Southern California deserts Feb 9-25 '06

Early February was a good time to drive down US 101 from San Jose to the greater Los Angeles area. The hills were green and lush, not the dry brown that summer heat brings on. Fields were newly plowed and planted by workers as thankful as I that the sun was just pleasingly warm. Birds were twittering at the rest stops. Not much traffic on a Thursday afternoon. All in all, good timing for a trip.

I had two main reasons to make this trip. To begin with, I got hooked on traveling last year. Second, I knew I’d be going to Wisconsin in March to be with my mother while she had surgery, and wanted to go someplace warm before heading to snow country. What better than a desert adventure in southern California? The first bookend for this trip was a visit to brother-in-law Gus, wife Chris, their son Conall and wife Theresa and daughter Chloe, in Hermosa Beach within eyesight of the Pacific Ocean (if you’re on the second story of a house on a hill and have binoculars, all of which they have). We ate at a Mexican restaurant and played Mexican Train dominoes. Chloe and Gus, he with the Ph.D., drew and colored pictures together.

The bookend at the end was a visit with my sister Marsha and her husband Terry, who live near the LA airport in a neighborhood whose streets have aviation-related names: Kittyhawk, Earhart, Bleriot etc. I looked forward to a game of Scrabble and breakfast at a nearby neighborhood café, both of which I got. The bonus was noticing the woman dining solo next to us who wore a cap with the word “writer” on the front and was journaling. We chatted a bit, and if I could remember the name of the book she was working on, I’d tell you. It’s a personal growth book about loving yourself first, and she already had an agent in New York.

Below: Marsha’s cat Charlie. The moustache is real.


I’ll start with the bad stuff first. I hit LA traffic during the Friday rush hour. I am petrified of driving in big city traffic anyway, so at first I was exceedingly tense. But I soon got over it. How much damage could occur if I was involved in a collision at 8 miles an hour? Next, on my second day camping in Anza Borrego Desert State Park, a fierce, cold windstorm came up. It was unpleasant enough that my camping companion, Karen, who lives a few hours away, hightailed it home. I chose to head north to a motel and a tire store. Sand had stuck to Catherine the Grape’s tires and dramatically accented an odd wear pattern on the rear tires. (I had meant to check them before leaving, honest.)

That’s the end of the bad stuff. Oh, except that later in Joshua Tree National Park, I had put up my shade canopy as a place-marker at a campsite and the tail end of that darn windstorm blew it down and broke some of the poles. But I want to get back to the tire story. The need for tires led me to Indio, where I met a friendly, helpful Big O tire store manager, had a really good Motel 6 experience, found a Food 4 Less with Mexican food in their deli, free computer use at the library, and a yummy date shake at Shield’s Date Farm.


I did not anticipate having a good time in Indio; it was just the closest city large enough to have a national brand tire store. But I eased into it beginning with the guy at Big O, who cautioned me about staying in any nearby motel except Motel 6. It seems the others, although cheaper, are hooker havens. Motel 6 had no non-smoking rooms left, except a handicapped-accessible room, so the manager put me in it and there were grab bars all over that bathroom. The wind subsided overnight and I did laundry before leaving. Motels with guest laundry rooms are 5-Star in my book!

Joshua Tree Nat’l Park
It took me 64 years to get to Joshua Tree National Park the first time (March 2005), and less than a year to return. And it wasn’t even peak wildflower season the second time. Yes, Joshua Tree is that much of a draw at any time – except when it’s 110 degrees in the summer. I was drawn by the varied scenery and reasonably-priced camping, i.e., $2.50 a night (that’s half-price with my Golden Geezer park pass). Three days and nights in Joshua Tree gave me the opportunity to try a few more hiking trails and test the new shoes I had just purchased with the hope that they’d be better for my plantar fasciitis problem. They were. Spira should hire me to do testimonials. The shoes have heavy coiled metal springs in the soles just under the heels and balls of the feet, but they’re enclosed, not exposed like the strange-looking Z-Coil shoes. Spiras also cost much less, between $95 and $135, compared to around $200 for the Z-Coils. By my third day in Joshua Tree I was able to hike three miles round trip to a hidden palm oasis. I ignored the sight of a father making the trip carrying his daughter on his shoulders, and the runners who passed me up. Hiking three miles with no pain afterwards was as major a triumph for me as if I had completed the Boston Marathon – and the scenery was far superior where I was.

In case you haven’t seen Joshua trees, here they are (named for the prophet Joshua who supposedly prayed with his hands held up to the sky).

If you have problems with sore feet, google Spira shoes (I found them googling spring shoes, expecting to find pastel colored pumps). If you go to Joshua Tree and are not 62 years old or older, expect to pay $15 to get in, and $5 to $8 for a shower (no senior discount) in the nearby towns of Joshua Tree or Yucca Valley, as the park has no shower facilities. Heck, there’s not even water at most of the campgrounds. In the spring, expect crowds looking for desert flowers. Recommended stops: the murals on the sides of buildings in downtown Twentynine Palms, the California Visitor Center in Yucca Valley for brochures and information about the area, and two special restaurants in Yucca Valley. Hutchins Harley Davidson Diner is a retro ‘50s diner in front of a Harley Davidson retail store with some museum-quality displays. The C & S Coffee Shop is not just retro, it’s real, with low prices and big servings to boot. My small orange juice was served in a 12-ounce plastic glass, and the pancakes touched the rim of the plate.

Real estate publications will cause Californians to drool over the low (for California) prices – in the $100s, $200s and $300s (that’s thousands). If you’re tempted, just remember the summer heat there.

Below: odd rock landscape in Joshua Tree Nat’l Park

Anza Borrego – a Better Deal
If you’re looking for a really low-cost desert experience, head for Anza Borrego Desert State Park instead. It also has varied scenery and, in fact, more palm oases. The $6 day-use fee is collected only at Borrego Palm Canyon, Tamarisk Grove and the Vern Whittaker Horse Camp, but it’s not necessary to go there. The park has 600,000 acres to wander around in, with elevations ranging from near sea level to 6,000 feet. The campgrounds with showers cost more than at Joshua Tree (no showers there, remember?), but free camping is available at 8 waterless campgrounds, or you can camp just about anywhere you can go safely off-road. Just be self-contained when it comes to trash and toilet, and of course water. Speaking of water, my favorite place to shower was Agua Caliente Regional Park, on the map as Agua Caliente Hot Springs. $5 got me all the hot springs soaking I could stand, in both an indoor chlorine-scented pool and a slightly cooler, less smelly outdoor pool. I could have camped there for $14 a night and soaked for free, but I had already staked my claim at nearby Mountain Palm Springs Campground (free) which had at least four palm oases to hike to.

Anza Borrego was a repeat visit for me, but I had always camped at Yaqui Wells before and hiked nearby. This time I tried a few other campgrounds, as well as 10-1/2 of the 25 hikes listed in the free visitors guide. Besides palm trees, I saw Native American pictographs and grinding holes,

views of valleys from above,

earthquake faults, metamorphic rocks 450 million years old, and the last standing elephant tree on the Elephant Tree Discovery Trail.

No more fierce wind, just gentle thermals overhead where red-tailed hawks enjoyed “wind-surfing.”

Bird Life at Big Morongo and the Salton Sea
Speaking of birds, I decided to check out a few wildlife refuges with binoculars in hand. These were the 10 x 50 binos that worked so well in Costa Rica. I visited the Big Morongo Canyon Preserve about 20 miles north of Palm Springs, and the Sonny Bono Salton Sea National Wildlife Refuge. I found Big Morongo Preserve absolutely charming, and would return again on a warmer (but not too hot) day, with the hopes of getting in on a guided walk. I picked up a bird checklist, but most of the birds must have been hiding. However, other hikers recommended the canyon trail, where I saw more flowers than anywhere else on this trip. (Remember, it was February.)

The website www.desertusa.com describes the history of the Salton Sea so well, I’ll just copy it for your edification* instead of trying to paraphrase:

“The Salton Sea was formed between 1905 and 1907 when the Colorado River burst through poorly built irrigation controls south of Yuma, Arizona. Almost the entire flow of the river filled the Salton Basin for more than a year, inundating communities, farms and the main line of the Southern Pacific Railroad.

Continued filling of the Salton Sink was finally stopped in 1907, when a line of protective levees was built by boxcars dumping boulders into the breach from Southern Pacific tracks. By then, this inland lake was about 40 miles long and 13 miles wide, covering an area of about 400 square miles.”

* I checked “edification” and it means “uplifting enlightenment,” which I never found at the Salton Sea. I gave it a try, really I did. In fact, I drove all around the Salton Sea, but never did figure out what its attraction is. A few “cities” on the west side look like ghost towns, although it’s obvious people live in some of the houses and mobile homes. Some folks have built shade structures over their entire mobile home. State-operated campgrounds on the east side have showers and are reasonably priced, but I couldn’t get away from the rotten odor of the sea. It has no outlet, and acts as an agricultural sump, or drainage ditch for the runoff of nearby agricultural land. To be fair, the wildlife refuge on the south end seemed to be odor-free and was a tranquil, uncrowded area to see many different birds, mostly waterfowl. This attempt at being a bird-watcher inspired me to write a short essay, which seems a fitting end to this newsletter.

