Baton Rouge and New Orleans

After a terrible flight from Philadelphia that involved a four-hour delay, a detour to Dallas, multiple airport searches and frightening turbulence, we arrived in Baton Rouge to discover our luggage was in Charlotte. Angry but exhausted, we rented a car and drove to the hotel with just the clothes on our backs.

The next day, determined not to let our misfortune spoil our trip, we showered, put on yesterday's clothes and went down for the hotel's free breakfast. Then we drove to New Orleans on a nice, sunny day.

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We went to mass in the cathedral. Walked down Pirates Alley and up and down Royal Street, going in galleries and souvenir shops. Went briefly to the French market. Had lunch in the outdoor courtyard at Pat O'Brians. Then we rode the St. Charles Street streetcar past the Garden District, past Loyola and Tulane Universities and got off at a random place to walk a little. Caught the streetcar going back. Near Canal St. the streetcar hit a car. That pretty much ended our ride. Bourbon Street was starting to get into party mode when we left; people walked around with drinks, music blasted from open doors.

Back at the hotel, our luggage had arrived. After returning the car, we went to a reception for the conference I was there to attend. The next few days were filled with work, but at night we had a lot of fun. The following night we all went to a plantation-like mansion for a Cajun feast, including crawfish, with a Cajun band. It was nice. Eventually the rain even stopped and we could walk outside a little. The next night held a barbecue banquet with drinking and dancing.

After the final day of the conference, they bused us to New Orleans where I met with Felicia and joined a group at Pat O'Brians for a Hurricane. From there we moseyed to the Red Fish Grill to meet another group for dinner. We went to the Pat O'Brians Piano Bar after that, but I really don't like that place, and had no fun there.

In the morning, it was back to New Orleans for us. We checked into the Andrew Jackson Hotel on Royal Street and then put the car in a lot. We wandered a bit before going to the Gumbo Shop to site in the nice courtyard and have lunch. We dined on crawfish ettouffee, gumbo and shrimp po boys. Good stuff. I bought an Abita beer and enjoyed it. We went in the French Market, then had coffee and beignets (like donuts) at Café du Mond, while writing post cards. Went in art galleries. Rested in the hotel room a bit, then went out for dinner. Picked a place called Pere Antoines. Nice atmosphere with two walls open to the street, but Felicia's crawfish etouffee was bad. No crawfish and no flavor. My blackened catfish with etouffee was much smaller than expected, for the price, but good. The waiter was nice enough and let Felicia choose another dish, but I was done eating before hers came, and it wasn't very good either.

Disappointed, we walked up and down Bourban Street. Eventually we sat in a bar, Maison Bourban, and paid $6 each for a Coke to watch a jazz band play one set. We enjoyed it.

We walked back to the hotel, past a few huddles of desperate men gathered around some bimbo, all hoping she would reveal her breasts for the crowd.

In the morning, we showered and had a bad breakfast at the hotel of bad coffee, tea, juice and donuts. We packed and checked out. Wandered around a few hours, going in galleries, having another drink and a muffin in a courtyard coffee house. Eventually the sun came out. We had a relaxing morning walking. Saw a jazz band in Jackson Square before we had to get our car, drive to the hotel for our bags, and head out of town. Drove back to Baton Rouge, dumped the car and got our plane.

Washington State

We were in Seattle to attend one of my wife's conferences. Afterwards, we rented a car and drove to Mount Rainier. We weren't prepared for how much snow was there. As we drove up the winding road into Mt. Rainier National Park, the amount of snow on the side of the road increased gradually until there were 10-foot piles, and we were driving through a virtual tunnel of plowed snow. Unfortunately, the snow covered all of the trails we had planned to hike and one of the waterfalls we wanted to see was frozen and snow covered. When we reached the "top" (where they stopped plowing, effectively ending the road), there was really nothing there but a snow-covered lodge, which was closed.

I walked for a while on an unplowed road, with the wind freezing my face and blinding me with pellets of snow. It was a little treacherous, since at the edge of the "road" was a sheer cliff, and if I slipped I could have slid right over into the abyss, but it was very scenic.

We stayed in a B&B cabin with a hot tub that night in a small town with very few services. We rented a video in the local store and watched it.

The next morning we drove to the Olympic Peninsula, home of Olympic National Park. We explored a very pot-holed gravel road for 5 or 6 miles, and Felicia spotted a herd of elk across the river, which was pretty cool. We hiked in a rain forest, where moss covered all the trees. We walked along some beaches, the sand covered with driftwood logs. Huge stone formations jutted out of the sea, remnants of cliffs that were once part of the mainland. We stayed in a nice B&B in Port Angeles that night. Walked to dinner at Italian place.

Had a nice breakfast in the bed and breakfast, and enjoyed talking with the two other couples there, both from Sacramento. We hiked to Marymere Falls first, a tall waterfall about a mile into the woods. Then we drove a mountain road up to a very high cliff to enjoy a tremendous view of a lake with a snow-capped mountain behind it. To top it off, a rainbow arced across the sky, creating a perfect picture.

We drove to a town called Port Townsend, and went in the shops there. Then we drove onto a ferry for a half hour ride across the water to Seattle. It was night by then so we went to an artsy area of town called Freemont where we had Greek food and then walked around, enjoying several odd sculptures. One of them, which lurked under a bridge, was a huge sculpture of a giant troll, one hand grasping a full-size Volkswagen. On another street corner was a statue of Lenin. (No, not John.) Eventually we took one last drive through downtown Seattle, seeing the Space Needle glowing in the night sky, before heading to our hotel.

