Golden Caravan 2005

2005-10-01T01:37:00.000-05:00

IN MEMORIAM

HEINZ, 1992-2005

South Bend, Indiana

On the return to DeTour only five days after the caravan, our faithful companion of almost fourteen years, Heinz, became weak and uncharacteristically lethargic. A rapid onset of ankle and groin swelling
revealed an aggressive lymphatic sarcoma.

In only five days, he became comatose and died peacefully on September 30th. He lived a good life. He could be dainty, yet regal. His favorite demeanor was to appear lost, knowing that Lynn would always find his way, just as she had when she picked him from a free puppy box at the farmer's market.

No cards, flowers, or sympathy are necessary.......just be gentle and loving to the pets in your lives.

Mom, Dad, and Kramer will never forget you.
Good bye, good friend, don't ever lose your way.

2005-09-23T00:12:00.000-05:00

The End of an Odyssey
September 22, 2005
Sault Ste. Marie, Mi.

The first day umbilically separated from the caravan began somewhat ominously. Only 12 miles out we missed a turn in Ellsworth, Me., circled the block, and in driving rain, failed to see a high sharp curb. This resulted in an exploded curbside trailer tire. One hour later, in the parking lot of the city jail and courthouse, I had completed the tire change, soaking wet. Physically and emotionally exhausted, we began the long trek home through Maine, New Hampshire, and Vermont on through to Ontario.

Heinz and Lynn studying their
French lessons.

We passed by a "Funky Frank's". On a damp, overcast day, Frank was kind enough to display on his property, everything he had ever owned that was not water-soluble. Absent a compositional focal point and suitable light, I failed to take a photograph of this landfill-in-waiting because the fill covered what I assume was land underneath. Use your imagination.

In Rumford, Maine, a tribute to
native son, Ed Muskie, chiseled in granite.

In the Soo, 6600 miles, 66 days, four
tired puppies complete the circuit.

I once read in the NY Times Book Review that odyssey is defined as a trip or adventure that must begin AND end in the same place. We therefore felt compelled, bound by literary accuracy, to return to the Chippewa campground, Sault Ste. Marie, Mi. where we had convened nearly ten weeks before.

The only hiccup occurred at our border crossing where we were stopped by the ever vigilant, always suspicious, US Customs and Homeland Security for a search of the trailer. At some point on the bumpy roads of Canada, our pantry door latch failed, an 18 ounce cylinder of Quaker Oats had fallen to the floor, and effectively distributed oats from the rear bedroom to the front couch. Lynn, quick to defend her housekeeping prowess, was summarily dismissed by the PMS inspired female customs agent who commanded her to LEAVE the trailer while she did the inspection.
Bottom line: our planned dinner, left-over spaghetti with meat balls, was the only item confiscated....for fear of mad cow disease. How about mad wife disease.

A final thought about the difference and similarity of 1955 to 2005. Fifty years ago the sight of 100 travel trailers, equipped with modern conveniences of home was a true curiosity, a novelty similar to the circus coming to town. With few private campgrounds, they relied on public parks, vacant exhibition grounds, & private farmland for space, and were fortunate to have water on occasion and rarely three amps of electricity. Comfy,lightweight, towed by V-8 Cadillacs, Buicks, and Ford station wagons, they were perceived as the modern day version of the previous century's small covered Conestogas. Fast forward to 2005 where we spent all but seven nights in private campgrounds, most with full electric, water, and sewage facilities. Fully self-contained, our immediate interests were satellite TV reception, availability of wi-fi internet access, & location of the nearest Wal-Mart. Studio apartments on wheels. RVs are now as ubiquitous on the highways as cars and semis. Other organized groups of motorhomes, banded together in scheduled travel 'tracks', crossed our path several times. Impostors.

Perhaps in 50 years, others, armed with our travelogues, diaries, and scrapbooks, may attempt to replicate what we have done in a "Century" format, or even in the year 2030 as a "Diamond" jubilee. I forsee monster carriages, fueled by something other than fossil fuels, driven and guided remotely by GPS satellite chips imbedded into roadways. By simple extrapolation, all the comforts of home will be inside, four dimensional plasma walls to preview each coming attraction before you arrive at your destination, a large cabinet displaying your antique John Deere lawn tractor from 2011, and most importantly, your above-ground swimming pool. The most difficult decision will be, when arriving at the next waterfall, church, museum, or scenic lookout.....whether to actually get out and look at it.

A 34 foot A/S Excella feels this
roomy after nine weeks.

Our group, averaging seventy years +, was co-operative, energetic, inquisitive, and fun-loving in spite of advancing age. Did I mention that they are getting along in years ? Genuinely nice older people who melded together for two months to share in an unforgettable experience of fun, fellowship, and adventure.

2005-09-18T12:03:00.000-05:00

The Final Banquet
Downwardly Mobile in
Trenton, Maine....September 17, 2005

Our last three days in Maine are hectic. The journal committee finished its final pages and preparations for the banquet are intercepted by non-stop dew, fog, showers, cats & dogs, coming down in buckets, rain. Some have ventured to romantic Bar Harbor and the Acadia National Park, where they got soaked. Others to the top of Cadillac Mountain, able to see as far as the hood of their car, where they got soaked. A token celebratory baked potato supper was held under a damp pavilion the night before the grand event.

Recipe (for you HGTV fans) as follows:

remove the reynolds wrap

slather with chili, onions, cheese, broccoli, sour cream

wash down with boxed zinfandel wine, oreo cookies, and a Klondike bar.

You might want seconds.

These caravanners have standards, depending on how low you want to set the bar. Goodbye Martha Stewart, hello scout camp.

The final banquet is held in the dining room of a local country club. There is no head table, no stage, the ceiling is too low and the room is full of posts. We have our own basic audio system (a mechanical hand held mike), a podium that served as a doghouse in a previous life, and we're underway.

The booming voice of John Wittman,
emcee. Positioned behind the podium and close to the getaway.

Led by the booming voice of our professional emcee from Texas Tech, let the amateur night begin:

.....welcoming prayer

.....a multiple choice S.A.T. test

.....favorite moments revealed

.....warm-up monolgue

.....singing ladies

.....singing men

.....an enthusiastic skit

.....poetry and thank you's all around

Burt and Dot Kalet, veterinary duo from Winston-Salem, NC, who provided wise counsel during a stressful episode with our dog, Kramer. Exemplary airstreamers, always willing to help.

Two cupcakes with white frosting.
Lynn Spiher and Conna Whitmore

Vic Carson has his 'yearbook'
signed.

It ended with a robust version of "God Bless America", hugs, handshakes, and the free flowing of tears. Truly a bittersweet moment. Survivors of an endurance contest, assembled by fate, selected at random, we had become an amalgam of nicely dressed friends. Below the surface, we, like distempered raccoons, know each other as rumpled denim, wrinkled dockers, boat trips & bus rides, bumpy roads & smooth-as-glass sunsets, lobster boil on the Gaspe', Amoeba day-sailing in Baddeck, peasant soup in Antigonish, corduroy only on special occasions, the night belonged to each and everyone of us, a spirit only we could share, this night, our last night together....forever.

The inimitable Bill Bucher, Biglerville, Pa.,
enjoying the evening away from polishing
his beautiful classic airstream.

A most elegant couple, the Duartes from
San Luis Obispo, Ca.
Joyce always insists
that Art zip up his fly on formal occasions.

My next post will probably be the last. Whether you were on the caravan, either in person or vicariously, please offer your own commentary or advice on the log. It doesn't even have to be nice. I'll do a wrap up in two weeks and I promise to respond personally if time allows.

Note that I have not mentioned any one by name. Or I would feel compelled to mention everyone. But John and Shirley Wittman deserve recognition for producing and chairing the final event; maximum joy, minimum budget. The tribute is that we all know one another in our own special way. Thanks for the memories.....

2005-09-16T12:17:00.000-05:00

Maine Dew,
near Trenton, Me.
Sepember 14 2005

Our re-entry into the states has been damp. Alternating between dew, fog, rain, dew, fog, rain, dew, fog, rain, dew, fog, rain, dew, fog, rain, dead skunk in the middle of the road, dew, fog, rain, dew, fog, rain.

Short wait at the border crossing,
Calais, Maine

At times, even the most mundane, malodorous object can become compelling. Break that monotony.

The three days in St. John were so damp and now the stay in Maine promises the same....a remnant from a hurricane and tropical storm system that has besieged the North Carolina shore, Ophelia. I was honored to be selected as chairman of the journal committee, so the last few days will be somewhat hectic, wrapping the final chapter for distribution at the final banquet. I had also volunteered to do a warm-up routine for the emcee, John Wittman. I'm going to fry some of the caravanners, but in a light, non-libelous manner. Hell, nobody knows my home address, so I should be able to pull it off.

We are nearing the end and I'd like to share with you what has developed into a caravan "rhythm". With little variation at each successive stop, the advance team (the parkers) prepares for the troop arrival. It begins innocently and slowly, a few large trailers, a steady stream of motorhomes as large as buses with shiny new cars in tow, vans and trucks packed full of eager and hopeful faces, pouring past the park gatehouse. A small, private, empty campground can erupt into a suburban development gone mad, new neighbors moving in every minute.

Found adhered to the side
of a 1964, 19" A/S,
Trenton, Maine

Dr. Seuss would have loved it. They come in every imaginable contraption, motors revving, brakes squeaking, as they search for their numbered piece of paradise. Husbands yell at wives as they manuever their homes on wheels backwards. Motorhomes are leveled, awnings stretched, electric jacks whine, hitches unclick, tarps and welcome mats laid, extension cords, hoses strategically construed to define each homestead.

Check your antenna, your
step, and your navigator.

Satellite dishes emerge, set-up, aimed, re-aimed in a choreography resembling a tribal dance. Away from irritating trees, atop picnic tables, anchored on tripods, the musical score of beeping signals resonating 200 channel success from the southwest sky. More of a performance than work, every task a collaborative effort in its execution.

I've been reading "Walden", by Thoreau, and he observed that our luxuries have burdened us to the point that we are slaves to them. Not machines working for men, but men spending their lifetime working for machines. I often wonder. How did he know that ? Was he watching the Discovery Channel?

Recently I read of an affliction, "affluenza", that suggests what many of us suffer from, the viral burden of too much affluence. Think about it.

Finally, as if to signal the end of it all, lawn chairs begin to snap to attention as they stop and sit for a moment, satisfied, content, able to get away from it all. An interesting phenomenon occurs when people are gathered together. Some begin to spend time looking at one another, wondering what the others must be like. That is what happened here...slowly recognizing the importance of each individual, if only on the surface, then disembarking in seventy two hours to begin the process anew.

