SUMMER 2007
Definitions to help the reader
Sylvia: Onie, Co-pilot, Navigator, Sis, My Bride
Tom: Pawpaw, Driver, Thomas, Unc’a Tom, scribbler, pecker, writer
The Cummins: Our engine
Allison: Our transmission , our first born grandchild
Subaru: our car, tow vehicle, toad
OTRA (on the road again)
May 23, 2007
This was not just another day. It was special as is every day, a gift. In addition we were up early enough to see the sun rise, but we didn’t.
Inside the comfy house on Lake Road there was much ado about something. For days and weeks, off and on, preparations had been going on for this day, the day we leave for our annual summer trip. This year it was back to Castaway Riverside on the Kenai Peninsula, Alaska.
When the alarm, a devilish device, woke us at 6:00 AM it was all I could do not to throw it against the wall but that would accomplish nothing permanent so I just hit the snooze button and dozed a few more minutes before rising.
The kitchen waited. Coffee and tea were hastily started and then grits were set cooking. The eggs, pepper bacon and ham followed while Onie enjoyed hot coffee and I sipped on my tea.
As the sun began casting early morning shadows though the trees we sat down to break our fast. Last minute preparations were discussed as we quickly finished our meal.
Items that had been gathered over the last few days were organized and placed in the basement.
Accumulated trash was taken to our friends, Jim and Polly Johnson, to be delivered on the morrow, with theirs, to the county compactor.
Clothes that had not yet been loaded were placed in the coach and then organized.
Our new chest type freezer which we had put in the day before, with the help of our grandson, Ryan Inman, was loaded with sausage, haddock, bacon, feral hog, venison roast, world famous Digby scallops, frozen vegetables and sundry other items we felt compelled to take along.
A final sweep was made through the house to be sure we had everything. We agreed that whatever we were forgetting we could buy.
We locked up, took a longing look at our beautiful yard. The air was sweet with the smell of hundreds of gardenia blooms as well as early blooming four o’clocks. Various lilies added their color to the scene along with the Confederate Rose that was a showcase of pink and white blossoms.
Land lines were disconnected and stowed, slides pulled in, jacks taken up and then the Cummins growled to life. She was allowed a couple of minutes to warm up and clear her throat before I eased her into gear and headed out the drive and past the gate. There I stopped.
Onie brought out the Subaru, our tow vehicle, and while I hooked it up she closed and locked the gate.
At twelve fifteen we headed for Alaska.
We had gone all of two miles west on SH 150 when we had to stop for construction and wait for a pilot car. Actually it was a truck. They all seem to be and I can’t for the life of me understand why they hang a sign on the back of a pickup that says “Pilot Car”. Surely the safety engineer in charge of the job can tell the difference between a truck and a car. Excuse me, I digress. When the pilot car/truck arrived we were off again for a little piece before more construction loomed and we stopped again and started and stopped three times in twenty four miles. It had only taken an hour. At that rate I figured we would arrive in Alaska in about a month instead of the twelve travel days we had planned on.
Undaunted we turned north on IH45 and headed toward Dallas. The highway, and traffic, rolled out before us over the gentle rolling hills. We skimmed along with the Cummins turning 1600 rpm and the speedo setting on 57. The dash air kept a cool breeze blowing on us while outside the wildflowers and trees nodded their heads in the late May warm breeze. Along with the cool breeze from the dash air came the smooth sounds of the gospel quartet, Shiloh. All was well in our world.
In a while the skyline of Little D, Dallas, hove into view. IH 20 west took us south of the city and we tried to skirt it on the inside loop, 12. It was a loop and one to be avoided in the future but today we drove it and finally arrived at IH35E.
Afternoon traffic was starting to build but we took our time and enjoyed the outside scenery, Wal-Mart bags blowing in the wind, beer cans gleaming in the sun and various litter swirling, dancing through the moving traffic.
Patience and prudence brought us to that college town, Denton, that has been home to a granddaughter, Allison, who will soon be a nurse practioner, and a nephew, David Blomstrom, Jr, J R to me, who will soon begin his internship prior to going into private practice.
We pulled into the same park, Destiny, that we stayed at last year, checked in, hooked up, went for a walk and swim and then back to the coach for supper.
At nine thirty with the A/C units running on high we fell into the arms of Morpheus.
INDIANS LOVED UNCONTROLLED IMMIGRATION
May 24, 2007
What is it with getting up at six in the morning? For years I was blissfully unaware that six o’clock occurred anytime other than in the P.M. Here it is two days in a row and we are awake, if not erect, at six in the morning. Perhaps this is punishment for some sin of omission, or perhaps commission, in my dim if not obscure past. Whatever the case we were awake again, once more roused by that sinful invention that passes for an alarm clock.
With a hot cup of coffee in hand Onie managed to get to the shower while I fixed oatmeal, sausage and tea.
Outside an early morning breeze was brushing the dew from the leaves of the live oaks and chasing the remnants of air conditioning condensate from our roof.
Shower behind me, I scampered outside to begin getting ready for the road while Onie wiped down the shower and cleaned up after our breakfast.
At 8:40 we rolled back onto the service road on IH35E, made a U turn under the freeway and headed back north. FYI-freeway is a euphemism for a roadway bought and paid for with your money and mine but only after politicians, AKA-legal thieves, manage to skim forty to fifty percent off the top. You do know if a business man skims forty to fifty percent off the top of his business he is called a crook and sent to the federal pen. If we had the same rights as politicians they would be in jail or many business men would be free. Perhaps this journal is too short to go there.
At any rate twenty minutes to nine found us headed north on a road bought and paid for by you and me. We wish you could be here to enjoy our road.
We headed for the Red River, the age old demarcation line between the last bastion of Indianhood and Western, U.S. civilization. For those of you not up on U.S. history or geography that would be the Sooner State, Oklahoma.
