Chalet, three additional day lodges, high quality rentals, a top-notch ski and snowboard school, lockers, cafeterias, and a pub (with alcohol).

Solitude is a large, full-service ski resort with all different types of terrain for skiing and snowboarding, and offers 65 named runs and three bowls spread beautifully over 1,200 acres. Featuring wide-open powder bowls, gladed tree runs, steep chutes, and gentle cruising boulevards, Solitude has terrain for every level of skier. Its longest descent is 3.5 miles down Honeycomb Trail.

Snowbird is one of the most well known resorts in the country. The top of the resort is the 11,000- foot Hidden Peak, and the lowest point on the mountain is the bottom of Baby Thunder chairlift at 7,760 feet. The 125-person tram covers 2,900 vertical feet in approximately seven minutes. Snowbird is one of the scariest mountains I’ve ever tried to snowboard down. I’ve never been more than a very intermediate level snowboarder, and my more expert level friend on the trip convinced me to start out on a black diamond run. Unfortunately, frigid conditions and inclement weather rendered the run like one giant ice cube. Petrified, I slid down most of the way on my back and spent the rest of the afternoon on the bunny slopes as my companion took the tram to the top. Personally, I much preferred the more gradual sloping of the other resorts, but experts love Snowbird.

After an exciting day on the slopes, we headed back to town to get ready for dinner and to take a walking tour of downtown Salt Lake City. Still decorated with Christmas lights and ornaments, downtown historic landmarks like the courthouse and Mormon Temple offer a spectacular view of the festive holiday spirit in the city. While there are no official public pubs or bars, we quickly determined that there is no problem imbibing in your favorite beverage within the city. Private “clubs” are allowed to serve alcohol throughout Salt Lake, and to take advantage of this loophole, all you have to do is become a member of a particular establishment. The membership fee is usually a trivial symbolic amount, maybe $5 or so. But a well-placed smile at the front door may also get you an invite from one of the “clubs” members who can bring you in for free as their guest.

When we visited Salt Lake for New Year’s Eve, the city had recently instituted the “First Night” celebration downtown. First Night is an outdoor/ indoor artistic and cultural celebration that takes place each New Year’s and was first established in Boston in 1976 as an alternative way to celebrate the New Year without the need for alcohol. First Night festivities now take place in cities all over the U.S., Canada, Britain, and New Zealand. The celebration was a great way to experience downtown on a festive occasion, with dozens of establishments from museums to ballrooms participating. And you could always wander off to a private club if you were in need of a beer or cocktail.

This year, the festivities in Salt Lake are expanding into a newer and bigger celebration. Building on a 16-year legacy, the local creators of First Night have reached deep into their imaginations to dream up the evolution of Salt Lake’s wildly popular Winter Festival. On December 29, 30 and 31, tens of thousands will gather for “EVE,” a first-ever indoor/outdoor urban extravaganza — with snow on the ground, fire in the sky, music in the air, and a party in the streets. Presented by the Downtown Alliance with corporate community partners including eBay, Coca-Cola, and American Express, EVE is hosted at venues throughout Downtown — Gallivan Plaza, The Gateway, Temple Square, Pierpont Avenue, the Rose Wagner Performing Arts Center, the Off-Broadway Theater, Broadway Center Cinemas, the Discovery Gateway Children’s Museum, Clark Planetarium, and more. You can find the complete schedule for next December’s events at www. eveslc.com.

The Christmas trees had been on display at Merritt Square Mall since Halloween. My favorite radio station had been playing holiday music since Election Day. Nat King Cole was roasting chestnuts again, and I knew that before the hour was out Bing Crosby would be dreaming of another white Christmas. Despite being the happily sunburnt, contentedly salt-encrusted Florida beach bum that I am, I finally succumbed to this relentless onslaught of polished holiday imagery. I was longing for the perfect Christmas — the Christmas depicted on all those Christmas cards and sung about in all those familiar songs; the Christmas with glistening lanes, snow-laden evergreen boughs, carolers in woolen coats and scarves, sleigh rides, snowmen, ice skaters, hot cocoa, and mulled wine — the works!

