“The Couve”

At the western end of the Columbia River Gorge, 30 miles inland from the Pacific Ocean, in a wide valley at the foot of the Cascade Range, the cities of Portland, Oregon, and Vancouver, Washington, face each other across the Columbia River.

On the south bank is Portland, population 588,000. On the north bank is Vancouver, population 162,000.

According to the local joke, the city is Vancouver (not the one in British Columbia), Washington (not the District of Columbia), in Clark County (not the one in Las Vegas), across the river from Portland (not the one in Maine).

To the locals, Vancouver is “the Couve.”

When Europeans first arrived there in 1775, the area was inhabited by an estimated 80,000 Native Americans, mostly of the Chinook and Klickitat nations. By the time the Lewis & Clark expedition camped there in 1805, half the natives were dead from smallpox.

By 1850, smallpox, measles, malaria, and influenza had reduced the native population to a few dozen miserable refugees whose land had been taken by the white settlers who brought the diseases.

But, hey — we Americans prefer to look forward, not backward, right?

Meriwether Lewis wrote that the Vancouver area was “the only desired situation for settlement west of the Rocky Mountains.” High praise from a guy who had reason to know.

The location isn’t perfect. Rain is a frequent thing, and occasionally, an ice storm will shut the city down.

On the other hand, heavy snow is infrequent, and the Columbia River has been neutered and doesn’t flood anymore. And when the clouds go away, you can look up and see Mount Hood, Mount Jefferson, Mount Adams, and Mount Saint Helens, looming above in all their glory.

Today, Vancouver is a bona fide bedroom community of Portland, not only because of the relative sizes of the cities, but also for economic reasons.

In Oregon, the income tax is high, but the state levies no sales tax. In Washington, there is no income tax at all, but the sales tax is 6.5 percent.

Consequently, people shop in Portland to dodge the sales tax, and they live in Vancouver to avoid the income tax.

I got to know a bit about Vancouver in 2010, when I spent two weeks exploring the Pacific Northwest and used Vancouver as my base of operations.

Downtown Vancouver is attractive and pleasant. A long stretch of the riverfront is public space — incredibly, green and undeveloped — and accessible to the water‘s edge. I wandered along the bank for quite a distance in the company of joggers, picnickers, and several kids wading in the water as their moms looked on.

One day, I had possibly the best meal of my life at a hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant in downtown Vancouver. It was a divinely flavorful seafood soup.

I have a weakness for Oriental seafood soup, and that soup was as the nectar of the gods. Every spoonful was sublime — an almost religious experience. Even now, the memory of it gives me pangs of delight.

But I digress.

The Couve is a very walkable city. The same day I had that marvelous soup, I wandered for over an hour around Esther Short Park, Vancouver’s main public park and town square, which is about five acres in size.

After the trip, I did some research and learned a few interesting things about the city and the park.

For one, I learned that over the last couple of decades, Vancouver has faced two chronic problems: slow economic decline (everyone shops in Portland) and the presence of homeless people, lots of ’em, in the downtown area.

For another, I learned that the public square in Esther Short Park is the oldest in the state. It is anchored by the Salmon Run Clock and Bell Tower, which features (in addition to the salmon running around the base) a glockenspiel that goes off three times a day and relates a Chinook tribal legend.

The park is named for Esther Short, the founding mother of Vancouver and a colorful and fascinating character. She, her husband Amos, and their children arrived there in 1845 and established a farm near the British Fort Vancouver.

The British army and its corporate ally, the Hudson’s Bay Company, were not pleased with their new neighbors. The British wanted to confine American settlements to the south bank of the river. They wanted Amos and Esther gone.

At one point, while Amos was away, British soldiers rounded up Esther and her children and set them adrift on the Columbia River in an oarless raft.

Esther managed to beach the raft, and no one was hurt. Amos undoubtedly went bonkers when he returned, and, yes, the situation went downhill from there.

According to one version of events, the Shorts were squatters on British land. When the legitimate owner of the property went to California on business, he left his caretaker, David Gardner, in charge.

There was a confrontation. Amos shot and killed Gardner, then promptly went to court and filed a claim on the land in his own name.

A second version is that ownership of the land was unclear. Gardner, an officer of the Hudson’s Bay Company, tore down a fence Amos had built and ordered the Shorts off the land. Shots were exchanged, and Gardner was killed.

Amos, then, was either a murdering claim-jumper, or he acted to defend his home and family. He was, in fact, tried for murder and acquitted.

Not long after the trial, Amos drowned when his ship capsized at the mouth of the Columbia River.

Esther carried on and did quite well. Over time, she opened a restaurant and a couple of hotels. She also donated several strategic pieces of property to the new city of Vancouver.

One piece she donated in 1855 was the land for Esther Short Park. Another was the long strip of undeveloped waterfront.

The unsinkable Esther Short.

Fast-forward to the 1990s. By that time, Esther Short Park was old and shabby and largely populated by street people — the homeless, the mentally ill, hippies, panhandlers, bag ladies, eccentrics, and etcetera.

In 1996, a newspaper article named the park as “the nucleus of the majority of emergency 911 calls in the city.”

One day in 1997, while the mayor of Vancouver was attending an event designed to help make the park a more family-friendly place, he was rammed from behind by a street person pushing a shopping cart.

The angry assailant threatened the mayor and warned him to leave.

That did it. The man was arrested, and public support surged for efforts to take back and clean up the park.

My guess is, the police also began to crack heads and otherwise make the park less appealing to the “undesirables.”

Slowly, things turned around. By 2007, Vancouver and Esther Short Park were winning awards for excellence.

I should mention, however, that the park today is not transient-free.

During my afternoon stroll there in 2010, I noticed several unkempt or colorfully-dressed persons who were not tourists, business types, moms with strollers, or kids playing in the fountains.