The irony is the fragile thread that brought us together. Listen carefully to how preposterous the attachment might appear to a casual objective observer.....you all own the same brand of RV ? That's it ?? So. Would you gather with people who owned the same brand of automatic washer (Maytag, Kenmore), same brand of underwear (Munsingwear, Hanes) or take the same brand of antidepressant (Zyprexa, Zoloft) ? Hardly. A stretch when examined as a rational behavior, but it does seem to work.

On a sunnier day, near Peggy's Cove,
This was the best fish and chips,
ever. Fredie was truly fantastic.

Charlie and who else,

Fredie.

The department of tourism might describe today's condition as mysterious, moody, or even mystical. I'm going with foggy, wet, and cloudy. The answer my friend, is written...........

2005-09-13T15:48:00.000-05:00

Saint Johns, New Brunswick
September 13, 2005
Refined Oil, Reversing Falls, & Relinquishing to TIM HORTON

My childhood was spent in an area south of Chicago on the shores of Lake Michigan, encompassing Gary, Hammond, and Whiting, Indiana, home to Sinclair, Standard Oil, Conoco. Today on the scenic drive from Sussex, NB, through St. Martins, NB, toward Saint Johns we came across the largest oil refinery I had ever seen...Irving of Canada on the Bay of Fundy. Privately owned, three Irving brothers refine 80% of Canada's oil. They are not eligible for public assistance. They charge more at the pump here than they do in neighboring provinces (the gas is fresher).

In forward or reverse,
two of my favorites:
L-R
Carol Wallen & Dot Kalet

St. Johns is otherwise quite dull...a decent farmer's market, several squares named after kings or queens, and the famed reversing falls. The water flows backward during high tide....yawn.

On this trip we have been exposed to many of the following:
The largest....
The first.....
The oldest.....
The only.....

Lizzie Borden, are you listening ?
The World's Largest Axe, 66 feet high,
in Nackiwac, NB. Which anagrams to:
CAN-WACKI !

All you have to do is fill in the blanks;
Lobster, Stainless Steel Axe, Maritime library outside the British Isles, License plate to commemorate Veterans, Highest Tide, Longest bridge, yada, yada.

A highlight of the day was visiting the paint-by-number museum of Storme Arden and Dorain Henderson, which you can visit at their website,
<>. Lynn and I have had a cheap metal magazine rack in our trailer for the last seven years (maybe a $1 garage sale purchase) that was sold as a paint-by-number keepsake in the 50s. Lynn thought it was dreadfully tacky, and I, by contrast, felt it was an astonishing example of truly collectable retro-chic priceless art. Guess who was right ?

The paint-by-number gallery;
Worth a special trip....
awe inspiring.

The curators,
L-R,
Dorain Henderson & Storme Arden,
in lovely St. Martins, NB

Both women were in awe, so I elected to donate it to their museum where it will remain on exhibit in perpetuity, or until they sell it on e-bay, whichever comes first.

This was also our last day in Canada, home of the Canadian Embassy, or as it is known here, TIM HORTON'S. I had quietly and reluctantly sidestepped entering a Tim Horton's until this final day. We were accompanied by Canadian friends, Roy and Bonnie MacDonald (note the irony), as I lost my TH virginity.
It was o.k., fast food, fresh, high in calories and sodium ion, and modestly priced, but I doubt that I'll ever return.

In Tim Hortons men's restroom,
this awesome yawning "SCHMOO"
cycloptic urinal.

The cupcake drags Chas. into
the TH while amused Irving employees
belch with excitement

In the beginning I indicated that the caravan invaded Canada in a staggered start, 3 sections of 35 units in intervals of 3 days. We are now staggering toward the finish. Our rigs are filthy, systems internal and external have failed including but not limited to:
cabinets falling off walls, drawers coming apart, microwave exploding, electric jack melting, toilet seals deteriorate, cabin bodies loosening from frames, broken axles, flat tires, fan belts shred, refrigerator failure. We are like a deuce in the discard pile.

Frank Guros watches as
John Dona changes his tire.
"It was only flat on the bottom"

An overhead advert on the tour
bus in St. Johns, which somehow
seemed aimed at our target audience.

The days dwindle down to a precious few as we at last entered northern Maine, after 57 days out of the U.S., autumn now erupting in its annual gestation, that quiet exhilaration of brown, yellow, and amber madness. It seemed appropriate to listen to Greenwood's, "Proud to be an American", and Springsteen's, "Born in the U.S.A.", as we crossed the border. Even in a country that is being hopelessly mismanaged, we remain steadfastly loyal, it's good to be home.

2005-09-12T14:29:00.000-05:00

A Ferry Ride to another world
Prince Edward Island
September 11, 2005

The tearing caused by a foreign impediment,
Kathy Griffin, our co-leader, and a real eyeful.

The Prince Edward Island has a personality quite dissimilar to Nova Scotia. Physically it is smaller, the topography is much smoother, the soil is red from the iron oxide, and the land is built on sandstone.

Roy and Bonnie MacDonald
Favorite Canadians enjoying
the lobster at North Rustico,
the Fisherman's Wharf

There are three major industries; agriculture, which is primarily vegetables, new potatoes and cattle, mostly Holsteins; lobster restaurants with Vegas style salad bars; and Anne of Green Gables. The latter is the economic impetus for the entire island. People don't seem to understand that Anne Shirley, Avonlea, and the Green Gables is a work of fiction. It didn't really exist but in the imagination of Lucy Maud Montgomery. Is any one listening ?

Yeah, yeah
you little whiny weasel

You reach the island recalling the heart warming story of Anne Shirley, the pathetic little orphan girl with pigtails who somehow overcomes initial rejection and becomes a sentimental favorite by the books' end. You leave the island hoping that you'll never again see the image of that precocious little redheaded twerp in serious need of anger management training.

The lobster was better than this.

Cupcake...it's all
imaginary.

So what did we do on the island, inquiring minds wish to know ? Well first we went to see the site of the founding of the Confederation (this is the Canadian version of our Indepence Hall) on our way to the theater to see, what else, "ANNE OF GREEN GABLES, THE MUSICAL".

The next day we went to Cavendish to see where Anne would have lived if she had not been a fictional character...which she was. Then we went to see Avonlea, the non-existent town she didn't live in which was followed by a visit to the National Parc of Canada to the house of Green Gables, which was built to satisfy fairy tale obsessions of older women in serious need to find a gift shop of endless trinkets made in China all representing a make-believe person.

The most interesting stop for us was on the island's north coast bordering the Atlantic with near gale force winds of 30-40 mph and pounding surf. Two large draft horses, attached to the owners' tethers were harvesting sled fulls of Irish Moss. The reward is 42 cents/lb for the moss, which looks like seaweed, and is sold as the source for an emulsifying agent to the cosmetic and ice cream industries.
The drama of the giant steeds in the surf was overwhelming, as was trying to stay steady to take photos.

We departed P.E.I. on the Confederation bridge, a 9 mile causeway. You get on the island free, but it requires a $45.25 toll to depart. I suspect many of the people living on the island either can't afford the price of gasoline or the toll to leave. Perhaps you recall the story of a man named Charlie, who on a tragic and fateful day, put ten cents in his pocket, kissed his wife and his family, and went to ride on the MTA. The Kingston Trio was just 50 years ahead of their time.

Tireless and Devoted...
Chuck and Doris Jean Cabalka,
Newton, Iowa.
Grinding away toward
journal success.

The caravan is winding down and an undercurrent of euphoria is beginning to surface. It has been a long, long adventure. Our personal experience has been extremely positive. My duty as chairman of the journal committee has been made very simple through delegation. The members do all the work and I, doing nothing, will get the credit.
Namely, Chuck and Doris Jean Cabalka, who have dual PCs, more computer skills than I can imagine, and a printer, and have spent countless hours translating all the entries into a readable text. Bonnie MacDonald proofreads the text (old schoolteachers never quit), while Fran Perucci dogs all the laggards who haven't made their entries. Lynn collates the pages, Nora Guros writes the poetry, and Vada Dodge and I will hand out the finished version at the final banquet. What a deal.

Watch for it on the New York Times best seller list.

On the way from PEI to St. Johns, we took the opportunity to visit the village of St. Martin's, which has, take a deep breath, one of the most extensive collections of finished paint-by-number artworks. A personal collection, and not for sale, I will include the lady's web-site and photos in my next entry. It was dazzling. Paint-by-number art was recently featured in the Smithsonian and is now recognized as a legitimate medium. It was where my own art career came to a close in 1953. And I suspect many of yours, too.

2005-09-09T09:41:00.000-05:00

On board the "AMOEBA"

BADDECK, NS TO P.E.I.
SEPTEMBER 9, 2005
The deck of the Amoeba to Anne of Green Gables,
Stay TUNA'd IN

Can Benign Bay be far away ?

Old salts, Bill Turner,
Cathy Carlig, & Lynn Spiher
ready to sail

Our last day in Baddeck was spectacular. It was sunny, breezy, and a perfect day for a sail on the Amoeba, a 67' two masted ship. This was not some fake excursion, with a diesel propelling us around the bay. Three minutes off the dock the engine was off and we were under sail. A family owned craft, our captain Johns' father had hand-built the boat in 1977. His charming wife, Bev, and daughter, Laurie, served as the support crew and waitstaff. The youngest daughter, Christy, handled the dock. We had lunch on board, reached eight knots at one point, got a close-up view of the Alexander Graham Bell home (not open to visitors as it is still occupied by the descendants of old AGB), and a bald eagle nesting in its aerie. A caravan highlight.

Hemming Ernestway's
Old Men and the Sea,
l-r,
Jack Dallimore, Max Joseph,
Gary Fithian, Dale Tague

Jay Maxwell, retired Delta Airlines pilot, lectures Rena Yee, Myra and Max Joseph, on the dangers of sailing.

Alex's special home on a 500 acre point.

The following day we departed for New Glasgow, NS, with a destination of a shopping center parking lot for a single overnight stay. This strategy was employed to position the caravan for an early morning departure on the P.E.I. ferry. Asphalt is not dog poop friendly so we extended our day tour well into the evening to avoid the "mall". Most malls have the ambience of an airport kiosk, an interior design as inviting as elevator collision matting, and the personality of a Q-Tip, so I doubt we missed much.

Nova Jersey A/S jacket

This led us to a unique daytime experience along the Cape Breton coast in a small seacoast town, Port Hood, home of the Ceilidh Fishermans' Co-Op. We manuevered the trailer near the dock and met up with a half dozen tuna fisherman. That morning they had caught 8 bluefin tuna, ranging from 375 lbs. up to 984 lbs. They are carefully regulated by the govt. as to when (the season), how many (one per day), they catch, then taxed $150 per fish, + $30 a year for the renewal of the license. Current value of the lifetime license (salable and transferable) is $85,000.