Oklahoma was given to the remnants of several American Indian tribes, in perpetuity, in an overt act of kindness and generosity by the benevolent United States government after said tribes were ousted from their tribal homelands by an onslaught of uncontrolled immigration. The immigrants were neither invited nor wanted by the Indians. In the beginning the Indians were in the majority and could have expelled the uninvited guest workers at anytime. In fact the Indians could have let the first immigrants starve to death but being kindhearted and soft headed they saved the illegal immigrants. Later the immigrants killed them and took their country. Fortunately all was not lost because as I mentioned earlier the U.S Government, in an act of nobless oblige’, granted certain lands to the Indians, to be the Indians forevermore or until needed by the U.S. citizens, whichever came first. Again, in case you are not up on your American history, the U.S citizens needed the land and the Federal Government held the great land rush of the twentieth century in which more immigrants took the Indians land. Somewhere in this history there may be a valuable lesson for some folks to learn.
At a quarter of twelve we parked in the Flying J in Oklahoma City. To our right was the diesel pump.
Behind us were several miles and an hour and a half of torrential downpours and raging creeks. The rain was of truly monumental proportions and could very easily be called a frog strangler. In fact we did see several frogs floating belly up in the turgid waters that ran in the creeks and rills. These bloated bodies bore mute testimony to the fact that even as we suffer global warming (?) voluminous downbursts of frigid water can still overcome our amphibious friends, and from this comes the old East Texas saying “It was a real frog strangler”.
The hundreds of gallons of water that had assaulted us on our way to Oklahoma City had washed all those noxious Texas bugs from the front of the coach as well as cleaning the windshield. In the face of such a fortuitous circumstance I took a little stroll around the Flying J parking lot, in the sub sixty degree temperature, while the coach gulped down forty five gallons of diesel at the bargain basement price of $2.63 per gallon. Ten minutes later my stroll was over and it was time to man the driver’s seat once again. As we pulled back onto IH35 I told Onie we had averaged ten miles to the gallon on our first leg.
Good companionship makes ever day easy and Onie is one. With her in the co pilot’s seat we headed on toward Kansas and strange things.
While driving through Witchita , on their loop, we were coasting along at sixty miles an hour, when I noticed some movement in the grass on the right side of the road. The movement materialized into a duck hen and eight or nine ducklings, tiny little things, heading for the freeway. They were less than a hundred yards ahead. Now I have never intentionally run over any animal, with the exception of snakes, but I don’t believe in imperiling life and limb for the sake of animals but, Dorothy, I have to tell you that a woman in Kansas would rather cause mayhem and perhaps death on the freeway than run over a duck and her brood. Yep, this woman, directly in front of us, made an emergency type stop to avoid the ducks. Thirty two thousand pounds, plus the tow, traveling sixty miles a hour has a lot of energy and takes a lot of stopping. Not wanting to make a mess of the front of the coach, the little red car and the warped woman inside, I braked hard and steered right to go around her on the shoulder. Of course she steered right also, to get a better look at the ducks, I suppose, and we had to stand the coach on her head to avoid calamity. Fortunately the brakes held and we avoided this unconscious driver. I’m not sure we did the world a favor. I said a silent prayer for her that she would learn to watch her rear view mirror at all times because she may not be so lucky the next time she decides to wildlife watch from a dead stop sitting in the right lane of the freeway. I did remind myself we were in Kansas.
Perhaps I was muttering under my breath or fuming verbally, I don’t remember but Onie opined as it was time for her to drive and for me to give it a rest. I pulled over and she took the wheel.
Back on the road with Onie chauffeuring me I lay back in the co pilot’s chair and watched the scenery pass by. It was interesting and for a little bit I almost dozed off but then a huge expanse of water inundating fences brought me back to life. Soon more than fences were underwater, parking lots with vehicles half submerged filled the landscape; people standing in apparent awe looked out on their homes and possessions that were now standing in water. Horses belly deep in water walked a fence line looking for dry ground but none was in sight. Only the pavement we rode on seemed unaffected by what must have been a sudden downburst. We can’t be sure but from the map it looked like the Kansas River had come out of its banks and flooded the surrounding areas. The water stretched for a couple of miles and in that span folks were seen standing next to their vehicles on roads leading from the freeway looking at their homes and farmsteads that had been flooded.
At sixty three miles an hour the scene changed quickly and the flood and its victims were behind us but not gone from memory. It will remain there a long time, perhaps permanently.
Onie’s confidence grows with each mile she drives and she is probably approaching the one thousand mile mark, of total miles driven in the Marlin.
Salina and its nearness was announced by several billboards dotting the roadside. Onie drove on, not daunted by the thought of negotiating the traffic of another town. The interchange of IH35 and IH70 west she handled like a pro.
Headed west we began looking for a rest area where we could change drivers. Onie had been driving about an hour and a half. I was rested and relaxed, ready to resume driving. With no rest area imminent Onie exited the freeway and pulled to the side. A quick change was made and we were westbound again. She had logged another eighty six miles.
Even though we were headed almost due west I did not face a blazing sun as it was still high in the sky.
Our planned stop in Russell was reached in a little less than an hour. Upon arriving at the campground we found it below our expectations and with plenty of daylight left to burn we decided to keep moving.
KaWanee, Kansas was just down the road a bit and Trailer Life had a nice thing or two to say about a campground there. At six ten we pulled in and found it to our liking so we parked and shut off the Cummins. The odometer told the tale of the day’s progress, five hundred sixty miles. With the co-pilot’s help we had done it in nine and a half hours.
Before leaving Lake Road we promised one another we would walk some each day as well as try to get a little exercise some other form. Now Onie slipped into her tennis shoes and we set out for our twenty minute walk, around the campground and around the campground and around the campground. During our drive each of us had done some crunches. As we walked my abs reminded me of that activity. I’ve never had six pack abs and probably never will but perhaps I can have a two pack set.
