DIXIE FRIED

During a sabbatical from work, I drove down to Virginia and North Carolina to visit Civil War battlefields I had either never before visited or hadn’t toured in over two decades and of which I recalled virtually nothing.  I rented a small car that coincidentally (and fortuitously) had a Virginia license plate and, with grandsons Alvin Jr. and Alburt Jr. in tow, was on my way.

4/30/2025

The first destination was Manassas National Battlefield Park, site of the first major battle of the Civil War where, on July 21, 1861, a then-obscure instructor at the Virginia Military Institute named Thomas Jonathan Jackson “stood,” in the words of General Barnard Bee, “like a Stone Wall” to help the Confederates turn the tide of the battle and give General Jackson an immortal nickname.  Manassas also features sites where a second battle was fought over three days one year later in August 1862, also a triumph for the Confederates.

I last visited the Manassas battlefield 20+ years ago on a weekend trip where I also toured George Washington’s Mount Vernon.  I remembered the statue honoring Stonewall Jackson and nothing else.  Prior to reaching Manassas, I hit a bit of traffic on the D.C. Beltway.  As I approached Virginia and traffic abated, Google Maps directed me to the Express lanes, which I did not realize until many, many dollars had passed that this was simply a way for affluent travelers to pay to avoid heavy traffic in peak hours on roads that paralleled the cost-free roads.  I really need to get out more.

Upon reaching Manassas National Battlefield Park, while the boys went to explore the woods, I committed the cardinal error of immediately joining an outdoor presentation by a park ranger well-versed in the history of the battle, who overwhelmed us poor souls with an hour of over-information, none of which I retained while baking in the hot sun.  Indeed, not a freaking cloud in the sky, had the sun in my eye, on my face, anywhere clothes were not covering.  I then undertook a self-guided walking/driving tour highlighting the major points of the two battles, which would have been great preparation for the presentation.  Most memorably, I walked from the Henry Hill House near the visitor center and the Stonewall Jackson Statue all the way up to Matthews Hill, envisioning the direction General Irwin McDowell sent the Union troops into battle intending to win the War right then and there and from where the Confederates repelled the assault.

After all this, I went for a run in the woods right behind where Stonewall Jackson’s troops were stationed.  A small sign informed me that a 5.5-mile trail loop was ahead; however, after roughly 1.5 miles of befuddled running, I had no idea where the loop continued and just winged it, making multiple detours until 5.6 miles were in the books.  Afterwards, I spoke with a young runner who had given me the thumbs up as I passed him on the trail earlier, mentioning that I had driven three hours that morning from Delaware to get there.  The grandsons and I left the Park, I ate a plain Impossible Whopper (pickles only!) at a Burger King, and looked forward to a stay in Fredericksburg, VA at a nationally-known motel chain, where a room was booked online for $59 + tax, at least according to the confirmation I received.  When I got to the Inn, the price magically increased to $87 because I had an expired AARP card with me, although I was a current AARP member and the innkeeper just needed to advance the expiration date by a year when running the card.  Having made the exhausted, had-to-go-to-the bathroom mistake of signing without confirming the total, I demanded a refund and, after nearly an hour (no exaggeration), finally got paper proof that I was to get my money back (my credit card statement did reflect the refund).  Now past 10 PM, I decided I did not want to pay for a motel room just to sleep and not enjoy and stayed at a rest area near Exit 130 in Fredericksburg.  In a reversal of my New England trip last October, it was suffocatingly warm inside my car.  My grandsons, of course, loved the tropical feel.

5/1/2025

Waking up after roughly six hours’ of intermittent sleep, I quickly washed off what sweat I appropriately could in the rest area’s bathroom and headed straight for the Fredericksburg National Battlefield’s Visitor Center, where I was almost immediately met by a gentleman who oriented me to the logistics of the immediate area.  While the boys napped, I walked a short trail outlining Marye’s Heights and its adjacent Sunken Road (pictured below), the key focal point of the battle, taking a two-block detour so I could walk up the hill to mimic the brave Union troops foolheartedly sent by General Ambrose Burnside in a hopeless effort to storm a virtually impregnable Confederate defensive line in December 1862.  I soaked it all in, making a mental note of my surroundings that I still recall as I type this.

Before touring other important stops highlighting major points of the Battle of Fredericksburg, I uncharacteristically decided to have breakfast at the nearby Battlefield Restaurant (after first checking the menu online), which surprisingly (given its name) hardly acknowledged the history of the battle at all.  I ate eggs and French toast, overtipped the waiter in my delusions of grandeur and NOT because a cute young woman was at the register, and forged ahead with ham and bacon for my grandsons.  We visited the lovely Chatham Manor overlooking the Rappahannock River over which Union troops were slow to cross in their approach to Fredericksburg, and Lee’s Hill, the vantage point where Confederate General Robert E. Lee observed the battle, among other spots on the battlefield.

After a quick stop at Old Salem Church to visit the site of the Battle of Salem Church (May 3-4, 1863), we headed to Chancellorsville Battlefield’s Visitor Center, where the Union Army under General Joseph Hooker suffered a devastating defeat at the hands of Generals Lee & Jackson, who despite being outnumbered undertook an audacious plan confirming the brilliance of these two leaders.  Within a short distance of the visitor center was the rough location (the exact spot has never been fully verified) where General Jackson was mortally wounded by his own troops on May 2,1863 after returning in the dark from a reconnaissance mission.  I began to notice that the visitor centers were strategically located near the spots where the most celebrated moments of the battles took place, ideal for tourists wishing to cram a great deal of sightseeing into a concentrated period of time.  We visited the main spots of the Battle of Chancellorsville, a town named for the Chancellor family whose house overlooked an intersection that saw the battle’s major action, and headed to the next battlefield, The Wilderness, where the most gruesome fighting of the Civil War took place in August 1864 and whose woods (hence, the name of the battle) neutralized Union advantages in manpower and artillery, paying special attention to the woods around the Brock Road-Orange Plank Road intersection where the key fighting took place.  My car made a suspicious metallic noise that freaked me out while traveling on a gravel road to a few of the stops.  I checked the bottom of the car for a dragging pipe or muffler and the hubcaps to see if they were loose.  Resuming passage on paved roads eliminated the noise, but killed my desire to traverse additional gravel roads.

Battle(field)-weary and anxious to flee the humidity and heat at this point, I headed to Spotsylvania Court House Battlefield, final destination of the day, and saw almost all of its primary spots, including where the beloved Union General John Sedgwick was mortally wounded.  We walked a long trail at the Bloody Angle, mimicking the Union approach to (unlike at Marye’s Heights at Fredericksburg) the Confederate’s strategically dubious Mule Shoe salient position during the May 1864 battle.  Leaving Spotsylvania, I made a quick stop at the Stonewall Jackson Shrine, a modest white house in Woodford, VA southeast of all of these battlefields where General Jackson died eight days after being mortally wounded at Chancellorsville.

Approaching 530 PM, I headed towards the Quality Inn and Suites at Doswell, Virginia, which the confirmation on my cell phone told me would cost $87 something after tax.  I checked in, learned that the Kings Dominion Amusement Park was right across the street, and was gratified that the invoice showed the promised price.  I unloaded my belongings into my 3rd-floor room and walked to a nearby Burger King, where I again had an Impossible Whopper and bought beef Whoppers for the grandsons.  I was struck by the excessive politeness of the young gentleman manning the cash register at BK, giving me a good feeling about the area.  In no mood to run, I used their modest-sized pool for roughly 15 minutes, then went to my room after being confounded by the equipment in the workout room, and fell asleep.

