Turning Left and Going Home

It hardly seems possible that we have been on the road for a month, and yet, Redgranite, where we started this adventure, seems a long, long, time ago. San Antonio is our last stop, so as we were sent off by family and friends, so will we be sent home by them.

We had a wonderful day yesterday in the Hill Country with cousins -- Connie, Terry, Greg (Greg, you should have stuck around! We came back from the flea market eventually) and Pete; Connie & Terry's daughter Jessica and her husband Jason, my Aunt Nitza...so good to all be together and little Nicholas was a trooper - 3 hours in the car coming and going and lots of passing around in between and he didn't melt down til we were a few minutes from home.
We have been in the following states: Illinois, Wisconsin, Minnesota, South Dakota, Wyoming, Montana, Idaho, Oregon, Washington, California, Arizona, Texas, and Oklahoma, Arkansas, Missouri yet to go. We have traveled 7000 miles and have another thousand to go. Am I ready to go home? I think so. I'm restless today. At the same time, I'm already thinking about the next trip.

So, friends, we will be home soon. There will be lots of stories and I've got a year's worth of material to write about. Lots of pictures, too. I promise not to bore you all with the details, but will try to come up with a few choice stories to post on Lindastravel essays. You can read them at: http://lindas-essays.blogspot.com/

You know you're in Texas when.....

You know you're in Texas when: 1. You stop in Junction, Texas for lunch, and going to walk your dog at the filling station, you come across a defunct car wash and under the defunct car parked in front of it, there's a squashed and dessicated Armadillo. 2. The guys in Mr. B's Steakhouse in Fort Stockton are sitting at tables surrounded by Elk heads and cow skulls hung from the walls talking about what they're going to kill next and what kind of gun they're going to use to do it. 3. The Texas flag flies over every diner 4. You get to see a giant passel of friends and relations in one fell swoop.

We arrived at Matt and Natalie's house in San Antonio yesterday. Hardly seems like a year since we went to Greece with them on their honeymoon, but there it is: Now Nicholas Alexander has joined them, a cheerful baby who poses incesssantly for the camera as if he is on a photo shoot. The yard is big and Ethan, after his days in the car, is able to range and play some fetch.

The drive through West Texas, which we were warned about, was actually very beautiful, mostly buttes and big-wide-open sky and a stunning storm gathering over the distant mountains. As one drives East on 1-10, the terrain becomes flatter, sandier, scrubbier, but 100 miles West of San Antonio, the Hill Country begins, and the buttes and bluffs return, this time covered in green. It's a long drive -- and I wouldn't want to do it often, but interesting if you've never been there and are a Flatlander unaccustomed to such big vistas.

Today we are headed back to the Hill Country to see my cousins, Connie and Terry Weirick, and their daughter Jessica and her husband, and my cousin Pete and my Aunt Nitza, who are coming over from Kerrville to see us this afternoon. It's a regular mini-reunion.

For those of you who have sent comments: I must fess up. I only had the comment settings set to receive comments from members, i.e. Dana, who also has a blog. So if I ignored your comments it was because I NEVER GOT THEM! Matt helped me figure it out today, so send those comments on. We'd love to hear from you.

PS: We think we're ready to go home after this. We miss Izzie the puppy and we miss our friends! Besides, I've got months of writing material lined up from this trip.

Redrock Country, the Grand Canyon, and Santa Fe

Leaving Tuscson and battling traffic around Phoenix, we come at last to the Redrock County surrounding Sedona. Tucked in between red mesas and spires and deep canyons, Sedona is nothing short of spectacular, despite its tourist shops on the main drag and the fact that there is construction all up and down the street. At Lew and Patty's suggestion, we head slightly beyond to a small hotel on Oak Creek, in the canyon. We cross a suspension bridge to get there, and among the trees, there is artwork and terraced walks down to a small sandy beach.

Dinner that night is at the Cowboy Club. Sitting outside, we order wine and before our meals can come, the drilling on the street resumes, although it is 8:30 at night. The hostess jumps over the wrought iron fence in her long, flowing black skirt, and almost immediately, the drilling and dust stop.

The next day, walking Ethan in Sedona while Jim reads the paper at an outdoor coffee shop, I meet a couple from Naperville. They once went on a roadtrip that was intended for two months with a pop-up tent and four dogs. They stayed four. They came home, bought an RV, planned to stay gone for a year and stayed gone for four. Now they run a farmers market and resort in Sedona. In my current wanderlust state, I didn't need to hear that.