Sweating It Out In Florida

My wife and I visited my mother in law for a few days in Fort Lauderdale. One day we went to a place called Everglades Holiday Park, where we bought tickets for an air-boat ride. The boat went right through the tall reeds and sawgrass, going down channels of open water in the swamp until it docked at an island. There some Seminoles were selling crafts and one tattooed man brought out a three foot alligator so a girl could hold it for a photo.

We were ushered into a fenced area where 5 gators rested in a small pond. A young guy with a blond afro came out and dragged one gator out by its tail. He told us about gators, how powerful their jaws were, showed us where he'd been bitten on the hand, then opened its mouth to show us its teeth. It was a short but interesting performance. I learned that if you flip a gator on its back it's basically paralyzed. In fact it will die in a few minutes if not flipped back. I also learned that gators don't like human flesh because it's too salty and they don't have sweat glands to get rid of the salt.

We returned to the airboat, which is moved by a huge propeller, like that on a plane, blowing air behind the boat. The captain took us around through the reeds hunting for an alligator. He stopped to show us some colorful birds, and there, lurking in the shadows, was a small gator. It came toward the boat, and the guide tossed bread, which it snapped at. Another gator, this one larger, came towards the other side of the boat. It stayed close a long time while the guy talked about gators, their habits, etc. He even tapped it on its snout once.

After he returned us to the dock, Felicia and I ate our lunch in a shaded picnic area. It wasn't too hot in the shade. In the paper the next day we read that a few hours after we left, two air-boats collided at this very place, sending 5 passengers-tourists like us-to the hospital.

We wanted to drive some more into the Everglades, so I asked a ponytailed, weather-worn guy in the store about the Alligator Alley expressway, which crosses the state, right through the middle of the watery 'glades. I wondered what we might find at the first exit, and he said it was an Indian reservation. He warned me not to speed even a mile above the limit. The tribal police are quick to give out tickets, he said.

We got on Alligator Alley and drove for 20 miles or so across the flattest land I've ever seen. Even the plains of Montana, where I could see miles ahead of me on the straight roads, had more to look at. To both sides of us was nothing but grass and reeds, most of it, I knew, sprouting from a watery bog. We got off at an exit in the middle of the state and drove onto the Indian reservation for about 10 miles. The winding road went through flat, nearly treeless land. Few cars passed us. This was a remote place. We saw a few cattle in fenced fields, but mostly the land was just grass or swamp. As we drove back to the highway, a cop got behind us. We set the cruise control at exactly the speed limit, silently thanking the guy in the store who had warned me. The cop tailed us for miles, then got frustrated and passed us.

We also spent a day on the beach in Fort Lauderdale, where I retook my famous picture by the Fort Lauderdale sign, the one I had posed by when I completed my bike trip to Florida years ago. (See below.)

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Cape Cod

My wife and I drove up to Cape Cod for a week's vacation in July. The weather was excellent, sunny all week, and in the 70s for most of it.

On our first full day we drove to the end of the cape, to Provincetown, a one-time seafaring village that's now largely an artists' community. It was enchanting from the moment we drove in, with its old, decorative houses, churches, quaint alleyways and shops. We walked up the street till the galleries gave out, then stopped at an outdoor café to have a couple of beers and watch the people pass. Later, we had excellent lobster Alfredo over pasta. We stayed in town till dusk, then drove to the beach at Race Point. Several bonfires burned on the sand with people crowded in close against the coming chill.

The next day we took the ferry to Martha's Vineyard with our bikes. We dropped our duffel bag at the beautiful Narraganset House B&B where we were staying, then pedaled along the beachside bike path to Edgartown. There were more cars on the island than we'd imagined there'd be. After lunch at an outdoor table, we visited galleries and shops. Then we took the bikes on a very short $4 ferry ride to Chappaquiddick Island. We biked the roads there. Hardly a car passed us and the loudest sound was the wind in the leaves.

After more poking around in Edgartown, we biked back to Oak Bluffs, as the sun dropped lower in the sky, casting a vibrant light over Sengekontacket Pond to our left. We ate dinner there and wandered around the town as the night cooled.

In the morning, we enjoyed a nice breakfast on the porch, a breeze cooling us as we looked out at the charming Victorian homes surrounding us. Then we strolled through a quaint neighborhood of colorful cottages, each one elaborate and unique. We biked to Vineyard Haven, another town on the island, stopping on the way to see the East Chop lighthouse. In Vineyard Haven we found a beach right on a harbor with boats anchored all over. I enjoyed swimming out into the calm water of the harbor amongst all the boats, floating past them, looking up at them. I must have been out there a half hour or more just swimming and looking around. It was excellent.

We biked back to Oak Bluffs and took the ferry, regretfully, back to the mainland. Drove to Hyannis, to another B&B. The next day we walked to the beach. Laid in the sun and swam a bit. I went for an excellent run along the ocean, passing the Kennedy Compound, and jumping in for a swim on a deserted beach to cool down before finishing my run.

Then we drove along scenic route 6A, going through small towns and stopping in some shops and galleries. We found a boardwalk over the marsh and walked out, seeing crabs crawling in the mud, and acres and acres of marsh grass. We ended up in Brewster, going first into its old-fashioned store, then walking down the street, past the crowd filing into a church for a concert of Andes music, to the Chowder House for an excellent dinner. As we sat on benches in front of the old store later, eating ice cream, the darkness was permeated by the sound of flutes and pan pipes drifting to us from the concert next door.

