The Last Leg

From Tucumcari I headed west staying on the interstate only until Rosa Blanca, then onto back roads again. Vaughn, Corona, Carrizozo, then west crossing the Rio Bravo to San Antonio. From there I cut south on Highway 1 to the Bosque del Apache.

The Bosque is a wildlife refuge sitting along the Rio. Paul and I went there years ago in winter, staying at a sweet little B&B (Casa Blanca) in San Antonio. After driving and walking the refuge, we stood along the road watching wave after wave of Canadian geese and sandhill cranes arrive for the night after clearing area fields of leftover grains.

They clustered in groups of maybe a few hundred. Suddenly, on a signal known only to birds, all the groups rose as one, circled, and settled in new spots. It was magical.

On this day, there were no cranes or geese. They're smart and have gone north, the cranes perhaps as far away as Russia. It was hovering around 100 again, so again, I didn't stay out long. I drove, walked some. Enjoyed being the only one foolish enough to visit the Bosque on such a hot day.

The highlight was seeing three deer. Young, I think. Their antlers were about 12" tall and still fuzzy. There were also pheasant and some long-necked black birds sitting on a dead tree in the water. I have no idea what they were.

Then south, still on Highway 1, the lone vehicle for over twenty miles. I had to reenter the highway for the last stretch to Truth or Consequences.

T or C. One of my favorite spots. I rediscovered it about three years ago and found what is my favorite little motel in the US (my favorite so far - I'm still looking). It's called Riverbend. T or C is an area of hot springs, and Riverbend is along the Rio Bravo in the hot water district. It has six tubs, water moving from one into the next, and then into the river.

When I first went there, it was funky, a kind of 60s leftover. The rooms were a bit worn, but very comfortable. It still had a women's dorm with three sets of bunk beds. Beds in the dorm were $10 a night. I stayed there once with Minnow, the resident cat. I think I've stayed at Riverbend about a dozen times in the last three years.

But they decided to upgrade. All rooms have been remodeled, and the wonderful dorm has been closed. The room I first stayed in for $60 is now $90. The fanciful little three bedroom place with a tiny kitchen used to be $90. Now it's $160. I have been priced out of Riverbend.

But I stayed the night. $70. My most expensive stay of the whole trip. The room has been nicely redone, but in the future I'll have to stay up the road at the Charles where one can get two beds and a kitchenette for under $50. Walk a few blocks to Riverbend for the view and a soak.

It rained again Thursday night. Not bucketloads, but a real rain. Sitting in the hot water in the cool rain was delicious.

Two soaks that night and two the next morning. A quick visit to the Black Cat Bookstore, and I was on the road. Through Hatch. Past the Valley Cafe (aka the Dead Kennedy Restaurant). The Dead Kennedy Restaurant has the absolute best huevos rancheros to be found in the 50 states. You have to go deep into Mexico to find better.

Back roads from Hatch to Deming, then I-10 nearly to the Arizona border. South on historical Highway 80. 80 runs coast to coast, from San Diego to Van Horn Texas where it actually splits. You can take the northern route through Dallas and end up in Savannah, Georgia, or the southern route through Houston and New Orleans and end up in Jacksonville, Florida. Maybe one day I'll do that whole route.

Just like Route 66, old Highway 80 has been gobbled up in most places by interstate, but the last 130 miles or so of my trip were on blue highway 80.

Just south of the interstate I saw a Border Patrol vehicle. Amazing. I'd almost forgotten about them on this journey. But here, at least 70 miles north of the border, I saw the first, sitting in the middle of the road, the driver chatting with people on the side of the road. Soon came another vehicle.

Before I got anywhere near the border, I'd seen at least a dozen. Why, I wondered, don't the Border Patrol actually patrol the border? I know some do, but I saw more of them 50+ miles away from the border than I have seen right here on the border since yesterday.

Nearing Rodeo on Highway 80, there were still camps of temporary housing and firefighters. The Horseshoe Fire has been burning for a month and one day now, at a cost of 9.5 million dollars so far. It is now contained, with about 400 acres currently burning. There are still over 100 men and women, 3 helicopters, and several other pieces of firefighting equipment tied up there. Sadly, Thursday night's rain missed the fire. More sadly, area lightning has started two new fires.

I left with the fire, returned with the fire. I left just after a full moon, returning in time for the next. This morning, my first morning home I rose early to sit on the flagstone porch and watch the lunar eclipse. When I left it was late spring. Now, it is full summer. Crisp mornings are gone, replaced by an almost sultry quiet heat. Monsoons are near.

Heading West

I left Osage Beach down more blue highways through the Ozarks. It was with a mixture of happiness and frustration that I got onto the interstate. Glad to be covering some miles, frustrated to be dealing with interstate traffic and missing rural scenery.

