Road Trip From Seattle to Omaha

My sister lives in Long Beach, California and my brother in Kailua, Hawaii. I live mostly in Omaha, Nebraska, but spend winters in San Diego, California. We managed to get together at least once a year, usually in San Diego and Long Beach. This year, my brother-in-law talked us into a road trip. I'm glad he did.

Since he and my sister would be in Washington visiting his family, my brother and I decided to fly to Seattle and do a road trip to Omaha. After seeing our itinerary, my wife decided to join us, making five in one car. In those kind of close quarters, you need to get along.

Great trip. (If you're into family movies, here's a video recorded for posterity.) We traveled through Washington, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, South Dakota, Iowa, and Nebraska. Actually, my wife and I traveled through those states, but we chose to remain at home while the remainder of our crew drove back to California.

This is a big and beautiful country. If you haven't leisurely traveled the northwest, put it on your bucket list.

Modern Gadgets Can’t Beat Kit Carson

Last night we arrived back in Arizona safe and sound. It was a great road trip through Nevada and none of us played a single slot machine. We were far too busy. On Saturday, we visited the Reno Gun Show. Compared to Arizona shows, Reno had many more displays of 19^th century revolvers and rifles. The vendors were highly knowledgeable about Old West guns and I picked up a few good reference books that will help with the Steve Dancy Tales.

On the drive back we discussed our favorite experiences. Visiting with old friends was at the top of everyone’s list and Fort Churchill at the bottom. As we cruised along the highway, we agreed that we’d probably never make a return visit to the old cavalry fort. I think we riled Kit Carson because at almost that exact moment we saw a turn-off sign for Fort Churchill. We had been chatting away and missed a turn fifty miles back and had driven in a circle back toward Carson City. Bummer. 

We would have made lousy scouts, especially since we had Garmons, iPhones, a digital compass, and web connected computers inside the car. Of course, we would have needed to stop talking long enough to actually glance at one of these devices, or perhaps look out the window at a highway sign. 

Oh well, when we reminisce about the trip years from now, our first recollection will be about getting lost with a car full of computers that would’ve made the Apollo moon-bound astronauts jealous.

Hills and Dales and Rin Tin Tin

There is nothing as invigorating as an early morning hike. Probably should have done one yesterday. Instead, we got off about mid-morning after long chats over several cups of coffee. The Sierras and other ranges were still beautiful as we climbed some minor foothills to get a panorama view of the Carson Valley.

We had a purpose for this particular hike. My brother-in-law built and positioned a bench dedicated to his father at the top of a hill. Recently, his mother also passed. She was a wonderful person, a great mother, and an ideal mother-in-law. He had a new brass plaque engraved and we hiked up to the top of the hill to add it to the bench. It was a quiet and perfect moment.

In the afternoon we drove out to Fort Churchill. The flies beat us to this historic site. After a few minutes of insects buzzing around my eyes, I was eager to get inside the small museum to escape the pesky pests. I can only imagine how crazy-making it must have been when there were hundreds of cavalry horses around. The life of a frontier soldier was not easy.

The fort is now a ruin, but still an interesting side trip. It was situated to protect the Carson Trail, which was used by the Pony Express and pioneers on their way to California. The fort looked nothing like the one in Rin Tin Tin, my favorite television show as a child. Instead of a log stockade, the white adobe buildings were not protected by a wall. The purpose of the fort was not to be an oasis of safety as much as a central point to send out patrols.

Next, the Reno gun show. 

Mountain Sanctuary

Yesterday, I visited a high school friend I had not seen for at least thirty years. Before diverting north, the trip started through the Carson Pass in the Sierras. It was a beautiful drive and I thought anyone should feel privileged to view these magnificent mountains. Then I remembered Genoa, a way station for 49ers. I was cruising at 60 MPH in climate controlled comfort, while the early pioneers were lucky to eke out 10 miles in a long, determined day. The view probably wasn't uppermost on their minds.

