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Middlesboro, Kentucky, where I spent last night, is just outside of my eighteenth (I think) national park of the trip (I’ve sorta lost count, and this is a guess from looking at my road atlas). Anyway, Cumberland Gap National Historic Park is right up my alley. It’s one of the main passes that the early settlers passed through on their way from the 13 original states to go west and explore. Daniel Boone was not the first white man to pass through Cumberland Gap, but he was one of the early people to do so.

The Gap, I was amused to find out, was named after the Duke of Cumberland. The same guy who led the forces that beat the heck out of Bonnie Prince Charlie and the Jacobites at Culloden, which battlefield I visited twenty years ago last month.

A morning glory in the garden outside of the visitor center.

A log cabin perched in the middle of the huge mowed lawn outside of the visitor center.

The visitor center was interesting, and also had a lovely garden out front. Also a lot of lawn. I’ve seen more mown grass since I arrived in Kentucky than I think I’ve ever seen before. I’ve passed hundreds of houses, big and small, with huge rolling lawns surrounding them. It’s bizarre. Bluegrass, I guess, although I always thought that was referring to what the thoroughbreds ate.

The other high point, and I mean that literally, was a six-mile corkscrew drive up to Pinnacle Point, which tops out at about 1500 feet above the gap below. You can see three states (Kentucky, Tennessee, and Virginia) from up there. Today’s been pretty darned humid, so you can see the haze, or smoke, that gives the Great Smokies, a hundred miles or so to the southeast, their name, as well. It’s not real smoke. It’s what happens when you have millions of deciduous trees transpirating all at the same time.

A rhododendron -- in July! -- along the road up to Pinnacle Point. — A rhododendron — in July! — along the road up to Pinnacle Point.

This was up at Pinnacle Point. It's a quote from Frederick Jackson Turner, the guy who decided the frontier period was over in 1890. — This was up at Pinnacle Point. It’s a quote from Frederick Jackson Turner, the guy who decided the frontier period was over in 1890.

A view from Pinnacle Point, looking down at the Gap.

Another view from Pinnacle Point. That's the small town of Cumberland Gap, Tennessee, below. — Another view from Pinnacle Point. That’s the small town of Cumberland Gap, Tennessee, below.

Trumpet vine, or what I've been thinking of as the bad hair day vine, alongside the road to Pinnacle Point. Near my mother's old house in Texas, there's a huge trumpet vine growing up a power pole. It loses its leaves in the winter, and just looks awful. One day my sister was driving by it, and there was a sign tacked to the pole reading, "bad hair day." So that's what we've called it ever since. — Trumpet vine, or what I’ve been thinking of as the bad hair day vine, alongside the road to Pinnacle Point. Near my mother’s old house in Texas, there’s a huge trumpet vine growing up a power pole. It loses its leaves in the winter, and just looks awful. One day my sister was driving by it, and there was a sign tacked to the pole reading, “bad hair day.” So that’s what we’ve called it ever since.

More flowers along the road, too. And I did manage to keep Merlin from rear-ending himself on the hairpin turns [g].

The rest of the day was seeing how far I could get heading towards Fayetteville and my friends Morgan and Kaz, because it’s about 360 miles total, and I want to get there tomorrow, which is the Fourth. I made it across the far northeastern corner of Tennessee to North Carolina, where I crossed the border just north of the Smokies (which I visited and was not all that impressed with on my last Long Trip, which is why I didn’t revisit them), and down through Asheville and across the southern part of North Carolina almost all the way to Charlotte. I’m in the town of Gastonia tonight, having crossed the French Broad River, the Broad River, and the 1st Broad River on my way. The name Gastonia sounds like it ought to be in France, too.

Coming down out of the mountains to Asheville, there's a viewpoint with a veterans' memorial. This is the view from there. — Coming down out of the mountains to Asheville, there’s a viewpoint with a veterans’ memorial. This is the view from there.

I was always under the impression that Bruce Wayne lived in Gotham City, but maybe he's got a vacation cave near Asheville? — I was always under the impression that Bruce Wayne lived in Gotham City, but maybe he’s got a vacation cave near Asheville?

Over 200 miles today, which means I only have about 150 miles to get to where I’m going tomorrow. Not too shabby. I did drive about 100 of those miles on the Interstate, though, both for time’s sake and because for most of it there really wasn’t a viable alternative [sigh]. I hate the Interstate.

I am truly in the South (a bit farther than I expected to be, but that's okay). Crepe myrtle outside of my motel here in Gastonia. — I am truly in the South (a bit farther than I expected to be, but that’s okay). Crepe myrtle outside of my motel here in Gastonia.

Oh, and I should mention that this is the first time on this trip that I’ve intersected my last Long Trip, seventeen years ago. I drove the Blue Ridge Parkway on that trip, which passes through Asheville, and, on my way down to Atlanta, actually drove a chunk of the same Interstate that I drove today. I knew I’d end up doing that at some point, but I never was sure where it would be. Now I know! Actually I’ll be going up the East Coast the same way I went down it on that trip, but I’m going to do my best (except for Washington, DC, which I also spent time in on that trip) to go on new roads, and not the ones I’ve already been on.

Mirrored from M.M. Justus -- adventures in the supernatural Old West.

Crossposts: http://mmegaera.livejournal.com/542905.html

Among other things [g].

I got a late start this morning, in part because it took me 45 minutes to find the Lexington AAA office in order to pick up the next round of maps. Suffice to say that I did finally find it, but criminy. And, yeah, I’d looked it up online last night. Fat lot of good that did me.

So it was after eleven by the time I left Lexington. About twenty miles down I-75 at the town of Richmond, I escaped from the freeway and hit the back roads again. About five miles after that, I spotted a sign that said Richmond Battlefield County Park. But the sign below was what caught my attention.

Out front of the Richmond Battlefield Museum. I meant to ask what the deal was, but I forgot.

There was a museum in an old house, telling all about the Civil War battle of Richmond, Kentucky (as opposed to the much bigger battle of Richmond, Virginia), which took place in 1862, and which the Confederates won (for all the good it did them in the long run). They had a really cool map with lasers showing where the Union and Confederate forces marched in from, and where they fought and so forth. I’d never seen anything quite like that before, in all my museum-going over the years (and with all the battlefields, from Culloden to the Little Big Horn, that I’ve visited). The curator in me was rather impressed.

The laser map at the Richmond Battlefield Museum, with the lasers. The red is Confederate, the green is Union.

But the quilt sign was a bit misleading. There were a couple of quilts on beds, but that was about it.

And so I drove on, deep into the Appalachian foothills, probably winding three miles for every mile I went forward, through lots of beautiful, bucolic scenery.

One of the at least fifty Baptist churches I saw along the way today. There were also a few Pentecostal churches, and one Catholic church, but other than that... — One of the at least fifty Baptist churches I saw along the way today. There were also a few Pentecostal churches, and one Catholic church, but other than that…

Another view, this one along Kentucky Route 11

My first kudzu of the trip. Shudder. I feel so sorry for the trees trapped under there... — My first kudzu of the trip. Shudder. I feel so sorry for the trees trapped under there…

In the tiny community of Sand Gap, I saw a bunch of cars parked in front of something called a Frosty-ette. It was getting slightly late for lunch, so I stopped. It wasn’t the best hamburger I’ve had on the trip (that title still belongs to the hamburger joint in Escalante, Utah), but it was pretty darned good. And the chocolate shake for dessert was lovely. I also got to chat with some locals at the one picnic table, and I think I’ve acquired a new like on my Facebook page today.

The road wound on, little state highways, until I reached U.S. 25A, which goes over the Cumberland Gap into Tennessee. I stopped just short of the gap (the southeastern equivalent of a western pass) for the night, in the town of Middlesboro, because tomorrow morning I want to explore the Cumberland Gap National Historic Park. This is the route the earliest western settlers like Daniel Boone took to get over the Appalachians.

The approach kind of reminds me of going over Snoqualmie Pass. It’s a low pass (only 1600 feet) with those big broad sweeping curves I associate with I-90 over Snoqualmie. The scenery is entirely different, but it just feels the same, somehow.

I managed to get hold of both Mary (CatMtn) and Morgan today, too. I will be spending the 4th with Morgan and her husband near Fort Bragg, and then going on to Mary near Greensboro the next day. I’m really looking forward to seeing them all.

Pretty soon I won’t be heading east anymore. I’ll be headed north to Canada, eventually.

Mirrored from M.M. Justus -- adventures in the supernatural Old West.

Crossposts: http://mmegaera.livejournal.com/542493.html

This morning I drove eight miles up the road to Pleasant Hill Shaker Village. Most of the Shakers, a 19th-century religious sect who most people know of because a) they were celibate, b) they danced as part of their worship services, well, and c) for the style of furniture named after them, lived in communal villages in New England, but a few of them ventured as far south as Kentucky, where Pleasant Hill was their longest-lived community.

It’s a pretty place. Peaceful. Very bucolic. And the museum in the main house (they lived in what were basically dormitories) was fascinating, with a few surprises.

I've heard these called Rose of Sharon, and I've heard them called rose mallow. At any rate, they look like they're related to tropical hibiscus, and this particular one was next to the parking lot at Pleasant Hill. — I’ve heard these called Rose of Sharon, and I’ve heard them called rose mallow. At any rate, they look like they’re related to tropical hibiscus, and this particular one was next to the parking lot at Pleasant Hill. ETA: I am informed (thanks, Katrina!) that it’s Rose of Sharon, and that rose mallow is same genus, different species.

The main house at Pleasant Hill, which was used as a dormitory, and is now the museum. The outside walls are solid limestone three feet thick, and the inside walls are two feet thick.