5/2/2025

After a fantastic Continental breakfast with eggs, a huge waffle made with a waffle iron, and other delights, we headed south towards my first intended stop, Petersburg National Battlefield.  On the way, we stopped at the Gaines Mill Battlefield site which had zero other visitors when we arrived (and zero when we left).  We took a short mile walk to see the key points of the June 27, 1862 battle that was part of the Union's Peninsula Campaign, enjoying the birds chirping and the critters in the woods going about their day. 

I had limited time to visit Petersburg, as I had to reach my ultimate destination for the day, Appomattox Court House, site where Lee surrendered to General Grant on April 9, 1865, well before their 5 PM closing time.  I examined the extensive explanation of the year-plus long Peninsula Campaign at the Visitor Center and bought a Christmas ornament at its gift shop.  Heading to the first spot of note on the battlefield while the boys basked in the blazing sun, I passed a young man wearing a Colorado Rockies hat, the wearing of which I found odd given where I was.  I hit all the major spots on the Eastern Front Driving Tour portion of the Petersburg battlefield, including The Crater, where the Union Army dug a tunnel and detonated explosives underneath the enemy position to create a gap in the Confederate defenses.  The explosives worked, but the Union Army botched the follow-up attack of July 30, 1864.  It felt to this tourist that remnants of the explosion were still ready to detonate, as it was steaming hot, again with no cloud coverage. 

We left Petersburg at roughly 1:30 PM, with my GPS informing me we'd reach Appomattox by roughly 3:15 PM.  The sun was beaming, and State Route 460 was dry and had a barren, remote feel to it.  For the first time, I felt I was truly in the South and was grateful for both the Virginia license plate on my car and to Willis Carrier, inventor of air-conditioning.  Farmlands, a plethora of churches and pickup trucks, a Royal Farms with far more pork rinds options than one would see at a Royal Farms north of D.C.- yes, we were no longer in Delaware but, for all intents and purposes, may have very well been in Kansas.  

We reached Appomattox roughly on time and this stop was THE highlight of my trip.  As someone who has read multiple books and watched multiple videos on the Civil War (without acquiring what I feel is true expertise), it was a thrill to be in the same modest-sized parlor (pictured below) at the Wilmer McLean House where Lee surrendered to Grant.  Walking out of the McLean House for the first time (I went back to see it a second time), THE SAME GUY WEARING THE COLORADO ROCKIES HAT I saw in Petersburg passed me.  Apparently, he made the same trek I did.  I saw other highlights of Appomattox: the spot where the Army of Northern Virginia fired its last shot on April 9th, the outside location where Lee and Grant met the day after the surrender, the site where the Confederate troops stacked their arms when formally surrendering on April 12 (a specific highlight for me because the Union officer picked by Grant to preside over the ceremony is a hero of mine, General Joshua Chamberlain of the 20th Maine), the location where the last fighting took place between the two armies, and the rest of the town, which tries to replicate what the town looked like in 1865.  The grandsons explored some tall grass during all this. 

Revitalized, I left Appomattox on Route 29 to head towards Greensboro, NC, home to the Greensboro Coliseum, where Ric Flair defeated Harley Race on November 24, 1983 for his second NWA World Heavyweight Title run during the first-ever Starrcade, the International Civil Rights Center & Museum (located in Greensboro because it was the site of the African-American sit-ins to protest the Whites-Only lunch counters in the South), and (the only reason why I was there) the Guilford Court House, site of a crucial American Revolution battle in April 1781 where the Redcoats gained a pyrrhic victory, suffering heavy losses ala the Battle of Bunker Hill.  As a member of the House of Commons, Charles James Fox, stated after the battle, "Another such victory would ruin the British Army."  For those scoring at home, this battle continued a series of events that ultimately led to Cornwallis's surrender at Yorktown later that year in October.  This was the last major battlefield of the American Revolution I had not yet seen. 

We reached Greensboro just as it was getting dark.  I stopped at a Sprouts to buy supper to microwave at whatever hotel I booked, not before having a brief conversation with an older gentleman employed at Sprouts who was incredibly friendly towards me.  I then used my cell phone to go online to see who had rooms available and saw what looked to be a great deal at a nationally-known chain.  I immediately booked the room without any due diligence and then drove towards there, tired and in need of a shower, passing in the dark what seemed like really nice neighborhoods along the way. 

We arrived at roughly 9 PM.  Ahead of me was a late 30’s-early 40’s mother checking in her son and, as it turned out, four additional older teenagers, two of whom drove in a car and the other two sitting on the hood of that car as they drove up.  They were in town for a basketball tournament.  The late-night manager checked them in, explained they would be kicked out if they ran down the halls, knocked on random doors, if illicit odors emanated from their room, etc. and charged the mother a $50 deposit per room ($100 total), as the notice applicable to all guests posted at the front desk indicated.  I wondered what I was getting into but forged ahead and checked in.  The manager was incredibly polite to me, did not even bring up the $50 deposit, and we went into our room.  I microwaved our dinners, checked out the window multiple times to make sure my car was fine, and, except for roughly 15 minutes of a basketball bouncing above me, had a quiet, pleasant night.

5/3/2025

After a second FABULOUS continental breakfast in two days, the boys and I headed to Guilford Courthouse National Military Park.  I must point out that, unlike their dads on similar trips, the boys were extremely well-behaved for the entire trip up to this point, having no interest in hunting for fish or animals near the Rappahannock River in Fredericksburg, at the stream in Gaines Mill, or the stream at Bull Run, etc.  Prior to reaching our destination, I stopped near the Greensboro Coliseum to take a photo that did not come out well. 

Reaching Guilford Courthouse National Military Park and expecting to see a few history buffs, I was shocked at how packed the place was.  The Visitor Center parking lot was filled to capacity, and I had to park in a separate lot a few hundred yards away.  I saw a brief, but excellent 10-minute film at the Visitor Center explaining the strategy behind General Greene’s (one guess as to how Greensboro, NC got its name) three lines of defense and how the Redcoats attacked. Hitting the major stops on the park tour by foot, I realized that, like Valley Forge National Historical Park, roughly 99% of the visitors were there to either run or walk, only noticing roughly five or so people paying attention to the historical markers and monuments.  Near the spot where the Court House itself was located back in 1781, the boys (pictured below) and I spotted a deer feeding on the nearby vegetation.  I feared the worst, but the boys befriended the deer (!) Apparently, their hunting instincts have not yet developed.  I also spoke with a woman wearing a Carolina Hurricanes hat walking her dog, telling her that I was worried they would most likely defeat my favorite team, the Washington Capitals (they did, and quite easily) in the forthcoming round of the NHL playoffs.  

