Adventure 295: Last Post of the Wedding Trip/Livingston, MT/6120 Miles

Miss Kate with her Aunties

 Assuming the Lord grants us another day of traveling mercies, we'll arrive home some time in the mid afternoon tomorrow. Today, we steadily climbed from the Sand Hills to the Black Hills to the Beartooth Mountains of Montana. We rode harder than ever today, traveling over 540 miles, a new record for us. It's interesting because when we entered this Fric and Frac Adventure stuff, we told ourselves we didn't want it to become a driving exercise. Things change, I guess, because we're both smelling the barn like a couple of dairy cows a little over filled. We can't wait to have the robotic arms of home brush our utters, grasp our teats, and let us feel the pure milk goodness of Spokane's South Hill. I know. That was a little much, but so was this trip. Prompted by the fabulously successful union of Scott and Kate, we were able to brush shoulders with family, welcome some new shoulders, and carry on to points East. Judy couldn't have been more pleased with our stay in Floyd. I have VIDEO of us flat foot dancing in Floyd, honky tonking in Nashville, and grinning like girls on a first date to the music of  the Time Jumpers, who are exceptional. On the way home, we got to visit with Aunt Alice, Cousin Dale, and Cousin Kathy in Beatrice, NE. And I do believe if the unbearable weather you brave people suffer through in the midwest had given us a little reprieve, we'd have dallied a bit longer. The fact is, we live in heaven, which makes us eager to get home. We'd welcome any of you to come West to visit us. We're like most empty nesters. We have a huge house that used to house children who now populate the place only on major holidays. As a result, we have rooms that we rarely go into anymore. They can easily be de-junked to make room for honored guests from the heartland. As part of our effort, Judy drove again today, and quite well I might add. She must have been buoyed by her new winning streak in cribbage. She soundly trounced in Nebraska (Fitting, I guess, since it is the state of her birth). I hope to recoup some of my losses now that we're in Montana. We do enjoy the traditions we're building on these road trips, one of which is our daily game of cards.  We're also advocates for any of you who hope in the future to hit the roads of America. We didn't invent it, but anyone can do it. There are people to meet, places to see, and everywhere we go, we're inspired. Having said that, we've already made arrangements with our kids and my dad to have family dinner Sunday night. If we've noticed anything on this trip, it's the value of family. Nothing makes a hug more firm than an absence. What's that line,  "Absence makes the heart grow fonder." As for highlights, nothing surpasses the wedding kiss of the two newlyweds, although one of the best things about traveling is reliving some of the moments after we get home. That's why I write this blog. I'm flattered that people read it, but for us, the best part is re-reading where we've been and what we've done. We choose to live the moments as they happen, but they do run together, and if road travelers aren't careful, they can view the whole trip from the cab of the truck. That's why the record is fun to revisit. The bottom line is we like to get out and rub shoulders. I believe people are more alike than they're different. I also believe that most Americans are busy living "the dream". It's a good dream. It's is what makes life good, especially today. (A few photo highlights to follow)

 Our Lord as represented in a fresco in West Jefferson, NC

 My Bunny looking good on the Creeper Trail.

 The sunrise as seen from our campsite in Floyd, VA.

 America flying great in Nashville, TN.

 The two of us Honky Tonking in Tootsies on a Monday morning.

 The two of us continuing to  Honky Tonk at 3rd and Lindsley that same Monday (Now night).

As many of the Time Jumpers as I could get into the frame. Just excellent!

 Driving and RV isn't really stressful, anyone can do it.

 When we hit the Beartooth Mountains. The temperature dropped from 90+ to 75. 

Miss Karen and Deb Drouin getting ready to sprinkle Miss Jane's ashes into Priest Lake.

 The view of Priest Lake from my cousin's dock: Heaven as we define it.

Miss Karen and Miss Judy, quite a cute couple of Bunnies.

Adventure 294: Chadron State Park, NE

Lotsa Sand Out There.

