15Apr10 (Wed) Driving home

Last day of the road trip. We’re not too sad about it, because we’re excited to see our families. But we are determined to keep true to our philosophy that back roads are better, even if it takes us longer.

We left the beautiful Peaks of Otter to continue the 80+ miles remaining on the Blue Ridge Parkway. It’s surrounded by trees on both sides, uninterrupted by the artificial structure of civilization. Spring leaves, luminous from the sun, shone over the dark opacity of backlit trunks, offering us a view of striking contrasts. Other stretches had such a variety of gold and orange that it could have been fall if not for the dogwoods in luxurious pink bloom.

There was only one stop we had to make along the way – at a town called Buena Vista, ten miles off the parkway. I needed a Bank of America to deal with Visa stuff. It was the first unwelcome intrusion of reality in this otherwise suspended time of carefree living. It was our introduction to returning to the daily grind of responsibility. The town, at least, was quite and charming, and we met a nice woman at the place we stopped for lunch. She tried to convince Derek and I that we would fit right into Buena Vista, and that we should move there and start a business. It was clear she knew many of the patrons at the restaurant, chatting and laughing with them. She reminded me of what it was like to eat in Arrow Rock, and I feel a sense of nostalgia for my 3^rd home (PA being the first, London being the 2^nd). We thought Buena Vista a nice bookend to the trip, since we started the trip at Derek’s old apartment on Buena Vista Street, and the last town we would cross through was of the same name.

Me and my bearded beauty continued on our way, stopping only once more on the BRP at a replica of a late 1800’s farm. It was as much a place to stretch our atrophying legs as anything else, though it did offer some nice picture opportunities. I know it must have been a hard living, but there is a part of me that succumbs to the romantic notion of a simpler life, one not as clogged by materialism and bureaucracy, and how far removed we are from what we really need to be happy, and what we do instead. I don’t know, maybe I’m just reacting out against all of this Visa red tape that’s consumed my life for four months. Planting a garden and laboring by hand sounds sweet in contrast, though I suppose the lack of medical care and hygiene would get to me (well, the former at least. I can be pretty at home with dirtiness).

Continuing north was like heading back in time, as full spring bloom gradually gave way to earlier spring bloom and then trees with almost no bloom. By the time we hit the Shenandoah Parkway, Skyline Drive, we were back to pre-spring days.

We stopped to dump our cooler in a trashcan at a picnic area, Derek doing most of the dirty work, the disgusting smell so overwhelming that I ended up dry heaving nearby. I felt bad for whoever has to empty that trashcan, but not bad enough to leave the nastiness in our cooler. I drove for a bit, just to remember how. It was still beautiful, though only a ghost of what it would look like in a week or two. The car had begun to smell a bit like vomit, which we attributed to juices that may have clung to the sides of the cooler as we emptied it. We kept the windows open for fresh air. We stopped once more at another picnic area for a bathroom break, and found a spigot to rinse out the cooler. It helped with the smell, though every now and again we’d get a nice waft of noxious odor, as a little reminder to us why one should not leave food to rot for a week.

For 70 of its 100 miles, Derek and I stayed on Skyline Drive, but as day faded into evening, and the deer started roaming in front of our car, and a near miss with a wild turkey, we decided it was time to find another route. Before we exited, we saw a cluster of cars on the side of the road. Derek immediately thought “someone hit a deer.” But then, as we passed, craning our necks like any good rubberneckers, we realized that people had pulled over to watch a bear maybe 50 feet away. So of course we pulled over too, and listened as a man (perhaps a park ranger, though he wasn’t in outfit) told people that the bear was three years old, and was just out of hibernation, so was still very sleepy. I asked what you did if a bear charges you, and was told to make yourself as big and aggressive as possible. Good to know, and I filed it away for future reference. Derek was very excited to see a bear, and I feel we’ve done a good job of spotting wildlife, from elk to antelope to bighorn sheep, to buffalo to bear. We took a few pictures, then hopped back in the car to allow room for other bear watchers.

Derek took the driving reins again, which meant my drive time on the trip totaled maybe 3 hours. By the time we hit Pa we were feeling well and truly bonkers. I was moving around in my seat like someone reacting to too much Parkinson’s medicine, the constant kinesis the only way to relieve my antsyness, and Derek was talking to himself. I took a picture of the welcome to PA sign with Derek’s leica, but because it was dark it was completey blurred and streaked. “No no, that’s GOOD,” Derek insisted. “That’s RIGHT. That’s exactly how we feel.”

And still through our delirium we stayed to back roads, arriving home at around midnight, to parents who waited up for us. It was a happy sense of reunion, and of relief to be out of the car. I could barely contain my excitement at sleeping in one place for more than a day.

Reflecting on the trip (because such trips are meant for that) its hard to believe so many experiences were crammed into such a short period of time. I am happy Derek and I were able to do share in something so unique. No matter how many times a person travels cross country, each trip is its own flavor made up of shared experiences, from the more dramatic hikes, to the simpler moments in the car. It is more than this blog could ever convey, the innumerous funny signs that we noticed and pointed out to each other along the way, the names of amusing towns that we would giggle at, the people you meet even if it’s just saying a hello, the feel of the towns, the shared sights and experience, the music, the random conversations inspired by something we would see or think, and simply coming to a better understanding with one another.

Traveling around the US reminds me how much there is to see and do. Three weeks is a small taste of what is out there, in our country and in the world. My first cross country trip caused me to become a photographer, to find a way to better be able to explore what this earth has to offer. This trip has renewed that sense of wonder when I was beginning to believe that all that was left in me was a feeling of being jaded. Derek has said he never realized the space of the US, and how much it had to offer. He thinks of our country in a completely different way now. It has inspired in him and renewed in me that wanderlust, to meander from place to place, taking an experience as it is offered rather than planning or regimenting, or placing to strongly our preconceived expectations on a situation.

Derek strongly recommends a similar trip to anyone that can make it happen.

I say beware of such a cross country trip, for the traveling bug gathers in the dust and wind and rain, collecting force as the miles add up. Once bitten, there’s no going back, only forward with the travel addiction whispering in your head urging you to make plans for the next trip, enforcing a growing restlessness that won’t abate until the next adventure fix.