What was I to do? I live in the Sunshine State, and have for so long that I tend to think of Interstate 10 as being akin to the Arctic Circle. But wait! I also live in the land of fantasy football leagues and fantasy baseball camps just 50 miles east of the world’s largest collection fantasy-themed amusement parks. Surely, there must be a “Fantasy Christmas” out there somewhere, packaged and wrapped, just waiting for me to sign up.

Ask, and the Internet will provide. A Google search for “fantasy holiday destinations” revealed a number of offerings, but the one that caught my eye was Nestlenook Farm. Maybe it was the website photo of the one-horse open sleigh, or the promise of evenings gathered around the bonfire sipping hot cider while skaters circled the frozen pond. Whatever the reason, I knew I had found the path to my perfect fantasy Christmas.

Located in the White Mountains of New Hampshire near the North Conway ski areas, Nestlenook Farm was not really all that far away. Affordable non-stop flights from Orlando to Manchester, New Hampshire were available, making my personal participation in the quintessential living Christmas card not only obtainable, but cheap.

We found Nestlenook Farm nestled in a quiet little valley just off Route 16A near the town of Jackson. Following the signs, we drove over the river — the Ellis River — and through the woods to arrive in front of the beautiful Nestlenook Inn. No, it wasn’t Grandmother’s house, but in the dream world of the perfect, fantasy Christmas, this is exactly what Granny’s house would look like. The Inn, a gracious, two-story Victorian surrounded by a white picket fence, was trimmed with ornate gingerbread cornices and sprouted three dormers from its steeply gabled roof, all of it tastefully decorated for the Yuletide season, and of course, dusted with a flawless layer of fresh New England snow.

Stepping out into the bracing air of the winter afternoon, I imagined that I could actually “hear those sleigh bells ringing…” No, wait a minute. Could it be? Was I really hearing sleigh bells? Yes, I was! I turned and scanned my surroundings. Across the sloping meadow a team of Clydesdales, in all their big-hoofed, shaggy glory, rounded the bend leading a wooden sleigh filled with red-nosed laughing people. The powerful shoulders of the two mammoth horses were fitted with sturdy leather collars adorned with a dozen or more tiny silver bells. The Christmas card was indeed coming alive, right before my eyes.

Inside, the Nestlenook Inn was even more inviting, and exuded a quaint homeyness blended with a casual degree of elegance. Tastefully simple holiday decorations were abundant but unimposing. A gentle, almost reverent silence prevailed, inclining us to whisper as though we had just entered a library. The aromas of cinnamon, nutmeg, and baking bread mingled pleasantly in the air, suggesting that visions of sugarplums would be dancing in our heads later that evening.

The Inn, one of the oldest homes in the Ellis Valley, was originally constructed in the 1790s and has been masterfully restored to preserve its historical character while incorporating modern amenities. Seven rooms are offered, each featuring either a fireplace or a parlor stove.  All are individually decorated and named for the artist whose paintings adorn the walls. The Inn itself is restricted to adult guests only. Family accommodations are available in the nearby Victorian Village, a collection of unique cottages all built in an architectural style that complements the historic Inn.

Promising ourselves that we would return in time for the complimentary evening wine-and-cheese soirée, we bundled up and headed out to explore the grounds. I felt as though I had stepped into one of those 19th-century Currier and Ives prints that illustrated my 7th-grade history book. Just down the hill from the Inn, we came upon a tidy red barn with a huge wreath of holly and pine suspended above its double Dutch-styled doors. A bit further along we spotted an arched, stone bridge, draped with green and red garlands befitting the season.  To either side of the little bridge, ice skaters glided past in singles and pairs — some dressed in full length woolens, most streaming colorful scarves in their wakes — and I’m sure I spied at least one gentleman sporting a top hat.

Despite multiple layers of clothing, our thin Florida blood limited the amount of time we could comfortably spend outdoors on this cold winter afternoon. We sought refuge in the enclosed gazebo adjacent to the skating pond and were welcomed with a roaring fire and steaming mugs of hot chocolate. From a marble monument located near the gazebo we learned that Nestlenook Farm grew from the inspiration of Nancy Cyr, who converted this humble mountain farm into a storybook winter wonderland for all to enjoy. Nancy unfortunately passed away soon after realizing her dream, but inspiring words on the monument assured us that her spirit lives on in every snowflake that falls on Nestlenook Farm.