In fact, for a solid half hour, one woman pushed her shopping cart slowly back and forth along the sidewalk while shouting at the top of her voice, addressing no one in particular. Profanities and incoherent babble rained down in all directions.

The moms and tourists and business types completely ignored the woman.

I suppose they can afford to be charitable. The park now belongs to them.

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The Curse of Billy Penn

As a red-blooded American sports fan, you no doubt are familiar with the “Curse of the Bambino.” In 1919, according to legend, the Boston Red Sox brought a curse upon the team by selling Babe Ruth to the New York Yankees. The Red Sox did not win a World Series for the next 86 years.

You probably also know about the “Curse of the Billy Goat” visited upon the Chicago Cubs in 1945. It happened when a local bar owner and his pet goat were booted out of Wrigley Field during game four of the World Series.

“Them Cubs, they ain’t gonna win no more,“ the angry bar owner declared. The Cubs haven’t won so much as a National League pennant since.

Compared to those world-class curses, the “Curse of Billy Penn” in Philadelphia might seem rather bush-league. But it lasted for two decades, and as soon as an atonement of sorts was made, the curse ended.

William NMI Penn (1644-1718) was an English Quaker and real estate speculator who founded the American colony of Pennsylvania. Penn is widely lionized in the Keystone State. Indeed, no state is as closely associated with an individual as is Penn with Pennsylvania.

William Penn founded the city of Philadelphia in 1682, and appropriately, a massive bronze statue of Penn stands atop Philadelphia City Hall. The 37-foot-tall statue, created in 1894 by Alexander Calder, cuts a dashing figure above the city.

For almost a century, Penn’s statue was the tallest structure in Philadelphia. The city fathers kept it that way, turning down requests for new buildings taller than 548 feet, enabling Penn to preside proudly over the City of Brotherly Love.

In the mid-1980s, however, the city fathers caved. A rich bigshot was allowed to build One Liberty Place, which, at 945 feet, dwarfed the statue of Penn, big-time. William Penn no longer reigned over the city skyline. Worse, bigger and taller skyscrapers soon followed.

By allowing the statue to be thus diminished, so the tale is told, Philadelphia brought upon itself the “Curse of Billy Penn.”

Whether the curse was visited upon the city by the ghost of William Penn or by divine providence, it is said to have prevented the Philadelphia Phillies, Philadelphia Eagles, Philadelphia 76ers, and Philadelphia Flyers from winning a single championship for the next 21 years.

Some say the curse even affected horseracing. In 2006, a Philadelphia-based thoroughbred named Barbaro was favored to win the triple crown — until he fractured a leg during the Preakness, and his career was ended.

The curse came to an end, we are told, thanks to the communications behemoth Comcast.

Headquartered in Philadelphia since 1969, Comcast began construction of the opulent new Comcast Center in 2005. The new headquarters building would become the newest tallest skyscraper in the city.

In June 2007, during the topping-out ceremony, a steel beam was raised on the roof of the 974-foot building.

The dignitaries and construction workers signed the beam, and, in accordance with tradition, an American flag and a small tree were affixed.

Then, two workers stepped forward and attached to the beam a 25-inch-tall statue of William Penn. A whopping twenty-five inches tall.

They did so at the direction of Comcast EVP David Cohen, who had proposed the idea when construction began.

Cohen had intoned for the cameras, “Let’s once again restore Billy Penn to his rightful place and the highest location in Philadelphia.”

You’d think a company with a net worth of $73 billion could do better by William Penn than erecting a toy statue, but that’s what Billy got from Comcast.

Nevertheless, it apparently sufficed.

One year later, the Philadelphia Phillies won the World Series.

Penn’s statue atop City Hall has suffered repeated indignities over the years…

The Philadelphia skyline, showing One Liberty Place (with the red dot), City Hall (center), and the Comcast Center looming at right.

The curse-ending mini-statue of William Penn affixed to the beam on top of the Comcast Center.

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Money Shot

In September 2011, on a lake near the small town of Inlet, New York, the Central Adirondack Paddlers Society sponsored an attempt to break the Guinness record for the “World’s Largest Floating Raft.”

“Largest Floating Raft” in this case was a gathering of canoes and kayaks, held together only by hands, floating freely for at least 30 seconds.

At the time, the world record was 1,619 boats, set in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, in 2010. The New York team easily set a new record with 1,902 boats.

The Inlet event was known as One Square Mile of Hope, and it raised $80,000 for the Komen foundation for breast cancer research.

So — 2,000 paddlers had a memorable day, and a chunk of money was raised for medical research.

Also notable about the event was the awesome photography.

At ground level, the largest floating raft looked like this:

The most eye-popping photos were taken by Lake Placid photographer Nancie Battaglia. Her amazing aerial shots earned two-page spreads in Sports Illustrated, Canoe & Kayak, and National Geographic.

Here is a bird’s-eye view.

And here is the money shot, a beautiful mosaic.

The population of Inlet, New York, is about 400. They like to point out that they bested mighty Pittsburgh, population 350,000.

It was, in addition, a revenge thing. Inlet had won the championship in 2008 (1,104 boats), only to lose to Pittsburgh in 2010. I assume Pittsburgh has plans to retaliate.

Meanwhile, to celebrate Inlet’s victory, you can go to OneSquareMileofHope.com and choose your memento:

– A 16″ x 20″, 500-piece jigsaw puzzle of Nancie Battaglia’s money shot, $25.00

– A 22″ x 28″ poster of the same photo, $15.00

– A nifty pink One Square Mile of Hope commemorative cap, $15.00

All profits will be donated to Susan G. Komen for the Cure.

All in all, it’s a pleasant, uplifting story that has no bad guys.

Not counting Pittsburgh, of course.