The Accidental Birder

I think I’m becoming a birder. It snuck up on me unexpectedly when I took a Study Abroad trip to Costa Rica recently. The birds there are amazing – mostly big, colorful, and cooperative. Even the little hummingbirds hold still a lot longer than their U.S. cousins. Of course, our tour guides found and identified the birds for us, so all we had to do was watch. Being able to get birds in focus in my binoculars and knowing what they were was thrilling, for I had tried birdwatching before and failed.
A year ago, I retired and started visiting national parks and other areas attractive to numerous birds. I thought I came prepared to birdwatch with some cute little discount store binoculars and The Sibley Guide to Birds. But those darn little birds wouldn’t sit still long enough for me to get them in focus in the binos (that’s birder slang), much less find out what they were even with Sibley’s help. I finally gave up and took to just sitting and enjoying their early morning chirps while I drank my tea and watched the day begin. That big rising sun is a lot easier to see and more reliable than hyperactive bunches of feathers.
My Costa Rica experience gave me some hope, though, and a better idea about how to watch birds. A night-sky-gazing friend who owns both binoculars and telescopes recommended 10 x 50 binoculars with long eye relief. The latter feature allows those of us with eyeglasses to keep them on while using binos. I don’t know what 10 x 50 means, but they sure magnify things well. I was also encouraged when I recognized some of the birds in Costa Rica as species I’d seen in California. The egrets and herons looked familiar, even though I couldn’t remember which was which, and a hummingbird always looks like a hummingbird no matter where it hums.
Empowered by my brief success, when I returned to the states I dug out the bird book and took it, those super 10 x 50 binoculars, and a folding chair on a trip to some Southern California deserts. The chair is not because I’m lazy or decrepit. The chair is because the best way to get close to birds is to sit still and attempt to blend in with the scenery, and let birds come to you. Trust me, it’s futile to try sneaking up on them.
For a few days in Anza Borrego Desert State Park and Joshua Tree National Park, I was reasonably successful at identifying a few birds. Maybe it was because there were only a few kinds, and a lot of each. Repetition helps. So did displays at the Joshua Tree Visitors Center where I learned that the fat little birds that congregate under bushes are cactus wrens, and the shiny black birds with punk hairdos – Mohawk-like tufts on the tops of their heads – are phainopepla. Ravens and roadrunners I already knew, as well as the mallards, both male and female, that were visiting a reservoir by a dam in the park.
One afternoon a beautiful iridescent green hummingbird with a bright red throat stayed in sight long enough for me to get a good look and I thought, “Ah ha! A ruby-throated hummingbird!” But when I looked it up, I learned that ruby-throated hummingbirds are easterners, and I never did find a photo of anything similar to what I saw. It sure was pretty, though.
These brief but successful encounters spurred me on to try a real wildlife refuge, specifically, the Sonny Bono Salton Sea National Wildlife Refuge. I did not make that up, but someone did, and it passed through Congress. People flock there hoping to see the fabled blue-footed booby. (Not making that up either.) The brochure promised elevated viewing stations to watch migratory waterfowl. I polished up the binoculars and headed further south.
Boy, did I see birds – hundreds, maybe even thousands of them. I saw three or four kinds of white birds, some black birds with a little white on their stubby tails, black and white birds with long legs, a bunch of little gray birds, one big gray bird, and some that flew so fast I wasn’t sure what color they were. I overheard some real birdwatchers saying “There’s two coots in with those gulls,” so I know I saw coots and gulls, too. I’m also pretty sure I saw a rare new species. At least I couldn’t find any pictures that looked like the reddish brown duck-like thing I saw.
As you have probably noticed, I’m not too stressed if I can’t identify something. At my age, I really don’t care if I don’t know what I’m seeing. Birds are interesting even without knowing their English or Latin names. I’m satisfied with learning slowly, picking up information from little illustrated brochures and visitor center displays and from other people with hundreds of birds on their life lists. I’m perfectly content to just sit in my chair, listen to the twitters and caws, and watch them peck or sip or bob in the water like teapots.
On the last day of my desert adventure, I saw ten big hawks circling gracefully over a palm oasis. They seemed to glide effortlessly in the gentle breeze. Watching them from my perch on a boulder, I thought about what I’d learned on my bird-watching ventures, and realized I accidentally learned awareness and patience, and how peaceful it can be sharing quality time with my new feathered friends.

Cactus wren in Joshua Tree National Park

Unidentified bird in tree at Anza Borrego Desert State Park

Unknown black and white birds at Sonny Bono Salton Sea National Wildlife Refuge

Costa Rica, Jan. 2-16, 2006

Introducing ... Costa Rica with photographs, OR Joanmom's first shot at being a photo-journalist with a new digital camera!

Before I retired from a staff position at Cabrillo College in late 2004, I got wind of a study-abroad biology course being planned to Costa Rica. I immediately decided to go, even though I lacked a passport, didn’t know where Costa Rica was, and had chronic science deficit disorder.

The class, Natural History of Costa Rica, promised an “experience for those curious about tropical biology in one of the biodiversity capitals of the world.” We would stay at research reserves in wet, dry and coastal locations not readily available to tourists. We would be there two weeks in early January, and it would cost $1,600 plus tuition, books, and a few miscellaneous expenses. It would be hard to find a vacation package for such a reasonable price. This turned out to be much more than just a vacation, however. It was fascinating, it was fun, it was safe, and I even managed to understand about 80 percent of the science.

Getting the passport and locating Costa Rica on a map of Central America were easy. I figured my curious mind and determination would get me through the science deficit problem. My hopes were based on my experiences wandering around the U.S. in 2005. On an eight-month journey through 26 states, I learned that I just wanted to keep on learning. At every park, monument, museum, or planetarium, I took in as many presentations, demonstrations, and guided tours as possible and collected pounds of brochures and booklets. So I knew my mind was ready to study abroad, but what about the rest of me?

My qualms involved my eyes and my feet. After surgery for a macular hole and a cataract in one eye, I still see things a little skewed. In the other eye, floaters pop up at the most unexpected moments. Due to plantar fasciitis in both feet (inflammation of the tough tissue supporting the arches), the more I walk, the more they hurt. And lastly, I get off balance going down hills. My age, 65, was the least of my concerns – in fact, all the more reason to go on what seemed like the opportunity of a lifetime. So I ignored all of the above, packed a folding stool so I could rest my feet along the trails, really good binoculars that could be used with eyeglasses, began practicing getting up earlier (I have, after all, been retired for a year now) and went anyway.

Twenty of us flew out of San Francisco just after midnight on January 2. As we stood in line at the Taca International ticket counter, we recognized each other by the big rubber boots we had strapped onto our luggage, or were carrying, or as a last resort, wore. We’d all packed according to a list provided by the instructor, plus two unauthorized guitars and a harmonica.

Our first view of Central America was prefaced by a bright and beautiful sunrise on the approach to El Salvador where we changed planes. Our instructor, John Carothers, met us at a San Jose airport 3,660 miles from the California city with the same name. Accompanying him with a big turismo van was Don Carlos, our driver for most of our adventure.

The first thing I learned about Costa Rican culture was that Don – and Doña for a woman – are titles of respect for older men and women. Yes, I was Doña Joan, pronounced “Hone.” Throughout the trip, I also felt respect from my younger fellow students. Our group could be diagramed in the usual bell curve: a few at the right side (oldest), a few at the left side (youngest) and the rest inbetween. We also varied by occupation, race, income and level of education, but shared a concern and appreciation for the environment, and a desire to learn about a beautiful and fascinating place.

The first thing we learned, after unloading the van at our hotel in San Jose, the capital city of Costa Rica,

was about typical Costa Rican food. For me, it was love at first bite. A typical Costa Rican lunch or dinner, as served in many family-style restaurants and the dining rooms where we stayed, generally consists of white rice, black beans, a vegetable – frequently squash, salad, a slice of fried plantain (a banana-like fruit that cannot be eaten raw), and a fresh juice beverage. Lizano salsa is usually available to add a slightly piquant, slightly sweet flavor.

At the biological stations where we stayed, we became accustomed to eating beans and rice for breakfast. We were always served pico de gallo (black beans mixed with white rice), fried or scrambled eggs, slabs of delicious mild white cheese, coarse white and whole wheat bread, sometimes pancakes,

fresh juice, and flavorful Costa Rican coffee. The coffee was full-bodied without being either bitter or weak, even though it was made in large commercial urns. Mixed with sweetened cocoa powder and a little milk in a glass with ice, our do-it-yourself iced mochas were an addictive afternoon treat. At all meals, a variety of fresh, juicy, flavorful tropical fruit was available; white pineapple was a favorite.

Speaking of tropics – that’s where we were, about 10 degrees north of the Equator between Nicaragua and Panama. As explained by fellow student David Balogh, who teaches geography and meteorology at Cabrillo, this proximity to the Equator results in fast sunsets followed by sudden darkness. Sunrise is about 5:30 to 6:00 am, and sunset is about 5:30 to 6:00 pm year-round. No need for daylight savings time! Also, sunburn comes on more quickly because the sun’s ultraviolet rays are much more direct and stronger. The temperature was as consistent as the sunrise and sunset, usually in the 80s but sometimes hotter. What does vary is rainfall, and fortunately January is a dry month. Well, except in the rain forest, and we were there, in the rain. That’s why we had to bring big rubber boots and umbrellas.

Below is the most spectacular sunset I saw during this trip, over the warm Pacific Ocean at Cabo Blanco Absolute Natural Reserve at the tip of the Nicoya Peninsula.