My original agenda was to see some additional sites in Greensboro, then head to Germanton, NC to see the Chuck Dale Smith Band.  Chuck, who lives in Winston-Salem and who was to play an outdoor concert at 6 PM that night, is an active contributor to a Paul Revere and the Raiders fan page on Facebook I moderate.  I was going to surprise him by appearing; however, the weather forecast called for serious storms and Chuck posted onto Facebook that the concert was cancelled.  Therefore, I decided to head home, resolving to see something on the way, most likely near Richmond.  Crossing the border into Virginia, I stopped at a Welcome Center.  After using their bathroom, I stepped inside the information area to look at the brochures.  One of the two women behind the counter said to me, "you must be the one with the boat!"  I was flattered that someone thought I looked like the type who owned a boat, but the woman quickly explained that she thought so because I had such a pronounced tan.  I explained that I had been baking in the sun for four days on my battlefield pilgrimage and, after a few pleasantries, left.

Traveling on State Route 360 towards Richmond, I noticed a large sign indicating the exit for the Sayler's Creek Battlefield, decided this would be that one something I would see on the way home, and headed there on more local state routes.  I mentioned earlier feeling as if I was finally in the South heading towards Appomattox, but now I was truly in the South South.  Although I saw Confederate flags flying on private property previously, I now saw a Confederate flag flying high above some trees on what appeared to be a non-residential area.  I saw a huge sign proclaiming the wonderfulness of D.O.G.E.  I also saw a sign opining that January 6th should be a national holiday.  I had no idea people six centuries later felt that strongly about celebrating Joan of Arc's birthday, but to each their own.  I got to the Sayler's Creek Visitor Center at 3:55 PM, five minutes before it closed as it turned out.  I picked up some helpful trail maps, visited the major points of the battlefield where, on April 5, 1865, the last major battle of the Civil War was fought, VERY grateful as state routes turned to side roads that I had a car with a Virginia license plate.  I (& the impatient drivers behind me) were less grateful that the car was so small and slow as I eked my way up hills.

Leaving the area sometime around 5:30 PM, we headed north just as clouds gave way to sun and damp humidity, feeling either a head freeze with the air conditioning at its lowest setting or humidity with the windows open.  We stopped in Fredericksburg after using Google Maps to find a Pizza Hut, where a Personal Pan Pizza cost, even with tax included, $3.00 less than the closest Pizza Hut to where I lived.  I got Big Macs at the adjacent McDonalds for the kids.    I drove on the eastern side of the D.C. Beltway, hitting some mild traffic just in time to see a fireworks display in D.C. with the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial in the background.  I just love Washington D.C, getting home well before 11 PM. 

"NO PHOTOS!!!" My New England 2024 Vacation

 

THE BEGINNING

The Wednesday before Columbus Day, despondent over yet another year passing without embarking on my long-desired Abraham Lincoln pilgrimage due to an unforeseen (and still persisting) medical issue and not really going anywhere unique in 2024, I travelled to the familiar environs of New England, determined to see new places and get that New England ambience in my mind and bones.  I took my stepson Seymour and grandson Seymour Jr., made arrangements for my turtles to be watched, hopped into an economy-sized rental car, and was off with only a very general idea of where I would visit.  The car size I chose would eventually cause some issues; the lack of planning would come to haunt me.

My first stop was Hartford, Connecticut to visit the Mark Twain House & Museum, which I had not seen in approximately 22 years and had zero recollection.  Usage of Google Maps on my cell phone (not always foolproof) was a Godsend on this occasion, directing me up the New Jersey Turnpike over the George Washington Bridge and, after a few quick exits here and there, to the two-lane Merritt Parkway.  I avoided the typical Route 95 Connecticut traffic and made great time in my efforts to get to my destination well before closing.  The main highlight of this leg of the trip was seeing, for the first time, a bumper sticker on the rear window of a pick-up truck that read EAT A D*CK using religious characters in a parody of those annoying CO-EXIST bumper stickers.  A later Google search revealed that these were considered atheist bumper stickers.  I normally hate reading curses and have seen far more civil atheist bumper stickers; this did not prevent me from laughing uncontrollably in my efforts to share this experience during a later phone call.

I got to the Twain House, located in an area of Connecticut's capital not nearly as idyllic as it was during the 19th century at approximately 3:10 PM, just in time for the $28.00 3:30 PM tour.  I quickly made sure I took pictures of the house's wonderful exterior while the sun was still bright, strolled quickly through the first floor of the Museum at the visitor center, delighted to see first editions of my literary hero's works, and waited by the stairs as directed for the tour to commence.  

Our tour guide was a short young woman of Eastern European descent for whom English may or may not have been her first language, for I found it difficult at times to penetrate her accent.  I did, however, fully understand her admonishment for us not to take any photographs inside the house.  The reason?  Some of the items in the house did not belong to the House.  Okay.  Anyway, our group went from room-to-room in a very dark house, kept that way I guess to simulate what the lighting would have been like when the Clemens family resided there.  Despite being given too much information from the tour guide to retain, the darkness, and the camera ban, I still greatly appreciated as a Twain fan who has visited his boyhood home in Hannibal, MO and his grave site in Elmira, NY to be able to walk the floors where America's greatest author lived from 1874 to 1891, the period when he penned his greatest works .  After the tour, I saw more museum exhibits with many artifacts belonging to the Clemenses, bought an expensive Mark Twain House Christmas ornament, walked to the Harriet Beecher Stowe house next door, and we were on our way.

Leaving Hartford, we drove up north towards Sturbridge, MA and stayed at the Scottish Inn, where the entire staff was dressed resplendently in kilts and other Scottish outfits.  Just kidding.  No, not about the name of the inn, but regarding the outfits.  I got a good night's sleep while Seymour watched coverage of Hurricane Milton on the Weather Channel and resolved to head to Concord, MA to see the Orchard House, home of Louisa May Alcott and the Alcotts and the model for the home of her wonderful novel Little Women.

Day 2, Thursday

Woke up next morning and had a fulfilling continental breakfast at the inn while sitting adjacent to a somewhat older British couple dressed in jeans and other casual clothes that belied those accents which, by law, automatically add 10 IQ points and make British women 10% more attractive.  I noticed the orange juice machine was labelled "Out of Order," opened the nearby mini fridge looking for milk for my cereal, and noticed a bottle marked ORANGE.  "Good," I thought, "a nice glass of healthy orange juice would really hit the spot."  I drank and...it was Tang!  Yuck!  I looked around, saw no faucets nearby because I did not wish to throw away a cup of any liquid in the garbage, and later performed a balancing act of carrying the cup and food I was going to take for the day's trip to my room so I could pour it down the sink.

Before heading to Concord, I stopped at a Shaw's Supermarket to see if they had any attractive-looking local chocolate milk (NO) and Humpty Dumpty brand barbeque potato chips (also NO), then drove east on the Massachusetts Turnpike, eventually exiting and driving through some attractive hamlets with fancy signs proclaiming the year they were founded.  Yes, I was in New England.  I noticed an equivalent number of Harris/Walz and Trump/Vance signs in this affluent area, which I found interesting.  Also interesting (and also found in other states on this trip) were signs that stated a variation of "3 feet apart to pass" accompanied by a photo of a car and bike, advising drivers to only pass when at least three feet separate you the driver and cyclists.  I thought this was a good idea.  By the absence of these signs in the states I have resided, it must be concluded that New York, Maine, and Delaware want cyclists to die.