The next day we took our bikes out on the Cape Cod Rail Trail, biking for miles through the woods on the pleasant, shady trail. Then we drove toward Provincetown again, stopping at Marconi Station to hike the Cedar Swamp trail, which included a boardwalk above a silent swamp. We went to the beach at Race Point, with its grass-covered dunes. Felicia lay on the beach while I biked a very cool loop trail that went over many hills through a sand dune area before passing into the woods. As I walked back onto the beach to meet up with Felicia, however, my bare foot found a submerged stump in the sand from an old railing post. My heel slammed down onto it so hard I was hopping in pain. For the rest of the trip I had to limp.

The next day we visited Sandwich where we strolled (well, Felicia strolled, I hobbled) through the town center, with its pond and old grist mill. Ate lunch there (a sandwich!) and visited a few galleries. We also walked on the Sandwich Boardwalk, which went over a marsh.

On our way home next day, stopped in Newport, R.I., home of lots of mansions of the rich from the 1800s, including the Vanderbilts. In typical Bob fashion, I put only enough change in the meter to give us 90 minutes, figuring, "That should be enough." It wasn't.

After strolling for an hour, going into the foyers of a couple mansions and ending up at "the Breakers," the huge summer home of the Vanderbilts, I realized we had to hurry back to the car. But we were right by the beautiful Cliff Walk, a paved trail that went along the tops of (surprise!) the cliffs, behind several mansions. So I thought we could walk a little of it, going in the direction of the car.

Ten minutes later, with just 20 left on the meter, I realized I would have to run to the car to avoid a ticket. So I gave Felicia the cameras and pack and started running (hobbling). I suppose I could have asked her to run, but, ever gallant, I figured it was my mistake and I'd have to pay the price. With my left heel still in pain, I couldn't put any weight on it, forcing me to sort of prance along on my toes. The route back was probably a mile and I had to run (prance) practically the whole way, just making it with 3 minutes to spare. This antic, of course, injured my foot even more, not to mention making me sweat like a pig right through my last clean shirt and shorts, which I then had to drive home in.

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An Excellent Cave Trip

The cave lie far below an Amish farm in central Pennsylvania. Decades ago it had been open to the public, for a fee. Now, however, its entrance was boarded and locked. Only a few groups a year were allowed in. On a recent July day, I was fortunate enough to be in one of those groups.

About 10 of us met a local guy named Mike at a diner in the town of Milroy, Pa. Our small convoy followed him off the main highway and onto winding roads through the woods. Then we passed through a gate onto the stone driveway of the Hofstedder family, the owners of the land beneath which Alexander Cave was buried. Slowly we passed their farmhouse, glimpsing small Amish children in the doorway, who stared at us in curiosity. Mike opened another gate and we drove up to a copse of trees. Near the trees was a small outhouse. There was no cave in sight.

"Where is it?" we asked Mike. He pointed to the outhouse. Then he unlocked the door of the small structure and we peered in. A stone stairway descended down into the murky depths. This was the entrance to Alexander Cave.

Through the cave flowed a winding river, which passed under the hillside on which we stood. Long ago people had explored it via the river, and some of them decided to try to make money from the cave by bringing in tourists. The water entrance was a bit tricky, so they had dug and blasted their way down from the surface until they reached one of the passages. Then they'd added stairs and paved walkways. This was all done in the 1920s. The sign above the entrance read 1929. In 1952, the business had closed, and only a few had been in the cave since.

Out of respect for the Amish family, we were not allowed to change into our caving coveralls until we were far below ground. With our gear in hand, we entered and started down the long staircase. Very quickly we reached a point where we could no longer see. Flashlights helped little, so unaccustomed were our eyes to the darkness. On faith we kept moving, down, down, down.

After five minutes or so the stairs ended and we found ourselves in a small room. Donning cave gear and lights, we set out. In our group, aside from my wife Felicia and I, were our friends Michael and Stephanie Spencer, Jim Schneck, a jovial, gray-haired and bearded man, Paul, a long-haired, tattooed man and his tall wife Leslie, Dean, a rather serious man who knows everything about every cave in Pennsylvania, his friend Rich, a much more pleasant fellow, and our guide Mike. This was Felicia's first time in a cave. But since there was to be no real climbing or crawling, I thought it would be a great introduction for her.

The walkway was paved and pretty flat. Almost right away we were led past beautiful formations: huge, thick stalactites hanging from the ceiling, with equally large stalagmites below them; long, thin stalactites called soda straws, each with a drop of moisture clinging to their end. These drops, carrying dissolved minerals, very slowly, over thousands of years, had deposited those minerals and built the formations.

Everywhere, it seemed, were columns, cave bacon and broom sticks. The more perceptive of us spotted flowstone, cave pearls and rimstone, plus a few crystal pools.

I had a carbide lantern on my helmet, a typical miners' lamp that gives out a flame. The light didn't pierce long distances, but the combination of all our lights lit up the caverns fairly well. When the group got ahead of us, though, it could seem rather spooky in the quiet rooms. We walked on, sometimes ducking under low rocks, sometimes entering vast caverns with high ceilings. Formations abounded. The moving shadows created by the many lights lent a surreal appearance to the cave.

The River

Finally we reached the top of a steep, muddy slope leading down to the underground river. The wooden steps that had once brought tourists down to the water were now in splintered ruins. Our guide beckoned us to follow him down the muddy slope to where a half dozen flat-bottomed boats were stacked on the shore. Jim, Dean and Rich opted to stay behind, having been on the river before. The rest of us slipped slowly down the bank and heaved three of the boats into the water.