For a country as small as Costa Rica – about one-eighth the size of California, or twice the size of Vermont – it packs in a lot of biological diversity. More species of plants and animals are in Costa Rica than any other country in the world – 10,000 plants and trees, 850 birds, 220 reptiles, and to the dismay of the squeamish, 35,000 species of insects. Why such rampant biodiversity? First, Costa Rica’s terrain is exceedingly diverse, consisting of rugged mountains and rain forests between coastal plains on both Caribbean and Pacific shores. Secondly, national parks and reserves protect 27 percent of Costa Rica’s natural resources. It has become a mecca for tropical biologists, ecologists and eco-tourists for the last 50 years. I felt privileged to be among those pilgrims.

But it wasn’t all sight-seeing for our group. Since this was a full three-unit class, and we spent most of our time at biological research stations, we crammed a lot of learning into two weeks. Our easiest assignment was a visit to Poas Volcano National Park on the way to our first outdoor classroom. Although the volcano hasn’t erupted in over a decade, the potential is evident. We smelled sulfur on our walk to the crater overlook, where we saw billowy smoke (fumeroles) rising and drifting in the wind. (See the proof below.)



This park is where I first saw epiphytes – more specifically, bromeliads – growing on branches of trees. Epiphytes get their physical support from the trees they grow on, but are not parasitic like mistletoe. They get nourishment from rainwater and decayed organic materials on the trees. Orchids and lichen are more familiar epiphytes. They choose these high perches to get more light, and to escape ground-based herbivores – animals that would nibble them to death. Below: a bromeliad in bloom, taken at Vulcan Poas National Park.

As we continued our bumpy ride through the mountains, sunshine gave way to clouds and then to a downpour, introducing us suddenly to a rain forest. We were in two vans, our luggage was on top, and the drivers had one tarp between them. Our van lost the draw for the tarp, so we quickly transferred the dampened packs inside on our laps and under our feet. Our temporary discomfort was lightened by music provided by five guys singing, a guitar and a harmonica.

We stayed at three biological research stations, two of them run by the Organization for Tropical Studies (OTS), a consortium of 63 universities and research institutions in the United States, Latin America and Australia. OTS, founded in 1963, focuses on education, research and the responsible use of natural resources in the tropics. Other visitors staying in the dorms and cottages at our first stop, La Selva, were researchers or students from universities. At our next OTS stop, Palo Verde, the only other visiting students were from Dartmouth, and at our final stop, Cabo Blanco Absolute Natural Reserve, groups such as ours visit by invitation only. Although our stays at these three reserves were pre-arranged educational experiences, the general public can sometimes visit and go on tours by going through a few hoops such as making reservations and paying fees. And of course the flora and fauna of Costa Rica are available just about everywhere to anyone who cares enough to pay attention and tote around a few books about birds, butterflies, plants and beasts.

At La Selva, tour guides led us through the jungle, acquainting us with the trees, flowers, birds, insects, butterflies, mammals, amphibians and reptiles. Our necks ached, our boots got muddy (and my feet were in misery) but we were so in awe of our surroundings that we didn’t care. On Day One, I talleyed 25 different birds and beasties. Our lists increased daily as we honed our detective skills, which anyone can do with practice. First, you start in serene surroundings with good binoculars and acute observational skills. Then you walk quietly, scanning below, sideways, and above for movement or creature-like blotches, either dark or colorful. Here's a photo of an iguana that wanted to get a closer look at us.

Since La Selva is a protected area, visitors must stay on paths and keep hands off living creatures, so the animals are less afraid. We saw several families of collared peccaries (visualize a wild boar), enough iguana so they became commonplace, and many absolutely stunning tropical birds. The obnoxious yowling of howler monkeys became our pre-dawn alarm clock. They are the loudest animal on terra firma (only blue whales are louder) and their howls carry over three miles or more. Our group saw them just once there and once at Palo Verde. They are elusive, traveling hither and yon by deftly swinging from branch to branch. Look closely and you can see one (or two if you've got sharp eyes) below.


We had a chance to flaunt what we’d learned at a restaurant stop near the end of the trip. A colorful bird was pecking at a bunch of over-ripe bananas hanging near an open window, and some gringos were asking “What’s that?” We could have said, with intellectual disdain, “That? Why, don’t you know a keel-billed toucan when you see one?” But we said it more nicely, of course.


At Palo Verde, a different type of iguana called a ctenosaur roamed freely and confidently around the biological station grounds, even though about 50 or so human beings were present. Perhaps we were ignored because the males were on a mission – enticing females with their courtly head bobs.


Other prolific wildlife in the Palo Verde wetlands included black-bellied whistling ducks, snail kites, egrets and blue heron, both indigenous and migratory. On solid ground, we saw how ants and acacia trees rely on each other. Ants live on ant acacias, getting nourishment from the trees’ secretions. The ants, in turn, protect the acacias from herbivores by releasing a nasty odor as well as physically attacking the surprised herbivore.

Which brings us to botflies, and why we were so conscientious about slathering on the mosquito repellent. We had read a frightening chapter in our textbook, “Tropical Nature,” about sneaky botflies that deposit their eggs on unsuspecting mosquitoes, which then land on animals or humans. The eggs detach, burrow under the skin, incubate and hatch. What begins as a mosquito bite becomes home to botfly larvae in a few weeks, and the process of evicting them is a difficult and gruesome procedure. Fortunately, none of us got that tell-tale bump that might have harbored a tiny living creature, maybe because we slept under mosquito netting (below).

So let’s change the subject and go on to mosquito-free Cabo Blanco Absolute Natural Reserve, at the tip of the Nicoya peninsula right on the Pacific Ocean. This 45-year-old reserve is a protected forest and marine environment managed by the only two Americans who are employed by the Costa Rica national parks system, biologists Milton and Diana Lieberman. They are affiliated with the University of Georgia but spend as much time as possible in Costa Rica. Not a bad job if you can get it! I noticed the bench outside their cottage is set up to view the sun setting over the ocean.

At the San Miguel Biological Station in Cabo Blanco Reserve, our emphasis was on marine life. We were forced to scavenge the beach and tidepools at low tide for shells and living sea creatures, and went snorkeling for a closer look at fish and other underwater dwellers.
Below: the Pacific Ocean as seen from the forested area at San Miguel Biological Station:

Probably because this is a less visited reserve, some forest creatures were quite brave. We saw coati and coatimundi daily as they moseyed around the forest behind the kitchen. They have long upright tails ending in a curl, and a cute, quizzical face, and unfortunately don't linger long enough for a good photograph. The raccoons also looked cute but were more pesky. At night, they climbed up on the open-air dining area deck and got into mischief. Heading for the bathroom in the wee hours one morning, I saw three of them playing with the contents of the aluminum can recycling container they had dumped, and decided to go to another facility. The next night, they found a forgotten backpack, zipped it open, and had a merry time scattering the contents.

The course included some floating learning experiences as well. At La Selva, we went on a boat ride on the Puerto Viejo River to see more riparian birds and animals, plus banana plantations – where the fruit is covered with thick plastic bags to protect it from banana-loving creatures – and a stop at a small tienda (store) for refreshing pineapple juice and an opportunity to shop. The most expedient way to get from Palo Verde to Cabo Blanco was by first traveling by boat on the Tempisque River to Puerto Humo, where Don Carlos picked us up and transported us over bumpy dirt and paved roads. From the boat, we saw many crocodiles and iguana sunning themselves on the riverbanks, and thousands of shorebirds as we passed Bird Island, including roseate spoonbills that get much of their pink color from the crustaceans they eat.

Some of the more energetic students extended their daylong learning experiences by going on night hikes. Although they had to watch out for venomous snakes, their rewards included glimpses of other less harmful snakes, cayman crocodiles, bright red poison dart frogs with blue hind legs, and tiny white bats that live under large leaves.

So here we were, in a lush tropical wonderland surrounded by the most gorgeous birds and most interesting animals I’ve ever seen in the wild, and John made us work. I guess that’s why it’s called “Study Abroad.” During our ten days at the three biological stations, we observed leaf cutter ants, counted palm trees, measured tree trunks and their buttresses, gathered and identified shells and tidepool creatures, and we still had to take a final exam.

When I said “we” measured tree trunks and their buttresses, I need to explain that only four of us did that. At La Selva, we split up into small groups. Each group had to come up with a hypothesis, gather data, analyze it, prove or disprove the hypothesis, write it up in PowerPoint, and present it to the class. Other groups hypothesized about walking palms, soil, and what was in the water. For some, the most challenging part of the project was figuring out PowerPoint.

As you might have guessed, my learning curve was a straight vertical line. Others had it easier, having been to Costa Rica before, and/or taken biology or botany classes, and/or knew some Spanish. My hunger for learning, especially in a very new environment, stood me well. Being observant in such beautiful surroundings was not difficult because the pay-off was well worth it, i.e., learning about the gorgeous or interesting creatures or plants I was enjoying. And by the end of the trip, I was able to order a meal in a restaurant and know what I’d be getting, pay correctly in colones, find (or ask for) a bathroom (baño or servicio), and knew to discard toilet paper in the wastebasket provided for that purpose. Plus identify a keel-billed toucan, of course.

