Trip Report
Mainely True
Arkansas, Ohio, Niagra Falls, Green and White Mountains, Maine, Toronto, Michigan
June 15th to July 18th, 2002
by Dale Barnard
Crew: Denise Prendergast, Dale Barnard
We left on Saturday afternoon, starting the trip with a swimming party at Pete and Jocie's pond near Lake Travis. Most people alternated between skinny-dipping and eating. The keg floated early, as did most people's inner tubes on the pond. After dark, only the bold swam in the chilly water. At one point, everyone gathered on the narrow dam and watched the space shuttle and space station float across the starry sky like a slow shooting star. A satellite joined them, completing the trio of entertainment.
Denise and I pitched our tent out of earshot of the party. The starry sky assured a dry night in the tent, so we left off the rain fly. You can fill in the details of the torrential rain that followed.
We hit the highway in the morning, driving from Austin through East Texas, slowing down for town after town all the way to Texarkana. The scenery improved dramatically around Texarkana, and by the time we reached Hot Springs, Arkansas, natural beauty surrounded us on all sides. We found a great campsite in the national park and set out for a hike through the dense forest. We ended up not in wilderness, but in a pub called Cheers, enjoying nachos and beer. We hurried the mile-or-so back to the tent in the waning sunlight, finishing the hike by the light of a single-LED penlight.
In the morning, we putzed around the town of Hot Springs, amazed to find a large sign proudly informing us that Slick Willie grew up there. The town boasted hot springs that exited the mountain in drinkable form. The richness of the area's history could be seen in the grand historic bathhouses and hotels. We were very impressed and wished we had a little more time there. We skipped soaking in a hot spring because the air temperature had already reached 90 degrees.
By the second evening, we had reached the campground at Mammoth Cave National Park. Fire flies glittered and mosquitoes thrived. While unloading the car, a bold raccoon jumped in and began eating potato chips. Banging on things all around it failed to scare it out of the car. I've never seen such a tourist-indifferent creature. Eventually, I chased it out, but it hovered only a few feet away for some time while it finished the potato chips.
We took the historic tour of Mammoth Cave, enjoying the beautiful two-mile walk with cavernous views uncluttered by cave cancer (a jovial term used to describe secondary formation growth, such as stalagmites and flowstone). After the tour, we tried to see the entrance of Sand Cave where the famous Floyd Collins died in 1925, but some sort of construction blocked access.
The third night, we stayed with my friend, Robert Wexler, in Yellow Springs, Ohio, a quaint town outside of Dayton. We showered, ate homemade pizza, and caught up. We watched “Pollock,” a great tortured-artist movie about the splatter painter.
In the morning, we went for a walk on the greenbelt that lines one edge of the town. Across a lush depression, a yellow spring pours from the horizontal rock layers, depositing vivid-orange iron in its path. Although most rock in the area is limestone, glaciers smooshed any caves that might have once grown there. We hit the highway again midday, landing 60 miles shy of Buffalo, New York, in a KOA campground on Lake Erie. We cringed at the $21 to pitch a tent for the night, but, like Texas, there's no public land in the region to squat on.
Eighty miles took us to Niagra Falls State Park. We jockeyed among thousands of other tourists for the best views, leaning over guard rails to see around other people who were also hanging over. The fight for the best view seems to predominate any actual marveling at the falls. Bridges, protrusions, towers, balloons, elevators, and overlooks litter both sides of the falls. The Canadians sported the tower-shaped hotels while the US side mainly featured state park attractions, including boats that flood its passengers with falls spray while they huddle in their blue trash-bag ponchos. When we found our best views, we actually did do a bit of marveling at the awesome falling waters that drained Lake Erie into Lake Ontario. However, I had failed to don sufficient sunscreen so the shade dance from tree to tree grew tiresome before long. Besides, Denise had her eye on Maine and wanted to put some distance behind us. I suspect that an hour at the falls would satisfy most people if it weren't for the fact that they had paid to park and felt obliged to get their money's worth. Had the falls been left in a pristine state, a lifetime might not be enough time to take in nature's masterpiece. Instead, it feels reduced to an unsatisfying ride at a theme park.
By evening, we had driven across much of New York on an uneventful toll road, zipped through the Adirondacks, and landed in a state park near Rutland, Vermont. The loudest frogs we'd ever heard challenged our sleeping, especially the one that sounded exactly like flatulence—that's just hard to listen to.
