Everyone knew there were few things I hated more than intensely hot weather. The stuffy, sticky, claustrophobic feeling of being wrapped in a layer of blazing coals was never my cup of tea. There was nothing more uncomfortable than having rivulets of perspiration which slowly dripped down your back or between your breasts, or having your eyes stung and your vision blurred while you attempted, in vain, to mop your brow. In the middle of June, we were not supposed to be in the Greek Isles when it was almost 120 degrees, and at the end of September, it was not expected to be humid, clammy and over 97 in Kentucky. In anticipation of brisk autumn temperatures, we did not even pack any light summer clothes. Instead our duffels were weighted down with cuddly fleeces, study long jeans and warm, toasty sweatshirts. When we reserved two nights at bed and breakfasts in the Blue Grass State, we committed the heinous sin of not even inquiring if they had air conditioning, because after all, who the heck would need it anyway?
Luckily for us, the innkeepers were far wiser than us, and the lovely Cave Spring, (where our bedroom was a one room schoolhouse dating from 1823, I guess once a teacher…), and Red Rose Inn, (where we were served a sumptuous breakfast of fresh fruit cup, warm apple cake, shirred eggs with havarti and Parmesan, a creamy potato casserole, sausage patties and warm biscuits) were thankfully both deliciously cool, as were Mammoth Caves, in the first national park we visited on our American Adventure.
And even though I had made the ultimate sacrifice of eliminating Mackinac Island from our itinerary, I still felt like we were “Somewhere in Time.” Because when we arrived at our bed and breakfast near Mammoth Cave, we entered the Central Time Zone, thereby gaining one hour. Then after driving the ninety minutes to Bardstown, we quickly lost that hour, and reverted back to Eastern Time. Therefore in a state where the hour of the day adjusted from street corner to street corner, how was anyone to know what time it really was? There was even a restaurant which was divided down the middle, and when you made reservations, you had to specify which time zone you wanted to dine in. And if you lived in one zone and worked in another…….hmmmm, the possibilities for confusion were endless.
Not nearly as showy as some of the other caves we have visited like Howe or Luray, however, Mammoth, ranked the longest in the world, out shown all others by its enormous size. The menu of tours was extensive, and when we made our choices, painful memories of Cinque Terre were still fresh in our minds and muscles, and we nixed anyone whose description included the words extremely strenuous. As much as we wanted the total cave experience, crawling, rappelling or spelunking were not in our vocabulary. For us, there would no hardhats with Cyclops headlights as we wriggled on all fours in the mud. We wisely chose two different moderately difficult tours, which enabled us to explore very diverse areas, while offering distinctly unique experiences.
While hiking for two hours through the New Entrance (new was relative because it had only been utilized since the mid-nineteenth century), we tramped up and down hundreds of dimly lit wet, slippery, steep stairways, (my thigh muscles still ache), while squeezing into and out of incredibly narrow spaces culminating in views of the intricately woven drapery of Frozen Niagara. Then afterwards, in the stifling heat, after tramping through the Dixon Cave Trail, with views of the Green River far below, it was a relief to return to the depths and constantly cool temperatures, of another cavern.
This time, illuminated by nothing but lanterns, we would trek another 2 ¼ hours, in the Great Onyx Cave. At the entrance when the heavy metal door was unlocked and opened, we were engulfed by a blast of the chilly air of the cavern as it came rushing out. Here in the faint light, cavities of pristine lacey formations, like spun sugar, glistened and led us deeper into seemingly endless, enormous rocky chambers. As we descended, our guide Ranger Bruce, regaled us with tales of the Cave Wars, which raged prior to the caves being named a national park. Under private ownership, the unscrupulous marketing techniques employed were shocking. Therefore when we emerged into the glaring light and unrelenting heat of the late afternoon sunshine, we knew we had experienced not only the natural phenomena of Mammoth Cave, but also a slice of Kentucky’s history.
Unfortunately we cannot say we partook of the best of the Derby state’s culinary delights. Hankering for some crispy fried chicken and creamy cheesy grits, I must sadly report that on Sunday and Monday nights, most restaurants were shuttered shut. So our only two nights below the Mason Dixon offered nothing but mediocrity on a dinner plate, boo hoo!
But our stay in Kentucky ended with a bang, or should I have said toast, when we paid visits to two distilleries along the famous Bourbon Trail. The Bourbon Heritage Center at Heaven Hill was located in the heart of historic Bardstown, surrounded by emerald green rolling hills, speckled with horses galloping in the distance, where everyone and anyone greeted us with a big, “Hey, how y’all doin’?” If one more person smiled at us I was going to have to smack them! And although Heaven Hill offered a state of the art Visitors’ Center, the tour was pretty dull and sterile, with a film replacing the actual distilling process. But after we were seated at the highly polished circular wooden bar, the tastings were first rate, with two pricey and well aged, twelve and eighteen year old samples of their Elijah Craig label poured. In order to enhance the vanilla, caramel and woody nuances of the bourbon, vials of eucalyptus and orange rind were provided for sniffing and clearing your nostrils. When the drinks were topped off with samples of their dark chocolate pecan bourbon balls, it was a performance which was going to be tough to beat.
Then we were off to Maker’s Mark, in the backwoods of Loretto, Kentucky about thirty minutes outside of Bardstown. Now this was an authentic experience. As one of the oldest distilleries in the U.S., their well preserved and restored buildings were on the National Registry of Historic Landmarks. Since their bourbon was not mass produced, it was a truly hands on experience every step of they way, especially when we dunked our hands into huge vats of hops, bubbling like a witch’s brew in a cauldron on Halloween, in order to feel and taste the differences as the concoction developed through the fermenting process. But when it came time for the all important tastings, their score quickly plummeted. While perched atop stools at their brand new bar, the clear moonshine and six year old bourbon did not hold up. In fact we now fully understood the term, White Lightning,” because that stuff really set your mouth aflame as it went down. But our adorably perky guide was sensational, and the all important bourbon balls were passed out, therefore, we had a wonderful, although sizzlingly hot time. So if you took our recommendation, booze it up and take the time to visit both, or three or four distilleries, since each offered its own individual charms and delights.
During our European Tour, we visited 37 out of the 851 UNESCO World Heritage Sites. Each location on the list had been singled out for their unique and diverse cultural or natural contributions to humankind. From Arles, France to Trogir, Croatia, to the Etruscan Necropolis of Tarquinia, they were all awe inspiring. Therefore, when planning our American Adventure, we just had to consult the full list of certified spots. Surprisingly, for a country as large as the U.S., there were few choices. I mean compared to France, Spain and China, who were awarded at least three dozen each, our ginormous country had been granted a paltry twenty. Of course there was the obligatory Grand Canyon and Yellowstone National Parks, and even Independence Hall, but as we examined the list, there was one we had never heard of. On an absolute must see list of twenty, we spied Cahokia Mounds State Historic Site, in Collinsville, Illinois, just over the river from St. Louis, and queried, what the heck was that? Intrigued, but still puzzled, even after visiting their website, we immediately pin-pointed Cahokia as a stop we would make between Kentucky and the Badlands in South Dakota.
As the oldest prehistoric Indian site, north of Mexico, at the height of its power from 1050 – 1200 AD, the Mississippian culture at Cahokia, covered over 4,000 acres and included in excess of 120 mounds. The mounds were constructed of approximately 50 million cubic feet of soil which was taken from, “borrow pits,” and transported in woven baskets on worker’s backs. As a community with a strict social and political hierarchy, most of the mounds served as platforms for ceremonial structures and residences of the elite. Some, especially the conical and ridge-topped ones, were used for burials of the ruling class. The Monk’s Mound, was the largest prehistoric earthen construction in the Americas, containing 22 million cubic feet of earth, with a base covering over fourteen acres. Surrounding the forty acre Grand Plaza, where public gatherings took place and the quarters of the privileged class were situated, was a mighty stockade which ran over two miles in length.
Wow, that sounded amazing, but sadly after viewing the informative film and excellent exhibits in the Interpretive Center, there really was not a whole lot to see. Located on a flat plain, there were several grass covered mounds here and there, and the volunteer, who conducted the walking tour, was a total snooze. The problem was not much was really known about this ancient civilization. We were able to infer that either the money needed for excavation and research was spent on the impressive Visitor’s Center, or there had just been too much flack from the Native American Community for archeologists to conduct their digs properly. Even the recreation of the stockade was constructed haphazardly, with just a few random stakes stuck in the ground. Come on guys as one of only twenty World Heritage Sites in America, you really needed to raise the bar, or should I have said pole, a lot higher.
Then thanks to the urging of our friends Peg and Dan, we visited the Gateway Arch. Located only two blocks from our hotel on the Mississippi River, it really was an engineering marvel. After reading several negative on-line reviews, I must admit I was reluctant to go, but very glad I did. Considering the width of the structure’s base and the narrowness at the apex, it was a wonder they could transport people up there at all. And that was the most fun part, certainly not the tiny slivers of windows you had to crouch over to see out of. For take-off, we boarded a tiny pod, which was designed to accommodate five people, but thankfully for our ride, there was just the two of us. I could not even imagine squeezing even one more person in that claustrophobic capsule with us. With a ceiling so low, that only the center passenger sat upright, the heavy metal door slide shut, and in moments we were amazingly transported to the top.
Other than the Arch, the highlight of the city was the two dinners we enjoyed there, and when in St Louis, one eats “Q,” and lots of it. The first night we indulged at Smoki O’s, located in a very sketchy neighborhood. As Fred parked the car, in the empty, bleak parking lot, I could read the reluctance on his face. But undaunted, especially after the sweet smell of smoke assaulted my nose, I plodded on. As soon as we exited the car, we were greeted by the smiling face of an apron clad African-American gentleman. Thrilled to see our New York license plates, he could not wait to share his experiences with restaurateur Danny Meyer, when he was a participant in the yearly Bar B Que competition in Madison Park. After hearing we had been to Meyer’s Blue Smoke Restaurant, it was his mission to properly introduce us to St. Louis Q his way. Guiding us through the menu, he insisted we try some deep fried pig snoot or snout, (all I could do was remember that photo from the market in Barcelona). But sample we did, and we guessed it was akin to my mom when she broke off the tips of Napoleon’s, (the suckling pig I roasted for one of Jessica’s birthdays), ears and crunched on them with delight. The snoot tasted like giant crunchy, but very thick chips. Interesting, but I was unlikely to order second helpings. The rib and brisket dinners were each accompanied by two sides, and with two bottles of water to wash them down, the bill came to a grand total of $23.00. Now those were prices we could live with. Although the meats were slathered with more sauce than I preferred, the pork and beef were tender and properly smoky. And the Cole slaw, St. Louis style, surprisingly had no mayonnaise, but was sweet and crunchy, and the barbequed spaghetti was a yummy twist of pasta which had been tossed with the same delicious thick picante tomatoey sauce as the meat. We devoured our dinners at the cafeteria style counter and happily awarded this joint eight out of ten sticky fingers.
Then if medical matters were not exciting enough, upon returning to the hotel, Fred began to experience severe pain, but instead of radiating from his lower back and kidney area, it was in his groin and, as the urologist referred to it, his water canal. After resorting to Vicodin, which alleviated much of his discomfort, he was able to get some sleep, but not before I warned him that if he did not feel better in the morning, we were hustling directly to a hospital. After several hours, he went to the bathroom to urinate, and pop, out rushed a kidney stone. Later the doctor identified it as a residual stone, however, it was our sneaking suspicion that this pesky little pebble was the culprit Fred had the surgery to remove, and when the doctor could not locate it, he mistakenly proclaimed that it had passed. (If you are interested, please see photo of Fred’s stone). Thankfully we were both relieved that after the, “elimination,” Fred was perfectly fine, and able to resume all activities.
The following evening, we headed five miles from downtown to Smokin’ Al’s BBQ. Located in a busy suburban strip mall, we had no apprehension about entering this establishment, with its packed parking lot outside and tables inside. With similar menu choices, we passed up the snoot for more ribs, brisket and this time, we decided to taste some burnt ends, which were the heavily smoked outside crust of the pork butt. Assuredly, I thought I was in the know, and requested my meat with sauce on the side, but much to my chagrin, the young man at the counter, with righteous indignation informed me that in St. Louis the Only way it was served was blanketed with sauce, so with resignation I surmised, when in St. Louis……… The portion of ribs was heftier and we ordered two locally brewed Schlafly beers to wash down our repast, and really broke the bank with a bill of $35.00. The ribs and brisket were suitably full of flavor and the burnt ends chewy, and with that extra jolt of smoky goodness it was a surprising treat. But Al’s really lost points on their sauce, which did not have enough bite and their sides, especially their fries, which were limp and tasteless. As we swabbed our mouths with our tenth napkin, we carefully considered the merits of our two “Q” dinners in Missouri, and after much painstaking consideration, we had to bestow Melody and Fred’s Golden Rib Bone Award to Smoki O’s, for its raunchy atmosphere and lip smacking victuals.