My friend owns an isolated forty acres next to national forest. Getting there required him to come down the mountain to lead me through trails that would challenge a city-bred sedan. Although he had owned the land since the early seventies, he didn't move there until semi-retirement in the nineties.  Now his wife descends the mountain every day to work, while he struggles to make his home self-sufficient. He may want to be independent, but he’s a distant cousin from the long-gone, mountain men who lived off the land. PG&E provides electricity to supplement his solar panels, propane is delivered to his door, a tractor can carve out roads and plow snow, and cell phones keep civilization a touch screen away. Technology is a wonderful way to make a rustic existence comfortable. I even noticed a Verizon Hot Spot winking away on a book shelf to bring the entire World Wide Web directly to his mountain top. The pioneers could only wish they were so lucky.

We had a great afternoon wallowing in nostalgia for our younger days. We have lived very different lives since high school, but reconnected easily. We had been neighbors in high school and had peddled bikes towing surfboards to the beach nearly every day. We learned to surf with a couple of other friends and spent untold hours lazing about the beach; sunning, talking, playing volleyball, and flirting with girls. Growing up at the beach in the sixties was a singular experience and a great way to meander our way to adulthood.

Carson City and the Landmark St. Charles Hotel

We started the day with a visit to Genoa, which is situated just below the Sierras at the edge of the Carson Valley. (Everything in this part of Nevada is named after Kit Carson: cities, streets, valleys, counties, rivers, mountain passes, recreation areas, pets, and children.) This is a historic town where 49ers took a breather before struggling over the mountains to the gold clogged streams of California. Genoa was also a significant stop for the Pony Express. Today it hosts a great antique gun store with experts who freely share their knowledge of 19^th century weapons.

TheShopkeeper was the first of the Steve Dancy series and it took place in Nevada. The Carson City St. Charles Hotel was a prominent setting for much of the story. Seven years ago, the St. Charles was a dilapidated flophouse. On this visit, I was pleased to see a restored exterior with thriving businesses on the ground floor. The manager was hospitable enough to give us a tour of the upper floors where the rooms are still in the process of restoration. One room is preserved behind glass in 19^th century condition. The room is a few inches wider than the single mattress on the floor and personal belongings are strewn at the bottom of the bed. I took liberties in my book, and housed Steve Dancy in a suite on the third floor. The St. Charles is across the street from the capitol and legislative building and provides elected officials with a fitting reminder of Nevada history.

After the St. Charles, we visited the Capitol, Nevada State Museum, shopped, and ate lunch at an oddly themed Polynesian restaurant. Carson City has a Basque heritage, so we had an excellent dinner at a friendly Basque restaurant. Tomorrow, everyone seems to be going off in different directions, so we’ll share stories at dinner.

"Thar's gold in them thar hills."

After a healthy breakfast, we took a morning walk in a residential area of Gardnerville. The air was brisk, sky clear, and the surrounding mountains breathtaking. These acre-plus, rural lots lodged horses, dogs, poultry, restored antique trackers, friendly neighbors, and apple trees in full blossom.

Late morning, we took off for Virginia City. Not much had changed since my last visit … which was good. Except for the crowds. My last visit was during the height of summer tourism, with people crowding the streets, cafes, saloons, museums, and shops. This time we had this historic town all to ourselves. I was surprised that everyone could answer our most obscure questions. The people who work in Virginia City know town history and trivia.

In one store, a friendly old coot told us all about the guns, ore samples, and minerals on display. To prove his bona fides, he pulled out his wallet to show us his membership card in a gold miner association and photographs of nuggets he had found. Then he lifted a chain around his neck to display the Pièce de résistance, a one-ounce gold nugget. We were impressed and let him convince us to buy a 50 million year old insect embedded in a piece of amber. For $34, it would be a unique gift for our rock hound grandson. When I pulled out my wallet, he said I needed to go find someone who worked in the shop. That was a surprise. For all of his familiarity with the stock and his astute salesmanship, I had assumed he was connected with the store, but no, he was just an old miner eager to share his knowledge with tourists. We discovered our friendly miner was not exceptional. 

At lunch, we discovered our relentlessly cute server had lived and worked in Virginia City for eons. When asked a casual question about Mark Twain, she proved smarter than my wife's iPhone and more knowledgeable than most American Literature professors about Twain's stint in Virginia City. 