Eventually, I reached Orchard House, which had plenty of tourists for a Thursday.  After taking a bit too much time figuring out what to wear, I bought my tour ticket from a warm and friendly woman at the gift shop.   I went out and observed the pretty garden with the flowers that Meg, Jo, Amy, and Beth chose to plant in Little Women, took photos, and then climbed up the steps of the Concord School of Philosophy building where such giants as Thoreau, Bronson Alcott, Emerson, and Julia Ward Howe (she wrote "Battle Hymn of the Republic") graced to watch an EXCELLENT short film about the Alcotts, Concord, and the Orchard House narrated by a comely older woman in the voice of Louisa May Alcott that served as a tour introduction for us all.

This tour was also hosted by a woman for whom English was perhaps not her first language and whose accented speech I had to really focus to understand, this time of Asian origin.  She also told us photos were not permitted inside the house.  The reason this time? The items in the house belonged to the house.  This tour was more enjoyable than the Twain tour, with the sunlight illuminating Orchard House beautifully and the tour guide not overloading us with data, instead giving a warm presentation of how the Alcotts lived and how certain items such as the piano corresponded to scenes in Little Women.

After leaving Orchard House, I went to the nearby Ralph Waldo Emerson House, Concord home of the renowned 19th century philosopher and poet ("the shot heard 'round the world"?  Him!).  The tour guide, an older woman for whom English WAS her first language, told us photos were not allowed.  I forget the proffered reason- perhaps the books and artifacts belonged to the Ugandan government or something.  Although I did not have as much interest in Emerson as in Alcott and Twain, I enjoyed this tour and being able to mention Sartor Resartus when the tour guide asked us if we knew of Thomas Carlyle, a peer and friend of Emerson's.

After a brief stop observing the Old North Bridge over the Concord River, site of the Battle of Concord on April 19, 1775, and closed for repairs, I resolved to visit Sleepy Hollow Cemetery where Louisa May and the Alcotts, Nathaniel and the Hawthornes, Ralph Waldo and the Emersons, and Henry David and the Thoreaus were buried.  Unfortunately, my initial resolution was unsuccessful- although I easily located the Cemetery, I could not locate an obvious entrance, and Concord became emmeshed in the throes of rush hour.  I decided to head east to Lexington to see the Battle Green where the first shots of the American Revolution were fired and had a heck of a time trying to find a parking spot far from the Green until I espied two spots right next to the sidewalk of the Green itself.  I took pictures of everything, soaked it all in, including an old church building you only see in New England with a decidedly modern message of tolerance for all groups, and headed to Buckman Tavern where the Lexington Militia gathered on that fateful day.  I chatted up the two women inside and bought an overpriced yet interesting piece of chocolate from a company called Gravestone Girls, who craft their chocolate in the shape of a gravestone.  I was privileged to eat chocolate honoring the gravestone of Peter Tufts, who the package insert informed me died May 13, 1700 and was interred in Bell Rock Cemetery in Malden, MA.

After a quick stop at on Battle Road at the location where Paul Revere was captured warning the Colonials that the British, I mean, the Regulars were coming, I returned to Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, determined to figure the logistics out.  Eventually, I did and drove on a thin road inside the Cemetery gates, hoping no one was driving in a direction towards me, saw a sign directing me to Authors Ridge, and eventually chugged up a small hill to a very small parking area, paid tribute to the Hawthornes, Thoreaus, and Alcotts, and prepared to leave Concord towards where I would sleep for the night.

Hmmm...where was I going to go on Friday?  As a fan of U.S. Presidential history, I wanted to see the Franklin Pierce Manse in Concord, NH, home of the 14th U.S. President, but Google had informed me it was open only on Saturdays and Sundays, so I figured I'd drive up to Maine, get some fried clams, and head to my adopted hometown of Stonington, but where was I to sleep?  Then, I realized: this is autumn in New England, PEAK SEASON- A.K.A., exorbitant hotel prices.  Paying $150-$300 for lodging on a romantic getaway, yes, but this seemed a bit extravagant to pay that much just to sleep.  I drove to a rest area in Portsmouth, NH and planned to sleep there.  I noticed fellow cheapskate travelers, presumably also not on romantic getaways, doing the same.

Day 3, Friday

It was COLD with temperatures around 30 degrees.  I had a pillow, but no blanket.  I slept for about two hours and then woke up, freezing and needing to pee.  I went inside the rest area bathroom, got back to the car, put a layer underneath what I was wearing, and piled onto me all the clothes from my luggage to create a "blanket," but could not get warm.  Surprisingly, Seymour and Seymour Jr. slept right through the entire night.  I'd turn the car on for heat every so often, but didn't think it right to continually let a car run that I did not own and would start feeling cold shortly after these five-minute respites.  Involuntarily, I recalled a documentary on Roddy Piper with the Rowdy Scot talking about being homeless as a teenager and a priest describing what life would be like if he had continued down the path he was on: "You're gonna go out some nights, you're gonna be cold., you're gonna rob a 7-11.  They're gonna catch you.  They're gonna throw you in jail, they're gonna rape you, then they're gonna kill you."  Not a comforting thought.

Eventually, day broke, and I felt surprisingly invigorated in the crisp autumn air, despite the lack of sleep.  I started to head up to Maine, first heading toward Wells Beach to return to where I had seen a beautiful sunset on my last New England vacation.  I got some local chocolate milk (YES!) at a convenience store on Route 1, drove past a Hannaford Supermarket located just before Wells Beach, turned around, and went inside to stock up for the rest of the trip and to see if they had Humpty Dumpty barbeque chips (YES!!).  I then drove to Wells Beach to look for the small diner where I had had a delicious breakfast.  I could not find it and, after driving aimlessly for a bit, went on Facebook to see my photos from that last trip and discovered it was YORK Beach where I had stayed.  "*%@#!," I said, or something similar and headed to York Beach.  

There are approximately three million parking spaces in York Beach, but they are all governed by (to me) a baffling pay meter system.  Knowing how stringent the local meter maids were in York Beach back in 2022, I tried to park and pay right next to the diner and the meter simply would not work.  I ditched the breakfast idea and headed to the Nubble Lighthouse, about a mile away to cheer myself up.  The lighthouse did not disappoint, but it was serendipity that a seafood take-out stand was open right near it.  I had my beloved fried clams (Seymour and Jr. had lobster rolls) and a slice of wild blueberry pie for breakfast and decided a seven-hour round trip to Stonington driving an economy car that struggled to get to 60 was not wise.  I headed to New Hampshire to make the best of it, looked in my travel guide for places in the Granite State that might be interesting, and headed to America's Stonehedge in North Salem, NH.  As with my trip last year to Oregon, the destination was secondary to the voyage.  If I was feeling the New England ambience, I would be happy.

After driving in areas that felt more like the Midwest or the South than New England, I reached my destination.  Unfortunately, a class trip with two buses of middle schoolers also reached their destination.  America's Stonehedge seemed a bit tourist trappy, the tour ticket a bit expensive, and I really did not wish to absorb whatever there was to absorb while around 80 loud school kids.  I went back to my car and plotted my next move.

A sixth sense directed to me to look at the actual website for the Franklin Pierce Manse instead of trusting my earlier Google search, and the website stated the location was open!  I was ecstatic!  I prudently called the Pierce Manse, and a lady confirmed the Manse was indeed open.  I drove to the Manse and took an excellent solo tour given by an extremely well-informed gentleman.  Refreshingly, I was allowed to take interior photos.  After buying a Christmas ornament at their modest gift shop, I asked for directions to both Franklin Pierce's gravesite and to the State Capitol building, the latter destination originally a mere afterthought.  I was told both the gravesite and the Capitol were short walks, that I could leave my car in the parking lot even after the Manse closed, and headed on foot.  Although I offered to carry them both, Seymour told me he and my grandson would stay behind and "explore" a nearby stream.