Lynn and the 984 lb. bluefin.

The auctioneer offered us a little tail.

The fish are so heavy, they simply tie a rope around the tail and tow them home. Unlike Hemingway, they are not encumbered by sharks looking for a free lunch. This tuna is not for canning, i.e., Starkist, Chicken of the Sea, Bumblebee, but is the prized sushi in the world. They are auctioned off the same day to buyers from around the globe. The very best go to Japan, the marginal to Europe and the states. At roughly $16/lb at auction, it retails in Tokyo for $75/lb. Hey, eat it raw, why waste expensive fossil fuel cooking ?

The fishermen love the life and like many small farmers, make a marginal living in answering the call to nature.

We made the trip over to Prince Edward Island on the Confederation Ottawa, a large non-descript ferry in the morning and are now on the island of Anne of Green Gables and her beloved Avonlea. I know that by the time we leave here I'm going to be nauseated by the sight of that little red-haired weinie in pigtails. I'd rather be reincarnated as one of A.G. Bells' descendents. Who said everyone is born equal.

The province, one of the last to battle
Sunday shopping.

Today, for lunch, what else, ?...... tuna salad sandwiches.

2005-09-06T13:00:00.000-05:00

THE ORIENTAL/CANADIAN CONNECTION
BADDECK, NOVA SCOTIA
SEPTEMBER 6, 2005

Today my intention is divert from the caravan, only briefly, to examine food and words. When added to bread and mustard they will form a thoughtful sandwich. In the prior post I described a ceilidh, one of many unpronounceable words here, consonant dipthongs and tripthongs, forgetting that Q is always followed by a U, a dictionary of the indecipherable from the region's first occupants, the Mi'Kmaq Indians.

They came up with the word chebuctou (def.-where two rivers meet and look like your sister's cleavage in the moonlight) and then followed that with whycocomagh and wagmatcooq which, when used in the proper sequence, can be translated to, "the green of the mountains blends into the royal blue ocean and you'd better keep your hands to yourself white boy". This was also the first tribe to discover the apostrophe. However, few warriors ever scored above 400 in the math or verbal, failed to get into grad school, and are now almost extinct.

So we'll leave that subject to rest while we question why anyone would eat Chinese in the maritime provinces of Canada. To date, I have found two Canadian/Chinese restaurants, neither of which appears to be prospering. It seems as incongruous as having an Alabama/Szechuan connection, "anyone hungry for moo shu bar-b-que ?"

Relatives in Tucson ?

Do you choose your oriental restaurant because of their catchy names ? One of my favorites is in Tucson, Az. and the marquee features three smiling, squatting, buddha-like characters named wee, went, and wong. The Wee Went Wong Chinese Diner.

In Los Angeles, a clever, enterprising Jewish fellow named his Chinese restaurant, The Ghengis Cohen. Only in southern California.

The name says as much as I want to know

In rural New Hampshire, apparently no one in the Loo family was able to enamor any member of the Win family, as they named their place.......
The Win, Win, No Loos, Chinese Buffet.

If you are ever in Anchorage, Alaska and have a taste for almond chicken and shrimp-fried rice, pay a visit to The Hard Wok Cafe.

Back to the subject, Sunday we visited the Bell Museum and it would have been a bigger hit if we had been allowed to make free phone calls anywhere in the world. On Monday, we (Lynn, me, and the two dogs) drove the entire perimeter of the Cabot Trail, a distance of > 180 miles. Although in 1955, PeeWee Schwamborn described it as the "dusty driveway", it is today a stunning drive with only slight improvement to the road conditions.
(full disclosure: this blog has already been placed on notice by the NS Tourism Council. Even though no gag order has been issued, I have been advised to seek legal counsel).........soooo,

The scenery is spectacular. Villages appear to be taken from Cape Cod. The road along the northwest shore is equal to Highway One, the Big Sur, in central California. Sections near Cheticamp have cows grazing gracefully along unfenced bluffs. It could be transplanted from the west coast of Ireland. The Cape Breton Highlands Park rivals our Great Smoky Mountains, without Gatlinburg. Everyone has treated us like royalty as if they are truly glad to see us here. Did I mention that there is almost no litter on the roadsides, not only here, but in most of Nova Scotia. Why do the natives insist on maintaining this stunning environment....where are the wal-mart bags wafting from the barbed wire, silent sentinels to the wind ?

From the top of French mountain,
looking north

At Joe's scarecrows, a Cheticamp
institution, recommended in the NYTimes
travel section

Caught again trying to suppress
latent fiberglass urges.

There, that should get me a reprieve until we reach Prince Edward Island. Sadly, I'll hate to leave, there is no more beautiful place on earth.

Look forward to the next post where we sail the Amoeba around Baddeck Bay and then head to the ferry for PEI.

And if I did ever own an oriental eatery, I'd call it Charlie's Chin Rest.

2005-09-06T08:30:00.000-05:00

Antigonish to Louisbourg
on the wings of Katrina,
and a pesky horsefly
Sepember 2, 2005

The stay in Antigonish, NS, was neutral at best. Most of us huddled inside our aluminum wombs as it rained continuously for three days, a remnant of the disastrous storm in the Mississippi delta. Not a single complaint registered as we collectively felt helpless for the victims along the gulf coast. In an unfair fight with Mother Nature, a low blow.

Sexy aluminum butts
after a short swim

The servers and the
Campbell soup witches' brew

Our planned group activity, a soup and bread peasant dinner, undeterred by maritime showers, was not a complete flop. Imagine returning to Brownie or Cub Scout camp, each of you contributing a can of soup, of every variety, tossing them into a boiling communal cauldron, and then stirring with a giant stick. Appetizing, huh ? Follow that with a dessert of below average store-bought blueberry pie (in an area renowned for fresh, wild fruit) covered by a pint of cheap vanilla ice cream. No one fell ill......

At the fort museum a useful quote, in
honor of all the teachers in our caravan.

so it's off to Louisbourg, a French settlement since 1713, on the Cape Breton peninsula. We are now much closer to Dublin than Chicago, but my beloved Cubs need more than Irish luck. The fortress in Louisbourg is impressive
and trumps the Halifax Citadel , but it is all brand new. The clever Canadiens decided to rebuild the fort beginning in 1962 utilizing the original plans from 1700 which were discovered in Paris. Built by the unemployable miners, redundant since coal operations had ceased in the 1960s, the fort has yet to be attacked in forty years. If, of course, you rule out marauding gangs of schoolchildren and elderly white hairs mobilized in tour buses.

Cupcake feeding the goats.
The grass really is greener.

Our campground is in town, on the harbor, smells fishy, and we're packed in like sardines on gravel. Adjacent to a major crab fishery, we took advantage of crab legs @ $4/lb for three nights straight, the genuine article, not the fake stuff (strips of monkfish dyed red on the edges) offered at your local supermarket. Crab with cocktail sauce, crab newburgh, crab pasta, crabby husband, we had it all.

At Pennington's cove,
a therapeutic journey from the ordinary

On Saturday morning of the holiday weekend, Lynn, the dogs, and I found a deserted beach, eight miles over gravel road, Pennington's Cove, where we reveled in solitude. 78 F., sunny, ocean breeze, and a thundering surf. No litter, no boomboxes, no coppertone, no black flies, no adolescent hormones, only salty air and sandpipers.

An evening at the local playhouse where we were entertained by six energetic, talented, under-30 musicians who tripled as singers, dancers, and humorists in a tradition called a Ceilidh (pronounced kay-lee). We were exhausted just watching the performance, but were given an intermission to allow the audience oatmeal cookies and tea for refueling. Think Kingston Trio, the Limelighters, Hootenanny.

Taking a free ride
on the Halifax ferry

Next stop, pollywhop, as we depart for Baddeck, NS, the resting place of Alexander Graham Bell, who, as most of you history buffs know, invented several useful gadgets, but perhaps the tastiest, the graham cracker.

2005-08-30T14:13:00.000-05:00

The facts in Halifax, Nova Scotia
distorted by a yankee.
August 30,2005

Halifax is a city and not much more. Yes, it has the world's deepest natural harbor, a street where wealthy people live in ostentatious luxury, the formal Garden that is almost too pristine, too tidy, where even the pigeons are polite, well-dressed, and constipated. It has also become a mecca for big time filmmaking.

A giant container ship,
leaving the port for Stuttgart

Hey mister, got any Metamucil ?

A worker, not suffering from prostatic
hypertrophy, waters the Halifax Garden

The two most exciting events this week in Halifax, Dolly Parton (yes, she brought both of them) in concert. And the third, the CBC, Canada's version of our PBS and NPR, is on strike and has very attractive pickets.

Situated on the highest hill is the Citadel, a huge fortress built in 1749 and rebuilt three times since, distinguished because no battle was ever fought there. Not a single shot. So each day, at noon, to ward off potential invaders, they fire a cannon which alerts the native Halagonians to check their watches...it's time for lunch. The fort is fiercely guarded by a dozen uniformed sentrys, which turn out to be male college students in a cushy summer job wearing bushy hats and pleated skirts. Their task is made simpler because the harbor is protected by the Canadian Navy, which consists of a fleet of four submarines that have never functioned without the threat of actually sinking and two cruisers last used in WWII.

Lynn poses behind our guide, Kim,
and a sentry in full dress

Look, I don't mean to be hurtful, as a midwestern resident of the only remaining superpower. But a flotilla of sailors from the Chicago Yacht Club, powered by spinnakers made from Dolly's brassieres, accompanied by the news and weather team from WGN, could overtake and control this place in a few hours. Not enough, you think ? Throw in the governator, " ve're takink offah ", and a scowling Clint Eastwood, " any questions....canunks ?" Make that a few minutes.

Split the city into quarters:
a) Hollywood North
b) Dollywood North
c) The Nature Conservancy, and
d) The balance to a consortium of insurance companies,
banks, and HMO's to be time-shared for wealthy
New Englanders.

An urban plan with a bonus: a source for expensive prescription drugs
at special Canadian prices.

But I digress....

So let's depart from Halifax and the caravan as we wend our way north and east up scenic NS 311, past slanted farmhouses, through Earltown (pop. 12), onto NS 256, arguably the worst road in the province, to the picturesque Balmoral Grist Mill.

A sad sight on NS 311.