Past 30 miles of billboards encouraging me to visit Branson (music! shows! The Princess Diana Exhibit!) and I finally eased into Oklahoma where the road was worse and there was a toll.

I'd hoped to connect with an old friend in Norman OK, but I left Osage Beach late morning and couldn't stand the highway. I turned off and followed more blue highways. I had to call my friend about an hour outside of OK City and tell her I couldn't drive any longer. I stayed on Route 66 (got my kicks) and found an original "motor hotel" with $35 rooms.

The room was worn, and the toilet sat an an angle due to a saggy bathroom floor, but the A/C worked, and since it was 103 in town, it seemed a lot better than sleeping in Stella.

On the road again, early, staying on Route 66 into the edge of the Great Plains, through small towns and past great fields of grain interspersed with cookie-cutter subdivisions. The dirt turned Oklahoma red. I had to climb on the interstate occasionally but mostly stayed on whatever side road I could find. One one remote road, I saw no vehicles for many miles, but hit one spot of kamikaze grasshoppers. If I hadn't needed gas anyway, I would have had to stop to scrub the windshield.

I was on the interstate when I entered Texas because I wanted to stop at the welcome center for information about my next stop, Palo Duro Canyon. Unfortunately, Texas does not welcome people who drive I-40. We are left to fend for ourselves. However, I did stop at the rest stop/ storm shelter midway across the Panhandle. There was a little information about Palo Duro, but nothing I could take with me to help me find it.

I cut south at Amarillo toward Palo Duro, the second largest canyon in the US. I drove through the plains and gentle hills making only two wrong map-less turns. The topography changed a bit, more trees, and then wham! There is was. An incredible canyon that stretches for miles and miles. And miles. 120 miles.

Unlike the Grand, you can drive into Palo Duro Canyon. I paid my $5, visited the interpretive center, and headed down. It drops about 800 feet over a drive of four miles, eventually sitting 1000 feet below the rim in some places. I'd hoped to camp there, but the canyon temperature was 109. I did walk a bit, but with that heat, not much.

I don't know how far the canyon road goes because I turned around after cruising and walking the canyon for about an hour. Since I wasn't going to camp there, I wanted to make it to my second choice, Tucumcari NM.

I continued to opt for the back roads and meandered the Panhandle. Cattle stood knee deep in grass, wandering and grazing. No, not grazing. In that much grass they were gorging. Down farm roads where the only other traffic was the occasional semi or a truck weighed down with hay.

Because of the magic of time zones, I got to Tucumcari earlier than I thought I would. Back on Route 66, I found another vintage motor hotel, this one named, appropriately, The Historic Route 66 Motel. With tax, around $31.

Dinner at Del's. If you are in northeastern New Mexico, stop in Tucumcari. Friendly people, very affordable hotels, and lots of food at Del's. Get the chicken fajitas and plan to share it with someone. I took plenty to go. Good salsa, too, a true sign of being back in the southwest.

It's really, really hard to get good salsa east of west Texas. In the east, it's made for gringo tongues. I have seen it made with bell pepper rather than jalapeno. Tomato sauce rather than tomatoes. Totally immoral. Oh, there's nothing like good salsa! (try my mango salsa if you're ever out this way - it's killer!)

It poured Wednesday night while I slept in Tucumcari. The rain began shortly after I got back to my room after dinner, and it rained most of the night. Bucketloads of water.

I got up early Thursday morning, looked out, and saw heavy clouds on their way east. I headed west.

Osage Beach

I settled into a lovely condo in Osage Beach, lake view, thanks to my dear friend Seasi and her timeshare. Seasi and four others had settled in as well.

Kate, Pam, Hillary, and Alan had arrived before me and each had brought approximately enough food to feed all of us for several days. Starved after my winding drive into the Ozarks, I dove into leftovers.

That evening, Hillary grilled marinated tuna and veggies. Add on a salad and some brown rice, and we were set, dining on the balcony overlooking the lake. Then her phone rang; she took it inside. She reemerged to say, "I have to go home now. There's a tree in my house."

Kansas City storms had toppled a huge tree onto her house. She set off close to 10 pm with food, coffee, and, I'm sure, a strong dose of panic. Thankfully, she arrived home to find it had caved in a portion of her (almost new) roof, but the house itself was intact. The following day, a Sunday, Father's Day, crews were already cutting the tree into pieces and hauling it off.

Kate, Pam, and Alan left Sunday afternoon. I remained until Tuesday, late morning. Read. Doze. Splash about in the lake. Take a dip in the pool. Hot tub. You get the idea: total relaxation.

My first morning there, Sunday, I sat on the deck, reading. Just about the time it got too hot for me to sit outside any longer, I realized how totally private it was. So the next two mornings, I did what any reasonable person would do: I got naked. Sat or lay on the balcony both mornings until it got too warm, by about 9.