With limited crowds, the shopkeepers, barkeeps, and café employees were all eager to share information about their historic town. We had a great day, and I gathered up some material for the next Steve Dancy Tale.

On The Road Again

We left Beatty, Nevada fairly early in the morning yesterday and stopped for breakfast in Tonopah, Nevada. This was a nostalgic stop. A few years ago, the four of us got caught driving in a white-out blizzard that had us nervous as hell. To say there was nothing in this part of Nevada would be an understatement. Then Tonopah came into blurred view through the windshield. The main casino in town was the most beautiful oasis of light and warmth on the planet. Checking in, we discovered $29 rooms that came with a roll of nickels and a five dollar discount certificate for the restaurant. We had landed in a toasty haven of congeniality.

This visit was different. In clear weather, the casino looked threadbare and dusty. Breakfast was of the mass quantities variety, with omelets the size of a football. The food was good and the people rural America friendly. Trouble didn't come until we asked the bill to be evenly split between two credit cards. Our server looked struck by pure terror. The bill was $38.43, and she laid chits on the table for $20.18 and $21.43. After laughing, we decided to not even attempt to get the bills straight. We just added a tip and skedaddled.

Garnerville

We arrived in Garnerville in the early afternoon. The views were terrific, wild and domestic animals plentiful, and the hospitality welcoming. Our friends had enough food laid out to feed an Old West cavalry troop. After touring their new home, we complimented their handiwork, caught up on the latest happenings, ate again, and imbibed a little. The only task we tackled was deciding what to do the next day. We would make our first foray a visit Virginia City. Can’t wait.

Garnerville

Beatty, Nevada

We spent the first night of our road trip in Beatty, Nevada, the Gateway to Death Valley. Pretty area—in a desolate kind of way. When we asked for a AAA discount at our motel, the clerk told us other motels in town offered discounts, but not them because they were fancy. Fancy seemed hyperbole. Our room was comfortable, but basic. The room appeared to be designed by a left hander seeking revenge. The water faucets were reserved and the door handles worked in the opposite direction. It was fun sorting things out.

When we checked in, we also asked for a recommendation on a place to eat. She told us the finest restaurant in town was a Denny’s in the casino. When we asked for something with more local color, she suggested a bar that was famous for chili. We told her that was more our style, so she directed us to the second bar after making a turn at the first right. (There was no second right.) She said don’t go into the first bar, and then emphasized that we should avoid that particular establishment. She offered no explanation and we sought none, but we didn't wander over to the first bar after dinner for a nightcap. 

The second bar was great. The people were friendly and the ambiance was a mix of cowboy and Sons of Anarchy. Chili was indeed on the menu. You could have chili in a bowl, chili on a hot dog, chili on a hamburger, or chili on Fritos. That was it. Except for beer and wine. They had a good selection of beer and two varieties of wine; red and white. Thank goodness, the chili was excellent. When we complimented our server, she told us the awards on the wall were a smidgen of the prizes won by her grandmother’s chili. She claimed there was not enough wall space in Beatty to display all the awards.  Then she said something surprising: her grandmother had not yet trusted her with the recipe … or anyone else for that matter. I hope her grandmother remains healthy because she makes a hell of a good chili. We returned directly to our fancy motel after helping to roll up the sidewalks at nine o’clock.

Tomorrow we leave for Garnerville, just a hop, skip, and a jump from the once rowdy Virginia City. More fun in the offing just over the horizon.

Here comes 2012, ready or not!

Mostly not. We returned to our home in Arizona late last night, and have been lazing about trying to recover from a week with all of our grandchildren. Right after Christmas, we flew to Florida to meet up with our son and daughter's families in Orlando. We had six adults to handle six kids, so we figured we had an even chance. Wrong. Nothing energizes a young child more than waking to the promise of another trip to Disney World or one of the other fun parks in Orlando. What ensued for the rest of the day would unduly age any grandparent ... especially one used to quiet days of writing. My back hurts, I'm tired, and my wallet's thinner, but I don't regret a single second.


In quiet moments, mostly in air terminals, I read Steve Jobs, by Walter Isaacson. My favorite part so far is the chapter on the development of Toy Story. It's a perfect case study in characterization and storytelling. Every writer should read it.