When we were planning the itinerary for our American Adventure, everyone had an opinion to add. With fierce convictions about what to visit and what to avoid, the comment we heard most often was, “South Dakota, why would you want to go there? That state has absolutely nothing to offer.” And for the first monotonous 300 miles, we were sadly inclined to agree. From Sioux City to the Badlands, there was nothing as far as the eye could see. You must remember they were not called plains for naught. With the exception of the iconic Corn Palace, decorated annually with thousands of bushels of naturally colored corn, grains and wild grasses and Chef Louie’s, where we had a wonderful dinner of Reuben chowder, (who would have thought…. the ingredients made a terrific soup), and juicy buffalo rib eye steaks, mid-state in Mitchell), the state was a flat, brownish yellow prairie. Even Emily agreed, because each time we gazed at our GPS’s usually multi-colored screen with multiple bisecting intersections, the only image which was visible, was a completely white background with a single straight pink line, designating Route 90, the highway we were traveling. But luckily with a speed limit of 75 miles per hour, and few other vehicles on the road, we were quickly able to cover lots of state. And as we sped along we felt downright left out in our Mazda Tribute SUV, because obviously we had just not gotten the memo that South Dakota was a “Pick-up Truck Only” territory.
By the second morning, even we were beginning to have our doubts until we spied Badlands National Park on the horizon. Jutting high up out of the landscape were irregularly shaped columns and buttes, striated with streaks of gold, red and sienna. Positioned against a clear azure sky, spotted with puffy cumulous clouds, it was a stunning sight to behold. Named Les Mauvaises Terres (Bad Lands) by French trappers who arrived in the middle of the eighteenth century, it did not take us long to discover how appropriate this title was.
Geologically, the qualities of a bad land were: a dry climate, sedimentary rock, canyons and pinnacles. And arid it was. The thermometer pushed 87 degrees, the unrelentless sun bore down and the hot winds blew the loose dust in our faces. As we hiked the four miles in the eerie quiet of the Medicine Root Trail, we could not imagine how the early homesteaders survived on this parched and unforgiving terrain. With few trees to offer shade, the cactus, (in South Dakota, who knew?), speckled our path, and the only respite we were offered was in the shadow of a dehydrated butte, which when touched, crumbled into a fine powder as it fell to the earth.
In 1931, how did a business lure customers to its doorstep from the busy highway? First of all, for hundreds of miles away, you bombarded passersby with billboards which piqued their curiosity, and expressed Wall Drug as a “must see,” tourist attraction. This retail institution in Wall, South Dakota, just outside the park’s entrance, offered cups of coffee for five cents, freshly made donuts and free cups of ice water, which, like so many others for decades before us, we too partook of. With the equivalent of a square block of kitsch, offering everything from jewelry, cowboy boots, freshly made fudge and camping equipment, Wall Drug, was the largest and most extensive TT, (tourist trap), we had ever been in and offered something for everyone, even a Travelers’ Chapel to pray in if you were so inclined.
Besides the amazing topography, I traveled all this way to this northern state for one thing and that was buffalo, Fred knew I would not be leaving until I got my fill of those huge hairy beasts, on my plate and in my camera. Containing 50% less cholesterol, and 70 – 90 % less fat than beef, buffalo was a yummy red meat treat. And besides devouring the rib eye at Chef Louie’s in Mitchell, we went on to have our fill of short-ribs, burgers and stews. With herds numbering 800 in the national park, everyday we were on the photo hunt. Finally at sunset on our last evening, as we were staked out at the Sage Brush Overlook, opposite the Prairie Dog Town, we met a lovely young couple. We soon discovered that they were our next door neighbors at Cedar Pass Lodge with them in Cabin #8 and us in #9. On a similar quest, we teamed up for our buffalo safari. They were the first to spy the elusive beasts further down the gravel path, and came zooming back to alert us. As they quickly drove out of sight, we pursued at a slower pace, stopping to take pictures on the way. Suddenly at sunset, in the quickly fading light in the distance down the hill on our left side, we caught sight of an entire pack, leisurely grazing. Jumping out of the car camera in hand, we struggled to take clear photos. Then through the binoculars, I glimpsed what appeared to be a car, pulled up right next to the herd. Realizing who it was, I shouted to Fred, “Its Cabin #8 let’s get in the car and floor it!” And that was how we spent the waning moments of the day, at amazingly close range, snapping photos of buffalo as quickly as we could.
Then before leaving the Badlands the next morning for points west, and since we had shared such a wonderful experience, we enjoyed dinner, (the company, not the food which was pretty awful with hockey pucks disguised as buffalo burgers), at the Elkton House, with Michelle and Jeff the delightful couple from Portland who were our next door neighbors in Cabin #8.
The next morning on our way to Mount Rushmore, we took a leisurely drive south through Spearfish Canyon, where the trees of the Black Hills were ablaze with the golden hues of autumn, and the crystalline breeze was abundant with the scent of pine. “Build it and they will come,” was the motto of those who concocted the idea of carving six story high busts of great American presidents, and they were so right, because at last count it was approximately three million per year. The end result, with the likenesses of Washington, Jefferson, Teddy Roosevelt and Lincoln, took sculptor Gutzon Borglum over six years to complete, was indeed a heart stopping sight, especially in the evening when it was splendidly illuminated. The daily Ranger Walk around the Presidential Trail, was informative and entertaining, however, the movie in the Visitor’s Center, the ranger who spoke prior to the evening ceremony and its movie entitled, “Freedom,” told the same exact story. Guys we need to be a little less redundant.
Since we all knew that timing was everything, it was serendipitous that during my continued search for bison, we would be able to attend the 42nd annual Buffalo Round-Up in Custer State Park on Monday, October, 1. So after awakening at 4:00 AM, we joined 12,000 other spectators on a grassy hillside to view the thunderous run of the beasts, as they were gathered together by cowboys on horseback and in all-terrain SUV’s, from the outlying pastures to the confines of corrals where they would be tested, branded and sorted. En masse we stood with bated breath as the enormous bovines appeared over the top of the ridge and eventually stampeded right before our very eyes. The deafening sound of their hooves echoed through the hills, as the clouds of dust swirled around us. And out of the mass of humanity, who should suddenly appear not ten feet away, but the occupants of Cabin #8, Michelle and Jeff. Since we were all heading to Devil’s Tower, Wyoming, as we bid our second good-bys, we each wondered if our paths might not cross again.
Next on our way out of the park, we drove northwest on the incredibly scenic Needles Highway. The tops of these naturally chiseled pinnacles were the original intended sight for Borglum’s carvings, which were supposed to be of Western heroes such as Lewis, Clark, Buffalo Bill and Chief Red Cloud. Chock full of incredibly picturesque vistas, it was a photographer’s paradise.
Who hasn’t noticed Deer Crossing signs along the side of the road? But how many of us have actually seen any of Bambi’s cousins strolling across the interstate? In South Dakota they really meant business, because at any time of the day or night, those troublesome devils were leaping, charging and prancing across the roads. Likewise we have all observed falling rock zones, but never have I noticed one for falling trees. If a tree falls on the road, will anyone hear it? The answer was you bet your sweet ass you would! Because during gale force winds, as we were trucking north at 75 miles per hour on Route 16 just outside of Hill City, we suddenly heard a loud creaking sound. And before we knew it, a huge dead tree, whose roots had been shaken free, came crashing down across the southbound lane with an earsplitting thud. And since we all knew about being in the right place….., thank goodness there was not a single car heading towards us, and luckily we drove on shaken but otherwise unscathed.
After all this, it really did not take much thought to access that South Dakota definitely deserved a slot on our American Adventure, and as a result of all our wondrous escapades, we would highly recommend it to all. We’ll see ya there Partner.
Could it be possible that thirty years have passed since Steven Spielberg’s groundbreaking film, “Close Encounters of the Third Kind,” was first released? From that time, Devil’s Tower, located in the south eastern corner of Wyoming, was prominently placed on the map of “must see” sights for visitors venturing through that area, and after leaving South Dakota, it was our first stop.
Rising 1,267 feet above the Belle Fourche River, and at 5,112 feet above sea level, it was a sight to behold, as it jutted up out of the surrounding landscape, dwarfing everything in sight. But instead of Richard Dreyfuss’ sculpture of mashed potatoes, we imagined Terri Garr should hard at work in the kitchen baking cupcakes. That was what the tower looked like to us, a massive cupcake, with vertically striated columns standing in for the indentations made by the paper cake liners. Then once Terri turned it upside down, and dipped it into a cloud of frosting, bingo there you have it, a perfect rendition of this massive monolith.
According to one Native American legend, eight children, seven sisters and their brother were out exploring, when suddenly the boy was struck dumb, his body sprouted fur and his hands and feet morphed into claws as he was transformed into a bear. Then the ferocious bear attacked the sisters, and as they frantically attempted to escape his grasp, they came upon the stump of a tree who spoke to them. It pleaded with the girls to climb upon it, and as they did, it rose up to the heavens. And as the bear continued his pursuit in vain, and made every effort to climb up to his sisters, it was his angry claw marks which formed the stone pillars of the tower, some of which were 60 feet high and ten feet wide. Or as Frank, the fiftyish, reformed addict, hippie who owned the B&B we stayed at explained, Devil’s Tower was where the Indians believed the spirits of those who were exiled to purgatory resided. And until those souls reached the, “happy hunting ground of the netherworld”, the tower was a much feared but spiritually sacred site.
Just nine miles north, was Hulett, the closest town to Devil’s Tower. With a population of 408, referring to it as a town was a bit of an exaggeration. Just two blocks long, with the laundromat in a trailer park and the best restaurant in a gas station, needless to say it left much to be desired. Unfortunately we also had to make a grocery store, (no supermarket here), run to replenish supplies. How did those 408 residents survive, we pondered? The fruits and vegetables were rotten, Oscar Mayer had a monopoly on the pre-packaged cold meats (no deli department either), and the only cheese product to be found was pasteurized processed Velveeta or American slices, Yuck, even though my mom is quite fond of that melted on a Bagel Boss cinnamon raisin bagel. Then for dinner, we figured we could not go wrong with pizza, (oh what a mistake that was), and after the laundry was finished, we visited Charlie T’s for dinner. A former resident of Northport, Long Island, obviously Charlie left New York much too long ago to remember what really terrific, or even edible, pizza tasted like.
Just after placing our order, who should suddenly appear at the door, but Michelle and Jeff, our buffalo sighting pals from Cabin #8. So even though the food tasted like the cardboard box it probably was just taken out of, the company was wonderful. And at the end of the evening, once again, we kissed and bid each other a fond farewell.
Then the next morning as Fred and I walked the 1.3 mile circumference around Devil’s Tower, who was hiking on the four mile trail just below us, you got it, Michelle and Jeff. By then we knew that we were fated to be together, and made plans to meet for dinner that evening, and I must report that Ponderosa Café’s fare was surprisingly tasty, with perfectly grilled steaks smothered in sautéed onions, peppers and artichokes hearts. And to top it off, Fred and Jeff indulged in the homemade apple pie a la mode. This time when the four of us parted, they were headed east as they returned to South Dakota, and we were on our way west to Yellowstone, we all realized that our paths would not cross again, at least not on this trip. Sadly Oregon was one of those destinations eliminated from this odyssey, but there was always next time to look forward to.
Whoever penned the phrase, “black as night,” must have visited Wyoming, because nothing was darker than that drive from Hulett back to our inn, which was located right on the grounds of the national monument. But thanks to being wrapped in the quilt of the evening sky, we were afforded the brilliant spectacle of viewing the canopy of the starry heavens from horizon to horizon. While we stood arm in arm, on the back deck of the Devil’s Tower Bed and Breakfast, we concluded our stay marveling at the millions of jewels which glistened above, accompanied only by the silvery swirl of the distant Milky Way.
Whenever we saw footage of visitors in Alaska’s Denali National Park, they were shown excitedly hanging out of the windows of the tour buses, in a state of anxious anticipation, quickly snapping photos of massive herds of animals. Sadly four years ago, when we visited the, 49thstate, this was the furthest from reality. We did see some wildlife, but most of it was nothing more than miniscule spots up on the mountainside or down in a remote valley. And, in frustration even with high powered binoculars, it was difficult to make out any distinct shape or form. Therefore most of our pictures were of indefinable dots, which I then carefully circled and then indicated with arrows exactly what is was we were supposed to be viewing.
Happily this was not to be the case in Yellowstone National Park. Located mostly in Wyoming, these 2,219,789 acres were an unspoiled sanctuary for an amazing variety of indigenous species. And unlike in Denali where private cars were prohibited, visitors were given the freedom to discover this natural wonder unsupervised, which was liberating. And even though we were not blessed with the best weather conditions, because we were in a SUV, we were able to freely explore all of the parks routes.