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Technology can sometimes simplify one’s life however I find that in many instances it only complicates things and brings stress with it. Just think about an alarm clock or a clock in general. Before the advent of the clock a person would say, I will see you tomorrow or in two suns. When a day or two passed the person would call on the other. An early arrival meant one could enjoy lunch with the person. If one arrived late and it was a long trip back home one just spent the night. With a clock one is expected to designate a specific time of arrival and then “show up on time”. Many times to accomplish this unnatural feat a person has to set the alarm on his clock. In the morning before he is rested, if he was rested he would wake on his own, a terrible jangling noise rattles him from the best sleep of the night and tells him he must rise now or risk being late. Late? Late is what happens after a long day; as in, “It has been dark several hours and it sure is getting late”. Now if we want to talk about a stress inducer just repeat the above scenario a couple of times and see if you don’t feel the stress building and the muscles in your shoulders tightening. I tell you the person who invented the clock and later the alarm was no friend of yours or mine.
Technology, yes, I was going to say that the advent of Wi-fi has saved Onie several steps and today was no exception. Seated in the comfort of the coach she logged onto Al Gore’s invention, the world wide web. I feel compelled to interject here that I have the utmost admiration and respect for a man who could invent the web. He would surely be a genius. To think that Al Gore invented the web is just mind boggling and to believe it is total idiocy. I do believe he is of the Hitler school of thought in the area of lying, that is, tell a big lie and tell it often. Eventually people will accept it for the truth. Regardless of Al Gore and his tall tales Onie was surfing the web, checking her e-mail, a terrible thing but more about that later, perhaps, and looking at weather forecasts.
A friend had called to tell us that snow was in the offing along our planned route. NOAA said it would be cold and rainy but no snow would lighten our day.
Later Onie prepared our evening meal; salad, breaded haddock, corn and asparagus.
Outside the temperature was dropping and a gentle breeze was rising. There would be no need to run the air conditioners tonight.
An hour after Onie was asleep I followed her to our snug bedroom. The story for the previous day was completed and a few notes had been made of this day’s activities.
It was eleven o’clock.
COLBY, COLBY AND COLBY
May 25, 2007
One might think we had already arrived in Alaska if one looked at the night sky. Last night it was still daylight after ten o’clock. This morning there was full sunlight before six.
Outside the grass glistened with heavy dew in the early sunlight as the forty nine degree breeze tripped its way eastward.
Inside the coach, as I prepared tea and coffee, it was fifty six. Out on the interstate traffic was light and seemed more westbound than easterly.
While the coffee and tea brewed I sat and wrote a few lines.
While Onie was drinking her first cup of java I fixed eggs and sausage for breakfast.
When that was over the dishes were cleaned while Onie wrestled with the problem of how to store her meds and supplements in an orderly fashion. Just before we left a couple of more pills were added to her daily intake as well as extra vitamin C and lysine. The additions overloaded her “large” pill box so now she had to find another solution and implement it. Navigators are good at solving problems. That is why they navigate. She solved this one quickly.
Showers followed the solution and then it was time to unhook and head out, with Onie at the wheel. This was a first for her, getting us out of a park. Parks tend to be congested and have lots of tight turns. This one had the tight turns but was very lightly occupied so it was a good place for her to start. She wheeled out of our slot and headed for the exit. She had gone a few yards when I asked her to stop.
Out of the coach with the camera I took a couple of pictures to help us remember that some folks may go a bit to far when it comes to accommodating animals or perhaps just have a whimsical bent. RV parks usually have an area to walk pets along with the requirement that one picks up after one’s pet. This park was no exception but it had gone a little farther in trying to make the pets feel at home or to help relieve the stress of travel. It had erected a tree stump and a fire hydrant with appropriate labels, in the pet walk area.
This was an obvious accommodation to the male dogs but I saw no such special facilities for the girl dogs. I have fired off a letter to the feds who will, no doubt, descend on the place with no less than ten or fifteen bureaucrats, in a few days, survey the situation and promptly file a sex discrimination suit against the hapless taxpayer owners.
Back in the coach, with a pictorial record of gross sex discrimination, I took my seat in the co-plot’s chair, I’m no navigator, and Onie engaged the Allison and the Cummins pushed out of the park, down the road and onto the superslide. We were headed west.
It was nine fifteen.
Besides fuel, cash and a pocketful of credit cards there are a couple of other things RVer’s can’t do without, duct tape and Wal-Mart.
We had duct tape, two rolls in fact as well as some Gorilla tape, but we hadn’t been to Wal-Mart yet, on this trip. As soon as we reached Colby, Kansas, we would change that. I mention that it is Colby, Kansas to differentiate between that Colby and our favorite Colby who is grandson number three. He resides in Manvel, Texas with his Mom and a little dog named Pandora. Colby and Mom will be visiting us in Alaska next year when he graduates from high school. If you have read all our journals you may recall Colby, along with two cousins, was with us in Alaska in 2001.
We also have another Colby who lives in Baywood, Louisana next to his MawMaw and PawPaw. MawMaw would be Patty Rogers, the wonderful lady who keeps us supplied with fig preserves as well as mayhaw and muscadine jelly. This journal would be less inspired (?) without the soul nourishment of those great creations. She is a great cook, in general, wonderful friend and provider of great hugs. Her life mate and husband, PawPaw, is also our good friend and happens to be Onie’s older brother.
Miles rolled by under the wheels of the coach as we motored toward Colby. Onie sat at the wheel battling the wind that whipped around us at fifteen to twenty five miles an hour. The coach rocked and rolled, almost swiveling at the hips, as we sped along but Onie’s firm hand kept us on the straight and narrow until we were almost to Colby. Then she pulled over and gave the driving task to me. Getting to Wal-Mart would entail negotiating some town streets and traffic. While her coach driving skills improve every day she doesn’t yet feel confident enough to drive to Wal-Mart.