I immediately found the cemetery and had little trouble finding the Pierce family plot.  I then enjoyed my walk to the State Capitol building and the interior of the Capitol building itself even more, seeing displayed paintings of Revolutionary War officers, all the governors, and important political figures from the state, plus some really cool dioramas of important 18th century historical events.  I got to sit in the House and Senate chambers where, at least through 2024, important decisions affecting the state and the country were made.  Walking back to my rental car, I passed a house where Mary Baker Eddy, founder of Christian Science, had lived for a brief period, returned to the Manse, and at first could not find my boys.  Eventually, the scent of dead marine life carried me to a bench where Seymour and Seymour Jr. pretended as if they were just relaxing, but from the smudges of fish scales on their faces, I could figure out what must have happened.  The Cycle of Life.

We headed west towards the Southern Vermont, Western Massachusetts area.  I learned my lesson and booked a room at a Howard Johnson by Wyndham motel in Williamstown, Massachusetts for $180.00 for a decidedly non-romantic stay.  Driving towards there, I finally got to experience some of the beauty of New Hampshire.  Unfortunately, my economy car was struggling to travel on these winding, hilly roads at a speed appropriate for the time-of-day, as the queue of 8,000 cars behind me driving home from work could have attested.  Eventually, we got to Brattleboro, Vermont and drove west on Vermont Route 9, perhaps my favorite road in the United States.  Even driving up and down mountain roads in the dark driving an economy car with swirling 30-40 mile per hour winds, I relished this leg of the journey.  Few cars were behind me as we reached Bennington, where I made a quick side trip to the Bennington Battlefield Monument after first passing the Old First Church where poet Robert Frost was buried.  At the obelisk monument site, we were virtually alone with the stars above us on this beautiful New England night.

I drove south to Williamstown, checked in to the motel located in a nice, safe area, got some brochures of local attractions, and went to my room to catch up on sleep, not before calling the front desk to fix the television that was not working so I could watch the Dodgers eliminate the Padres from the MLB playoffs. 

A roller coaster of a day, symbolized by the drive up and down the mountains.  I was very upbeat and revitalized at this point.  

FINAL DAY

After a continental breakfast whose offerings I do not recall and then finding out after multiple failed attempts that my motel room DID NOT LOCK FROM THE OUTSIDE, I drove to Bennington to purchase some Vermont Maple Syrup at the gift shop of the aforementioned Battlefield Monument, then went to the delightfully tourist trappy Apple Barn for some delicious Vermont Maple Ice Cream and a bar of French Pear soap, the latter for later use.  Heading south towards the Susan B. Anthony Birthplace Museum in Adams, MA, I got to see the Berkshires with their autumn colors in daylight in all their glory.  At the museum, I received yet another one-on-one tour given by a well-trained young male tour guide and, as I was afterwards taking photos of what interested me, was engaged in an extensive conversation by an older woman from whom I had bought my tour ticket. I learned of her quite impressive educational and professional background, so it was quite appreciated when she complimented me on my knowledge of history.  I mentioned details of the journey I was on and told her of my next destination (Martin Van Buren National Historic Site in Kinderhook, NY, roughly an hour away).  She mentioned that none of her friends like to take those type of day trips and I said (and meant) that if I lived in the area, I would certainly take her.  I took photos of the house's exterior, took an apple that fell off an apple tree in the yard of the museum, and headed to Kinderhook.

Heading west towards Kinderhook (roughly 20 miles south of Albany), I drove through some small towns and saw some really beautiful autumn leaves and elevations that people travel from all over the country to see.  I stopped at a beautiful lake with overlooking mountains and chatted up an attractive female cyclist as we were taking pictures that almost assuredly did not do justice to our surroundings.  The Berkshires are very underrated.

Eventually, I got to Martin Van Buren's Lindenwald mansion, where our 8th U.S. President lived from 1841 (when his presidential term ended) until his death in 1862, not before my driving past a bright red metal sign that said Ichabod Crane and some other words just before my destination.  The creator of Ichabod Crane, Washington Irving, was a supporter of Van Buren's.  Mysteriously, Seymour and Seymour Jr. turned around to see something near that sign that interested them very much as if they were imitating men at a beach seeing an attractive woman in a two-piece walk past them.  Hmmm.  Anyway, I got my ticket for the tour, took pictures of the exterior, and spoke with a couple roughly my age who asked me questions about Van Buren after I answered a question I overheard one asking the other.  During the conversation, one of the two told me they presumed I was a teacher or professor.  If things had proceeded according to plan, I would have been.

The tour of Lindenwald was given by an outgoing, easily understood woman who struck a perfect balance between interaction, giving just the right amount of information, and anecdotes of human interest.  Lindenwald, with its extravagant dining room and other splendid parlors and bedrooms (pictured below is the bed where Martin Van Buren passed away) was a highlight of the trip and, mirabile dictu, I was allowed to take pictures.  Just a wonderful experience.

Having read an interesting biography on Washington Irving earlier this year, I decided to investigate just what that Ichabod Crane sign was all about.  The site featured a one-room schoolhouse built around 1850 that replaced a log cabin-style schoolhouse whose schoolmaster, Jesse Melvin, inspired the famous literary character.  Before I could even get both of my feet out of the car, Seymour and Seymour Jr. slinked out past me and headed straight for this small, marshy area and disappeared.  I walked the grounds, saw all the historical markers, and a path I would have liked to explore if time had permitted, and headed back to my car.  I saw the boys by the marshy area, who were so full they could hardly move.  I carried them back to my car.

It was time to head home.  Using Google Maps as my trusty guide, I was directed to travel south in Upstate New York down the Taconic State Parkway, a two-lane road I had never before traveled.  My goal was to drive as far as I could driving a car no faster than 60 m.p.h. before it got dark.  The skies were sunny and the ride pleasant.  On the way, I stopped at a Taste of NY Market at a mini rest area in Poughkeepsie, which sells foods and other goods from New York farms, vendors, and producers.  I had stopped at a Taste of NY Market crossing the Pennsylvania-New York border during a trip to the Watkins Glen area in 2019 and had the most delicious chocolate milk I had ever tasted.  I looked for chocolate milk and found "Hudson Valley Fresh Chocolate Milk."  Normally, I suffer a huge letdown in my attempts to replicate the joy I experienced tasting something delicious long ago- Sovrana's pizza in Albany, NY, Shenandoah Chocolate Milk, fried clams at various restaurants in Maine, the list is endless, but this chocolate milk was just as delicious as I had remembered.

I eventually reached the outskirts of the Bronx just as it got dark and started to hit traffic.  I noticed the directions Google Maps was giving me started to seem dubious.  Inching along from one exit to another, I suddenly got to a point near the Cross Bronx Expressway where I was told to go in a direction where there were lines and lines of cars attempting to merge.  I saw a naked lane tempting drivers to get right to the George Washington Bridge, asked myself, "Isn't that where I need to go?" and took the road less traveled, and took an unencumbered drive all the way to New Jersey and, after two more hours, arrived home at a decent hour without hitting any further traffic.  Sometimes, intuition is to be preferred to Google.  Seymour and Seymour Jr. let my turtles, crocodiles, dogs, and pig know what a great time they had at the various bodies of water.  They had apparently even sneaked out while I was speaking to that cyclist and got back into the car without my noticing.