On a cold, I meant temps in the low thirties, (we were hot, hot, hot no more), day we entered the park’s northern entrance, and not five miles later, at the Mammoth Springs Visitors Center, encountered an entire group of elk. And since it was matting season, the huge buck was never far from his enormous harem. And for the next three days, as the temperatures plummeted, and the snow accumulated, our pulses raced and our hearts palpitated each and every time we approached a bevy of cars pulled over to the side of the road. In a flurry of activity, we came across fellow amateur photographers, all armed with their impressive gear, armed with optional features aplenty, all focused on the beasts of the moment. And size really did matter, because I had never seen such an impressive variety of equipment, with lenses the length of my arm, often draped in camouflage to avoid detection. With hushed voices, knowing that we were sharing a once in a lifetime experience, and even though we would never encounter these strangers again, we all instantly bonded over these precious moments. Like a posse of paparazzi staking out Angelina and Brad, (were they even still together?), we carefully observed these magnificent creatures of nature, and each new pose our prey struck, resulted in a rapid flurry of snapping shutters. Let me tell you, it was a natural adrenaline rush!
Unfortunately allowing visitors free reign while visiting the park had its downside, sadly because some people were just plain STUPID!! Even though everyone was warned repeatedly not to approach the wildlife, there were those who believed the rules just did not apply to them. And wildlife it really was in its rawest state. One morning, a buck elk gored another to death, while later on, another rammed a car. And on a subsequent day, even after being shot, a bear attacked a man resulting in serious injury and his hospitalization. The winter was quickly approaching, food was becoming scarce, and these brutes were getting nasty and aggressive.
Later on during our first day, after marveling at the scheduled spewing of Old Faithful, (every 93 minutes, plus or minus 10), we hiked a trail, which took us from the geyser’s backside to Morning Glory Pool. Halfway there, we encountered twenty some odd buffalo, not fifteen feet away, lounging around and blocking our path. Now I did not know about you, but one of those 2,000 pound beasts, who could sprint at speeds surpassing 30 miles per hour, trumped trekking any day. But don’t you know, four idiots decided that they were not going to curtail their walk even for 40,000 pounds of brute force. With sweaty palms and dry mouths, we gazed in horror as they attempted to sashay by. Then once surrounded by these gigantic hairy bovines, two of them lost their nerve, turned around, and began to run. At that moment, the once placid creatures became aware of all of us, and they did not appreciate our intrusion one bit. Instantly leaping to their feet they were on the move. Their agitation was obvious with angry snorts and deep throated growls. Holding my breath, I shook with fear, because I just could not predict what these dangerous brutes might do. Luckily for all of us, their preoccupation with their limited food sources, pre-empted their fury, and within twenty agonizing minutes, they ignored us and lumbered on their way. Once they were out of sight, we were able to complete our hike, but those angry rumbles resounded in my ears for the rest of our stay.
Then the following afternoon, while in the Lamar Valley in the eastern portion of the park, we spied hundreds of those wooly mammoths grazing on the hills to the eastern side of the road. And suddenly at the sound of some silent bell, they all spontaneously decided to stampede across the road. And unlike at the Buffalo Roundup in South Dakota, there were no eight foot fences separating them from us. Why did the buffalo cross the highway, because he could, and no one was going to stop him! And as all the traffic came to a screeching halt, the excitement was palpable as we all marveled at the migration we were witnessing. So please forgive the glare in those photos, because in that may lay there was no way I was leaving the safety of our car. Thankfully, no humans were harmed during the taking of these photos and all pictures were taken, out of harms way, through the windshield.
Our safari continued as we observed more bison taking a Jacuzzi in the steam wafting out of one of the thermal springs, and then baby brown bears munching on the plump red berries at the side of the road. Hurrying to capture an entire family of grey mule deer in peaceful repose as if posing for a portrait, we bruised the leaves on the bunches of wild sage nestled on the hillside, thereby releasing their pungent aroma. And while hiking the ice encrusted Lakeside Geyser Trail, we will never forget the massive bull elk, who pierced the silence while he bugled loudly, thereby insuring his dominance over other males and attracting more females. Boy oh boy, these brutes had women to spare. But sadly we were informed that it was the males with the largest harems who would not survive the winter. Because they would have spent too much time making whoopee and not enough sleeping and eating which would have increased their chances of survival. Wasn’t that so like a man?
But Yellowstone was so much more than just the animals. Because we encountered such foul weather, some of its magnificent vistas were lost to us. But during a snow storm, the entire landscape became a crystallized winter wonderland. (We did not remove any color from those shots, and what you see was the way it was laid out before our eyes.) Caused by volcanic eruptions, the size and variety of its geysers, hot springs and mudpots were the largest in the world, surpassing even Iceland’s and New Zealand’s. And as we stood transfixed overlooking their travertine steps, their noxious sulphurous vapors dashed up our noses making us cringe. But in the freezing cold, their warm steam caressed our faces, providing a soothing,
impromptu geyser facial. Some were percolating pots of stinky murky mud, while others had the clear, brilliant aqua of a glacial crevace and others imitated a shiny polished sliced geode with irregular circular rings of vibrant colors which radiated from rich browns to vibrant greens.
And surprisingly to top it off, the food was quite tasty. The first night we indulged in the massive ½ pound buffalo burgers (I hoped their pals at the park never smelled it on my breath), at Helen’s Corral. Those monsters, which measured seven inches from bun to bun, were a two handed treat. The next evening we dined at the Mammoth Springs Hotel and enjoyed yummy salmon spinach spring rolls, followed by terrific locally caught pistachio crusted trout and cornmeal breaded whitefish topped with jalapeno-avocado butter, all of which were accompanied by views of elk snacking on grass just outside the window. Then in the snow on our last night, we trudged to Pedalino’s for some wonderful Italian fare which included such comforting specialties as orecchiette with chick peas, sausage and goat cheese in a light pink sauce, followed by remarkably moist chicken breast stuffed with herbs and more sausage. For Montana and Wyoming these were gourmet delights indeed.
All of you, who spent the time to read this, could bet your best pair of cowboy boots that we will be returning to this remarkable place again and again as all of you should.
In order for the Tetons to be categorized as grand was completely predicated on whether or not one actually saw said Tetons. Unhappily for us, those wondrous peaks, or at least the ones which were rumored to be right there, were shrouded in a low lying cloud cover for 95% of our visit. On our last snowy day in Yellowstone, when the south entrance was finally reopened, thereby allowing us easy access to Grand Teton, we believed this was the turning point, and fine weather was coming our way. And even though weather.com promised us clear skies and temperatures in the low to mid 60’s, the truth presented itself as a thick mantle of mist accompanied by the thermometer barely reaching 45. But we assured ourselves, at least there was no snow.
By the time we awakened the following morning, nature had played another dirty trick on us and as we slept, the landscape laid out before us, had miraculously been dusted with a fine coating of powdery sugared snow. And sadly the mountains’ summits were still cloaked and invisible to us.
So once again after bundling up for the snow, we set out to hike the four mile trail to Taggart Lake. In fact when we stopped at the Ranger Station, the placard which listed the weather for that day read, “Cold and Damn Cold!” Frankly we did not know whether to laugh or cry. In spite of that, en route we had two wonderful moose sightings, and were optimistic about having an incredible day. We soon realized that Grand Teton was the impoverished step-sister of Yellowstone, because it was practically devoid of visitors, at least compared to its northern relative. Therefore upon reaching the trailhead, we had the place to ourselves and were able to commune with nature one on one. Not several hundred feet away, female does were grazing under the trees, and we congratulated ourselves on our good fortune. Proceeding down the trail, the only sounds we detected was the tinkling of the stream as it journeyed downhill, the rustle of the golden leaves as they gracefully danced to the ground, and the crackling of the newly formed ice as our feet broke through their brittle surface.
At an altitude of almost 7,000 feet, we were forced to share the lovely vistas of Taggart Lake with three French travelers. Then after taking each others photos, they continued on their way to Bradley Lake, which was gladly in the opposite direction from where we were headed. We definitely did not want to share this wondrous solitude with any interlopers. That was until we strolled along the muddy path, and discovered the freshly made claw prints of a bear, and that was the last thing we desired to see when we were hiking solo on a trail 1 ½ miles away from civilization. So as we broke every record to reach the parking lot and the safety of our car, we sang, we debated and just plain yelled as loudly as we could, because we would NEVER want to surprise one of those grizzly beasts. As much as we loved witnessing wildlife, the only way we wanted to observe them was from a safe distance, preferably behind the locked doors of our car.
Therefore, the following day when we began the three mile trail to Leigh and String Lakes, and could not find another car in the parking lot, and then discovered a, “Beware Bear,” notice prominently displayed, we quickly nixed that trek for the more populated one of the southern shore of Jenny Lake. We now knew the true meaning of safety in numbers.
Fortunately we were staying at the lovely Snake River Lodge and made good use of their sauna and hot tub to ease our aching muscles. We also dined there on wonderfully smoked buffalo carpaccio, elk chops, osso bucco accompanied by butternut squash risotto and pumpkin cheesecake topped with pumpkin seed brittle, (it was especially yummy because our dinner was free). Other nights we enjoyed delectable fish at Nora’s Fish Creek Inn in Wilson and at Q Roadhouse, just down the road from Teton Village, where we chowed down on some properly smoked ribs and thick slices of brisket accompanied by Mighty Bison Brown Ale and serenaded by a selection of old Motown tracks.
Then as luck would have it, at 3:00 PM on our last afternoon, miraculously the clouds lifted, and as if by a magician’s command, there appeared the Tetons in all their glory. For the last moments of that afternoon, as well as the next morning during our drive over the Teton Pass at a very steep 10% grade on Highway 22 from Wilson to Alta, we were afforded amazing views. But that was not really enough to satisfy our appetite. Therefore, just like when Lake Champlain was summarily downgraded from a great lake, we must decree that the Grand Tetons will be no more, and will hereafter be known as just the Good Tetons.
We had two heavyweights who were competing, head on, for the 2007 title of Numero Uno in the National Park Tour, Utah. Our showdown took place right in the, “rockin,” southwestern corner of this 45thstate. The first competitor was Zion the Lion, known to his friends as ZTL, or just Z. He was opposed by Bryce, who never believed any further moniker was required, a la Madonna or Cher. The stakes were high, and the tension mounted as each park’s fans came to root for their personal favorite.
A native of the Bee Hive State, (and why Utah had that as a nickname, we could never figure out), Zion swaggered into the parlor with much fanfare, clad in a custom tailored Armani suit, accessorized with a highly polished, hammered silver belt buckle the size of a cantaloupe, emblazoned with his initials ZTL. When your eyes gazed down, you were able to make out your own reflection in his $2,500 custom made cowboy boots designed by Michael Anthony. His thick mane of white hair framed handsome but well weathered features. This brash and sassy gent loved his women leggy, busty and barely old enough to vote. At the tables, he threw back shots of 100 % blue agave Tequila Ley .925, as he sucked on $400 Cuban cigars by Cohiba Behike. Maybe he was a Will Ferrell look alike, (just kidding with that one, hey after all he was in everything else). To me he looked just like Dennis Quid, and you knew I have always really had a special place in my heart for him. He was decreed a national park back in 1919, and Z’s holdings spread out for over 146, 500 acres. And from as much as twenty miles away, his slot canyons and towering terra cotta walls were visible to all. As we approached the park from the north, the majesty of Colob Canyon took our breath away. At the stunning Desert Pearl Inn just a stone’s throw away from the park’s entrance in the upscale community of Springdale, even from a lounge at the pool or seated on our terrace during a golden sunset, we were enveloped by Zion’s fortifications of stone. Just as the player whose every facial expression revealed the cards he was holding, Zion’s glories were laid out on display to all like the opulently decorated holiday windows on Fifth Avenue. With 2.6 million visitors per year, this park was the #7 most visited national park in the United States, and our overly confident competitor knew he would be tough to beat.
Also born and raised in Utah, Bryce entered the room practically unnoticed, except by his most ardent fans. Part of this guy’s allure was his unassuming boyish charm. Athletically built, he stood six feet, six inches tall, his handsome chiseled features were punctuated with closely cropped dark brown hair sprinkled with silver and a well trimmed, but bushy moustache, (hmmmmmmm, he sounded remarkably like Tom Selleck. Hey if I was going to be the director, I could cast whomever I desired), he was the antithesis of his opponent. This superstar’s uniform included faded light blue Levi jeans with frayed bottoms and holes at the knees, an impeccably white t- shirt and scuffed Converse high tops. His purple and white Utah Jazz baseball cap, (even though he customarily wore one of the Detroit Tigers’), was pulled low over his forehead and his mirrored Ray-Ban shades revealed nothing of the twinkling, warm brown eyes which were well hidden beneath. Known as a man of mystery, Bryce exposed little of what his hand held until that decisive final moment. And as we drove the mere 74 miles from Zion to Bryce, on the Zion-Mt. Carmel Highway, like a neatly wrapped gift, we could perceive nothing of the treasures within. With 1.5 million visitors each year, this 37,277 acre piece of parkland was deemed a national park in 1924.