Captions:

1. Blue Ridge Parkway

2. Derek multitasks while driving.

3. Washing out our cooler.

4. Skyline Drive in Shenandoah Valley

5. A turkey plays chicken with our car

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14Apr10(Wed) – Driving, KY to BRP Virginia

We still had a bit of Kentucky to drive through in the morning. How are we handling all the driving? Derek has developed a multiple personality disorder. He kept speaking with a drawl. I told him to stop taking photos while he’s driving and in a belligerent southern accent, he told me he can multitask – “I cin draaahve and ah cin take photos and ah cin listen to muuusic and ah cin spit and chew gum awwl at the sayme tahme – whereas YOU cin’t even do two things at waaaahnce. That’s rahhhhight. You cin’t even cook and shut up at the same taaaayme.” I just rolled my eyes, and tried not to encourage him by laughing. He went on for quite awhile. Finally he asked me an Atlas question (still in character) and I told him I wouldn’t answer it until he spoke normally, which you could tell was an effort for him to remember how to do.

We stopped for lunch at a place called Hazard, because we liked the name. We found the Riverview Diner, definitely alongside water, but, considering there were no windows on that side of the building, not much of a view. The place was worn in but endearing, flowered scalloped curtains framed the windows, ripped red carpeting lined the floor, and an old couple ate in companionable silence at one of the brown formica laminate tables. Our efficient and friendly waitress had a halo of curled hair. She spoke with a drawl, called us both honey, and told us ‘coffee was a brewin’. I just knew the food was going to be good. At the table, Derek kept slipping back into his drawl, just a little too loudly for my comfort, and I kept kicking him under the table. They probably would have thought he was making fun of them, and it seemed too hard to explain he was just slightly demented. Finally, and not too softly, he switched to a haughty British accent. “I do say, I suppose this is much bettah.” Sometimes, I wish I could sit at the next table.

And then….more driving. A few miles of West Virginia, and east into Virginia, though keeping to the back roads led us on a tortuous route. Sometimes, Derek’s muscles would cramp from having to hold the steering wheel so tightly from one turn to the next, and I would begin to feel nauseous even trying to peek an eye at the Atlas while being thrown from side to side by sharp curves.

But we persevered, bit of windy road by bit of windy road, wending our way towards home, and by evening, we reached our goal for the day – the Blue Ridge Parkway, whose mountains, due to some trick of trees and atmosphere, actually look blue. We didn’t get very far before we lost the light, and since we wanted to drive the Parkway in the day, we began looking for a place to stay. The parkway itself, at the point we were at, cuts through a National Forest, so there weren’t many options. Using pockets of civilization and service, we looked up via blackberry unique, historic places to spend the night in nearby towns, but nothing came up that had a free room. We were just about to pull off at the closest town ten miles off the path, when we hit the Peaks of Otter, which has a Lodge on the Parkway. We thought it a sign of continuing good luck, and didn’t even care that they didn’t have their restaurant open.

We carried stuff to our room, and were both a bit taken aback at its starkness. In fact, from the outside it looked a bit like a concrete prison. We had to laugh at the bare, unadorned concrete walls and stark furniture. What a room for our last night! We didn’t really care though. We were just happy to have a conveniently located place to stay. We dug our cooler out of the car for the first time in a week and opened it just long enough for an awful stench to escape. We quickly shut it, not wanting to look at what might have become of hotdogs, eggs and veggie burgers after a week of no ice.

As there was of course no microwave, I made do with ramen noodle soup slightly softened by moderately warm water, and Derek slathered some questionable organic peanut butter on two week old bread, with jelly. It was quite the feast. For the first time of the trip we decided to watch a movie. Derek offered me a few choices, mentioning that he had wanted us to see Steven Spielberg’s first film, ‘Duel’ on the trip. I like ‘The Bearded One’ so I was happy to watch Duel. Until I realized it was about endless scenes of driving and car chasing. I’m not a huge fan of car chases in the first place, but an hour and a half of it, after having spent days upon days staring out the window of the car, was a bad combination for me. I ended up fast forwarding through the last fifteen minutes because I simply couldn’t stand to look at the road or people driving anymore. If you like cars, and Spielberg, then you’d probably like this film, but I was happy when the last crash was done.

We woke up in the morning to a gorgeous view of the Peaks of Otter over Abbot Lake. There are many options for fishing and hiking, and it’s definitely the appeal of the lodge – its spectacular location. With that kind of view and access, who cares about the room? It’s functional, and that’s all that matters. A quick breakfast at the lodge, and we headed off for our last day of driving.

Caption:

1. Blue Ridge Parkway, Virginia

2. View from a pulloff at the BRP in Virginia

3. Derek, just a little crazy

4. Peaks of Otter from our back door at the Lodge, on the morning of 15Apr10

5. Back entrance to our room at the Lodge

6. Our room

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13Apr10 (Tues) - Mammoth Cave, KY

In a small town and out of Atlas range, we navigated for a bit on faith and guess, and after only a wrong turn or two we found ourselves heading towards the Land Between the Lakes. Flipping through our National Park book, we decided we wanted to hike the two-hour ‘History Tour’ at Mammoth Caves. I called the Park and found out that the last tour started at 3. A dinkier, shorter tour started at 4:45. We eyed our time and realized if we drove the scenic route between Land of the Lakes, we were cutting it close, but still should have enough time to get there and buy the tickets for the better cave tour. We decided to gamble on the drive. The drive was very pretty, tree lined, sunlit, and peaceful. Right before our turnoff was a sign for a buffalo reserve. Derek didn’t hesitate, he took the detour. He’s wanted to see bison the entire trip. And we both agreed it would be worth it, even if it cost us the tour we wanted. “It always works out anyway,” Derek remarked on our uncanny luck so far with the trip.