Days were hot and incredibly humid, and the combination kept us inside for too much of the time. It was easy to overheat even when in the lake or pool. A planned walk was canceled because it was just too hot. We emerged one hot afternoon for a fast run to a thrift store, a trip to an outlet mall, and ice cream.

I left, again regretfully. Leaving water gets harder and harder.

BP Country

Left Louisville before 6 am and drove straight into a thunderstorm. I eased along at about 45, but when water began sheeting across the highway, I pulled off for about ten minutes until the rain slowed. Within an hour, I was on the eastern side of the storm, facing gray skies and sprinkles for a little while. Then it cleared.

I cut south just east of St. Louis, and soon headed west on country roads into the Missouri Ozarks. More hills, curves and green. Stretches where I saw no house, no car, no signs of humanity for ten minutes. I even drove through one small town and saw no one, no moving vehicles.

The roadsides were a dazzle of Queen Anne's Lace, blackeyed Susan, and bachelor button. When I passed through small towns, yards burst with daylillies - the orange, always, but also yellow, burgundy and peach. Sometimes they spill out of the yards and down to the roadsides, mingling with the wildflowers.

Ever since I got to central Texas, I have been in BP country. Some small towns have only one gas station, and it's BP. Residents of those towns are, at least sometimes, forced to buy their gas from BP.

Everywhere I went, BP stations had little to no traffic. On Saturday, as I drove through Union City MO, it was about noontime and the town was bustling. Cars filled grocery store parking lots and fast food places appeared to be jammed. Every gas station had a car at almost every pump. Every gas station but one. The BP station had a dozen pumps and only one vehicle was there.

People are making their feelings known with their debit cards and credit cards. BP stations stand empty. Those few stations with customers usually had people in the little mini mart, not cars sitting at the pumps.

In Louisville, a gas and service station closed some time ago (see prices). I don't know the whole story, but it was a Clark station with a huge PB sign. The sign has been recently draped to cover the offending logo.

Fallingwater

Jean, Jessie, and I left Chambersburg on Sunday morning a week ago around 8, with a noon appointment at Frank Lloyd Wright's Fallingwater.

We eased through back country hills, so different from the coastal area I'd recently left. Here, we were mostly going up or down. Along the coast, if you're headed uphill, it's a bridge or an overpass. Flat. Straight. Many roads went for miles without a slight curve.

In southern Pennsylvania, a straight stretch of road may last a quarter mile. Up, down, curve. Up, down. That's the area we drove, an area whose roadsides are green and lush.

We arrived at Fallingwater and spilled out of the car, ready for our tour, but early. We hit the gift shop ($50 disappeared there) and soon it was time for our tour.

Over the years I'd read about Fallingwater and had seen photos, but nothing, nothing, nothing prepared me for is simple elegance. Although massive, it balances as though dainty. It fits its setting, as though it has stood there always. Wright, the master of merging nature and architecture.

Tour groups are about a dozen people, and although there is no real warning, the tour, like southern Pennsylvania, is all about up and down and few straight lines. The setting is stunning: green hills and a creek spilling over boulders. Wright's house juts out over the creek, each room and deck with its own private view.

The living room area is large with views both up and down the creek. It's finest point, to me, is a stairwell that descends from the room into the creek. The stairway is covered with operable windows, so even on coldest days one can sit and look directly into the water. The photo to the left was taken from the outside, showing the stairs that go up into the living room.

I have no interior photo of this as interior photos were not allowed, and our movements were monitored by video cameras in each room. Generally, I would resent and complain about being monitored in such a way, but the space was so magical, I was so incredibly blessed to be there, that I put my feelings aside and wallowed in the beauty. (search on the internet - you can find interior photos, just none by me)

The entire house is balanced on boulders, is constructed of flagstone, and has sealed flagstone floors. Decks and rooms jut out on all sides. It balances perfectly, all attached to a massive fireplace built onto the main boulder. The separation between inside and outside is blurry. Even in the small, cozy bedrooms, the out-of-doors is a part of the room.

After our visit, we wound through more hills, stopping in the village of Ohiopyle to walk by the river, then moved on to Morgantown, West Virginia. Checked into the historic Morgan Hotel and ate across the street at Madelines. Not just a yummy restaurant: I left my Discover Card there, and when I noticed and called, the express mailed it to me so I had it the following day.

Jessie and I wandered by the river, lay on the dock. Dozed. Breakfast the next morning at the Blue Moose Cafe, then back to Louisville.

Chambersburg

Jean, Jessie, Aunt Grace, and I left Corry for Chambersburg, Pennsylvania for Cousin Bruce's marriage to Cindy. We sidetracked into the fringes of Pittsburgh to pick up Bruce's daughter Emilie. Two Emilies in one vehicle!