Parked, Onie went to shop.
I got on the phone with a tech from King Dome, the manufacturer of our satellite dish and had him walk me through the set up to receive Dish TV. We changed from Direct TV a while back. After several tries we were able to receive some channels. The tech Chris, promised to email me instructions on how to reprogram the receiver each time we move. Ah, high tech!
With the access to TV channels I discovered we had gained, or lost, an hour somewhere. I didn’t know how or when it happened but apparently it just disappeared. I hadn’t noticed the sun blink or go out but the time on my pocket watch, a Christmas gift from grand daughter Haley, was wrong. It was an hour off. To correct it I had to set it back an hour. Now I would be early for all my appointments unless they were on the eastern seaboard and then I would be an hour late. Clocks, what a wonderful stress inducing contrivance.
An hour and a half later we left Wal-Mart and Colby behind.
Back on IH70 we headed on toward Denver.
High winds and an increased speed plus almost continuous climbing, we had been driving sixty three instead of fifty nine, had apparently taken a toll on the fuel. We made a stop in Limon, Colorado, at perhaps the worst Flying J we have ever been to. The advertised price for diesel was $2.99. After waiting on the access road for about twenty minutes we were able to get to into the hole filled dusty drive and to a pump. The card reader didn’t work so I had to go inside and stand in line to wait on the only cashier available. Just so you won’t think I’m a complete grouch let me remind you this is a truck stop. Truckers were also waiting and trying to fuel. The level of aggravation in the store was elevated, to say the least.
After surrendering my credit card and Flying J Frequent Fueler Card I returned to the coach to begin fueling. Once the diesel was running attention was turned to the collection of bugs adorning the front of the Cummins. Seventy two gallons later the bugs had been removed and the tank was full once again.
After more waiting in line I was presented with the bill. The price per gallon read $3.09. Not to be picky but simply to gain information I was brazen enough to ask why the advertised price was different from the price charged. The not too eloquent cashier told me that the $2.99 price was for commercial vehicles only. Sadder but wiser we left.
Once again rolling west Onie did the calculations to let me know we had averaged eight miles to the gallon. I reduced our speed to fifty nine.
On the floor Onie did her crunches and leg lifts. Outside the flatland of eastern Colorado slid by. Here and there and everywhere were some of the fattest Pronghorn antelope we had ever seen. Full grown animals grazed, or posed for us, while the younger ones lay basking in the sun.
It has been said that timing is everything. I would disagree with that but not at length, not now. I would agree that it can be important but probably not enough to warrant having an alarm clock.
Our timing in arriving in the greater Denver area was the beginning of rush hour, say four thirty. Inbound traffic was moving pretty well until we got really close in and then it took a notion to slow down. That notion soon included stopping. Onie directed us onto the inner loop, only four miles long, that would connect us to IH25N. On this piece of concrete we discovered what congestion and stop really mean. Fortunately once we learned the meaning of stop, the traffic began to move, slowly. More patience and prudence brought us to IH25N where our tolerance for slow moving traffic was again put to the test. We passed.
Half an hour after entering Denver city limits we exited same. Unfortunately the traffic didn’t stay in Denver but accompanied us to within twenty miles of the Wyoming border. Our intended destination for the day was a park in Cheyenne. Onie called them. They were full. She called another, same story. We went to plan B which was to stay someplace else. She found a place just inside the Wyoming border called Terry Bison Ranch. At six thirty we pulled up in front of their office. Onie went in to register. I figured our mileage for the day, four hundred eight.
Registration in hand, and with a little larger credit card bill for the month, we found our site and hooked up.
Outside we walked along the access road stopping to get a closer look at the dromedaries that grazed contentedly just inside the fence Terry Bison Ranch is a working guest/dude ranch that is connected to the RV park. In addition to the park and ranch there is a trading post, restaurant and saloon. The ranch accommodates bison, the aforementioned dromedaries, horses, peacocks, quail and other birds. It offers trail rides and range breakfasts. The RV park has a wide array of things to occupy the younger set. At the end of our half hour walk we stopped in the restaurant to look at the menu. It was short but included a bison steak dinner. For an additional fifteen percent it would be delivered to your rig. We thanked the young lady behind the counter, who was busy flirting with another customer, and left.
Walking back to the coach, another five minutes, in the screaming north wind we decided that perhaps Onie was too tired to cook. Once she was safely inside, and warming up, I donned a jacket and made my way back to the restaurant, stopping twice to let my contact rewet, to order the bison steak.
As I hurried back to the coach the wind whipped inside my collar chilling me to the bone.
Twenty minutes later, at nine o’clock, our meal was at our door and a meal it was. In addition to the very hot tasty bison steak we had clam chowder, salad, baked potato and green peas. The peas were from a can, I think. All in all it was a wonderful meal. We had ordered only one but it was plenty.
By the time we had finished eating and visiting we were ready for bed.
At ten thirty it was lights out.
CUSTER COUNTRY
May 26, 2007
When I checked the thermometer at five it read thirty five degrees.
With that encouragement I went back to bed and slept ’til six forty.
Coffee and tea making are always the first order of business for the day. With that done breakfast was prepared, eggs, haddock, rice and tomato. Onie sure does know how to put on a feed.
After our feast Onie worked on her computer for a while and I made notes and wrote on mine. Based on past years experiences we decided we needed two laptops since Onie has things she needs to do and I spend a lot of time pecking and writing. When my writing is over, for a week, we will transfer it to her laptop where she can edit it, insert pictures and post it to the web. This is in and of itself a time consuming job. Last year she got really antsy every time I knelt by her side and urged her on with her work, particularly when I began hitting the enter and return keys for her. Not to be demeaning of the fairer sex but sometimes they can be sooooo touchy. The help that was offered was just so I could get back to my scribblings. I thought she might have been a little over sensitive and more understanding given the gravity of my work.