The only things third-worldish that I noticed were the quality of the thin toilet paper, napkins and paper towels; the roads; and the occasional shacks we saw in the small villages. Only 18 percent of the population live below the poverty line (In Mexico it’s 37 percent, and in the United States it’s 12.7). Water was safe to drink everywhere, Coca-Cola and Canada Dry ginger ale are ubiquitous, and American dollars and credit cards are widely accepted – although using Costa Rican colones is easy, with an exchange rate of about 500 colones to one U.S. dollar.

About those roads – yikes! Outside of major cities, most roads are dirt and rock. We were told not to expect paved roads to be faster, and we quickly learned why. They are full of potholes. To avoid them, drivers careen wildly from one side of the road to the other, quite a hair-raising experience on winding mountain roads. On our first day in San Jose, three of us shared a taxi from a museum back to the hotel (only $3) and we immediately learned that drivers consider signs that say ALTA (stop) to mean “yield” and they didn’t always do that.

Would I go back to Costa Rica? You bet! I want to be a tourist there and go on an elevated sky walk in the rainforest, see a more active volcano, and just swing in a hammock watching birds and those speedy Costa Rican sunsets. The food is cheap and delicious, the coffee – ah, the coffee! I want to take a tour of a shade-grown fair trade coffee plantation, and meander through the Jade Museum, and – oh, you get the idea. But I wouldn’t go alone. The burglar bars, razor wire and guards at banks and businesses are a sure crime indicator to me, although Ticos (Costa Ricans’ name for themselves) blame the Nicaraguan migrant labor for the problems. The desk clerk at our San Jose hotel advised us to beware of pickpockets and thieves, and guidebooks offer advice on not getting ripped off by cabdrivers. So my classmates and I took precautions by buddying up when we ventured out in San Jose. In the more rural areas, however, paranoia seemed out of place. Burglar deterrents were nonexistent, front doors were open, and children walked and played futbol (soccer) unchaperoned.

I also have to return so I can use the few new Spanish phrases I finally learned. Instead of de nada (you’re welcome), Ticos say “much con gusto,” or literally, with much pleasure. The other phrase, “pura vida” – pure life – is used frequently as a joyous greeting.

If you’re interested in enjoying pura vida in Costa Rica while learning to increase your enjoyment, check out John Carothers’ website in a year or so. Following are some websites to increase your enjoyment of this article.

http://www.cabrillo.edu/~jcarothers/
http://www.ots.ac.cr/en/laselva/
http://www.costaricamap.com/ing/bioppalo.html
http://www.ots.duke.edu/en/paloverde/
http://www.costarica-nationalparks.com/caboblancoabsolutenaturalreserve.html

THE END ... of this newsletter, of the trip, of the cow parade we enjoyed while eating lunch at a rural roadside restaurant.

Joan’s 9th newsletter – the journey home

When I wrote about big cities and small towns in newsletter #8, I forgot about Sharonville, Ohio. I needed a shower after two days of primitive camping at the Bob Evans Farm Festival. Heading west, I could see I’d be in Cincinnati around dinnertime but. didn’t want to get on a big freeway system just yet. The Motel 6 directory seemed to infer that Sharonville was a northern suburb of Cincinnati, so I headed there. The motel was in a mostly industrial area with a few fast food places and little traffic or scenery – just the bleakness I wanted.

The next morning, a Monday, there was still little traffic, and I had found the addresses of the library and a supermarket in the phone book. Although Sharonville is a suburb, it has a downtown with old historic buildings and a clean, well-cared for look. The library was next to a community center, and both were large modern buildings across from a big, well-manicured park. I didn’t encounter real traffic until I neared the Kroger supermarket in a newish shopping center, because it’s near a freeway entrance and gas stations. This Kroger, in the same family as Ralph’s, City Market, King Soopers and Fry’s (pick your state) was very upscale, with an impressive soup and salad bar and picnic tables outside. The newspaper left on the table was a Wall Street Journal, an indication of the demographics of the area. My seven-year-old van may have been the oldest and dirtiest vehicle in the parking lot. I learned later the population of Sharonville is about 14,000, and the population of Cincinnati is about 325,000. Boy, did I make the right choice!

The GPS

I just re-read newsletters 1-8, and saw a few references to my GPS but no details. At my 64th birthday celebration in late December, 2004, I was presented with a Magellan GPS, and I was numb with surprise because I knew those critters are costly. I left it in the hands of my family to figure out how it worked and explain it to me. After three of them played around with it, they realized it wasn’t user-friendly enough for me. So Kelly got a refund, did more research, and in February sent me a Garman StreetPilot and two pages of simplified instructions (including “Do not choose the offroad option!”).

Friends, the Garman was indeed user-friendly and from the time I received it, I relied on it nearly every driving day, and especially at night. Here’s how it works.

The GPS (aka global positioning system) knows where it is by communicating with two or more of the 24 satellites in constant orbit around the earth. Inside is a mini-computer containing detailed maps of the U.S. Mine has a touch-screen that I use to enter a destination, such as a town, street address, intersection, point of interest (such as a national park) or even a restaurant that can be chosen from a list in its memory. Once it has its instructions, the screen becomes a map with a wide purple line that shows the route, and an arrow that moves along the route to show my progress. It also shows estimated arrival time, plus miles and hours or minutes till the next turn, which count down as we drive along. The screen also shows me the name of the highway or street I’m on, and the exit number or street name I’m heading for.

But the best part is the voice that tells me things like “Drive 7 point 4 miles north,” “in point 5 miles turn left,” and “in 500 feet arriving at destination on right.” It’s a female voice that reminds me of Eve Arden, who portrayed a high school teacher in a radio, and later television, show called “Our Miss Brooks.” So I refer to the GPS as Miss Brooks. She sounds very much like a teacher when I’ve missed a turn – she’ll say “Off route. Recalculating … “ and gives me new directions. A friend swears she heard someone else’s GPS say “I told you to turn right!” but Miss Brooks has never said that to me – yet. She has rescued me innumerable times, especially when it’s dark and raining and I can’t read the street signs or building numbers. The estimated arrival time is very helpful too (are we there yet?). If you get one on my recommendation – and I recommend it highly to all frequent travelers – here are some caveats.
Very recently built streets aren’t in the system’s maps
Sometimes satellite reception is blocked, such as in a tunnel or in the midst of tall buildings (such as downtown Chicago)
She won’t know about local shortcuts, road work or detours
She led me over 40 miles of dirt road in northwest Arizona because it was the shortest route. But we weren’t lost!! The moral is: look at a map too, to be sure the GPS’s choice is a sensible one.

In the Land of Cotton

I have been in the land of cotton, and it was Mississippi and parts of northern Texas. Even while driving the Natchez Trace through a corner of Alabama and southwest to Tupelo, MS, I saw cottonfields interspersed among the forested areas. But they definitely dominated my route between Tupelo and the state line at the Mississippi River. My goal at this point was to arrive in Tucson one week hence, so I didn’t dawdle much after camping at Tombigbee State Park right off the Natchez Trace on October 21. I made a u-turn once to make sure the historic marker in the middle of nowhere really did say it was the birthplace of blues musician Mississippi John Hurt. I stopped soon after, at Greenwood, MS in the Mississippi delta, when I saw a sign for Cottonlandia Museum. Greenwood is at the junction of the Yazoo and Tallahatchie Rivers – don’t you just love those names? I was really in confederate territory here, and the two museum volunteers were actual southern gentlemen. When I volunteered at the Capitola History Museum near Santa Cruz, CA, I wore jeans and a tee shirt or sweatshirt. These guys, who must have been at least in their seventies, wore white shirts, ties, and dress pants. One of them was a retired cotton farmer, so as he escorted me around the exhibits he was able to explain how cotton was picked and processed. He told me I’d find a lot of cottonfields and mills around Lubbock, TX too, and I did. I stole a cotton boll from a field and, although it feels soft and fluffy, there’s a bunch of lumps (seeds) that have to be separated from the usable stuff. While driving, I saw a lot of baled cotton in solid bundles about the size of small boxcars waiting to get trucked to the gin mills before getting turned into consumer goods either in the U.S. or abroad. I was hoping to see the cotton being machine-picked, mostly to see if the plantation owners hired blacks to do that now that it’s no longer stoop labor, but alas I never did.

Another major type of farming in this area is what is nicely known as aquaculture, but it means catfish farming. The, um, product is called cultured channel catfish. I wonder if these cultured creatures have soft southern accents and wear dress shirts and ties before getting scooped out of their watery estates and sold for people food.

After crossing the Mississippi River on Route 82, I was in southern Arkansas, the sun was setting, the Arkansas Welcome Center in Lake Village was closed and the restrooms locked, no motels or campgrounds were evident, and I had to drive half-way across the state before I found a populated area with motels. Fortunately, it was less than 100 miles to El Dorado and the Flamingo Motel, another cheap but adequate place that was pointed out to me by the desk clerk at a motel across the street that had no non-smoking rooms.

Looking for lunch the next day, I passed a lot of Sonic Drive-Ins that look cool and retro but have no food for me – not even a salad. Finally I spotted a Burger King. In this part of the country, I brake for Burger Kings because they have veggieburgers and their senior citizen deal is usually a free beverage. (Cheap travel hint: if you’re age-eligible for a senior discount, always ask. I was never asked to show proof of age – darn.) It was Sunday, and several elegantly dressed black couples were dining there after church. Black folks sure have a sense of style – a portly broad-shouldered black gentleman looked really good in a navy pin-striped suit, impeccably tailored with the coat longer than usual.