I knew now that I had indeed found the perfect Fantasy Christmas — one that fairly leapt from the lyrics of all those songs. As if that weren’t enough, I soon learned that my fantasy needn’t be confined to Nestlenook Farm. Just over the hill, the village of Jackson is itself the setting for the most traditional of Christmas card images. Candles glow in the windows of the homes, sending a soft light into the hush of a snowy evening; carolers give flesh-and-blood life to all those holiday favorites; the local tavern adds turkey and dressing to their bill of fare, and church bells chime on Christmas morning, inviting all to come and hear the story of the first Christmas.

My fantasy was fulfilled. I had at long last experienced an idyllic Christmas and would never again dismiss praises of sleigh bells and roasting chestnuts as mere commercial banter. But after a few days of snowmen and woolen mittens, I began to crave the feeling of a different kind of powder beneath my feet — that special kind found only on the beaches between Cape Canaveral and Sebastian Inlet.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

The 2nd Annual Outside Lands Festival in San Francisco this past August benefited from a combination of improved planning and the luck of some of the nicest weather the city had seen all summer. The result was a far more pleasant and exciting experience for festivalgoers at this food, wine and music extravaganza.

I started my first day at the festival early, as I was unsure how complicated using public transportation in a strange city would be. To my surprise, I was able to catch a single city bus two blocks from my hotel and ride several miles down the colorful Haight Street district to within a short walking distance to the festival box office. Volunteers and city planners had worked long hours to devise an efficient strategy for funneling fans to and from the venue. A fading tropical wave from Baja, Mexico sent an unusual weather pattern over the region, making it feel more like Miami than the historically foggy City by the Bay.

The venue for the festival is extraordinary, taking up about a third of the massive Golden Gate Park. Once inside, it’s hard to believe you’re in the middle of a large city. Giant trees and grassy meadows block out any view of outside buildings, and the festival is arranged around the topography so that each group of stages has its own unique look and feel. There were many secluded areas and empty meadows nearby for those in need of respite from the music. Thanks to the efforts of innovative organizers, Outside Lands truly becomes a world unto itself.

Much more than a purely musical event, this year’s Outside Lands featured some of San Francisco’s finest restaurants offering up some of their most sumptuous dishes. Dozens of different cuisines were on offer, from delicious combination plates of Indian curries to fresh seafood like Hawaiian poke and shucked oysters. More standard fare like gourmet pizza, spicy barbecue and homemade sausages sent savory smells throughout the park. All manner of deserts from Ben and Jerry’s ice cream to fresh baked cookies kept fans’ sweet tooths satisfied. The festival also featured a giant wine-tasting tent called “Winehaven.” With over 30 wineries participating, it was a Lolapalooza for oenophiles. I tried more syrah and pinot noir — my particular grapes of choice — than I had ever seen assembled in one place.

Besides the wealth of food and drink available, there were also loads activities on hand, including a comedy and vaudeville tent; pitching and batting cages; Heineken and Intel areas, disco tents and video games. The most high-profile video game on show was the newly-released Beatles “Rock Band,” with many kids lining up to play their favorite songs.

After some delicious Indian food and my first round of wine tasting at Winehaven, I sauntered over to the Solar stage which is powered entirely by solar panels. This stage was host to some of the most intriguing new acts to appear at the festival. Malaysian singer Zee Avi played pleasing songs with a fresh new voice, and switched between strumming a guitar and a ukulele. Then I rushed back over to the main stage to catch a rocking and energetic set by the Silversun Pickups, followed by Black Joe Lewis and the Honeybears back at the Solar. Often compared to Howlin’ Wolf or James Brown, Lewis is a young singer/guitarist with an eons-old soul.

Then it was back to the Sutro stage for what became the highlight of my day: a set by Tom Jones. The promoters were asking for band suggestions when I corresponded with them last year about their inaugural event. I mentioned that I’d just seen Jones perform in Las Vegas and would love to see him perform in front of a younger audience. Playing a shorter set than his legendary marathon shows, Jones wisely started with a few hard-rocking tunes, before settling into his more mainstream hits. This near septuagenarian still has one of the strongest voices in the music business, at times wailing like an young Robert Plant and at others adopting a deep, gospel-inspired baritone. The fans went wild, throwing dozens of pairs of underwear — both male and female — onto the stage.