Sedona is the "Woo Woo Capitol" of Arizona, and by that I mean there are more Shamans, Meditation Centers, Cleansing Spa's and fortune tellers than you can shake a stick at. If you like self-realizing recreationally, and many of my friends do, this is the place for you. It's also a shopping mecca, and I'm glad Ethan is with me so that my access to stores is limited. It's also a place of stunning scenery and would be a great place to hike, so I forgive it its chi-chi-ness and its' woo-woo-ness, and if I ever seek the Godhead, whoever she is, I just might start looking here.

Sedona was packed with tour buses by the time we left, and we headed to the Grand Canyon, where the views are undeniably beautiful, particularly along the SOuth Rim, which was slightly less traveled. First we stop at the Visitor Center, where Ethan inexplicably jumps up on a large outside table display of the Canyon's geography. I guess he wanted to hike. As we leave to drive the South Rim, a tour bus of Japanese that has just disembarked flows toward us. They are many, and in strict formation, and absolutely silent. Their counterpoint is the chubby American woman standing on Canyon View overlook screaming shrilly into her cell phone, " Mom! Mom! Can you hear me? I'm at the Grand Canyon and it's AWESOME!!!" I resist pushing her over the edge.

The South Rim leads us to Cameron and the Cameron Trading Post. In the distance we can see the Painted Desert, and all along the highway are signs that claim, "Nice Indians. Good Rugs. Authentic Navajo Jewelry. Stop here. Small sheds line each scenic overview. The Navaho reservation encompasses 25,000 miles in three states, and it's dotted with small trading posts and gift shops.

The Cameron Trading Post, on the other hand, is huge. It's mobbed with the same Japanese tourists, or a group just like them, who shop silently, cameras around their necks. About the size of an old-fashioned Penney's from my childhood, it's loaded with everything from high-end lawn ornaments to home made fudge. Run by the Navajo nation, it appears to be very profitable, but it occurs to me that what the Navajos got was 25,000 square miles of beautiful scenery, but
little else.

The Trading Post has a motel but it doesn't take dogs. We drive back to Flagstaff, where some Harley riders are also staying, for 40 E-W which intersects Flagstaff runs along the old Route 66. Fast-foodMexican and a cold Dos Equis, in a restaurant to which we walk from the hotel, tastes pretty good: we're fried from the hours in the car, and Ethan is more than happy to stretch out on "his" bed in the hotel. He's become quite entitled and will probably want to know which bedroom is his when he gets home.

Folks ask us if we're road-weary, if we miss home, is we're sick of being in the car. The answer today is, no. We agree that this has just whet our appetite for travel. I think of the couple who went for four years and never went home, and I wonder.... we have driven 6000 miles thus far. The Subaru has been a champ. I highly recommend Foresters for trips like this. The four wheel drive hugs the road, the turbo gets us around lollygaggers, and for the record I haven't seen any bad drivers in Subarus.

The next day we head to Albuquerque, a long, dreary ride with lots of truck traffic, and then decide to go north to Santa Fe. I remember Santa Fe from 15 years ago, when I attended a conference there. It seemed small and quaint and chi-chi then. Now it seems congested and confusing, but we find a hotel at a good price and find the Georgia O'Keefe Museum. It has always been my heart's desire to visit the O'Keefe Museum, and we have driven four hours out of our way to do so. You can imagine my disappointment when I learn they are closed to change the galleries around. The long drive, and the disappointment, drive me to tears, the first of the trip, but Ethan cheers me up by frolicking cheerfully in a small, irrigated patch of grass, rolling joyfully in the grass and sniffing everywhere. He does not quite get desert terrain, and we've had to find greenery if he is to do is business. This morning in Flagstaff, squatting on the lawn of the Flagstaff Housing Authority building, he catches his reflection in the glass doors and goes nuts. How dare another poodle do their business in his presence!!!!

Jim has purchased a modest bottle of Champagne at Whole Foods and poured me a glass to appease me for the closed museum, so I am out to enjoy the Santa Fe sunset, which promises to be beautiful.

Coronado Island and Tucson

We have had a wonderful weekend, visiting our friends Kate and Nick on Coronado Island, then Jim's sister Patty and her husband Lew in Tucson.