In the morning, we spent three hours hiking in opposite directions along the Appalachian Trail in the Green Mountains. I thoroughly enjoyed falling into a hiking trance, allowing my mind to ponder many aspects of a grand future. I might not have paid much attention to the nice scenery, but the internal journey took precedence that day for me. Denise sounded like she thoroughly enjoyed her hike as well, talking to several people who were through-hiking the Long Trail or the Appalachian Trail.
After the hike, we fixated on maple syrup and stopped for late-afternoon pancakes and bacon in a quaint Vermont town. Everything in Vermont is quaint, and everything has something to do with maple syrup. I purchased a couple of bottles to give as gifts, and Denise bought a bottle for me. Although we suspected that we could buy Vermont maple syrup for less money in a grocery store in Austin, we felt that the journey constituted part of the gift.
By this time, we felt like we had basically completed the driving portion of the trip because Camden, Maine—our next stop—lay only six hours away. We set camp in a National Forest campground in the White Mountains of New Hampshire near the Appalachian Trail. The black flies convinced us that a campfire would be nice, so we purchased a bundle of wood on the honor system alongside the road. Throughout our game of scrabble, the insects mostly left us to ourselves.
We had planned a nice five- or six-hour hike for the morning, but through the night, rain poured down and did not cease for most of the next day. Instead of hiking through rain and fog, we decided to motor on to our most distant stop: Camden, Maine. We encountered a mysterious traffic jam in the middle of a New Hampshire forest. After two miles of traffic moving twenty car lengths a minute, we arrived in a small town. Still puzzled as to the cause of the traffic, we continued and soon discovered a Tanger Outlet Mall lining both sides of the two-lane road. Somehow, in the middle of rural New Hampshire, they manage to attract enough tourists to turn the town into a giant shopping mall. We split a lobster cake at McDonalds (yes, real lobster) and shopped at the L.L. Bean Outlet, buying nothing from their over-priced inventory. We stopped at the movie theater to see Bourne Identity, which we both enjoyed. Then, we'd had enough of the city attractions, so we hit the road, looked forward to seeing our friends.
We reached Camden, Maine, the site of the annual National Speleological Society (NSS) Convention, on Saturday well-before dark, and within minutes of several other Texas cavers. Despite the uncanniness of driving 2,500 miles from home to see the same people we had seen at the pond party in Texas a few days earlier, we enjoyed the familiarity in a new context. After picking up our name badges, we found Groad Hollow, the section of the fairgrounds devoted mainly to Texas cavers, apparently following a tradition of which I know nothing; this was my first NSS convention. We pitched a tent and swatted mosquitoes before standing around the campfire until midnight.
On Sunday, we had all day to orient ourselves to the Maine coastline and the layout of the campground. We started by climbing to one of the highest points in the area, a mountain perhaps 1000 feet above sea level. From the top, we could see dozens of islands and distant towns through the haze. During the week, a couple of thunderstorms blew the haze away and left us with beautiful views of the water and distant islands, including the granite mountains of Acadia National Park.
The convention offered seminars on photography, caving electronics, geology, biology, conservation, and many other topics. Three organized parties punctuated the week, one of which offered lobster. Everyday felt like a party at Groad Hollow. Our fee for the convention included a ride on a large schooner sailboat. We lucked out and got a windy day so the crew could raise the many sails.
Denise and I skipped the serious seminars, opting instead to work on our personal tasks. For me, that meant a cave map. For Denise, that means beading, beading, and more beading. She sold some of her jewelry at the convention's consignment store. We hiked almost every day, never growing tired of the ocean and lake views. The deciduous trees amazed me; I have always lived in places dominated by conifers. The winters must be gray and brown without all those nice leaves.
One day, taking a break from the convention, we took a fairy boat to an island. We saw thousands of colorful lobster traps floating near shorelines of the various islands. Once the boat arrived, we had only twenty minutes to run around the little village before getting back on it to return. If we had missed it, we would have had to pay to stay at an inn. We would have enjoyed the scenery more if we could have spent more time outside on the ship's deck, but we both forgot our jackets. The temperature must drop fifteen degrees when you leave the shoreline.
Saturday, after See-You-Soons were said around Groad Hollow, cavers dispersed. We thoroughly enjoyed the convention and vowed to attend every future NSS convention that we could. Next year's convention lies in the middle of the California desert, not far from Sequoia National Park.
We headed up the coastal route to Acadia National Park, hurrying to beat the crowds to the campground and found a remote site still available. We checked out a lighthouse and walked a nature trail to a fantastic granite coastline with tide pools. Red and pink granite contrasted beautifully with rich blue water and lush green vegetation. Unfortunately, the Atlantic felt way too cold for swimming.