A logger who had made a wrong turn
onto NS 256, stops to tighten his load

Abandoned by the logging trucks shortly after the Korean conflict (the ROAD, not the mill), the government elected to call this highway 256 by investing in a few dozen signs saying, what else, highway 256. However, they also susSPENDed any notion that they would SPEND actual money on the road. Have you ever been seasick ? Ever had morning sickness during the first trimester ? Ever welcomed the relief that vomiting provides ? Welcome to 256. I've never heard of the word... appallingly... don't know if it is an adverb or an adjective or a word peculiar to the Canadian language, but at least one local resident truly believes it exists.

A real sign, not a
photoshop delusion.

Late in the day, after a wonderful trip to the grist mill, we reach our destination, Antigonish, NS, where, I swear I am not making this up, the local newspaper is titled, "THE CASKET". I can't add anything to that.

Next stop, Cape Breton.

2005-08-28T08:40:00.000-05:00

MY NEW FRIEND NATALIE
...where no beaten path exists
AUGUST 28, 2005

A Beautiful Woman

The last night in Lunenburg, at our driver's briefing, we had guests Natalie Corkum, age 90, and her 65 y/o son Hugh Jr. In 1955, Natalies' late husband was then Lunenburg chief of police and the 100 trailer caravan was parked here on this same community center parking area.

She entertained the crowd with her recollection of the caravan, told how she stills walks two miles each morning at six a.m., and regularly rows a boat, her favorite sport, for 2, 3, or even 4 hours at a time.

Natalie is trim, energetic, and does nothing differently now than when she was 30, 40, or 50. She attributes longevity to her interest in nature, faith in God, and singing in the church choir, each Sunday, for the last eighty years.

In an irony too stark to be ignored, Natalie, a lifelong Canadian, related that in 1955, although the caravan had several members adept at the piano, she was the only person who could play the Star Spangled Banner at the special dinner for the American guests. So with this entry, on a tangent thinner than an eggshell, I've decided to examine political demeanor.....

How many of us can name a Canadian prime minister, past or present, any provincial governor, or even a single political figure ? The flamboyant and charismatic Pierre Trudeau is exempt, a darling of U.S. TV, having died five years ago and last serving in office 21 years ago.

After six weeks and interviews with > 50 citizens, I've yet to find a Canadian who could not name our president, vice-president, sec. of defense, junior senator from NY, or the governors of Florida and California. Without exception, they genuinely embrace Americans but malign the leadership that they perceive has distinguished us as the world's boorish, imperialistic brute. We may be doing things right, but our PR is not working.

A good essay should strike a subtle but often inexact balance between description and self-portraiture. The difficulty for this writer is to be sure that the country described is predominant, that Canada and I unobtrusively unite. The joint must be seamless, so that you, the reader are left with the feeling that you have been exploring a single subject.

Dockside

My essays travel through Canada from midwest to east....a trip you can follow on flat pages or computer terminal without getting lost. How do people survive in remote villages ? Why does their food taste so good ? Who stacks their woodpile ? How do they counter economic despair ?

A traveler is always comparing one place to another. To suggest that Canada has good bread and bad roads is to imply that my own country has bad bread and good roads. A Canadian may find that this opinion says as much about my world as it does about theirs. They may be right.

What interests me most is this:
In Canada, the full cycle of humanity fits onto one small stage.
Their descendents have fought, fished, farmed, trapped, irrigated, emigrated, and deported. I aim to catch the spectrum. It is, I suppose, spread too far to have dramatic unity, but at least it makes time travel convenient. Parts of rural Canada are still ages away. You think you are moving on an east-west axis and find, instead, that you have been transported through the centuries.

Rusty anchors

I saw Canada stage-lit once. I have climbed the hills of Lunenburg under clouds blown in from the sea. What passed below was a random scene, not a logical countryside map. Every year, they perish.

Fisheries in the foreground, sustained by the mortal danger to seamen, came to life only when spotlighted by moving columns of sun and stationary granite. The walls in the village gleamed a symphony of color and melted back into obscurity. Along the shoreline, car windows flashed like pink diamonds. Homes distinguished by the architectural Lunenburg 'bump' are peculiarly pregnant with pride.

The five-sided two to three
story facade

Time was compressed, human works created and extinguished, all at the whim of a cumulus overhead. I looked up and saw clouds stacked in the same fanciful shapes as the boats below. For a dizzying moment, everything in time and space was vapor, layers of silky water in the shadows below and reaching higher than my imagination.

To Hugh, thanks for sharing your BlueNose collection, Nova Scotia's most storied sailing ship, the reverse on every Canadian dime, and Lunenburg's very own.

Sunset at the Peggy's Cove lighthouse

Thank you, Natalie, for taking me into your home this morning, sharing intimate thoughts, and unknowingly helping me to compose these fragments into a whole. You were, without hesitation or equivocation, a most gracious host. Even with wet hair.

Someday I hope to be worthy to sing in your choir.

2005-08-25T10:13:00.000-05:00

Lunenberg, Nova Scotia
A visit with Mike Orchard
August 25, 2005

A quiet morning in the
harbor at Lunenberg

Another gorgeous day in the maritime provinces. Our 'campground' here is the Exposition Centre, which translates to the asphalt covered area between the swimming pool and the skateboard park. Think chlorine, Clearasil, and a county roadway. The rest of Lunenberg is flawless however, in particular the Magnolia Grill (twice recommended by the NY Times and very reasonable) and the gallery of renowned artist, Cluny Mather.

The "Bluenose II"

The guard dog on duty, two doors
from the Magnolia Grill.

My favorite painting of
Cluny Mather, "Night Crossing"

I can afford the Magnolia, but for Cluny we may have to mortgage the farm.

Our caravan visited the Museum of the Fisheries which was followed by a delightful luncheon overlooking the harbor. Fish. Done right.

Like old-time caravanning,
umbilical water and electric on
a parade ground.

In the evening after a cleansing rainfall, we took the time to visit nearby Mahone Bay, six miles away, at dusk.

The four churches in Mahone Bay,
too awesome to describe.

The non-postcard feature of this stop was a visit with Mike Orchard, club member #32083 from Bridgewater, NS. If you are familiar with the British fascination for 'train-spotting', the hobby of documenting every engine and railroad car you may have seen, then Mike is the penultimate Airstream spotter. Since the age of six, he has kept a detailed account of every numbered A/S and accurately compiled cross-indicies by (hold on to your Thetford) state, license number, unit and where he saw each trailer. It is a passion so thorough that it now comprises four large notebooks. He IS an A/S encyclopedia and a very pleasant young man, too. Hopefully his lifetime of work will someday be published. To date, he is over 13,000 and still counting. Chances are, if you have numbers on your trailer, he has been stalking you in a non-perverse way.

Mike Orchard, # 32083,
a confessed airstream addict.

The object of his research and affection
proudly displayed.
An incredible documentary.

Next stop, Halifax.

2005-08-22T09:07:00.000-05:00

ANNAPOLIS ROYAL (formerly known as Port Royal)
NOVA SCOTIA ( " " " Acadie)
AUGUST 21, 2005

I made an error. We are not on Prince Edward Island, we're in a time warp at the corner of Haight and Ashbury.

Our Dunromin campground owner, Cameron,
taking six months off his boat in the Bahamas.
Adjust your color setting before viewing the
photo.

In Digby
in the harbour , the
scallop capital of the world

In Windsor, NS, the Rossi family from Halifax happened to discover our caravan in the Hant County fairground, stopped with their dog, two daughters and 24' Safari to visit with two of our authentic Canadian caravanners, Vic and Elaine Carson from Brantford, Ontario. No matter how hard you try, you can't stop making friends in your airstream.

L-R
Nickie the dog with Donna,
Tony, Vic and Elaine.
In the foreground;
Isabella and Giavonna

Hank Longfellow's 'Evangeline', in Grand Pre', NS

If literary tradition lends itself toward the picture postcard, Port Royal is Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's "Evangeline", in a 3.5" x 5" format, four color lithography. Any view in every direction is idyllic or bucolic, you may only imagine that dirty underwear or garbage are a myth...a rumor. 400 years old and worthy of seven adminstrative changes between the French and the English in a single century, Port Royal is a perfect holiday destination. Only 550 real residents to stand in the way of the tidal bore of tourists, thousands every day.

My very own 'Evangeline', Nora Guros,
our caravan poet from Westchester County, NY.

Founded 15 years before the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock, the Acadians, a creative group of peace loving pacifists from France, quickly formed the "Order of Good Cheer", north America's first social club. They did this to ward off depression, but mainly because there were no saloons since a liquor board had not been established to GST tax the hell out of them. Also, no Volvo dealerships had been franchised.

A sliver of fate, a whispered hint from tourist board personnel, and six of us were headed to the obscure Lower Granville Hall bound for Champlain's Feast, a six course Acadian dinner hosted by a 10th generation costumed greeter. Much like our chance meeting with Ivan, this became a magical moment in travel. Our lucky half-dozen dined and schmoozed with 120 locals. Late that night, as darkness and misty fog enveloped the local cemetary, we walked the grounds of Fort Anne and were guided through graveyard history by lantern light.

L-R in the Lower Granville Hall

Chas, Lynn, Joanie & Bill Bucher,
The Acadian Melanson, Cathy
& Rich Griffin

On the lighter side, devoid of satellite service, we are in the land of lonesome TV. Canada, a large foreign country, boasts a single station, the CTV, and has a supporting cast of five cartoon offerings + the requisite three religious zealot outlets complete with styled hair and cosmetic teeth. Somehow, the cartoons seem more realistic. Today was a good news day with only three leads; (1) the late Hunter Thompson's ashes are blown up over Aspen, Colorado, in a 50 meter firework extravaganza, (2) a Mercedes sedan is pictured floating down a Toronto street during a flash flood, (3) the Langley ukelele band performs live, in concert. Not a single reference to Iraq.
....'dreaming, I must be dreaming, or am I really lying here with you ?'

I try to look casual about the dead fish in the window. The waiter, a colorless incredible hulk type, would prefer to be a sailor discovering the world, like his ancestors, but given the current weak demand for explorers, he should be, at least, a good waiter. This is the way to survive the drive from the New World to the Old, on the patio deck of an outdoor restaurant. You achieve an out-of-body feeling, floating over the highway and looking down at your victims. You see passengers, who, in trying to achieve distinctive LOOKS, manage to be so similar that any local waiter will know what they are afraid to eat before they enter the restaurant. The only one who is really different is you.

Everyone on the caravan was up there floating around and thinking the same thing; This crowd is full of fakes but I am the real item.

During out-of-body experiences you don't notice the traffic.

2005-08-19T08:01:00.000-05:00

KENTVILLE, NOVA SCOTIA
AUGUST 1955, FIFTY YEARS LATER

Warning:
The blog you are about to enter contains sensitive material.
If you have any objection to history, travel trailers, or ritual,
please fast forward to the next post.

