8-2-2014 Arvilla, ND

8-2-2014 Arvilla, ND

In case you need to buy a syllable, there are a lot of them available up north.  Take the towns of Potawatomi and Oconomowoc, for example.  My favorites are Lakes Winnibigoshish and Kabetogama.  Forget the easy stuff like, say, Trout Lake, why do that?  Why say, “spicy sauce” when you can say, “chipotle,” eh?  I’ve also noticed that the bent is a little different at certain retail businesses.  We drove past a store named, “Rides.”  In the desert where we live, the inventory would consist of ATVs and dirt bikes but here, parked out front, the vehicles de jour are a snowmobile and a riding lawn mower.  Ah yes, all things in life are relative.

There is not an available site in an rv park for as far as the eye can see.  The recent oil boom in the Dakotas has brought about a states-wide “no vacancy” sign as folks, bless them, flood here for the jobs.  More power to them, I say.  Capitalism on the hoof.  However, many have taken up semi-permanent residence in the parks making our hopscotch across this part of the fruited plain a real quest.  The state and national parks do not allow extended stays so they are our working alternative.  Government parks are not my first choice because, yes, they are less expensive but they’re usually rustic and lack utilities.  Nevertheless, beggars can’t be choosers and we are camped at Turtle River State Park, which, after all, turns out to be a rather pretty green place with small, u-shaped pull-throughs occupied by almost all the mosquitoes and half the frogs on Earth.  This morning, the ground is covered with white downy fluff from the cottonwood trees and it looks like it snowed last night.  So pretty.

Don’t say the rangers haven’t warned you.  If they drive the truck through the park with the yellow lights flashing, that means probable severe weather.  If the flashing lights are red, that means go to the shelter (the bathroom).  OK, I got it.  If you see yellow lights, pack the cooler.  Red lights, carry the cooler to the bathroom because it’s handy:  you’re going to be scared shitless and meanwhile you can have a beer.  The skies were black this afternoon so we mentally rehearsed the rangers’ drill while we drove to Larimore to sit out the storm at the Good Friends Tavern.  What else could we do? 

Every state has laws, don’tchaknow?  In one state, you can buy alcoholic beverages only at the government liquor stores.  In another state, you can buy beer and wine here, but booze over there.  In Nevada, you can buy whatever you want wherever you want (these are my people).  In ND, you have to go to a bar to buy take-out beer, wine and booze.  Allright-y then, take me to your bartender.  As the storms rampaged outside, Leinie’s Oktoberfest was on tap and the friendly locals told us of the crowds flocking into the state for the oil industry jobs, mostly in the western half of the state.  The farmers don’t like all this, they explained, especially the pipeline because if there is a failure, it goes all over the ground.  (I thought oil came from the ground… oh well, what do I know?)  The local folks talk like this, “Yah, rate know, dare.”  (That means “yes, right now, there.”  My ears are tuning into the dialect.)  We also learned that if you catch a fish in Canada and butcher it and you want to bring it home, you have to leave the skin on it so the government can determine if you caught the right fish and the right number of the right fish.  If you transgress, they fine you, confiscate your fish, take it home and eat it.  Just a guess on the “take it home and eat it” part BUT… if I, Lindy, were the “Fish Police?”

 

The storm has passed and we are home.  No fuses have blown and we are warm and safe.  For dinner, we plan to fry up some walleye and prepare fresh corn on the cob, fresh lima beans, cauliflower and Mom’s cucumber salad and, ready for this?  A Grain Belt beer! 

Had one of those lately?  Our walleye has its skin on it.  Phew, dodged another bullet!