Down country roads and through rolling hillsides, over rivers and streams, to a fairly new subdivision outside of Chambersburg.

The next morning, farmers market. Tiny, and about one third of the booths were womaned by Mennonites. Jams, beef, veggies. Baby goats and sheep. Women in long dresses and caps covering their tied up hair.

Chambersburg. No, it's not a town. In Pennsylvania, it's a borough, with a population around 18,000. It hosts a small Presbyterian college and people from a surprising number of places: Dominican Republic, Mexico, Guatemala, Puerto Rico.

Bookstores, antique shops, thrift stores. Small markets with foods I've never seen.

Civil War history. A fountain sits in the middle of town to commemorate the over 5000 county residents who served in that war. Much of the borough was burned down by the Confederates. Abolitionist John Brown boarded there while preparing for the raid on Harper's Ferry.

All the Burrs and direct descendants of my grandparents (a grand total of seven) gathered in Chambersburg for Bruce's wedding. Now that Cindy has married Bruce, there are eight of us. Likely one of the tiniest families going.

Clouds began stacking up about two hours before the wedding. Rain began, and as we climbed into the van, lightning stuck so closely, we thought it had hit one of the few remaining Burrs. But we made it out, drove through the storm, and got to Cindy's (and now Bruce's) cabin just as the sky cleared, only minutes before the wedding was to begin.

Music, vows, and hors d'oeuvers out on the cabin's deck, then we drove to Emily's Restaurant, where Emilie and Emilie stood scowling at the misspelling.

Champagne toasts and dinner at nine - about four hours past my eating time! And then back to Cindy and Bruce's house where the Burrs (minus Bruce and Cindy!) bedded down for a second night.

A family reunion is in the offing for summer 2011.

Into Grandma's Attic

Corry, Pennsylvania. Touring my grandparents' house with current owners Curt and Holly.

From the kitchen, Holly and Curt followed us up the back stairs to the landing where the kitchen stairs met the stairway from the parlor. The leaded glass window at the landing, still intact.

Up to the second floor. I peeked cautiously into each of the four bedrooms. Whew! Almost unchanged. Mine, the one I always used as a child, was at the rear of the house, in the northeast corner. One window offered a view of the back yard, a brick wall, and the "castle" beyond.

The house that backs my grandparents' home, the Hillstrom house, was not a castle, but is certainly a mansion. Even as a child, when I played dolls with the little girl in that home, I knew it was huge, grand, and special. For one, we took the elevator to the second floor. Second, when we played dolls, we sat in my friend's closet - a room larger than my bedroom.

But that house became most special at night, when the entire house was lit. I would gaze at it from my window, imagining a castle, pretending I was the princess who lived there but was being held captive. The memories are vague, but oh, I recognized that castle.

Next, we opened the door to the attic. "It smells the same!" I whispered.

Smells and their memories live so long with us. I had not been in that attic for at least 49 years, yet the recognition was immediate. Powerful.

Upward, carefully, breathing in that familiar musty smell. As we stood in that attic, Holly told us of finding a sheet of piano music with the name "Emilie Burr" written at the top. My mother? My grandmother? The paper is now tucked away in Cousin Bruce's files. Someday I'll see it, maybe recognize the handwriting.

How many times did I steal away up into the attic? Often to be alone. Sometimes to play with my sister and cousins - card games, mostly. We played wild games of four deck solitaire, slapping cards down on the sixteen piles of cards we surrounded, screaming with delight and dancing about when we won.

Eventually, down from the attic, down to the first floor, out to the porch. I paced that porch slowly, eventually standing in the exact spot my grandmother died so long ago. Feeling her, breathing her in. I swear she kissed me.

Pennsylavania

Wednesday morning, 9 am. Left Louisville with my sister, Jean, and my niece, Jessie. Drove to Cincinnati under gray skies, then on to Columbus under drizzle. In and out of raina and drizzle all the way to Corry PA where my Aunt Grace lives in the house I remember from childhood.

It is strange that I spent my entire childhood in La Grange Highlands, Illinois, but I feel a greater closeness, a stronger emotional connection to Corry, a place I spent time only sporadically as a

child. Jean feels the same way. My mother hated it.

We had mostly lazy times in Corry with one special event: a visit to the home my grandparents, Ray and Emilie Burr, lived in on Frederick Street.

Every time I'm in Corry, I drive by or walk by the Burr house. This time, Aunt Grace called and arranged for us to visit inside the house. Both Jean and I were nervous, excited. Will it look at all the same? Will they have ruined it?

This is the house where I did my first baking, standing on a stool beside my grandmother - a short, round woman who always wore a print dress covered by an apron. I stood beside her as she scooped flour and sugar from the bins with her hands. My job was to add little-girl pinches of soda, salt. Multiple pinches of cinnamon.