We drove up to a green gate that opened before us, into a jungle of trees, ala Jurassic Park. We even played the theme song to get us in the mood. We drove through beautiful trees and grass, listening to John Williams lively chords, and then saw a herd of antelope grazing. We stopped for a few minutes on the road, photographing them (of course). Then we continued on, straining our necks for site of the shaggy, humped beasts, fearing they would be hiding out of site. The anticipation mounted, and then, around one of the last curves, the herd appeared. They grazed, ignoring us, only twenty feet away, as we photographed and recorded them, oohing and awing at their size and sight. We both felt awed by the site, and Derek exclaimed how he had never seen a buffalo in the wild before, though I guess a reserve is about as wild as the buffalo will ever get these days. It’s funny that we were so taken by them, when in reality it’s not much different than seeing a herd of cows, except that we’re used to cows. I suppose if cows ever were reduced in population, and only in a few areas, sighting them would invoke the same feeling of awe. Nonetheless, we felt very satisfied leaving the park, the sight of both the buffalo and the sound of John Williams fading behind us.

Derek drove as fast as he could, but as I calculated and recalculated our mileage as we went along, it was becoming clearer we weren’t going to make our 3pm deadline. We both felt disappointed, though Derek, of course, more optimistic. Our luck had finally broke, though we tried to psych ourselves up with the fact that we’d made our choice. We finally gave the race up completely and pulled into a Wendy’s for a drive through lunch, since we were both starving (as I mentioned, our diet has gone to hell). I juggled fries and nuggets on my lap as we discussed our options. We decided we would camp in Mammoth and do the earliest hike available the next morning. It would give us a break from driving, and with the time we were making, we could still be home Friday if we drove long hours the next day.

We arrived at the park at 3:30pm, and walked up to the Visitor Center desk, asking about tours. He mentioned that the ‘History Tour’ and the ‘New Entrance Tour’ were equally popular. Our book hadn’t mentioned the latter. I studied the menu screen behind the clerk, and saw that there was one given at 3:45pm. Derek and I looked at each other. “Let’s do it!” I cried happily. We bought tickets and ran back to our car to fill up the water bottle and stuff our feet into our hiking boots. We had made it in the nick of time – our uncanny luck had held! We’d also arrived in the park at the perfect time of year. We overheard someone saying how they’d had over 3000 people the Tuesday before, and only 300 people today. There were only five other people on the tour, nice and intimate.

The ‘New Entrance’ was the second part of Mammoth Cave that was discovered in the 1920’s, (the ‘History Tour’ that we missed took people through the other side of the cave, that was originally discovered in the late 1700’s). The park ranger walked us down, down underground, past white spiderlike crickets, even bigger spiders, and roosting bats. We squeezed through narrow spaces in the rock walls of the cave, which wound around, so that we were stooping, scooting sideways, and taking many stairs up and down, which would then lead to impressive open spaces, domes and pits, much of this carved with 1930’s graffiti from tourists before the caves became a National Park. Derek and I both liked how we had to edge through narrow passageways in places – it made us feel really ‘in it.’ The tourguide gave us a detailed, interesting history of each part of the ‘New Entrance’ of Mammoth cave and how it was discovered, involving a rich guy, George Morrison who bought up a lot of the land around the existing Mammoth Cave, knowing there was probably more to the cave and he could make the very same cave a competing attraction against the people who owned other parts of it. He found some of the more scenic attractions, including the Frozen Niagara (which is a large row of melded stalactites dripping from the cave ceiling, looking like a frozen waterfall) and the Rainbow room nearby with most of the caves fantastical stalactite and stalagmite formations, caused by the ever shaping nature of water. We also did the obligatory 'turn off all the lights so we can all appreciate total darkness' gig that all caves do. I always like that part, because your mind goes through a period of making up shapes it thinks its seeing, in revolt of the absolute blackness. It was a satisfying tour, a nice taste of the caves. We decided to continue on our drive through Kentucky, to make it easier on ourselves tomorrow.

Kentucky is visually idyllic, rolling hills and farmland, with horses and cows dotting the slopes. I know it has one of the highest poverty levels in its rural areas, which seems like a tragedy that such beauty is also associated with such hardship. I wish there were a way that wealth, beauty and nature could all happily coexist. How have we structured our civilization that the smog of cities and the toxins of industry are where all the profits lay? I wish I could offer a solution but all I can do is be a hypocrite of the fast-paced world I live in, yearning for something simpler when passing through the countryside.

As if we hadn’t eaten enough fat and sugar already that day, we stopped at the only open place we saw for dinner – A Pizza Hut. Derek was giggling and bouncing in his seat he was so happy. He’d been craving pizza the whole trip. I could feel my arteries clogging before we even began to eat.

Once again we were driving at night, practically the only ones on the road. We passed a van on the side of the road with a tall, thin man standing outside. My first thought was he might need help. We were in the middle of nowhere, maybe he was stranded. But he watched us as we passed and didn’t wave or beckon us. In fact, our second thought was maybe he was hiding something. “Probably dumping a body,” Derek guessed. He changed his tone to the low, disturbed draw of Buffalo Bill, the bad guy in Silence of the Lambs, quoting him. “Are you about a size 14? Put the f*cking lotion in the basket!”

“Stop that! You’re disturbing me!” I protested, laughing. I craned my neck, trying to see the van in the distance. “Should we go back?” I wondered. “In case she’s still alive?”

“What, and be the next victim?!” Derek asked. He was probably right. If we turned around and went back, we’d probably both get clobbered and skinned for a chest suit. So we continued our drive instead, ending the night in a generic hotel a safe distance later.

Captions:

1. Derek driving with our landslide of stuff.

2. The buffalo in the Kentucky reserve on Land Between the Lakes

3. Derek riding the back of the bus to the beginning of 'The New Entrance' Tour at Mammoth Cave National Park.

4. Our tour group wends its way through narrow underground spaces.

5. Outside the Rainbow Room

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12Apr10(Mon) Eureka Springs, AR; Branson, MO; London, KY

We spent the morning shopping in Eureka. I’m not a big shopper, but Eureka’s stores are enticing, at least to me. They’re all unique, artsy, folksy, crafty places, stone and brickfronts squeezed together on their hilly streets, with the nicest shop owners in every one. Trolleys run along the main route if you don’t want to drive. My favorite store was the one selling sauces such as Butt rub seasoning (it’s tasty!)