I've been in many caves, even a couple I had to swim through, but I've never been in a boat in a cave. Felicia and I were in our own boat, which we soon learned had a leak. Heedless, we paddled out into the slow-moving river, which was about 30 feet wide on average. Mike, our leader, led us upstream, around bends, past many hanging stalactites. It was wild, floating in that river, shining our lights around on all the formations, seeing the lights of the others reflecting in the water. Eventually the ceiling dropped so low that we had to lean back in the boat and move forward by grabbing the ceiling and pulling ourselves along. Soon we reached a cleft in the rocks that allowed us to sit upright, but the passage was so narrow we had to go single file until we couldn't go any farther.

We about-faced and pulled ourselves out, then paddled downstream, past the boat landing, winding around, ducking under hanging formations, watching our lights play off the rock walls, peering up at the high ceilings, which disappeared into the gloom. As I paddled us along, I felt like Charon, ferrying the souls of the dead across the river Styx to Hades. The experience was captivating.

We got out at an old landing and pulled ourselves up a steep, muddy slope with the aid of 70-year-old handrails, the stairs having long since disintegrated. Mike led us to more spectacular formations, glistening in the beams of our lights.

I tried to pull our boat onto the shore to dump the water out, but the boats were very heavy, and I only succeeded in getting it stuck on the old wooden supports. Trying to thrust it back into the water only submerged the far end, and the boat filled even more. Finally Paul, who was wearing a wetsuit, jumped into the river and helped me dump most of the water from the boat.

We continued upstream, stopping again to do more exploring. Felicia had hurt her shoulder with all of our constant disembarking, so she was content to wait near the boat. I followed Mike who directed me toward a small tunnel. Not knowing what to expect, I plunged in, crawling through the mud, the light from my carbide lamp now very dim. I also had a hand-held light, which made crawling difficult. The tunnel stretched on, and I pulled myself onward. Then it appeared to end. But when I got to the "end," I saw the passage went upwards. It was very narrow, so I stretched my arms in front of me and pulled myself up, wriggling, using knees and shoulders to gain height, and finally hauling myself into a small room.

There, far off the beaten path, I saw some marvelous formations, including an array of thin soda straws hanging down in a cavern off to the side. I stood there by myself in the cavern, shining my light all around, discovering new things with each turn of my head. After several minutes alone, the sound of grunting and sliding reached my ears and Leslie hauled herself into the room, soon followed by Paul, Mike and then Michael. Once they had gotten inside, I dropped back into the hole and wriggled out of the tunnel to join Felicia, who had been sitting with Stephanie by the boats.

The others joined us and we pushed off once again, but instead of heading back, Mike continued downstream. The other boat followed. Our boat, unfortunately, was stuck on the rocks. I had to climb out to free it, then jump back in before it carried Felicia away. By the time we were on the move again, the others had passed around a bend, taking their lights with them. The dying flame of my carbide lamp was scarcely enough to pierce the inky darkness, even aided by the mag light Felicia held. I paddled quickly, trying to overtake our comrades, but the blackness was full of surprises: submerged rocks, sand bars, sudden rock outcrops, stalactites--all of them invisible to us until we were upon them.

After much maneuvering we rounded a bend and saw light--but not the artificial kind. Sunlight streamed in through a hole in the roof of the cave. A cave-in long ago had brought not only sunlight but dirt and grass down to the river's edge. Before reaching the scene, though, we had to once more duck down in the boat to pass under a very low ceiling. The others waited in the sunlight. The river continued, but its level was too high to allow our boats passage. We'd come as far as we could come.

The trip back was difficult. For one thing, it was upstream. For another, we were tired. But most significantly, I was trying to paddle a rowboat with a canoe paddle, which meant leaning far to one side to get the paddle in the water. And since two strokes on one side were enough to turn the boat drastically in the opposite direction, I had to constantly switch from side to side, leaning out each time. I found my well-honed canoeing skills to be useless, as the boat plowed first to the left, and then to the right, with me grunting each time I had to switch sides and plunge the paddle in once more. Felicia helped as best she could with her ailing shoulder, but she hadn't had much paddling experience, so the bulk of the work was up to me.

On and on we paddled through the darkness, the trip upstream seeming to go on for miles. Then, out of the gloom, appeared a stack of boats on the shore. The landing! We'd made it! But it wasn't over yet. The bank was very steep, and once I flung a leg out onto it, I had to claw my way up to stable footing, then pull the rope on the boat until the bow was sufficiently far enough on shore to allow Felicia to crawl out.

Once all the boats were on shore we stacked them up again, then turned to climb one last muddy slope to get back to the main part of the cave. But something seemed strange. There was an awful lot of light streaming down from up there. I glanced up at the top of the slope, and there, staring down at us, were about two dozen Amish people, their gas lanterns illuminating stern, bearded faces and straw hats. Our shock was no doubt as strong as theirs, as they watched our band of muddy troglodytes crawl up out of the gloom. One by one we climbed the slope and stood in their midst. Small kids in overalls and wide-brimmed hats stared curiously up at us. Women and girls in white prayer caps and dresses stayed at the back of the gathering, not sure what to make of us.

Within a few seconds the questions started: Were you in the boats? How far does the river go? Is it deep? What did you see? Each of us had several Amish people hanging on our every word, listening in fascination to our tales of slippery slopes, leaking boats, low ceilings and narrow crawls. I asked the man quizzing me what he thought of the cave.