Ethan had a wonderful time at the beach on Coronado Island, and I was able to see some of the jewelry Kate, who was a jewelry major in college, has been making. SHe has truly returned to her roots. Take a look on her website athttp://www.islandbangles.com/html/earrings1.htm.
We also had a wonderful Thai meal, and Sunday morning, Nick, who is a fabulous cook, made us a fruit salad in the Mexican style, that is to say, with a squeeze of fresh lime and a mere dash of Pico Guapo, a powerful Mexican chili powder that tickles the palate and leaves you wanting more. Of course, it doesn't hurt when you have access to the wonderful fruits he put in it: fresh oranges, papaya, kiwi, and banana. Delicious!

Leaving Coronado, Jim drives with a vengeance through brown, treeless mountains as if he is going to murder someone. Blame it on the turbo engine, I say. It is six hours to Tucson, and we have already climbed to 3000 feet within half an hour of San Diego. The temperature is 78 degrees and I am down to my last clean outfit. There's not a cloud in the sky.

We descend and stop in Yuma, where it is 98 degrees. Yuma is actually hell itself. We turn off for "travel info" and "historic marker". No travel info in sight, and "historic marker" is actually a rock across from the gas station that says that from 1850 to 1877, when the first bridge was built, pioneers ferried across the Colorado river here. The heat shimmers; Ethan pants; our efforts to find something edible are unsuccessful, and after using what very well may be the filthiest bathrooms this side of the Third World, I get behind the wheel. The landscape is eerie: huge boulders and then, desert and the first of the many giant Saguaro cacti we will see. Something is happening on the horizon. It looks like storm clouds, but in the desert? As we leave Gila Bend, which is an outskirt of hell, tumbleweeds blow across the road, raindrops the size of hubcaps begin to fall, and then we find ourselves in a torrential downpour, hydroplaning all over the road. It is over as quickly as it begins, and we arrive in Tucson without incident. (By the way, Jim has taken over the driving again by now, unable to be a passenger with impending bad weather.)

Patty and Lew's place in Tucson is nothing short of paradise. They have their own Saguaro cactus, probably 150 years old, in their yard, and here in the foothills, it's very quiet and peaceful. We see our neice, Carrie, and her boyfriend Jake, and meet Lew and Patty's new dog, Lady, who Ethan falls immediately in love with. It was a wonderful stop, and were we not going on to Sedona and the Grand Canyon, we'd be hard pressed to leave this beautiful place.

Southern California: LA to Coronado Island

We left Cambria in the fog yesterday morning after making a few pictures of the formal gardens that surround the lodge: There are formal gardens, butterfly gardens, desert gardens, and most interesting of all, a "Bed of Flowers" made of an old bed frame and dresser and decked out with flowers. There is a photo shoot there today, so I included the photographer in my picture.

We stop for a walk in Pismo Beach, which has miles of flat sand beach and a fishing pier, and arrive in Agoura Hills, north of Los Angeles, where my sister and her family live. Agoura Hills is an old horse community, and my sister and brother-in-law live on a little less than an acre of land that has a barn, but more cars than horses (they swear they are selling some of them.) Laura's house is veritable beehive of activity. Outside, the workmen are finishing up a frame for the new patio that they will pour tomorrow; inside, Laura has just finished painting the bedroom we'll be staying in a deep red (which by the way is a very sootheing color for a bedroom -- I slept wonderfully) ; one teen, Logan, is already home from school, her oldest Daniel, comes by on his way to his Dad's from school, and we go pick up Ben, who is in middle school. In the meanwhile the two-year-old wakes up and has a snack, and Laura and Shawn's two dogs, the well-mannered Grace and Paco the Evil-Doer (for the back story on this guy see "Roadtrip: The Pilot" for my previous encounter with Paco) are milling around with Ethan.

The evening continues in this vein as we reacquaint ourselves with the children, including these three and Taylor, my neice, who shows up for a later dinner after tennis practice.

In the morning the patio pouring begins, and we bid our farewells. Ethan, who has been a perfect houseguest, barks at his hosts out the back window of the car.

The freeway is congested, but not as congested as it would be had we waited until afternoon. We're headed for Coronado Island, to visit my friend Kate and her husband Nick on the way to Tucson. At their suggestion we stop at the Meditation Gardens adjacent to an Ashram in Encinitas. THe gardens are as beautiful as they said they were, and overlook the ocean. I am sorry to leave and return to traffic, but we arrive on Coronado Island mid-afternoon. I am told that there are many dogs booked for this dog-friendly hotel, and that there is a dog beach.