Nice people offering to take your picture.  Beautiful scenery.  Walking where important history happened.  Some food and beverages that made me smile.  Mild adversity and adventure.  It was a good trip.

SMOKE GETS IN YOUR EYES (& Lungs): My 2023 OREGON VACATION

Sunday

I arrived at the Philadelphia International Airport very early Sunday morning to embark on my first plane flight of any tangible duration in 12 years.  (A one-way, 45-minute flight to Long Island does not count.)  Although the TSA line at the airport was quite lengthy, and prayers were uttered in hopes of not having a sudden need to go to the bathroom, the agents were efficient and courteous and, unlike the overzealous TSA agent I dealt with for the aforementioned flight to Long Island, I was not sexually molested.  After passing thru, I enjoyed a well-balanced breakfast of a plain Auntie Anne's pretzel and a bottle of chocolate milk and boarded my flight.  

After a brief layover in Denver, where I continued my healthy eating habits by purchasing a lukewarm Pizza Hut Personal Pan cheese pizza, a brief flight took me to my destination of Redmond Municipal Airport, just north of Bend, Oregon, where my friend John lives with his wife Melissa.  John picked me up and explained a bit about Bend as we were driving.  We went to Trader Joe's and to a similar, more local version of a healthy grocery store (where, for some reason, an attractive woman bizarrely kept passing us back and forth down the same aisle as I was making the crucial decision of what nutrition bars to purchase), and then headed to his house.  After unpacking, I went on a six-mile run.  I was warned about the hot temperatures, but the dry heat was child's play for this mid-Atlantic runner quite used to thick humidity.  For supper, John's wife was kind enough to boil some of the whole wheat pasta I had bought and offered to warm up sauce she had made.  I was a bit reticent because what is delicious and healthy for most is usually not delicious for me, but said to myself, "Why not?  Learn to trust," or some other optimistic variation of that and the sauce was DELICIOUS!!! In fact, my taste buds can still taste it as I type this.

We then all went for a walk where I was shown a bit of the surrounding areas of this quasi-resort town.  Many others were walking around, enjoying the twilight.  I went to bed and got a good night's sleep.

Monday

Monday morning, John and I and my stepson Seymour (who was well-behaved and caused no commotion at the TSA line) went for a hike up Lava Butte, which the US Forest website tells me is a "cinder cone rising 500 feet above Lava Lands Visitor Center."  The walk itself takes 1.45 miles to get to the top, which John and I completed with no issues.  After the walk back down, only interrupted by Seymour escaping my backpack in an attempt to chase one of the many mouse squirrels we saw, I got the itch to run, not merely walk up the hill.  John was kind enough to wait and I ran up and back down the hill without stopping (a fact not believed at the time by John), indeed staying under a 9:30/mile pace overall, encouraged in part by a group of people that included a very attractive woman who gave me the thumbs-up sign as I passed.  

John and I then hightailed it to the High Desert Museum, whose name suggested probable boredom.  However, I was quite surprised at how much I liked this museum.  The exhibits told the story of the High Desert Basin region, which spans several states and covers the region roughly from the Cascade Mountains to the Rocky Mountains, since the beginning of time through today.  More appealing, I got to see multiple species native to the region, including turtles of various sizes, fish, insects, livestock, otters frolicking in the water, birds-of-prey, snakes, etc.  While eating lunch, I fed a mouse squirrel some of my French fries, not noticing until later the sign discouraging patrons from doing so. The squirrel certainly seemed pleased I was not initially observant.

Incidentally, it was during my visit to this museum when I first realized just how in-shape women in Oregon were and that the two women referenced above were not the exceptions they would be if they resided in every state in which I ever lived.  Age, number of kids with them, pushing a baby stroller- it didn't matter, 95% of them were in shape.  I later saw a video that stated Oregon was the fifth healthiest state in the nation and my only doubt was whether there really were four allegedly healthier states.

Later on, I did a quick run in Bend where I made two observations: 1) in general, fellow runners and walkers in Oregon are far less friendly than where I live and 2) the drivers are far more courteous towards runners, always stopping for runners and pedestrians in crosswalks.

Tuesday

On a bright sunny day, I drove to Crater Lake National Park, perhaps the most visited tourist attraction in Oregon, armed with a cooler full of nutritious beverages, including a watermelon juice Melissa had made.  While traveling south on Route 97, I noticed for the first time in Oregon more depressed regions as I passed the outskirts of towns such as La Pine, Gilchrist, and Chenault.  Trump banners decorated some of the beaten trailers I saw, not different in spirit from Obama banners decorating other poor residences in a prior decade.

Making good time and knowing absolutely nothing about the layout of the park, only that there was a pristine, breathtaking lake to see, I had Google Maps direct me to the park's North entrance, which turned out to be the correct decision.  I was in a long queue of cars waiting to pay to enter the park.  I noticed multiple cars making U-turns at the entrance and did not know what to make of it.  Finally, I reached the entrance, where I encountered quite a perky, energetic young woman wearing a small nose ring who showed me a live cell phone shot of Crater Lake itself.  Explaining that smoke from wildfires in California was making the lake hardly visible, the young woman asked if I still wanted to pay the $30.00 to enter the park.  Knowing that I would probably never again be at Crater Lake, I decided I'd make the best of it and paid to enter the park.  I must commend this woman for maintaining a consistent level of friendliness and energy when speaking to me even after having to give her presentation probably 100s of times that day.  Either that, or my essential friendliness and naivete won her over.  Let's go with that.

I entered the park and drove approximately nine miles past some forests and the Pumice Desert and headed down West Rim Drive before reaching the first observation point for the lake, got out of my car, and could only see about 20 percent of Crater Lake, with the rest being just a haze.  Other observation points on my way to Rim Village did not provide any better views of this famous lake, which is approximately 6 miles wide from its furthest points and 1,943 feet deep at its deepest point.

Rim Village is located at the southwest section of the park and is where most tourists visiting the park gather to gaze in awe at Crater Lake.  Rim Village includes a visitor center, a lodge, a café, a gift shop, and Sinnott Memorial Overlook, a nice shady place from which to see the lake.  However, as wonderful as all this was, Rim Village did not afford me any vantage point from which to avoid seeing virtually nothing but haze while seeing the lake.

Still determined to make the best of it, I decided to explore the rest of the park.  I drove further south to Mazama Village, which by itself held no interest unless you were there to stay at their campgrounds.  I decided to drive back north towards East Rim Drive to finish the park loop and head home.  I stopped to do a one-mile hike on a trail called Godfrey Glen, which was first evidence that this park held charms beyond Crater Lake.  While walking through its woods, I got to see the quite impressive Annie Creek Canyon and got to hear but not see what I later learned was Munson Creek tumbling over Duwee Falls, quite idyllic.  

Encouraged and emboldened, I headed towards East Rim Drive and stopped at one more observation point, still unable to see much of the Lake.  Driving north on East Rim Drive, I passed an electric sign that said something along the lines of Cloudsomething, Road Closed 1.5 miles.  Not able to fully read the sign as it flashed from one part of its message to the other, I figured the road would be closed just 1.5 miles ahead because smoke made further driving dangerous and would then be obliged to turn around.  