I'd like to reflect a moment on the notion of toughness, that "sand" so to speak. We're all tough in our own way. Vince Lombardi said, "When the going gets tough, the tough get going". Some people take solace that when things get tough, "The Lord gives us nothing we can't handle." My favorite tough thought though, is Hunter S. Thompson's line, "When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro." It's arguably weird out there in the "real" world right now, and while I haven't figured out a way to make money off the circumstance, I think it is a true, blue American sentiment. Last night at dinner, cousin Dale, responding to a question I asked him about corporate farming, explained that there are corporations and LLCs, but most are family held and done to manage taxes and to ease the transfer of business, land, and futures to the next generation. He said at least in Nebraska, there aren't many large outside corporations in the farming business. He gave an example of a farmer in Iowa who profits all across the production stream. The farmer grows grain, which feeds live stock, which is butchered and sold, as are the chickens who lay eggs, who are then butchered and sold, and the cycle repeats in a way that is sustainable. I think this lifestyle is the very essence of "sand". If anybody travels across the bread basket of America as we have lately, they're bound to see people "scratching a living from the earth" as Dale put it. These people astound me. They have extreme faith, more courage, and the ability to rely on themselves. Now that's sandy. I dare anyone not to wiggle their toes in the sand without realizing that life in America is good, especially today.

 As Asleep at the Wheel says, "It's miles and miles of....."

 Coal trains in the distance.

 Coal trains up close.

Twin engines pulling, two middle engines straining, one engine pushing.

Adventure 293: Beatrice, NE

Missouri's Ribbon Candy Road

The only thing missing was the umbrella drinks and the palm trees. Missouri offered everything else. We had blow furnace winds up past twenty-five miles an hour, hotness to 99 degrees, and the kind of sticky humidity that wrinkled my legs into the shape of my sweat stained cargo shorts. And the corn is growing, too! Lots of it. A gazillion soy beans, too. But the best part was the road. Since we had all day to get to Beatrice, NE (Birthplace of Judy, her mother, and home to her cousin Dale and her Aunt Alice), we decided to eschew the freeway in an effort to get a real taste of rural Missouricana. Missouri ain't flat, but the road is mostly straight, so up and down we went, whoopty doing along the back farm roads, thankful that Fric maintained a proper engine temperature, more thankful that the air conditioning worked, and even more thankful that all systems performed on the drive train, the wheels, the tires, and the propane system cooling the refrigerator (Since technically, we were in the middle of nowhere). Those worries aside, the rural terrain is home to corn grown for bio-fuel and livestock feed. It's shoulder high already, and as lushly green as the eyes of a red headed Irish girl. The farms, not as neatly kept as those in Iowa (Although there is some competitive lawn mowing going on), seemed busy and prosperous. The small towns, however, seemed dusty, forgotten and forlorn. We ate lunch along side the road in King City, Missouri, which they call the Gem of the Highway. The Frac Restaurant, where we enjoyed a finely created ham and cheddar sandwich, a few Washington cherries that we bought in Virginia, some assorted vegetables, and a smattering of pretend chips Judy likes to serve me, proved to be delicious and comfortable despite the ridiculous heat. I managed to eek out a win in cribbage, which brings me to the topic of the day: Cribbage. I couldn't get out of Tennessee fast enough. The Wiley Cager beat me so often in Nashville, that I felt like a snare drum on the set of some Honky Tonker. She strummed me so often, I felt like the fat string on a stand up base. And it was so humid, the cards were curling like the quivering lip of a country bumpkin standing on the stage of the Opry for the first time. My hands were sticky, my spirit was heavy, my heart was lonesome and I was sweating so much, the skeeters skipped off me like I was a slip and slide. Needless to say, all this stickiness put my normal dexterity into question, which meant I couldn't afford myself my usual cheater's edge. The bottom line is she won so often she started cackling like Donald Trump, "Believe me we're going to win, and win often, and win big. We'll win so often, we'll be great again." My ears hurt, but I knew I couldn't give up, so I hung in there like Bernie Sanders, and now that we've left Tennessee, I know there will be a few more egalitarians somewhere out there on the horizon, which naturally means my fortunes should change. I'm not saying that I'm a poor loser, but I did throw the curled cards into the trash. The new, barely used and very slippery cards are better for my style. It will be great to win again (Maybe The Donald has point)! On a more serious note, tonight we'll have dinner with Aunt Alice, Dale and his wife Kathy. This is another good family event. Alice is the last remaining relative Judy has on her mother's side. Aunt Alice is in her mid-nineties, and while she doesn't drive anymore, she's still sharp, lives alone, and has her memory intact. Judy used to come to Beatrice to the farm as a little girl. She and her cousins have fond memories of playing in the hay, gathering eggs, picking mulberries, milking cows, and taking turns cleaning the outhouse. I'm sure Dale and Judy will reminisce a little, which will be nice. Life was good for them then, and it's good for us now, especially today.