Grandma baked with fresh eggs, butter, and cream. With sky-high cholesterol, she died of her own cooking, most likely. I am only one year younger than she was when she died.

Jean, Jessie, Grace, and I toured that house. Some owner after my grandparents had tiled the entry way and carpeted the living room. The current owners have the good sense to want to put it all back to oak.

The coat tree at the entryway wis missing, as was Grandpa's desk and Grandma's piano. This is the entryway, the parlor, where my great-grandmother once lay in her casket for her wake. Although I never met the woman, I have "seen" that casket in the parlor many times, and I saw it once again on Wednesday.

The beautiful wood columns separating the parlor from the living room are intact. The living room and dining room fireplaces are as I remember. The kitchen, the place of my most visid memories, has been remodled, and though lovely, was not done to period (1902). No more butler's pantry or creaky back porch.

But standing in the kitchen, I could see that round woman sprinkling flour over pie dough.

Saturday - Heading North

There are times when traveling that the gods and the stars conspire to give the traveler a small treat. Today, they were on my side.

I left Ocean Springs regretfully, wishing the weather forecast were good enough to encourage me to try to charter a small boat and head out to the islands. No such luck. Gloomy skies and predictions of storms sent me north.

I also considered staying around to help pick up trash. My friend Clive was going out on his boat this morning along with many other boaters to pick up any trash and tree limbs from the marshy areas around the town. If the oil hits, everything contaminated would have to be specially disposed of. The goal for this morning was to rid the area as much as possible of anything that could become contaminated and have to go to a special landfill area.

I passed on that, too, and headed north, munching Cheez-Its for brunch. Along about 11:00 I decided to find a place to stop, maybe find some good Southern barbecue. The town of Scooba was coming up, and how could I resist stopping in a town with such a name?

Besides that, I was traveling Highway 45, a nice divided four lane highway, moving along at 65. However, there were stop signs on the highway at the crossroad into Scooba. To the west were two gas stations with mini markets, a Chevron and another. I chose the other. I went inside and asked a young attendant there if there was any really good barbecue in town. She grabbed me by the arm, pulled me outside, and pointed. "There. Just the other side of that Chevron."

I looked, and just beyond the gas station lay some trees (most of Mississippi is covered with trees). At the edge of the trees I could see a metal meat smoker, and above the trees, a wisp of smoke.

I headed right on over. Nine times out of ten, I'll take food in a roadside stand over any restaurant in the area. I have rarely gone wrong. I won't talk about that place in Imuris, Sonora.

Behind the trees I found a smoker about ten feet long and a small travel trailer with a tarp attached to create shade. Under the tarp was a long folding table, and behind the table was a large black man in a cowboy hat. I asked what he had, and the list was long, including chicken, brisket, and ribs. I finally chose a BBQ sandwich.

Leonardo (I get on first name basis with food people pretty fast) ambled over to the smoker, raised the lid, and inside were about a dozen packages of meat wrapped in foil. He opened one, carved off some meat, and then deftly diced it up and put, excuse me, piled the meat onto a hamburger bun. He pointed me toward the sauce, and asked for $5.50.

I squeezed on some sauce, and took my first bite. I think I moaned. Actually, I think I moaned with every bite. This was absolutely the finest barbecue I've ever had, and boy have I had some good barbecue. It was tasty. It was tender. The sauce was perfect. It was probably the most tender meat I've ever encountered. It was heaven.

I ate every last bit and sopped up the leftover sauce with the bread. Didn't eat all the bread - why waste the room in my stomach with white bread (even though it was perfect under all that beef)? I wanted every last possible bit of that delicious meat and every lick of sauce.

I had to go back and take a picture of Leonardo at work. I"ll send him a copy when I get home and can print one - Leonardo doesn't cotton to email. I didn't even try to explain my blog to him.

There is one other amazing part to this story, and that was the young woman who pointed me toward the barbecue. She was young, and she was black. Clearly, I am neither. What made it interesting to me is the way she was so comfortable grabbing me by the arm and hauling me out the door.

On my last trip through the south - the late 1970s, blacks and whites still didn't mingle. At all. I even witnessed a white man beating a black man with a stick. I started to intervene, but a woman (white), wiser than me, grabbed me back and said I'd get beat too if I tried to do anything. When I first attempted to intervene, I yelled something smart like, "Hey!" which distracted the white man for a moment and allowed the black man to escape.

This image of one man beating another, a crowd looking on, still haunts me.

The point is, the South has changed. In both Louisiana and Mississippi, I witnessed blacks and whites together, talking, eating, laughing. This is so not the South I saw thirty-some years ago. I saw a billboard advertising an insurance company, and it contained a huge photo of the agents - a black, a white, and an Hispanic. All together and smiling.

I was repeatedly, and pleasantly, surprised by the racial interactions I saw. I also walked through integrated neighborhoods - something that was out of the question my last time in the South.