John and Esther Dona's
1955 Airstream Bubble

Dale "PeeWee" Schwamborn
and Caroline McNamara Zimmer

The first and oldest RV travel club, the WBCCI, was established on the grounds of the Palmeter's China Shop in Kentville, Nova Scotia in August, 1955. Although named the Wally Byam Caravan Club, that is a misnomer. Mr. Byam, as founder of the Airstream Trailer Company, had established a blueprint, but in actuality, the club was constructed, developed, and nurtured for thirty years by his 'little cousin', the diminutive 5'2", Helen Byam Schwamborn. Helen had left a position with the Bakersfield, Ca., probation office to serve as a secretary and personal assistant to her
older cousin Wally. There was no term, 'glass ceiling' then, or Helen would have been a rooftop of crystal goblets.

A small portion of the dignitaries.
No one fell into the frog pond.

The page from Helen's diary describing
the club's founding and her lunch
that day with Mr. Palmeter.

Today, August 17, 2005, nearly three hundred of the most loyal members gathered together on the same lawn that Helen had described in her 1955 diary. Led by James Hadaway, a former club president and formidable prime mover for re-enacting this golden caravan, the faithful watched as a plaque commemorating the founding was unveiled.

The usual unfolded, the prayer, dignitaries were introduced, some resplendent in colorful blazers, berets, vests with pins, badges, and embroidered patches, all one would assume signifying their importance, then receiving the compulsory applause after offering platitudes to the assembly. But the day belonged to Dale "PeeWee" Schwamborn, Helen's son, and Caroline McNamara Zimmer, both survivors of the 1955 caravan. Then at ages 16 and 12, respectively, they recounted the visit to Kentville. For Dale and all of us listening it was very emotional as he had lost his mother only recently, in the summer of 2004 at the age of 93.
Addendum: Helen was born in 1904 and died in 2004 at the age of 99.
She was quick to point out that she was in the 100th year of her life. Thanks to PeeWee for correcting my error. Chas.
He was able to display an original pennant, which he had been in charge of selling back then, his mother's personal diary from the trip, and with great difficulty read letters and telegrams his mother had received. There were few dry eyes in the crowd.

No event is complete without dessert.
Or several. The nice people from the Canadian unit provided the hospitality.

It was a poignant moment when Caroline turned toward the old mansion, looked upward, smiled, and said, " yes, I remember this place"....recalling how as a twelve year old, now looking through the eyes of a sixty-two year old, still cherished those halcyon days of her youth. Good stuff.

There is little doubt that without Helen Byam Schwamborn, the club would never have passed the embryionic stage, the Airstream company would never have survived the RV industry crash in the early 80s, and none, let me repeat, none of us would have been on that lawn today, a gorgeous afternoon in rural Nova Scotia.

A favorite couple for most,
Buzz and Carol Wallen, on leave
from the Villages, in Florida.

The elegant Esther Dona welcoming
guests to her open house.

For me as a newcomer, and really, an outsider looking in, I felt honored just to be on those grounds today. I hope that everyone who ever contributed to this club, either by participation in rallies, caravans, or unit activities, could be with us vicariously and in spirit. A day to remember.

Next stop, Prince Edward Island

2005-08-18T09:41:00.000-05:00

AUGUST 16, 2005
SIGN ONE: WELCOME TO NOVA SCOTIA
SIGN TWO: IT IS UNLAWFUL TO IMPORT OR POSSESS HONEYBEES

Traveling to Nova Scotia is the fulfillment of a lifelong dream for Lynn. Bound for Windsor, N.S., our destination is the Hants County Exhibition Park, and, listen up, this is the oldest fairground in North America...240 years old this month. Think of that, 1765, before Tim Horton's.Hamming it up with the hot dog lady, Hants County, NS

Many of you may not know Tim Horton. He was already an NHL legend, somewhat arrogant I'm told, who opened a coffee shop in 1967. However, even though he died too young, in a traffic accident in 1974, his legend continues as his chain of stores now numbers in the thousands. In Canada, more ubiquitous than McDonald's, we have yet to find a town without at least one, best described by my editor as a "generic dunkin' donuts". So we've taken a personal vow not to enter a Tim Horton's until our last day in Canada. And like our American truck stops that have an Arby's, Subway, or Wendy's neatly tucked into the interior, I fully expect to find a Tim Horton's so large that it will actually have another Tim Horton's inside.

We elect an unmarked side route through verdant farmland to the small, nondescript village of Springhill, NS, birthplace in 1945 to Morna Murray. Once, before 1970, an insignifigant mining center, Springhill could be any town except that it gave rise to a voice so pure, so natural, that it defined a generation. From the time of her first #1 single in 1969, the young woman exemplified genuine humility, graduated from college, then deftly handled her celebrity for forty years in a business renowned for disgrace. With dignity, without scandal.

Neither glamourous nor beautiful, Anne Murray is still on my short list of the most appealing women alive. Along with Paula Zahn, the British actress Helen Mirren, CNN's Christiana Amanpour, my own Lynn, and well...that's my short list.

The sound of her voice has, within me, stirred a powerful emotion. The Chinese have an expression that means, "being lonesome to death". We might describe it as being homesick. But right now I miss my family and friends in a special way. And the song resonates softly overhead....

...a kid out of school, a fire out of control, just another fool,
You touch me and I'm weak, a feather in the wind,
And I can't wait to feel you touching me again....

Visiting the Anne Murray Centre slips into the priceless category. I was overcome when I could see the tears of the Canadian visitors as they burst with pride as their very own 'daughter' sang their most precious anthem, an icon of style and grace, a talent larger than the dominion.

The next Anne Murray on the
monkey bars in Springhill.

Lynn and Anne, side by side, but Miss Murray forgot to wear her name badge.

....nobody was assassinated in the whole third world today,
and in the streets of Ireland, all the children had to do was play,
and everybody loves everybody in the good old USA,
we sure could use a little good news today....

Here's hoping,
Dr. C.

2005-08-18T08:10:00.000-05:00

AUGUST 15, 2005
MONCTON, NEW BRUNSWICK in the
Campground of a 1000 Rules

Our stay in Beresford and Bathurst, NB was hardly memorable. Conveniently located away from interstate noise, we were in the Malybel campground, which also functions as Canada's largest pediatric colony. Hundreds of vacationing adolescents, lured by the playground, bike paths, heated pool, and water slide park.....well, sometimes the drone of interstate trucks is a welcome side effect. One might conclude that birth control in this maritime province is an untried concept. Sooo, shortly after dawn on day III, we dropped our dumplings at the dump station, said goodbye to Fisher-Price, Playskool, M&M's, Hasbro, Ritalin, and headed for adult entertainment in....

Our special mail lady in Moncton,
the irrepressible Vada Dodge,
going postal.

SHEDIAC, (pronounced shhi-tee-ack by the locals) home of the world's largest lobster. Thirty five feet long, sixteen feet high, and weighing ninety tonnes, I'll allow you to do the math; 180,000 lbs. at $12/lb. It would take a hundred hungry airstreamers at least a week to consume this monster, belch twice, and they would still line up for an ice cream treat after dinner.

"I'm hungry, let's have seafood for lunch"

Fran and Dave Perucci at the base of the seafood anomaly ,
dispelling any notion that Dave's Italian schnozz is larger
than a lobster's tail.

The next campground in Moncton was only a muffled roar from the Trans-Canada Highway. We were confined by an electronic entry/exit gate, a $60 fine if you were caught washing your windshield, no campfires allowed, and an entire page of rules that could easily be read with an electron microscope. Their final admonition, shallow and gratuitous, "enjoy your stay at our resort". Sure, but Attica and Guantanamo are further from the highway. Here for only a two night stay (as opposed to life without parole) we were able to walk on the ocean floor at nearby....

HOPEWELL ROCKS (a.k.a. the Flower Pots), a formation of gruesome figures that have withstood the eons of tides, twice every day. This all happens so slowly that most people leave or take a nap. Great fun however if you enjoy watching water rise at eight inches an hour. You see, the water from the Bay of Fundy gargles backward up the Petitcodiac River, under the influence of the sun, the moon, and perhaps, moon pies. This forms a suspension that closely resembles a non-carbonated beverage that we drank as youngsters. Kayo.

'Katie' and Chas. in front of the camera.

So important are these rocks as a tourist destination in New Brunswick, I was stopped and surveyed by a provincial version of Katie Couric. I agreed that the rocks were stunning, worthy of the visit, but explained that if they were moved to Disney's Epcot Center, they would rival the Afghanistan Pavilion in popularity. Americans want something to 'happen' every sixty seconds, while riding on a motorized tram, not every six hours after a mile hike and four hundred steps. She didn't write that down.

Tyrannosaurus Rox

Tonight we have reached the halfway point of our odyssey and I felt much the same as I had first crossing the equator. Eager to see the other half.

2005-08-13T12:22:00.000-05:00

Let's talk Canadian
A monologue. August 15, 2005

Canada is actually a major country and as any one of thousands of goofy TV weather persons will tell you, the official source of the Cold Air Mass.

In old Quebec, caught again admiring
the mural of a great sign painter.

It also contains humans which we refer to as Canadians, who, having adopted a similar lifestyle to ours, engage in traditional American activities like driving Japanese cars and shopping at Wal-Mart to replenish their supply of cheap imports from China. Unlike us, their dominant, overbearing, and fatally flawed neighbor to the south, Canadians are divided into two groups. Men and women ? Hatfields and McCoys ? Yankees and RedSox ? Wrong, wrong, wrong. They are anglophones and francophones. After nearly four centuries they have yet to decide on a common language and decided to become bisexual. Oops. A bad word choice. Of course I mean bilingual, so everything here must be printed in two languages, side by side.
E.g., center (eng.), centre (fr.); canadian (eng.), canadien (fr.). This decision has caused two cataclysmic ripples in provincial life:
1) both groups are suspicious and have grown to despise one another.
2) neurosurgeons, previously the highest income group, have been economically displaced by sign painters.

In a previous blog, I referred to Lynn giving Ivan a "toonie". I was flooded with e-mail (3 to be exact) demanding an explanation for, "Lynn and Ivan did what ?"
Sorry, just a taste of Canadian humor. You see, here the most common currency, a $1 coin, depicts the loon (a large bird) and hence is known as a "loonie". The $2 coin has a bust of her royal highness, Queen Liz II and is affectionately referred to as a "toonie". Now you have a "loonie" and a "toonie".....get it ? Hello, looney tunes.