Just before we departed from Jackson Hole, Wyoming, in the glow of the early morning sun, we were wrapped in layers of clothing as we scraped the snow and ice off the car as the soaring heights of the snow covered Tetons looked on. Then after a nine hour drive, we felt as if we were transplanted to another planet when we arrived at 5:00PM in southern Utah just outside of Zion. Here temperatures soared into the eighties and the outdoor pool was surrounded by oblivious bathers relaxing in the warmth of the late afternoon sun. Didn’t they know it had just been snowing for five days, well in Wyoming it was.
The following morning, since we had been treated to many of its glories before we even passed through the park’s entrance, we arrived in Zion with great expectation, and he did not disappoint. Surrounded by ruggedly sculpted towers of rock, we could not help but marvel at all the amazing treats the park had to offer, and we hiked our feet off attempting to visit them all. Like first timers to N.Y.C, we craned our necks so we got an even better glimpse of Z’s soaring sienna skyscrapers. Then accompanied by downright chilly temps, we strolled the two miles of the Riverside Walk to the Narrows, accompanied by deer, who silently grazed on the hillside. And as the sun warmed the desert landscape, it felt wonderfully refreshing to have the waters of Weeping Rock sprinkled down on us. Next we were off to joys of the Three Emerald Pools, and because we were who we were and the easy path would never satiate us, the easy trek to the Lower Waterfalls was not enough, and we huffed and puffed our way to the Middle and Upper ones. At altitudes which ranged from 6 - 10,000 feet, breathing when standing still was an enormous effort. And note to self, when we return to New York, we must petition the National Park Service to upgrade the trudge to the Upper Pool as strenuous, because it truly knocked us out. Luckily the observation point for the Court of the Patriarchs, was a short, but steep hike from the bus stop, otherwise I did not think we could have made it.
After clocking seven miles of trail, our weary feet and muscles screamed, “Uncle,” and they decided that we should leave the rest of our itinerary for the following day. And since, with much difficulty, we had scrambled up and over those irregularly shaped boulders to reach the Upper Emerald Pools, I adamantly put my foot down and insisted it was time we purchased hiking poles, or as the southern gentleman referred to them as, “Oldski Sticks.” Wow, even though we put a hole in our credit card for $80, I knew that with nine more parks to go, our money was well spent. We then spent some much needed down time, relaxing, and soaking our weary bones in the outdoor hot tub and pool.
Since this was the fifth national park we visited, we had gotten comfortable driving our car along the many routes, stopping to observe, picnic or photograph as we chose. But sadly not here where we were forced to ride a shuttle bus the length of the Zion Canyon Scenic Drive. In busses, which were designed for transportation and not sightseeing, it was very difficult to make out any of the sights described by the driver. And even though they ran very frequently, and we never had to wait more than a few minutes for the next transport, we longed for the freedom we had in the other parks.
Luckily the next day when we ventured to Colob Canyon, in the northern portion of the park, we were afforded the liberty to explore at will. And even though we were now certified hiker geeks, with our newly purchased matching hats and poles, trekking the Timber Overlook Trail was much easier. Then in this often overlooked section, once again we were awe struck at the incredible artistry of the hands of nature. The enormity of its panoramic vistas of soaring ochre shaded, rocky precipices left our mouths agape. And just like the showy and flashy card player named Zion the Lion, Fred and I both confirmed that he must be holding four aces.
That evening we arrived at dusk to the, “Super Industrial Tourist Machine,” aka Ruby’s Inn, with not a whisper of the cards Bryce was holding. A clamor of activity accompanied our check-in, as bus loads of tourists crowded the general store, grocery, art gallery, liquor shop and restaurant. This joint even had its own service station, with mechanics on duty. Ruby’s had something for everyone, except us. Her tacky, scratchy yellow, orange and green polyester bedspreads with matching curtains only emphasized its cheesy poor taste. In the twilight, as far as the eye could see, were construction sites, cheap motels, trailer parks and sleazy cafes. With such unappetizing features, we began to be frightened for our quiet, unassuming contestant.
Before dawn the following morning in the pitch black, we headed to Sunrise Point in Bryce National Park, and the best thing we could say about our cheap motel, was that it was the most conveniently located. As we attempted to navigate the short hike to the overlook, we wondered why none of the guide books had suggested bringing a flashlight, because we surely could have used one. As we positioned ourselves along the railing, we thought we might have arrived at the top of the Tower of Babel, because we were the only Americans around. We were surrounded by a cacophony of accents from all the British, French, Japanese, and German visitors. And as we all strained our eyes to become adjusted to the darkness, we could see nothing but the vast void in front of us.
Then slowly, as if some mysterious hand was turning a switch, the darkness began to dissipate and disappear. And as the light fought back the shadows, the curtain rose on the stage of Bryce’s aptly named Amphitheater, and we were afforded our first glimpse of his majesty. In the chilly air of dawn’s first orange, and golden rays, the ancient hoodoos below us sparkled as if a spotlight was shining down on them from the heavens above. And finally, like the, “sneaky good,” poker player he was, Bryce began to reveal his cards.
With a need to soak up as much of this park as possible, we bested the seven miles we had hiked just two days prior and trekked for nine miles. From the full radiance of dawn, we descended into the Queen’s Garden, around to the Navajo Loop and up the steep switchbacks of the newly reopened Wall Street. (Even though we never read it anywhere, after completing the trail, we believed it would have been less taxing if we had begun at Wall Street instead of vice versa). As we hiked, alongside Nadia and Stephen, our new German/Swiss pals, we were surrounded by the artistry of a fairytale giant, who must have been frolicking in the wet sand, when suddenly his whimsical drizzles became frozen in time. We were dwarfed by the dyed red, rust, and cream tinted secret doorways, castle turrets and arches. And scattered throughout were the gnarly stumps of the bristlecone pine trees, which resembled the arthritically twisted fingers of an ancient hag, thereby adding additional dimensions to this fantasyland.
In the late afternoon sun, the Rim Trail from Upper Inspiration Point to Bryce Point, and back, gave us an entirely different perspective. Because now, just as at Sunrise Point, the multitude of Bryce’s pinnacles of strangely shaped rock formations, spread out below us. And from every vantage point as we turned each bend, the shadows shifted with every step we took, and an entirely new rainbow of colors emerged. The final hand was fast approaching, and now we were fully confident that Bryce would hold his own.
Sadly the one thing the two parks had in common was truly lousy food. They should be ashamed that travelers from all over the globe visited the lodges in our national parks, and were offered nothing but institutional ballpark quality food, (sorry if I insulted the ballpark concessionaries), provided by a company called Xanterra. As our German pal Nadia related, her biggest disappointment about being in the U.S., was the horrible food. Where were all the wonderfully creative chefs who could take ingredients indigenous to each region, and orchestrate menus which would do our country’s remarkable scenery justice? Our national parks and lodges should be showplaces, not by European standards, but by American, and right now they fell far short.
And as the final hand of Seven Card Stud was dealt, Zion and Bryce were equally confident of victory. With each card, ZTL’s grin became broader and broader, as he raised the pot, which brought the stakes higher and higher. While Bryce’s features divulged nothing, he grudgingly saw Z’s bet with each round. Then when it became time for our rivals to reveal their hands, the crowd gasped, as Zion and Bryce both revealed royal flushes, thereby declaring this match a draw!
As a side note, we broke our all time record of photos taken in one day, with 254 on October 12th, in Bryce National Park. But that may have been because we were there from 6:45 AM until 5:30 PM.
As we planned our American Adventure, we researched the Plainview Library’s complete supply of travel guides. And believe me when I told you that we left no resource untouched, and there was one national park in Utah, whose name kept coming up over and over again, and that was Capitol Reef. Zion, Bryce, Arches and Canyonlands, sure they were all prominently placed on our itinerary, but Capitol Reef, it did not ring a bell to either of us. But we were flexible, and especially since we practically had to drive through it anyway, why not just add it to our all ready jam packed schedule. And so after leaving Bryce, we jumped on Scenic Byway 12, and pointed the car in the direction of Capitol Reef National Park.
We woke to a fine, sunny day and on the way, we made a stop at Kodachrome Basin State Park to see the sandpipes, or oddly shaped pillars of rock, (aka phallic symbols), which were prevalent to this area. But as we were hiking the one mile, Angel’s Palace Trail, we sort of got turned around, and lost our way. All of you, who knew us, could testify that we were the farthest thing from consummate hikers. In fact we could not find a trail, especially on a slickrock surface, even if our lives depended on it. And out here in these parts, instead of trail markers, the powers that be pilled up cairns, or little stacks of rocks, which were supposed to guide you on your way. Heck we thought children were playing and just made these little mounds, sort of like Hansel and Gretel and their breadcrumbs. High up on a butte as we walked in circles, the once blue sky began to darken, and ominous storm clouds now floated above, and during a downpour accompanied by possible lightening, the last place we wanted to be stranded was high up on a cliff. If we leaned over the precipice, far below we were able to make out our car, but sadly we just couldn’t figure out how to get to it. Then after what seemed like an anxious eternity, our path crossed with other hikers from Wyoming, who pointed us on our way. But not before we discovered the husband was an English teacher, who was out of school on a “Hunting” break. You heard right, in Wyoming, schools closed for several days for each hunting season. And there was one for: deer, antelope, and elk, which added up to quite a chunk of days off. All you educators out there should petition your union officials, (sorry Dee), because we were truly missing out on a good thing.
Capitol Reef named by the immigrants, who were once mariners, because the monocline topography of the area presented an enormous barrier to them, much as a reef did in the ocean. And in addition, one of the park’s most prominent features was a white dome shaped rocky structure, which reminded the pioneers of their state capitol buildings, thereby giving this massive area of land its title. Along with its soaring geological delights, the park was also renowned for its ancient petroglyphs, and other historical remnants, such as the Pioneer Register, which was where the early settlers scratched out their names, during the late nineteenth, and early twentieth centuries.
Touted as having some of the cleanest and clearest water and air in the world, during our visit, the sky over Capitol Reef was a preternaturally sparkling sapphire. This was no blue which could be found in a box of 64 Crayolas. It just jumped out at you from above, acting as the perfect backdrop for the massive burnt sienna towers jutting out of the earth. Once accessorized by a complete palette of vibrant autumnal colors, it created a scene only a masterful artist could have painted.
This rugged turf, once the hideout of the infamous Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, offered some challenging hikes, and on our first morning, we navigated the 4 ½ miles of the strenuous Chimney Rock Trail. Ascending 1,000 very steep feet, we trudged through the powdery red sand and were rewarded with heart stopping vistas of the valley below and surrounding gigantic buttes. Perched on colossal claw footed podiums, these sleeping giants dominated the horizon. This was a trek which offered tremendous bang for our buck, and as we practically crawled to the trailhead, we felt a wonderful sense of accomplishment.
Then the topography radically changed as we explored the far reaches of the park. Along the Hickman Bridge Trail, we were encircled by black volcanic boulders, which appeared to have been belched up from within the earth’s very belly. Next, we were rocked and rolled as we off- roaded, through curvaceous unpaved pathways, up, down and across dried up and parched riverbeds to the aptly named Cathedral Valley. Once arriving, we worshipped at the altar of the monolithic Temples of the Moon and Sun, which rose over 500 feet above the canyon floor. Rimmed by pedestals of towering stone with columned acropolises atop, it was a staggering sight to behold.
While visiting the area, we stayed at the Schoolhouse Inn in Torrey, Utah, and one of the most wonderful amenities it offered was meeting Jodie and Irwin. She a native of the Boston area, and he of The Netherlands, together they resided on the island of Aruba. We hit it off immediately, and shared breakfasts together the two mornings we were there together. Luckily after Torrey, we were all moving to the Sunflower Hill Inn, in Moab, Utah, and vowed to meet for dinner the first night we would be there together.
Fortunately after four nights of eating substandard fare, two terrific restaurants in the area, were definitely a cut above. About forty minutes from Torrey, Hell’s Backbone Grill in Boulder had received accolades from the NY Times, O Magazine, and Bon Appetit, and this winner did not disappoint. Utilizing only organic ingredients, many of which were grown in their own garden, the two owners, Blake and Jenn like doting mother hens, oversaw every detail, from mint leaves in the water glasses to the homemade diablo sauce, and warm flaky black pepper biscuits with freshly snipped sage butter. The appetizer special of smoked pheasant quesadillas with jack cheese, crème fraiche, and a corn tomatillo salsa was perfectly prepared and scrumptious. Our only criticism of the restaurant was the entrée choices, which we thought could have offered more of an exotic variety. That said, our spicy chipotle meat loaf, (now you knew we would never normally order that), with assorted veggies, like Jerusalem artichokes, which I had never tasted, and lemony mashed potatoes, was fabulous, as was Fred’s succulent grilled pork tenderloin chop with an heirloom apple and poblano chile chutney. We topped that off with yummy warm apple pecan crumb cake, topped with warm butterscotch sauce and fresh whipped cream. Then on two nights because the food was so wonderful and there were few other choices, we visited Café Diablo, about five blocks from our bed and breakfast. The complimentary platter of assorted marinated vegetables, topped with shavings of cheese and hunks of crusty bread was a perfect prelude. The first night we shared an appetizer of three different spicy tidbits, of potato, chicken, and shrimp, aptly called, “Firecrackers,” which were pleasantly hot but far from incendiary. Followed by gorgeous presentations of a crown rack of ribs and pumpkin seed crusted trout, it was a feast by anyone’s standards. The following night we were smart enough to nix the appetizer, and after the freebies, dug right into a tender, double cut ribeye steak, and believe it or not, turkey relleno, simmered in a rich guajillo mole cream over a roasted vegetable masa. You could have put that sauce over week old leftovers and it would have been delicious. After the dearth of dining possibilities in Springdale and Bryce, Utah, Hell’s Backbone and Café Diablo were truly oases in a desert. These were the perfect antidotes to the homogenous goop sadly offered at our national park lodges.