"It's awesome," he said.

They had apparently taken a break from the fields to do a little cave exploring. They were not only curious but friendly, though Felicia and Stephanie said the men avoided eye contact with them, apparently out of respect for their wives. The Amish boys seemed surprised to see the girls wearing pants; one turned to his friends after pointing at Stephanie and gestured to his own pants.

After several minutes of fraternizing, the Amish group headed out, with us close behind. This turned out to be an unexpected bonus, for their bright lanterns illuminated the caverns far better than our individual lights had done. The passageways and rooms looked completely different, astonishing us anew with their formations of every shape. The sight of those Amish hats bouncing through the cave ahead of us, arms holding lanterns, bearded and youthful faces gazing around in wonder, is one I will not soon forget.

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Oregon

Portland | Columbia Gorge | Mount St. Helen | Crater Lake

I was in Portland, Oregon, for a conference. The city was not at all what I was expecting. I took a bus downtown on an overcast Sunday morning and walked around the mostly empty city. My visit, at least initially, turned out to be something of a bathroom tour of Portland; in the first 90 minutes I visited four different bathrooms, the result of a few too many breakfast beverages. (I had run a 5K Fun Run earlier, after which breakfast had been provided in the form of fruit and juice--lots of juice. Thus my bathroom tour a few hours later. As for the race, I came in second.)

At first I walked through a rather unimpressive Chinatown, with an elaborate “gate” no different than the one in Philadelphia. From there I wandered down to a crafts market near the river where I browsed a bit at paintings and such. The area around the crafts show was somewhat seedy, with disheveled folks hanging about and asking me for change. This proved to be somewhat of a trend in the areas I visited. I walked to a riverside park, seeing several men sleeping on the grass, within plain view of a cop in his car, busily reading a manuscript of some sort.

After dodging a scruffy guy who offered to sell me “anything you want” I passed a small group of men in colorful garb. One of them wore a small crown. I didn’t catch on right away what they were up to, but then I saw the signs on some booths and on a makeshift stage touting gay awareness themes and realized a gay pride festival was soon to take place.

Then I saw the preacher.

He was a pretty bad preacher, actually. A tall man with a moustache and a shirt that said No Homos, he carried a bible and periodically shouted out biblical statements condemning gays. The circle of colorful gay men ignored him, though he was clearly trying to irk them. I sat to watch the show. Opposition came from a surprising source: the scruffy salesman I had earlier dodged started yelling at the preacher “You should be preaching love and peace, not trying to condemn everyone!” The preacher retorted with something about homosexuals burning in hell, and the scruffy guy shouted back as he retreated. He ended the discourse by screaming: “Shut up!” and stomping away. The preacher smiled and considered it a victory.

The funniest exchange came when a man entered the area walking a dog.

“Sir, I wouldn’t advise you to bring a dog here,” The preacher said. “There are homosexuals in the area.” I couldn’t help smirking at this, both for the idiocy of the statement and the humorous implication, designed to get a reaction. The gays ignored him. Soon afterwards I left.

The morning was rather cold. I had stupidly worn shorts, and despite my sweatshirt, I was very chilly as I strolled the empty streets. Still, I considered, I’ll take this over the 90-degree humidity back home. I bought a latte to warm up, but it only added to the number of bathrooms I had to visit during the day. (The total count was more than 10.)

Eventually, I found Pioneer Square, an open amphitheater of red bricks in the middle of the city. Oddly, it seemed designed to highlight the Starbucks sitting prominently at one end. Every other person I saw there clutched a cup of coffee. Nearby, almost blending into the crowd, stood the statue of a man holding an umbrella with one arm outstretched and an index finger raised, as if to hail a cab. Some joker had unrolled a condom on his finger.

Lining the street alongside the square, dozens of people sat in folding chairs, watching the traffic. Through subtle questioning I learned that a parade was soon to pass that way. “Oh boy, a parade!” I thought. “I wonder what it’s for.”

You can probably guess what it was for. Men in crowns and colorful spandex.

So I walked on. But I couldn’t get away. Everyone in Portland, it seemed, was gay. Either that or a vagrant. I ate lunch in the Virginia Cafe, suffering through a bad burger while listening to two women in crew cuts at another table tell a third, quieter, and much cuter girl about the joys of being gay. One of them, it seemed, was trying to convert her younger brother to homosexuality, and he seemed to think the idea was cool, as he idolized his older sister. His only problem was he couldn’t say no to the girls who were constantly pestering him for dates. Poor kid.

I walked some more, watching crowds continue to mass on the curbs in preparation for the parade. I strolled to the world’s smallest park (about two feet square) and then to a fountain that frequently changed its flowing pattern. The sun appeared and it was instantly warm out. I passed more quiet buildings, staring up at a huge copper statue on a ledge of one of them. It’s reportedly the second largest hammered-copper statue in the country--after the Statue of Liberty.

A bit weary after my earlier 5K run and all my walking, I stopped to rest in Lownsdale Square, a little park that in the 1920s had been reserved for men only. Across the street, Chapman Square had been for women. As I sat on a bench with the pigeons, four men passed and one of them gave me a long, interested second glance. Then they sat down at a nearby bench. Great, I thought. The all-men’s park had become the gay-men’s park, and I was sitting in the middle of it. To test my theory, I crossed to Chapman Square and had a seat. The only people who passed me were couples (as in men and women). I don’t know what I proved, but I quickly tired of the bench scene and moved on.