So, things do change. I have had days of frustration, disappointment, and terrible sadness. But I have also had the magic of what may have been the world's finest barbecue, and I have witnessed the New South.

Friday - on the road again

Up early and took one of the trolleys downtown so I could pay a visit to Cafe du Monde for cafe con leche and an order of beignet. Oh, sigh. Many of you know how much I love soapapillas. Beignet is basically a soapapilla with a French accent.

No they are doughier than soapapapillas. Thankfully I don't have to choose between the two. Just have to travel a LOT farther for the beignet.

I left New Orleans, passing the Superdome, where so many lived and died during Katrina. It was a jolt to see it, as my only experience with it is the photos from that time. It was unnerving.

But no time to dwell. I had to do some fancy lane switching and merge onto I-10. My friend in Ocean Springs MS called a short time later and suggested I take Highway 90 instead of I-10 as it goes through the Mississippi River Delta and along the ocean. I immediately hopped off the interstate and eased onto the slower paced highway.

I was on a stretch of road the other day that I should have photographed. It was paved over, but along the edges I could see the remains of the old road - tar and seashells. Imagine driving on seashells! I pulled over and poked at the shells a bit, astounded that some were intact.

I found a nature preserve just east of New Orleans and managed to photograph a small alligator. I have no idea if he is a small breed or a young one. But all I could think of is him encased in oil. Nature preserve or no, this place will soon be full of oil and toxins. My stomach churned, and I left.

In far eastern Louisiana, workers were stringing snakes of absorbent tubing along the edges of the marshes. If there are no hurricanes or heavy storms, this may help.

I saw one of Katrina's odd and beautiful benefits on this drive. Live oak trees are protected in Mississippi, so when the hurricane killed a number of the trees, the state was hesitant to let clean up crews cut them down.

Enter local chainsaw artists. These dead trees have been chainsaw-carved into dancing dolphins, pelicans, turtles, and more. The huge carvings now grace the roadway and city parks in western Mississippi. Such a far better use than for beach firewood!

I settled into my beautiful B&B (actually, it's just a B - Marian doesn't serve breakfast any longer) in Ocean Springs and wandered downtown. It's a small town and I am so wishing I could just stay awhile. A gallery owner checked out the island tours for me, and they're still running, but going to clean beaches. I could maybe track down a small craft to take me out, but the island I'd want to go to is about 14 miles out. And there's another storm coming in. I have seen enough of these storms to know there's no way I want to be out on a small craft if those waves begin.

Met up with my friend Clive last night. We hadn't seen each other in 34 years! Had the best dinner I've had on this trip, for sure, and maybe the best in a few years. Ocean Springs is on my list of places to recommend!

So, sadly, I leave in the morning, heading north. If I had the money, I'd stay for many weeks and really dig into this somehow.

A Brief Reflection

Awoke before dawn. Soon the sky lightened and I could tell there would be some blue today. But the western sky is already full of those puffy clouds that will turn on you in an instant.

A number of people have asked or said something about me contacting BP. First, I am a pretty small fish here. I suppose I could get close to someone, but what would I even ask? What would I say? I could simply record, but I don't want to hear their words first hand. It is disgusting enough to see their faces on TV. Rich, rich men who don't really have a clue what the 4th generation fishermen are so upset about. "They can fish somewhere else," is their attitude.

These rich men will walk away from here one day. So will I. The difference is they will be out at some $200 a plate restaurant complaining about how people didn't understand how hard they were trying. I will be in a $5 taqueria weeping for the dead wildlife.

In effect, I will never walk away. Though I haven't seen the destruction first hand, I have seen the misery in people's faces, the rage that is barely under control, the terror of what is to come. And I am a changed woman. New Orleans will be a part of me fore the rest of my life.

And not just New Orleans. When I say the name of this city, I mean this whole coastal area that is under siege by oil and men and cameras once again. I think the people here got sick of those big TV trucks during Katrina, and they are not a welcome sight again. They only mean a new disaster has struck.

So, I will not talk to anyone at BP. I don't want to spend my energy that way. The "drill baby drill" mentality is so far from who I am that I don't want to be very close to the people who live that life. I don't want to be close to the people who pay lobbyists to keep a tight hold on federal regulations so they can have more profit.

I know, you think I'm not much of a reporter. I could do it, though. I could come up with the questions. I could nod appropriately. Or scowl, more likely. But being here with this immense paid is difficult enough, and I don't choose to make it worse by having to look those people in the face.

Around half a million dollars would have paid for automatic shutoff devices that would have prevented this disaster. BP (and other companies) had their lobbyists work Congress to keep those devices from becoming regulation. You have to sleep with the devil to think that was the right thing to do.

Thuesday - Day of the Pendulum

All day, the pendulum swung: good news, bad news. Good, bad. Sometimes good became bad, which became good.