The downstairs hall of the main house, complete with grandfather clock. The men lived on the left, and the women on the right. Or maybe vice versa.

An odd thing to find here, but apparently sometime in the middle of the 19th century, some of the Shakers were digging for one reason or another and found the skull of a mammoth. This is not the one they found, because it's been lost, but there was a whole room about it. — An odd thing to find here, but apparently sometime in the middle of the 19th century, some of the Shakers were digging for one reason or another and found the skull of a mammoth. This is not the one they found, because it’s been lost, but there was a whole room about it.

Some of the gorgeous antique furniture in the museum. Shaker style has always been my favorite. I have reproduction Shaker in my living room (when it's not in storage). — Some of the gorgeous antique furniture in the museum. Shaker style has always been my favorite. I have reproduction Shaker in my living room (when it’s not in storage).

This handsome gentleman was snoozing on one of the buildings. He was so indolent (or used to affectionate tourists) that he could barely be bothered to purr when I petted him.

I also got to listen to and watch a demonstration of Shaker songs and dancing. The lady who sang had a gorgeous voice. I did try to record with my new camera, but I can’t figure out how to make a proper clip out of it or how to post it here. If I do figure it out, I’ll post it on Facebook.

I ate a picnic lunch there, then drove on what William Least Heat Moon would have deemed the bluest of blue highways (except that on AAA maps, which are my standby, they’re black, not blue), winding sharply down through the hills to the Kentucky River and back up to the city of Frankfort, which is the capital of Kentucky.

The Kentucky River, which flows into the Ohio, then the Mississippi, and into the Gulf of Mexico, eventually.

I was on my way to another museum. I like state history museums, as you know from my visit to the one belonging to Kansas a couple of weeks ago, and I figured this one was far enough east to have a different take on things than that one did. Which was true. And here’s some photographic proof of that.

This exhibit panel in the Kentucky History Museum reminded me of Bujold's Sharing Knife books, for some odd reason [g]. — This exhibit panel in the Kentucky History Museum reminded me of Bujold’s Sharing Knife books, for some odd reason [g].

A fiddle made out of a gourd. I'd never seen anything like that before. — A fiddle made out of a gourd. I’d never seen anything like that before.

This was just cool. And more Lincoln, of course.

After that, I put another thirty or so miles of Interstate on Merlin’s odometer (which is now at over 6000 miles — over 5000 since I left home — of which less than 300 have been on Interstate), because that can be the easiest way to find an inexpensive motel. I’m on the outskirts of Lexington tonight, on this first night of the Fourth of July weekend, with traffic to get here to match.

Tomorrow I’m headed for the Cumberland Gap, where Kentucky, Virginia, and Tennessee meet. It’s one of those places that’s always been on my mental list, because of the history that took place there, from the early days of settlement up through the Civil War.

Then it’s on to North Carolina, and Mary (CatMtn) and my best friend’s granddaughter. And we’ll see what happens after that!

Mirrored from M.M. Justus -- adventures in the supernatural Old West.

Crossposts: http://mmegaera.livejournal.com/542446.html

I have good reason again why I haven’t blogged for three days. First, I’m fine, or at least I haven’t hurt myself again. Second, Merlin is also fine. However…

So, I did decide to go back to Mammoth Cave on Tuesday and take another tour. This one was the historical tour, and it was much more like what I’d expected Mammoth Cave to be than the tour I’d taken the day before. We went down from the natural entrance (well, one of them, and the one that’s been in use the longest, since 1816), and walked down to a huge room called the Rotunda, seeing some of the history of the cave along the way. One of the reasons the U.S. did not lose the War of 1812 was because saltpeter mined in the cave was used to make gunpowder for the troops after Britain blockaded out ports (up till then, almost all gunpowder was imported from Europe).

A slightly blurry view of the main natural entrance to Mammoth Cave.

Looking back up at the natural entrance from inside the cave.

The best photo I was able to take of the Rotunda. Note the round formation on the ceiling.

The ranger with a kerosene lantern, showing us what things would have been like for early explorers and tourists.

Beyond the Rotunda, we hiked about two miles in total (and went up and down over 500 stairs). Through a place called Fat Man’s Misery, where the passage narrowed down (below the waist, above the waist it was several feet wide) to about a foot, and you had to go sideways to get through. We also had to crouch down to get through several passages. It was in one of the latter that my camera fell out of my (always otherwise secure before) pocket and crashed onto a rock.

I picked it up. It looked fine. Only one tiny ding along the outside metal edge of the lens, but otherwise not a scratch. Then I tried to turn it on. Nada. Zip. Zilch.

And this is why I only have photos of about the first third of the Historical Tour of Mammoth Cave.

Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, the tour was wonderful. We climbed 200 metal stairs up Mammoth Dome and through all sorts of interesting formations, and learned more about the slaves (in particular, one named Stephen Bishop, who was the first to explore many of the passages tourists see now, and who was so famous people requested him as their tour guide), and about the tuberculosis sanitorium (which still boggles my mind – why anyone would think that chilly and damp and dark would be good for lung conditions is beyond me). It was fascinating and beautiful.

But when I emerged from the cave, my camera was still dead. And nothing I could do would resurrect it.

So that night I looked up to see where the nearest Best Buy was, and it was on my way to Fort Knox to visit Danielle Hart. So I made note, and the next morning I stopped there. They could do nothing for the camera, not that I was exactly expecting them to be able to. But what I didn’t realize is that a) there are different sizes of Best Buy stores, and this was a smaller one, and b) Best Buy doesn’t carry a lot of digital cameras anymore. I’d bought the one I broke online, but that wasn’t an option given that I’m on the road with no permanent address, and that I needed one right away. I tried several other places, too, but nada.

So after trying several other stores, too, with no luck, I went on to Danielle’s. She lives in a really nice half a duplex on Fort Knox, so I had to go through security to get in, which was much more lax than it is at Fort Lewis back home. AAMOF, I now officially have permission to come and go from Fort Knox for the next six months if I so choose [g].

Danielle (and her daughter) and I had a great visit. We went out for Greek food, and I got a wonderful cat fix from her two Siamese kitties, Hector and Penelope, and, incidentally, did my laundry [wry g]. And we talked pretty much nonstop. The thing about Bujold listee friends is that we automatically have so much in common and so much to talk about (besides, any house with that many books automatically feels comfortable). Danielle is also a football fan (Detroit Lions), so that was fun, too.

She put me in her cats’ bedroom/library on a really comfortable air mattress. And took me to two more stores in my still-unsuccessful hunt for a new camera. I do hope she can come out to Washington sometime so that I can return the favor (minus the camera).

This morning I drove into Louisville, Kentucky (about 45 minutes north of Fort Knox) in search of a bigger Best Buy. Two more Best Buys later, I finally wound up in one with an adequate selection of cameras, and am now the proud possessor of a refurbished Nikon a couple of steps up from what I had. It basically operates the same way, but it has an even better optical zoom (it also cost about $70 more than my old camera [sigh]. But at least now I can take photos again.

I got seriously stuck in traffic trying to get back out of Louisville (I hadn’t intended to go there at all before my camera-tastrophe) but I did finally manage to fight my way clear. I’m now in Harrodsburg, Kentucky, the oldest town west of the Appalachians, on my way east again. Harrodsburg is a pretty little town with a lot of really old (from this West Coaster’s viewpoint, anyway) pretty buildings.

Beautiful downtown Harrodsburg, Kentucky.

Chicory blossoms along the sidewalk in Harrodsburg. Chicory is all over the roadsides in Kentucky, along with a lot of Queen Anne's Lace. — Chicory blossoms along the sidewalk in Harrodsburg. Chicory is all over the roadsides in Kentucky, along with a lot of Queen Anne’s Lace.

One of the many cool old houses in Harrodsburg (I love the fanlight above the downstairs window, and the porch on this one). I walked around town for over an hour this afternoon and thoroughly enjoyed myself.

There’s an old Shaker village just up the road, too. I’m going to explore it tomorrow before I head east towards North Carolina over the subsequent couple of days, and two more friends to visit.

Oh, and the weather feels like nice August at home! It’s cooled and dried out considerably!

Mirrored from M.M. Justus -- adventures in the supernatural Old West.

Crossposts: http://mmegaera.livejournal.com/542190.html

Today (not counting a short shower yesterday afternoon) is the first real rain I’ve had since Mt. Rainier, my first afternoon on the road. On the bright side, it has cooled the temps down from the upper 90s to the mid 80s. On the downside, apparently you’re supposed to drink the air in this part of the world it’s so humid.

Rain is a winter phenomenon in my world. Well, a late fall, winter, and spring phenomenon. It’s not supposed to rain if the temperature is above 65dF. It’s just not.

That said, I’ll take what cooling I can get [g]. And it only lightninged and thundered a couple of times, way off in the distance, so that’s good.

This morning I drove the forty miles or so from Bowling Green to Mammoth Cave National Park. Mammoth Cave is a place I’ve wanted to get back to ever since my second honeymoon (my honeymoon with my second husband, that is). We got married, after living together for over a year, in the courthouse in Bloomington, the day before Thanksgiving, 1987. We then drove to his parents’ house in suburban Cincinnati, and spent the next two nights on the foldout couch in their family room (I did mention we’d been living together for over a year at this point – it was more a formality than anything else), where his dad had been smoking cigars all evening.

Yes, I’d told my now-ex that tobacco smoke makes me ill. I don’t think he or his family believed me until I woke up on the morning after Thanksgiving looking, as I was told, rather green. But I had my heart set on us spending the rest of the weekend at Mammoth Cave, so we drove on down. It was too late to go in the cave that day, so we planned to do it the next day.

And, you guessed it, I woke up the next morning so sick that we ended up driving straight back to Bloomington. I was out sick from work for two weeks.