We ate at the fabulous Frac restaurant right beside the road: the gem of the highway.

Our campsite in the park in Beatrice, NE

 Judy's cousin, Dale Linsenmeyer, and his lovely wife, Kathy.

Judy and her Aunt Alice.

Adventure 292: Hannibal, MO

Mark Twain Campground Site E1

After a late night of Honky Tonking, we woke up with road map eyes, but buoyed as we were by the spirit of dreamers, we pushed on, rode Fric and Frac hard, up and around the Great River Road beside the muddy Mississippi. We traveled through Tennessee, Kentucky, Illinois, and finally Missouri where we are now in Hannibal, the birthplace of Mark Twain (Total miles today: 412). How fitting. Mark Twain said, "Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrowmlndness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime."  Twain may be right, but there's room for debate. He reminds me of myself when I start soapboxing in that I'm perfectly capable of being absolutely right and completely wrong at the same time. As we traveled this part of America, we once again came upon rural settings where family members have been working the land for generations. Add to that, a proximity to the Mississippi, which means these rural folk have also worked, with, around, and despite the great muddy. It breeds a certain mindset. Our forefathers called it self-reliance, which for then and now is considered by many to be a good thing. As a cyclist, I've traveled an even slower pace across this country, and there's something unassuming about an old, fat bald guy riding a bicycle packed heavy with gear. People are not intimidated, nor are they afraid. Instead, they are open and inquisitive. And they're prone to conversation. One phenomenon that recurs with these people, who I'm sure have seldom been far from home. They literally do not know their own surroundings. "How far is such and such, I say?" They reply some vague, "Well, it's almost fifteen minutes to the Grange, and then at the fork you hang a left." Are these the people so sorely in need of travel as Twain claims? Maybe. But they have a whole world right in front of them in the lives they lead. Their lives consume them. it requires of them complete commitment, complete trust. There is little room for questioning, little solace either. They are familiar with their surroundings, and they feel safe in what they know.  I suppose that's Twain's point. These folk have not been able to gain a breadth of perspective because they've not been past the mail box, except for a rare trip to the "big city" a time or two in their lives. And why should they? Everything they need is here for them. In as much as that's true, it's easy to see why they develop a narrow state of mind. It's good in that it allows them the peace of certainty, but it's bad in that it leaves them with an undeveloped sense of the greater world. So then, what's the excuse for "big city" folk who have the advantage of travel, the advantage of experience, those "worldly" folks who have developed opinions  etched like commandments in the granite of their own perspectives. Aren't we all burdened in some way by our world view? Don't we all succumb to our own bias, either learned or experienced?  I've discovered in my life that if a person's mind is made up, it can't be changed with facts. Maybe that is the narrow gauge Twain was talking about. I don't know. What I do know is the golden rule holds as much sway now as it ever has, and I'm not talking about the golden rule that says, "He with the most gold makes the rule." I'm talking about the do unto others as....idea. I try to walk in other people's shoes. I try to see their point of view. I try not to be blinded by my own view. I try not to grasp to my own immutable truth. I feel that the closet I view the world from is cluttered with so many things true, untrue, supposed, proven, unproven, and down right strange, that it's ludicrous for me to suppose that I've any special grasp on the truth. I'm not as sure of myself as Mark Twain. I leave some room for 'another possibility'. So, I treat people as well as I'm able, and I find they often treat me as the same. This makes life good, especially today.