From Redding to Cambria

Leaving Redding yesterday, Ethan bid a fond adieu to his fan club, the maids at the Oxford Inn. We discovered shortly after leaving Redding that we wouldn't be visiting Kevin and Erica after all. Erica had emergency surgery but is hopefully fine now, and we wish her well and hope to see them another time.

A long ride down I-5 in end-of-holiday weekend traffic made us all cranky, including Ethan. Stops were minimal because it was very hot for Ethan, but we crossed the Cascades again and headed towards Monterey Bay, stopping in Watsonville, Garlic Capitol of the World. Not because we wanted to stop in Watsonville but because we were too tired to go on and try to find something in Monterey.

The historic highway from I5 to Watsonville was four-lane and beautiful. Leaving the agricultural area south of Sacramento, we approached hills and irrigated truck farms. The first 20 minutes were easy driving and then...California holiday traffic jammed up and we came almost to a dead stop. The next hour took us twenty minutes where highway traffic, predominately holiday traffic -- campers, RV's, boats -- mimicked the congestion of California overpopulation.

Once that was behind us, we entered Steinbeck Country, the lands and towns that Steinbeck wrote about in East of Eden and Of Mice and Men. We grabbed a Motel 6 on the outskirts, asking for a room in my bad Spanish (no Ingles se hablan aqui). Oddly enough, the motel had towels the size of washcloths, and few amenities but I would have to vote it "best of" for showerhead, a real boon on the road, especially after sleeping on a Motel 6 bed. We got out of there as early as we could, taking a secondary road through truck farming country to Salinas, 17 miles east of Monterey.

It was here that Steinbeck was born and spent his childhood, and here that the state-of-the-art Steinbeck center recounts his life and works. Some of you may remember that one of the original inspirations for this current Roadtrip came from Travels with Charley, which Steinbeck wrote in 1962 about a trip around the country with his black Standard Poodle, Charley, in a jerry-rigged camper. It was in this book, written when he was Jim's age (57) that he recounts his reacquaintance with a country that fame had isolated him from, a country where racial tensions were at a peak and interstates were starting to bypass America's small towns.

The road to Salinas is loaded with truck farms. It was picking time, and the workers were out in force, hooded sweatshirts against the morning fog and damp. This was the setting for The Grapes of Wrath, where Steinbeck used fictional accounts to share with readers the plight of migrant workers. No doubt there is still a lot of exploitation, and when I watched the back-breaking picking going on I recognized that we still have a lot of fixing to do when it comes to the disenfranchised and poor. How disconcerting to look at all the bounty that this fertile valley offers -- apples, berries, vegetables of all description -- and think that this bounty gets picked and to market on the backs of people who have no choice but to pick for a living.

Castroville is the Artichoke Capitol of the World, so we stopped at a restaurant and fruitstand marked by a giant artichoke. French fried artichokes didn't appeal at 9:30 in the morning, but I did get a picture of the giant artichoke before a tour bus full of German tourists showed up and took the place over.

On to Salinas and the Steinbeck Center and Home, and my love of Steinbeck vastly renewed, I resolve to read nothing but Steinbeck for the next year. From the plight of migrant workers in Grapes of Wrath, to the autobiographical East of Eden, to his stories as a war correspondent to his treatment of King Arther and Joan of Arc, I don't believe there is another American writer who so consistently entertained, informed, and inflamed. For more information on Steinbeck's life and works, and the controversies surrounding his work, take a look at this website:
http://nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/1962/steinbeck-bio.html

Monterey Bay was cool and sunny, and the pathways along the waterfront meant that Ethan got a terrific walk, meeting other dogs along the way. We pushed on to Carmel, staying at the European-style Hofsas House with its painted mural and beautifully furnished rooms. A walk through town was Ethan's idea of heaven. Nearly everywhere is dog-friendly, including the beach and the stores, and in the shoe store I caught him looking in the mirror and admiring himself. He truly does think he is King of the Road.