Therefore, Capitol Reef National Park should be on everyone’s must see list when visiting the wonders of Utah.
On the southeastern banks of the Colorado River, 233 miles east of Salt Lake City, and 354 from Denver, surrounded by mountains of soaring red sandstone, sat Moab. Taken from the Old Testament, the town’s namesake was the bastard son of Lot, (of Sodom and Gomorrah fame), and also a narrow strip of mountainous land which ran along the eastern shore of the Dead Sea. Now because of its close proximity to Canyonlands and Arches National Parks, as well as Dead Horse State Park and numerous other hiking and biking trails, Moab was an upscale, bustling community of almost 5,000 inhabitants. And while visiting the region, that was where we set up our headquarters.
On our way in, we made our first stop to the northern section or Island in the Sky, (don’t you just love that name?), area of Canyonlands. And as soon as we got out of the car at the Visitors Center and turned around, we just had to award this view the drop dead, “Wow Effect.” It appeared as if Sylvia Weinstock, the famous pastry chef, had run amok, and with chain saw in hand, sliced the earth open using a zigzag motion. Then once she cracked her gargantuan creation open, all the yummy layers of: milk and dark chocolate, mint and red velvet cream were exposed. And on a clear day, as we were lucky enough to have had, the view went on seemingly forever, or for over 100 incredible miles.
Like being on top of an enormous tabletop, we drove the twelve miles to the beginning of the Grand View Point Overlook, and as far as the eye could see there was no evidence of the majesty we had just minutes before beheld. Because now we found ourselves on the top of the mesa or plateau, and were surrounded by nothing but flat prairie land. Then as we approached the trailhead, suddenly the land dropped away in front of our astonished eyes. And as we strode the two miles along the rim of the canyon, we were treated to awesome vistas, which fanned out before us, of the southernmost parts of the park and the Colorado and Green Rivers far below. And in the blaze of the mid afternoon sunshine, the marbleized dusty rose, silver and cream colored surfaces of the slickrock shimmered like jewels under our feet.
However, the next morning after driving 1 ½ hours to the Needles District of Canyonlands, our expectations fell miserably short. Unfortunately the wonders of this southern section, were withheld from us, and only doled out to those who were willing to hike over fifteen miles, or off road, in high clearance four wheeled drive vehicles, into the 527 miles of the park’s remote depths on unpaved, rocky and very steep byways. Sadly it was too late when we realized we should have hired a guide to do just that with us. We did manage to squeeze in a few trails, but none whet our appetites as the previous day’s had. Like trekking on the surface of the moon, the undulating mounds of the slickrock sandstone, dimpled with potholes, was tricky to maneuver on. And we felt akin to the early settlers whose horses had difficulty gaining traction on the rock’s sloping surfaces. Then while in the very midst of the 1 ½ mile Pothole Point Trail, the sunny skies gave way to dark threatening clouds and gusting winds. Surrounded by toad stool shaped rocks, which looked like an army of gnomes, we trekked our tails off in an attempt to reach the warmth and safety of our car before the rain began to fall. And even though we enjoyed scampering up ladders in order to view the now abandoned cowboy camps, on the 1 ½ mile Canyon Spring Trail, that day was not deemed our favorite.
Luckily for us, the next day brought us to Arches National, “Amusement,” Park, because nothing else we had seen was such an unreal sight. With surreally shaped stony sculptures, which appeared to have been molded, by a small child’s hand out of red Silly Putty, and Utah’s extraordinary azure sky, we half expected the Runaway Express Train Ride to chug right on through, as vendors hawked caps with Mickey Mouse ears. And as we trekked the aptly titled Park Avenue Trail, we felt right at home engulfed by the soaring skyscrapers of stone. Ironically this amazing collection of arches, windows and balanced rocks, made of entrada sandstone, were created by erosion and weather, but sadly it will be these same forces of nature which will ultimately destroy them.
And in the course of the two days we spent there, we took great pleasure in seeking out as many of its 2,000 catalogued arches, as possible, as well as trying to catch sight of an infinite number of new arches to be. In order to be given, “arch status”, the formation had to measure at least three feet. And here in the park, they went all the way up to the longest one, Landscape Arch at an incredible 306 feet, which appeared to have been stretched way beyond its limit.
On our second day, on our enthusiastic quest, and with a payoff of viewing seven additional arches, we foolishly undertook the very strenuous eight mile Devil’s Garden Trail. This trek was not called, “the devil’s,” for nothing. Satan had himself a hearty laugh as he observed us twisting our bodies into pretzels as we contorted, turned and squeezed our way through many a tight spot. When necessary we even resorted to some tush sliding, or as one young girl appropriately described it, four wheel drive. And if truth be told, there were moments when it became very necessary. We were successful in so far as, we got to spot six of the seven arches, and we did not maim ourselves too badly, even though for days after, we were sore in places we did not even know existed. But we also fell short, because we never made it to the final arch, the Double O. Just shy of it, when we climbed up a very high narrow ledge of slickrock, with unprotected sharp drop-offs on both sides, we tentatively proceeded crossing it for several feet, and then sadly called it a day. We knew we were finished when our knees began to buckle and shake from the tension we were exerting, not to mention Fred suffering from a sudden attack of vertigo. But all and all over our two day stay, we did manage to get up close and personal with thirteen different arches, each of which was a marvel of natural artistry.
Then to cap off our stay, we paid a visit to Dead Horse Point State Park. On a high plateau, over 6,000 feet above sea level, we gazed down at 300 million years of geological history. With amazing views of Canyonlands, it was the site of many a movie shoot. Beginning in the 1940’s, John Ford arrived and filmed quite a few of his movies here. Then through the years, Spielberg was here for “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade,” as was the crew of “Galaxy Quest,” and “City Slickers II.” But who could forget Susan Sarandon and Geena Davis as Thelma and Louisa in the Ridley Scott 1991 hit? It was right here, on the very cliff we now stood on, where they took their final fateful plunge.
While in Moab, home base was the lovely Sunflower Hill Inn. Except for a few glitches, these people truly had their act together. And for our entire stay, Fred and I were busily taking notes of all the wonderful ideas they had. From the home baked cookies in the late afternoon, to setting a table for us, with linens, plates and silverware, when we had had it with eating out at restaurants and wanted to bring dinner in, to the sumptuous breakfast buffets every morning, these folks could write their own book on innkeeping. But my particular favorite was that every guest had the opportunity to become Nina and Tim Zagat, because strategically placed in the great room were large ring binders where guests could review local tour operators, activities and restaurants. Was that a dynamite idea or what? Because as all of you knew, there was nothing I loved more than offering my opinion.
Initially I was disappointed in a morning buffet, but it was just wonderful. On any given morning we feasted on refreshing layered, fresh fruit smoothies, crispy, thick cut bacon, sausage or chorizo patties, warm from the oven scones or muffins, hearty steel cut Irish oatmeal, and a different entrée every day. We particularly enjoyed the fresh vegetable frittata, the layered omelet, a la Spanish tortilla, with sautéed veggies and Cheddar cheese, and the breakfast foccacia.
And having Jodi and Irwin, our pals from Aruba who we met in Torrey, Utah, there along with us, was just the icing on the cake. Upon arrival as we entered the reception area, she was there waiting for us with the warmest hugs and kisses. That first night we dined at the incredible Desert Bistro, housed in a historic 1896 ranch house, where we ate, drank and chatted for hours. Like old pals, we never ran out of fascinating topics to debate. As we did a round robin of plates, we all feasted on appetizers of: elk, poblano pepper tamales with a black bean salsa and mole, pork, roasted pepper and garlic in phyllo purses, and baked brie with sun-dried tomato pesto. Then we moved on to savoring entrees of: breast of pheasant, pistachio crusted rack of lamb with fresh mint and chipotle pepper demi-glace, pan seared rack of fallow deer with a plum, whiskey & habanero demi-glace, and by consensus our most favorite, smoked elk tenderloin wrapped in bacon with caramelized onions in a huckleberry, chipotle, port wine sauce. Wow, it was an amazing evening in every respect.
Was it any wonder I did not lose any weight? Of course we were not such gluttons every night, otherwise we would have been blimps. After Jodie and Irwin left, we spent two nights dining on roast chicken and salads purchased from the local City Market. We then leisurely enjoyed our take away repast in the breakfast room of the inn, where they very graciously provided all the necessary accouterments and clean up.
Then in an effort to duplicate the previous night’s resounding success, we reserved a table at the well reviewed Center Café. We had been assured it would be even better than Hell’s Backbone Grill and Café Diablo, but sadly this was not to be, (why the hell didn’t I check Sunflower Hill’s Zagat Guide, where the restaurant had garnered many a negative review). The food was poorly prepared, the service was nonexistent and the management downright rude. If it were not for Jodie and Irwin, we would have been miserable, but with such wonderful company, how could we possibly label the evening a failure?
Sadly after breakfast the following morning, we bid a tearful good-bye to our new pals, in the hopes that one day the four of us would meet again, in Aruba or some other exotic paradise. One of the benefits of traveling was meeting, spending time with, and having our lives enriched by the wonderful people we otherwise would never have had an opportunity to meet. So thank you Jodie and Irwin for sharing your vacation with us, and helping to make our time in Torrey and Moab, Utah truly an abundance of riches.
Like a ticker tape machine, the political correctness of terms changed by the nanosecond. And at Mesa Verde National Park, located near the Four Corners region of Colorado, for decades the rangers had referred to the indigenous people who had inhabited the cliff dwellings as Anasazi, which in Navajo meant outsider, or enemy. And as a result in the surrounding area, there were a multitude of motels, restaurants, shops, and realtors which alluded to this moniker. However, this term had now been judged derogatory, and the 2007 reference du jour had become Ancient Puebloans. In fact on the back of the free guide distributed to all park visitors, there was a disclaimer, stating the National Park Service’s new PC terminology. But while there as we drove the streets of Cortez, the gateway city to Mesa Verde, we did not observe any signs being painted over or torn down, or anyone who really paid any heed to this seemingly momentous development.
What these folks were preoccupied with was hunting. Every establishment was emblazoned with a marquee which stated, “Welcome All Hunters!” Menus in restaurants had hunting specials and hotels offered hunters discounted prices. We passed shooting ranges, and shot clubs. Hmmmmm, I wondered was this where registered members went if they wanted to throw back a few short ones made of Jello? Alongside the displays of guns and boxes of bullets in Wall Mart, there were racks jam packed with camouflage ensembles of jackets and pants. And unbeknownst to us, the proper uniform included the above mentioned khaki, beige and brown outfit, accessorized by a blazingly vivid orange vest and hat, either baseball style or al la Elmer Fudd with ear flaps. Now I got the idea about the disguise needed when stalking some poor unsuspecting, unarmed animal, but was their prey stupid enough not to notice the carroty neon colored accoutrements?
Ever since we first visited Colorado, some twenty years ago, I had wanted to explore Mesa Verde, and the park was an archeological wonder. Just like visiting the ancient Greek or Roman ruins, these pit houses and cliff dwelling told the story of the lives of those Anasazi or Ancient Puebloans who lived there a millennium ago, and we were most anxious to soak up as much knowledge as we could.
We arrived on a beautifully sunny day, with the thermometer reaching the low seventies, and were so disappointed to discover that because of budgetary cutbacks, only two of the park’s four major cave communities, and one of the two mesas were open for visits. Damn that George W. Bush, or as one bumper sticker raged, “King George, off with his head!” Why couldn’t the U.S. be more like Denmark? That tiny Scandinavian land had no military budget at all, and spent all its money on supporting the arts.