8-1-2014 On The WI Roads

8-1-2014 ON THE WISCONSIN ROADS

Hello t-loggers!  I had a bit of a hiatus, time off to spend with family.  It was a low turnout this year for various reasons, health or other commitments intervening but those of us who attended had a lot of fun, as usual.  (Maybe those who didn't attend had fun, too, but I can’t know since I wasn't there.)  Lots of laughing and general horsing around.  Sometimes I sat and looked around thoughtfully at the Kraus family, those of us in the old age bracket, Gen 2 in the middle raising children who are now in college or already graduated, chasing Gen 3s around the park or just starting out with teeny infants.  My brothers and sisters did a fine job, I think, guiding their families into the hard stuff, creating constructive, conservative, hard-working citizens who contribute to the GNP.  Each individual is so unique.  I held Everest Johnson, the teeny 7-lb infant who joined us for the first time, and wonder what world he will live in.  Will there be green fields covered with a canopy of blue, fishing lakes, happy cows making great cheese, happy Krauts making cold beer, pretty rural farms with white fences, freedom, liberty and church steeples with crosses at the peaks?  If I came back to the planet in 100 years, what would America look like?  What will you believe is best and how will you vote 18 years from now, little Everest?  In my old age, I am getting philosophical, I guess.  I love the precious time I have with the family, like total immersion in a sweet summer wine with a healthy dose of sauerkraut thrown in for sass.

It is hard to believe that we have hit the midway point and are now on the homeward-bound leg of the trip.  The Fourth of July parade in Flagstaff seems like forever ago!  Delavan, WI is behind us as the roads not yet traveled track far north and west just south of Canada.  We originally thought that we might travel west through Canada until the moment when I said, “Oh dang, Rob.  My passport expires next Saturday.”  That made our decision easy:  pack the shotguns and ammo (for the family trap competition) and steer clear of Canada.  So, with shotguns on board, we will be very careful to stay south of the 49^th parallel.  The USA:  land of the free to carry a firearm.  Gotta love my country!

It’s a pretty drive through the green rolling hills, corn and bean fields of Wisconsin and we arrived soon at my brother George and Ray’s summer home in Solon Springs, WI

on the shores of the St. Croix River.  Originally, this summer home belonged to Mom and Dad and summer vacations were spent here so this triggers many memories.  When I was pretty small, my Gramma Kraus spent her summers at the original family log cabin out in the woods.  The Soo Line Railroad was a freight train with a pullman so Mom and Dad loaded us little kids onto the train to travel the 325 miles north to be with Gramma.  Our guardian conductor deboarded us with our little cardboard boxes filled with clothes, crayons and toys and we were gathered up by Gramma and Frank, the kind neighbor man.  Good grief, the train station, more than a half century old is still here in Solon Springs.  Later, the folks acquired the lake home where we swam, jumped off the raft and learned to water ski.  At night, millions of stars reflected off the still water and frogs croaked us, “good night.”  They still do.  Some events are timeless.

George and Ray took us to the Gordon Dam where we kids fished with bamboo poles, bobbers, sinkers and worms.  To my recollection, I never caught a thing.  Dad always stood in the shallows below the dam wearing waders and he always caught lots of walleye, muskies and bass.  The dam has grown much smaller than it was when I was a child, imagine that!  But the little coves where we little kids threw in our hooks and worms are still there and I believe I still saw our little footprints on the grassy river’s edge.

The pontoon boat with a cooler of cold Leinenkugel’s is wonderful lazy transportation around the lake.  The interim stop was at the Lakeview Lodge bar, why wouldn't it be? 

We decided to grab a quick dinner, chicken, pizza and burgers and then sail back to safe harbor, pack away our camp, batten down the hatches and prepare for departure in the morning.  After 3 lazy days, morning has arrived and we are en route to ND with an ample supply of brats, ring baloney, sauerkraut, cheese curds, walleye and Leinenkugel’s.  Prosit!

5-20-2014 Savannah, GA

5-20-14 Savannah, GA

Regrettably, we zoomed right by St. Simons Island.  When I say that, I mean that we did not take advantage of the shore excursion today, even though we had signed on to it.  When the ship anchored to tender people ashore, a million big black flies that look like bees gathered on the windows.  They bite.  Worse, they bite ME.  ME, Lindy, not Maine.  If I apply repellent, they take a bath in it first, tie a bib around their necks and then dine on me.  So we remained aboard the ship where there were nice slabs of glass and steel between the bugs and Lindy.