When I was growing up in Florida, my imagination was captured by a story I read about a Woodstock-like music festival called Mar y Sol. The festival took place in Puerto Rico by a famous surfing beach named Los Tubos. I thought that it must be heaven on earth to attend a three-day music festival within earshot of good surfing waves. So it was a great surprise to find that the Outside Lands’ main stage was only blocks away from one of the best surfing beaches in California.

It may not be the warm tropical paradise I envisioned in my dreams, but it was pretty close, and I heard that there was an early big-winter swell headed to Ocean Beach the second day of the festival. Paddling out by the huge Seal Rock, a strong riptide aided me in accessing six to eight barreling breakers. The waves were the scariest and most powerful I had seen since last winter at Rincon. A few miles to the south, even larger ones could be seen breaking nearly a mile out to sea. A few surfers dodged the outside sets looking like flies on a windscreen. After an exciting but humbling surf session, I was dropped off at the entrance to Outside Lands, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans and covered with fresh ocean salt. I made my way into the festival and straight into the Winehaven tent for more syrah to enjoy the rest of day-two, with sets by the Black Eyed Peas and Atlanta-based heavy metal band Mastodon.

A sleepy shroud of fog returned to Golden Gate Park for the third and final day of the festival. The cooler weather, combined with the earlier cancellation of headlining supergroup the Beastie Boys, lead to a smaller crowd at the festival than the previous two days. Hot coffee and wine replaced cold beer and ice cream as more popular fare on this typically San Franciscan day. Closing out the festival were performances by Ween, masterful blues vocalist Bettye Lavette (whose rendition of her 1965 hit “Let me Down Easy” nearly brought me to tears), techno disco diva M.I.A., and Band of Horses. About 15,000 devoted fans waited out the cold, drizzly conditions to catch the grand finale of comedy rockers Tenacious D.

Overall, this year’s Outside Lands Festival was a huge success. Melding superior food and drink and breathtaking scenery with stellar surf and an eclectic roster of performers, it shatters every staid notion of how live music should be experienced. Through creative, outside-the-box planning and cutting-edge technology, Outside Lands has changed the traditional concert landscape for both fans and performers. If you have to go to one music event next year, make sure it’s this one.

To find out more about Outside Lands, visit www.sfoutsidelands.com

Be Afraid… It’s Good for You
By Vern Hobbs

Radio personality John Tesh recently reported that medical researchers have determined that the occasional frightening experience may provide certain health benefits. Specifically, being frightened releases adrenaline, increasing circulation and heightening alertness.

So, if you haven’t had a good scare lately, what better time than now — Halloween — to enjoy the rejuvenation that only sheer terror provides? Now perhaps a Halloween travel article should list the best resorts in Transylvania, or at least a quaint bed and breakfast in Sleepy Hollow, but there’s no need to spend your frequent flyer miles just to get that creepy feeling because there are lots of haunted places right here in our area.

Consider, if you will, the old Georgiana Cemetery along Crooked Mile Road on Merritt Island. Georgiana was one of the earliest settlements in the area and was once the hub of commercial activity on Merritt Island. The cemetery dates back to the 18th century and includes a number of unmarked graves. Local folklore holds that the cemetery is a place where people conduct private rituals to honor, and some say contact, long deceased relatives. Stories of the unthinkable, including hands protruding from the ground, are numerous indeed. The cemetery itself could easily be the setting for the next big Halloween film with its ancient tombstones, sunken silhouettes of forgotten graves, and Spanish moss draping from trees to cast eerie shadows. I recommend a visit just before midnight, around October 17 — the last new moon before Halloween.

Should midnight explorations of graveyards seem a little too cliché, consider something a bit more subtle, such as a play, or a musical review. Just across the Indian River, we find the Cocoa Village Playhouse, home to some of the most delightful live theatre in Brevard County, and one well-renowned ghost! Legend has it that the resident phantom is the spirit of a handyman who cared for the building long ago. Theatre staff members have reported hearing footsteps, and doors have been seen to open and close without human manipulation. Paranormal scientists define such behavior as that of a poltergeist — a harmless, even playful ghost.