Strolling past a grungy group of four, each with multiple piercings and multicolored hair, I braced for the usual request for change. But they must have been satiated, for I overheard them enthusiastically complimenting the food they’d had for breakfast at the local homeless kitchen.

By now the sounds of music filled the air, and I had no choice but to cross paths with the gay parade, now in progress. Cross dressers abounded. Leather-clad men danced and swirled their hips. A group of gay square dancers did their thing (the command “Grab your girl and do-see-do” provided a strange sight). The gay Chinese contingent held a paper dragon aloft. Ugly, overweight women walked topless. Women dressed as fairies skipped around, waving their wands (I ducked, lest the magic dust change me). As strange as it all was, it was still vaguely entertaining. And because I had to cross the parade route to get my bus, I suppose, for the briefest instant, you could say I was actually IN the Portland Gay Pride Parade that day.

But I’m not going to say that.

After the conference, Felicia and I got our car from the airport and hit the road. We drove along the Columbia River on the old, winding road, built in the 20s. Stopped for the view at the Vista House, a stone building built on a cliff overlooking the breathtaking Columbia River Gorge. From there the road dropped downhill and wound through the woods. We stopped to view a number of tall waterfalls and hiked up to a few of them.

The centerpiece off all the waterfalls in the gorge was Multnomah Falls, a two-part fall dropping 620 feet into a pool. We opted to hike the half mile from our car to the base of the falls. There were lots of people at Multnomah. We admired the falls from below, then made the short climb to the bridge which spans the lower falls, giving us a nice view of the upper falls. Then we decided to make a mile-long hike along a paved trail up to the top of the upper falls. It was a long, hot hike, and the wooden platform at the top of the falls did not have much of a view. But we made it.

After leaving the falls area, we crossed the river on the Bridge of the Gods into Washington. We drove to Beacon Rock, a huge rock that overlooks the river. Lewis and Clark commented on it when they passed through. Unfortunately, we really couldn't do much more than touch it when we arrived, since we didn't want to make the long hike through dense foliage to reach the river side of the rock.

Our drive along the river in Washington was marred by road construction, which kept us stopped behind a flag person for a half hour. At White Salmon we saw scores of wind surfers on the river, with snow-capped Mt. Hood in the distance behind them, looming over the town of Hood River, Ore. We crossed the bridge into Hood River and found our hotel, the Hood River Hotel, a restored 100-year-old hotel. After checking in, we found a restaurant and had dinner.

Then we drove up Mt. Hood. We enjoyed some great views of the mountain rising over the farmland at its base. As we neared the top we had some wonderful views out over the surrounding forests, with distant mountains rising. We drove right up to the Timberline Lodge. From there the peak looked very close. Ski lifts continued even farther up the mountain, which was covered with snow. On the first day of summer I stood on a pile of snow and made snowballs.

We drove down and returned to town. We went to the Jacuzzi, more or less just because they had one in the hotel. When we went outside to find somewhere to eat or get a beer, though, we found a ghost town. So we went to bed.

In the morning, we woke and packed, then went down for breakfast. We ate outside. Then we headed west, back toward Portland. Though it was sunny in Hood River, the clouds soon covered the sky to the west. As we drove toward Mount St. Helen, it was very cloudy, and we feared we'd get no views of the volcano. We went in the first visitor's center and saw a movie chronicling the eruption in 1980. Then we drove the winding road toward the volcano, winding around, going higher and higher until we were in the clouds. The fog was thick. At one pullout, we saw people taking pictures, so we stopped and caught a glimpse of a snow-covered peak. We hung around there, waiting with cameras for a view of that peak, until finally giving up and moving on.

A little while later, we moved above the clouds and it was sunny. At the end of the road, the final visitor's center, we hurried to the viewing area for a perfect view of the top of Mount St. Helens. It made me feel silly for wasting so much time at the other place waiting for a tiny glimpse. The crater of the volcano rose majestically out of a layer of clouds near its base. In the center was a cone of hardened lava that had built up after the initial eruption. The ridge we were on and all the slopes below us were completely devoid of trees. But on some nearby slopes you could see dead trees lying on the ground, all lined up in the same direction. These had been blown down by the initial blast of rocks from the erupting mountain. Then mud had flown forcefully down into the valleys, carrying thousands of trees into a once-scenic lake called Spirit Lake and covering everything. It was amazing to see all that barren land, even 20 years later, and know the power of that volcano, so close to where we stood. It was five miles away, but it looked so close.

We took a short hike along a ridge overlooking the barren wasteland, then watched a film in the visitor's center. We had a long drive ahead of us--three hours to Salem--so we headed out.

We arrived in the state capital about 7 and ate a bad meal at Arby's. Then we found our B&B and checked in. We took a short walk to the state capitol building, noticing how quiet the town was and how empty the homes looked on a Friday night. Then we turned in.

After breakfast, we headed south for Crater Lake. At Roseburg, we headed east on 138, a pleasant, winding route alongside the scenic North Umpqua River. We caught many tantalizing views of rapids and deep pools along the way. At Colliding Rivers viewpoint, an ancient Indian campground, we stopped to eat. A few miles farther, we halted again to hike a half mile trail to Fall Creek Falls. Part of the trail went through a narrow cleft in the rocks--a tight, winding passageway that felt almost like being in a cave. The woods were beautiful, with thick trees and mountain sorrel everywhere.

A while later we stopped again to hike to Toketee Falls, a tropical-looking waterfall that dropped into an inviting pool. The viewpoint was far above the fall, looking down.