 

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Daniel the Sandpainter

Sandpainting is the art of creating intricate designs and pictures on a horizontal surface using colored sand.

In various forms, sandpainting has been practiced around the world for centuries. It is still in use today by Tibetan monks, Australian Aborigines, and the Navajo and other Native Americans.

Sandpainting the Navajo way.

By nature, a sandpainting is temporary. It’s usually done ritually as part of a religious or healing ceremony.

Last month in Santa Fe, I encountered a different kind of sandpainter: an anglo artist using a special form of sandpainting to draw attention to a cause.

Santa Fe, New Mexico, has a thing for museums. By my count, there are 23 in town, some public and some private.

Four of the most popular are located at Museum Hill, a picturesque spot in a wooded area not far from downtown. Museum Hill is home to the Museum of Indian Arts and Culture, the Wheelwright Museum of the American Indian, the Museum of Spanish Colonial Art, and the Museum of International Folk Art.

The first and last of those four face each other across Milner Plaza, an attractive spot that invites you to sit and take a break from all of that history and culture.

I visited Museum Hill on a Sunday, and, as I have a habit of doing, I arrived early, before anything opened. After taking photos of buildings and statues for a while, I sat down to review some of my shots.

Every few minutes, a museum employee would arrive for work, slip inside, and close the door. An occasional runner came into view and out again. Several souls like me were scattered around the plaza.

One of them, a tall, lean young man, was walking toward the center of the plaza carrying an armload of something — strips of wood, it seemed. He dumped the stack of whatever it was onto the bricks and went back for another load.

Not far away, on the grass at the edge of the plaza, three people were setting up a display booth. The banner across the top said “New Mexico Wilderness Alliance.” The young man seemed to be part of that group.

On his next trip to the center of the plaza, the young man brought a small crate that contained a dozen plastic catsup dispensers.

He set down the crate, picked up a stack of his wooden somethings, and began to arrange them in a large circle on the ground. Curiosity was killing me, so I approached the circle.

The dispensers held colored sand of various pastel shades. The wood strips were stencils.

I moved closer so I could read the lettering.

RAZORBACK SUCKER

GRAY WOLF

GILA TROUT

WESTERN RIBBONSNAKE

MOUNTAIN TOAD

By then, I was practically reading over the guy’s shoulder, and he looked up.

Before I could ask, he said, “These are the names of New Mexico’s 112 endangered species.”

He extended his hand. We introduced ourselves, and I listened to his story.

His name was Daniel Richmond, a sculptor and art teacher from Albuquerque. He had come to Milner Plaza to create a project he called, “112 Endangered Names Embossed in Dirt.”

Daniel’s tools were the wooden stencils and colored sand. While he did the creating, members of the New Mexico Wilderness Alliance backed him up with information, refreshments, games, and face-painting for passers-by.

For the next couple of hours, Daniel would arrange the stencils in circles on the plaza and fill the letters with sand, removing each stencil in turn to reveal the name.

As Daniel well knew, wind and foot traffic would soon obliterate his work. He knew, because he has created this project many times around New Mexico in recent years.

As he explained, the fragile nature of the work is intentional. It dramatized the urgent need for action to prevent the 112 species from disappearing.

Daniel did his work effortlessly. When he removed a stencil, the words stood out crisply on the plaza bricks.

“Now it’s your turn,” he said, handing me a catsup dispenser.

I must have looked surprised. “Please — go ahead,” he said. “I want people to participate.”

I got down on all fours in front of the nearest stencil, GREENTHROAT DARTER. I wondered whether it’s a bird or a fish.

“Just… pour?” I asked.

“Pour slowly,” he told me. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

Haltingly, I added sand to GREENTHROAT DARTER. It wasn’t as easy as Daniel made it look.

I finished applying the sand and carefully lifted away the stencil. The effort was terrible. I had applied far too much sand. The letters ran together.

“Crap,” I muttered.

“No, that was a good first effort,” he said. “And you’re now officially part of the project. Try another one.”

My second attempt was better. My third was better still.

Other curious tourists began to arrive, and Daniel turned his attention to them. I continued to stencil names until my knees were sore.

At length, I reckoned it was time to go see some museums. I got up, waved to Daniel, and limped off toward the Folk Art Museum.

Of the four museums at Museum Hill, the Folk Art Museum was my least favorite. That’s not a common opinion. Most visitors rate it as the best in town. Go figure.

But I give the Folk Art people credit in one important area: they allow photography inside. None of the other museums do.

When I asked about the photo policy, I was told that their new curator had changed the policy. She thought barring photography was pointless and dumb. Good for you, lady.

Better still, she did not remove the signs that say NO PHOTOGRAPHY PERMITTED. She left them up, but had the NOs crossed out with big red Xs.

Later, as I crossed the plaza on my way to the Museum of Indian Arts and Culture, Daniel was still at work. He said the project always drags out because of constant interruptions by passing tourists. Which is a positive thing.

Maybe — just maybe — Daniel’s work is having an impact. In 2011, he identifies 112 endangered species in the State of New Mexico.

Five years ago, the number was 118.

By the way, the greenthroat darter is a fish.

An 18-foot-tall bronze statue of an Apache mountain-spirit dancer stands guard over Milner Plaza.

Elsewhere on the plaza, Daniel readies his stencils.

He arranges the stencils in circles...

... and deftly applies the colored sand.

My first attempt -- an embarrassing GREENTHROAT DARTER.

But I got better with practice.

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County Road 57

One morning last week, I stepped out of my motel room in Taos, New Mexico, and was greeted by the sight of a flat tire on my rental car.

That set off two hours of activity in which I had to remove the flat, replace it with a pathetic mini-spare, drive to a repair shop, and wait while they made things right.