Our next stop of the day was only an hour away; Branson Missouri. Originally, our next stop was to be Arrow Rock, but because it’s so far north (another 250 miles each way of driving) and we’re running behind schedule, we had to make the painful decision to cut it out of the trip (and we only did that because we know we’ll be back!)

We stopped at the Branson waterfront for lunch. The food at Shorty Smalls was quite good, though the brown blobs of floating who-knows-what-but-it-looked-like-shit were a bit disturbing. People were fishing though, so I guess it’s not too toxic. We drove through Branson, which is a show town of local talent and old, forgotten talent. Cheesy signs broadcasting this or that act line the highway. There’s a Hollywood wax museum with large Mount Rushmore-esque faces of people who vaguely resemble famous people such as Elvis and Marilyn Monroe, along with a 40 foot King Kong climbing on the outside of the building, a Haunted House (no thanks, had enough of that), a Titanic museum with a large version of half the boat to entice people inside, and a Dick Clark’s American Bandstand Theater. Branson reminded us of Las Vegas, except in miniature, without the gambling.

It was an entertaining drive through Branson, and then the fun ended and the serious driving began, as we headed towards our next destination – Mammoth Cave National Park in Kentucky.

While Derek has carried the brunt of the drive, with all of the intensity and attention that requires, I’ve had the brunt of the navigation. I have relearned the art of atlas reading, determining our path, and determining mileage, summing up those little pink numbers. I have had nightmares about the tangled, squiggly strings of road, with pink numbers grow larger and larger to overwhelm my vision. I think I may have a permanent squint from reading all the tiny words. All in all, though, we make a good team.

The roads became more crowded with towns, and driving through so many seemed loud and claustrophobic after all of the open space. Our ipod, which had worked perfectly until now on unused radio stations, now caught the static of civilization. It wa slower going, though we were still determined to take scenic drives and back roads, even if it cost us time.

Our diet has gone to hell. When we stop at gas stations, our routine is for Derek to fill up while I pee (every time, just to be safe) and then pile up on our typical driving snacks – m&m’s, sweet and sour patch kids, beef jerky, lots of gum, sugary cappuccinos, sunflower seeds and more beef jerky…snacking helps keep us occupied.

We decided to spend the night near Land between the Lakes, an inland peninsula between Lake Kentucky and Lake Barkley, that runs through Kentucky and Tennessee and has become a National Recreation area. With that in mind, we chose the town of London, Kentucky, cause we thought it would be cool to say we spent the night in London.

Captions:

1. Eureka Springs, AR

2. Derek, beard growth

3. The Titanic Museum in Branson, MO

4. The Hollywood Wax Museum in Branson, MO

5. Driving through Missouri or Kentucky or somewhere

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11Apr10 (Sun) - The Crescent Hotel in Eureka Springs, AR

Another legit diner, another greasy breakfast. “Can I read to you information I downloaded about the Crescent?” Derek asked as we chowed down, referring to our intended stay that night at one of America’s most haunted hotels. I eyed him. “Do I have a choice?” but he had already begun reading. I learned its sordid history (a man died while building it, and is said to be the reason behind the haunts in 218, one of the Crescent’s most infamous rooms. It changed hands many times, and a quack doctor took it over and turned it into a cancer hospital, where many people died in pain and were hidden downstairs in the basement morgue.) And with that sweet good morning story, we were on our way To Eureka Springs.

Entering Arkansas, especially Eureka, felt like a green homecoming. The trees were a relief from the endless grasslands, everything in bloom, the sides of the roads decorated with the fuscia of dogwoods. Here was the America both Derek and I knew and remembered, and though we both enjoyed the bizarre, alien scapes that we had been through, there was an instant warmth and happiness in returning to green. Add to that the gorgeous light at 4:30pm when we were driving through, …well I could forget for a moment about our impending stay, and we were both all smiles.

We saw a sign that warned: Motorcyles Beware! With a curvy line indicating hard turns ahead. There were many sharp curves in the road, with dropoffs and no guardrails, so we understood the warning. It’s clearly a favored place to bike, as we spassed a reststop for bikers only. Well, only a few miles down the road, we happened upon an accident minutes after it happened. A group of bikers huddled around one of their own, a gruff looking fellow with white hair and beard, wearing leather, sitting up and bloodied. 50 feet away, a red truck with a long scar of a dent in the drivers side was stopped in the middle of our lane. Clearly, one or both had been to close to the center of a sharp curve, and had sideswiped each other. The biker was lucky that he hadn’t gone off the cliff (and that he hadn’t smashed his brains in when he fell). In any case, a slightly sobering note leading up to our stay at the Crescent, which was probably appropriate.

The closer we came, the crankier and more nervous I became, afraid of staying at a haunted hotel. Derek, on the other hand, was like a little kid, practically bouncing in his seat. “We’re gonna stay at a haunted hotel, baby!” He’d declare, all smiles. Perhaps it was these repeated affirmations that caused my increasing unease.

We arrived at the looming, aged Crescent Hotel. It was such a nice day that it couldn’t look too haunted from the outside. They did a good job with the gloom in the interior however, everything in dark wooden colors, dust floating in the dimly lit inside, everything slightly shabby, and crooked, giving an off balanced feel.

Derek checked in as I wandered around the lobby, checking out some of their ghost tshirts, mugs and postcards. When he was all checked in, I asked him what room we were in. He pretended not to hear me, talking about some other subject completely. “What room are we in?” I asked again. Derek looked around and commented on how cool the building looked. I tugged on his shirt. “What – room – are – we – in?”

He mumbled something that sounded like “218.” “You didn’t just say 218, did you?” “Well, when I requested it, I didn’t ACTUALLY think it would be available,” Derek said again. I could see the excitement in his whole demeanor though, he was practically wriggling with glee. “At least I didn’t bring all of my ghost hunting gear!” He pronounced, though he seemed a bit saddened by this. I dragged my feet as we walked towards the steps. “I can’t believe it, I can’t believe I’m DOING this,” I muttered.