 I hope to someday come back to visit the dreamers on Broadway in Nashville

 If you are ever in Nashville, make sure your wheels turn you to 3rd and Lindsley to hear the Time Jumpers.

Speaking of time jumping. The days of Hannibal, Missouri seemed to have passed, but I'll wager there are several fine humans living among the seventeen thousand who call this place home.

 The road of time ever winds on.

 And the big muddy flows to the sea.

Adventure 291: Nashville, TN

Honky Tonking at 3rd and Lindsley

Those of you who know Judy may find it hard to believe that she slid herself up onto a bar stool at 10:30 AM, and even less likely that she would order a Bloody Mary. She did just that, and we were off Honky Tonking down Broadway in Nashville, Tennessee on a Monday morning. I mean how can you drink all day if you don't start early. The cliche, I believe, begins (Like a lot of old songs) "When in Rome...." we hit nearly every joint along music row, and like I started telling people. "We just became Country Music fans this morning." That's not quite true, but we were definitely caught up in the spirit. The spirit itself is a wonderful thing. People from all over come to Nashville hoping to realize the dream of stardom. There are pickers on the street playing for hat money, pickers in the bars playing for tips, and headliners who've made it playing the big venues. What's clear is that stardom may be the dream, but love is what drives the music. Take this little girl (Gabby), dressed in a frilly knee length dress wearing a curled up alligator skinned cowboy hat, standing on the bar tap next to a not too much older girl named Grace. They were pounding out some song about lonesome love as if they were headlining the Grand Old Opry. I watched Gabby after her "performance". She sang along with every song. She not only knew the words, she knew the breaks, the inflections, the nuance, and the music flowed from her like electric current from the Tennessee Valley Authority. Every joint we walked into had some version of Gabby, though most were old enough to know better. That's the best part of dreaming. Dreams know no bounds; they know no age. Later that night we listened to the Time Jumpers, a top drawer ten member group whose players are all well known to Country Music fans, and whose successful careers have them well up the success ladder. Our table mates, Larry and Brenda, were a father-daughter duo in town to celebrate Father's day. Larry, a seventy-five up beat self-described cowboy who knew every player by name, every word to every song, had a twinkle in his eye as bright as young Gabby's. He's been in love with the music for his entire life, and now he's cut a couple of CDs, but like he says, "I'm a nobody; anyone with cash can cut a record." He also said something I think says it all about the dream. "I just want to write songs that touch people". I spent the whole night (And most of the day) tapping my foot, slapping my knee, holding to the firm belief that music makes people happy; it brings them together, and speaks a language that crosses any barrier we normally put between us. Music allows us to feel. Not only were the dreamers in the Honky Tonks feeling, the fans were, too. More than one person mouthed the words to the song they were hearing.  While waiting to get in to see the Time Jumpers, we talked with three ladies (Our age) from Texas, two lesbian gals (A little younger) from Asheville, NC, and a few other people, including one woman who says she comes every Monday night because "it's cheaper than a shrink". We were all standing in the hot afternoon sun for the same reason. We wanted that music to wash over us like Baptismal water. We wanted to feel whole. We wanted to be blessed by possibility. It affirms what I've said quite a bit lately. We live in a great country where it's not only OK to dream, it's expected. And what's more: Dreams come true. For all of you out there keep dreaming, for like Langston Hughes said, "When dreams die, life is a broken bird that cannot fly." Keep your dreams alive; keep flying, and keep believing that life is good, especially today. 

 This young gal was ready to do some boot stomping.

 Not to miss a food stop, we enjoyed some Tennessee hot chicken at Hattie B's.

Gabby and Grace belting out a lonesome dove song.

 Paul Franklin, a pedal steel player at the very top of the music dreamscape. Here, he was giving a shout out to his idol, Kel Friesen.

 Brenda and her song writing, life loving father, Larry.

Ranger Doug had us all yodeling by the end of the night. The overwhelming sentiment: "Hell Ya!"