If you look at a map, you’ll see my route went along Southern Arkansas directly into northern Texas at Texarkana. That city is in both Arkansas (pop. 26,448) and Texas (pop. 120,132). The state line is a street named State Line Street, and the federal building there straddles the state line. An intriguing listing in the AAA tour book for the Ace of Clubs House led me there even though I knew it would be closed. It couldn’t be hard to miss, I thought, and I was right. Yup, it looked like a club from a deck of cards, with three round clover leaf-shaped corners. Built in 1885, the local legend is that an area lumberman and Civil War veteran (confederate side) built it with his winnings from a poker game won with the draw of an ace of clubs. (http://www.texarkanamuseums.org/ace_of_clubs_house.htm) I also happened upon a mural celebrating Scott Joplin, the king of ragtime piano music. He was born nearby in 1868 and received his early musical training in Texarkana – the Texas side.

Texas, Texas, and more Texas

I spent two nights in Texas. Days, I just drove, staying on US 82 just south of the Red River which is the border between Texas and Oklahoma. Texas didn’t look any different than Arkansas until I got past Paris, when it really began to flatten out and open up. Trees disappeared, and grazing cattle and ranch entrances took over. The ranches were huge – I seldom saw any buildings. The standard formal entrance to a ranch is a tall arch over the driveway, with the name of the ranch across the top. One name I saw ended in .com, although I think that was really for a business. I drove on a highway rather than an interstate to avoid Dallas, and besides, I was headed to Albuquerque which is further north than Dallas anyway. But US 82 went through very small towns with no motels, so I was happy to see some signs pointing to the Nokona Inn when I got to that city around dusk. Although Nokona is home to leather goods factories that make baseball gloves, belts, and western boots, and Justin boots started here, it is still a small town with a population of just over 3,000. The very thin phone book covered five towns and had just 22 yellow pages. But the Nokona Inn, on the main street rather than along the highway, was luxurious. My room was large, with a king size bed, two sinks, a microwave and a mini-frig. The Inn was two stories and all rooms had inside entrances onto a wide hallway gussied up with plants, pictures, chairs and small tables, a magazine rack, and coffee in the morning. I think I was one of two customers, and it was the most expensive since the Best Western near Joshua Tree National Park, California in March. I paid $50.85 including tax. I used the microwave to heat up the last of the leftover vegan food my hostess at The Farm sent with me. The next morning, I used a plastic fly swatter to scrape the frost off the windshield of the van and started out for Lubbock.

My intention in Lubbock was to search for Buddy Holly. I knew there was a Buddy Holly museum, but didn’t know where. I hoped to see billboards or signs, but alas, saw none. I came into town on US 82; I guess tourist destination signs are only erected along interstates. It was also late afternoon when I got to Lubbock (I had stopped to photograph some cotton gins), and it was Monday, so I told myself the museum might not even be open and headed north to Amarillo.

Rip-off in Amarillo

By now Amarillo was my only choice for the night, and the motel coupon books led me to the Fifth Season Inn on the west side of town. I was grateful to have an address for the GPS to aim for, because I was driving in rush hour traffic facing the setting sun and had to depend on Miss Brooks telling me when to turn. The Fifth Season Inn was a three-story building with an elegantly furnished reception area, a “tropical atrium and unique fountain” (their words), nice big indoor swimming pool and spa, glass-walled elevators, and free hot breakfast – all for just under $35. How could I resist!

But appearances can be deceiving. The room was a different story after first glance. The carpeting, drapes, and bathroom fixtures were a little shabby, one window was cracked and taped, and the TV remote was missing. And worse yet, the next morning all my camping gear was missing from the top of the van.

I carried all my camping gear in a large gray waterproof bag sort of thing called a piggyback rooftop carrier, and it was attached to the roof rack with strong black straps. The thief (or thieves) had cut the straps and lifted the whole thing off. When I told the hotel manager and Amarillo policeman that I thought I was in a decent part of town, they said it was – had I chosen the east side, I wouldn’t have been. Whew! However, they said drug dealers had been working out of the Fifth Season until new management recently took over and got rid of them. Apparently some of the riffraff was still prowling around. I just googled the Fifth Season Inn and it looks pretty posh, with some rave reviews. So how the heck can you tell what’s safe and what’s not?

I didn’t let the theft spoil the rest of the trip, as I still had my cot and sleeping bags in the van, as well as all my cooking gear. To cheer myself up, I bought a new fancy camp chair with a footrest.

Why I Didn’t Stop in Albuqueque

Albuquerque was another one of those places I approached at rush hour and sunset, and the freeway warning sign said “Albuquerque Next 17 Exits.” Enough said. An hour later, I was in Grants had my choice of many big costly chain motels and locally-owned cheaper ones. So of course I chose the Desert Sun Motel, $19.95, with a very well lit parking lot where I could park the van right outside the door of my room. Here again, first appearances are deceiving. There were three fancily folded washcloths in the bathroom, one in a basket and one in a glass (and the other, if you’re counting, on the towel rack), and a black triangle-shaped corner table Frank Lloyd Wright could have designed.

Exploring Again in New Mexico

After so many days of just driving, it felt good to be somewhere with interesting places to explore. I began at the New Mexico Mining Museum in Grants. It’s a replica of – are you ready for this – a uranium mine. Yup, that radioactive stuff used for nuclear weapons and nuclear power plants, that causes lung cancer, pulmonary fibrosis, silicosis, tuberculosis, birth defects, and more. But it’s the only uranium mine museum in the world, and the way the mine tour is designed is really interesting. I was the only visitor in the dimly lit underground mine, but so many of the real miners were with me that I didn’t feel claustrophobic at all. At each tour stop, I pushed a button and heard the recorded voice of someone who had worked there for 25-30 years (and survived, obviously) explaining what was done at that particular spot. My strongest memory today is the lunchroom, with the dogtag bulletin board system of keeping track of where every miner was so they’d be sure not to blast when someone was still in the mine. I also got a kick out of the miners microwave circa 1950s – a metal box with high-heat light bulbs inside to warm up their lunches. Interesting that real microwaves use another radioactive metal, radium. I did some research and learned that the first microwave oven was called a radarange, was the size of a refrigerator, and cost $2,000 to $3,000. That was in 1947. By 1967, they’d shrunk to today’s large countertop size and cost $500.

Grants (population 8,800) was also where I found a real Internet café, with a row of computers available for the use of paying customers. For me, this was what you call a no-brainer – I would have eaten there anyway. I had delicious vegetarian minestrone soup, a big dense muffin, and strong iced tea made with espresso (after I explained how to make it). After checking my e-mail, I studied some brochures I’d picked up at the Mining Museum and realized I was so close to two national monuments that I could see them both that afternoon.

El Malpais, which means the badlands, was the second area of lava flows I’d seen this year, and if my balance were better, I could have walked through a lava tube. But lava is not easy to walk on, so I just hiked three miles round trip along mostly dirt paths to El Calderon cinder cone overlook. On the way back I saw what I thought were two tarantulas (solo, not together) very purposefully crossing the path – they didn’t even pause when I bent down for a closer look. At just over two inches across, hairy legs and all, they were smaller than the only other tarantula I’ve seen so I wasn’t sure. Later, back in California, I consulted two experts. A biology instructor said the area was right and fall is tarantula mating season, so they probably were guy tarantulas looking for sex. And when Peter reached into his freezer and got out the frozen corpse of poor dead Doris, his dear departed pet tarantula and the only one I’d previously been acquainted with, I looked closely and knew that I had indeed seen two smaller male tarantulas that would have been delighted if they’d met Doris when she was alive. http://www.desertusa.com/july96/du_taran.html has the most relevant photos and information for U.S. desert tarantulas.

When I got to El Morro National Monument, I found I could camp there for free because it was late in the season, the water was turned off, and it got down to the 30s at night. The price was right and I knew my sleeping bag would keep me warm, so I chose a spot that would get morning sun and settled in. Earlier, I had hiked around El Morro, which is a tall mesa-point with inscriptions carved into it dating back to 1605. This was before the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock. The earliest inscriptions are in Spanish, as Spain governed New Mexico then. Emigrants to California added their inscriptions in the 1800s, and all were mostly the “I was here…” type, for example:
The 18th day of September of 1737, arrived here the illustrious Senor Don Martin
de Elizacoches, Bishop of Durango, and the day following, went on to Zuni.

There are also undated and untranslated petroglyphs. On top of the mesa lie the ruins of a pueblo built about AD 1275 by early Zuni Indians. The following morning I would have attempted the two mile round trip hike up there if there hadn’t been a cold wind. Too bad – the view from the top must be stunning. Maybe another time, another season. Besides, I had the Petrified Forest in my sights.

Painted Desert and Petrified Forest – Finally

Ever since I was a child, I was intrigued by a smooth piece of petrified wood on my grandmother’s whatnot shelf and wanted to see where it came from. So it was thrilling to finally get there, but I didn’t see the same place Hazel and Ernie Henline saw. People keep stealing petrified wood for souvenirs, and there are guards at the entrances who have the right to search visitors. Still, there was enough left to amaze me.