If you think that's good, take a listen to this. While visiting our northern neighbours I have collected the following jokes in the very popular question and answer format:
Q. How many seasons in Ottawa ?
A. Two. Winter and construction.

Q. How many seasons in Quebec ?
A. Two. Nine months of winter and 3 months of late fall.

Q. How do you make an old Canadian happy ?
A. Tell him a joke when he's young.

Q. Why are Canadian politicians like diapers ?
A. They have to be changed often for the same reasons.

O.k., o.k., stop groaning. These were the best they had to offer except for the one about the refrigerator truck driver from Newfoundland and the one hundred penguins. This one will, for obvious reasons, not appear on my family oriented website.

We've reached a nadir in caravan thrills this week, hence a need for diversion. I'll be back to normal as soon as the medication begins to work. If all this drivel has given you a headache, please call my nurse for an appointment. We'll schedule an M.R.I. and provide a diagnosis. I may have to paint a sign for you.

Dr. C.

2005-08-12T13:45:00.000-05:00

A special friend, Ivan
Bathurst, New Brunswick
August 12, 2005

We have exited Quebec with no outstanding warrants and entered New Brunswick, which is English for, "our roads are bumpier than theirs". Unfortunately, we had to leave two couples behind, the Sullivans and the Carligs, because Jims' Suburban rear axle deep-sixed in Gaspe'. We're hopeful that in six to ten days, after a five grand dent in the Sullivan Charitable Trust Fund, they will rejoin us.

Other missteps to date:
A) Bill Bucher severely sprained his ankle, backing down his trailer
step, a distance of nine inches.
B) Carl Nunn threatened to pass a kidney stone.
C) Our water pump (original from 1987) failed and required
the delicate "Cribb's Transplant" procedure.

Wilma Tague in awe. A very private
moment.

The object of her affection flies overhead.

D) Bill Turner's fridge, a Dometic, less than a month old, crashed and burned.
E) Ralph Smith shredded the serpentine drive belt on his GMC yesterday.
Took three of us an hour to replace (Mr. Goodwrench..8 minutes). Then
20 miles later he blew a trailer tire at 60 mph on NB11. "Stuff" happens.

Quebec art in wood.
New Brunswick art in stainless steel.

During Ralph's fan belt fiasco, a curious incident, unique to the travel experience, occurred on scenic NB highway 134. We had passed a man slowly walking a three wheel wagon, pneumatic tired, up a steep hill. Piled high with trash bags full of recyclables, a large rear sign stated; "Danger-Wide Load". Before we could replace the Smiths' belt, "Ivan" had caught up to us. About forty years old, mentally challenged, he was both charming and polite. He eagerly donned a highway worker style fluorescent vest and offered assistance.

My Lynn, so sweet that I'm suspicious she is free-basing splenda , walked along side Ivan, took his picture, gave him an ice cold aquafina and a "toonie", and learned that he worked 6 to 7 hours a day and averaged $10,000 a year just from, to his amazement, what people were willingly throwing away. He was, paradoxically, a very proud yet sad man. Someone who had never received a hallmark card. He was also nice to women, especially pretty women, whom he liked to refer to as 'cupcakes'.

As he walked on, he turned back to Lynn, smiled, thanked her for her thoughtfulness, and said, "goodbye, cupcake".

The previous evening we had a lobster boil (yummy) followed by a driver's meeting. Looking over the assembly of the red-faced and silver-tongued, the soon-to-be thrombotic, and the recently re-valved, women whose hair color matches their husbands' fillings, and men who are wearing the same outfit they wore the weekend after they retired, I'm reminded of children posing as adults. Smiling and slightly damp, we have finished our day 28 of "connecting the dots".

Tonight in the trailer, as I slowly surrended to the arms of Morpheus, I wished there were more Ivans in the world. Then as the rain airbrushed our cookie tin roof, I fell asleep with cupcake.

2005-08-12T12:26:00.000-05:00

Gaspe' and the Perse' Rock
August 11, 2005, Quebec

At a welcome center, this alluring lass awaits
the return of Ray Bolger in the "Wizard of Oz"

We have reached St. Georges de Malbaie on the tip of the Gaspe', home to the Perse' Rock formation. A rock larger than
anything imagined by Elizabeth Taylor and only slightly older than Liz. 375 million years at last count, it stands an imposing 288 feet high and 1545 feet long.

Kayakers enoying an up-close and personal view

Our boat excursion took us close to the rock then encircled Bonaventure Island, home to the largest and most accessible gannet colony in North America. Sixty thousand we're told, but they never sit still long enough to be counted. The birds, sheer cliffs, small beaches, and basking seals form scenery so stunning no visitor can remain indifferent. If your concept of a return to nature was a trip to the GNC store or the Whole Foods Market, it's time to get out more often.

A boat cruise that ended too soon was followed by a gourmet luncheon downtown. Lynn and several others had the grilled shark. In the tradition of Seinfeld's legendary Elaine Benes, I opted for the lobster bisque. Perce' is the (select one: Gatlinburg, Branson, Shipshewana, Frankenmuth) version of Quebec tackiness. But the rock prevails.

Bob Cook tells Bert Kalet a clean joke.
Doc doesn't get it, but Shirley Turner does.

Aaahh Quebec. Where the home exterior color schemes are based entirely on digestive enzymes. The official provincial symptom is irregularity.

Bob and Marianne Batey, refugees of Tennessee,
but now incarcerated in Florida, await the sea
cruise.

After the inebriation of so much intense natural beauty, we are now leaving Quebec, and I have a few critical observations about the Quebeco'is ( pronounced kay-bay-kwaa). The social system here allows any citizen to work ten weeks a year and then the government pays them a stipend (salary) for the next forty-two weeks. This instills an attitude of (a) laziness, (b) disincentivism, (c) idleness, and ensures permanent high unemployment. The sound of flushing you hear is the massive provincial debt.

Vada Dodge, Conna Whittmore, and Shirley
Wittman paint unsuspecting rocks

Their license plate says it all, "je me souviens", or in anglais," I remember". Remember what ? What it was like to be productive and work for a living? They speak proudly of separation from Ottawa, of becoming a sovereign nation. Well it isn't going to happen as long as you have the largest welfare state north of East St. Louis and give every sloth 294 vacation days a year. They have so much worth embracing, truly one of the most gorgeous landscapes ever, a warm people worthy of much more, but it's going to take more than a few hugs. I'm a peaceful guy, but these people are sorely in need of a civil war.

2005-08-10T13:29:00.000-05:00

Dr. Dot Kalet showing off her dog

Lynn and Joan Bucher try canoeing

Our leadership, Rich and Kathy Griffin, all dressed up.

Curly, Moe, and Larry? Huey, Dewey and Louie ?
Carole Keller, Lynn, and Joyce Duarte during a more somber moment

The parsonage
St. Profilier du Arienne

Cap Chat, Quebec
Whales and the Wind

August 10, 2005
At high tide, less than 200 yards from the shore, seven ton mammals are spouting (def. spout =a combination of spit and snot) geysers thirty feet above the water line. From our treeless meadow campground on the beach, we watch in awe, buffeted by steady 20-30 mph winds.
Although this group is well prepared, like a boy scout troop equipped with swiss army knives, no one thought to bring along whale kleenex. So we do the next best thing....go to the Oele windmill farm. A breeze if you are into volts, amps, kilowatts and non-polluting renewable energy, beautiful to watch, but until the technology improves and oil reaches $250/barrel, not yet practical.
Largest vertical axis windmill in the world
Our atlas lists 400+ towns in Quebec named Saint_______ (you fill in the blank) and we've driven through most of them. So I've come up with my own, pictured here. The civic plan doesn't vary. Build an oversize cathedral on a premier building site, then surround it with a poor fishing village distinguished by both outrageous and bland architecturally-challenged cottages. I hope they never change the formula.

Historical review. This stop most closely replicates the 1955 tour. We needed to create our own activity and did so successfully. Three motorhomes circled the wagons to form a U-shaped windbreak for an open-air community cook-out, birthday party, pet show, and finally a driver's meeting. The winds howled, the waves roared, we were warriors. We had water, we had electric, but the devil be damned, no sewer hook-up. After a full day visit to the Parc de la Gaspesie and a hike along the northernmost point of the Appalachian mountain range, it's full steam ahead along
the rocky shores and royal blue water ofthe Gaspe peninsula. Bill and Joan Bucher with foster daughter, Barbie Mattel.

Hot French chick on the hiking trail

We are transfixed, absorbing the color as though it were a long absent basic food group.
And now onto the road, Quebec 132, to Perce rock jutting into the Atlantic, a 175 mile challenge few of us have ever encountered. Climbs and descents of 9, 11, 13, and 15 degrees on a winding bumpy highway that is not the equal of your local county road, certain to test mettle and equipment.

The price of oil is how much ?

2005-08-05T06:49:00.000-05:00

Friday, August 5, 2005
Rimouski, Quebec

Rimouski rhymes with brewski. Stretched along the St. Lawrence, a town of 42,600, it possesses a passed over quality. The old victorians erected during the town's heyday have been discreetly divided into offices for lawyers and accountants. The less fortunate have been stripped of ornamentation and entombed in vinyl siding, then carved into rental units. A few have been restored but not in the self-conscious gentrification we might regard as "historic". What has been going on in Rimouski is routine maintenance. And even though there is not much to do-ski in Rimouski, you have to love the name....melodic, rolling off your tongue like a cherry pit.

Cute French babe enjoying ice cream, but not the papparazzi.

As children, our mother would bake fresh bread. We didn't know then, but learned much later, that we couldn't afford store-bought loaves. The aroma stimulated a surge of well being and pleasure. The warmth of the kitchen, the anticipation of jam and melting peanut butter, were only a latent memory. This morning in the Les Baguettes en l'air, the local french bakery, an olfactory sense fifty years in remission is aroused. It is the pleasure of anticipation and profound orientation; I have my bearings. I realize, somehow, where I am in the deepest sense, unrelated to geography.

We traveled 25 miles south near the village of Sainte Narcisse to the Domaine du Canyon des Portes de l'enfer, which is french for a waterfall, deep gorge, suspension bridge, and huffin' & puffin' up and down 300 steps. It was worth it, even if you don't have a portable respirator. A suspension bridge a football field across hangs precariously over a gorge and the riviere rimouski, 300 feet straight down. It resembled a movie set from Indiana Jones.

The bridge. Joann and Ray Kolley, Monsanto retirees from St. Louis, shared the bridge with us.

Life on the caravan is not all excitement, a Disney world ride for the elderly. Today we had a "show and tell" program where everyone had an opportunity to exhibit crafts, hints, or a reminiscence. Do you remember grammar school ? About the same, except wine and cheese were subsituted for cookies and milk. There are moments for contemplation, introspection, and even time to embrace boredom. Pictured is the aftermath of a freshly carved fruit which we purchased at the Quebec farmer's market.