The Cocoa Village Playhouse is hardly unique in its haunted status. The Daytona Playhouse, at 100 Jessamine Boulevard in Daytona Beach, is rumored to be haunted by not one, but two specters. The most widely told tale is that of a soldier who went missing while fighting in Spain — probably during the Spanish Civil War — and his lover, pregnant with his child, who committed suicide by drowning herself in the Halifax River. Sightings of both have been reported here. The Playhouse was recently investigated by the Daytona Beach Paranormal Research Group, considered one of the foremost paranormal organizations in Florida. A team of investigators combed every inch of the theatre using thermal sensors, audio and video recorders, and other ghost-hunting devices. The team concluded that paranormal activity does exist, and audio and electronic anomalies were recorded.

The old city of St. Augustine is also rife with ghost stories. This is not surprising, considering the city has been inhabited for over four centuries and has seen countless storms, floods, shipwrecks, epidemics, and a few sieges — all things that produce a plethora of untimely deaths, the perfect formula for creating ghosts. So numerous are shadowy legends and haunted houses here that a cottage industry has developed around them. Several companies promote tours of haunted places, each with its own unique twist, ranging from hearse rides to a haunted pub-crawl. For serious ghost hunters, though, Flagler College and the historic St. Francis Inn are not to be missed.

Flagler College, formerly the luxurious Ponce de Leon Hotel, is said to have three ghosts in residence, including Henry Flagler himself. The story goes that Flagler’s funeral was held in the hotel’s great rotunda in 1912. It was ordered that all the windows be opened so that his spirit could fly away, but at the last moment an uninformed janitor closed the windows, trapping Flagler’s ghost forever within his grand hotel. Meanwhile, up on the fourth floor of what is now a women’s dormitory, an alleged mistress of old Henry provides the coeds with many a sleepless night, shaking beds, moving furniture, and playing ballroom dance music. The saddest ghost of all, however, haunts the old hotel’s rococo dining room. The face of a little boy is said to sometimes be visible through a floor tile, staring up at the very balcony from which he fell to his death while playing with a ball.

A few blocks away, at 279 St. George Street, the two century-old St. Francis Inn is so proud of their resident ghost that she’s been given her own room. Just ask for “Lilly’s Room,” when checking in, and plan a little extra time for repacking before you leave. Lilly is a mischievous poltergeist who enjoys scattering guests’ belongings about while they sleep.

Just north of St. Augustine are two of Florida’s most famous haunted places — Ghost Light Road and the old Amelia Island Jail.

You won’t find Ghost Light Road on Map Quest, but you will find Greenbrier Road, a.k.a. St. Johns County Road 210, running west of U.S. 1 near the town of Durbin. For many years motorists plying CR-210 late at night have been scared out of their wits by a mysterious orb of pale light that hovers above and just behind their cars. The St. Johns County Sheriff’s Department had so many reports that they once hired an expert in bioluminescence to study the area and hopefully explain away the phenomena. The study produced no scientific explanation. Locals however, say the light belongs to the ghost of a motorcyclist decapitated in an accident on CR-210 many years ago.

The old Amelia Island jail is thought to be haunted by one Luc Simone Aury. Luc, a notorious pirate, was being held in the jail awaiting execution when he decided to cheat the hangman by slitting his own throat. Not to be denied their just revenge, the local authorities summoned a surgeon who stitched Luc’s neck back together, only to have his head snap off in a bloody spectacle at the next morning’s hanging. Luc is said to appear at the old jail now and again, sporting a gruesome slash around his neck.

Ghosts and haunted places are not exclusive to times long past. East-coastal Florida is home to at least one space age haunting. Launch Complex 34 at the Kennedy Space Center is rumored to be haunted by the spirits of astronauts Virgil “Gus” Grissom, Roger Chaffee, and Edward White, who lost their lives in the tragic Apollo One accident of January, 1967. Reportedly, NASA personnel and contractors working at the site have heard screams of panic and distress. Construction crews hired to repaint the structure several years after the disaster experienced an abnormally high rate of jobsite accidents. The popular paranormal website, www.theshadowlands.net, claims that NASA removed Complex 34 from its guided K.S.C. tours due to “strange occurrences.”

So, there you have it — a small sampling of the many ghoulish legends and spooky places right in our own backyard. Go visit one late on some moonless night.