Adventure 290: Raccoon Valley RV/Heiskell, TN

Raccoon Valley Site #18

My best buddy, Dave Ulmen, is on record of wanting to 'have it all'. Judy and I did today. We went to an uplifting church service where the preacher was dynamic (Can I hear an Amen?), the people were friendly, and the message was worthy. Later, Judy got to sing her shape notes while I managed the trailer for travel, and we made it safely to Tennessee, jockeying as it were with dogs of all sizes along the merging freeways of Southwest Virginia and Tennessee. Right now, we're tucked in nicely in site #18, and best of all, we have reception for tonight's game seven. How sweet it is. Today is Father's day, which is a day of mixed emotion day for me. I've long considered my absentee father a mere sperm donor, although through the grace of God and a willingness on my part to act on the notion that it's never too late to build a relationship, we've moved my father to an independent living situation five minutes from our home in Spokane. Over the years, I've made it a point to visit him very year because like I used to tell my students whose parents often divorced when their kids were about twelve, "You either have a relationship with you parents, or you want one". I want one. My dad is 85 years old. God willing he'll be cogent for at least another five years. Maybe more. I want those years. In addition, I've not been the father I could have been (Judy says I'm too hard on myself). The fact is, I dedicated much of my time to coaching during my teaching career. That left less time for my kids. I did participate as much as I could, but I really didn't get to 'have it all' in that sense. I do love the fact that my son has learned from my mistakes. He's the loving father of two great girls. He does things a good father should. Beyond that, I believe there is still time, so in my grandfather role, I'm swimming like a scared duck to make up for past indiscretions. In today's message at Beaver Creek Brethren Church, Marvin Wade, the pastor worked himself into a sweat convincing all of us fathers to step up to the task. He spoke of Abraham who was commanded by God to sacrifice his son Isaac. Abraham, because of his great faith, didn't hesitate. He simply took Isaac up to the mountain with him. When Isaac asked, "Father, where is the lamb to be sacrificed? Abraham replied, "The Lord will provide." And he did, and he does. I live in faith that he will provide for me as well because it bears repeating. It's never too late to come to the Father because you either have relationship with him, or you want one. That said, I'm grateful for the traveling mercies of today, and regardless who wins tonight's game (Go Warriors), life is good, especially today. Happy Father's Day!

 The kids at Beaver Creek Brethren Church handed these out to all the father's today

 It's never too late to be one super pop.

Adventure 289: Floyd, VA/Post E

True love strikes again (Always worth it, and that's my best Father's Day advice). We drove a hundred miles South to Abingdon just to ride the Creeper Trail, an extremely popular multi-use rail trail in South Eastern Virginia. The original plan had been to take the Fric and Frac show down that a way on the way home from Floyd, but my Bunny has become intrigued by the Shape Note Singing they're doing here at The Floyd Country Store tomorrow afternoon, so we changed plans because we can, and because why not make the Bunny happy? It works both ways:) Fric, the work horse, handled the extra duty flawlessly by the way. Tim, the driver, avoided all contact with other dogs, big and little, so life is good. The trail itself is quite worthy of any distance it takes to travel there. The trail, born, as usual, as a money grabbing venture, which means some rich white guys were trying to get richer by extracting minerals and logs from the area, is exquisite. They succeeded for quite a while, almost a hundred years. However, in the 1970s, the trail suffered from neglect (And lack of profit), so when the floods came and tore out the rails and trestles, the line was abandoned. It was reclaimed by the towns of Abingdon and Damascus as far as right of ways go, and much of the land was returned to the farmers in the area. Today, the thirty-five miles of trail, mostly crushed gravel, some mud, a few rocks, and at least 20 trestles flows like a blue grass riff up and down the Holsten River from Abingdon to White Top. A multi-use trail, we saw families walking, bikers biking, some serious, most not, and a couple of ladies riding horses. In keeping with the tone of this area, almost everyone greeted us with a "Hey". Judy and I rode to Damascus and back, which covers half the trail length of 35 miles. We covered a total of 32 total riding miles. It was a glorious day, another rose petal on the cake of our twenty-seventh honeymoon (Thanks, Kate and Scott). Tomorrow, Sunday, will be our last day in Floyd. We've chosen to attend the Church of the Brethren in Beaver Creek. In our travels we've found it interesting to attend an assortment of denominations. We've covered the whole gamut from Catholics, to Lutherans, to Mormans, to Mega-Churches, to Baptists, to Presbyterians, to non-descript Bible driven Christian churches. I'm especially interested in the Brethren because they are one of the three recognized non-violent groups in Christianity. Along with the Quakers and the Mennonites, they've been in the forefront of resisting violence, actively placing their beliefs in the face of war by refusing to serve as a matter of conscience. Another aspect of their belief system is to "walk the walk". For them it's not enough for them to live well in the sight of the Lord. They must also live lives of service, hoping to emulate in the best sense, the walk of Jesus. I'm also secretly hoping that the music will be influenced by the area. We'll see. Maybe we'll hear some old time gospel songs. This evening, we're enjoying a last night atop this knoll we're calling home at Chantilly Farms. As Robert Frost suggests in A Road Not Taken, knowing how way leads on to way, we may not pass this way again. But I can assure you, for the past five days, life has been especially good.