So. I’ve been to Mammoth Cave NP before, but I’ve never been in the cave. I’ve been wanting to come back and rectify this ever since, and today I did.

Not just a national park. Mammoth Cave has world importance.

I got a ticket to something called the Domes and Dripstone tour, which was two hours long. It was interesting, but not at all what I expected until almost to the end. Most of Mammoth Cave (at over 400 miles mapped so far, it’s the largest cave system in the world) is a dormant cave, which means there’s no longer any water working on it. All of that part is mostly big piles of jumbled rocks and squeezes through spaces between them. To get down in the cave to begin with, we had to go down 280 extremely narrow, switchbacking metal stairs. By the time we got close to the bottom, I was really wishing I’d counted them. I swear it felt more like 1000. At least it didn’t hurt my rib or anything else.

By the time we got to what’s called Frozen Niagara, where there’s still water creating formations, we were almost through the tour. But that part really was amazing. And I did get some okay photos of it.

There were two stops on the tour where we sat down on benches and the ranger told us about the cave. This was the first one, and where he did the obligatory "let's turn off the lights" thing. — There were two stops on the tour where we sat down on benches and the ranger told us about the cave. This was the first one, and where he did the obligatory “let’s turn off the lights” thing.

My best photo (still pretty lousy) of Frozen Niagara.

A much better photo of more flowstone near Frozen Niagara.

For me, the human history of the place really overshadows the geology. They’ve been giving tours here for 200 years. The first tour guides were slaves. Part of the cave was once a tuberculosis sanitarium. And one poor fellow by the name of Floyd Collins was exploring a nearby cave looking for a connection to Mammoth in 1925 when he was trapped by a rockfall. They couldn’t get him out, and he died two weeks later, still stuck, from exposure. It was the biggest news story in the 20s that didn’t have anything to do with Charles Lindbergh.

The visitor center here does a really good job telling the human history of the cave, and the movie that goes with it is narrated by Mike Rowe (of Dirty Jobs and The Deadliest Catch), which is the second time I’ve run across him narrating something like this (the other time was at the Kansas History Museum) on this trip. It’s a bit disconcerting.

Tonight I ate my first barbecue of the trip, at a bustling little joint in the little town of Cave City. I had a brisket sandwich, which was so piled with beef that I had to eat it with a knife and fork. It was falling apart tender, smoky, and the sauce was amazing. If you ever find yourself in Cave City, Kentucky, I highly recommend Bucky Bee’s Barbecue.

The history of the cave piqued my interest enough that I’m thinking about taking another cave tour tomorrow morning. This one is called the Historical tour, and takes the route that the early tours did. I think it ought to be interesting.

Then it’s on to Louisville, and hopefully to see Danielle, another Bujold listee (or former listee). And then on across the rest of Kentucky to North Carolina.

Mirrored from M.M. Justus -- adventures in the supernatural Old West.

Crossposts: http://mmegaera.livejournal.com/541855.html

I did manage to take a few photos of some of the buildings on the IU campus this morning, and here’s the best of the bunch. After that, I headed south out of town. It’s funny, but in the two years I lived in Bloomington, I never actually took the main highway south out of town. Turns out there’s a whole other section of town over on the other side of that highway, although it looks fairly new and may not have actually been there 25 years ago [g]. They’re also building a new interstate from Evansville to Indianapolis, and they’ve almost reached Bloomington with it. Bloomington on the interstate. Very strange.

Anyway, I was headed south towards Kentucky, and the landscape became hillier and hillier the closer I got to the Ohio River. I also stopped for lunch in the small town of English, and saw this car in the parking lot, which vastly amused me.

I've never seen a car with eyelashes before. — I’ve never seen a car with eyelashes before.

I hadn’t realized until I was looking at the map at lunch (after standing in line next to a man who wanted to blame all of the U.S.’s troubles on illegal immigrants [sigh]) that I’d all but be passing by another Lincoln site. This one was where he grew up.

But first I passed through the town of Santa Claus, where I came around a corner and discovered an amusement park as well as a lot of Christmas decorations. Most peculiar for the time of year.

Street lamp sign in Santa Claus, Indiana.

Lincoln’s Boyhood Home NHS was another big monumental building, but it was also a living history farm, which was kind of cool. Well, not cool. It was 97dF and humid as all heck, and I really felt sorry for the people doing the living history stuff, but it was interesting.

A bronze replica of the sills and hearth of Lincoln's boyhood home. If it's 10 feet square I'd be surprised. — A bronze replica of the sills and hearth of Lincoln’s boyhood home. If it’s 10 feet square I’d be surprised.

The cabin at the living history museum at Lincoln's boyhood home. — The cabin at the living history museum at Lincoln’s boyhood home.

It’s not far from either Santa Claus or Lincoln’s Boyhood Home to the Ohio River, where there was another bridge that looks like what the 21st Street Bridge in Tacoma wants to be when it grows up. And I actually managed to get a photo of this one.

The bridge over the Ohio River into Kentucky.

I had planned on spending the night in Owensboro, Kentucky, but somehow I wound up on something called the William H. Natcher Parkway, and there wasn’t a motel anywhere until I drove fifty more miles to Bowling Green (I need to find out why Bowling Green is called Bowling Green). On the bright side, I’m less than an hour to Mammoth Cave, so that’s something. And I did regain an hour (western Kentucky is on Central Time).

But I did not want to drive well over two hundred miles today!

Mirrored from M.M. Justus -- adventures in the supernatural Old West.

Crossposts: http://mmegaera.livejournal.com/541612.html

Ah, Bloomington. It’s amazing how much has changed, but how much has remained the same. This morning I went looking to find places on campus that I remembered – the building in the music school (at the time, and still, I suspect, given that I saw no less than three new-to-me buildings with music school signs, one of the best in the U.S.) where I worked as secretary to the director of undergraduate studies (my longest job title ever [g]), while my ex was going to library school. I loved the job and my co-workers, but, oh, dear godlings, I still shudder when I remember the stage parents. Kids came to study here from all over the world, but the American parents were the worst. Pushy, omigod.

But I digress. I also found the library school, excuse me, now it’s the:

The school formerly known at SLIS. The IU logo always makes me think of a devil’s pitchfork, and Herb White, the dean at the library school when my ex was there in 1987, was very controversial (in certain circles) — I used to own a sweatshirt with a cartoon of him holding a pitchfork and the quote, “Being of the honest few who give the fiend his due.” But I digress. Again.

It was the School of Library and Information Science (SLIS) when I was there. Wow, do I feel old.

Anyway. I also found my old grad dorm Eigenmann Hall, see below, which is not one of the beautiful old stone buildings that most of the campus is made of. I will try to take some photos of them on my way out of town tomorrow, because Indiana University really is a gorgeous campus. Even if at least one of those buildings (the music school undergrad office) housed a waterbug the size of a silver dollar that wasn’t crushable by anything. We ended up scooping it up with a piece of paper and throwing it out the window.

Eigenmann Hall. I lived on the 3rd floor while I was in library school.

This place is bringing back some singularly weird memories.

I got my hair cut for the first time since I left home, too. She did a really good job. And, no, that’s not the borderline TMI.

In the afternoon, I drove thirteen miles east of Bloomington to one of my favorite places when I lived here, Brown County State Park. The guy who took my money at the gate (and who gave me the “honorary Hoosier” price because I told him I’d gone to IU — $7 instead of $9) was from Pasco, Washington [g].

I love Brown County State Park. It’s actually hilly so the views are pretty impressive and the woods are dark, deep, and full of so many different leaf shapes, sizes, and colors that it’s impossible to count or identify them all (I remember it being particularly spectacular in October, but the shades of green now are still pretty amazing). The roads wind from viewpoint to viewpoint, down to two little lakes (really reservoirs) and around and about. Picnic areas everywhere. And a neat lodge and a nature center (which latter, alas, was being remodeled, so I didn’t get to visit it). Oh, and a nifty little covered bridge. I ate lunch at the lodge, and drove around just remembering and enjoying.

There's a little stone view tower (actually, there are several scattered through the park) and this is the view from the top of it. — There’s a little stone view tower (actually, there are several scattered through the park) and this is the view from the top of it.

Through the woods. It looks a lot darker in the shade than the picture makes it seem. A lot cooler in the shade, too.

Ogle Lake, which is really a reservoir, but is still pretty.

The covered bridge at the north entrance to Brown County SP.

Tootling down the road at Brown County State Park. Almost all of the grassy area is mowed like that -- makes me wonder how big a platoon of lawn mowers they have. — Tootling down the road at Brown County SP. Almost all of the grassy area is mowed like that — makes me wonder how big a platoon of lawn mowers they have.

But by the time I got back to Bloomington late this afternoon, my rear end was hurting again. TMI warning. I didn’t just crack my rib and bruise and scrape myself up when I fell out of the van. I also managed to bruise my tailbone. Anyway, unlike everything else (the rib doesn’t hurt nearly as much as it did, mostly, I think, because after a week and a half the bruising is all gone), the backside is still aching, more than it did right after. So I stopped at a drugstore when I got back to Bloomington and bought one of those doughnut cushions. Inflatable [g]. Anyway, I should have bought one right after the accident, because wow, is it making things feel better!

Anyway, end TMI.

Tomorrow, I am off to Mammoth Cave NP. This is one of those places that is definitely on my mental list. I am so looking forward to it.

But I’ll try to remember to take at least one good photo of the IU campus before I head out. If I can figure out where to park, I might even go into the Student Center and see if the Venus de Milo is still gracing the staircase inside as a newel post [g].

Mirrored from M.M. Justus -- adventures in the supernatural Old West.