VENTURA, CALIFORNIA: Sun, Surf and Music

Ventura has long been the blue collar, working class mecca of southern California. Founded on an oil industry boom, and rich farm and ranch lands, it’s always been a place where people work hard for a living and party even harder in their spare time. In the home of world-class surf breaks and the Hell’s Angels, outdoor activities are also an integral part of the Ventura lifestyle. Add to this an incredibly vibrant music and entertainment scenes and you have a fool-proof recipe for the good life. Recently the city — especially the downtown Main Street area — has undergone a transformation into a trendy, upscale vacation destination, rivaling its sister city to the north, Santa Barbara. But at the same time, it’s still managed to maintain its character as a working person’s paradise.

Ventura’s San Buenaventura Mission was founded by Father Junipero Serra in 1782 in his quest to unite California with a series of mission settlement. The surrounding area began life as a vast Spanish hacienda, rich with agricultural abundance. Shortly after the Civil War, American settlers descended upon this California outpost in large numbers and the city of Ventura began to grow rapidly. Thomas Scott, a railroad magnate, bought up huge chunks of the locale and put one of his best employees, Thomas Bard, in charge of his holdings. Now considered the father of modern Ventura, Bard began the area’s vast oil and agriculture industries that still employ so many today. Like Santa Barbara, Ventura is jammed between the mountains of Los Padres National forest and the open Pacific Ocean, and travel in the early days was extremely difficult, leaving the town isolated from most of Southern California. In 1959, a freeway was built along the coast, and modern Ventura soon exploded into the vibrant city it is today.

Nestled tightly along the coast, Ventura boasts some world-class surfing spots, including Surfer’s Point, located on the edge of downtown. “The Point” provides consistent surf in summer and winter, but is at its finest in the peak winter months, when giant ocean swells create waves over a mile long. In fact, some of the longest waves I’ve surfed anywhere in the world have been at Surfer’s. On just the right swell, waves can connect from the mouth of the Santa Clara River all the way down the Point to well over one mile away at the Ventura Pier. The waves can be even longer than the more famous Rincon Point 15 miles to the north in Santa Barbara County. Actually, the bottom of Rincon Point is located on the Ventura County line, and on a good day, you can ride a single wave through both counties. The whole area around Ventura is a surfer’s paradise featuring all types of breaks and conditions. Just to the north is one of the finest big-wave reef breaks in all of Southern California, while to the south, miles of beach breaks, including the explosive Santa Clara Rivermouth, offer gaping tubes for experienced surfers.

The long stretch of parking on Surfer’s Point is a focal point for beach life in Ventura. Different surfing subcultures, from longboarders and stand-up paddlers on First Point to professional shortboarders and kite surfers at the upper river mouth, provide a spectacular view for spectators. The Ventura Seaside Fairgrounds, located right on the Point, is also an entertainment and sports hub for the area. Open year-round, the venue’s schedule is full of events, from rodeos and car races to county fairs and rock concerts. The Vans Warped Tour makes an annual stop here, an idyllic setting for this massive surf/skate music festival.

The Warped Tour pulled into the Fairgrounds this past June and crammed some extra surprises into one of the longest days of the year. The Tour started back in 1994, when Kevin Lyman, a professional skateboard show promoter, got the idea to mix a music festival with an extreme sports event inspired by legendary skating magazine Warp. In 1995, the festival, promoted by the popular shoe designer, became the Vans Warped Tour, and now boasts no less than nine concert stages, with over 60 live bands per show performing on a rotating schedule. Numerous food vendors and a sea of merchandise and environmental issue stands give the festival a carnival-like atmosphere, while a half-pipe allows spectators to watch pro skaters and BMX bike riders perform spectacular tricks.

The concert attracts huge throngs of music fans, from ‘tweens to twentysomethings, and the claustrophobic and chaotic conditions tend to scare off most of the mature and gentrified crowd. At the peak of the afternoon, it was hard to navigate the fairgrounds through the mass of spectators. Unlike festivals like Coachella or Bonnaroo, where fans religiously study set locations for weeks to optimize their time, the Warped Tour relies on day-of-event postings on and inflatable board. Small handwritten notices posting band names and approximate set times have frenzied fans scrambling to find the many stages at the last moment. But this really only adds to the mystique and excitement that surrounds the festival.