As with other disappointments in the past, we made the most of our time here. On the first day, we visited the largest of the dwellings, The Cliff Palace, and were awe struck by this 1,000 year old wonder of engineering and architecture. We were so excited about climbing up and down the wooden ladders, and along the precariously narrow ledges which lead to this almost inaccessible pueblo. How the residents were able to design, construct and thrive in this area, which was so difficult to even gain entry to, stood as a silent testimonial to them. And what truly amazed us was how these structures had weathered the elements, and were in such pristine condition. Engulfed by the final vestiges of fall foliage, these communities, set far back in the protective arm of these mighty canyon niches, seemed as if they were miniaturizations, but not so. It seemed these ancient people averaged between four to five feet tall.
Being the pig that I was, now I only wanted to experience and learn more about this prehistoric civilization, whose members took the gargantuan evolutionary leap from living in pits dug out of the ground, to constructing cities of some of the first apartment building complexes, with structures which rose over five stories high. These were built in the naturally formed alcoves of the canyon, out of crude mortar and sandstone. But sadly, the only way we got a taste of the uniquely constructed Balcony House, was from afar on the Soda Canyon Trail. And because the Long and Step Houses were located in the Wetherill Mesa section, which we did not have access to, we could not even catch a glimpse of those.
The following day dawned, and overnight the temperatures had dropped almost forty degrees. A snow storm was raging in Denver a few hundred miles away, and the upside was that at least we did not get hit with the precipitation. We went from wearing t-shirts and capris, to being inflated like Michelin men in winter jackets, scarves, hats and gloves. In the bitterly frigid weather, we practically had the park to ourselves. While there, the blustery winds almost knocked us over as we hiked the steep switchbacks to Spruce Tree House, the most well preserved of the cliff dwellings. And we knew first hand how unforgiving the elements must have been to those who resided here so many centuries ago. Then once again, we descended a ladder, but this time into the depths of the kiva, or sanctuary which was utilized for ceremonial rituals. But this time we were so bundled up, we could barely fit through the opening.
Next we drove the six mile Mesa Top Loop, and attempted to get out of the car at each of the twelve viewpoints, but could barely to get the door open because the gales were so intense. But as we fought our way out of the car, we learned about the 600 year evolution of the Ancients from pit houses to multi-storied architecturally planned out communities. Unfortunately, many of these exhibits were difficult to see into because of the walls which surrounded them. We remembered sights in Europe, like the Viking Ship Museum in Oslo, where you were able to climb platforms on which we were able to look over and into the exhibit, thereby affording much greater visibility. Too bad the NPS did not have a suggestion box.
Then our letdown in the park continued because Cortez was far from the culinary capitol of Colorado. The first night we dined at the well recommended Nero’s Italian Restaurant, and with a chef/owner, who graduated from the Culinary Institute, we figured we could not go wrong. This guy must have taken the correspondence course in spaghetti westerns; because the only connection with the boot shaped European country on the Mediterranean, was a few uninteresting marinara sauced pasta dishes. The décor, as well as the menu selections were completely southwestern inspired. The grilled duck breast with an ancho chili currant sauce, and cowboy rubbed ribeye steak were pretty tasty, but far from Italian. Then the next evening, it was off to Tequila’s we went. Sandwiched between the Four Corners Drug Testing Center and Smitty’s Pool Hall, specializing in tattoos and piercing, we rationalized that at least the margaritas would be tasty. Unhappily, this was not to be, and we thought all the bottle of tequila did was simply gaze at our glass and they thought that was sufficient, but the two grilled shrimp dishes, one with a tomatillo sauce, and the other with mushrooms, albeit from a can, and a spicy red chili topping were quite tasty. Surrounded by locals, many of whom had just returned from the happy hunting grounds, clad in their appropriate garish garb, we felt left out that we had not arrived in costume as well. After all, I was all about dressing up, and it was only one week before Halloween.
From elementary school through college, we all learned American history, beginning with the establishment of Jamestown, and the arrival at Plymouth Rock of all those souls fleeing religious persecution. During this pre-Thanksgiving period, didn’t I have fond memories of Jessica’s kindergarten class, dressed up for the holiday as Indians and Pilgrims, all singing for the reporters on Channel 12 News? We were all drilled about the thirteen original colonies, which laid the groundwork for our nation, and how from there the country expanded westward. As we drove from St. Louis, Missouri, we passed a multitude of signs commemorating sites where Lewis and Clark had visited, eaten, camped, slept, threw away garbage, etc., etc. But I never really gave any further thought about whose point of view all this history; oops I meant propaganda was coming from. Now as a former English teacher, I knew all about point of view, heck I taught it enough times, but foolishly never really applied it to my history lessons.
But after taking the guided tour of the Taos Pueblo, spending two hours with the docent at the Palace of the Governors and walking the old city of Santa Fe with a resident historian, our minds were sent reeling, maybe what we had been spoon fed for so many years was not completely accurate. Because in the early 1600’s, when the Pilgrims barely had a corn cob to husk or a turkey to pluck, and were scarcely surviving in Massachusetts, the Spaniards had a thriving metropolis in Santa Fe, with a blossoming cultural center and established trade routes fanning out in all directions.
Of the almost thirty stops we were making on our American Adventure, other than Los Angeles, we were only returning to six destinations, and two of them were Taos and Santa Fe, New Mexico. Since we had not been there for twenty-seven years, and the last time we visited we had a two year old in tow, we decided it was time for a return visit.
Since all those years ago we did not spend the night in Taos, we simply made a short stop there on our way from Santa Fe to Denver; I had very vague memories of having visited. But the one thing I did remember was the pueblo, which had been continuously inhabited for over 1,000 years. And my recollection was that we arrived, wandered around aimlessly, not really understanding what we were looking at, and left even more confounded than before.
However now, even though more touristy, it was a much more organized and educational experience, which I thought was a development of it being named a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1992. With the adobe walls looking like a brown sugar cookie cutout, (did anyone notice how many food allusions I made?), against the turquoise New Mexico sky, it made a striking sight. Then after our guided tour by a member of the Tiwa, or Willow People, we had a greater understanding of its history and the customs of this complex community. We were fascinated how for centuries, these Puebloans, who resided without the benefits of electrical power or running water, and comfortably existed with the duality of their ancient traditions and those of the Catholic Church. Also, we felt more welcome and at ease when, we strolled through the site our own, visiting the many shops and conversing with their owners.
The rest of Taos was a mixed bag. Surrounded by snow dusted mountains, it was freezing the afternoon we arrived, but we were undaunted. When I called ahead in order to arrange for a historical walking tour, the guide turned me down because it was just too frigid to go out. How did these folks cope during the winter months? Its town plaza and the surrounding streets were quiet and chock full of the usual mixture of t.t.’s and high end quality merchants. The Millicent Rogers Museum had eye catching exhibits of southwestern artwork and quite a number of pieces from her extensive collection of jewelry. Now you all knew that I loved my baubles and the bigger the better. But what I could not figure out was how anyone wore some of these fabulous pieces of silver, encrusted with any number of stones. They were so enormous, that you would have to employ someone who walked in front of you just to hold it up; much like a page would carry the lengthy train on a queen’s gown. Our bed and breakfast, the American Artist’s Gallery House, was quaint, with many quirky touches, including its owner Charlie, and George, the resident peacock. I was never a fan of having any meal served like a TV dinner, with everything on one plate, including dessert, and breakfast here was sadly just that. And dinner at the highly recommended Orlando’s was not much better, about the best compliment I could give them was that the service was quick. Which gave us more time to return to our room at the inn, and spend a little while relaxing in front of a crackling fire in our own kiva, which Charlie claimed was a registered work of art.
Then we were off to Santa Fe, a tiny jewel of a city. In 1981 we had stayed overnight here, and at least in our recollection in the old part of the city not much had changed and that was a very good thing. With its Spanish adobe style of architecture, the city seduced you into its mysterious past. At an elevation of 7,000 feet, it was the oldest capital city in North America, established between 1607 – 1608. With the Palace of the Governors, the oldest public building, as its crown jewel, the plaza positively sang with activity. Under the veranda, the vendors were selling their handmade wares, as they had been doing for generations, as residents and tourists alike strolled along window shopping taking advantage of the now very mild temperatures. And the delicious aroma of the chicken being grilled at the corner fajita stand made our mouths water; at only $4.00 each, including guacamole and salsa, it was a tasty midday snack.
The art scene in Santa Fe was thriving. And the number of incredible museums and art galleries attested to that. On a gorgeous morning when we visited the galleries on Canyon Road, it was a visual feast. There was a treat for every person’s wallet, with goodies priced from just a few hundred dollars to the tens of thousands. What fun it was traipsing from studio to studio, pretending we were furnishing our bed and breakfast, inside and out, because there were as many sculptures for the garden as there were for the sitting room. We particularly loved a very simple still life, which practically shimmered in the midmorning sun. The artist had propped a large round platter, with a southwestern motif, in rich earth tones on the right side of the background, and draped below it was a golden yellow colored shawl, with its tassels spilling over the side of the table like a gentle waterfall. Priced at $24,000, even though I realized art was an investment, we knew it was way too steep for us, besides we did not even have a wall to hang it on. Then at another gallery, we fell in love with an outdoor mobile. We could have sat for hours, mesmerized by its sweeping kaleidoscope movement as it gracefully danced in the gentle breezes. I foolishly figured, how expensive can this be? And I soon realized how wrong I was, because the smallest one, at six feet tall, had a sticker price of $1,700. For the time being we were just going to have to be satisfied with dreaming.
Our bed and breakfast, Hacienda Nicholas, was lovely. Only blocks from the plaza, museums, galleries and restaurants, the location was perfect. It had a cozy outdoor central courtyard, where between 5 – 6:30 PM, a glass of wine and cheese was served, and all the guests had an opportunity to socialize. The homemade cookies, brownies, and iced tea during the afternoon were also a thoughtful touch, but breakfast was not the best. Even though we ate accompanied by the crackling and deliciously smoky scent of a roaring fire in the hearth, after the obligatory buffet of yogurt, fruit, granola and banana bread, we were served a small square of a different vegetarian frittata each day and a slice of toast. It was not that it was bad; it just had no imagination or panache.
Our first evening in town, we dined at Santacafe. Housed in an old hacienda, the décor was minimalist, and the food was first rate. The lightly breaded and crispy calamari was complemented by a four chili dipping sauce. And the rack of lamb, with a roasted vegetable risotto, and grilled duck breast served along side five spice mashed sweet potatoes and baby bok choy were prepared to perfection, however, we would have preferred them with a southwestern flair instead of flavors from the Mediterranean and the Far East.
The next night, on the recommendation of the concierge of the inn, we had dinner at Pascal’s. Because of its immense popularity, the only reservation we could secure was at the “community table.” Okay, we could do that, we’re friendly people, we were able to socialize. When we arrived, we had to wait twenty minutes until we were seated, and when that finally occurred we were escorted to a table at which ten others were busy in conversation, and all at different points of their meal. Surrounded by tables, just far enough apart so you were not on someone’s lap, this place was a blur of conversation and activity. It took forever to get a menu and order a glass of wine, and in that time we struck up a conversation with Eileen, who was on my right. Originally an eastern gal, she now resided in Colorado along with her date John Sutcliffe, who seemed to be somewhat of a celebrity. You would have thought pearls were dripping from his lips, because the woman directly opposite him was enraptured by his every syllable. Just like the love struck student, who sat in the front row of Indiana Jones’ classroom, I expected that when she fluttered her eyelashes, her lids would announce, “I love you.” It turned out he was originally from Wales, and now resided in that Rocky Mountain state, and owned and operated vineyards there. His ardent admirer had read about him in Town and Country Magazine, where they had run a feature story about him. For the rest of the evening, these folks provided the floor show and entertainment as we waited an excruciating forty-five very hungry minutes before we were served our appetizer of pig and figs. Though delicious, and one of my favorite combinations, the restaurant’s chef did not have to take a slow boat all the way to Italy to pick the damn fruit. The rest of the meal was a struggle to get every course, and by the time we finally finished eating, everyone else was safely tucked into bed, and we were the only ones left.
We just loved Santa Fe, even the air smelled foreign and wonderful, with a bracing mixture of hickory smoke and spice; it was simply an intoxicating place which we must make it our business to visit again, and in much less than twenty-seven years.
All the guidebooks waxed rhapsodic about Chaco Canyon, located in northwestern New Mexico, and we knew we just had to go. But when further in depth research was completed, we discovered, there were not any services in, or surrounding the park. In fact the closest hotel was over seventy-five miles away, and in order to reach the Visitor’s Center, we would have to drive on unpaved, rutted, gravel roads for at least twenty miles. And at the slightest threat of rain, the park service would close them down because they would become impassable. Its inaccessibility seemed a challenge that only the most intrepid could prove victorious over, and we just had to pick up the gauntlet. Then in Yellowstone, on one of the trails at Mammoth Springs, we met a couple from northern Virginia, and discussed our travel plans with them. Suddenly they got a glazed look in their eyes, and almost reverentially queried, “You are going to Chaco aren’t you?” Well that sealed the deal; we knew we had made the right decision.