"PINEAPPLE-HENGE"

We leave soon for the Gaspe peninsula, a remote, sparsely populated and pristine area with few opportunities for web access. See you in a week to ten days.
Today, our lunch will be peanut butter and jelly on a fresh baguette.

2005-08-01T10:32:00.000-05:00

TUESDAY, AUGUST 1, 2005
QUEBEC CITY, QUEBEC

We awoke this morning, a departure from the rosy fingers of dawn, for a gentle rain washing away the exterior residue of highway dust bunnies from our silver studio apartments on wheels. It poured. If we were in Arizona, they would probably tell us this was a "dry rain". In Quebec, it's wet.

Boarding the bus for the city tour

Yesterday we took the predictable, but so delightful, tour into the old city. The tours provide everyone with a blueprint for later self exploration. Each city we have visited seems more lovely than the last, but this is only an illusion. Old Quebec is charming, much smaller than Montreal, genuinely historic, architecturally distinct, and so European it seems to be in a foreign country. (hey, this IS a foreign country). I must retract everything negative I've ever said or felt abooot the French Canadiens....without exception, everyone has treated us as royals.

Lynn and I elected to drive to the Ile d'Orleans for the afternoon and evening hours. The island is sequestered in the middle of the St. Lawrence, a short drive, but a world away from the city. A time warp of not less than fifty years, enchanting, sans the normal overdose of "cutesy". The perimeter drive of 40+ miles is a surprise at every turn through six distinct parishes. At one stop we enjoyed a fresh steamed

A couple on the I'le. She was crying. I wanted so much to know the cause, but couldn't ask.

corn-on-the-cob as an appetizer, then hot cheese samples at another, an outdoor patio dinner at a third, and finally, fresh french ice cream at the last. For caravanners, this is a mandatory behavior pattern, as modest to moderate obesity is like Ford....job one. No one will return home defying gravity.

Typical farm scene on the I'le d'Orleans

Monday was spent window shopping in the old city, or in French, 'faire du leche vitrines', which literally means, 'licking the windows'. Side note, in the 1955 edition of Trailer Topics magazine it said that the city was 92% French catholic and that there were three women for every man. Sadly, that proportion no longer exists, but the influence of women here is profound....they were referred to as the filles du roi , or to the anglos, the foremothers.

A young musician in the art gallery at the Chateau Frontenac. Lovely, but acrylic on canvas, and not very talkative.

A very special ice cream shop in the village of Levis, " Les Chocolats Favoris & La Glacierie europeene", has become a favorite stop. On the I'le de la Cite in Paris, a similar shop, the Berthillon is the equal.From l-r, Sandy & Carl Nunn, Carole & Dave Keller, trying very hard to overcome their anorexia by visiting the chocolat shop.

Returning to our campground, encircling the periphery of the old city, the steady refrain of Janis Joplins', "Bobby McGee" ran through my soul and I hummed along internally:
Busted flat in Baton Rouge, waitin' for the train,
And I's feelin' near faded as my jeans,
Bobby thumbed a diesel down just before it rained,
It rode us all the way to New Orleans,

" Freedom's just another word for nothin' left to lose....."

2005-08-01T09:48:00.000-05:00

JULY 29, 2005
NECROLOGY REPORT

Caravanners from Lubbock, The Cribbs, while dining two hours north of Montreal, received a call that Brenda's father had a negative prognosis, was gravely ill and not expected to survive. He had been suffering from a terminal melanoma, but his condition was stable, so they had started the caravan knowing that they should keep the cell phone charged. They elected to excuse themselves from the caravan and immediately returned to Texas.

The father died on July 30, the Cribbs arrived safely in Lubbock on the 31st, a driving distance exceeding 2000 miles, and are now at home assisting in the funeral preparation. All of us here extend our condolences to Brenda's family. We will sorely miss both: Brenda, for her literate and thoughtful contributions to our journal club; and Gene, who supplied the major entertainment quotient for the group and also my personal repairperson.

In a group this large (sixty eight total) in an age range of 48 to 84 ( average age, 70 years, 4 months), extending over nine weeks and thousands of miles, we are all aware of the likelihood that something might go awry. "Stuff" happens.
We are really hopeful that the Cribbs will one day rejoin us on the road.

Chas.

2005-07-30T07:01:00.000-05:00

Friday, July 29, 2005
The heart of Montreal;
Our Pierre et Cecile

We met with our dear friends yesterday afternoon, became reacquainted by taking long walks along the rapids of the St.Lawrence River, chatting in their lovely condominium in the nearby community, Lachine, and then returned to the city for dinner. In advance they reserved for the exquisite La Prunelle, a charming French restaurant in the delightfully upscale Plateau Mont Royal. Yes, there were yuppies all around,but we drank and ate for three hours, ignoring the arrogant, youthful, handsome, wealthy brats. The dinner was divine.

Before noon on Friday we rendezvoused (pardon our French) at the Parc la Fontaine and strolled for hours. Our path took us through the universities, old Montreal, the old port, and then an outdoor lunch at the lively Place Jacques-Cartier. We watched as more than a hundred cyclists finished their ride for charity from Toronto, a distance of four hundred miles. Alas, we were a day early for the Divers/Cite parade, a cultural festival for lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender pride.

Montreal is a city so vibrant it will not stand still while you try to describe it. She is the very best of Paris and New York, but so much less taut. And the girl watching is also very nice.

We even treated our friends to a visit of the Pointe-a-Calliere, the fine museum of archeology. Although much of it was as exciting as a Corian countertop, a very small but enchanting exhibition on floor two, entitled Montreal Love Stories, will forever embrace the essence of our visit. A lilt, popular in the childhood culture for French schoolchildren, was playing and Pierre and Cecile sang along softly;

"Il y a longtemps que je t'aime, jamars je ne toubliern..."

"Long I have loved you, I will never forget you...."

2005-07-30T05:44:00.000-05:00

The Alouette Camp in Montreal, Thursday, July 28, 2005

The day began with a 'can't miss' event. An early breakfast of bagels and cream cheeses is hosted by the amusing, rarely sedate, thoroughly New York couple, Max & Myra Joseph. Married nearly fifty seven years, they travel in a unique Airstream Argosy with the rare front & rear door option. So what, you might think ?
I envy this because it allows them to actually run around and through their trailer. The balance of us are confined to the single door model (which on occasion may even fail to open), and an aisleway so narrow that it encourages sexual encounters. Or a marital disagreement, I've been told.

We have finally reached Montreal in the province of Quebec which the people here call "Key-beck" because they are often sullen, smoke unfiltered cigarettes, arise on the wrong side of the boudoir, and insist on speaking in a foreign language called French, which is a lot like English, but all the words are pronounced differently and mean something else. Even their signs are printed in words that sound like a serious sinus infection in need of a nasal decongestant.

When your Thetford unit (trailer talk) has failed and you find it necessary to use the dreaded public toilette, you may find this phrase helpful, " Le madamoiselle, c'est la rouleau de papier hygenique ?", or roughly translated, "where's the toilet paper, ma'am ?"

This morning we take the compulsory Grey Line tour of the city, the best and most efficient way to learn about a city of 3.5 million that will not support a major league baseball team, but mourns the loss of a single hockey season. Our afternoon and evening will be spent in an eagerly anticipated reunion with our French-Canadien amies, Pierre Saulnier and Cecile Quirouette, whom we met in Arizona in the winter of 2002. They had embarked on an eleven month odyssey of the U.S., visiting dozens of our national parks and monuments......in a 13 foot camper, the 'little bigfoot', which resembles a fiberglass toaster on steroids. Pierre stands 6'2" (1.8 metres for the metrically challenged) and we airstreamers think we are cramped.

The famed stadium...an architectural delight.

Alert. Apologies;
(a) Pierre and Cecile are NOT grumpy
(b) Everything I said about the French was unwarranted,
unkind, and fabricated
(c) Anything you've read here should not be forwarded to
the provincial language police.
My view of the future does not include a life sentence in monolingual purgatory.

The lottery balls come to life at Les Francofolies De Montreal

2005-07-29T08:33:00.000-05:00

The invasion of Ottawa
July 25, 2005.

A typical drivers meeting, under a ZipDee awning, planning strategy.
<------ Influenced by the intoxicating aroma of cedar, we left Huntsville's "Muskoka" country through the Algonquin Provincial Park, comparable in scope to our own Yellowstone and Yosemite. Quietly breeched by the 36 mile corridor of highway 60 through a small southwest quadrant, the majority of the huge park has limited access for hikers, canoers, and backpackers. Barely bruised by humanity, both the pristine lakes and wildlife ignore our presence, leaving us ill prepared for the assault on the nation's capitol.

A city of one million, Ottawa is virtually free of crime, recording only five capital murders in the entire year of 2004. By contrast, our District of Columbia, the blight of urban torture inside the beltway, has as many casualties before the last bowl game is complete on New Year's Day. Both cities, however, have beautiful architecture, monuments, museums, and exhibit the excesses of government spending gone mad. With its manicured parkways, riverfront, Rideau canal, European flair, and a saturation of friendly and peaceful Canucks, Ottawa wins.
Score this, Canada-1, U.S.-0.

Our Grey Line tour of the city allowed this unique opportunity to enjoy the lower level of the double deck bus.
The voyeur papparazzi caught yours truly in this compromising position. Alert: this is not the family channel.
Look, she's eleven feet tall, smiling, irrestible, and I am NOT apologizing.

Here we have our own photographer extraordinaire, Tucker Yee, consuming and being consumed by the world's largest ice cream cone.

The caravan is taking on a life of its own. Routines are established, friendships nurtured, an amorphous mass of cold honey forging eastward every three days. Crossing a rise and looking downward through the morning mist, my view is of a reticulated silver caterpillar, each segment defined by large red numbers, slowly inching its way over a path of asphalt toward the sea.

Oh Canada ? Ahhhh, Canada !!

2005-07-23T12:07:00.000-05:00

On to Huntsville, Ont.

For sale in Sudbury, an old 9 panel ambassador, $ 6990 canadian dollars

The execution of assigned tasks is essential to establish "esprit de corps", which in the jargon of the modern day Marine, absent any profanity, translates to ' your turn, soldier'. So in the pre-dawn darkness you rise earlier than usual not because you must, but because you want to.