Crossposts: http://mmegaera.livejournal.com/541357.html

Yesterday was pretty much a driving day. I had anticipated it only taking me a couple of hours from Decatur, Illinois, to Indianapolis, Indiana, and had called listee Kevin Kennedy (who is in rehab for some health problems) to arrange to come visit her yesterday afternoon. When I was still only on the outskirts of Indy at 3 pm, and still anticipating a grocery stop, plus rush-hour traffic, I called her back to rearrange things for this morning.

The drive across the rest of Illinois was flat and corny and soybeany, which was fine. Big skies, making me feel tiny again. But as soon as I crossed into Indiana, three things changed. First was relatively minor – Indiana needs to spend more money on their roads. Tooth-jarring is an exaggeration, but not by much. Second was even more minor – I lost an hour going from Central to Eastern time, which was another reason it took me longer than I expected to get to Indy (also, Indiana now observes DST, which it did not when I lived here in the late 80s and early 90s – I’m glad they came to their senses about that). The third was bizarre. No sooner than I crossed the state line, the landscape went from flat as a pancake to hilly — not just rolling, but hilly. It was like there was a reason for the state line to be there. Very strange.

Still, there wasn’t much to take photos of. As a matter of fact, I only took two photos yesterday, and here they are.

Hemerocallis fulva, or orange day lily. I saw literally thousands of these alongside the road in Illinois and Indiana. They're feral, not native. They come from Asia. — Hemerocallis fulva, or orange day lily. I saw literally thousands of these alongside the road in Illinois and Indiana. They’re feral, not native. They come from Asia.

Last night I spent my first night of the trip in a hostel. It’s called the Indy Hostel, and it’s on the north side of Indianapolis in an old craftsman style house. It was nice and clean and quiet. I like hostels, but there simply aren’t very many of them in the U.S., especially outside of big cities. I’m hoping to take advantage of more of them when I get to Canada (they have a lot more hostels up there).

This morning it was much easier to find where Kevin is doing her rehab than it should have been, and I even found a parking place right out front. We had a good hour’s chat (or at least I did, and I hope she did, too), which wasn’t quite as far ranging as the one I had with Jim the other day, but every bit as enjoyable. She also called me right after I left to let me know Lois had posted on the list that the new Penric novella is now available (I bought it this afternoon [g]).

Then I drove down into the hoots and hollers of southern Indiana. Not directly to Bloomington, because I wanted to stop at one of my favorite places when I lived here, McCormick’s Creek State Park. It’s Indiana’s first state park, and it, like the National Park Service, is celebrating its centennial this year.

It’s a beautiful little park, with a lodge (restaurant, rooms, and cabins, like a proper eastern state park) where I ate lunch – a delicious pork tenderloin sandwich (an Indiana specialty). It also happens to be where my second husband and I told my parents we were getting married, so that was kind of weird.

Then I drove the winding road into the park and wandered down through the dense green woods (I don’t know why I always think of evergreens as the forest and deciduous trees as the woods, but there you go) to the little canyon and waterfall. Southern Indiana and large chunks of Kentucky are karst country, similar to what I saw near Jasper Township in Jasper NP, Alberta, last year. That’s why Mammoth Cave and so many other caves are around here.

This is native. It's a species of hydrangea, and it was growing near the waterfall at McCormick's Creek. — This is native. It’s a species of hydrangea, and it was growing near the waterfall at McCormick’s Creek.

The waterfall at McCormick's Creek. Lots of people playing in the water below the falls. I'd have liked to do that, except I was worried about the footing. The last thing I need to do is hurt myself again. — The waterfall at McCormick’s Creek. Lots of people playing in the water below the falls. I’d have liked to do that, except I was worried about the footing. The last thing I need to do is hurt myself again.

I don't know what he is, but he's cool. He was near the falls. — I don’t know what he is, but he’s cool. He was near the falls. ETA: I am informed that this is some sort of damselfly. Thanks, azurelunatic from DW!

The stairs going back up to the parking area, through the lovely woods.

It was cooler today (80 something instead of 90 something), especially in the shade, even if it was humid enough to need to drink the air instead of breathe it, so walking around in the woods was actually rather pleasant. And the waterfall is beautiful.

The park has a nice nature center, too, with a glass-walled room lined with bird feeders on the other side, so you can watch the birds in air-conditioned comfort [g].

A phlox! This one was near the nature center. I love the lavender and white combo, but then I love phlox just on general principles.

I'm not sure what kind of birds these are, but it was so much fun to watch them from inside. There were squirrels and chipmunks all over the ground eating fallen seeds, too. — I’m not sure what kind of birds these are, but it was so much fun to watch them from inside. There were squirrels and chipmunks all over the ground eating fallen seeds, too. ETA: I am told by my birder friend Katrina that they’re house finches. It’s always good to know what I’m looking at [g].

I'm pretty sure the fellow on the left is a downy woodpecker (you can't see the red, but he had it), and the guy on the right is a goldfinch. — I’m pretty sure the fellow on the left is a downy woodpecker (you can’t see the red, but he had it), and the guy on the right is a goldfinch.

After I left McCormick’s Creek I drove on into Bloomington and did a little exploring around. I lived here for two separate years, once (1986-87) while my ex was in library school, and once (1991) while I was in library school. But I hadn’t been back since. I found some landmarks – the apartment where my ex and I used to live, way out in the country, and the bar where my friend Heidi from the library school library and I used to go to drink Long Island Iced Teas and Blue Hawaiians on the occasional Friday night and then weave our way back to the dorm [g].

And now I’m ensconced in a Motel 6 here for a couple of nights, because I have more that I want to do in Bloomington. It’s good to be here. This is the one place, where if someone put a gun to my head and said, “you have to move back to the Midwest,” I’d say, okay, send me to Bloomington. I have a lot of good memories here.

Mirrored from M.M. Justus -- adventures in the supernatural Old West.

Crossposts: http://mmegaera.livejournal.com/541022.html

I spent today in Springfield, the state capital of Illinois, but, more importantly, the town most associated with Abraham Lincoln. After a rather peripatetic childhood, he settled in Springfield as a young adult, started his law practice, and met and married his wife. He lived in Springfield until he moved to Washington, DC, when he was elected president. And, of course, after he was assassinated, he was buried in Springfield.

Given the size of Springfield (116,500, a bit more than half the size of Tacoma), I spent way too much time lost [wry g]. Finding Lincoln’s Home NHS, then his tomb (which was more interesting than it sounds), then finding lunch, then the Lincoln Presidential Library and Museum. About the only time I didn’t end up driving in circles was when I finally headed out of town.

But it was still worth it. I loved the National Historic Site containing and surrounding his home. It was a little two square block 1850s Midwestern version of Williamsburg, complete with living history stuff. His house (the only one he ever owned) has guided tours, and several of the other buildings in the neighborhood are restored and filled with museum exhibits, too. The visitor center had a 3D map of Springfield as Lincoln would have seen it. I spent most of the morning there, going from air-conditioned building to air-conditioned building [g], and learning about Lincoln’s decades in that house.

Lincoln's house. You can sorta see the Williamsburgy neighborhood. — Lincoln’s house. You can sorta see the Williamsburgy neighborhood.

The formal parlor in Lincoln's house. — The formal parlor in Lincoln’s house.

The informal parlor. Look at that *carpet.* Victorian is *not* my style.

A laundress doing living history. — A laundress doing living history in the 90dF humidity.

After that I went in search of Lincoln’s tomb, which is an impressive structure in a beautiful, rolling, tree-covered cemetery, open to the public. Yes, you actually go inside, where there’s a number of sculptures of the man, as well as the stone with his name on it (someone tried to steal his remains and hold them for ransom, believe it or not, and in the 1880s he was reburied in a concrete vault way beneath the headstone to keep that from happening again). Walking through the tomb was interesting, in a really disconcerting sort of way. Made me think of Egyptian pharoahs, for some reason.

The outside of Lincoln's tomb. — The outside of Lincoln’s tomb. The nose on the bust is shiny because people touch it for luck, the way they do a similar construction in the museum inside the base of the Statue of Liberty.

Lincoln's headstone inside the tomb. — Lincoln’s headstone inside the tomb.

After I finally found lunch, I went in search of the Lincoln Presidential Library and Museum downtown, and ended up parking in an underground parking garage with an entrance and exit so narrow I was afraid Merlin was going to lose his rearview mirrors. But he emerged intact, fortunately.

The Presidential Museum was a bit over the top. Seriously. It was still really interesting, but more Disneyesque than it probably should have been. It was divided into two sections, before his election as president and after. I liked the first part, about how he grew up and educated himself and became a lawyer and met Mary Todd and so forth. The second part, about his presidency and the war, and the part about the Emancipation Proclamation in particular (even though it really made me realize how much the makers of the movie Lincoln got it right) was all these disembodied heads projected onto glass walls, shouting and arguing at each other, and was just too much. And the recreation of the room where his body (in a closed casket, at least) lay in state in the Springfield Courthouse – sorry, that was just Wrong.

The lefthand side of the rotunda of the Lincoln Presidential Museum, leading into the exhibits about Lincoln's early days. — The lefthand side of the rotunda of the Lincoln Presidential Museum, leading into the exhibits about Lincoln’s early days.

Inside the early years exhibit. See what I mean about kinda Disneyesque? The figure of Lincoln sorta reminds me of Matt Smith as The Doctor.

Apparently Lincoln was an extremely indulgent papa. This exhibit comes from a description that his law partner wrote about how Lincoln's kids would trash their office [g]. — Apparently Lincoln was an extremely indulgent papa. This exhibit comes from a description that his law partner wrote about how Lincoln’s kids would trash their office [g].

The righthand side of the rotunda, obviously leading to the White House years exhibits.