By nine o’clock the sun was shining brightly and had warmed the atmosphere to sixty two, down right sizzling.
While I put down some sanguine thoughts Onie did a bit of house keeping.
Ten fifteen found us enroute to Casper, Wyoming and another Wal-Mart. I have tried to explain how important Wal-Marts are to RV travelers. As a further word of explanation let me suggest to you that a thirty seven foot coach pulling a twelve foot long car is not the easiest thing to park in front of the local super market or drugstore. Wal-Mart parking lots are BIG so we can maneuver and turn around without bumping into ourselves.
On the shopping list for today is avocados, potty treatment and liquid nails. The paper towel holder has a little problem that might be resolved with a little glue. We shall see.
In due time Onie returned with our treasures.
Then she fixed wraps for our lunch.
While she was cleaning up I walked across the street to a Starbucks I had spotted earlier. With a venti latte and a venti chai tea I headed back to the coach. I also brought back a honey apple scone, which we shared.
At two o’clock we were back in traffic headed west, into the sun, and toward Buffalo, ninety miles up the road.
More antelope kept us company as we traveled along.
They were just as fat as their cousins we had seen earlier. These fat antelope are a testament to the fact that one can get fat eating just vegetables. It crossed my mind to wonder if they have a cholesterol problem.
Buffalo passed into the rear view mirrors and we headed on to Montana where we found lots more pronghorns. Just forty or so miles farther along we could stop.
We would spend the night in Custer Country near Reno Creek in a park named 7th Ranch RV Camp. We were to be just south of the community of Gary Owen. You Custer buffs will recall that was the name of his favorite song.
Exiting the freeway we made a U turn and headed back to our campsite. To the east the Little Bighorn River flowed south. Just before we reached camp we crossed the river where it turned west and half a mile further saw Reno crossing. This was the place where Reno and his troops had crossed on their way to meet Custer. Up the hill from the crossing an antelope grazed.
We checked in and hooked up before taking our evening walk. As we made our first round of the park we could see the hilltops of the Little Bighorn Battleground. Perhaps some of Reno’s men had ridden over this ground a hundred and thirty six years ago. Or perhaps the Indians had trailed them here.
With the walk at an end we repaired to the coach, Onie to her wifi and me to make notes and write. As I recall I may have slipped in a game or two.
Onie put supper on the table at nine. By ten she was ready for bed and retired for the night. I continued to write until eleven when I joined her.
EGO AND MISHAP
May 27, 2007
The body still hasn’t adjusted to local time so I woke at 6:40. Outside the coach it was a pleasant fifty-three degrees and overcast. Inside it was sixty-five.
With the coffee and tea started, writing continued to fill in the gaps from yesterday and the day before. The scribbling went on for an hour and a half before Onie joined me.
After enjoying a cup or two of coffee she began to prepare breakfast. It was the breakfast we had been waiting for, eggs with yellow crookneck squash from Polly Johnson’s garden, bacon, Onie’s whole wheat biscuits and Patty’s figs. It was another veritable feast. At ten I knew I had really overdone it so I pushed away from the table and waddled back to my laptop.
Onie stayed to clean the dishes and then continued by cleaning house.
We enjoyed a morning of rest, quiet and relaxation, even though we had done a few chores, and the view from our rolling home was simply beautiful.
It was easy to understand how God had created all this for his children. It was hard to understand how they kill each other so often and violently but that is the way of humans. It is not the way of animals so when humans act badly they are not being animalistic they are being humanistic. That is human without God.
By noon the sun had broken through the overcast. Most of the clouds had been dissolved and a light breeze had sprung up. It looked like a very opportune time to head off to the Little Bighorn Battlefield so we did.
It was a short drive to the battlefield, located inside the Crow Indian reservation, six miles, and once there we used our “get in free card”, Golden Age Passport, to enter the park. For those without a passport the cost is ten dollars per car or five dollars a person. If you are still too young to qualify for a Golden Age Passport may want to hurry up and have a few more birthday celebrations so you can qualify.
We hunted for a tree to put the toad under so it would be cool when we came back to it later in the day.
A short walk brought us to the visitors’ center, close to Last Stand Hill, where we purchased tickets, ten dollars each, for a one hour bus tour of the battleground and a narrative by a Crow Indian woman.
The bus tour and narrative began as we passed Last Stand Hill and proceeded along the dominant ridge from which most of the battlefield may be seen. In the distance we saw the Little Bighorn River where ten to twelve thousand Indians from various tribes had camped. Indian warriors numbered between fifteen hundred and two thousand. Depending on who is telling the story the encampment was two miles long or five miles long but all agree the tepees were lined up along the river’s edge with their doors facing east. It is safe to say it was big and long and let it go at that. On the far side of what is now the freeway we could see where the seven to nine year old Indian boys had tended a herd of horses that numbered between twelve and twenty thousand.
After hearing this much of the story we began to understand why it is so hard to get an accurate picture of history in general and American history in particular. Historians know how to write but can’t count. Now I’m not very good with numbers myself but still I recognize their importance. When I run out of fingers and toes I always ask a neighbor tourist to remove his or her shoes so I can continue with an accurate count. One time in Kentucky we were visiting a cave. I wanted an accurate count of the stalactites growing in the cave. There were so many to count that by the time the tour group got out of the cave the only folk in the group left wearing their shoes was a one legged man, not much good for counting, only half the toes you know, and a three week old baby. Yes, some people did complain but I did get an accurate count, one hundred ninety three as I recall.