There were other falls along 138, but we wanted to reach Crater Lake before it got late, so we drove on. We had to pay $10 to enter the park, and after passing through the barren Pumice Desert, we reached a parking lot at the top of the crater and walked up to the edge for a look.

The view was spectacular. The lake was round and looked just like a volcanic crater. The sides of the lake were steep. In fact, there was only a single trail leading down to the lake.

Near us, an island thrust itself up from the deep waters. Wizard Island had been formed thousands of years ago by cooling lava. It was, in fact, a lava cone. Far across the lake was another tiny island, called the Phantom Ship because its rocky spires resembled the sails of a distant ship.

We hiked a mile-long trail, partially through snow, up to the top of a cliff. A glass-enclosed observatory was perched on the rocks up there. The cliff was called The Watchman. The view from up there was even better; you could see the full circumference of the lake. In the distance rose many snow-capped mountains, one of which was Mt. Shasta, all the way in California.

We continued driving around the lake, stopping at other viewpoints. We went briefly into the gift shop at the visitor's center, then headed out of the park to the cabin where we were to spend the night. It was about a half hour away, in the valley.

After cooking dinner there, we drove to a nearby town and bought a few snacks in the general store there, chatting with the hefty, cheerful man who ran the place and his hefty son. The man said his wife was born in Carlisle, Pa. We ate our ice cream outside, then drove back to the campground. The sky turned a captivating shade of violet just before darkness claimed the valley, some time after 10 p.m.

We woke early and drove back up to Crater Lake. Though it was pleasant and cloudy in the valley, it started to rain as we gained elevation. At the entrance gate, the ranger told us there was "zero visibility" at the lake and that it was snowing. We found this hard to believe, but before too long, flakes began to land on the windshield.

Knowing we wouldn't be able to see the lake, we opted to hike. Stopping at the Godfrey Glen Trail, we put on our windbreakers and entered the woods. The flakes fell harder, not really laying on the ground, but coating us and getting us wet. The trail passed alongside a chasm, with a creek below. We could see the snow falling heavier in the open space of the chasm.

We had a nice hike, then drove onward, stopping in another visitor's center to look at displays. When we came out, snow was coating all the cars. We continued on to the Rim Village, where Felicia browsed through the souvenirs, and I got a cup of hot chocolate and sat writing post cards in the cafeteria. It was like being in a ski lodge in winter--except that it was summer.

Later, we continued our drive around the lake. Fog covered the area and yielded no view at all. We parked at one lot by an area called Sun Notch where there was a short half mile hike to the rim. We didn't expect much, but low and behold, we were below the clouds at that point, and we got a stunning view of the lake. We were right by the Phantom Ship. The wind whipped off the lake, a bitter, biting breeze that froze our hands and ears. Still, the view made the suffering worthwhile.

After that, the fog lifted from the lake. We got another view at Kerr Notch before taking a 7-mile detour to the Pinnacles Overlook. Jutting up from the gorge below us, numerous conical towers of sandy rock stood like silent sentinels. It turns out these had once been steam vents when the volcano was active, thousands of years ago. The hot steam, coming up through the ground, had fused the rock around it tightly. When erosion wore down the surrounding earth, all that was left were the steam vents, thrusting into the air. There were dozens of them, a surreal spectacle.

Back at the lake, we stopped at more overlooks. The wind was very strong. It almost held me up as I leaned into it. We hiked most of the way down to the lake on the Cleetwood Trail, but the incoming clouds, the returning rain and the late hour forced us to turn back before reaching the water.

Bidding the lake adieu, we headed north and then west to Eugene. There we checked into a great B&B. Not only was the room nice, with a high, four-poster bed and a fireplace, but the parlor was elegant and served free wine and cookies. I enjoyed a glass, while Felicia and I sat in plush chairs, looking out the windows at the green grass and nearby gardens. Then we got dressed up and walked to the Electric Station restaurant for a nice seafood dinner. The night was cool but not cold and the sky had cleared. It was beautiful.

The next day we drove to the ocean. First we stopped in the seaside town of Florence to visit its shops. We had lunch there, fish-and-chips and chicken strips, then headed out. The road followed the rocky coast, and we stopped several times to enjoy the views. We got a nice view of the Heceta Head Lighthouse.

It was getting late, and we still had to get back to Portland. We talked about whether we should eat in Portland, as planned, or eat while on the coast. I thought it would be more convenient to eat before leaving the coast, so we stopped at a few restaurants to look at menus. At one, the menu didn't look that spectacular, but I thought we could find something to eat on it, so we went in and got seated. But neither of us were hungry and nothing about the menu excited us, so we decided to up and leave, despite the curious stares from every other diner.

It was a good decision. We made the long drive east to Portland, and worked our way into the city. I had a restaurant in mind, near the river. We got lucky and found a parking spot by a meter, but we couldn't find the restaurant right away. So we picked another one called McCormick & Schmick. We had another delicious seafood meal--stuffed salmon and garlic mashed potatoes--and we were both very pleased.

Afterwards we took a walk along the river, gazing at the twinkling lights of the city all around us. We walked out on the docks, going almost into the middle of the river. The evening was warm and we were in good spirits after our successful tour of Oregon. It was a perfect way to end our journey.

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Weekend At Lake Tahoe

I had a great weekend at Lake Tahoe. I flew out to Reno for a conference in nearby Carson City. Since I had the weekend free, I rented a car--which ended up being a Kia SUV--and drove over the mountain to Lake Tahoe. I was there 3 years ago, and it's still as awe-inspiring as ever.