As soon as we entered the long dark hallway towards 218, we both felt a heaviness. Whether it was a product of our minds working overtime; the effect of color, crooked fans, and old carpeting; or an unhappy spirit, I’ll never know, but it was undoubtedly there. We opened the black door, light-absorbing door with its gold numbers, and our room revealed itself to us. A dingy carpet, uneven floor, lumpy bed, dim lamps, and creepy pictures on the wall. Sweet.

Derek began taking photographs immediately, looking for orbs, or as I call them, dust specks caught in the light of a flash. I want to know, if these orbs are spirits trying to manifest themselves, why one can’t capture them without a flash, or with the naked eye. Its dust motes, I say, that’s why. I’m a skeptic, but I still believe in ghosts. Just not a lot of what people attribute to them. Derek’s not sure he believes all the reflected balls of light are orbs either, but it didn’t stop him for looking. I made a vow to only take pictures without flash. If an orb wanted to manifest itself in my photo that way, then I would believe it.

It was already 6:30pm, and Derek had scheduled us a ghost tour at 8pm, so we had to hurry and eat dinner. The hotel offered dining services, but we both agreed it was a good idea to leave the oppressiveness of the hotel behind for a bit. The concierge recommended an Italian place that was voted best Italian restaurant of Arkansas last year, and just so happened to be in walking distance of our hotel. We took to the hilly streets of Eureka, the sun warming us, filtered through the trees in dappled light. It was in complete contrast to our hotel. I sighed and smiled, enjoying the walk, and trees, and smell of spring. The houses in Eureka are mostly Victorian, cute, small, pastel colors, white porches…we arrived at Ermilio’s, a house converted into a restaurant, with a white wooden post and a sign swinging from it with a painted picture of two old Italian folks. Inside it was decorated with lots of old family photos, black and white wedding pictures and what not, and I swear they could have been taken from my grandparents photo albums, so similar in look were both the pictures and the people. We had a romantic, delicious dinner, and I highly recommend the restaurant to ANYONE who visits Eureka Springs.

We returned to the gloom & doom hotel just in time for our ghost tour. We learned about all the various happenings to guests in the hotel, and the tour leader assured us that most of it was just ghosts playing pranks, none of it had ever seriously harmed people. The most common occurrences were hearing footsteps, or voices, or bouncing balls, or feeling a tap on the shoulder…we walked around the hotel, learning about the hotspots (such as the one staircase where a little girl fell four floors to her death) or room 423 where the mistress of the quack doctor used to stay, and often plays tricks on the residents of that room, including moving their suitcases towards the door, or, to one unlucky bride and groom, taking their wedding outfits from their hangers and crumpling them into little balls into the corner of their closet (why you would want to stay at the Crescent when you’re getting married, I have no idea. Ok, I guess I could see Derek liking that idea. To each his own). The woman showed us some pictures that have been captured by other guests of the hotel, and a few of them are actually creepy (though some of them could be anything).

And then we arrive outside of our room. We find out we can’t enter because there are guests staying there tonight (US!), but we learn that it’s the most haunted room in the hotel. That the man working on this place was a bit of a ladies man, and he was waving to some women when he fell to his death, and that he mostly likes to play tricks on the women guests in the room, things like pinching their butt, preventing the door from closing when they enter the bathroom, reaching hands out of a mirror towards them …that sort of thing.

I gave Derek a long look and elbowed him hard in the side. “A womanizer ghost?!” I whispered harshly. “You pick the room with a ghost that tortures WOMEN?!” “I didn’t know, I didn’t know!” he hastily whispers back. Oh, GREAT.

We finish the tour in the notorious Crescent basement, the former morgue, where the morgue table still stands, rusted, in the corner. The tour guide attempts to play famous footage from Ghosthunters at the Crescent Hotel, what Derek says has been called “the holy grail of ghost hunting footage” (and something Derek has shown me many times in recent years), but she can’t find the exact track, and blames the ghost for messing with her DVD, which she had set up prior to the tour. She scrolls through the various tracks on the film, and it is Derek who knows exactly which one to play of the footage she is looking for. Finally, she’s able to play us the moment the ghosthunters capture a heat signature of a ghost on film in front of Locker #2. The tour guide dutifully leads us around the corner so we can see the paint chipped green locker with our own eyes. A few of us lingered there (me, mostly waiting for Derek) and as we took photos of the locker, we heard a rattle of the locked door next to us, as if someone had shaken it. The four of us there jump. But putting our cameras through the cracks at the top and side of the door prove that the next room is deserted. We’re pretty sure its not a prank, as the ghost tour takes itself seriously, and they’ve solemnly told us that they fire any hotel employee who tries to stage a prank. What was the rattling then? Wind, animal, ghost? Who knows. I’ve got bigger, badder ghosts to deal with back at our room.

Derek has never found me so amenable to having a drink at the bar as he did that night. Hang out at the bar with other people for a couple of hours or in our creepy woman-obsessed, ghost infested room? Hmmmm let me think about that one. Derek set up the video camera while we left the room, since I had asked him not to film us sleeping. He did that once when we were staying at what turned out to be a haunted old house in Plymouth (UK) and watching the footage was disturbing. Not because of any ghosts, but just watching ourselves sleep, tossing and turning in the night. Something about it really creeped me out. Plus, we’d just seen Paranormal Activity. We didn’t need any demons riding along with us on the rest of the trip.

At the bar, we saw some people from the tour and chatted with them for a bit, sharing our pictures and stories. One girl, skeptic, proclaimed she saw a shadow figure that freaked her out. Talk turned to other things, and they mentioned that there was a UFO convention there that weekend. Derek gasped. “There was?!” Be still, his beating heart. “Good thing for you I didn’t know about that sooner,” he told me. I AM glad. Who knows what beauty we would have had to cut out of the trip to make it to a UFO convention. Sounds like D’s idea of heaven and mine of….well, of a lot of time for shopping and catching up on the blog.