We are now docked in Savannah, GA and it is a warm, sunny, beautiful day, perfect for exploring to see what's cookin' in the Hostess City.  Juliet Gordon Low's birthplace and family home is located here in Savannah and we were invited to have a look around.  Juliet, nicknamed and forevermore known as Daisy, was born in 1860 in this home where she lived her young life with her dad, mom and five sibs.  When she was 26, she married William Low, who was the heir to a pantload of money and never worked a day in his life.  Daisy was pretty arty and did a lot of sculpturing, oil painting and even designed and welded fancy wrought iron gates.  Her hubness was a Brit and so they moved back to his origins in London.  That's where Daisy met Lord Baden-Powell, the founder of the Boy Scouts.  She learned that girls were hungry for a piece of that action and became inspired.  She came back to the States and began immediately to craft the organization that wound up being the Girl Scouts.  She was heavily wrapped up in that enterprise until her death at 66. Her family's home still contains the original furnishings and it seemed to me that for that era, they must have been LOADED.  But we were assured that, although her dad was a cotton merchant, this opulent home was considered "upper middle class."  Beyond my means, by any yardstick, and really beautiful.  And now I know why there is a Girl Scout cookie called a "savannah."  But not why it's that particular cookie.

Savannah as a colony was first established in 1732 by James Edward Oglethorpe and there are monuments, streets and buildings named in his honor.  It is considered one of the first planned communities in the USA.  Since the USA became the USA 44 years later, I'm not sure how this figures but I'm just the messenger, here.  The city is laid out with 22 squares, each square with pretty landscaping of big live oaks and flowers and monuments and each named after an historically significant person or event.  Some are Madison, Chippewa, Washington, Reynolds and Ellis Squares.  Along the waterfront is River Street.  You can stroll along the cobblestone walk here and visit the stores, cafes and saloons catering to the tourists.  It was midday so Rob and I found a great old brick and mortar saloon and settled down for a quick lunch:   a cold beer, fried grouper and chips (Rob) and fried gator tails (Lindy).  Yup, gator tails!  They are tasty and chewy.  The fish version of chicken gizzards in my evaluation.  

The streets of Savannah were originally dirt, of course.  But the ships that came in delivering a variety of goods used rocks for ballast.  This assured that the ships would remain bottom-side down, always a nice concept, to be sure.  When the ships were unloaded, the rocks were thrown out and before you know it, the town was strewn with big rock piles.  It occurred to the locals that these could be used to pave the dirt streets and there are still many original cobblestone streets.  It is important to watch your step because they are rugged and uneven and hazardous to your health.

Next stop:  Hilton Head, SC, where men play golf and the rest of us spend money.   

6-1-2014 Trapp Family Lodge, Stowe, VT

6-1-2014 Stowe,VT

The drive north from Bridgeport is beautiful once you are out of the city. You do have to watch out at the caution signs, though, "moose crossing" and "bear crossing," but they weren't up yet, I guess.  We can't tell you much about Bridgeport because we weren't in the city but overnight.  This part of the trip is an exercise in mileage efficiency.  Our intention is to visit the VT and ME state capitol buildings in a rather short period of time.  Since the VT capitol is not open on Sunday, we drove on a bit (~20 mi.) to Stowe.  Here, our room for the night was at the Trapp Family Lodge.  Yes, the genuine article von Trapp family as in the movie, "The Sound of Music."

Trapp Family Lodge Stowe, VT 

That Maria left the nunnery to marry Baron Georg von Trapp, a widower with 7 children, and they left Austria is about as close to actual fact as the movie gets.  The Baron was fiercely opposed to the Nazi ideology and instead of being conscripted into their military, the family now numbering 11, chose to migrate to the USA.  That was in 1938. 

Maria and Capt. Georg von Trapp

Originally, their intention was to take up farming but they found that touring about the world six months a year as a singing troupe was easier.  Because of Maria, each child was required to know an instrument.  They all had a musical ear and a priest became the composer and director of the Trapp Family Singers.

In 1942, the current Trapp property in Stowe was settled by the family and farming became a lifestyle while singing was their profession.  Maria gave birth to their third and last child, Johannes, in Philadelphia, bringing the total number of children up to 10 when they arrived on the 2,500 acres.  They took to farming the land and with the visits from family and friends, the lodge began to emerge.  The Trapps had and still have a mentality to be completely independent, what is known as "farm-to-table" and to that end, hardy Scottish Highlander cattle,

Scottish highlander cattle

pigs, chickens, vegetable gardens and fruit orchards are nurtured, and where would a bunch of Krauts be without a brewery? The cattle are long-haired and the babies are cute as a bug's ear.  It is very likely that one of them is next week's wiener schnitzel on the hoof.  I didn't know that "farm-to table" was legal.  I thought the feds and the FDA and the USDA had to stick their noses into everything.  Not in Vermont, apparently.  When we asked about this, a lady employee asked, "Where are you from, anyway?"  "Obviously, we're from a less free country than you."