Well the bus continued to ease along as the Indian told us how Custer had split his forces after a long forced march which had necessitated leaving behind some troops and vital supplies, among them a Gatling gun as I recall. The bus stopped a couple of times at places where it was thought an officer had died and his name would be mentioned before we moved on. Once we stopped where the farrier had fallen and his name was mentioned but the name of an enlisted man I don’t recall hearing. At the end of the road we stopped and got out, being careful not to step on a rattlesnake or tread on the grass. Doing one can result in a fine biting and the other can result in a biting fine.
After a few minutes the guide stood with her back toward 7th Ranch RV Park and continued her narration. After being detached from the main body of the 7th Calvary, under Custer’s command, he had proceeded down the hill near the RV park and crossed the creek that now bears his name. Across the creek he continued on and crossed the river, as ordered by Custer, took a position in some trees and ordered his men to begin firing into the quiet tepees. This brought the Indian men out, shooting. The woods were soon set afire forcing Reno to withdraw back across the river where he led his men up the hill to near where we stood. There they dug in as best they could and prepared for the Indians who were in hot pursuit. One must understand the Indians had been asleep when the shooting started. This caused the otherwise peaceful Lakotas and Cheyennes to lose their temper. In the ensuing struggle they reminded the 7th Cav that it is not nice to wake folks by shooting at them. In fact it is almost as disturbing as a jangling alarm clock. This little misunderstanding was taking place while Custer was busy moving his remaining troops along, splitting his forces over and over until it had been split at least five times.
Custer had split off from his original column earlier in an effort to move faster. He wanted to surprise the Indians before they discovered him, had time to break camp, split up and vanish into the Bighorn Mountains. The men with him had traveled over a hundred miles in three days and must have been very tired as well as traveling light meaning less than a full ration of ammunition.
Custer and his force ended up about five miles away from where Reno had ordered his men to stand, actually lie, and prepare for a long fight. When Benteen arrived later Reno demanded that he, Benteen, stay and support his position rather than continue on in an effort to find Custer.
During this time Custer had continued to move his troops until, against the advice of his chief scout, he must have decided to engage the Indians. Custer may have been nearsighted in more ways than one. His scout had pointed out the large village and told Custer that it would take him two or three days to ride through all the Indians gathered there. Custer remarked the battle would be over in a short while. That proved to be a prophetic statement but perhaps not in the context Custer had in mind. Then the scout told Custer that they, meaning the two of them, would be going home by a different route today, one they had never traveled before and to a home they had never been to before. Custer brushed off the remarks and ordered his men to prepare for the attack. The Indian scouts who would remain began to paint themselves, do their death dances and sing their death song. While this was taking place Custer dismissed four Arrika scouts who would later tell this portion of the story.
From the looks of the markers on the battlefield, showing where members of the 7th Calvary died, Custer must have deployed his men in a long sparse line across the hill that was the approach to what was to become “Last Stand Hill”.
Mounted Indians, said to be the best light cavalry the world has ever known, swooped down a hill to the right of the deployed men now trying to hide in the grass and defend their positions. The men would have been at a terrible disadvantage in their blue coats which would have made excellent targets for the men on horseback and for those creeping up the hill under the cover of tall grass and sagebrush. Before long a few survivors broke and ran, seeking cover, to a deep ravine where they must have been shot like fish in a barrel.
On Last Stand Hill Custer must have ordered the remaining men to kill their horses to provide cover and set up a defense against the Indians. This is what the Indians reported. The battle for Last Stand Hill could not have lasted long in the face of the overwhelming odds Custer and his men faced. Droves of Indians continued up the hill from where they had decimated the men sent to stop them. Perhaps as many as a thousand, or more, advanced on Custer and his band of less than a hundred. With the soldiers having little ammunition the slaughter must have been over quickly. Perhaps it was mercifully quick but probably not. Soldiers died from blunt trauma to the head. In other words their skull was crushed by an Indian war club. Or perhaps they were stabbed to death, wounded, immobilized by bullets and or arrows, scalped while still alive and conscious. The men were scalped because the Indians believed that the soul lived in the hair and without the hair/soul the men could never enter heaven, to bother the Indians there. Just in case the soldiers did make it to heaven their fingers were cut off so they couldn’t shoot and their inner thighs were mutilated so they couldn’t sit a horse to chase the Indians. In any event it occurred to me that it was a beautiful setting in which to die but to die so violently must have been horrible. This last struggle, for Custer and his men, could not have been more than minutes in duration, fortunately.
Meanwhile, five miles away, Reno, Benteen and their men had a slight respite in their struggle as Indians left to join the fray against Custer. After Custer was dead, unbeknownst to Reno and Benteen, the Indians retired to their village to regroup for another assault on their position. The fight had begun there, early in the morning, before Custer was engaged and then had abated somewhat during Custer’s defeat but still continued. With the Indians regrouped they made another assault on the Reno/Benteen men. The fighting continued all day in what may have been one hundred or one hundred ten degree heat. The men of the 7th Cav had little or no water but they held their ground while suffering some losses. As evening drew on the Indians went back to the village.
In the morning Reno and Benteen and their men saw the entire village pack up and head toward the Bighorn Mountains. The Indians had won the battle but were destined to lose the war.
Custer and those who died with him would never know the final outcome of the Indian Wars. Perhaps it was Custer’s desire for fame, his penchant for flamboyance or his huge ego that destroyed him and his troops. It is well documented that he was a prideful man. The surviving scouts told of his unwillingness to listen to counsel from trusted friends and it is known that in his pride he underestimated the strength of his opponents.
Back at the visitors’ center we got off the bus. After walking to a covered area where benches were provided we sat and listened another thirty minutes to another lecture by a National Park guide. Where do they get these liberal air heads to deliver talks about American history? Listening to him one would think that he believed a love-in would have solved the differences between Anglos and Indians…Anglos wanted uncontrolled immigration while the Indians did not. Even with his liberal drivel both talks agreed on most parts. Perhaps some day I will hear a talk from a Federal Employee who thinks some things are worth fighting for.