Lynn and I, along with four others, left Sudbury early as the PARKERS, much better described as the advance team. Our responsibility is to arrive at the destination early, set up camp in Huntsville, have a leisurely lunch, and then await the dribblers, the tardy, the easily distracted, to direct them to their designated areas. This liberation from routine is intoxicating, as if you've lost weight, gotten new bifocals, or found the last Hershey bar in the back of the freezer. The excitement of the trailer parade backed up as far as the highway off-ramp, clogging traffic, eagerly awaiting your instructions, and you, resplendent in fluorescent orange wal-mart vest are the authority. Oh, the power.

Pictured, L-R: Ernest Till, former commanding officer of a polaris submarine; Tucker Yee, doctorate in biochemical research; Lynn; and an old druggist; CB radios on the right, clipboards on the left, have the situation in control.

Huntsville, Ont., is Canadian quaint. It could be an Indiana county seat in the 60s, handsome main street, outdoor entertainment, town hall, and sidewalks drooling with natives desperately in need of a style makeover. The morning was spent interviewing local residents, enjoying their peculiar Canadian sense of humor, which is best not to describe as dry, but rather, parched. It helps to be thirsty.

Now for the boring part (use of your fast forward command is strongly recommended), I took a trip back in time in the afternoon. In 1947, this writer at age seven and his dirt-poor family vacationed in the nearby beautiful Lake of Bays at the cottage of our great uncle and aunt, George and Helen Jones. Citizens of Hamilton, Ont., elderly, retired, and childless, they were the precursors to George and Florence Jefferson, movin' on up, to the east side. Summers here, winters in Havana, they truly had a piece of the rock. Old uncle George had a larcenous streak and on each trip would always smuggle cigars and pipe tobacco under the front seat of his Lincoln and into the empire...untaxed.

East of Baysville, on the south side of the lake, and after only a single wrong turn, we located the cabin, now called Braeside, occupied for the last forty years by a charming family, the Connells of Victoria, BC. The visit with Liz and her two sons (l-r, Brendan, Ryland, Liz, and Lynn) was delightful, exchanging family histories and memories. 58 years had done little to change the interior of the cabin or my mind, the enclosed breakfast porch, the porcupine scavenging for a free meal, the rock lined path to the pier, or the royal blue of the water. The warmth of the Connells' greeting, the boys the same age as my brother and I were then, the diaphanous haze of a cherished childhood memory, all too abruptly became an emotional sledgehammer. It was necessary to leave soon, to hide the quiet cascade of tears that followed.

Dr. C.

2005-07-20T09:35:00.000-05:00

SUDBURY, ONTARIO
JULY 20, 2005

An uneventful day with only one slight mishap from the Soo to Sudbury. Hunkered down at the Mill Site campground, we were greeted on Wed. a.m. by the deputy mayor of Sudbury (pop. 155,000), Doug Craig, TV and print media, and a special guest Jacque LeClerc and his stunning wife, Jeanne. Jacque, then a 12 year old boy, had witnessed the first cascade of Airstreams entering Sudbury in 1955. Now, 62 y/o, an accomplished singer with a rich baritone voice, he recounted his memory of fifty years before, still fresh and exuberant.

On the 19th most of the group toured the "SCIENCE NORTH", a wonderful hands on salute to the world around us. Think Chicago's Museum of Science and Industry, only not on steroids. The simulated (four dimensional) ride on a bush plane was a highlight, and for the more adventurous, a virgin solo ride on the SEGWAY, the amazing two-wheel, gyroscopically balanced, battery powered personal transport device. The future is very close.

Lynn visited the creek behind the Provincial Taxation Center, which was then a park and served as the original campground site in 1955. Nearby, the Silver Bullet drive-in reminds us of that old Latin adage, " Ad astra per alia porci bauxia", or roughly translated, "To the stars on the wings of an aluminum pig". Yeah, yeah, so I made that up, but whose blog is this ?

A final note on camaraderie. Gene Cribbs of Lubbock, rewired and activated our mordant CB radio, then followed up by reattaching my busted hot water heater door. I could describe Gene as a dynamo, but that would be a Texas sized injustice. He is the kid you knew in grammar school, the red headed brat with attention-deficit-disorder (ADD). He has lived his entire life at a 45 degree angle, still races his dirt bikes, plays piano to the delight of anyone within earshot, and a few Ritalin tablets shy of the right dosage. One hour with Gene and I was left with two choices, (a) three liters of oxygen, or (b) a thirty minute nap.

2005-07-17T13:45:00.000-05:00

Goodbye Stars & Stripes, Hello Maple Leaf

After three very short days, we have assimilated into a very lively group. Everyone we've met has been very nice; many veteran travelers, rallyers, and/or caravanners and yet none has been condescending to 'rookies'. This is a relief, but they don't know us.

Highlights included the opening banquet (Studebaker's in the Soo) which was much like Saturday Night Live for the elderly. Heckling from the audience is not only tolerated, but seems to be encouraged. Our leaders, the Rich and Kathy Griffin, Dave and Carole Keller Show (picture Lucy and Desi, Fred and Ethel Mertz) are competent, covered with road leather, and resilient.

A trip the following day, via the ferry Hiawatha , yielded an X photo, formed by the stream of pennants in the wind and a skyward overhead crane of the Algoma Steel company, the first move in a tic-tac-toe game through the famed locks. ---------->>>

Later in the afternoon, we were privleged to join Jim and Liz Sullivan, Dave and Kathy Carlig, all Chicago area residents, for an entertaining lunch at the Antlers Restaurant, a Soo tradition and notable saloon that features the largest collection of deceased stuffed animal parts in the U.P. This must be the dream internship for any taxidermy student working on a PhD in animal autopsy. Combined with the legendary bells, sirens, and whistles, the Antlers rocks. Here, a polar bear expresses a silent opinion as he welcomes the girls to the restroom.

Late afternoon Lynn and I hosted the first GAM meeting. This is not the slang term referring to the legs of beautiful women, but an acronym for get acquainted meeting, in airstreamspeak, the happy hour. Good fun, the Smiths from Wakefield, Oh., the Tagues from Ponca City, OK, the Tills from Oxford, Pa. and our old friends from the antlers, The Sullivans.

In the early evening, the first meeting of the journal staff convened. Attending, Fran Perrucci, Brenda Cribbs, Doris Jean & Chuck Cabalka, Bonnie MacDonald joined Lynn and me. Fran and Brenda are veteran journalists, Bonnie a grammarian, editor, champion speller, and the Cabalkas advanced computer IT experts, so they appointed me chairman. They will do all the grunt work and my responsibility will be to take the credit. Lynn was assigned to keep me awake during the meetings. This group has real chemistry, from day one.

Clockwise from the left; Chas, Fran, Brenda,
Chuck, Doris Jean, and Bonnie.

Photo credit: Lynn

Tomorrow we enter Canada across the International Bridge (no guns, potatoes, firewood, or blueberries allowed), destination, Sudbury, Ontario in 189 miles.

2005-07-14T19:55:00.000-05:00

DeTour Village, Mi. to Sault Ste. Marie

Tomorrow morning we liftoff from our cabin on the north shore of Lake Huron to convene with section III at the Chippewa Campground in the "Soo", as it is known locally. It seems almost surreal, in the pink glow of twilight, freighters drifting slowly toward the Mackinac straits, to be leaving this idyllic setting for a nine week hiatus. Lynn refers to it as a vacation, prompting the question, "how can you take a break from doing nothing?" The DeTour Reef offshore lighthouse, three miles to the east, blinks approval. Every nine seconds.

Our trailer is fully equipped, loaded for the trip, hitched up and ready to rumble. After breakfast, load the dogs, dog food, dog leashes, dog medicine. Doggone.

No pictures today of the old excella as I was too busy packing, mowing the grass, watching LeTour de France, and the British Open golf. However I did receive, via FedEx, a packet containing two editions of the 'Caravanner', April, 1955, and October, 1955, courteously lent to me by Dale 'Peewee' Schwamborn of Chino Hills, Ca. I will discuss the signifigance of these publications later in the trip, but please note that Peewee is one of three known survivors from the original caravan, 16 years old at the time, and kept a complete diary...a genuine treasure for the historical comparison that will follow.

Are we getting excited ? There was once an Irish dramatist, Oliver Goldsmith, who in his treatise, The Traveler, penned this poem:

"Hope like the gleaming tapers light,
Adorns and cheers our way,
And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits the brighter way."

He had been seized by wanderlust and became a continental tramp. He died in 1774 at the age of 46. Just when we think we are about to break new ground..........no need to get overly sentimental, it's time to clean up the ground where Heinz and Kramer deposit their own aromatic poetry.

2005-07-12T12:23:00.000-05:00

Welcome to the Golden Caravan 2005, created for your listening, reading, and dancing pleasure by Charlie (aka Dr. C.),loyal dogs, Heinz and Kramer (aka ReWind and WrongWay), and devoted wife, Lynn, who has never needed an alias.

The background: in the swelter of summer, 1955, one hundred travel trailers embarked on a nine week odyssey commencing from Sault Ste. Marie, Mi. , divining their way eastward through six Canadian provinces, finally terminating in northern Maine as autumn erupted in its annual gestation, that quiet exhilaration of amber, yellow,and red delirium.

Yeah, yeah, so what ?, you must be thinking.
Note: during this caravan, the first and oldest travel trailer club, the wbcci *, was formed.

The foreground: in less than one week, 105 airstream trailers, divided into three groups of 35 each, will reenact this invasion of an unwary Canada, attempting to replicate the fun, fellowship, and adventure of five decades past. In a staggered start three days apart, this fleet of aluminum tubes on axle will hopscotch, like children on a chalk covered playground, our provincial neighbours to the north. In mid-August, at a predetermined site in Kentville, Nova Scotia, the three section caravan will reconvene, along with notable dignitaries (an obvious redundancy), to commemorate the 1955 founding.

Above ground: those are the facts, now for the fluff.

We have never partcipated in a caravan before, were only allowed in by virtue of winning a lottery for a space, one year ago, but are often guided by quotation.....in this instance, The Pope, in 1727, "blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed". Naturally we have some fear, trepidation, anxiety, apprehension, and most of the scary adjectives in the dictionary I've never heard of, but with the backing of His Holiness, what could go wrong? Of course he wasn't married, didn't have two aging dogs, and never wore his mitre in a cocoon shaped travel trailer for sixty three days.

I will attempt to update this site regularly, every three to five days, depending largely on availability of wi-fi internet access. I'm not really very adept at this, have no cellphone, am lost somewhere between being a minor geek and a major geezer, so please be kind and patient. Or else. We will post some photos, our itinerary, history, points of interest, but will also elaborate on the lewd and the lascivious, particularly if it pertains to our fellow travelers' behavior.

* Wally Byam Caravan Club International
( translation; The Airstream Club )