Farmington, New Mexico was ten miles from the northern access route to the park, and we found a small bed and breakfast there called Casa Blanca. We knew there were not too many choices in this backwoods town, and consoled ourselves with the fact that it was only for one night, and we could withstand anything for that amount of time. And as Emily directed us off the main road, up a steep hill to a residential area, we feared the worst, which would be that we were going to be sleeping in someone’s spare bedroom. But as we pulled into the circular brick driveway, the exterior of what we saw in front of us looked very promising, and the interior practically blew us away. Painstakingly restored to its former glory, this hacienda styled villa was stunningly decorated. Its manicured private inner courtyards, furnished with Spanish tiled fountains, whose peaceful trickling beckoned us to relax and enjoy the glow of its trees all dressed up in their autumnal best. Our room, the Vista Grande Suite, was enormous and well appointed with sumptuous tawny colored linens, huge bed pillows, fluffy terry robes and our own private adjoining solarium, overflowing with flowers and plants, where we kicked back with a glass of wine and enjoyed the twinkling lights of the town below and the luminous full moon above.
We did not have high hopes for dinner, but that evening we drove into town and ate at The Bluffs, which was as much a surprise as Casa Blanca. Once seated in front of the cozy fireplace, we had a difficult time deciding between all the wonderful choices on the menu. Since the price of each entrée included soup, sadly we realized we would have to bypass the many tantalizing appetizer choices. But the pureed soup of black eyed peas and black beans with roasted kernels of corn was a hearty beginning. We then moved on to venison chops encrusted with walnuts and juniper berries in a red wine reduction and a special game platter, heaped with ostrich, elk and quail with a peppercorn demi glace all accompanied by whiskey whipped sweet potatoes. It was a feast which would have to sustain us through the inedible grub, disguised as food, which we would have to endure for the following four nights.
Then early the following morning, we were treated to a meal highlighted with southwestern specialties. In the sun drenched breakfast room, the innkeeper Alice, fattened us up with fresh raspberries and cantaloupe, yogurt, granola, dried fruit, pine nuts, a spicy baked cheese and tortilla casserole topped with sour cream and roasted green chilies, crispy bacon, toast with sundried tomato tapenade and miniature breakfast pastries and cookies. Like Odysseus on the Island of the Lotus Eaters, we could have remained at Casa Blanca forever, totally forgetting our ultimate destination. But just like the ancient Greek hero, we could not be lured from our path, and by 8AM, we regretfully set off for Chaco.
From Farmington, our Mazda Tribute did not struggle too much on the twenty mile primitive road into the park, and we happily arrived unscathed at the ancestral home of the ancient Chacoans, who were believed to have been the ancestors of the Hopi tribe. In traditional Navajo tales, Chaco Canyon was the home of the Great Gambler who came from the south, enslaved the Pueblo people, and forced them to create the great buildings of Chaco, before he was outwitted and driven away. And over 1,000 years ago, under the relentless sun, on an unforgivingly arid desert plain, this was the nucleus for a thriving civilization with planned multi-storied great houses containing hundreds of rooms and multiple kivas, elaborately constructed roads and large closely knit communities. Their ceilings were constructed of thousands of ponderosa pines, far from indigenous to this area because nothing grew on this God forsaken plain, and were transported from miles away. And there was archeological evidence that the members of these villages traded with groups as far away as Mexico to the south, and Mesa Verde in the north. And interestingly, unlike the cliff dwellings of that Colorado National Park, the pueblos here were not identified by Americanized names like Long House or Cliff Palace. Instead here in an effort to maintain authenticity, they were referred to as Chetro Ketl, Hungo Pavi and Kin Kletso.
Most of the park’s trails were long and strenuous and out of our league, but we were determined to attempt the Pueblo Bonito Overlook Trail. But sadly not even one half mile after we began, we knew we were defeated when we had to traverse sheer vertical walls of sandstone. Nonetheless we spent a hectic day hiking Una Vida for up close and personal views of some amazing petroglyphs, exploring the seven accessible pueblos, and taking a truly informative tour with a park ranger of Pueblo Bonito, the nerve center for the Chacoans. As we squeezed through tiny doorways following an immense maze of rooms, bruising our arms and legs along the way, we learned about customs and traditions long gone.
Then as the sun was beginning its descent, we exited the park to the south, and shaked, jostled, and held on to our seats as we navigated the even rougher thirty-three miles of path on our way to Gallup, on historic Route 66, en route to Canyon De Chelly. Were we glad we went, was it an adventure, or was it worth the bother? We can unequivocally state, “Definitely,” if for nothing else than the fact that we could now be initiated as members of the “We’ve discovered Chaco Club,” and we certainly would have never wanted to miss the lovely Casa Blanca or deliciousness of The Bluffs.
You know those embarrassing moments in life when you mispronounce a word or place, and the air was sucked out of the room as everyone peered at you disdainfully as if they were saying, “Boy you were so stupid!!” I did not know how many times I said we were going to visit Canyon de Chelly, and pronounced it phonetically, as if it rhymed with belly, but with a ch sound as in cherry. And boy was I ever wrong. How was I supposed to know that Chelly was a tribute to Chief Tseyi, and pronounced Shay? You could bet your bippie the residents of the southwest knew that, and each and every time I mentioned where we were headed, I got the, “look.” And even after I was corrected scornfully time and again, Fred still did not buy it until we were in the Visitor’s Center at entrance of the canyon. And set up at a prominent station opposite the ranger’s desk was a Navajo artisan crafting fabulous sterling silver jewelry. We wandered over to admire his handiwork and were greeted by Fredrick Henry, who went on to explain to us that he fashioned his designs after an Ansel Adams photograph, of his mother cradling his older brother in her arms, taken just outside his ancestral home. And of course when he revealed the actual picture, bingo, he said it was taken in, Canyon de Chelly, pronounced de Shay.
Once we were set straight on the proper pronunciation, we then set out on the rim trail. As in Bryce, as we drove the road around the canyon we had now idea what we were in store for until we reached Antelope House Overlook on the northern side. We got out of the car, hiked over to the edge, and bang, there we had it, the “Wow,” effect. Our mouths dropped open as we gazed down the 1,000 foot red rock walls of the ravine. Complemented by the golden cottonwood trees, (because of our zig zagging across the country, we were afforded multiple fall foliages, and how lucky were we!), below, each and every viewpoint was more spectacular than the one before.
Interestingly the National Park Service were custodians for, and operated the edge of the canyon as well as its walls, but the Navajo, who were given its land rights, in the nineteenth century, after the “Long Walk, or Trail of Tears,” owned the floor. Therefore, the only way to truly experience it thoroughly was to book a tour with a Navajo guide. The only exception being the very steep, switchbacked three mile trail, half of which was uphill, to the White House Ruins of an ancient Anasazi pueblo. Therefore after we oohed and ahhed all the way around the rim, that is exactly what we did, alllllllll the way down the 600 feet, then across the Chinle Wash, and allllllllll the way up again.
Everywhere we looked, the native people were selling their products, from the trunks of their cars, on the rocks of the canyon and laid out on the ground were necklaces, earrings, carved tiles and woven rugs. And after an hour of schlepping down the precariously steep path, what did we discover at the bottom, other than the remnants of the prehistoric village, but booths set up with more merchandise. In the middle of nowhere, these folks even accepted MasterCard and Visa. Donald Trump would have been so proud of their entrepreneurialship. This was my kind of place, I could shop anywhere.
And the following morning, when we were took a full day tour with a Navajo guide throughout the canyon, guess where we were told we were going to go? Of course you guessed it, White House Ruins. Just like when we visited the statue of the Little Mermaid in Copenhagen, and trudged and trudged and trudged for hours until we finally found her. Then shortly afterwards, boarded a boat to take a canal cruise, and of course where did we head, but to the Little Mermaid of course!
Luckily because it was off season, there was only one other couple, Fred and I, which made it practically a private tour. We soon found out why tourists could not travel the canyon floor unescorted because it was downright treacherous. We began our trip with George, our Navajo guide, in the town of Chinle, which meant the mouth of the canyon, or where the waters flowed, in dense sandy layers, where the tires of the beat up, decrepit Chevy Suburban sunk, whined, struggled, and spun as we slid from side to side. With a water table only a few feet under the surface, there were sink holes hidden everywhere, and with one wrong maneuver, the vehicle could have been sucked down forever.
Throughout the day, George regaled us with Native American folklore and tales about Spider Woman, who taught the Navajo to weave, and Speaking Rock, the sandstone spire which rose 800 feet from the canyon floor, who communicated to Spider Woman and instructed her about what dreams the Navajo children should be given, as he introduced us to the petroglyphs, cave dwellings and the rest of the wonders of Canyon De Chelly and Canyon del Muerto. And as we splashed through the meandering river, and up and over its steep embankments on the open range, with horses and cows wandering free, we came to appreciate the simple lifestyle of the Navajo people, and the beauty which surrounded us.
The downside of staying on the reservation was the food, it was just plain horrible. There were only three choices, and since one was a cafeteria, we immediately nixed that one. One night we tried The Junction Restaurant, where we were advised their forte was Navajo specialties. I had to believe that the Native Americans ate better than the slop which was served to us. Then the following evening, it was to Garcia’s for Mexican, and I must admit it was a cut above our other dinner, but that was not saying much. And matters got even worse when we found out that there was no liquor sold on the “res,” so we could not even drown our sorrows in a decent bottle of wine. Ironically in one of the outlying towns, if someone walked into a liquor store the clerk would refuse sell them any liquor, ridiculously, they had to have driven to the store in order to buy the liquor. Now go figure that one out.
But we did not come here for its culinary delights, but for the majesty of its landscape, and the heritage and traditions of its people, and on that score we were truly winners.
We all had those cinematic images engraved in our memory of the cowboys, riding tall on horseback in hot pursuit of the wildly savage Indians, as they all thundered passed the famous towering monuments of red rock accompanied by the crescendo of its rousing soundtrack. Many of those dramatic moments were filmed right here in Monument Valley, on the Utah, Arizona border. We were so close to the divider between the two states that my Verizon cell phone registered Arizona time, while Fred’s T-Mobile, still registered an hour later, on Utah or Mountain Time.
And at Goulding’s, the hotel where we stayed, they had an extensive DVD library of John Wayne flicks, which we were free to borrow and take up to our room at any time for our enjoyment. Or if we desired a larger screen, at 8:00 PM every night, there was a showing of one of the Duke’s best in their movie theater. But why bother when from our terrace, we could spy the real thing, up close and personal?
In 1937 during the depression, Harry and his wife Leone, nicknamed Mike, Goulding decided that they wanted to assist in raising money for the Navajo Nation, who owned Monument Valley. They were advised that John Ford had been scouting for a location for his new movie, and the couple ventured to Hollywood to seek him out. At this juncture they convinced him to come out to Utah for a look, and the rest as they said was history. In 1938 Ford filmed, “Stagecoach,” starring none other than John Wayne, amid the craggy skyscrapers of sandstone of Monument Valley, and returned time and again to make seven more films there.
As in Canyon De Chelly, we had decided to take a tour of the monuments with a Navajo guide, but sadly Larry was no George. And even though we made the arrangements for our sunset tour through the hotel, it was poorly organized and run. Likewise the sun was not very cooperative, peeking in and out of the dense cloud cover, and when we finally returned to the wall of the valley for sunset, the last remnants of light had disappeared, thereby preventing us from having our big photographic moment. And by the end of this 3 ½ hour journey, Fred and I were transformed into red rocks, because in the open vehicle we traveled in we were thickly coated, from head to toe, with the dust of the rocks. Fred’s white hair appeared to have been dyed auburn and if truth be told, it was not a very attractive look for him.
As I had previously stated, the food, here as in previous parks, was less than appetizing. And surrounded by foreign visitors from all over the world, they could just not understand the total lack of palatable chow or alcoholic beverages on the Navajo Nation. Their quizzical glances let us know that they too realized that a daily special of some type of anesthesia should have been offered on the menus of these restaurants.
It was at this point we had some dangerous thoughts…………… we had been red rocked out! Were we jaded, and after massive doses of exposure, just lost our appreciation for these incredible natural wonders? For our American Adventure, had it been a mistake to include: Zion, Bryce, Capitol Reef, Arches, Canyonlands, Canyon De Chelly, Monument Valley, Lake Powell and the Grand Canyon? But in retrospect, there was not one destination we would have left out. We were worried………. by the time we finally arrived at the Grand Canyon would it be a letdown and disappointment would prevail?
Even so, we made it our business to wake up at sunrise early the next morning, to snap photos of the awesome sight of these natural works of art, draped in all their glory as they were clothed in the first glimmers of light. Therefore in reality, maybe we really were not that weary of all this astonishing natural beauty after all.