I was unprepared for the size and simplicity of the Petrified Forest National Park, which includes the Painted Desert. Everything you need to, or can, see or hike to is near a single 28-mile drive-through road, and it takes one day max. Besides trees turned to stone, there are two visitors centers, a commercial gift shop and restaurant, lots of Painted Desert overlooks, ruins of an 800-year-old pueblo, and several places to see petroglyphs from afar (to protect them from further defacement). I learned that Arizona’s petrified forest isn’t the only one – a display in one visitors center had examples of petrified wood from all 50 states.

One last cheap motel, this time in Holbrook, before I got to Tucson. The only thing memorable at the Western Holiday Motel was the multi-use continental breakfast area. Tables and chairs were set up in the lobby, and when I checked out they were occupied by men from India socializing over tea. The motel was run by Asian Indians (not an uncommon occurrence in the west) so I wasn’t surprised.

Fort Apache

I was aiming for Fort Apache now. I had been there in March but the Fort Apache Museum was closed so all I could do then was walk the meditation labyrinth and vow to return. I passed through two towns with interesting names. Snowflake was named after two Mormon bishops, Snow and Flake, who founded the town. I learned this from a descendent, Rolf Flake, at a cowboy poetry gathering in Sierra Vista, AZ in February. Show Low has a less holy origin. It was named after a winning hand in a poker game and the town’s main street, Deuce of Clubs, was named after the winning card. South of Show Low is Pinetop, which reminded me of Bass Lake or Lake Tahoe in California, or any other scenic wooded area where people with excess money buy second homes behind long walls and security gates. A small shopping center catered to their needs, with a gourmet food store, expensive deli, and other upscale shops.

You can bet I saw quite a contrast driving into the town of Fort Apache, on the White Mountain Apache Reservation. The first sign of commerce was a supermarket in an aging building, with what looked like a flea market going on around the perimeter of the parking lot. Naturally I stopped. Along with the used clothes and household goods, people were selling roasted and salted pinon nuts, and homemade food items kept warm in Styrofoam containers, such as tamales, burritos, and frybread and beans. One vendor offered a friendly “Hi, how ya doin’,” so I asked if this happened every Friday. She said yes, but on tribal paydays it started on Thursday and lasted through Sunday. Of course I bought frybread and beans.

At the Fort Apache Museum, employees spoke in their native tongue to each other. So did the storyteller in a video I watched. He told the Apache creation story. My sister, a storyteller, tells me every culture has a creation story, some involving turtles or other animals. In the Apache version, creation began with a man and woman made of mud. Now that’s poverty, and a great imagination.

The fort itself began as a U.S. Army installation in the 1870s. Apache scouts were engaged to help the Army fight other Native Americans, also Pancho Villa in Mexico in 1916. The Army left Fort Apache in 1922, and a year later the Theodore Roosevelt Indian Boarding School took over. The White Mountain Apache Tribe-produced tour guide says “… thousands of Native American children … were often involuntarily taken from their families and brought here to be indoctrinated into Anglo-American society.” The school remains active, hopefully on Apache terms today.

Entering an open door in the adjutants office building (1876, adobe), I found an operational post office so bought stamps – with Navajo rugs on them; very appropriate. I also walked the labyrinth again, mostly to see if I could figure out the pattern after recently finishing a book, a novel called “Larry’s Party,” in which the main character designs mazes. I figured it out, and I’m not telling.

Since admission to the museum included a pass to nearby Kinishba Ruins, I went there even though it was early afternoon and I still had about 200 miles to drive to Tucson. Fort Apache is really off the beaten path and I might never get there again (even for frybread and beans). Ancestors of today’s Zuni and Hopi Pueblo tribes built and occupied the village at Kinishba between 800 and the 1400s AD. In the 1930s, faculty and students from the University of Arizona, as well as Apache workers, excavated and rebuilt portions of the village, as well as built a new museum and later a guesthouse. All are now abandoned and falling into a state of further decay. The village rebuilding “made liberal use of cement, saw-cut lumber, tin, and imagination” so it’s not exactly authentic and the visitor guidebook is a necessity.

In retrospect, I was here on just the right day, a Friday when both the museum and flea market were open. If you decide to visit, I recommend you plan for a Friday and visit both.

Tucson at last!

I had two reasons for visiting Tucson and friends Merlin and Lee again. Lee, a diabetic, had some recent health issues, causing them to cancel a trip, so I thought my visit would cheer them up a bit. Also, my sister and her husband, who live near LA, would be in Phoenix in early November and we planned to get together.

The two weeks I spent in Tucson went by very quickly. Merlin and Lee, also retired and loving it, are deeply involved in an organization for gay men called MSN (Mens Social Network) and I tagged along to activities such as charades and Scrabble night, a discussion group at a coffeehouse near the University, and we were invited to two dinners and one lunch at homes of friends of theirs. If only straight older women had such a network! Although I attended one meeting of a group I thought would be similar, the Tucson Desert Crones, the discussion topic was way unbelievable to me (healing by holding the correct finger, or jin shin jyutsu) and I was really disappointed.

Although Glenn the astronomer had left Tucson for greener pastures in Hawaii, Dave the astronomer was still there and suggested we take in an event at Tucson’s independent movie house. Award-winning animator Bill Plympton was present for a screening of some of his short films, a talk, drawing demo, and Q&A session. I had never heard of him, but am now a fan. His animation is like nothing I’ve seen before, and he has a very active and odd imagination. His topics are certainly not Disney, but his “The Fan and the Flower” film is family fare. It’s a love story about a ceiling fan and a potted plant. Check out www.plymptoons.com.

On November 4, Merlin, Lee, I, my sister Marsha and her husband Terry met in Globe, chosen because it’s roughly halfway between Tucson and Phoenix, and we all wanted to visit Besh-Ba-Gowah Archaeological Park nearby. However, it’s been at least 15 years since we’ve all been together so we spent most of the day talking. First we wandered and talked through the Cobre Valley Center for the Arts, housed in the 1906 Old Gila County Courthouse. Then we ate and talked through a lunch of Indian tacos ($5 each). FYI, Indian tacos are made with the usual taco ingredients but served on a big piece of flat, puffy frybread. Then we visited Besh-Ba-Gowah, watched the video, went through the small museum, and walked through some of the 300 rooms of a pueblo inhabited AD 1225-1400 by Salado Indians. But mostly we sat at a picnic table, talked, and showed vacation photos. Marsha and Terry hiked 50 miles along the Rogue River in Oregon this spring on a five-day Sierra Club trip, and more recently had driven to the Grand Tetons in Wyoming. You know how children often rebel by doing the opposite of what their parents did? Well, Marsha and I seem to do that by traveling, because our parents never took us on any vacations. (Well, our dad worked a lot, even on weekends.)

California Here I Come

I drove the approximately 800 miles from Tucson to San Jose in two and one-half days, leaving Tucson about noon and spending the first night at Burro Creek Recreation Site, a BLM facility about 100 miles north of Phoenix. It felt really good being out among mesquite and palo verde trees, Saguaro cactus and Joshua trees. The campground hosts, the Broussards, had just retired from teaching in Louisiana this year, selling their home 50 miles north of New Orleans in May. Mr. Broussard last taught on one of the islands outside New Orleans in the gulf, and talked about how Hurricane Katrina had interrupted his former students’ education. He had promised to return for graduation in 2006, but now the big questions were how many students were still there, and could they catch up and graduate on schedule. Mr. Broussard was an authentic Cajun, whose ancestors had been forced out of Acadia, Canada and ended up in Louisiana with many other refugees.

After leaving the Burro Creek camp, Miss Brooks the GPS decided to take me over about 40 miles of dirt road because it was the shortest route to I-40. She didn’t know I’d only be going between 15 and 40 miles per hour. Some of the desert area I passed had for sale signs and real street signs at the crossroads. Apparently someone hopes to develop the land. If you’ve bought any real estate between Wickieup and Yucca, AZ, I’ve seen it and it’s dry, windy, and barren. Sorry.

This may sound sad, but I would say the highlight of the rest of the trip was the Burger King in Mojave, CA. First of all, I knew I was definitely in California because they not only had veggie burgers, but a veggie burger meal deal. Of course I got the Star Trek watch, with Yoda on the watchband, for an extra $2.

After a night in a Mojave Motel 6, it was all Bakersfield, I-5, Hecker Pass and 101 into San Jose. Once a truck honked gently as it passed me on I-5, and I saw the name on the door was Juan Manuel Trucking. Then I remembered my “Honk if you’ve seen La Llorona” bumper sticker. Briefly, La Llorona, or the weeping woman, is a Hispanic folk tale about a woman whose unfaithful husband wants to leave her, so she takes her rage out on their two children and drowns them in the river, then jumps in the river herself and drowns. Her ghost can be seen sometimes at night, weeping and wailing for her children. Maybe Juan was telling me he’d seen her. My sister, who tells this story to groups of children and adults, says sometimes a Mexican child (or adult) will; tell her they’ve seen La Llorona.

End of Sermon

These newsletters have been fun to write, even though I’m a very slow writer. That’s because I go through the tourist information I’ve gathered up, and my journals, and do Internet research, before I even begin a draft. But this is good for me, because it provides valuable documentation for me of my first year of retirement travel, which is a darn good thing as my memory isn’t that good! This is my last newsletter of 2005, except for the oft-promised music festival special edition that I’ll work on next. I haven’t planned next year’s adventures beyond a two-week study abroad class on the Natural History of Costa Rica in early January. Yes, I’ll be getting out of the U.S., finally!