 My Bunny, fresh on the Creeper Trail.

 The farmers ask that the gates be kept closed to keep the livestock in. 

 Corn grows in Virginia, too!

 Hey, Mabel. Can I follow you home?

 These two guys, who answered to the names, Rod and Kel, said, "We ain't catching nothing but Bluegills."

 Oink.

 Modern times mean metal roofs.

Follow the adventure this a way.

Adventure 288: Floyd, VA/Post D

Come to the Friday night Jamboree!

Scott and Kate's theme for their wedding (And fervent hope) was to build community. Thanks to them, Judy and I have been slingshotted across the country to a place where community is strong. Tonight, we enjoyed The Floyd Country Store jamboree, which happens every Friday night, fifty-two times a year. People from all over come to Floyd to enjoy the experience. Halfway through the night, they give the band a rest, hold a raffle, and ask the audience who traveled farthest to visit Floyd. Tonight's winner was a young lady from Seoul, Korea. She beat out another young lady from Slovenia, and an older man from London. We Spokanites weren't even in the running. Nevertheless, we joined the community for the night. We two-stepped and we flat stepped. We danced until we were as sweaty as country hogs. We weren't alone. The locals shirt's were spotted with sweat. Hair was plastered to foreheads, and the fans hanging from the corners of the ceiling were spinning at full speed. Everyone was having a ball, dancing together in an atmosphere that was as warm as a newlywed's smile. There were dances for everyone. The flat stepping was for the energetic; the two stepping was for the graceful and the connected (They say Virginia is for Lovers). There was a square dance number that so filled the floor, they had to form two circles. It strikes me that these mountain folk value community above all, especially the community of family. The night's headliners were called the Slate Mountain Ramblers. The band consisted of Mom, Dad, Daughter, and Son-in-Law. We've seen this time and time again since we've been here. It's almost as if everyone plays music, and they play together. They also play from memory. They play song after song, each lasting about two and a half minutes. They play straight for two hours. By my math that amounts to about fifty-five songs, and and not a piece of sheet music in sight. Impressive! It's not just the playing; it's also the communication; it's a space where young and old can value each other, and most of all, listen to each other. I think Scott and Kate are on to something. Perhaps the world would be a better place if we began listening, communicating, and finding a way to value each other. For Judy and me, we're calling our time here our "twenty-seventh' honeymoon, because, after all, we are like lovers even when we aren't in Virginia. We danced with abandon tonight, joining in, protected by the warmth of acceptance. If anyone did notice us (Which I doubt), they simply said, "Come on in, everyone's welcome. It's a nice enough thought to have me gratefully say, "Life is good, especially today.

 This gentleman led the free dance lesson before the jamboree started. He was excellent.

 Miss Judy learning the art of flat stepping.

 On Friday nights in Floyd, music can be heard inside and out. This trio was playing right next to the park where the chili cook off was taking place. This happened before the music started at The Floyd Country Store.

 Janet Turner on the auto harp. She and her "friends" led the gospel hour.

 Packed house at The Floyd Country Store.

The Slate Mountain Ramblers from Airy, NC played the dance music.

Life is truly sweet in the land of Mom's apple pie (Ala mode)