Eventually the time came when we can procrastinate no longer, and we must return to the room. We take a few pictures from the bed, me more to play with the effect of the ‘orbs’, and I find that if I point the camera a certain way at the light I can always pick up ‘orbs’, where if I point it further away from the light, I am less likely to capture them. Just more proof of the play of dust and light if you ask me. Derek’s point and shoot leica starts freaking out, which freaks me out, but all the other cameras work fine, and I realize he’s probably just messing it up in the sand dunes (indeed, it’s still having the same problems, days and ghost free hotels later). I get tired of orb photos and immerse myself in my blog, while Derek tries to call up the ghost. He finally gives up, and after midnight, falls asleep beside me. I am fine until I finish my blog, but once I clap my computer shut, I suddenly realize that I am the only one conscious in the room, essentially alone with a potentially woman-fixated ghost. I talk to the ghost (as the tour guide recommended). Michael, I don’t want any trouble, please just leave me alone tonight. If you feel the need to torture someone, Derek is the one who really likes ghosts.” Then I shake sleeping Derek and tell him to wake up, because I have to go to the bathroom and am to petrified to do it without his moral support. It takes several shakes before he wakes up to mumble through talking me to and from the bathroom. I feel only a little guilty for waking him, since he was the impetuous behind this stay, and thus my current terrified state.

I can’t get the image out of my mind of hands reaching from the mirror, so I avoid looking at the mirror at all costs, ducking my head low as I half-assed spray some water across my hands, then take a bounding leap to the bed beside Derek. I wrap every body part possible around him in a show of solidarity and comfort, and to help prevent the one thing that Michael has been known to do to men – push them out of the bed. My mind is racing, I keep waiting for a pinch, and in this state of mind, I stay awake for an hour. It becomes very warm in the room (this, at least, has never been attributed to a ghost) so I’m forced to untangle my sweating self from a still angelically sleeping Derek to change into shorts and a tank top. I dive into bed again, reattaching myself to Derek in octopus fashion. I have a terrible nights sleep, interrupted every 5 minutes by imaginings of ghosts. Derek, on the other hand, except for when I was waking him up, slept like a champ.

The only odd thing that happens the next morning is that he can’t get the shower water to stay warm, it either goes way hot or way cold for him. The tour guide had mentioned how this can be a trick of the ghosts. I suspect a trick of old pipes instead, but it is odd how when I shower, the water is perfectly even, the entire time.

We eat breakfast in the grand old dining hall the next morning, and leave the haunted hotel behind, relatively unscathed, and only slightly worse for the wear.

CAPTIONS:

1. The Crescent Hotel. Kidding. On the drive to Eureka

2. The Crescent Hotel for real.

3. The entryway to fear

4. Beard shot photo, Derek at Ermilio's

5. The ghost tour in a haunted stairway

6. The ghost tour in a haunted men's room (because what better place to spend the afterlife than a smelly old men's room)

7. Derek and Locker #2

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10Apr10 (Sat)– Driving through Colorado and Oklahoma

A wonderful home-cooked breakfast by Karen, the other owner at the Plaza Inn, was our sendoff into the driving portion of our trip. We were an hour into the drive when I realized it had happened. In truth, I can't believe I made it this far without doing it sooner. I left my camera battery charger at the Inn. I panicked for a bit (it’s not something you can pick up at any store) but then calmed myself once I realized I had three fully charged batteries, and that would probably last me to PA. Karen very sweetly has offered to send it to me in PA.

Early in the drive, Derek saw a sign for the Ludlow Massacre Memorial, so naturally it sparked his attention. When we found out, via blackberry, that it was also a ghost town, we turned around and drove the 9 miles back to it. Right before we turned around, we had passed a long freight train chugging along the opposite way (back towards the ghost town). It turns out the rails ran right by the former town, and we’d beat the train there. All that is left of Ludlow are a few decaying wooden cabins, most in shambles, some only piles of wood. We heard the train coming before we saw it, and watched and photographed as it thundered by, an odd juxtaposition of the life and power of the train contrasted with the isolation and deadness of the town. The friendly train conductor blew the train’s whistle at us, and I waved wildly in return. It was a cool moment.

Down the road is the actual memorial. In 1913, the mining town of Ludlow striked against the abhorrent working conditions (Colorado mine fatalities were 2-3 times more than the national average, and miners were only paid for coal gathered rather than all of the dead work setting up requires). The miners were promptly thrown out of their homes and replaced. With the help of the United Mine Workers of America they created a tent community nearby to continue the strike. The National Guard was sent in to keep the peace and instead opened fire on April 20^th, and set the tents on fire. The miners returned fire, but most of the fatalities were theirs. This massacre started a ten day fight between the Colorado union members and the militia where over 50 people died. Ultimately the strike failed, and many of the miners involved were sent to jail, while the National Guard was only reprimanded. It did, however, help turn the tide, as the public was horrified at what had happened. It led to less violent confrontations and implementation of the mining companies to offer better housing and better working conditions. I wonder what it was like to be part of something like that – would the eventual success years later help nurse the wounds of the more keen sense of immediate failure? Of spending months or years in jail, of having lost loved ones to something so vicious and inhumane? The lesson of Ludlow (people’s tendency towards violence as resolution) has really stuck with me. I felt for those miners.

Feeling a bit humbled, and glad we’d stopped, we continued on our way. The drive droned into monotony before we even hit Oklahoma. A whole lot of flat grassland and….not much else. The line of the horizon played with our eyes. I wondered how far we were seeing. Some of the grass was yellowed and dead looking. Other gras was newly planted and green. We saw a lot of cows. In fact, to entertain ourselves, we played the cow game. What, might you ask, is the cow game? Well, if you see a field of cows, you claim them as your own. (MY COWS!) before the other person can. Each field counts as 1. If you see a church, you try to claim that as yours (I MARRY MY COWS!) and your cows double. If you see a graveyard, you kill all the other person’s cows and they go back to 0. Derek also added the rule that if you saw a McDonalds, you could eat one of the other person’s cows. Derek was dubious at first about this game, but he got into it pretty quickly. Pretty soon, screams of COWS! was ringing all through the car. Oddly enough, in Oklahoma, their cemeteries don’t seem to be out in the open, there’s green signs that point the way, but you can never actually see them, so there wasn’t much opportunity for mass slaughter, though Derek did catch me once. As Derek later admitted, it’s a pretty ingenious game, because three things you’ll always find (especially in rural America) are cows, churches and graveyards.