Low ticket prices and the massive line up make Warped one of the best summer concert deals out there, that, and the democratic way the show is organized, which leaves little room for inflated rock star egos. There’s no time for sophisticated sound checks. Instruments and sound systems must be shared. One band is designated to prepare a meal for the entire staff of roadies and musicians, while another works as the road crew for a coveted performing spot on the tour. Additionally, promoters have cut out one of the biggest expenses associated with any concert: lighting. Since the festival takes place during long summer days and ends at sunset, there are virtually no lighting rigs needed. But in what has always struck me as a classic American irony, the concert is one of the most heavily corporate sponsored music events ever conceived, with scores of different companies subsidizing each of the stages. Other subsidies, product placements and giveaways are rampant throughout the venue, from drinks and stickers to CDs and video games. This at an event with punk music as its core, with numerous bands screaming lyrics of anarchy and antidisestablishmentarianism. If it weren’t for the corporations, no one would get to hear their explosive rants.

Many of the featured bands, including Flipper, TSOL, The Dickies, Guttermouth, and Fear originally earned fame playing the legendary CBGB’s nightclub in New York at the end of the ’70s. Fear’s lead singer and sometime actor Lee Ving agreed to perform in conjunction with the premiere of “National Lampoon’s Endless Bummer” later that evening at the nearby Ventura Majestic Theater. A satiric coming-of-age film about surfers living in Ventura in 1984, “Endless Bummer” elicited thunderous applause for each of its locally-shot scenes. While it’s a good bet the film won’t earn any awards, it is, nevertheless, a compelling little period piece. Anyone even remotely familiar with the Ventura surf scene, especially during the ’80s, will enjoy reminiscing and scanning each scene for familiar landmarks.

After the screening, bands who had contributed to the soundtrack played in local clubs up and down Ventura’s Main Street, which has been transformed into an upscale showcase of new restaurants, shops, movie theaters and bars. Ventura Harbor, near the pounding waves at Santa Clara Rivermouth, also offers an array of restaurants and shops right on the water. The harbor is also the gateway to Channel Islands National Park, teeming with sea life and perfect for hiking, camping, kayaking, scuba diving and surfing. But many just prefer to cruise on out and admire them from the safety of the ferry.

Back in Ventura, visitors will notice a strong economy and even stronger work ethic, surrounded by fabulous new shopping hubs, great back country hiking and biking trails, and top-notch surf and water sports activities.

Come for a visit and you just might stay for a lifetime.

Tortuguero, my happy home…

So goes the opening line of a song, seldom (if ever) heard beyond the banks of the Parisimina River in northeastern Costa Rica. Despite the tune’s anonymity, it holds a place in my heart.

In contrast to the popular tourist destinations and expatriate havens of Tamarindo, Puntarenas, and Quepos, Tortuguero might be best described as “the Costa Rica less-traveled.” This village of 500 residents owes its relative obscurity to its relative remoteness. Located near the Nicaraguan border on the Caribbean side of Costa Rica, the village is accessible only by boat or light aircraft. This forced isolation has denied — some might say, spared — Tortuguero from the flood of tourism surging across the rest of Costa Rica. There is, however, an annual deluge of visitors that continues year after year just as it has forever. It was this frenzied annual migration that brought another Central Floridian to Tortuguero some five decades before our recent visit.

Each year, beginning as early as February and continuing well into October, thousands upon thousands of sea turtles seek out the muddy expanse of beach that lies between the mouths of the Tortuguero and Parisimina Rivers. Multitudes of loggerhead, hawksbill, leatherback, and the rare green sea turtle literally flock to this isolated seashore to dig their nests and lay their eggs.

While the number of turtles nesting here today may seem staggering, it pales in comparison to the amount counted as recently as a century ago. Stories abound and photographs exist that show it was literally possible to walk the length of Tortuguero’s beach by stepping from the back of one nesting turtle to the next. It was this preponderance, and more specifically, the decline of this preponderance, that brought University of Florida Professor and Naturalist Archie Carr to Tortuguero in the 1950s. Dr. Carr was already a preeminent scientist in the field of sea turtle study, but it was here, at Tortuguero, that he set out to become a preeminent force in their preservation.