Driving far longer than 1.5 miles, I thought the electric sign was merely not updated and eventually reached Mount Scott, the highest peak of the park.  If it was a bit earlier in the day, I would have attempted to complete what the park map called a strenuous 5-mile hike.  Instead, I was content to take some photos, stare in awe, and then continue my drive north.  I then passed Cloudcap Overlook as I got closer to the end of the park loop.  Suddenly, I saw that the road was blocked for further travel due to road repairs and I finally realized the message the electric sign was conveying.  "Aw, shucks," I said, or something similar and was mentally prepared to drive back from whence I came.  I passed Rim Village and then stopped at an observation point on West Rim Drive to get one last look at this unfortunately hazy view of the lake before heading back, still in an okay mood.

And then I saw it.  THE LAKE, in its most pristine view, so blue because "other colors of the spectrum are absorbed.  Blue wavelengths (scatter and are) seen by human eyes," or so the park map tells me.  I spoke with a gentleman from Virginia (not Thomas Jefferson) standing next to me, who told me he was at the park all day as well, monitoring the smoke situation and learned there was about a three-hour window when Crater Lake would be clear.  I could see clear across the Lake and observed the lake from multiple vantage points, including a return trip to Rim Village, blessed to have had a road closed obliging me to turn around.  I thanked God, took in all the views I wanted, and then headed back to Bend.

Wednesday

Waking up, I felt listless and nauseous. As it turned out, I drove through some areas on my way back from Crater Lake where the smoke from the California wildfires had settled, including Bend itself, and had slept in a room where one of the windows was microscopically open.  The smoke had gotten to me.  As I had plans to enjoy trips to Eugene on Thursday and somewhere out of town on Friday, I was really worried I would not feel better.

The day was spent watching documentaries with John, including one on Mister Rogers that moved a bit slow for my taste and one on Reggie Jackson I felt was a bit uneven.  John and I also went food shopping at a wonderful store named Market of Choice.  As we locked his vehicle, John made it a point to hide my black backpack, explaining as he did at Trader Joe's on Sunday and at Lava Butte on Monday that Bend had a problem with people "smashing (windows) and grabbing" after seeing possible items of interest in cars, which surprised me after becoming aware of the median (re: a lot) price of homes in Bend.

The wildfire smoke was becoming an uncontrollable variable in planning the rest of my stay in Oregon and I had to check every day to see what part of Oregon was forecast to have a low Air Quality Index and head for that area the following day.

Thursday

Drove to relatively smoke-free Eugene in part to run Pre's Trail, named in honor of Steve Prefontaine, a legendary American record-setting runner who attended nearby University of Oregon and died tragically from an automobile accident at a young age.  There are two main ways to get to Eugene and John encouraged me to head down Rte. 97 and eventually make my way back up north via Route 58, and I was glad I did, driving past beautiful Crescent Lake and other natural wonders of the Willamette National Forest on wonderful mountainous roads winding up and down and around.

Prior to reaching Eugene, I stopped in Springfield, Oregon, the city for which the Springfield of The Simpsons fame is based, to have a hastily arranged lunch with a friend I met online years ago, who brought her teenage grandson, a very talented entertainer from the few clips of him she posts on social media.  My notoriously picky eating habits led, by a process of tragic elimination, to a (of all things) Five Guys restaurant where I had French fries and (for the first time in probably 5-7 years) a chocolate shake.  The regrettably short lunch went very well and afterwards my friend told me that of all the people she encountered through social media, I was the most normal.  I later told her, quoting Jim Cornette, that this was like being told I was the nicest guy in prison.  Other observations of note: later that day, I was told by her that her grandson was "fascinated" by my accent, which is a conglomeration of living on Long Island raised by an Italian father and a Mainer mother and my basic politeness of tone.  I was also told by her that I smelled really good and, perhaps, it was the laundry detergent I use?!  As I have never before been the recipient of such a compliment when cologne wasn't involved, even while using the Tide pods I use to wash my clothes, I made a mental note to purchase some Everyone 3-in-1 Soap, Citrus & Mint fragrance that my hosts had for the guest shower.

Using Google Maps, I headed to Alton Baker Park to run Pre's Trail.  Expecting a pastoral run with my running shoes gracing bark chips on the ground with beautiful trees to my left and right, I was first surprised at just how awful the park's port-a-potty was (the most disgusting I have encountered in a long, long time), how out in the open the trail itself was, and how nondescript the scenery was, unless you count the homeless man pushing his belongings in a shopping cart about two miles into my run.  The air seemed damp with no hint of sun.  I passed the University of Oregon football stadium and started improvising on what direction to go as I was trying to stretch the run out to eight miles to burn those empty calories I had consumed earlier.  Eventually, I timed my run so I would be at the stadium at eight miles.  When done, I took a few selfies and then headed back to take a .7 mile walk back to my car.  On my way, I saw the greenest snake I had ever seen in the grass to my right with its fangs sticking out.  I went, "Awww!!!," and wish Seymour had been with me.  Seymour was too scared to make the trip, reading about some of the crime in Eugene as told by my online friend and hearing some of the negative comments about the city from John.

I took an alternate, shorter "scenic" route back to Bend on the recommendation of John's wife, taking Route 126 through some nice forestry obscured a bit by thick smoke that obliged me to wear a KN-95 mask WHILE DRIVING, eventually passing through the interesting town of Sisters. whose main strip had an Old West feel.  Along the way, I did a lot of thinking.

Friday

The day's journey to avoid the smoke of the wildfires took me to Mt. Hood, a place I had visited with John back in 2011.  Making the trip north on Rt. 97 and first passing through desert lands with an Old West feel and then beautiful forests as I approached the mountain, I realized that the appeal of Oregon for me was not necessarily the tourist attractions but the ambience I felt driving towards them.

I reached historic Timberline Lodge with Seymour in tow, prepared to enjoy the outdoors and hike somewhere.  Having made no preparations prior, I simply decided to climb up Mt. Hood as high as possible without having a specific trail to guide me.  I tried to follow what seemed like somewhat of a beaten path, trying not to slip as I was wearing running shoes that did not have the sturdiest traction and with Seymour continuously trying to wriggle out of my backpack in an attempt to hunt native wildlife.  Eventually, I made Seymour pose for a selfie with me near the building for the mountain's Magic Mile Chair Lift and, as I felt myself slipping down the mountain while trying to take our picture, I was startled by someone above me on the ski lift asking if the snake was real.  "No," I lied, took the selfie, and continued my trek upward, eventually climbing well past the end of the ski lift, meaning I was well past 7000' in elevation.  About 1.5 miles into my climb, I could no longer see a clear beaten path forward.  Looking down at just how I far had climbed, not having the most appropriate footwear, remembering how steep parts of this journey was and having a legit fear of climbing down things, I saw no one had gone higher than me, proved whatever stupid point I was trying to prove to myself, and decided to descend.  Hardly tired and hardly thirsty, I nonetheless descended very slowly, as if I was gently stepping on glass at times because of my trepidation.  I eventually made it down to the base, took a brief 1.5 mile walk on the Pacific Coast Trail, and then explored Timberline Lodge, gladdened to have found Huckleberry Jam at a gift shop.  I do not even like jelly, but I love Mark Twain and so bought a jar.