Happy holidays, everyone –

Joan’s 8th newsletter – where am I?

It’s December 3, and today I’ll be moving in with Maryhill Gleason in Sunnyvale for the rest of the month. Maryhill is an old friend (age 89!) who just lost her live-in helper so I’ll be filling the gap until she finds someone else. She’s a slow walker but a quick wit and sharp as a tack at strategy and word games, so we’ll be playing a lot of Upwords and rummy.

So I’m back home again in California, where everything is over-priced and strangers don’t wave or say hello, but the coffee is robust and flavorful and being a vegetarian doesn’t brand me as odd. As I drove into San Jose on November 16, four or five lanes of freeway passed above me. Seems like a fine time to take my thoughts back to beautiful green Kentucky. I first entered Kentucky on September 23 and left October 19, with two brief forays into Tennessee (just as beautiful) and southern Ohio during that time. My most favorite Kentucky stops not already described in the last newsletter were Keeneland Racetrack near Lexington, and the Kentucky Music Hall of Fame and Museum in Renfro Valley.

When I told an old friend in Tucson that I was heading to Lexington for a horserace, he laughed and said I’d be bored. Well, I never saw a real race due to bad timing on my part (no races on Tuesdays), but I was anything but bored at Keeneland racetrack. Keeneland is one of the few racetracks in the world where visitors can get close to the horses. I was able to explore the grounds and stables, observe morning workouts, and patronize the track kitchen. I saw absolutely stunning horses grazing in the green meadows, working out on tracks, and being groomed in the stables. If you’ve seen the movies “Seabiscuit” or the recently released “Dreamer,” you’ve seen the beauty of race horses, and how they’re pampered by their trainers and groomers so they stay beautiful and happy. In the track kitchen, a cafeteria where I had French toast and juice, the walls were covered with photographs of – guess what – racehorses. I heard other people order a bacon sandwich (yup, just a lot of bacon between two slices of toast), an order of taters, and a bowl of beans. When I left driving west past the town of Versailles, I noticed a racetrack scene painted on the town water talk. Maybe I’ll see a race next year. (http://www.keeneland.com/)

Kentucky identifies keenly with its musical heritage, which was displayed especially well at the Kentucky Music Hall of Fame and Museum in Renfro Valley. Their introductory video answered for me the question Jerry asked at the Chillicothe, Ohio bluegrass festival – how did someone raised in Wisconsin become a bluegrass fan? The video gave credit for the resurgence of bluegrass music to the great folk music scare of the late ‘50s and early ‘60s, and that is indeed how I got introduced to all kinds of traditional music. The musicians that call Kentucky home include real old-timers and traditionalists such as Roscoe Holcomb, Homer and Lily May Ledford, Hylo Brown, Jean Ritchie, John Jacob Niles, the Osborne Brothers, and of course Bill Monroe. Other Kentucky musicians not-so-traditional are Loretta Lynn, Ricky Skaggs, Rosemary Clooney, Merle Travis, the Judds, the Everly Brothers, Dwight Yoakum, Billy Ray Cyrus, Mary Travers (of Peter, Paul and Mary) and Sam Bush. The list does not include Stephen Foster, who wrote “My Old Kentucky Home” but was born near Pittsburgh, PA, or Colonel Harland Sanders, who invented Kentucky Fried Chicken in the late ‘30s. The city of Corbin holds an annual World Chicken Festival, including a gospel music egg-stravaganza. If you don’t believe me, check out www.chickenfestival.com/sanders.htm .

One entire room of the Kentucky Music museum is devoted to the banjo, its history which began in Africa, and examples of more types of banjos than I knew existed. Another room explained for me the origin of a new phrase I’d begun hearing, “brush arbor.” It was sort of a poor man’s revival tent – a shelter made of log posts set in the ground with poles and fresh, thick brush piled on top for shade, under which people gathered to hear preachers and sing gospel songs. (http://www.kymusichalloffame.com/)

Although I was close to the Kentucky Artisan Center at Berea, I decided to save it for another trip because it was late in the day, it was raining, and the cheap motel coupon book directed me south into northern Tennessee. But those cheap motels, advertised at $22.95 and $24.95, had suddenly raised their prices to $45 and $65 because of a special event nearby – the Tennessee Fall Homecoming at the Museum of Appalachia. I now had two tasks – locate an affordable place to stay, and find out about that event. Both were accomplished when I got to the Knoxville hostel. My room cost $15, and the hostel owner/operator had programs for the homecoming event because he belonged to a harp singing group that would be performing there. (Harp singers, also known as sacred harp singers or shape note singers, perform early American hymns in three and four part a cappella style.)

Knoxville, Tennessee

Knoxville turned out to be a trip highlight. My first day there, I walked downtown with two goals: find the visitors center and some good coffee. They were both in the same place, as well as a free musical performance at noon. Turns out the building houses the visitors center, a small book and crafts sales area, a café, and a public radio station that broadcasts The Blue Plate Special live music program every weekday at lunchtime. On Friday I saw some local singer-songwriters, and on Monday I saw a western group followed by cowboy poet Waddie Mitchell, who had performed at a storytelling festival nearby that had a much higher admission price. In a store window just down the street, I saw some very cool posters that appeared to have been printed a long time ago. Wrong. They had been recently printed on a hand-operated letterpress and were created using old-fashioned cold type and linoleum block artwork. Yeehaw Industries produced the poster for the 2002 Woody Guthrie music festival, and I had attended the 2005 festival in July. Music does indeed shrink the world. (http://www.yeehawindustries.com/)

At the library, I was issued a free temporary library card for a month that allowed two hours of computer use per day, the most generous deal so far. I was almost tempted to stay in Knoxville for a while, but there was a festival calling me back to Ohio soon. So I made the most of this sojourn in Knoxville, and may return for more music and some museums and walking tours I missed. I went to a concert by the Tennessee Sheiks (acoustic swing) at Laurel Music Hall, which had originally been a small church; saw the 1945 Nazi spy movie “The House on 92nd Street” and an exhibit of surrealist drawings and short films at the art museum; saw the outside of the L&N (Louisville & Nashville) train depot, idle and vacant now but in excellent condition with fine wood and stained glass windows; saw the location of and buildings left from the 1982 worlds fair; stood outside the hotel that Hank Williams, Sr. may have died in (whether he died in the hotel or in his car is debatable); ate good vegetarian food several times at restaurants in Old Market Square; and enjoyed a Sunday morning omelet at the hostel that included kudzu. (I’ll explain kudzu later.) That all took three days.

The day I spent at the Fall Homecoming event at the Museum of Appalachia was quite special. It was hard to choose among the four stages of music and clog-dancing. I wandered back and forth, catching other events inbetween such as rail splitting, blacksmithing, basket weaving, soap making, and sassafras tea brewing (it tastes like hot root beer but not as sweet). There are 36 vintage buildings and animal pens on the grounds, including a museum and hall of fame of both bluegrass musicians and just plain folks, which drew me in even though the live music was my primary reason for being there. So I took music back home with me, on a four-hour video of music highlights from 2000. It was a special year since it included John Hartford’s last performance there (he died in June 2001). I made sure to see Ralph Stanley’s performance, however, the third time I’ve seen him this year after he had open heart surgery in June. At the Bill Monroe festival in Rosine, KY on September 28, and here on October 8, he was able to perform a full set and said he was getting stronger every day.

Okay, here’s the kudzu lesson. Kudzu is a vine that is invasive and exotic. When left uncontrolled, it will eventually grow over almost any fixed object in its proximity, including other vegetation. See amazing photos at http://www.jjanthony.com/kudzu/ of kudzu covering trees, small buildings, fences, and even motor vehicles. It is edible, but not a wildly popular food item yet. From an NPR report I heard an unknown number of years ago, I got the impression that kudzu would soon be covering up the entire south, so I was on the lookout for it. Finally saw some driving south of Renfro Valley into Tennessee, and then saw some more, and more, and moreandmoreandmore. It ain’t everywhere, but there sure is a lot where it does take hold.

Kentucky was also where I learned that a song’s lyrics may not be an entirely true tale. As I drove into Knoxville, I started singing the old folk ballad that begins:
I met a little girl in Knoxville, A town we all know well,
And every Sunday evening out in her home I’d dwell …
and ends with the singer murdering his sweetheart. Well, it didn’t really happen in Knoxville, but the city’s tourist brochure comes clean about that. It says the event actually took place in 1744 in Berkshire, England, and the English folk ballad written about it was imported to the North American continent and Americanized.

When I had first driven into Kentucky from Missouri, the phrase “western Kentucky” had a familiar ring to it, and then I remembered John Prine’s song “Paradise.” It begins
When I was a child, my family would travel to western Kentucky where my parents were born….
and the chorus goes
And daddy won’t you take me back to Muhlenberg county,
Down by the Green River, where Paradise lay.
‘Well I’m sorry my son but you’re too late in asking,’
‘Mr. Peabody’s coal train has hauled it away.’

I consulted a map and found the name Paradise, so what gives about it being hauled away? When I found myself in a library in Muhlenberg county, it seemed the right place to check out it out. The Muhlenberg County website says the Peabody Coal Co. did not actually stripmine the site and haul the town away. The Tennessee Valley Authority removed the town (two stores and an unknown number of houses) and built the Paradise Fossil Plant, a coal-fired electric plant, beginning in 1959. I decided not to visit. By the way, Kentucky’s state mineral is coal, and the state musical instrument is the dulcimer.