The flat and the mini-spare were front and center in my thoughts as I sat in the tire shop, pondering a day trip that was on my agenda a few days later: I planned to drive to Chaco Culture National Historical Park, located way out in the New Mexico desert, 40 miles from the nearest town, 13 miles from the nearest pavement.

Chaco Culture National Historical Park, known until recently simply as Chaco Canyon, is a remote site that was, a thousand years ago, a thriving center of Pueblo Indian culture.

Chaco was an important stop on the southern migration of the Pueblo Indians. To many of today’s pueblo-dwellers, Chaco is one of their ancestral homes and a sacred place.

Today, Chaco is home to five major pueblo ruins that have been excavated and stabilized, plus numerous other sites that remain untouched, so far.

Each of the five ruins takes the better part of an hour to see. When you factor in the long drive, visiting Chaco is, at minimum, an all-day trip. And, if you’re really into pueblo ruins, you’ll probably stay at the campground and hang around a while.

That 13-mile stretch of non-pavement I mentioned is described by the Park Service as “rough dirt road.” I found it to be a brutal washboard road peppered with rock outcrops that threatened my muffler and cattle guards that assaulted my tires.

Good thing I was driving a rental car.

Fortunately, the weather that day was sunny and dry. Any rain whatsoever makes the road impassable.

I went to Chaco Canyon briefly back in the 1960s, but frankly, I have almost no recollection of that trip. Which was a good reason to include Chaco on my itinerary in 2011.

I had prepared myself appropriately. That morning, I left my motel in Farmington and was on the road early. I had a full tank of gas and a spare gallon of water in the trunk. No food is available in the park, so in my glove compartment were two Nature Valley bars, a bag of Doritos, and a package of homemade cookies I had purchased at Taos Pueblo. I figured that would tide me over for the day.

My rental car survived the 13 miles of bad road, and by 9:00 AM, I arrived at the park.

The lady at the Visitor Center told me that a ranger-guided tour of Pueblo Bonito, the largest ruin, had just started a few minutes earlier. She suggested that I go catch up.

I wasn’t sure about that. I usually prefer to proceed at my own pace. But, by the time I arrived at the ruin (Stop Number One on the loop drive), there was the tour group, about 30 people in all, just getting started. Somewhat reluctantly, I walked up quietly and joined them.

The ranger’s narrative was interesting and informative, but the milling herd of tourists made it impossible to take photos. Literally.

The group was standing at an elevated overlook that provides a bird‘s-eye view of Pueblo Bonito down below.

“The Great Kiva you see before you in the plaza was the center of religious life for the Chacoans,” intoned the ranger.

I stood there, completely blocked out by a solid wall of tourists, many of them frankly overfed. Of the Great Kiva, I could see zip — nothing.

That did it. I drifted away from the group and for a while, took photos elsewhere. After they moved on, I went back to the overlook and gazed upon the Great Kiva in peaceful solitude, at my leisure. I got lots of cool photos.

For the next few hours, I did the drive-park-walk thing around the park. It was most enjoyable, most interesting.

I’m pleased to say that by that point in my trip, I had learned (okay, I learned it from the ranger) to distinguish the relative age of a given ruin based on the details of its construction — the materials being stone, wood, and adobe.

Basically, the more intricate and precise the handiwork, the older it is; the sloppier the workmanship, the newer it is. Sigh.

In case you’re wondering, modern-day pueblo-dwellers build with Tyvek and sheetrock, then slap a layer of adobe on the outside for appearances. Hard to blame them.

By about 3:00 PM, I had done and seen all I intended to do and see at Chaco. It was time to pack up and depart. My goal was to reach Gallup by nightfall.

The main access road to Chaco exits to the northeast. There, it meets US 550, running northwest and southeast. To get to Gallup, I needed to go — drat — southwest. Driving to Gallup via US 550 would take me 200 miles out of the way.

On the map, however, is another dirt road, County Road 57, that exits the park going southwest. I checked the park website, and it said the road is seldom maintained and “can vary from rough to impassable.” Basically, one takes CR 57 at one’s own risk.

I went back to the front desk at the Visitor Center to get a local perspective.

I told the lady at the desk I wanted to get to Gallup, and I was driving a rented Hyundai Accent. I asked whether or not she thought I should attempt CR 57.

There was a long pause. “A Hyundai Accent?” I nodded.

“Well,” she said, “I have a Toyota Corolla, and I drove that road last year. That was the only time. It wasn’t easy, but I made it.”

She looked at me meaningfully. “You probably won’t pass another vehicle out there. No cell phone service, either. If anything happens, you’ve got trouble.

“On the other hand, the weather’s good, and the road is drivable… if you take it easy.”

As she spoke, visions of flats and mini-spares swam in my head.

But, hey — how much worse than the 13-mile unpaved entrance road could CR 57 be?

As it turned out, not that much worse. True, it was one of the most remote and desolate places I’ve ever been. But, except for a couple of steep, slippery hills, a few nasty rocky patches, and the high wind and blowing sand, CR 57 was, indeed, drivable.

The distance from Chaco Canyon south to the pavement of Indian Route 9 is 20 miles. By the clock, it took me one hour and 15 minutes. I took the lady’s advice and didn’t push it.

The long drive, however, was not without drama.

At one point, deep into the drive, I topped a hill and saw a vehicle stopped in the road ahead.

It was a tow truck.

The driver was busily changing a flat tire.

His own.

I pulled over behind the truck and got out. “Good morning,” I said.

“Howdy, friend,” replied the man. He was a lean, ruddy Anglo fellow of about 50. He wore dusty jeans and a well-worn baseball cap, typical of the local residents.

He finished tightening the lug nuts on the right rear wheel, stood up, and heaved the flat tire into the bed of the truck.

“A tow truck with a flat is kind of ironic,” I said.