Lincoln's cabinet arguing about the Emancipation Proclamation. Unlike all of the mannequins, the guy on the far right is live, and an actor talking about it to visitors. — Lincoln’s cabinet arguing about the Emancipation Proclamation. Unlike all of the mannequins, the guy on the far right is live, and an actor talking about it to visitors.

But the museum was mostly well worth the time it took to find it, and I’m glad I went. That’s the only presidential museum I’ve ever been to (I’ve been to Mount Vernon and Monticello, but that’s not the same thing – they’re homes like the one I went to this morning), so it was a new experience.

This evening I’m in the small town of Decatur, Illinois, east of Springfield, on my way east to Indianapolis. I’m looking forward to meeting another listee, Kevin Kennedy, there. Then I’m going to head south for a bit, and probably do some serious wandering around Kentucky. There’s more in Kentucky that I wanted to see than I’d realized.

Mirrored from M.M. Justus -- adventures in the supernatural Old West.

Crossposts: http://mmegaera.livejournal.com/540835.html

Happy first full day of summer! It sure still feels like it here. It got close to 100dF again, and it’s humid. It’s supposed to be stormy tomorrow as a cold front goes through, but “cold” is a seriously relative term. It might be closer to 90 than 100 tomorrow. Maybe.

Today was Merlin’s First Oil Change [g]. He hit 5000 miles yesterday, and while I tried to find a place to have it done after I left Jim’s house, I was out of luck. This morning I also had to do laundry. This is the first time I’ve hit the combo of need to do laundry/motel has no laundry facilities for guests, so I found a laundromat nearby and sat and read while my clothes got clean. Then I found a local equivalent of a Jiffy Lube, only to find out that they didn’t have any more oil (really!). They directed me to a Meineke, who said they couldn’t get me in until 1:30 pm (it was just before noon). So I went and got lunch, and by the time I got back, they were ready to take him in. An hour sooner than they’d predicted.

In the meantime, I ate my Subway sandwich in their waiting room, and chatted with the desk clerk and another customer, who asked me question after question about my trip and what I was doing. The upshot was that I ended up handing out a couple of my writerly business cards.

I’ve probably handed out at least thirty business cards since I left home. I strike up conversations with people, they’re curious, and well… The weird thing is, I think of myself as an extreme introvert, but I really take after my father about striking up conversations with strangers. Individual strangers, that is, and I couldn’t do more than one or two per day, but well… Merlin’s a great ice-breaker, too. He generates way more interest than I ever thought he would. It’s weird. But fun.

Anyway, after Merlin was done, I headed north, on I-55 for the first 20 miles or so, then on a highway (Illinois Route 4) that turned out to trace old Route 66. Some of the signs for it were kind of cool.

And I found another elegant courthouse with a really tall tower.

The courthouse in Carlinville, Illinois. The town had a central square, but the courthouse wasn't there, just along the main drag. — The courthouse in Carlinville, Illinois. The town had a central square, but the courthouse wasn’t there, just along the main drag.

But most of the route, outside of a lot of charming small towns, was between what looked like hedges of corn [g]. Flatter than flat, and that kind of wide-open sky that makes me feel like some giant is going to step on me like a bug, just like in Kansas.

Anyway, tonight I’m in Springfield, the capital of Illinois, and Abraham Lincoln’s hometown. Tomorrow I’m going to visit his presidential museum and library, and his house, and maybe even his tomb.

Then it’s on east to Indianapolis in a day or two, where I’m going to stop and see another listee, Kevin Kennedy. After that, I’m going down to Bloomington, Indiana, and revisit where I went to graduate school. I haven’t been back there since I graduated in 1991.

Mirrored from M.M. Justus -- adventures in the supernatural Old West.

Crossposts: http://mmegaera.livejournal.com/540608.html

It was 90dF when I climbed into Merlin at 10 am just west of St. Louis, and the humidity was oppressive. And by oppressive I mean I felt like I had a coating of boiling lead all over my body, weighing me down [wry g]. This kind of weather is why I don’t visit my mother in Texas between Easter and Halloween.

But I made the best of it. I drove into downtown St. Louis, and wound up doing a sort of “Big Ben Parliament” thing (the reference is to the movie National Lampoon’s European Vacation, BTW) trying to find it. I kept seeing it, but trying to get close enough to it to actually walk up to it was – challenging. I never did get directly under it, even walking, because they’ve got the ground underneath it torn up while they redo the Museum of Westward Expansion, which is underground there and won’t be open again until 2017. But, after accidentally crossing over into Illinois and back again, I did manage to get close and find a parking place right next to the Old Courthouse, which is right across the street from the park leading to the Arch.

It’s every bit as impressive as I thought it would be. I thought it was going to be copper-colored, but I think that’s because the only other time I’ve ever seen it was from Amtrak’s Texas Eagle on the Illinois side of the Mississippi, right at sunset (which was admittedly pretty cool), years and years ago. It’s not coppery, it’s silver-colored. It shimmers. And it looks like a tornado would blow it right over. I kept thinking, where are the guywires?

The Arch from the steps of the Old Courthouse.

As close as I could get to the Arch without going up in it (not a chance -- I saw the thing you ride up in -- they had a mockup where they sold the tickets -- it made the Gemini capsule back in Kansas look ginormous. — As close as I could get to the Arch without going up in it (not a chance — I saw the thing you ride up in — they had a mockup where they sold the tickets — it made the Gemini capsule back in Kansas look ginormous).

The Old Courthouse across the street reminds me of the historic buildings in Boston and Philadelphia, dwarfed by the skyscrapers that surround them. This is where Dred Scott and his wife first sued for their freedom from slavery, and it was determined that they were not U.S. citizens, and so would not be freed.

One of the exhibits in the Old Courhouse, about the Oregon Trail.

Remnants of one of the earliest buildings in St. Louis, a fur trader's warehouse. — Remnants of one of the earliest buildings in St. Louis, a fur trader’s warehouse.

An interesting reflection of the Old Courthouse in one of the nearby skyscrapers. The statue is of Dred Scott and his wife.

There’s a nice museum inside the courthouse, mostly temporary, I gather, while the other museum is closed. It was interesting, but nothing I wasn’t already familiar with. The exhibits were well done, though.

After I staggered back to Merlin through the heat, I knew the Missouri Botanic Gardens were a no-go. After barely a block I was just miserable. So I decided to head on out of St. Louis. I was really disappointed about that. I probably would have stuck around if I’d known the weather would have cooled off in a day or two, but it’s supposed to be in the 90s the rest of this week, alas.

I crossed the Mississippi into Illinois on a bridge that looks like what the 21st Street bridge in Tacoma wants to be when it grows up, and saw a sign for the Cahokia Mounds State Historic Site. Hoping for an air-conditioned visitor center, I took the offramp only to discover it’s closed on Mondays. But I did take a brief look around, and then called my Bujold listee friend Jim Parish, who lives in a small college town just northeast of St. Louis.

One of the mounds at Cahokia, which is the largest pre-Columbian ruin north of Mexico. Including Mesa Verde, apparently.

I found his house just fine, and we went out to lunch. A long, lovely lunch, where we talked about everything from Bujold to family to history. I’m not really sure there was a subject we didn’t cover [g]. Jim’s the first person I’ve stopped to see on this trip, and it was so nice to see a friendly familiar face and talk with someone I’ve known (albeit mostly online) for years.

I didn’t leave until after 3:30, and I stopped at the local AAA office for my next round of maps and guidebooks (I ran out after Missouri), then headed out of town looking for a place to stay. Oh, and for a place to get Merlin’s oil changed for the first time.

I saw this while I was looking for a motel tonight. I've never seen a water tower painted to look like a bottle of ketchup before... — I saw this while I was looking for a motel tonight. I’ve never seen a water tower painted to look like a bottle of ketchup before…

I found the former, but not the latter, so I’ll have to do that tomorrow. Merlin now officially has 5000 miles on him. I’ve driven a bit over 4000 miles since I left home.

I then dithered about whether to go southeast, to Paducah, Kentucky, home of a nationally-recognized quilt museum, or northeast to Springfield, Illinois, where there’s a bunch of interesting Lincoln stuff. I could double back and do both, but for now I’m headed to Springfield tomorrow. There’s supposed to be some storms coming through tonight. I’m glad I’m indoors.

Mirrored from M.M. Justus -- adventures in the supernatural Old West.

Crossposts: http://mmegaera.livejournal.com/540378.html

I spent a second night in Hannibal, Missouri, after my adventures with my rib on Saturday, because I was too tired and sore after all that to go explore the town. Hannibal is where Mark Twain grew up, and he’s pretty much a cottage industry there. You can go explore the cave that was the prototype for the one in Tom Sawyer, you can visit a reconstruction of the shed where Jim’s prototype lived (I kid you not), etc., etc. Most of it was too gimcracky for words.

On the other hand, the Boyhood Museum (which contained a number of buildings, including a restoration of one of the houses (his father had a hard time earning a living and died when Sam was eleven) Twain grew up in, the house of the little girl he modeled Becky Thatcher on, and a reconstruction of the Blankenship cabin (Tom Blankenship was the boy Huckleberry Finn was based on, and he wasn’t quite as badly off as Huck growing up) was interesting and fun, and worth an hour or so.

The white house is one of several Twain lived in as a kid. The sign in front of the white fence says this is the one Tom Sawyer got everyone else to whitewash for him [g].

I know exactly what Twain meant when he said this. From inside the museum.

The "Huck and Tom" statue in downtown Hannibal. — The “Huck and Tom” statue in downtown Hannibal.

Oh, and there was a quilt shop across the street, which looked tiny from the outside, but inside was four huge rooms full of fabric. Yes, I bought two more half yards.