Maria's grave                             Capt. von Trapp's grave

Baroness Maria was 25 years younger than Baron Georg and he didn't live long.  In 1947 he died at the age of 67 of lung cancer and is buried, as is the rest of the family, in the family graveyard on the Lodge property.  Maria died in 1987 at the age of 82 outliving him by 40 years.  Their daughter Maria died at the age of 99 last February.  Johannes is the last child living and he is the President of the lodge.  We had the honor of meeting him in the bar and he grins ear to ear.  We can tell that Johannes' Trapp Family Lodge and farm in the beautiful green Vermont mountains are alive with the sound of music.

The lodge, rooms and restaurant are perfectly appointed to the last detail. 

While claiming to be casual, the tables in the dining room are draped with pure white linens and there are crystal vases of fresh flowers and candles in silver holders everywhere.  Wiener schnitzel and sauerbraten were on our minds and for dessert, apfel strudel and black forest cake.  We ordered the desserts "to go" with a cup of delicious hot coffee as our next day breakfast.  Then, we said, "auf wiedersehen" to the von Trapp family and hit the road.  Major drawback:  we couldn't stay for a month.

8-28-2014 Weed, CA and Mt. Shasta

8-28-14 Weed, CA

Whitebark Pine

You probably know about Meriwether Lewis and his buddy, Bill Clark, those two guys to whom President Jefferson said, “Hey, I’d like you to walk to the Pacific Ocean and tell me what you find.  I’ll wait here.”  Well, they did a lot of documenting, mapping and sketching of land, water, flora and fauna on the two year long trek.  One of the peculiar birds they wrote up and that we spotted many times at Crater Lake is aptly named, “Clark’s Nutcracker.”  It has a behavioral pattern in which it cracks open the cones of the whitebark pine to free the seeds, then it gathers them up and buries piles of them under the warm soil of the foothills around the lake, storing them for the Winter months.  The bird comes back to his cache and digs them up, but any that don’t get eaten sprout.  This is just one of the interesting cycles in nature in which one life form depends upon another for its survival.

Another thing I forgot to tell you is that Glacier National Park and Waterton National Park are separated by the 49^th parallel.  Waterton is on the Canadian side.  In 1932, Canada and the USA decided to designate these two as a “peace park,” to commemorate the special bond of friendship between our two countries.  So the official name of the area is “Waterton-Glacier International Peace Park.”

Here in Weed, CA, this quiet Trailer Lane Park sits in a forest of 100 ft. tall redwoods. 

They are all around us and pine needles and cones are scattered everywhere.  A deer just strolled by.  He looks delicious!

Mt. Shasta is another spectacle that has eluded us.  Last September, driving down here from Crater Lake, it was so cloudy and stormy that we passed the mountain and didn’t even know it was there.  This time, we came around a bend and she exploded into view wearing her finest glaciers.

  Stunning.  It is a strange phenomenon, we think, this single mountain jutting up in the middle of nowhere, no range of adjacent mountains for friends and it makes her presence all the more majestic.  She nearly escaped us again, however.  The nearby forest fires have created a dense blanket of smoke that seems to settle mostly at dusk.  It is so thick that it burns the eyes and obliterates any objects that may stick up on the horizon.  In the morning, the smoke gets up and goes away for the day (don’t ask me to explain).  Because of this, during the day Mt. Shasta is visible.  Hazy but visible.  We drove up the Everitt Memorial Highway as far as we could.  At the shoulders of the road, by the way, are snow poles that have nothing on the ones at Crater Lake, maybe only a puny 10 feet tall, total.  As I say, we drove up as far as possible, to “The Old Ski Bowl,” sat in the sun at the mountain’s feet with several little chipmunks

Old Ski Bowl - Mt. Shasta

and had a small picnic lunch.  This is called “old” because in 1978, an avalanche destroyed this ski area.  A new ski area has been established lower and more westerly.  It was a glorious day that ended with the mountain once again slipping shyly away behind the smoke, as if she weren't there at all.