“Reckon it is,” he replied. “I came out here to fix a guy’s tire. He left about 10 minutes ago. I was right behind him, and then — boom.”

“How far is it to the pavement?”

“Probably five or six miles. You ain’t there quite yet.”

“Are you okay?” I asked him. “Do you need water or anything?”

“I’m fine, thanks. You doin’ all right in that little Hyundai?”

“Yeah, I’m taking it slow.”

“Well, you can rest easier now. You‘ll have a tow truck not far behind you.”

I liked that idea a lot. For the entire drive, I had been apprehensive and tightly wound. Taking CR 57 truly was a genuine risk, and the more I drove, the more that fact was hammered home. I imagined spending the night out there, waiting for the next rash tourist to come along.

I also imagined my rescuer having a flat, too.

But now, miraculously, I had a tow truck behind me. I drove on, still slow and easy, enjoying a wonderfully exhilarating sense of relief.

Ten minutes later, with a friendly wave and a toot of his horn, the tow truck passed me like a rocket.

Well, the sense of relief felt good while it lasted.

Say what you will about Hyundai Accents, but mine was a scrappy little thing. Although it only had the power of a moped, it stayed cool, climbed every hill, and slid on the loose gravel but rarely.

It also came equipped with XM Radio. Even though I was miles from civilization, I had all the news and tunes I wanted, and that was a comfort.

About 15 minutes later, while bumping along and munching Doritos, I topped another hill and saw up ahead a familiar sight: my friend the tow truck driver.

He was changing a flat tire.

His own.

I pulled up beside him and rolled down the passenger-side window. “We meet again,” I said cleverly.

The man was not in a good humor. He let fly a few curse words, aimed not at me, but at his situation. He was being severely tested that day.

“I carry three spares,” he said with a hint of menace. “Now I’m down to one.” He jerked with vigor on the tire tool to loosen the lug nuts on the offending wheel.

Although I should have remained silent, I was compelled to speak.

“Bad break for you,” I said, “But now I have a tow truck behind me again.”

He couldn’t help but smile.

“Them damn Hyundai tires are tougher than I thought,” he said.

“Knock on wood,” I replied.

He returned to his labors. “Have a safe trip,” he said.

“Good luck,” I said and drove away.

Soon after that, I reached Indian Route 9 and was back on pavement again, ahead of the tow truck. I assume he made it without having a third flat. Or a fourth.

I drove south through Crownpoint to Thoreau, picked up Interstate 40, and headed west into Gallup.

Earlier, I had noticed another shortcut on the map — an unpaved county road going west from Crownpoint straight to Gallup.

It would have shaved off 25 miles, but I decided not to take it.

On the road to Chaco.

 

View of the Great Kiva at Pueblo Bonito, unobstructed by tourists.

 

Leaving Chaco on County Road 57.

 

CR 57, one hour later.

 

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Girl on a Mission

I’m in Oregon on vacation right now. For the last few days, I’ve been driving south along the Pacific coast, taking it easy, taking photos, eating seafood. Life is good.

For me, anyway.

Last night after supper, as the sun was getting low over the ocean, I drove to the beach near the little town of Winchester Bay. I parked, grabbed my camera, and slogged across the dunes to the beach.

The beach at that point is smooth and wide. From the dunes to the shore is at least 100 yards. Only about a dozen other people were in sight.

For a few minutes, I walked around idly, taking pictures of seabirds, people, and dogs silhouetted against the setting sun. Sundown was 30 minutes away. I doubted if I would wait, but I sat down on a log to think about it.

As I sat there, a young girl came into view. She appeared from behind  me, walking purposefully toward the surf. She looked to be somewhere in her 20s.

It was her brisk stride that got my attention. She wasn’t taking a leisurely stroll like the rest of us. She was proceeding like a girl on a mission. No one else seemed to notice, but I was fascinated.

She continued across the sand in the direction of the shore. I sat and watched.

Two yellow Labs romped past her. They took no notice of her, and she took none of them.

Soon, she arrived at the water’s edge, where the sand was wet. I thought she would stop, but she didn’t. She continued forward, into the shallow water, splashing as she went.

My God, I thought, is this a suicide? How do I respond? Do I yell or just start running? At that moment, she was at least 75 yards away.

It was not a suicide, praise be. A few yards from shore, in ankle-deep water, she stopped abruptly. She reached into a pocket and fished out something too small for me to see.

For a moment, she held the tiny object aloft and looked at it, like Hamlet gazing upon the skull of Yorick.

Then, with a mighty heave, she sailed the object into the Pacific Ocean.

Five seconds later, she was striding just as briskly back in my direction.

Wow.

I was positively aquiver with curiosity. What in the ever-loving, blue-eyed world did she cast so dramatically into the sea?

As she approached, I debated whether or not to ask.

On one hand, it was a legitimate question. On the other hand, it was none of my business. She might resent the intrusion. And I am not one to intrude.

A few moments later, she arrived back at the edge of the dunes, 20 yards away from me. She stopped, turned toward the ocean, and peered into the distance, shielding her eyes with one hand.

She stood there for several seconds, looking out to sea. Then she walked over to a nearby chunk of driftwood and sat down.

Smith, I told myself, you MUST find out what that girl threw into the ocean. If you allow this moment to pass without finding out, it will become one of the great regrets of your life.

I know — a major overstatement. But I needed to be prodded into action.

Before my native caution could kick in, I leapt to my feet and walked over to her.

She looked up as I approached. Her expression was blank.

“Excuse me,” I said meekly, “I saw you walk down to the shore a few minutes ago. You threw something into the ocean.”

I hesitated and coughed. The girl continued to look at me with a blank expression.

“I know it’s none of my business,” I said. “But I just — I was wondering what you threw into the water.”