Thank you to Jane Hotchkiss for the lovely afternoon. She recommended that I take Missouri Route 79, which more or less follows the Mississippi River from Hannibal to St. Louis. It was a really pretty drive. The Mississippi is huge by the time it gets this far south, and this time of year it’s really, really full. Several viewpoints along the way provided great views (from at least one you could see at least fifty miles over into Illinois), and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. Also, the Mississippi River bluffs are really heavily wooded. All those curly-haired deciduous trees [g]. I bet that drive is spectacular in the autumn.

A glimpse of Old Man River. This time of year, as my friend Mary says of North Carolina where she lives, the forest is like a green wall on either side of the road. Only in a few places can you actually see any distance.

The Mississippi from a city park in the town of Louisiana, Missouri. It's funny to think about where some of that water came from -- some of it passed through the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone, over Yellowstone Falls. — The Mississippi from a city park in the town of Louisiana, Missouri. It’s funny to think about where some of that water came from — some of it passed through the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone, over Yellowstone Falls.

Tonight I’m in St Charles, Missouri (a western suburb of St. Louis), and tomorrow I’m going to go see the Gateway Arch! (I’ve been wanting to do that ever since I took Amtrak from Ohio to Texas to visit my parents years and years ago, and got a glimpse of the Arch from the train on the Illinois side of the river). Unfortunately, the museum underneath the arch is closed for renovation, and no, I’m not going up in the arch because I don’t do manmade heights and I’m slightly claustrophobic about manmade closed in spaces, but I want to walk under it and see it close up and personal.

I really want to go to the Missouri Botanic Gardens, too, but it’s 95dF and really humid, so we’ll see if I can manage that without melting in a puddle. They’re one of the oldest botanical gardens in the U.S. and are supposed to be really something.

And then it’s on to southern Illinois, where I plan to stop and see my fellow Bujold listee Jim Parish. It’ll be nice to be social again with a friend.

Mirrored from M.M. Justus -- adventures in the supernatural Old West.

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So. It’s not a dislocated rib. It’s a cracked rib. Nothing to be done but take painkillers and be patient. It should be fine in 4-6 weeks, which means about the time I get to DC I should be in good shape again.

This throws a whole parade of monkey wrenches into the machinery, not the least of which is that I won’t be able to camp for the duration, which is going to make this trip quite a bit more expensive than I had planned. Nothing I can’t handle, but not how I wanted to spend the money. Not to mention that I really like camping, and it’s why I bought the van in the first place. Well, there will still be at least a couple of months for camping again once I’m well.

I’ve bought an industrial-sized bottle of Advil (the generic coatings don’t like my stomach, and prescription painkillers and I have a long and unhappy history). Wrapping, according to the AMA, is now frowned upon, so that’s that.

On the bright side, it does not hurt to drive. Merlin’s driver’s seat is very ergonomic for me (hits my back and seat in all the right places), and handling the controls does not hurt at all.

Also on the bright side, this is much better than my first Long Trip’s Official Disaster, which was rolling my car out in the Mojave Desert — you can read about that here, if you like.

Worse things have happened. I’m not going to let this ruin things. But please, don’t anyone tell my mother what happened [g].

Mirrored from M.M. Justus -- adventures in the supernatural Old West.

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So. There’s a reason I haven’t been online in four days, and it’s not a good one. I slipped and fell out of the back of my van the day before yesterday onto an asphalt parking lot, and managed to dislocate my rib again in the process (as you can tell from the “again”, this isn’t the first time I’ve done this – the first time was about ten years ago, when I was recovering from shoulder surgery and overdid the physical therapy – my rib has been predisposed to further dislocations ever since). On the bright side, I was in a good-sized college town (Warrensburg, Missouri) at the time, and a good chiropractor was easy to find. He popped it back in, and I spent yesterday resting in a motel room (sans wifi, alas), but my muscles are still screaming sore if I move the wrong way (or sneeze, or blow my nose, or… — driving is fine, though, thank goodness). I also managed to bruise my tailbone, I have a small case of road rash on my left arm (I had a lump on my elbow for a few hours afterwards, but it’s gone now, and the arm works fine), and I bumped my head slightly (so slightly that it wasn’t even bruised). I’m going to be okay, but criminy.

Oh, well. Maybe this is this trip’s Official Disaster (for those who haven’t read Cross-Country, or heard me talk about it, that trip ended with me rolling my car out in the middle of the Mojave Desert in California – I was fine, the car was totaled).

Anyway, with that one exception, Mrs. Lincoln, the last three days have been fine, if way too hot for human beings (100 on the fifteenth, 10-bleeding-6 yesterday – both dF). It was too hot, even at eight in the morning, to go out and walk any distance at the Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve. Fortunately, the little road out to my campsite the night before (which was lovely once the sun went down and the temps dropped into the 70s dF) was lined with orange milkweed and purple coneflowers (another one which I now understand why it doesn’t like cool, damp western Washington), among other flowers.

Milkweed in bloom. First time I'd ever seen this one in the wild. — Milkweed in bloom. First time I’d ever seen this one in the wild.

I also saw a confection of a county courthouse in the small town on the way from the campground.

The county courthouse in Cottonwood Falls, Kansas.

Then I cut my losses and headed to Topeka.

Kansas’s state history museum is every bit as good as Washington’s, and that’s saying a fair amount. And their history is longer than ours, too (well, their documented history is, anyway). It started with the usual paleo-Indians, but where it really got interesting was during the years leading up to the Civil War. You’ve heard the term, “bleeding Kansas,” I’m sure, where people really got riled up (to the point of killing each other) over whether Kansas should come into the Union as a free or a slave state. This is where John Brown (of Harper’s Ferry fame) got his start, too.

Bison and horse statue outside of the Kansas History Museum.

The school building that houses Brown vs. Board of Education, NHS. It was a functioning school until 1976, the year before I graduated high school. — The school building that houses Brown vs. Board of Education NHS. It was a functioning school until 1976, the year before I graduated high school.

It was also really air-conditioned in there, as was the old schoolhouse that houses the Brown vs. Board of Education National Historic Site, although the NPS did that one with geothermal, which was pretty impressive. That’s in Topeka, too, and while calling some of the stuff that I actually remember historic just makes me feel old, the whole thing was really well done. It seems odd to me that the landmark civil rights Supreme Court case originated in the Midwest rather than the South, but that’s where it was.

After I left Topeka, I ended up on the Kansas Turnpike, which is a) really the only way to get to and through Kansas City, and b) the first more than five miles stretch of Interstate I’ve driven on the entire trip. There wasn’t even a Welcome to Missouri sign – my eighth state, and another one I’ve never been to before.

I got lost in Kansas City looking for the Arabia Steamboat Museum – I never did find it, much to my disappointment, because I think it would have been really interesting, but it was getting to be late in the day (aka rush hour), so I went on east into Missouri, found myself a motel in Warrensburg, and fell out of the back of my van.

This morning, after a second visit to the chiropractor to make sure the rib was still where it’s supposed to be (and to have a Tens unit attached to a spasming muscle in my back for a little while), I headed north by east to Hannibal, which means that yes, I’ve completely crossed the state of Missouri. I ate lunch in a café in a wide spot in the road, which was delicious, and also stopped in the hamlet of Florida, where Mark Twain was born. The actual cabin is inside of a museum <g>.

One of many reasons Mark Twain is one of my literary heroes.

The cabin where Twain was born. Presumably before they moved it into the museum . — The cabin where Twain was born. Presumably before they moved it into the museum [g].

Then I came on to Hannibal and found a motel (I’m not going to be camping again until I’m feeling better), and tomorrow I will explore where Samuel Clemens grew up. I’m really looking forward to that, even if it does look like they’ve made something of a cottage industry out of Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer here.

Mirrored from M.M. Justus -- adventures in the supernatural Old West.

Crossposts: http://mmegaera.livejournal.com/539399.html

Oh, the irony, it bleeds. The sign, in case you can't read it, says, Experience the Flint Hills. That said, the countryside did become a bit more rolling from that point eastward. — Oh, the irony, it bleeds. The sign, in case you can’t read it, says, Experience the Flint Hills. That said, the countryside did become a bit more rolling from that point eastward.

So. I went to the Cosmosphere in Hutchinson, Kansas, today, and I take back every skeptical comment I made yesterday. I spent three hours going through it, with my jaw hanging open for most of it.

It wasn’t just the artifacts, although there were hundreds of them on display, from German V1 and V2 rockets from WWII to Gemini and Apollo capsules. It wasn’t just that, from a curatorial standpoint, they did a magnificent job (it didn’t even occur to me till hours afterwards that the entire museum is underground, for the obvious reason that well, this is Kansas and they do have tornadoes – just one detail among many). It was the storytelling, starting with the Nazis and their rockets during WWII and ending with the last Apollo mission. And telling the Russian side of the story in more detail than I had a clue about, too. I learned more history today than I ever expected to. I was riveted.

A V-1 rocket. They had a V-2 just across from it, apparently one of only two or three matched sets still around.

If you’re ever within a hundred miles of Hutchinson, Kansas, go see this museum. Even if you could care less about space exploration. It’s absolutely amazing. And, yeah, it was Smithsonian caliber. Without a doubt.

After I finally dragged myself away from the Cosmosphere, I went and got lunch, then made the last of the phone calls to the utilities for my old condo, to pay the final bills, and to convince Comcast that, yes, I did actually return my converter box and remote back on the day I left town two and a half weeks ago, so they darned well better not send me to a collection agency as they’d been threatening. Fortunately, I kept the receipt with the returned equipment code, and it was in the glove compartment. I hate Comcast with the passion of a thousand burning suns.