I awoke a little after six and stepped outside to look skyward. Too dark to see much, but I decided to pack up for a trip to Venice and see what happened. Around seven I stepped out to see quite a bit of blue in the sky, and there was little wind. Good news! I finished getting myself together, and a few minutes later stepped out again to gray. Bad news. How can a sky change so fast?

I spoke to the woman behind the desk at the hotel who encouraged me to go, but quickly, as afternoon storms were due again. After a hurried breakfast, I hit the road.

Great instructions and clear maps got me across the Mississippi and headed south. Good news!

I headed south on Louisiana 23 toward Venice. Green along the sides of the roadway, and when I got a little further south, large berms a few hundred feet back on each side. The berm on my left blocked my view of the Mighty Mississippi, and the berm along my right blocked my view of the marshlands of the Gulf. I know the berms are there to protect the area from flooding. I wonder if either one were breached during Katrina. Even if not, just the amount of water tossed into the area must have been massive. With the berms - about 20-25 feet high - how did the waters recede?

I saw one road over the berm to the Gulf and crossed to the other side to find a small marina, complete with an Ohio cameraman trying to get some footage of non-existent oil. According to one man I spoke to, the area has no oil because of the force of the Mississippi as it enters the Gulf. If the river slows, or when hurricanes come, this could change. A massive hurricane could change it all overnight.

When I got to Venice, one entire field was set up as an emergency center. The field had a huge mobile sheriff's office, a medical unit, and numerous assorted cars and trucks. Big sign: No Solicitations. I asked and found out that questions were considered solicitations (of answers). No help there.

Two more emergency spots had been set up, each with guards posted in front. I was warned off by frowns and hands waving me on. Showing my press pass did not make them look at me more favorably.

Only two people at the marina would speak to me - neither would disclose a name, and neither would talk for more than about a minute. Others said things like, "No comment," or "Can't talk."
So I spent a few hours finding out very little. It seems BP has found a way to ensure no one will talk to the press about operations at the clean up bases.

One thing I found out, however, is BP has contracted with most of the tour boat owners to take volunteers and other clean up people out on the Gulf. Although most boats were contracted, a few of the contracted ones sat at the marina. Hundreds of people milled about, many doing nothing but milling.

One man told me a few boatloads were going out looking for turtles. But when the people see a turtle, they usually can't get to him. Turtles emerge from the water, breathe, and go back under. What are the chances of being right next to an emerging turtle and being able to net him? Especially if you've never tried to net a turtle before? The man snorted, saying it was all for show, so BP could say how much they're doing.

This seemed to be the general sentiment, though that man was the only one who verbalized it. Other sort of gazed off, smiled, or looked at their feet. The man who spoke to me said BP had contracted so many boats for two reasons: to be able to say they'd done so, and to keep others, like me and all the press, from going out on the water.

True enough. I couldn't find a boat to take me out. Couldn't have gone anyway. The storm was already beginning to roll in, so it was too late to head out to sea (to see sea). Boats were already being called in. Also, I found the going cost was around $800. Cash preferred. Dang! Why didn't I get someone to give me an expense account?

Not being able to get out on a boat was bad news, but it was good news. I wouldn't be able to get to the damaged area. But I wouldn't have to witness dying birds, dying marsh, dying fish, dying turtles. BP, limited funds, and an incoming storm conspired to keep me from what I had hoped to see.

Turns out it would have been much the same at Grand Isle. I would have had to hire a boat to get me to the areas I wanted to see, and I couldn't have done so.

I headed back, disappointed once again, but a bit relieved. I really don't know how I would have handled being in the middle of the destruction.

So now my big question is what to do. There is no real reason to hang out here, except the President will be here Saturday. Wild guess, but I think my chances of getting close to Barack are pretty low.

Tomorrow I guess I'll head to Biloxi and points east. Oil has hit the islands there. Most of the press is here, and with the President coming, there will be even more. Perhaps someone will want to earn a little money tomorrow and take me on out to an island. Unless there's a storm (and more are predicted), that's the plan.

Wednesday - Done In by a Storm!

Hours on the road this morning. I watched the soft puffy white clouds over the Gulf slowly turn blue, then gray, then black. Thirty minutes from Grand Isle, it hit. Just like an Arizona monsoon. Rain came at me almost sideways, pouring so hard I had to pull off onto a side road and stop.

Unrelenting.

When the rain slowed a bit, I started south again. Water roared across the highway. Cars were stopped everywhere. I finally pulled into a little market, dashed inside, and asked about the storm. "Supposed to do this all day, lady. At least it's not raining oil. Yet."

I waited awhile longer. Cars headed to the island were turning back. The only vehicles going on were big trucks.