Off the beaten path on a side street is Le Escargot, a tiny restaurant that is truly in the French bistro tradition. Our prix fixe meals were as follows: Jim - Pistou soup, a rich blend of vegetables, white beans, and pesto in a tomato-fennel broth; perfect broiled leg of lamb with ratatouie and garlic mashed potatoes, and a creme brulee for dessert. For me, a homemade pate that has made me rethink my opinion of pate as braunschweiger; seafood pasta in saffron broth rich with clams, mussels, and shrimp; and an apple tartin. The wine Jim picked, thinking that we could not go wrong with a 2003 Bordeaux, was a Larousse de Geraud Saint Julien. Excellent.
A stop in the Hogsbreath Inn and REstaurant, the CLint-Eastwood tourist trip in downtown Carmel for overpriced brandies. To give you some idea how good the meal, wine, and brandies were, we went back to the room and howled hysterically at "Dumb and Dumber" on TV. Dumb and dumber, indeed. I was as foggy as the air this morning.

Highway 1 through Big Sur defies description. I recall my first visit in 1976, and several subsequent visits. The majesty of the cliffs, and the sea crashing below, and the deep ravines and sudden drop-offs continue to be awe-inspiring, despite my vertigo and the sweating bottoms of my feet every time I get out of the car. Jim is an adept driver on such roads, and I am glad, because it allows me to throughly enjoy the scenery. We visit Nepenthe, high on a hill. (Everyone and their dog does, literally.) We visit the Henry Miller Memorial and Museum. This is a strange place, always silent and wild artwork -- dead TV's stacked on one another outside with a sign that says Y2K, a carved mannequin...the bookstore is dark today, and the only person on the premises sits outside with a balalaika, strumming the same three chords over and over again. A sign at the mike announces "Open Mike Tonight," but the power is out (hence the dark bookstore) and since I have never in my visits here heard anyone say anything, the Open Mike announcement is puzzling.

A stop at the Ragged Point Inn, where we once stayed and where Ethan goes insane for the second time today, lunging at a biker, is known as the gatway to Big Sur, and after a few more miles of winding road the fog lists and we head to Cambria, a small arts community, to stay at the Pine Tree Inn, where Jim insists that I get a hot stone massage (awesome, by the way..I recommend it) and we enjoy the organic vegetables that are grown on the place at dinner. There's music after dinner in the lounge, and a woman on a well-seasoned Martin acoustic guitar is wailing. It's like any lodge in the West -- antlered light fixtures, an animal head over the huge fireplace, and vacationing couples and a few locals enjoying an after-dinner brandy and some music before retiring to their cabins in the piney woods. The only difference is, Jim and I are one of the few hetero couples. This is a predominantly lesbian crowd, and the female energy in the lounge contrasts with the setting.

Tomorrow, on to LA to visit my sister, Laura, and her family: her husband Shawn and sons Logan, Daniel, Ben, and Fionne.

Erudite Ethan in Hog Heaven

We spent an entire day in Redding, California, yesterday, relaxing by the pool and walking a trail along the Sacramento River. We had not planned to do this, but road-weariness overtook us, especially Jim, who insists on doing all the driving. Hey, if he wants to drive all the time while I look at scenery and write in my travel journal, why argue? Besides, it gave Ethan an opportunity to meet all the maids, who basically formed a fan club for him. Between getting his picture taken in front of the Shakespeare Theatre in Ashland, Oregon, eating "Napa Valley Picnic" food, and the fan club, he's not fit to live with.

Our trip from Klamath falls along two-lane roads was beautiful, but not fast. Many views of canyons and lakes were enjoyable, and when we finally got to I-5, we stopped in Ashland, Oregon, where one of the top Shakespeare Theatres in the country takes place. It was truly a beautiful town, and our lunch spot for the day in the City Park was shaded and comfortable.

When we arrived in Redding, I noted a banner across from the Chamber of Commerce office on a vast expanse of grass: "Welcome HOGS of California." To the left was an array of Harleys, gathered on the lawn. Oops. Better get a hotel room quick.

It was, indeed, the HOGS of California convening, and the hotel was full once we got the last room. But I am sorry to report that they were not one bit colorful. Nice, yes, but not colorful. They went to bed earlier than we did and got up later. They picked up their trash, didn't drink to excess or fight, and basically provided no entertainment whatsoever. We met one couple who often rides with their Pug between them on the bike, and they had just ordered the dog a Harley Jacket, helmet, and goggles. I would have liked to see that.

The Sacramento River Trail leads to the Redding Arboretum (no dogs allowed so I didn't see it) and to the Sundial Bridge. The bridge acts as a sundial, casting a shadow at the appropriately marked time on a circular stone curb. Hard to explain, but very interesting.