Anyway, lots to get done, including a few New Year's resolutions. I won't share these because they are too revealing of my flaws.


First up for 2012 is publication of Principled Action, Lessons From the Origins of the American Republic. This non-fiction history book should be available in February.

I'm also starting work on the next Steve Dancy Tale. No title yet, but I've worked out the broad plot line and a suitable title will pop to mind as I continue the research.


Another big, immediate task is recovering my Macintosh computer. The disc drive went belly-up with 25,000 photos, and lots of iMovie files. I suspect I won't get a full day of writing for a week or so.


Here's wishing you and yours a magnificent 2012. We all deserve it.

Custer’s Last Stand at the Little Bighorn

About a month ago, my wife and I took a road trip with some good friends through many of the Westerns states.  We visited Nevada, Utah, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, South Dakota, and Nebraska.  One of the highlights was a visit to the Little Bighorn Battlefield National Monument.

Every time I visit a historic site, I end up buying at least one book about the events that took place at the location.  I wanted to buy only one book about the battle because we had already visited so many sites that I was weighing down the motorhome.  The store at the National Monument had dozens upon dozens of books on Custer, the battle, Crazy Horse, and Sitting Bull.  I spent some time going through them and ended up taking two to the clerk for a recommendation.  The two books were The Last Stand, Custer, Sitting Bull, and The Battle of Little Bighorn, by Nathaniel Philbrick, and Crazy Horse and Custer: The Parallel Lives of Two American Warriors, by Stephen E. Ambrose.

Read the full review at What Would the Founders Think?

Western History, Breathtaking Monuments, and Great Balls of Twine

A Friend with a gas station horse.
He couldn't find the quarter slot.

The first time I drove across the country, I was ten years old and shared a cramped back seat with two brothers and a sister. Our comforts included an evaporation cooler locked in place by a rolled up window, stale sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, and a static-prone radio that kept losing stations. We saw lots of the good ol' American West, but in truth, the highlight of the day was picking a motel for the night. We drove up and down the main drag of some small town along Route 66 checking out places to stay. Would the motel be a real Indian teepee, or a fort right out of Rin Tin Tin, or just a boring row of doors in an L-shaped building with parking slots in front. Did the pool have a diving board? If during the day we had kept our arguing to a minimum, maybe we could stay in a prehistoric cave with dinosaurs as lawn art? As we cruised back and forth, the four of us in the back seat would shout out our preferences, but our parents whispered some adult secret stuff to each other and we soon found ourselves bouncing into a driveway.

Families don't travel across country by car anymore. I wouldn't even do it with my kids. The trend was already leaning toward flying to vacation, and then the Griswolds ruined the family road trip forever.

Except … a few ol' timers still want to see fly-over country from ground level at a comfortable speed. We just did, and we had a blast. With a couple of good friends, we toured Nevada, Utah, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, South Dakota, Iowa, and Nebraska. When you slow down to a leisurely pace, you discover a great country filled with great people. Pioneer and Western History reminds you what it means to be an American. Monuments like Mount Rushmore and the Dakota Badlands are more impressive than the latest iPhone app. Really. And if you have a taste for Great American tacky, you can still find plenty of it along the road. The thirty-foot dinosaurs may be gone, but you can still sidle up to a six-foot garishly painted horse.

A road trip across the country still presents hardships. I think we ran out of ice once for our evening cocktails. It surprised me that a thirty-eight foot diesel-pusher wouldn't have an automatic icemaker. It had everything else, including a satellite entertainment system that could pull in countless radio and television stations. I don't believe there was a roll of wax paper either. The motorhome did have a full kitchen, with an endless supply of wholesome and unwholesome food, but we used zip-lock baggies to store leftovers. Our roomy vehicle leveled itself, kept the temperature perfect, and had a sound system that would make a concert hall envious. We did have to make our beds in the morning. What we didn't have to do was cruise up and down the main boulevard looking for a place to eat or park for the night. A pair of iPads made researching the options for the next few hours or days an enjoyable pastime.

The trip was reminiscent of my youth, but somehow better. We had fun, relaxed, enjoyed good company, and learned a lot about our country. If you get the chance, hit the road.