She studied me, but didn’t answer.

“Okay,” I said finally, “I’m sorry I bothered me. I’m leaving.” I turned and began walking away.

“Hey!” she called out. I turned toward her.

Her expression never changed. “It was my wedding ring,” she said.

That was it. No further explanation.

She turned back toward the ocean. I began trudging across the sand to my car.

At the top of the dunes, I looked back. She sat there on her piece of driftwood, gazing toward the setting sun.

Maybe I shouldn’t have taken her photo, but I did.

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Go ‘Chokes! Go Pickles!

Most of the time, college sports teams name themselves something that evokes strength, virility, or athletic prowess — Lions, Knights, Bears, Vikings, Panthers, and whatnot.

But some teams go in the opposite direction…
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The Banana Slugs — The University of California at Santa Cruz. Adopted when students rebelled over the chancellor’s choice, “The Sea Lions.”

Sammy the Slug.

The Fighting Pickles — University of North Carolina School of the Arts in Winston-Salem.

The Fighting Blue Hens — University of Delaware, Newark.

The Dirtbags — California State University – Long Beach. Men’s baseball team only.

The Fighting Artichokes – Scottsdale Community College, Scottsdale, Arizona.

Arti the Artichoke.

The Trolls — Trinity Christian College, Palos Heights, Illinois.

The Geoducks — Evergreen State College, Olympia, Washington. Pronounced “gooey-ducks.” Refers to the world’s largest burrowing clam. Their fight song: “Siphon high, squirt it out, swivel all about, let it all hang out!”

The Evergreen State Gooey-duck.

The Student Princes — Heidelberg University, Tiffin, Ohio. Very Germanic.

The Jumbos — Tufts University, Medford/Somerville, Massachusetts. Named after P. T. Barnum’s star circus elephant. Barnum gave Tufts a lot of money.

The Lemmings — Bryant & Stratton College, Cleveland, Ohio.

The Fire Ants — University of South Carolina Sumter. Ouch.

The Fighting Okra — Delta State University, Cleveland, Mississippi. Formerly “The Statesmen.”

The Fighting Okra.

The Stanford Tree — Unofficial mascot of Stanford University in Stanford, California. The actual team name is “The Cardinal” — the color red, not the bird. That’s too abstract for the student body, so they ignore it and have adopted a redwood tree.

The Tree.

The Hustling Quakers – Earlham College, Richmond, Indiana.

The Gorloks — Webster University, Webster Groves, Missouri. Named for the intersection of Gore and Lockwood Avenues on the university campus. The Gorlok mascot you see dancing on the sideline has the paws of a cheetah, the horns of a buffalo, and the face of a St. Bernard.

The Fighting Camels — Campbell University, Buies Creek, North Carolina. The team mascot is Gaylord the Camel. The women’s teams are, of course, the Lady Camels.

The Flying Fleet — Erskine College, Due West, South Carolina. (See Comments for details.)

The Eutectics — St. Louis College of Pharmacy, St. Louis, Missouri. Eutectics is a chemistry term relating to the solidification of alloys, which I don’t understand at all. The team mascot is Morty McPestle, a werewolf in a lab coat. Morty isn’t a wimpy mascot like okra and lemmings, but he seems to belong on this list.

Morty McPestle.

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We Regret the Error

Here is some first-rate chuckle material: a selection of retractions and apologies published by various newspapers.

Naturally, most of these are from the British press, the British being peerless in the sensational allegation/solemn apology department.

The Mail on Sunday published stories claiming that TV news presenter Jon Snow had an affair with a writer called Precious Williams, and that they smoked cannabis together.

There is no truth in these allegations. We accept that, in fact, Mr. Snow never had any relationship with Miss Williams, and that the allegation of drug-taking was unfounded. We are happy to set the record straight, and we apologise for the embarrassment caused.

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Following the portrait of Tony and Cherie Blair published on 21 April in the Independent Saturday magazine, Ms. Blair’s representatives told us that she was friendly with, but never had a relationship with, Carole Caplin of the type suggested in the article.

They want to make it clear, which we are happy to do, that Ms. Blair “has never shared a shower with Ms. Caplin, was not introduced to spirit guides or primal wrestling by Ms. Caplin (or anyone else), and did not have her diary masterminded by Ms. Caplin.”

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We should clarify that the stir-fried morning glory recipe featured in Observer Food Monthly last week uses an edible morning glory, Ipomoea aquatica, found in Southeast Asia and also known as water spinach. This should not to be confused with the UK Ipomoea, also known as morning glory, which is poisonous.

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An article about Lord Lambton (“Lord Louche, sex king of Chiantishire,” News Review, January 7) falsely stated that his son Ned (now Lord Durham) and daughter Catherine held a party at Lord Lambton’s villa, Cetinale, in 1997, which degenerated into such an orgy that Lord Lambton banned them from Cetinale for years.

In fact, Lord Durham does not have a sister called Catherine (that is the name of his former wife), there has not been any orgiastic party of any kind, and Lord Lambton did not ban him (or Catherine) from Cetinale at all. We apologise sincerely to Lord Durham for the hurt and embarrassment caused.

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In an article in Monday’s newspaper, there may have been a misperception about why a Woodstock man is going to Afghanistan on a voluntary mission. Kevin DeClark is going to Afghanistan to gain life experience to become a police officer when he returns, not to shoot guns and blow things up. The Sentinel-Review apologizes for any embarrassment this may have caused.

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In the May 25 Explainer, Michelle Tsai asserted that an eight ball is about 10 lines of cocaine. While the size of a line depends on personal preference, most users would divide an eight ball into more than 25 lines.

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A photo caption on Saturday misspelled the name of the Pakistani capital. It is Islamabad, not Islambad.