It was a beautiful, sunny day as I crested the mountain and looked down at the vast blue lake, rimmed with mountains. When I reached its shore, I walked onto the boulders at its edge to watch the waves pounding the rocks. Then I drove the winding road along its edge, stopping for pizza and then enduring the traffic jams in the town of Stateline, with its eyesore casinos and hotels.

I made my way to to the lookout over Emerald Bay. Just before reaching it, there's a stretch where the road crests a hill and you can look down the steep slope to your left and see Fallen Leaf Lake and to your right you see Emerald Bay, glistening in the late afternoon light. There's no guard rail and the road is narrow. Scary as it is, you can't help looking alternately from side to side at the beautiful lakes.

The lookout offers a view through the pines at the lake's sole island, upon which a stone tea house was built 100 years ago. A sailboat glided through the bay, making the scene even more picturesque.

I had gotten a late start, so it was already after 5:00. But true to form, I wanted to cram in as much activity as I could in the day, even after a long flight. So I sped off to the trailhead down to the Vikingsholm castle. I had seen it last time, but I thought this time I'd do a bit more hiking. The mile trail down the hill was easy. Then I followed another trail along the edge of the lake, looking out at the island and watching the sunlight slowly get replaced by shadow. The trail weaved its way through pleasant pine forests and over log bridges. Despite the scenery, though, and my excitement at being at Lake Tahoe, I was very lethargic, dragging myself along. I suddenly realized why. Since I was now on Pacific Time, my body thought it was 10 p.m., and here I was doing a vigorous hike. I'm such a glutton for punishment--all in the name of having a story to tell. But hey, at least I've got the story.

I thought about going swimming in the icy lake, but settled for just going wading and dunking my head underwater a few times. Then I turned and marched back along the trail and back up the hill to the car.

The sun was down as I started the hour-long drive back to Carson City to check into my hotel. My eyes were drooping and I fought to stay awake as I drove the winding road up toward Spooner Summit in the growing darkness. Then a thought occurred to me. Had I ever made a reservation at the hotel? Suddenly I was wide awake, trying to remember if I had done this. When you attend a lot of these conferences, you get lazy about some of the details. I racked my brain and finally remembered making the call--but then I recalled that my credit card had been due to expire and they told me to call back when I got the new one. I had never called back.

In a panic, I floored it and sped into Carson City, the state capital. I parked and ran into the hotel, which, predictably, had a full casino in its lobby. My heart pounding, I told the lady at the desk my name, already concocting my protest for when she told me I had no reservation. To my surprise, she had one. They had kept my reservation even without a credit card. But, she informed me, they were only supposed to hold it till 6:00. It was now 8:30. Then, in a show of helpfulness rarely seen east of the Rockies, she told me she had decided to hold it for me anyway, since I was coming all the way from Pennsylvania. I thanked her dozens of times. I had dinner that night with friends attending the conference.

I woke early the next morning and drove back to Tahoe, stopped at the first bike rental place I saw and rented a mountain bike. I tossed it in the back of the SUV and drove up the hill toward Heavenly Ski Resort. Three years ago I had biked a trail up there called the Powerline Trail, and I wanted to do it again.

It was just as good this time. I rode through pine forests, around boulders and up and down hills, getting some remarkable views out over Tahoe. The sun was bright and the air was fresh as I raced down the narrow trail through the woods, around tight curves and over wooden bridges that crossed cold mountain streams. It was an exhilarating ride, and it made me remember why I like biking so much. Just feeling that cool, fresh air on my face and seeing the mountains stretching off into the distance made me feel more alive than ever.

I stopped to splash water in my face at the stream and climbed up piles of boulders to enjoy the view. At one point two ladies rode by on horses and one asked me if I'd seen any cows. I laughingly said "No cows." But then I began to wonder if she was really looking for cows or if she was using some local slang for "mother bears with cubs." I started to get a little scared, remembering the "Bear Xing" sign I'd seen on the highway over the mountain. In my mind I imagined a bear chasing me as I pedaled, screaming, down the mountainside. Another great story to tell, I reasoned.

The trail went for about 14 miles, before dumping me on a road. I had been rationing my water, but it was very dry and I was thirsty. I stopped at a house to ask a man there for some water from his hose. He happily complied, and asked me where I was from. He said he'd never been out east, and was surprised when I told him how much more dense the woods were. He had come from Southern California to Lake Tahoe and now ran a body shop. He said he loved the change in seasons and the snow, which he said started falling in October. Talking to him made me wonder why I don't live here. Who cares what job I do? Just living in an outdoor paradise like this would make every day a thrill. Why do I live in a decaying, festering metropolis like Philadelphia, full of traffic and rude people? Out here people live for the outdoors. Parking areas at trailheads are always full of cars. Everyone hikes, bikes and skis. They respect the outdoors.

Pensive, I rode back down the road to my car, some 10 miles away. Tossing the bike in the back, I drove off to cram in one more bike trail before the day was through. This one was a paved trail, weaving its way through the woods. I raced along for a few miles, then decided to take a plunge into Lake Tahoe. The lake is usually about 60 degrees, but I was hot enough that I didn't feel it. I jumped right in and swam far out. I looked out at the mountains and down through the clear water, where the sandy bottom was visible, 15 feet below. It was so great to be there, in that mountain paradise, feeling the bracing chill of Lake Tahoe. It's a moment I'll long remember.

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Spring Visit To Germany

I moved this story. Please go here.

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