When the lecture was over we walked down to the deep ravine, where soldiers had fled for cover. Along our walk were markers showing where troops had died, a hundred thirty six years ago this coming June 25th. It had been a Sunday. The walk down and back was about a mile and gave us a better view of that portion of the area where the men had struggled and died. We saw Last Stand Hill from the viewpoint of the Indians who took it. It was a sobering walk.
On the walk back Onie said it was hotter than blue blazes. It must have been that day, too. It gave me pause and I wondered where the phase came from, “hotter than blue blazes”. Remembering high school chemistry it came to me that when fuel is completely burned it creates the hottest flame and that flame is blue, as in blue blazes.
Back at the RV park we stopped to pay for today and tonight since we are staying over, taking a rest.
Inside the coach it was eighty-nine while outside it was a balmy seventy-nine. Mature as we are we turned the A/C on and stayed in the coach until it cooled off a bit outside. A wrap of eggs with squash followed by watermelon chased our hunger pangs away.
Refueled and refreshed, by the cool a/c air, Onie fired up her computer and accessed the web through wi-fi. I wrote a bit.
When fingers grew tired of keyboarding we got out the dominoes. Even though Onie is a good player she still managed to finish next to last twice and second once. She had had enough so we put the dominoes up and went outside. It was eight.
The work camper was out walking his dog and stopped by to visit. We listened until nine when the cooling breezes sent us inside to beans and rice.
At ten o’clock Onie turned in. I wrote until eleven when I called it quits.
ANTELOPE
May 28, 2007
When my body clock adjusts to the time changes I won’t be getting up in the middle of the night, until then I will miss the best hours of sleep and get up at the ridiculous time of five, six or perhaps as early as seven. This morning it was six twenty when sleep fled my eyes.
In the front of the coach the thermometer registered fifty-four degrees.
With the task of coffee and tea making complete, I occupied the keyboard and checked in on my email for the first time since leaving Lake Road. Perhaps folks have already forgotten me, deleted me from there mail list, since I had only seventy or so messages.
By the time Onie got up an hour later I had blown through them. We sat down to enjoy our hot beverages and talk about the dreams we didn’t have. We did talk about the high wind that blew in at one o’clock, waking us as it rocked the coach and battered the slide covers. We got up and pulled in the slides then went back to sleep as the wind whistled a tune around the Marlin.
After breakfast Onie cleaned up while I made a few notes. The water was so soft that when it came out of the faucet and hit the bottom of the sink, it didn’t spatter; it just spread out like a shadow and lay there. Onie put in two drops of dish washing liquid and it took over an hour to rinse it off, and that was from the first cup she washed.
By ten-thirty we were back on the highway and cruising past the Little Bighorn Battlefield. It is a beautiful spot and it is hard to realize that so many people died such violent deaths there, the youngest blue coat being seventeen and the oldest fifty-six. No one knows how old the Indians were who died that day but they do know that some of the Indian women fought and died. The Cheyenne tribe allowed their women to fight. The battlefield slipped behind but the visions of the slaughter remained for a long time.
We were looking for antelope but on the reservation we saw none. The Indians are allowed to make their own game laws, or not. Perhaps they have none or they keep them well hidden from the white eyes. We know they love horses, there were a lot in the fields, and trucks. There were a lot of them parked around every abode, some were in obvious running condition and others were waiting to be buried, perhaps, because they were obviously dead.
We drove out of the reservation; voila’, antelope and flourishing fields and prosperous farms along with businesses and development. One had to wonder why such things were not taking place on the reservation. The tribe has income from oil and it is also selling off parcels of it land.
Billings found our fuel tank in need of filling so we stopped at the Flying J there. Sixty-four gallons later we were ready for the highway again. Once again we had averaged ten miles per gallon and had to pay only $2.85 a gallon for the diesel. Is this a great country or what?
Our travels took us northward to Roundup and on to Grass Range. One can only surmise these names were bestowed by cattlemen and the wives had little or nothing to say about it, I’m sure. Come to think of it the towns may have come up out of the ground before any women did.
At two o’clock we turned west toward Lewistown. Now a woman may have named this town after her baby boy, Lewis. Driving into a hard rain, I suppose that is as opposed to a soft rain, and with the temperature hovering at fifty-three we saw lots of antelope grazing on the hillsides. Some of the less industrious ones were lying down. Had this been a community of humans, those eating would have had to give some of their nourishment to those lying down on the job. In the animal world they will have to fend for themselves or die.
Great Falls was in the distance and we were climbing and winding our way steadily closer. It was a beautiful drive and somewhere along the way cool sunshine replaced the rain.
Soon we would be leaving the good old U. S. of A. and entering our neighbor to the north, Canada. Knowing the Canadians penchant for high fuel prices we stopped to top off our tank at, yes, Flying J. This time it was twenty-seven gallons at two eighty three a gallon. The wind, hills and winding road had reduced our average fuel consumption to eight point three miles per gallon.
Dick’s RV park in Great Falls was not the best park we had ever stayed in and it was a little tricky to find it but find it we did at six o’clock. After we braved the wind and the cold to hook-up we found the park a little more comfy. With heavy jackets on we ventured out for our evening walk. Half an hour later with cold hands and cold noses we poked our heads back into the coach where the electric heater had a toasty sixty-six waiting for us
Now Onie labored in the kitchen preparing our salad, grilled chicken breast, asparagus and baked sweet potato. This was a wonderful meal and one that should make all our doctors happy. Eating healthy as we are we may be adding years to our lives during which time we can help support those wonderful medicos who keep us going.