Kentucky is not paradise to everyone there, believe it or not. In Madisonville, the bagger who carried my grocery purchases out to the van exclaimed how homesick he was for California when he saw my license plate. He was from Louisville but had been living in San Diego until familial duties called him back to Kentucky. (I had thought he looked a little out of place there, with his double-pierced ears and baggy shorts.) He said all available jobs paid minimum wage, and he and his wife hadn’t found anyone with similar values to socialize with.

A couple of farm visits

The Ohio festival I mentioned earlier was the 35th Annual Bob Evans Farm Festival at Rio Grande pronounced Rye-oh Grand), October 14-16. My new friends at the Chillicothe, OH bluegrass festival probably recommended it because the house bluegrass band at the Farm Festival is the Rarely Herd, and one of the band members is Gene’s son, one of the guys I met at Chillicothe. Reconnecting with Gene, Ron the bluegrass deejay, and the Rarely Herd band members meant a lot to me because I had been in the midst of strangers since September 20. The Farm Festival also gave me the opportunity to see tractor square dancers. I am not making this up. Four couples – yes, real women and not just guys in dresses and wigs – actually square danced while driving tractors. They had to be very attentive and agile, and not mind the dust and fuel fumes, and they did a darn good job. Drew a bigger crowd than the horseshoe pitching or the border collie herding, although both of those were amazing and amusing too.

In the late ‘50s, Bob Evans and his wife Jewell began making sausage that actually had more meat and good-tasting stuff in it as opposed to fillers such as cereal that other sausage-makers used. When they made TV ads, Bob and Jewell invited folks to “come on down and visit us” at their Rio Grande farm. Well, people took them up on it. So Bob and Jewell opened a restaurant on the farm on 1962. There are now nearly 600 Bob Evans, Owens Family and Mimi’s Café restaurants in 20 states, mostly east of the Mississippi. The menu and décor is an upgraded Denny’s but way more meat-oriented. I tried eating at a Bob Evans restaurant twice and only found one meatless choice, a basic eggs-potatoes-toast breakfast. Now personally, I think meatless sausage and hot dogs produced now are quite tasty, and it’s easier to raise the ingredients, but in 1962 I’m sure I would have enjoyed Bob Evans sausage.

Bob and Jewell’s former home on the farm is now a museum, with the kitchen left intact because it was their test kitchen in the early days, as well as the setting for their TV ads. The rest of the downstairs was a history of their sausage making, which I hurried past and went upstairs to see the traveling Underground Railroad exhibit. It was there because sympathizers in Ohio provided many safe places for runaway slaves to stop on their way to safer northern states or Canada. The exhibit was small but powerful, with replicas of leg restraints, photos of scarred backs, and drawings of slave auctions. As a humanitarian vegetarian, the exhibits on both floors provoked emotions.

The other farm I visited was, simply, The Farm. Arthur, my housemate in Santa Cruz in 2003, had grown up on The Farm and urged me to visit it, even making arrangements for me to stay with a woman there near my own age. Paraphrasing from The Farm literature, here’s what it’s all about: The Farm community is a cooperative enterprise of families and friends living on three square miles in southern middle Tennessee. It was started in 1971 by Stephen Gaskin and 320 San Francisco hippies as an experiment in sustainable, developmentally progressive human habitat. As many as 1500 people lived there at one time, learned to work together cooperatively, took a vow of poverty upon arrival and shared the resources whether they were plentiful or sparse. Today The Farm has all of the usual implements of village life for its 350 residents plus visitors: grocery store, a school, their own water system, a visitors center, community center, cemetery, Ecovillage, businesses and residences. The businesses include a soy dairy, book publishing company, tempeh lab (they sell tempeh spores) and a mail order business. The Ecovillage conducts hands-on workshops in sustainable building techniques such as solar technology, straw bale and cob buildings (cob is a mixture of dirt, sand and straw so it’s both cheap and durable).

From www.thefarm.org website: “Among ourselves we try to use agreement and mutual respect to generate a friendly working environment. We recognize that there are many paths toward realizing personal ideals and that people have a wide range of individual social values, but as a group, we do not accept the use of violence, anger or intimidation for solving problems. The fabric of our community is created by our friendship and respect for one another, and for our land.” They respect animals, too – everyone’s a vegan (no meat or dairy products).

I stayed with Ramona for two days, sharing her delicious vegan food and immersing myself in the atmosphere of The Farm. (Later, reading a book I bought about The Farm, I learned that visitors who wanted to learn about The Farm life were referred to as “soakers”). Although, admittedly, the early days were difficult with long work days and scarcity of food, the friendships were solid and lasting. Former residents look forward to an annual reunion. Ramona appreciates being able to take for granted the support of others when she needs to make a decision. And I appreciated the peaceful pace and friendliness of everyone I met.

Avoiding Cities and Finding The Heart of Small Towns

Throughout my trip, I attempted to avoid big cities as much as possible. (Yes, I went to the heart of Chicago and Milwaukee, but that was for a special cause – to introduce Meagan to its art and architecture, and I also knew them quite well.) My reasoning at first was because driving the fast, confusing freeways around big cities spooks me, and I wanted to stay away from congested city streets, high-priced parking, unwittingly driving through high-crime areas, etc. A secondary reason was the fact that I really like small towns. I lived for 20 years in the village of Soquel, CA, within walking distance of Capitola Village, and about five miles from downtown Santa Cruz (population of the city of Santa Cruz is about 50,000). I acquired a real appreciation of the smaller size and slower speed of such places. Also, the scenic areas I visited on this road trip mostly happened to be wide open spaces which you can’t hardly find near population-dense metropolitan areas. While I was on my way to some of those near-wilderness areas, I happened upon some delightful finds in small towns, for example:

· Ajo, Arizona (north of Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument), population ~5,000 – a motel that offered one-room cabins near an outdoor Jacuzzi and swimming pool, and a bakery/coffeehouse that hosted a Scrabble night.
· Grants, New Mexico (near El Malpais and El Morro National Monuments), population ~9,000 – its main street was old Route 66, a Mexican restaurant patronized by locals served Indian tacos on fry bread, and the espresso bar that had vegetarian soups and sandwiches was an unexpected lucky find.
· Elk City, Oklahoma, population ~10,000 – I camped at a city park on a lake that I found on freecampgrounds.com, then went into town just to use a library computer. I discovered the Route 66 Museum, got in several interesting conversations there, ditto at the supermarket, and left feeling almost like a local.
· Chillicothe, Ohio (near Indian mounds and a music festival), population ~22,000 – founded in 1803, my first experience in a really, really old town with many pre-1900 buildings, brick streets, big old trees, and a home-cooking restaurant that had southern style sweet tea and fried green tomatoes.

I’ll use Central City, Kentucky as an example of how I find the heart of small towns. When I exited the Western Kentucky Parkway, I was just looking for some sit-down time to plan my next move and have an afternoon snack. The fast food joints were near the exit, as were gas stations and motels, which are not the heart of anyplace. While enjoying a McDonald’s soft serve cone, I decided to look for a library to check my e-mail, and drove aimlessly toward what I thought would be downtown. As I got closer, it was easily recognizable by the cluster of older brick buildings and non-franchise restaurants. I turned a corner and there was the library. Further down the street I saw an American flag flying from a tall flagpole – usually a landmark for a government building such as a post office (something else I needed). I also saw a small park, kids walking home from school, women rocking on the porch of a senior citizen apartment building – all signs of a real community. I dawdled so long doing my errands that it was nearly 5 p.m. so I decided to spend the night in a motel there. The town was small enough that I was able to drive past all of them and choose the one furthest from the freeway noise – another benefit of driving further into the town from the freeway exit.

Two slightly larger Kentucky cities had downtowns that were very different. The population of Paducah is ~26,000, and Elizabethtown has ~24,000 residents, not counting the military population at Fort Knox north of there. I exited the freeway west of Paducah and drove for miles along a corridor of big box stores, fast food places, and nicer franchise restaurants and hotels before I reached the heart of the city. The library was across the street from a large park and even had a display rack of maps and tourist information. Although I camped at Land Between the Lakes about 40 miles away, I returned to Paducah to use a library computer. I also visited the heart of the town, which was rich in history – old, well-kept brick buildings, historical markers, murals along the seawall, two big museums and many good restaurant choices.

The approach to Elizabethtown after I exited the freeway was similar, but the downtown was disappointing. Although there were old brick commercial, government and residential buildings, it was missing a few things. I didn’t see any pedestrians. I couldn’t find any retail stores or restaurants, or even a place to park except in the government building parking lots. I wondered where people who worked downtown went for lunch. Although the city’s web site advertises museums, most of them are in other nearby towns. I went to one of Elizabethtown’s two museums, Swope’s Cars of Yesterday (which was inside a car dealership) and skipped the museum of Coca-Cola memorabilia. The library, which used to be near downtown, had recently moved into a big new building between an expressway and a suburban residential area.

I guess the moral to this tale is you just never know what you’re going to find, but it’s worthwhile searching for the heart of a place anyway.

I’m at my self-imposed 6-page limit now. Next newsletter will conclude this year’s trip with my experiences in Alabama and Texas, new territory in New Mexico and Arizona, and Tucson again.