Traveling during shoulder season certainly had its benefits, and visiting the usually hectic Lake Powell at the end of October, was one of them. There was just no one there. The usually frantic beach scene, with swimmers frolicking in the gentle waves, and house boaters coming and going out of the marina, was just not in evidence. We would have had no problem obtaining a lounge chair at the usually packed pool, because we were the only ones around. Upon check-in, even though it was only 11:00 AM, our lakeside deluxe room, in the 700 building where Dee had advised us we would have the best views of the lake, was ready and waiting for us. And as we ate lunch on our lovely veranda, the scene laid out before our eyes was so silently still, we could have been gazing out at a masterpiece of landscape painting. It was pure tranquility, as the sun dappled the calm, azure waters of Lake Powell, surrounded by towering, roughly chiseled canyons and buttes, with luxurious pleasure crafts mutely moored to the dock, not a single whisper could be heard. In 1972, when the Glen Canyon National Recreation area was established, the water of the Colorado River, and its tributaries were backed up, thereby creating the stunning 185 miles of Lake Powell. And our malaise of the previous day quickly dissipated with the addition of water into the scenery equation. Perchance we had just been in the dry, dusty desert too long, and this was all that was required to quench our thirst, and provide us with that extra burst of energy to carry on.
In fact if the truth be told, the Lake Powell Resort was so devoid of travelers that the three and one half hour cruise of the lake’s Navajo Tapestry we had booked prior to leaving New York, was in danger of being cancelled because we were the only ones signed up for it. But luckily we were able to flip flop our other plans in order for us to get on a boat ride with a guaranteed departure. And it was a good thing we did because gliding along the serenity of the lake, with Tower Butte rising from its midst, the Glen Canyon Dam, all those narrow canyon openings which barely allowed the boat clearance, and the artistry of the natural veneers of the Navajo Tapestry, were sights to behold.
The other reason we came to this area was to visit Antelope Canyon. After we saw the amazing photographs Dee took there this past July, it was immediately placed on our must see list. Then as we stood in the lobby of the Lake Powell Resort, a South African gent strode, rushed over to a photo of the canyon, pointed and emphatically stated, “I must go there!” And at 10:30 the following morning, when the sunlight was at its optimum level, we joined a Chief Tsosie Tour, out of Page, Arizona. Our Navajo guide Bonnie, a four foot ten inch dynamo, amused us with tales of her childhood herding sheep in the red sandy area which surrounded the canyon, as well as instructing us about the very best vantage points for amazing shots of this incredibly photogenic slot canyon. Sadly she informed us that after September, the amazing beams of light which spotlighted all of Dee’s shots, did not shine into the apertures of Antelope anymore, therefore our pictures, though interesting, will never live up to my sister’s beauties. And after you have viewed the many photos we uploaded why, after being open to the public for only ten years, this amazing sight has become one of the most photographed natural phenomenon in an area which was just jam packed with wonder. Actually, the entire states of Utah, New Mexico and Arizona, should just be designated one sweeping national park, because Mother Nature had a field day here, and around every single corner, and down every lane were wondrous sights to enjoy.
Perennially numerous polls taken of the most wondrous sights in the United States, listed the Grand Canyon as their number one pick. Just this passed August, when the Today Show had their top ten, of course, Matt and Meredith excitedly, but not surprisingly, revealed this northern Arizona, very busy tourist attraction, as the top of the heap. And when we visited twenty-seven years ago, it was awesome, but after all the canyons, buttes, mesas and rocks we had seen during the past two months, would this just prove to be just another hole in the ground? With the incredible dimensions of 277 river miles long, up to 18 miles wide and one mile deep, this tour de force of geological erosion did not disappoint, and from our first sight at the Desert View Watchtower on the south eastern rim, to Hermits Rest on the south west, we were left speechless by this truly grand canyon’s majesty.
Arriving in the middle of March, the last time we were here, we had no problem securing a room at the venerable turn of the century El Tovar Hotel, and even though so many locales we had visited were tourist light, not so here. Therefore, we had to settle for a modern motel type of room at the Kachina Lodge. Which was adequate, and had the upside of being located right on the rim with the canyon’s crown jewel Victorian as our next door neighbor?
In 1981, with two year old Jessica at our side, or in the backpack, or the stroller, the canyon seemed booby trapped with potential accidents and catastrophes. And on this visit, whenever we encountered couples with young children, with tears in our eyes, we could not help but feel nostalgic. And one day when we paused to converse with one mother and her adorable two year old daughter, when asked, we sadly had to advise the mom that her sweet moppet of an offspring would have no memory of this glorious location. But we assured her that she should not worry, because she would hold the key, of all those reminiscences safe for her darling toddler.
Our first morning we were up even earlier than the birds, and joined the minions of international visitors, for the incredible sight of sunrise on this multi-layered stony marvel. As the black sky began to brighten, the distant peaks were tucked in with early morning fog, which only added to the unworldly atmosphere. Then as Fred was snapping away, we could not help but notice a diminutive woman, set up next to us, whose photographic equipment was larger than she. As fellow camera enthusiasts, we struck up a conversation with Lorri, an aspiring professional photographer and her equipment “caddie,” and loving husband Mark, from upper Westchester County, NY. And after providing Fred with some insider tips, they became our constant companions for the rest of the day.
Next the four of us were off for a delicious and hearty breakfast at El Tovar, where we had enough leftovers for the next morning. Fred and I shared, a yummy breakfast burrito and fried eggs over shredded pork, black beans and chorizos, served with warm soft tortillas. Then we ventured out to the west of the village, to explore the Rim Trail. Now this was a hike that bestowed us with maximum bang for our buck, because each and every vista was a prize winner. As Mark and I patiently stood by, the two shutter bugs snapped and snapped and snapped away. Under Lorri’s watchful eye and patient tutelage, Fred set a new one day record of 387 pictures taken. (And that was after 318 just the day prior). The hours flew by as we walked, talked, oohed and ahhed, and shared experiences. And before we knew it, the temperatures dropped along with the sun, and it was time to be awed by a memorable sunset from Hopi Point. As the bright blue heavens were transformed to a fiery red, a party atmosphere prevailed, and some folks even brought their own potent potables to bid farewell to the day, (damn, why didn’t we think of that?)
.
It seemed just moments later when the four of us reconvened at 6:00AM for our trek to Yavapi for sunrise. In the early morning’s gusting winds and frigid temperatures, and enclosed by the thick blackness of night, we struggled to find the most advantageous vantage point, (flashlights were essential here). We huddled together for warmth as our fingers and toes numbed and our wind chapped cheeks glowed bright red, the sun slowly, and I meant way too slowly, reared its golden head illuminating the vast cavern below. And even though the smoke from the park service’s controlled fires in the distance marred our perfectly pristine view, it was a jaw dropper nonetheless. And before we knew it, and many, many, many, photos later, we had to bid a fond farewell to our new pals, Lorri and Mark. We thanked them from the bottom of our hearts, not just for their amazing company, but because our snapshots would never be the same again thanks to their guidance.
Surprisingly our dinners, at restaurants, in the park were very lovely. The first evening we visited the Arizona Room at the Bright Angel Lodge, just a few minute walk away. Trepidatious because they did not accept reservations, and the park was so packed Fred could not even find a legal parking space, our fears were allayed when we arrived at their reception desk and were told we could return to our room and relax, and when our table was ready, they would call, (how civilized was that!!). And sure enough, twenty minutes later, they did indeed phone us, and we were seated with menus in hand, just a few moments later. The ambience was casual, but far from tacky and cheap. After a house salad, we filled our hungry tummies with very satisfying dinners of charred but juicy beef tenderloin fillets with a red pepper cream sauce and toasted cumin onion rings, and a perfectly seared blackened pork chop with corn relish and sour cream, cheddar mashed potatoes. For dessert, Fred was tempted by the warm apple crisp, but it was a mushy, unsatisfying disappointment. The following evening we made a return visit to El Tovar’s dining room. Seated at a table near the blazing fireplace, a cozy, elegant, wild western lodge atmosphere reigned supreme in this upscale eatery. And after an appetizer of moist hoisin glazed sea scallops crowned with a crunchy jicama slaw, followed by a second act which consisted of grilled lamb chops accompanied by a roasted portobello mushroom demi-glace and crispy duck alongside a sundried cranberry and port glaze.
Nonsense to those who believed that you could never go home again, because this old gal of a natural wonder was a destination everyone should make it their business to visit time and again, and we could guarantee it would never let you down. And if we posted too many photos with this blog, just remember we were shooting from sun up to sun down, and Fred was enrolled, and a star pupil in, Lorri’s most informative photography seminar.
Unlike at other parks where we had to worry about the feisty and aggressive buffalos, elk and bears, our concerns while visiting Death Valley, at over 250 feet below sea level, (even though this was nothing compared to our visit to the Dead Sea at 1,360 feet below sea level), were with entirely different species. And of course at a location whose first name was Death, and where during the summer, the highest temperatures in North America often exceeded 130 degrees, the inhabitants were of the particularly ugly, creepy and deadly variety. Warnings abounded about never placing your foot down on the ground before carefully surveying the territory first. Having a close encounter with one of those slithery monsters was not at the top of our itinerary. And especially since we arrived during tarantula breeding season, just the thought of those black, hairy monsters copulating and multiplying gave me goose bumps, (Fred would have loved a photo of that for his collection).
And as we drove in from the west and Beatty, California, our socks were not knocked off at what was laid out ahead of us, and during our first day in the Stove Pipe Wells area, our opinions really did not change. Not much grew in this dry, desolate and mostly flat landscape. The scarves, gloves and sweatshirts were abandoned in the luggage as the thermometer reached into the nineties, and scorching winds blew. And our army barracks style accommodations, which overlooked the kitchen’s dumpsters, were as unappealing as our surroundings.
Likewise not many of the sights in the northern section proved satisfying. The 2 ½ mile hike into Titus Canyon, carved out of the Grapevine Mountains, was not the most attractive. We were so thrilled when after we trekked, most of the way, through the sandy and dust filled wash, a friendly young couple from England took pity on us, picked us up and drove us back to our car at the trailhead, because we had had it. And when we had read about the Mesquite Flat Sand Dunes, we envisioned legions of Bedouins traversing the gracefully sculpted hills of sand on camelback. How wrong we were because, considering we were in a desert wilderness, the mounds covered a surprisingly small area. Like trudging through quicksand, the loose sandy surface, presented us with great difficulty as Fred and I made our way through this portion of deserted wasteland, sinking in sand up to our shins. Then on to the Harmony Borax Works, where we wandered around the rusting, abandoned remains of what once were a thriving mining operation, and were equally unimpressed.
In the largest national park in the contiguous United States, at 3.3 million acres, driving distances were enormous, and in order to reach Scotty’s Castle, we had to drive 50 miles. Even though we had read some negative reviews, this palatial estate was a striking contrast to the lifeless desert which surrounded it. And at an altitude of 3,000 feet, the cool breezes offered a reprieve from the relentless heat. Built during the depression, by Chicago based millionaire Albert Johnson, its Spanish revival style of architecture and interior decorations rivaled the opulence at many a European villa. And a la Hearst’s Casa Grande the living history tours, given by park rangers, all in period costumes were informative and entertaining.
Right in our neck of the woods, and just northwest of Stove Pipe Wells Village, surrounded by the Tucki Mountains was Mosaic Canyon. It’s highly polished, slippery marble floors and walls, with twisting passages so narrow we were often forced to squeeze through sideways. Though the travertine marble, as beautiful as any we saw in Italy, created a challenge of a hike.
Our spirits rose the next morning, after leaving Stovepipe Wells and venturing to the southern reaches of the park. Badwater Basin, at 200 feet below sea level, was an unworldly sight, as we explored the arid, crusty salt flats, which positively crackled under our feet. The spectacle from Dante’s View, which rose over 5,000 feet above the valley floor, afforded us with an incomparable glimpse at the 110 mile Death Valley which was spread out at our feet. And the mottled colors of the canyon walls along the slender, one way, drive through 20 Mule Team Canyon were nothing short of spectacular, as was Artist’s Drive, particularly the Palette. This juncture really gave the appearance of giant mounds of varied colors, which had been ground up and placed in neat piles, just awaiting the dip of a painter’s brush. And from Zabriskie Point the rippled surfaces of the vibrantly colored badlands resembled waves rising and falling in a distant sea.
Once again, we were forced to eat inedible food, and suffer surly service, even disappointingly at the four diamond Furnace Creek Inn, where we were in and out in less than fifty minutes. At least most of the visitors to the park, who were in RV’s, had the benefit of being able to prepare their own meals. And there were loads of them, like bees, these “Full Timers” swarmed everywhere. Was it the warm, dry climate, the only golf course below sea level or the spring fed pool, which maintained a constant 85 degrees, which was the honey these retirees were attracted to? We were not exactly sure, but we did know, once again, Xanterra had struck again, and it certainly was not the cuisine. If I was forced to look at another greasy buffalo chicken wing, microwaved potato skin, pre-packaged nacho or limp salad bar again, I was going to scream!
add photos from last morning & Scotty’s castle
HOMELESS & LOVING IT
Copyright © 2021 HOMELESS & LOVING IT - All Rights Reserved.
Powered by GoDaddy