On the way back, I stopped at a Chevron in Redmond, Oregon to fill my tank.  Regular fuel was $4.79 a gallon, easily a $1.00/gallon more than in Delaware.

Saturday

I no longer had my rental car, John had to work, so I spent the morning with John's wife Melissa, walking to a local farmer's market.  We got in line to get fruits and vegetables from a popular local vendor, and I was glad to serve a purpose by carrying a portion of Melissa's purchases.  I was worried about being a burden, but Melissa seemed to enjoy walking with me to the various vendors as I enjoyed the ambience of a true farmer's market.  Organic goods?  Check.  Craftspeople with soaps, art, and candles?  Check.  The stereotypical angelic female singing in a lilting voice while playing an acoustic guitar?  Check.  Delicious homemade slices of pie?  Well, there was pie to be had and I bought two slices, but...

Melissa and I walked back to the house and while she made various salads with her purchases, I went for a 9.4 mile run at a location she recommended, not quite following the paths suggested, but instead finding some nice dirt trails and climbing some nice hills.  

After running and showering, Melissa offered to take me around the main part of Bend, knowing I was on a quest to buy a green shirt that said Oregon and to shop for souvenirs.  We went window shopping in many stores and, when entering one that I would never have entered myself, felt a bit like a husband who was about to lose a lot of money as his wife goes on a spending spree.  When strategically appropriate, I indicated to the various sales ladies at the various stores that I was just the best friend of her husband and would implicitly not be involved in any $500.00 art purchases to be contemplated.  

There were some very nice things to buy (re: expensive) in other stores such as coo-coo clocks made in Germany and athletic gear from a Swedish manufacturer, but I made no purchases and, as we headed back to the car, asked if we had time for me to see what, if any, chess books were in the nearby Deschutes Public Library.  We did. The geek in me dashed upstairs and was stunned to learn that this library did NOT follow the conventions of the Dewey Decimal System, instead confusingly clustering books by subject!  Eventually, after a search that took too long, I found what books they had, and we left.

Shortly after we reached the house, John came home and the three of us took a walk to a local pizzeria.  The slices I ate, despite having a bit too much garlic in the sauce, were quite passable as non-New York slices go.  We sat outside the restaurant, had a nice conversation on a pleasant evening, and headed home.

Sunday

John and I drove in the morning to hike Tumalo Mountain.  One thing I learned from beginning this hike, as well as earlier climbs up Lava Butte and Mount Hood is that I get tired at the beginning and talk as if I am trying to catch my breath and then, as I become accustomed to the hike, start to get stronger.  Halfway through the hike I was walking with vigor and carrying on a conversation without a hint of fatigue.  Even John, an experienced hiker, was starting to betray a bit of breathing as he verbally responded to whatever stupidity I was saying.  At this point, I had earned John's buy-in that, yes, I did run up Lava Butte on Monday without stopping.  Eventually, we reached the top of Tumalo Mountain, joined about five minutes later by two women who we had earlier passed.  The brunette of the two was quite fetching, easily the second most attractive woman I saw during my entire Oregon trip.  We took pictures of them with their cell phones and vice versa.

Fears of the descent followed, and I was tip toeing down at various points until the mountain started to plateau and, about a mile down, it happened.  A large contingent of young women in the same sports uniforms were climbing up the wooded path we were headed down, first a group of ten or so and then 15 yards or so away, another ten or so, and then another group of ten or so, and finally the adults who must have organized what some rudimentary research showed was a local school volleyball team on a team building exercise.  More than one of them were bemoaning the difficulty of the walk.  This entire scene was so out-of-place, so bizarre, and it paradoxically reminded me of the movie Gettysburg when the 15th Alabama climbs the wooded hills from nowhere attempting to storm the position of the 20th Maine on the left flank of the Union Army on Little Round Top.  In fact, I would have been barely more surprised if it WAS the 15th Alabama that had approached us.  

We made it to the bottom, and I took pictures of scenery that interested me before driving to Mt. Bachelor, the mountain I had really wanted to hike.  John and I spent some time there, then drove back to Bend first to walk around the Deschutes River, and then to get some ice cream.  We watched some MST3K shorts, then went for a run.  John stopped after running about a mile and I continued, which turned out to be a terrible mistake.  I did not realize that the air quality had taken a drastic turn for the worse in the hour or so I was inside until I was about three plus miles or so from the house.  I put my COVID mask on and headed back but felt really off after I finished.  The middle of my chest was hurting, and I was feeling nauseous and a bit woozy.  I ate some dinner and then watched a movie titled Jesus Revolution (starring Kelsey Grammar) with John and Melissa, which I did not realize was based on a true story until the end.

The chest discomfiture did not subside during the night.  I woke up after roughly 200 minutes of sleep, then tossed and turned in a vain attempt to find the optimal position for comfort, never resuming my sleep.

Monday:

Plans to see the Lava Cave were cancelled by me because I was still feeling out-of-sorts, although the chest pain was starting to subside.  John and I continued a nearly four-decade tradition of audio skits that I hope will never see the light-of-day in my lifetime.  Unfortunately, I was not able to deliver my parts with the over-the-top verve needed.  The rest of the day was spent recovering.

Seymour and I arrived at Redmond Airport to begin my flight home quite early, feeling somewhat better but concerned how my nausea and chest would fare even on the brief first leg of my flight to Seattle. The first leg went well, with Seymour and I having two seats all to ourselves and I having no issues.  However, we had a three-hour layover in Seattle.  I was concerned about the lack of food options as I strolled down what I thought was the entire corridor of the airport.  Worried I'd be starving, I went to a small store, bought a Betty Lou's Cherry Fruit Bar, which the packaging promised "Tastes Like a Piece of Pie," and a pack of Justin's Peanut Butter Cups for at least some nourishment, and asked the woman at the register if there was any place in this complex to get pizza.  She told me to try Pellino's and gave me walking directions, which I followed.  After making a right turn down a corridor I had overlooked, I suddenly saw plenty of dining options, souvenir and convenience stores, and plenty of room to sit in a two-story wing brightly lit by the sun.  It was as if the heavens had opened.  I found Pellino's and had the best Margherita pizza I've had in a long time.  The crust was perfectly crisp, and the ingredients were fine.  I spent some time eating, charging my phone, and reading a biography on Nathaniel Greene, the American Revolutionary War general for whom the city of Greensboro, NC is rightfully named, and headed to the waiting area for my flight.  When the call for the flight came, we got in line, scanned my ticket, walked past, said a brief prayer, and got on my flight.  

One of the stewardesses gave the presentation on safety and then requested that no passengers eat anything with peanuts because one passenger had a "severe" peanut allergy.  Recalling my Justin's Peanut Butter Cups purchase, I muttered, "aw, shucks," or words to that effect, with only the "piece of pie" and some Cheez-Its John had packed for me for the trip.  The flight to Philadelphia itself was a red-eye where I was supposed to arrive at 6:15 AM Eastern time.  I slept most of the way, diligently keeping my cell phone and wallet secured.  We landed on time, got off of the plane, was prepared to eat my peanut butter cups waiting for my luggage, remembered that the allergic passenger might be in my vicinity, and held out.  Thankfully, there were no passengers allergic to mouse squirrels, so Seymour was just fine.