I'd just driven for three days to be hit by a monster storm. I almost went anyway but figured, what would I do in driving rain once I got there? Swim around on the beach? I finally turned around, heading toward New Orleans.

About twenty minutes south of the city, I pulled into an area of fish markets. Half were closed. I spoke to one woman about the situation. She wouldn't give me her name and asked that I not mention the name of the market. Her biggest fear right now is that fish will eat the toxic oil and chemical dispersant cocktail and become poisoned and ill. "What if fishermen catch those fish? What if we sell them? We won't even know. What will happen to the people who eat those fish?"

She acknowledged that the market, and most of the others, may not be around for very long. She's already looking around a bit for another job.

I spoke also to a man, Alan LeMoine, who moved to the area from northern Louisana shortly after the hurricane. He cleans up destroyed oil rigs for a living. Can you imagine? Making a living just picking up pieces of destroyed oil rigs? He said there was a lot of work after Katrina, but it had slowed down until the oil disaster. He's been working twelve hour days since then and says they've now gotten most of the trash out of the Gulf. He said the fishing industry would soon be gone.

"What will they do? It's all they know. It's all their parents knew, and all their grandparents knew. They'll never be able to fish here again."

I told him where I'm from and he asked if I saw a lot of Mexicans coming across the border. This good old boy said, "They just want to work. Mexico can't give 'em work, and we got plenty for 'em. They oughta be able to work."

So. Now I sit in my room at the Prytania Hotel. A tiny room in the "historic" part of the building (aka - the old part). Old brick walls and wide planked flooring. Second floor, no elevator, outside stairs. Made it in before it starts raining here.

I'm headed out soon for the Quarter. I have to think about trying to head back to Grand Isle tomorrow. It's about 2-1/2 hours of driving, each way. Perhaps, if it's a glorious clear day, but I'm not doing that whole drive again just to be turned back by a storm.

I look back to the south now, and the sky is no longer black. But it's dark, very dark. Likely still raining.

Louisiana

Made it to Louisiana, Lake Charles, to be exact.

At the Caverns of Sonora campground, there were only three guests - two big RVs and me. I met a couple who were walking their dog. They noticed my Bisbee Farmers Market bumper sticker and stopped to chat a bit because they'd been to Bisbee and had loved it.

I slept so well there. I heard nothing after about 8 pm other than a few owls. I awoke around 6:30 local time to hoots, chirps, trills, and other bird music. At least a dozen different bird tunes. I made my coffee and while I drank it, watched deer grazing in the meadow. I left the sweet little campground around 7:30 local time and headed into the beautiful hill country of Texas.

I'd planned to breakfast on the Riverwalk in San Antonio, but all nearby parking was out in the hot sun, three to four blocks from the river area, and cost $10. I didn't want to leave my laptop and cameras in the heat for so long, so begrudgingly, I headed back to the interstate and stopped a little ways down the highway for my huevos rancheros.

On to Houston, where I hit eight lanes of traffic, one way! Too much for this two lane driver who loves to take the one lane bridge. But I made it through and stopped for gas on the far east end of town - $2.49 a gallon (as compared to Ft. Stockton where it was $3.05).

The irony of this trip isn't lost on me. I'm driving solo, cross country, to visit an oil disaster, consuming gallons and gallons of this precious commodity along the way. Sometimes I think it should be illegal to drive so far unless your car gets over 50 mpg. Hey. It should be illegal to produce a car that gets less than 50 mpg!

One strange thing. Numerous semis blasted past me as I drove the 70 mph speed limit. Many towed long flat beds that held absolutely nothing. What, nothing has to be delivered east? I felt as though one should drop a ramp, allow me to drive up on the bed, and haul me. It is almost criminal to have these big rigs going down the highways empty.

I recently saw a chart of what it costs, energy-wise, to get a bottle of wine from point A to point B, and west coast wine going to Chicago is more energy expensive than European wine going to Chicago because of the amount of gas it takes to transport the bottle. So, Chicago, go for the French stuff! The real lesson is to buy local wine when at all possible. Made me wonder how it is I could buy a bottle of wine at Trader Joe's in Tucson for just $2.

I knew I was far, far from the desert when I began to see street names like Bayou and Magnolia. I zipped past water of all sorts and had to keep myself from rubbernecking to look at it all. It's such a rare commodity in Arizona that I wanted to take it all in.

When I crossed the line into Louisiana, I cheered. After all, the last milepost I'd noticed in Texas was 875, and that's just too many miles to drive just to get across one state. At the Louisiana Welcome Center, there was a sweet little pond - with an alligator warning.

In Lake Charles, the first thing I did was head into town and sit by the lake. Right downtown, busy around me, peaceful at the lakefront. It may be the last peaceful water I sit by for a few days.

I ended up checking into a motel. It's hot, it's humid, and the mosquitoes are fierce. I need a decent night's sleep before I head into the disaster.