By the mid-twentieth century unregulated commercial hunting of sea turtles had reduced nesting populations dramatically in Florida, the Gulf of Mexico, and the upper Caribbean. The Green Sea Turtle teetered on the brink of extinction, and the other varieties were sure to follow. As turtle populations declined, commercial hunting began to concentrate toward the few places where nesting continued on a large scale — places like Tortuguero. Dr. Carr, a lifelong scholar and teacher, believed that while protective legislation was vital, education was the best hope for saving sea turtles. In 1959 he helped establish the Caribbean Conservation Corporation, a non-profit organization dedicated to the preservation of sea turtles and their habitat through research, education and advocacy.

The long process of educating people about the plight of sea turtles, Dr. Carr reasoned, should begin right in Tortuguero, a village whose very existence relied on the hunting of turtles. Little by little, and often one by one, Dr. Carr and his associates changed the villagers’ perceptions of the turtle, convincing them over time that a live turtle was more valuable than a dead one. The message spread. In 1970, the government of Costa Rica established the 46,900-acre, Tortuguero National Park, restricting turtle hunting to a subsistence level and protecting the nesting beaches. The Caribbean Conservation Corporation soon expanded its influence, and today is the largest such organization in the Atlantic Basin.

Our journey to Tortuguero began aboard an air-conditioned motor coach in Costa Rica’s cosmopolitan capitol, San Jose. The quicker option would have been a flight on Nature Air, a regional airline serving Tortuguero. The bus ride from San Jose, however, traversed the Braulio Carrillo National Park and included a stop at the Rainforest Aerial Tramway for a thirty-minute ride through the treetops of the jungle canopy.

Since there are no roads in or out of Tortuguero, the bus ride was only the first leg of our adventure. At the village of Matina, near the industrial port of Limon, we transferred from the comfortable coach onto a pair of open boats called “pangas” by the locals. Our English-fluent guide informed us that we would, for the next several hours, be coursing our way northward through a network of rivers and waterways that roughly paralleled the Caribbean coast.

“Oh, just like the Banana River,” I remarked confidently.

WRONG! In stark contrast to our tranquil, coastal lagoons, these waterways are deep, swift rivers that drain an immense volume of water from the vast rain forests of the interior. Our intrepid boatmen carefully navigated upstream against strong currents, dodging submerged logs and other hazards while our well informed guide described the amazing bio-diversity slipping past on either shore. Curious birds, such as the architecturally-talented orapendola and the multi-colored toucan of Fruit Loops fame, were abundant. Occasionally, a troop of howler monkeys could be seen — and definitely heard — high in the treetops. As we progressed further north, the sporadically cleared lands of subsistence farmers became less prevalent as the landscape took on a much more jungle-like character.

The sign, declaring in both Spanish and English that were entering the Tortuguero National Park, was a welcome sight. Our long boat ride was almost over and our destination was near. We passed the village just as night was beginning to fall, and continued another mile or so to Laguna Lodge, our home for the next few days.

Laguna is one of seven lodges located just north of Tortuguero, all catering to the growing number of eco-tourists that come to explore the park and to witness the annual turtle nesting frenzy. Our accommodations were in cozy but spacious cabins situated around the lush, tropically landscaped, and impeccably maintained grounds. Meals, unfailingly delicious, included in the price and served buffet style, were taken under the thatched roof of the open-air dining hall. Evening entertainment consisted of gatherings around the fire pit where stories were told and friendships begun. One night, a local musical trio performed their repertoire of folk songs, including “Tortuguero, My Happy Home.”

Guided tours into the park departed the lodge twice daily with specialized tours focusing on specific types of animal and plant life. The village of Tortuguero, site of the Caribbean Conservation Corporation’s research and education center, was just a twenty-minute walk away down the famous nesting beach to which the village owes its fame.

The things we saw amazed us: exotic birds, including the rare green and vivid scarlet macaws; colorful, poisonous frogs; doll-faced capuchin monkeys, and their noisy cousins, the howlers. There were some disappointments: we arrived few weeks too early for turtle nesting and, sorry, no jaguar sightings to report. But what touched us most was Tortuguero itself: a tiny village sandwiched between a raging sea and a wide, deep river inhabited by a gentle and welcoming people who once hunted sea turtles to near extinction, but is now, thanks to the patient teachings of one dedicated Floridian, a place which has vowed to preserve them forever.

…Tortuguero, my happy home. From Tortuguero may I never roam…

To learn more, read “The Windward Road,” by Archie Carr