We had all of Sunday to hike around the park. We changed campgrounds and then took the park shuttle to a trail head. We quickly climbed to fantastic views of the ocean, islands, sea caves, a sandy beach, and balloonish granite mountains. We encountered a surprising amount of foot traffic, leaving solitude to be desired, but fell in the love with the unique scenery. After a day of hiking, we took the shuttle into Bar Harbor in search of fish cakes. Instead of fish cakes, we found thousands of tourists paying too much for food and dust collectors (knick knacks and gee gaws as a friend calls them).
The next morning, we found ourselves anxious to leave the crowds so we headed back to the White Mountains, where we spent the next few days sweating in the 95 degree heat with 100% humidity. The locals said that the unusual temperatures exceeded those of Miami, Florida. The slightest breeze would have made it bearable. After a blistering, bug-infested day-hike the first day, we found ourselves bopping around towns the next, followed by an afternoon of swimming and reading in a great river park. We saw the movie Men in Black II and loved it, perhaps more than the first. We enjoyed a day of civilization to prevent the onset of homesickness—we still had a lot of travel plans.
After three nights in the White Mountains, we drove north into Quebec. The border crossing went easily enough, except that they confiscated Denise's pepper spray. Later, we were told that you can buy pepper spray at Walmart in Canada. Strange laws.
Quebec greeted us with French-only signs. I had hoped to visit Quebec City to see where the rumored grouchy people live, but we would have needed to commit a day to it. Instead, we headed down the St. Lawrence River toward Toronto, stopping for a three-hour walk along an asphalt hike-and-bike path on the river. We camped in a super-developed provincial park at the thousand islands—yes, where someone invented the yucky salad dressing.
We reached the house of my friends, Jacqui Pegg and Catherine Villaret, early afternoon the next day. Toronto greeted us with road construction and an all-day rush hour. Many Canadian drivers could jockey with the best lane-weavers of southern California. I guess there's a lot of people in a hurry to get somewhere. Maybe the long winters have challenged their patience too long.
Catherine worked most days, but Jacqui spent the next several days showing us around downtown Toronto via buses, streetcars, and the subway. Most city workers happened to be on strike during our visit, including garbage can emptiers. In addition to large piles of trash on every street corner, we saw a Greek Town, China Town, the harbor, a beach, a great Ethiopian take-out restaurant, bookstores, and an outdoor gear co-op. The co-op swallowed nearly three hundred of our Canadian dollars, or about two hundred US dollars. Most of the gear was priced about the same as REI or Campmor in the United States, but the exchange rate netted us a 25% discount on the gear once you factor in the high 15% sales tax. It's like having a country full of stores on sale. The Canadians expressed great jealousy at this fact.
On Sunday, Catherine joined us at the beach on Lake Ontario. No one swims in the water because it is too polluted and cold, but we enjoyed the sandy beach. It would have been more enjoyable had there been any public restrooms within a mile radius. Where did the thousands of beach-goers use the restroom? After the beach, we joined up with many of Jacqui and Catherine's friends for a social gathering.
During the gathering, I broke out some watercolor paints that I had been longing to use all day. This intimidated most people and they opted not to join me, despite my confession that the last time I'd painted with watercolors was in the third grade. However, when they saw my surrealist “art,” they felt immediately comfortable, and a couple of people joined in.
The salmon steaks and many choices of unusual salads made for a great buffet, along with lots of good conversation. This was the first time Denise and I had a real chance to talk to native Canadians. I wouldn't know how to sum up the differences, really, although I saw some noticeable differences. Canada, as a whole, struck me as codependent with the States, both needing the States and often disliking us at the same time. It felt like a slightly-removed state of the US with a lone-star attitude like Texas has. Even Quebec with the French road signs felt mostly like just another state.
We left Toronto after a great five-day visit and headed for Denise's sister's house in southwestern Michigan. Along the way, we camped at Lake Huron and enjoyed a long walk along the sandy beach. This beach boasted agreeable water temperatures, unlike the other Great Lakes we encountered. We enjoyed a ranger talk on raptors, learning their three defining features: 1) they can see several times better than humans to sight prey, 2) large, powerful claws to quickly kill their prey, and 3) sharp beaks to tear into the meat. Denise got scared, but with me around, she knew she would always be safe. Ahem.
Most of the rolling hills that we crossed in Michigan were cultivated with corn and soy beans. Then, as we approached White Pigeon, where Denise's sister lives, we spotted our first sign of the extraordinary: a horse-drawn buggy racing down the shoulder of the highway.