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The Australian incorrectly stated that Ms. Van Tienen had been found guilty by the Australian Sport Anti-Doping Authority of trafficking drugs and was banned from participating in weightlifting for two years.

Ms Van Tienen has never been charged or convicted of drug offences, has never been banned from the sport, nor has she ever been involved in a drug ring. The Australian apologises unreservedly for any hurt or embarrassment caused to Ms. Van Tienen by the publication.

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ON April 3 we published an article entitled “The hangers-on who are dragging Prince Harry into the gutter,” which was accompanied by a photograph of a young woman we identified as Annabel Ritchie.

We now accept that the young woman photographed was not Annabel Ritchie. We also accept that Annabel Ritchie is not part of any so-called “hangers-on.” We apologise unreservedly to Annabel Ritchie for what we published about her.

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In an article about Tom Sykes, a freelance journalist, we mistakenly included a photograph of Tom Sykes, a digital TV consultant and his family. We wish to make it clear that the latter is not a recovering alcoholic or drug addict, and we apologise for the error.

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A front-page article yesterday about the role played by Barack Obama’s wife, Michelle, in his presidential campaign rendered incorrectly a word in a quotation from Valerie Jarrett, a friend of the Obamas who commented on their decision that he would run.

Ms. Jarrett said in a telephone interview, “Barack and Michelle thought long and hard about this decision before they made it” — not that they “fought” long and hard.

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The Prince of Seborga

Obituary from The New York Times, December 12, 2009…

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Giorgio Carbone, Elected Prince of Seborga, Dies at 73

Nestled near the beaches of the Italian Riviera and the snow-capped Alps sits the tiny principality of Seborga, a place that floats on legends. Over the centuries, plagues and earthquakes have struck the region and missed Seborga, or so the stories say. Some insist that knights took the Holy Grail there.

But the true miracle of Seborga may have been the 46-year reign of Prince Giorgio I, the constitutionally elected royal ruler of its five square miles and 2,000 people, about 350 of whom are enfranchised citizens.

Prince Giorgio, a bewhiskered grower of mimosa flowers from a family of mimosa growers, was seized by a glorious vision: that Seborga was not part of the surrounding Italian nation. It was an ancient principality, cruelly robbed of its sovereignty.

After convincing his Seborgan neighbors of their true significance, Giorgio Carbone was elected prince in 1963. He gracefully accepted the informal title of “His Tremendousness” and was elected prince for life in 1995 by a vote of 304 to 4. Voters then ratified Seborga’s independence, which, by the prince’s interpretation, it already had.

Prince Giorgio established a palace, wrote a Constitution, and set up a cabinet and a parliament. He chose a coat of arms, minted money (with his picture), issued stamps (with his picture) and license plates, selected a national anthem, and mobilized a standing army, consisting of Lt. Antonello Lacala. He adopted a motto: Sub umbra sede (“Sit in the shade”).

But the principality’s future has suddenly turned cloudy. Prince Giorgio I died at his home in Seborga on Nov. 25 after suffering from Lou Gehrig’s disease, the principality announced. He was 73. Succession plans are uncertain.

More than 20 countries have recognized independent Seborga, in one fashion or another. Except Italy. The Seborghini pay taxes to Italy and vote in its elections. Some Italians mutter that Prince Giorgio’s true goal was to create a tourist attraction at a time when the flower industry was migrating to the Netherlands.

Tourism indeed rose, but Prince Giorgio ridiculed the Italian government’s claim that it was his motive. “The government are imbeciles!” he told The Daily Telegraph of London in 1999. “Tourists? Pshaw!”

Doubters perhaps did not grasp the history that the prince had so painstakingly reconstructed. In the year 954, local counts ceded Seborga to Roman Catholic monks, and in 1079 Pope Gregory VII and Emperor Henry IV elevated it to the rank of an imperial principality of the Holy Roman Empire.

In 1729, the Savoy dynasty bought Seborga, but did not register the transaction, a failure that invalidated the sale, Prince Giorgio contended. The error was compounded when Seborga was not mentioned by the Congress of Vienna in 1815, nor in the act of unification of Italy in 1861, nor in the formation of the Italian republic in 1946.

“Even Mussolini did not consider Seborga to be part of Italy,” the prince said in a 1996 interview with The Globe and Mail, the Toronto newspaper. He did not explain.

How Mr. Carbone came to see himself as royalty is fuzzy, but the process had clearly started when he took up a horse and carriage. And really, who was he to protest when the Seborghini hailed him as prince, after he had so lucidly persuaded them that they lived in a principality?

Since the Middle Ages, Seborga’s sovereign had been elected, so the princely plebiscite that elevated Mr. Carbone was a return to tradition. He took to the throne with panache, wearing sash, sword and large rosette medallions as he held court at the Bianca Azzura bar. He traveled in a flag-bedecked Mercedes-Benz that was briefly impounded by the Italian police because of its Seborgan plates.

Prince Giorgio’s dedication was so total that he forsook marriage, telling People magazine in 1993 that he loved his female subjects equally. He left no immediate survivors.

Early in his reign, the prince, a heavy smoker, passed a law to encourage smoking. His uneasy relationship with the elected mayor of Seborga improved as the mayor counted the tourists the prince attracted, and the prince realized that the mayor did the boring work.

Prince Giorgio sent many letters with the principality’s stamps to officials in Rome, and he gloated that none bounced back marked “Return to sender,” The Riviera Times reported. Not that any were answered.

In 2005, he made a rare television appearance on the BBC program “How to Start Your Own Country.” His only political challenge came in 2006, when Princess Yasmine von Hohenstaufen Anjou Plantagenet mysteriously materialized to claim the throne with the intention of returning it to Italy. The Seborghini responded with indifference, and that was that.