Then I headed north by northeast for about a hundred miles to the Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve, where it was way too hot to go hiking, so I asked the guy in the visitor center about campgrounds (after three nights in motels, which was two nights too many, I wanted a campground in the worst way). He told me about a state fishing lake, and so here I am.

It’s hot, yes, but the site’s shaded, and now that the sun’s going down things are starting to cool off. The sunset was gorgeous, and the bullfrogs and birds are lovely background music.

Wow, it's almost below 85dF at the campsite now! — Wow, it’s almost below 85dF at the campsite now!

Tomorrow morning I am going to get up early and take a walk through Tallgrass Prairie before the temperature hits the 100 it’s supposed to get to tomorrow. Then I’m driving on to Topeka and spending the afternoon in the hopefully air-conditioned Kansas History Museum.

Onward.

Mirrored from M.M. Justus -- adventures in the supernatural Old West.

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Turns out it was a good thing I got a motel room last night. I woke up about two in the morning to something that sounded like someone was flinging bucketsful of gravel at my window. I got up and peeked out just in time to see an enormous streak of lightning, hear the crack of thunder only a few seconds later, and see the rain coming down in sheets. Sideways. Not good camping weather even if it hadn’t still been 80dF in the middle of the night.

It was clear by morning, if seriously hot and muggy, but I got a late start, anyway, because I needed to do laundry.

I arrived in Dodge City just before noon. Dodge City is a Tourist Trap with two capital Ts. I have to say the most amusing things I saw were the street signs. Gunsmoke St., Wyatt Earp Blvd., etc. Other than that, it was a good place to get lunch and get on the phone with the people storing my stuff (I don’t know why it took so long for them to figure out how much I owed them, but now, two and a half weeks later, at least it’s straightened out and paid). Then, my friends, I got the hell out of Dodge. Literally. I grinned about that for miles down the highway.

Sign in a small town northeast of Dodge City. Which shares a name with one of my great-nieces.

Headed east by northeast, I gradually made my way to another historical site. This one was called Fort Larned (LAR-ned, not LARND – it was named after someone, not the mispronunciation of “learned” that I half-suspected it was – oh, and in this part of the world, the Arkansas River – the same river as the one I drove along in Colorado – is pronounced ar-KAN-sas, not AR-can-saw).

The bridge from the parking lot to Fort Larned, and just way more sky than is necessary . — The bridge from the parking lot to Fort Larned, and just way more sky than is strictly necessary .

The officers' quarters at Fort Larned. The fort was so spread out it was impossible to take a photo of the whole thing. — The officers’ quarters at Fort Larned. The fort was so spread out it was impossible to take a photo of the whole thing.

The enlisted men's barracks at Fort Larned. Two men were expected to sleep in those beds (four per bunk bed), and they were expected to sleep head to toe (one with his head at one end, and one with his head at the other end). I bet that didn't smell very good. — The enlisted men’s barracks at Fort Larned. Two men were expected to sleep in those beds (four per bunk bed), and they were expected to sleep head to toe (one with his head at one end, and one with his head at the other end). I bet that didn’t smell very good.

Looking down the covered walkway in front of the barracks.

Fort Larned was the main military fort that protected travelers on the Santa Fe Trail, and was also part of the Indian Wars. It also hosted one of the first regiments of buffalo soldiers (the black soldiers who fought for the Union in the Civil War – so called because the Indians thought their hair looked like buffalo fur). An interesting place, not least because the original buildings are still standing, built from sandstone.

People have been carving their names and the date in the sandstone for a long time. The earliest date I spotted was 1904 (I should have taken a photo of it, but it didn’t occur to me to do so). I suppose technically it’s vandalism, but it was actually kind of nifty.

After I left Fort Larned, I thought about staying in the small town of Larned for the night, but the options were limited, and either too expensive or too icky or both. So I got onto Kansas Route 19 (I really need to take a photo of the state highway signs here – they’re the cutest little sunflowers), which turned out to be the bluest of blue highways, out through absolutely the middle of nowhere. With wildflowers of course.

After perusing a Kansas wildflower website, I'm inclined to think these are some kind of penstemon, but I can't be sure. — After perusing a Kansas wildflower website, I’m inclined to think these are some kind of penstemon, but I can’t be sure.

It did take me where the map showed me it would, though, intersecting with the highway to the much bigger town of Hutchinson, where I found a considerably better choice of places to stay.

Tomorrow I’m going to what Lonely Planet is calling the best museum on the space race in the country, right here in the middle of Kansas. I have to say I’m a bit skeptical. Better than the Smithsonian’s Air and Space Museum? Really? But I guess I’ll find out…

BTW, I really like Kansas. Everything except its politics, which are kind of scary, from what I can tell. Alas.

Mirrored from M.M. Justus -- adventures in the supernatural Old West.

Crossposts: http://mmegaera.livejournal.com/539122.html

Sigh. Today I drove from Caňon City almost immediately into the flatlands before I ever reached Pueblo, which is the big city of southeast Colorado. Gas was cheap there, and I topped off the tank before heading out onto the plains.

I have learned to appreciate plains and prairies after 23 years in forested, mountainous western Washington. I wouldn’t want to live here, mind, but it’s wonderful to see wide open spaces where it looks like the horizon has to be more than 180 degrees and you swear you can see the curvature of the earth.

Except when I look up at all that sky and all of sudden want to beg something not to step on me like a bug, because that’s how small I feel.

Nothing but sky. Although this is still Colorado, not Kansas yet. BTW, that thing on the left? is a bug on the windshield, not a baby tornado. Sorry.

There’s only two towns of any size between Pueblo and the Kansas border, and one historic site. U.S. 50 follows part of the old Santa Fe trail at this point, and Bent’s Fort National Historic Site is not far off the highway just east of the town of La Junta (Spanish for the junction).

The exterior of Bent's Fort from the path. — The exterior of Bent’s Fort from the path.

Bent’s Fort is sort of the Santa Fe Trail’s version of Fort Union, North Dakota, which I visited four years ago. It’s not a military fort, but a trading post, privately owned, where people traveling from St. Louis to Santa Fe could stop and buy goods and rest. It’s made of thick adobe, and the interior rooms are much cooler than the outdoors, which was a terrific thing on a 100dF afternoon. The park service did its usual excellent job interpreting the site, and there were some small living history demonstrations as well.

A view from the second floor of bent's Fort, down into the courtyard. — A view from the second floor of Bent’s Fort, down into the courtyard.

The owner's room, which was much more elegant inside than the rest of the place. — The owner’s room, which was much more elegant inside than the rest of the place.

The carpentry shop. It looks like my dad's garage used to, only he had power tools, and no chandelier. — The carpentry shop. It looks like my dad’s garage used to, only he had power tools, and no chandelier.

I do have to say that a couple of things were rather disconcerting. First was the extremely sturdily built, partly underground, bunker-style restroom next to the parking area, with a tornado shelter sign above the doors. The second was the two donkeys, who I first saw ambling along the quarter mile path from the parking area to the fort itself (a reconstruction – the original was destroyed in 1849), and then, when I returned, wisely taking advantage of the shade of the pergola by the parking area. I wonder if they found the exhibit panels as interesting as I did <g>.

Donkeys at Bent's Fort. — Donkeys at Bent’s Fort.

Donkey's enjoying the exhibits, er, the shade of the pergola. — Donkeys enjoying the exhibits, er, the shade of the pergola.

Once I left Bent’s Fort, I started thinking about where I would stop for the night. I really had intended to camp somewhere, and I actually did find a place in a hamlet just before the Kansas state line – but it was still 100dF outside according to Merlin’s thermometer, and getting more humid by the mile. So reluctantly I decided to look for an air-conditioned motel.

A pretty classic Kansas view -- big round hay bales and a grain elevator, somewhere between the border and Garden City. — A pretty classic Kansas view — big round hay bales and a grain elevator, somewhere between the border and Garden City.

I didn’t intend to drive 60 miles into Kansas – my first “I’ve never been to this state before!” state for this trip! – before I found one, but that’s what happened. I’m in Garden City, Kansas, which is nice, and I’m sure some people here have nice gardens, but I think the name is a bit hyperbolic.

It’s probably just as well that I’m indoors. There’s an 80% chance of thunderstorms tonight, and that’s not my favorite camping weather at all. Maybe (she says hopefully) it’ll cool off a bit after this front pushes through.

I wish that saying that my thoughts are with those poor people in Orlando actually did some good.

Mirrored from M.M. Justus -- adventures in the supernatural Old West.

Crossposts: http://mmegaera.livejournal.com/538635.html

I finally crossed the Continental Divide today. I don’t think I intended to spend almost a week in Colorado, but my first night in the state was four nights ago, and I’ve got tonight and probably one more before I cross into Kansas.

I love Colorado, at least the mountainous part. The climb up to Monarch Pass this morning was relentless, though. Seven miles of straight up. I have to say, Merlin has no problem keeping a reasonable speed through 6, 7, or even 8 percent grades. It was more than I expected when I bought him, to be honest. The only thing that slows us down is tight curves, and, wow, did the road up to the Divide this morning have a lot of those!

But the view from the top was worth it. And here’s the proof we made it, too.

The view from Monarch Pass, headed east.

I got to Salida (sa-LIE-da) about mid-morning, and stopped at a McDonald’s for iced tea (there is something to be said for being able to order a large unsweet iced tea with extra lemon anywhere in the U.S. and get exactly what I want – well-brewed tea with no sugar and real lemon slices, not just juice – for one buck <g>), then looked at my map and saw that I was only sixty miles south of Leadville.

I had always intended to get back to Leadville someday. It was settled in the 1860s as a mining camp, and, on a personal level, it was one of our favorite weekend getaways when I was a teenager in Denver. I had thought, maybe, when my friend Mary and I went to WorldCon in Denver in 2008, but after I dropped her off at the airport to go back to North Carolina, all I really wanted to do was bomb home in three days to western Washington, which was what I did.