The horse appeared drenched in sweat at a fast trot while the two costumed buggy occupants sat in relative comfort. I doubted that the horse welcomed the jarring impact of its metal shoes on the hard asphalt. Over the next few days, we heard that many people complain about the treatment of the Amish horses. I'm sure “costume” is not the right word for the Amish attire. An attire-based expression of faith? The men wear black and white clothes, always with suspenders, while the women wear long dresses and bonnets. Makeup, jewelry, and other adornments are prohibited; standing out from the crowd would be contrary to their focus as servants of their God.
The Amish came from Europe and Russia as an experiment in religious freedom. A rich landowner in Pennsylvania offered land to the Amish, Mennonites, and Hudderites shortly after the Indians had been eliminated from the area. The three groups had a common origin, but split at various times due to differing desires for religious strictness. Mennonites blended more with mainstream culture. Hudderites now live mostly in the northwestern US in common-property communes. The Amish occupy various pockets of the central- and north-eastern US. Their population, despite all pressures from mainstream culture, continues to increase, perhaps aided by their large families, and they maintain significant separation from the outside world, an idea written in their religious doctrines.
Buggies keep the Amish culture from spreading out too much and allow them to live without much transportation expense. We read that most buggies cost two to three thousand dollars, but we learned from one Amish man that his son sought a $4,800 buggy. While these prices approach those of automobiles, one man might own only three buggies in a lifetime. Too bad they treat their beasts of burden so harshly.
We spent most of a week with Denise's sister's family, a friendly and generous bunch of folks. They fed us, showed us around Amish country, challenged us to more games of ping-pong than I can count, took us out on a lake in a boat, took us to a winery for unlimited tastings (raspberry champagne!), and even showed us some beautiful sand dunes on Lake Michigan. I spent a couple nights alone at the sand dunes to give myself time to do songwriting, while Denise spent time with the others back at the house. While I was away, they went shopping, visited a local fair, and went to the gym. After they loaded us up with gifts, we parted ways to begin the last leg of our journey.
A long day's drive brought us to southern Missouri at the start of the Ozark Mountains. While looking for a campground, we stumbled on a trail called Cave Trail, which took us a short distance to a cute cave that we viewed with a penlight. A mean-looking dog followed us the whole way, but looks can be deceiving. We opted not to adopt the friendly dog, though. The next morning, we had the misfortune of driving through Branson, a country music, amusement-park-style town. The hundred miles of highway leading up to Branson must hold a record for the most billboards—true visual pollution: best show, hottest show, most magical show, oldest show, newest show, most exciting show, most colorful show, largest show, etc. We must have seen at least forty billboards just for a cavern that you ride through in a Jeep. Yuck. While I don't doubt that some great music could be heard in Branson, I would not want to spend any time and money trying to find it. I guess I prefer the singer-songwriter music back in Austin.
That afternoon, we reached the Ozark National Forest and took a beautiful hike to a couple of caves, one of which has a 50-foot crawl leading to a large dome room showered by a 30-foot waterfall. We camped at the trail head and planned a longer hike for the morning.
The morning hike sounded like a great idea: a designated wilderness area in Buffalo National River with a wide enough trail through it that the poison ivy would not be too intrusive. It turned out to be a good hike, but with bland scenery, a bit like walking through a green tunnel of trees. It lacked view points, water crossings, or anything else to distinguish it. The five- or six-mile hike felt great, though, after spending so much time in a car.
We exited the Ozarks a little out of our way due to the recently-closed bridge on the interstate west of Fort Smith where a boat had hit it, killing a number of people. The rain had begun in full force during the last mile of our hike, and we spent much of the day driving through it. We reached Lake Dallas late in the evening in a severe thunderstorm. We spent the night at my sister's place, enjoying the quick visit, and then headed home at sunup to beat the Dallas rush hour.
We had to detour around a low-water crossing not far from Base Camp. During a week while we were away, Wimberley received over 20 inches of rain, flooding all the creeks. Base Camp survived well enough since all buildings sit two feet off the ground on blocks. Rain never pools more than two inches anywhere on the sloping property. However, the mice and fire ants had been partying. The fire ants, forced by the rain to climb to safety, had taken over the front steps and invaded part of the kitchen. Mice had left droppings in a few places. A full rainwater collection tank awaited us, leaving us with enough water for a year, even if it never rained again. The garden, long-since abandoned, greeted us with two tomatoes.
We have three weeks at home before leaving again, this time going to Colorado. I plan to stay there for two months, Denise for one. We welcomed the modest Texas temperatures, with highs in the mid-nineties and sixty percent humidity; the rain had cooled things off nicely. Three weeks at home does not give us time to start any big projects. This frees us to relax and socialize; in other words, take a vacation from traveling all the time.
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