Prince Giorgio accepted no salary, although it is not clear he was offered one. He daily availed himself of ham and cheese from the village shop, a royal perquisite.

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The story of Giorgio Carbone is delightful in its own right — to grow flowers for a living, to proclaim one’s hometown an independent nation, to be declared royalty by your neighbors.

But credit the Italian government for allowing it to happen. Giorgio received no warnings, no threats, no cease-and-desist orders. No soldiers marched on Seborga. For 46 years, he and his town were left alone.

We all have fantasies. How refreshing when the world steps back and allows us to enjoy them.

The late Giorgio Carbone, Prince of Seborga.

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Scratching the Itch

My first trip to Grand Canyon was in 1994, 15 years ago. I may have mentioned that I was quite taken with the place and  have been a regular visitor ever since.

Over the years, I’ve squeezed in trips to Yosemite, Yellowstone, Bryce, Zion, Arches and other parks, but Grand Canyon has been my Numero Uno vacation destination.

I can’t explain the appeal, exactly. Millions of people visit Grand Canyon, stay for half a day, one day, two days, and are never compelled to return. Why did the Canyon bug bite me?

The closest I can get to an answer is this: every time I go to Grand Canyon and take in whatever panorama is before me, I am overwhelmed. It’s like a religious experience.

No, I don’t hear choirs or anything. But whether I’m hiking, rafting, walking, or gawking, there’s something about Grand Canyon that is both supremely gratifying and deeply humbling. I don’t get that feeling anywhere else.

Normal people don’t understand the appeal. They see a long, deep canyon in the middle of nowhere — impressive, yes, but nothing more.

Pretty regularly, friends and relatives politely inquire why I keep going back to see the same hole in the ground again and again.

I don’t lay the religious experience thing on them. I just reply that Grand Canyon is so big and so multi-faceted that no single human in a single human lifetime could possibly experience all of it.

I tell them I’ll probably keep booking trips until (a) I get tired of it or (b) I’m too old and decrepit to continue.

Coincidentally, I departed the South Rim of Grand Canyon just this morning.

I spent two delightful days there taking photos, walking great distances, observing the menagerie of foreign tourists, taking photos, shopping for souvenirs, dining lavishly, and taking photos.

I also paid a visit to the mule barn and, when no one was looking, harvested several samples of dried mule dropping. These trail souvenirs will be lovingly boxed and given as special gifts to a few select persons on my Christmas list.

But I digress.

My first trip here was in 1994. In the 15 years since, when you add up all the river trips and hikes I’ve done, I’ve been to Grand Canyon 20 times.

Not bad for a dude who lives in Georgia.

In all candor, I assumed that, except to a few friends and family members, nobody knew that I’ve been here 20 times.

Au contraire, mes amis.

Xanterra Parks & Resorts, the mammoth corporate entity that handles the Grand Canyon visitor services — they know.

I found that out yesterday afternoon when I checked in at the Bright Angel Lodge front desk.

“Last name?” said the clerk.

“Smith.”

“First name?”

“Walter.”

After a long pause, she looked up from the computer screen and said, “Well, you’re quite the frequent visitor, Mr. Smith. How many times have you visited Grand Canyon?”

“Well actually, this is my –”

“No, Don’t tell me — I’ll look it up.”

For several seconds, she focused intently on the screen.

“My goodness!” she said finally. “This is your 20th visit with us!”

When she informed me that the Xanterra computers had that information, I instantly thought about all of the malevolent corporate entities conjured up by Hollywood.

You know — Umbrella Corporation, Cyberdyne, Tyrell, Weyland-Yutani. You would expect those guys* to be keeping an evil corporate eye on you.

Chances are, Xanterra isn’t evil. And I have nothing against them. They’ve never messed up a reservation or given me a hard time. Plus, their computers seem to keep very accurate records.

But it spooked me a little bit to know that someone — anyone — has kept tabs on me for the last 15 years like that.

“Wow,” I said to the clerk. “I had no idea you guys were keeping track of me like that.”

She laughed heartily and said, “Me, either!”

When I arrived at South Rim yesterday, I ate dinner at the Arizona Room, which is a steak house overlooking the rim. I mention it because of the woman who served me. When she seated me, she said I looked familiar; had I been to the canyon before?

I told her I was a regular visitor, to the tune of 20 trips.

“Well,“ she said, “I’ve worked here for 30 years, so the odds are, I’ve served you before. No wonder you look familiar.”

In other words, after 20 trips to this place, someone here finally remembered me.

And that brings up a point that had not occurred to me until now.

It’s true that most people can’t relate to this Grand Canyon thing that has taken hold of me.

But when I visit the place, I know I’ll be in the company of others who’ve also been infected with the Canyon virus.

When I go to Grand Canyon country, I can I.D. the real Canyon people — the kindred spirits — immediately. It’s sort of like gay-dar.

Never mind that there are a thousand tourists for every true believer. I can spot my people every time. On most trips, I’ll cross paths and chat with 10, maybe 20 people about past hikes, raft trips, and future destinations. Very gratifying, indeed.

This morning, with no small amount of sadness, I checked out of the Bright Angel Lodge and paid my tab. As the clerk was adding up the charges, he said pleasantly, “So, was this your first trip to see us, Mr. Smith?”

His name tag read Tony — Nebraska. I told Tony I was a regular. I’d been to Grand Canyon quite a few times.

Then, as an afterthought, I said, “I thought the only people who knew that were family members. But I’m told that Xanterra knows it, too.”

Tony cackled and said, “Oh, you must be the fella from Georgia who’s been here 20 times!”

The front desk at Bright Angel Lodge, a unit of Xanterra Corporation.

* Those guys are the thoroughly despicable companies featured in the Resident Evil, Terminator, Blade Runner, and Alien movies. But you probably knew that.

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