Poor Shasta buried in smoke

The road up the mountain winds between tall conifers that are a peculiar configuration, unlike any we have seen.  They are perfectly shaped into tall narrow cones as if each and every one of these millions of trees had been individually shaped by groomers.  They were so unusual that we stopped several times taking a few extra moments to admire them.  We've decided that these trees clearly are the reason for the expression, “pine cones.”  Why wouldn't they be?

Birthday girl!

We are on re-entry heading toward splashdown.  After a bit of time with friends for a day or two in central CA, by September 4, we will pull into our own driveway, the one we left on July 3^rd, approximately 6,000 miles ago (and an additional 3,000 on the Jeepster).  We’ve seen and learned so much and it was fun to share it all with you, my t-loggers.  We’ve attempted, mostly successfully, not to let a single experience escape our attention.  Wow.  What a ride!  Until next time, Rob and Lucky Lindy send you love, care and wish you Godspeed in all of your life’s adventures!

Crater Lake August 25, 2014

8-25-14 Fort Klamath, OR

As rvs grew in size over the years and slide outs were incorporated, many of the old parks became difficult to navigate and that’s saying something.  We often ponder why every other space isn't simply eliminated to accommodate the big rigs, but that of course involves a serious decrease in revenue.  Well, the park in Salem is phenomenal.  They have bit the bullet and eliminated every other site not only doubling the width of the remaining sites but providing a paved area to park the Jeepster.  The landscaping with trees, grass and flowers (and a pickleball court!) make this park exceptional.  I guess that speaks to it’s business calling card, “Premier RV Park.”

We drove through peaceful mountainous tall tree-lined corridors today to arrive at Fort Klamath at about 4 PM.  We were here last year at this same campground near the end of September and it rained on us like a sumbitch till I wanted to scream.  We broke camp in ankle-deep water, as I recall, and Crater Lake was socked in.  We are passing this way again so we decided to give it another try.  This time we have hit pay dirt, it is beautiful and sunny, apparently a crap shoot in this part of the world.  The campground is green and grassy and the redwoods are tall and fat and reaching for the royal blue sky.  Now, I remember something else unusual:  this park office has a grocery store providing  fresh vegetables and fruit, pork chops, steaks, hamburgers, dairy products, beer, wine and so on and free movies.  Some other parks have a small store, it’s true, but how many windsocks, baseball hats, key chains and cans of Spam can you buy?  Some don’t even have an office:  check yourself in, if you don’t mind, find your own spot, drop your money through the slot and leave us alone.  Some of the washers and dryers work, good luck.   Not kidding, “In an emergency, knock on the door at site # 4.  Being out of beer does not constitute an emergency.”  I had a really negative feeling coming here again, but I think my memories were so drowned with rain that I couldn't remember the good parts.  I’m glad we came back so I could reissue that E.O. 

Let’s see.  How tall am I?  It is 82 inches to the top of my fingertips with my arm stretched straight up.  The snow poles along the sides of the road heading toward Crater Lake do not look promising.  So let me get this straight.  It is seven feet to the lowest marker on the “this-is-how-deep-the-snow-is pole!”  On the ROAD? 

Rob & Snow Pole

We saw nary a one “chains required” sign, why bother?  Alright-y then.  It’s August.  Let’s go see this lake and get the hell out of here!  Fortunately, there were no road closures due to snow (like last September) so we could ride almost all the way around the lake and back on the trolley while the chickie ranger filled us with so much information my brain almost exploded.

I sent you a t-log from last year to familiarize you with how this lake was formed some 8,000 years ago.  (I don’t know how they know this.)  Today, the sky was blue and the water heart-stoppingly sapphire blue. 

Take-your-breath-away blue.  The lake owes this to clarity and depth, they say, about 2,000 feet of depth.  The mysteries of this geographical formation continue to inspire, from ancient times until now.  The Indians believed in the good gods and bad gods that lived on and below the lake and fought it out, usually over women.  Duh.  We saw old black and white pictures of Indians in full dress feathers sitting along the cliffs of this sapphire in the rough, apparently entranced.  Today, as then, every human heart goes to it’s banks for messages of inspiration and help from the gods with difficult life situations.

Well, we made it.  We saw Crater Lake at last.  Tomorrow, we will play a little pickleball on the campground court and then, the good ship Bee will set the sails for Mount Shasta, another of Mother Nature’s creations that has eluded us.  The profound inspirations continue.