We had looked up potentially interesting stopping points in Northern Oklahoma, but nothing that particularly drew our attention. So, instead, we stopped for a late lunch in a small town with two food choices. One that had TACOS written across the tin roof, and a cafe. We picked the café, and it turned out to be some kickass Mexican food. We’ve been scoring with our food choices across the board.

We did eventually stop for a few moments in Boise City, Oklahoma, so Derek could take his picture with a huge metal dinosaur. He was hoping at some point on this trip to hike to fossilized Dinosaur prints, but alas, like many things we wanted to do, we’ve simply run out of time.

We were going a little nuts in the car. Derek started acting like a special child. It’s something he likes to do now and again. Usually I don’t mind, (although if he goes on long enough I begin to feel like a disturbed pedophile) though when we’re in public and he starts shouting out things that cause sideway glances from others, I get a little upset. But in this case, I got it. We were driving through the most monotonous scenery we’d yet encountered, for hour after unending hour. We were both fidgety.

We saw a windmill down a dirt road when sunset was near, so we decided to stretch our legs and use it as a foreground to our sunset photos of the day. It was a nice little break, but returning to the car was a necessary inevitability.

When it hit 9pm, we were both getting a little tired, but determined to make it to Stillwater, which we hoped would put us in Eureka for 4pm the next day. We bought some of that really sweet, syrupy cappuccino stuff that I’ve always liked, even though I know it’s disgusting, and now I’ve gotten Derek addicted to it too. Something about the caffeine and the obscene amount of sugar really helps. Then I read to Derek from a book I’d exchanged at the Plaza Inn library (guests leave books they’re finished behind and take another one on their journey). I managed that for an hour before the old nausea took too much hold. Then I began feeding him gum, m&m’s and whatever I could find to keep us both occupied and awake. We talked atlas talk. We listened to Joy Division. I drifted off for fifteen minutes or so towards the end, but all in all toughed it out. And in this fashion, around 12:30am, bleary eyed, and cranky from fatigue (at least I was - one of my less endearing qualities, that my mood is inversely affected by how tired I am) we arrived in Stillwater. We’d picked the town because it looked fairly big on the map and we thought it would have a lot of motel options. Turns out it was a large college town and also Mom’s weekend so almost every place was booked up. Go figure. Some kindly soul at one of the hotels took pity on us and called around, until he found out a new hotel – called Microtel, had an opening. Who names a place Microtel? Sounds so corporate – it makes me shudder. But they had a room and we took it, and it was clean, and the night guy was friendly, so at that point, that’s all that mattered. Figured I should get some good sleep while I could, since tomorrow we’d be spending the night in one of America’s most haunted hotels in Eureka Springs, and good sleep probably wasn’t on the agenda.

Captions:

1. Ludlow

2.Boise City, Oklahoma

3. Driving in Oklahoma

4. Sunset with a windmill

5. Going a bit nuts in the car while I blog

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9Apr10 (Fri) Sand Dunes National Park, Colorado

In the morning, we ate at a ‘real’ diner in Durango. Grease oozed out of every pore of the place, coating us when we walked in. A cop sat at the counter that wrapped around the cooking area. We took two seats facing the cook. Our plates were huge, greasy, and delicious. Any weight I may have lost with all the hiking I promptly gained back with my ten pound portion of hashbrowns that accompanied my eggs, toast and plate sized pancake.

It was a good meal to start the drive, since we had several hours until our next destination – the Great Sand Dunes. We finally arrived around 5pm. Appearing out of the middle of Colorado shrub and mountains, the sand dunes form from dried lake beds that blow sand into the base of the Sangre de Cristo mountains, piling it as high as 750 feet. It is so unexpected in its location, it could be a set for a desert movie.

I had this idea in my mind that Derek and I would climb about the mounds of sands, frolicking, letting our inner children be coaxed free (and Derek’s is pretty close to the surface anyway, so I figured it wouldn’t be hard). Derek’s idea, on the other hand, was to achieve the best photo possible, at any expense, and to this effect, he decided we should hike far west (much further than where other people were headed) so that we could shoot east. At first, I was really enjoying myself, playing with the long shadows and the ripples in the sand. The lighting at this time of day was dramatic. With the rippling, swirling wind patterns and the harsh contrast of shadow and light, the picture possibilities seemed endless. I also loved how the shifting of the sand under foot left a trail of dinosaur like footprints behind us. At one point we decided to stage a fun video where I attempted to slide to the bottom of one ravine created by several hills of sand. We soon found out that sliding on your butt is nearly impossible. It’s much more fun to take giant steps down the steep hills, in a sliding, stepping manner. There was a hairy moment as I attempted to climb out of the sand pit. Sand has different textures, sometimes firmer than others, depending on – well I don’t know why.. I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation, but I don’t know what it is. I reached the last quarter of the climb, and the sand shifted texture, and suddenly for every step I tried to climb up, I would slide back down, so that in effect I was making no, or perhaps even negative progress. The faster I tried to climb, the worse it became, a bizarre hillside quicksand. Luckily, I was close enough to the top that after a few flailing attempts, I was able to grab Derek the strongman’s hand, who dragged me up the rest of the way to the top.

As many people know, hiking through sand, even on a flat surface, is tiring. I kept complaining about how far west we were going, but Derek was ever enthusiastic. When he deemed it far enough out, we began the climb. It was arduous. For every step I took onto firm sand, my second step would slide out from under me, so that it was an uneven progress forward. To add to the difficulty, there was always a fine layer of sand on the surface of the dunes that is blown by the wind. Even though I’d been on dunes in Oregon, I’d forgotten about this. It coated everything – us, my water bottle, my camera bag, and my camera. I began to really worry about my camera, and cursed my stupidity at bringing the good one (should have brought my point and shoot instead). But it was too late, nothing to do but go on.

We hit a really big hill. We climbed about two thirds of the way (and I was really panting at this point), and Derek by some strength of will managed to find his way to the top. But I kept slipping. I finally kneeled on the hill, and put my camera away so I could use both hands. Then, in a sideways crab motion, I pulled and slid my way almost completely horizontal across the sand, step by laborious step, moving incrementally vertical. Each movement would sink me in the sand to my ankles, wrists and halfway up my knees. In this fashion, and really working the cardio, I managed to crest the hill.