This is Mt. Elbert, 14,439 feet (just taller than Mt. Rainier), on the way to Leadville. My dad climbed this mountain when he was in geology camp in 1947, at age 25 (the year my oldest sister was born).

But this time, I was in no hurry. And the road was good – I still can’t believe I climbed from 7800 to 10,000 feet (yes, Leadville is way up there) in 34 miles without feeling like it at all.

So I went to Leadville. Wandered the main drag and took photos, then went to the Healy House, which is now a museum. The Healy House was built in the 1870s, and still looks like it on the inside. The charming part of that for me was that I kept thinking this was what the Cooper house (Eliza’s family) in Repeating History must have looked like, because that was the 1870s and a well-to-do family in the Old West, too. The guide who took me through was probably in her seventies, and she was a quilter, and, well, we hit it off right away <g>. So that was a lot of fun.

Daffodils! In June! Well, it is 10,000 feet up. The garden at Healy House in Leadville. No, the cabin isn’t Healy House. But it’s amazing what that cabin looks like on the inside, too. It was a rich man’s hunting “box.”

One of the bedrooms in Healy House. Isn't the wallpaper crazy? Not to mention the crazy quilt. And the crocheted bedspread. — One of the bedrooms in Healy House. Isn’t the wallpaper crazy? Not to mention the crazy quilt. And the crocheted bedspread.

A penny-farthing bicycle at Healy House.

Then I drove out to Turquoise Lake, where we used to camp, and I even found exactly where we used to camp, which was really cool.

Turquoise Lake. That's the Continental Divide in the background. — Turquoise Lake. That’s the Continental Divide in the background.

Then I said good-bye to Leadville, drove back down to Salida, and headed east again, through a whole bunch more red rock canyons, alongside the rushing Arkansas River (full of people on float trips), to the town of Caňon City, where I am tonight.

A view of the redrock canyon of the Arkansas River, somewhere between Salida and Canon City.

This is also the home of the Royal Gorge, but while I’d also been there as a kid, my memories of it are pretty much pure tourist trap. If you’ve been to the redwoods in California, it’s sort of Colorado’s answer to the Trees of Mystery <g>. So here I am, and tomorrow it’s on to Pueblo, and out into the plains.

And to a historic site I’ve been wanting to see for some time. So in spite of the fact that it was over 90dF here in Caňon City today, and it’s supposed to be even hotter to the east, well, here I go, anyway.

‘Bye, mountains. It’ll be a while before I see any more again.

Mirrored from M.M. Justus -- adventures in the supernatural Old West.

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I woke up this morning to frost on my windshield! Yes, it was in the 50sdF when I went to sleep last night, and yes, I was camped at 9600 feet, but still. It’s June! I had to find my ice scraper, and thank goodness I’d remembered to pull it out of Kestrel’s glove department when I traded him in, and thank goodness I’d thrown it into Merlin’s glove department, too.

So that was kind of an adventure. I went over an 11,000 foot pass this morning, too, and saw two waterfalls, then I came down into the town of Ouray and all of a sudden the land flattened back out again. By the time I reached the city of Montrose (yeah, it’s a city – I passed a big box store conglomeration on my way into town), it was almost 80dF, and by this afternoon it was in the mid-80s. A 50-degree temperature rise in less than four hours.

Twilight Peak from Red Mountain Pass (11,000 feet). No sparkles, sorry.

Then I headed east on U.S. 50 (the same highway I’d crossed Nevada on), and, in spite of being at over 7000 feet, I was back in the desert.

Still, I did have an interesting place to stop along the way. Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park (for those who are counting, this is my twelfth national park/monument of the trip <g>) is another of those places we went when I was a kid. I think I was nine or ten, but I wouldn’t swear to it. Anyway, I did sort of remember it.

The canyon is over 2000 feet deep, narrow enough to make it feel like you could throw a rock from rim to rim, and made from a very dark rock called gneiss (“nice”) that has a lot of stripes and color in it. It was something to behold. But, as usual for me, the flowers kind of took over the show.

I never did find the dragon, sorry, Loralee!

I drove the six mile with lots of viewpoints rim road, ate lunch at the picnic area at the end, and took another gazillion photos. It was well worth the stop, especially since it was right on my way.

Gunnison, Colorado, is about an hour east of the Black Canyon (or it would have been if I hadn’t run into my second bout of road construction of the day – the first was at the 10,000 foot level just south of Ouray), and it’s where I am tonight. It’s also the home of Western Colorado University, where my nephew Mike went to college. I’m not sure how he ended up there, but it’s a nice little campus.

I had it in my brain that Gunnison was going to be a mountain town, but it’s in a valley, and sort of a cross between desert and ranchland. It’s pretty, but it doesn’t look at all like I thought it would.

And as the crowning touch of nostalgia, I’m staying in a KOA campground (for the showers and the wifi, since motels here are expensive) for the first time since my ex and I stayed in one just outside Eugene, Oregon in the early 80s. My folks and I used to stay in one about every third day when we traveled for the same reason I’m here tonight (well, not for the wifi…). Anyway. It’s funny.

As of today, I’ve been on the road for two weeks. Amazing.

Mirrored from M.M. Justus -- adventures in the supernatural Old West.

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Today was a two-part day. The first part of the day was my 10 am tour of Balcony House. I’d never done this one before, and I was a bit nervous about it. A 36-foot ladder was only the beginning. A 12-foot long, 18-inch wide, and 2-foot high tunnel, two more 12-foot ladders, and a set of stairs that rather reminded me of that part of the Mist Trail in Yosemite where you’re shinnying along a cliff edge that’s about a foot wide, with nothing between you and a hundred-plus foot drop except what looks like an old chain-link fence anchored into the rock. The only difference is that at least you’re not getting soaked with spray from Vernal Falls. Then again, with the temperature in the high 80s at 11 in the morning, the spray would have felt good.

36 foot ladder into Balcony House. That was seriously scary.

A kiva in Balcony House. A kiva is an underground spiritual/social place. That little hole just below the firepit is a sipapu.

But it was worth it. Balcony House isn’t as big as Cliff Palace, but it’s got a lot of interesting pieces to it, and this ranger’s emphasis was on how the Ancestral Puebloans (the modern name for the people who lived in Mesa Verde, instead of calling them Anasazi, which is kind of pejorative, basically “ancient enemy” in Navajo) managed to live in a pretty darned harsh place. I’d always known they lived short lives (to their 20s and 30s, mostly), and that they only stayed in the cliff dwellings for about 80 years before they moved south to become part of the ancestors of the Hopi and Zuni and several other tribes, but their existence was a lot bleaker than the red Indians of the Mesa Verde book that came home with us from my first trip here made it out to be.

I read and reread that book as a kid, and even made a school project diorama about them, inspired by the really wonderful, elaborate 30s-era (WPA strikes again) dioramas in the Chapin Mesa Museum. I don’t know why they fascinated me so much, but they did.

One of the dioramas at the Chapin Mesa Museum.

Spruce Tree House, which you can't go inside of anymore because of rockfalls. It's near the museum. — Spruce Tree House, which you can’t go inside of anymore because of rockfalls. It’s near the museum.

By the time I managed to get back to Merlin and stop by the museum to see the dioramas once more, I was hot and sweaty and ready to head to the mountains.

A sculpture outside of the visitor center. That's a man, climbing a cliff with a load of wood on his back, just as the Ancestral Puebloans would have done to reach their cliff dwellings. — A sculpture outside of the visitor center. That’s a man, climbing a cliff with a load of wood on his back, just as the Ancestral Puebloans would have done to reach their cliff dwellings.

Which I did. With a stop in Durango for lunch and gas and ice, I headed north (I know, I know) towards Silverton on what’s locally called the Colorado Skyway. Aptly named, too. Merlin climbed over two passes, both over 10,000 feet, this afternoon before I stopped for the night. I have one more to go, at 11,000 feet (only 3,000 feet lower than the summit of Mt. Rainier!), but that’s for tomorrow.

Along the road between Durango and Silverton.

Tonight I’m in a forest service campground at around 9000 feet, next to a river rushing with snowmelt. The best part? It’s in the fifties out there, and is supposed to get to the thirties tonight (my sleeping bag is rated to 30dF, so I will be fine <g>). No more desert! No more heat!

At my campsite in the Lower Mineral campground just north of Silvertion.

At least not till I hit the plains of eastern Colorado and Kansas in a few days. Eep.

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A Professional Dilettante

Recent Entries

July 3: A flowery, historical, viewful long drive

July 2: Lunch at the Frosty-ette in Sand Gap, Kentucky

July 1: Plenty of history, including a Shaker village and Kentucky’s state capital

June 28-30: This trip is turning into a cautionary tale

June 27: Rain, caves, and really good BBQ

June 26: Another inadvertent long drive, but also more Lincoln, and Kentucky

June 25: Reminiscing, more hoots, hollers, and woods, and borderline TMI

June 23-24: Not much the first day, more the second

June 22: Lincoln, Lincoln, and more Lincoln

June 21: Sometimes you just have to stop and get things done

June 20: The Arch! But no botanical garden, alas. And also a good friend.

June 19: Doesn’t everybody have literary heroes?

June 18: This trip’s disaster?

June 15-17: Ouch.

June 14: To Barrayar, perhaps, someday?

June 13: In which our intrepid explorer gets the hell out of Dodge. Literally.

June 12: Back in time and 100 degrees again

June 11: Good-bye, mountains!

June 10: I thought I’d left the desert behind

June 9: Climbing ladders and squeezing through tunnels, oh, and two 10,000 foot passes

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