While Onie cooked I made notes and filled in a few blanks in previous days notes.
When supper was on the table at seven our thermometer was registering fifty-two and the wind continued blowing. The heater still ran, keeping us warm.
After our repast Onie cleaned up and I struggled on with the writing until nine thirty. Having put in a full day we looked forward to a full night’s sleep and tuned at nine-thirty. Outside the temperature was continuing to fall and sat at forty-four at lights out.
DUCK
May 29, 2007
Onie was up at seven thirty and made the coffee and tea. I got up to a computer problem which was soon solved with Onie’s help. We ate our oatmeal and continued with our morning chores.
The overcast skies held the temperature to forty-seven while inside our heater kept us considerably warmer. After making a few notes I turned my attention to the telephone. As a member of the music minister search committee at our church one of my duties is to call for information on one of the finalists. This morning about two hours was given over to this and it was interesting listening to the various people talk about the same man, his personality, his personal life and his music ability and taste.
At ten-thirty we turned out of our camping spot and headed for the highway. The coach has an audio and visible alert system telling one that the jacks are down. As we began moving, the alarm sounded telling us the jacks were not completely retracted. Driving with the jacks extended or even partially so can be a costly experience. Not wanting such an experience we stopped to check them. They appeared to be fully retracted but we lowered them to check for problems. The right rear pad was full of dirt and stones. This added weight keeps the jack from going the last half inch or so into the fully retracted position. With the jacks down I cleaned out this collection as well as giving the other three a quick lick and a promise to do more later. The jacks were retracted again and the alarm still sounded. Another visual check told me they were properly in place so we eased on down the road.
At a quarter after eleven we were back on the highway and the beeping alarm had givin up on driving me to distraction.
By noon we were at another one of those towns named by a cowboy, Sweet Grass. For those of you who read our journal from last year you may remember this is where we spent quite a bit of time trying to clear U.S. Customs. It was all about paperwork. If you want to learn about paperwork just interact with our government or that of any other country and you will get a lesson not soon forgotten. Should governments ever give up paperwork at least half their employees would be out of work, not necessarily out of a pay check. The Sahara Desert would undoubtedly again return to its previous status as The Sahara National Forest. This is another area we will leave unexplored for now as I only have the summer to write this journal.
Once again we erred at this customs business. I accidentally got in the wrong lane. You might be more understanding of this simple mistake had you been there and tried to read the signs directing one through the proper lane. Well, this employee of mine, I am a taxpayer you know so theoretically she works for me, was a bit of a snip and wrote some gibberish on a piece of paper. Another tree bit the dust, Mr. Gore. She then pointed, as though directing a child, and told me to park it, take the paper and our passports and go inside the Customs Building. Once again we saw a lot of people in the uniform of Customs Officers but not a lot of work being done. The desk of an attractive young lady was surrounded by young men wanting to offer their assistance, for what I know not. When dealing with the government one needs to learn what the government does best for us, make us wait. We waited our turn and eventually got to one of the three people actively engaged in work. The young man looked at our passports, the paper and asked “did you get in the wrong lane?” My response was “I guess so, the signs are confusing.” His job done at protecting our borders he bid us farewell and wished a safe happy journey. We and you should sleep much better tonight knowing how these young people are laboring, yea, putting life and limb in jeopardy, to secure out borders and ensure our safety. Also don’t forget how efficiently your money, taxes, is being spent. By the way, the problem the young lady was having was a difficult one indeed or when we left after half an hour the young men were still trying to solve it.
Back on the road at twelve-fifteen we headed for Lethbridge arriving around four. We traveled the Crows Nest Trail. Yes, that is truly the name of the highway. See our Canadian friends are much more imaginative when it comes to naming major highways. When we leave Crows Nest Trail, highway four, we will be on Deerfoot Trail, highway 3, and from there we will take the Yellowhead Highway, highway 2. There is none of that mundane stuff like the Ohio Turnpike or the Dallas Freeway. These road names make you feel like you will actually be in an interesting place when you arrive, a crow’s nest, a deer footprint or someplace where there is a yellowhead.
Crows Nest Trail had lots of residual water standing in the fields, from last week’s snow. Much of this casual water was dotted with ducks, pintails, mallards and some ducks unknown to me but ducks they were. The occasional antelope was also seen to roam the hills.
Passing through Lethbridge we headed for Ft. McLeod. This fort was placed right on the highway so one need not stop to see it. Of course you could take refuge there if you were trying to outrun the Indians.
The writer took a break from driving, after Ft. McLeod, and Onie drove. I wandered about the coach all the while noticing the abundance of ducks and ducklings in the ponds that slipped past our windows. Onie drove on headed toward the town of the big rodeo, Calgary. Before we got there she pulled over and passed the driving duties back to me. She had logged another eighty one miles, sheperding our sixteen ton home down the road. Now she was ready to let me experience the thrill of driving through Calgary at rush hour, five o’clock. We experienced it for forty-five minutes, and then it was over.
Talk about neat names for roads, how would you like to live in a town called Red Deer? That is where we headed when we left the excitement of Calgary. We would spend the night there at the Westerner Park, another familiar place. We stayed there last year on our way home. We were in the park at seven. Check in was a breeze as they still had us in their computer.
After a quick set up we went for our walk, walking around a large parking lot for their exhibition center.
Back in the coach Onie prepared a meal of salad, chicken, shrimp, asparagus, onion, zucchini and yellow neck squash, the squash and zucchini from our friend Polly’s garden. Of course she added some of her secret spices which helps make it Onie’s cooking.
We had finished eating by nine-thirty.
Onie played a few games while I tapped away on my keyboard.
By ten o’clock the outside temp was down to fifty-three. The low was predicted to be thirty-nine. I felt like it would make it since there was not a cloud in the sky as we tumbled into bed.
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