But we were far from done, and I’d just about spent my reserves. I began walking sideways so I wasn’t so pelted with the sand and to help my progress upward. It was cooling down the higher we climbed, and my enemy the wind strengthened with each step upward, numbing my fingers and toes. I was so winded I could barely breathe. I began to question our sanity at the route we were taking. What was supposed to be a fun, frolicking adventure had turned into a nightmare climb, just to get a good photo. My leatherclad Leah devil had thrown up her hands, questioning my sanity. Even my David Rees angel shrugged his shoulders. Only Derek encouraged me forward, and to him all of my wrath turned. “We’re almost there,” he would say (for the fiftieth time). “Liar!” I’d shout out, and he would ignore me. He promised “Just one more hill, I can see the top!”

“That’s bullshit and you KNOW it!” I’d irrationally shoot back. And then we crested the hill that Derek had promised was the highest and would give us beautiful views and….there was a much higher hill East that appeared only when we crested our supposedly tallest dune, and we couldn’t see shit from where we had so arduously climbed to. “I’m not doing it, I’m not climbing that other hill,” I insisted. Smiling, still enthusiastic, Derek said “but Leah, we’re so close. You can do it. Come on!” He offered to take my camera bag and I handed it over without a word, glaring at him. And for some reason, perhaps because I didn’t want to be stranded in a blizzard of sand, I followed my tormentor. We climbed and clawed our way upwards, though I was sure I was too winded to finish. Even Derek’s encouragement quieted the farther we went, as he concentrated all of his energy on his own climb.

And then we were at the top, and we could see all the sand dunes around us, in a riot of light and dark and sandy curves, backed by the Sangre de Cristo mountains. It was beautiful, and we both took pictures, but the wind was raging, and we had a twenty minute wait until sunset. I was m-is-er-a-ble. My lips were chapped and so cracked I couldn’t even force them into a pretend smile when Derek asked me to take a picture. My eyes burned with san granules. I had taken my camera bag back from Derek to place it down on the sand, and it was being buried by the sand blowing in the wind, which kept up a steady, incessant moan. It was freezing, we were being pelted by granules no matter where we turned, I could barely move fingers or toes, and I wanted to leave right then and there, unable to imagine waiting it out for 20 minutes, and worried about being caught on the dunes in the dark. Derek, who only seemed invigorated, and completely immune to cold and pain, told me to suck it up. I huddled, took a photo now and again (though it was becoming a bit repetitive, since our ridge space was so limited) and prayed for the sun to set faster. As the sun finally dipped below the surface of the western mountains, the color of the sand glowed orange, and it almost made the misery worth it. Then I was off the top of the 750 foot dune like a shot. I galloped down the large hill, slipping and sliding with some whoo hoos and yippees, moving like a barreling, runaway train. At the bottom I had to wait for Derek to catch up. Even just one hill down it was less windy and warmer. Each time Derek came into sight, I took off again. Going down was so much quicker and fun, it also almost made going up worth it. I felt reinvigorated. Derek, on the other hand, lost all the energy that kept him manic at the top, and he, for a change was struggling. Now I encouraged him. “We’re almost there! Only a few more hills!” At that moment, I felt like I could fly. What had taken us hours to climb took us maybe 20 minutes to descend. Navigation proved to be the toughest part – finding our path back to the car without ending up stranded at the bottom of a sand ravine. I also moved quickly because I wanted to be out of the dunes before the last light faded, though we didn’t quite make it. Luckily, Derek had brought a headlamp, and when we hit the edges of the dune, Derek flipped it on. It was dark, and everything looked the same. We scanned the twilit horizon attempting to figure out where we had entered the dunes. We thought we recognized a few logs, and began to cut a path out of the dunes, until we realized it wasn’t a real path, and we were just trekking through random trees. We ended up near a road in the park. I thought we had to turn right for our parking lot, but Derek was pretty sure we were left, and as I’m completely direction senseless, I deferred to his judgement. He was correct, and after only five minutes of anxiety about whether we would find the car, or end up shivering and huddled together to wait out the night, we saw our car – as always the last in the parking lot – in the distance. We dumped a pound of sand out of our socks, and shook off our clothes as best we could. I was afraid to even touch my camera, since each time I tried to focus it or change the zoom, everything grated together. I lamented that I might have ruined it. Luckily, with careful cleaning, and Derek helping me to suck out the sand (yes, suck out!), it seems to work alright. It’s definitely going to need some professional love after the trip is done. In hindsight, it was all worth it, and I’m glad Derek had the strength to pull us both through. Definitely though, if we were to attempt that again, I would want to take a less convoluted, much more direct route.

Both of us more tired than we had been thus far on the trip, and coated in a fine layer of sand, we drove out of the park at a crawl, watching for deer with every turn of the wheel, who seemed fearless of cars. We had at least three slowly walk out to the road and stare us down, before nonchalantly moving on. I worried for these deer - I don’t know how they don’t get flattened during the busier season, and with less careful drivers than Derek. We made our way to Walsenburg, Colorado too tired to drive any further. We checked trip advisor, which recommended the Plaza Inn/B & B. Best stay of our trip yet. Turns out it had just that month been taken over by new owners. A very nice man, Jeff, greeted us, even though it was 10:30pm at that point. The rooms were charming and quaint, and reminded me very much of my friend Bunny’s B & B. Jeff even helped Derek lug his 200 pound suitcase up the stairs. We were so tired, we didn’t even bother to shower, though sand was crusted in places it shouldn’t be. We climbed into our frilly, quilt covered bed. We had been warned about the trains that run all throughout the night in Walsenburg. We heard one whistle right before we fell asleep, but though there were other trains that night, Derek and I were oblivious too them, lost in a sandy dreamland.

Captions:

1. Derek's beard growth in the Great Sand Dunes National Park, Colorado

2.Derek climbing the sand dunes

3.footsteps in the sand

4. Derek hiking in front of me

5. The last hill

6. Sunset towards the West

7.Sunset towards the North

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