We are off to points south today -- right now it looks like Lodi and more wine country, and hopfully a visit with Kevin and Erica, folks we met at my nephew Matt's wedding. We don't know them well, but unless I miss my guess we are smart to have rested up.

Retro Fashions and Crater Lake

Our winery day culminates in dinner out with Floyd and Beverly at their favorite restaurant. I have to tell you, these folks are going upscale! We had a fabulous meal at a 'lifestyle mall' which has everything you could want and many things you don't: Starbucks, Borders, etc. etc. etc. But McCormick and Schmick is a fabulous restaurant featuring local seafood, including salmon of several varieties, which I couldn't eat after seeing them swim upstream at the Bonneville fish ladders, (see Columbia Gorge entry) and of course, fresh back from the wi ne country we picked the WellaKenzie Pinot and -no regrets and a second bottle later, Floyd regaled us with stories of his first job interview for the Bureau of the Budget for the State of Illinois.

It's 1972 or so, and Floyd has a fresh-out-of-the-box PhD in English*, a baby on the way, and a mustard-colored suit he bought on Carnaby Street in London. He wears the jacket, but forgets to pack the pants for his trip from Carbondale to Springfield, and has to wear turquoise velvet jeans. Still, he does have the fuschia shirt that he wears with the suit, and the mustard colored tie, and amazingly enough, they hire him. Why? He points out that he can write, having already published some poetry. I cannot do justice to this story, but the image of Floyd, frizzy hair, full beard, Carnaby Street suit jacket and fuschia shirt, against the backdrop of state government in Springfield in 1972, gives me pause.

The next morning, we leave the Hotel Grime with no regrets, although it's hard to leave Floyd and Beverly after such a wonderful reconnection with them. The Archaeology Car and its antidiluvean owner are gone, and we head south toward Crater Lake, a 2000-foot deep volcanic lake south and slightly east of Eugene. In Eugene, Ethan again hits the jackpot at the pet boutique. He meets other dogs, lunches with us in an outdoor area of the Fifth Street shopping district, and finds -- wonder of wonders! more Merrick Food. We pick the Napa Valley Picnic - duck, chicken, sweet potato, sweet sugar peas -- in honor of our impending cross over the border into California. We pick Grammy's Pot Pie for those nights when he longs for home. He's set.

Our first view of Crater Lake is a stunning one. Pristine blue water in a deep, deep caldera, it is one of the deepest lakes in the world, and the sheer cliff sides remind us of our OTHER caldera, in Santorini. Volcanic eruption collapsed a 12,000-foot mountain some 7700 years ago, leaving a gypsum desert and a deep lake. No telling what happened to the folks living in the area, which there were. A series of glaciers finished the job.

We push on to Klamath Falls, expecting nothing special, and find a dog-friendly hotel. We do find, however, several pleasant surprises and one not so pleasant surprise.

Pleasant: Walking/biking trails that go all over the town of 6600 people. Ethan gets a proper evening walk and an even proper-er morning walk. I get some great early morning pictures.

Pleasant: Mr. B's Steakhouse. We anticipated a honky-tonk beer and steak hunting-guy restaurant, and we got a gourmet restaurant with some of the best steak and Veal Oscar (respectively) we'd ever eaten. (I know, I know...I can't eat salmon because of the ladders at Bonneville, but I don't mind eating a baby cow. Go figure. )A glass of Elk Cove Pinot finishes off the meal, and we headed back to the hotel-- Jacuzzi tub waiting for me.

Not so pleasant: I turn on the tub - can't turn the shower off. Use the shower to fill the tub. Turn the shower off, start to hop in the Jacuzzi, and cannot turn the water off. It's draining without spilling over the rim, but just barely. We call the motel office, and I start bailing water with an ice bucket, soaking the bottoms of my pajamas in the process. Jim tries to take apart the shower head with a butter knife (of course we can't find the Swiss Army Knife).

We get another room, which we move to carrying our possessions like refugees, me in my pajamas and wet hair, Ethan on lead through the hotel parking lot. I'm tired. Jim's mad. Ethan's curious. The hotel night clerk is apologetic. We check into a new room. Then we discover in my attempt to turn on the jets for the Jacuzzi, I had actually turned on the water. Totally different operation from the shower. It was turned off. Jim laughs at me and I remind this man that he once threw his wallet away in Florida the morning after a healthy phone rant with Ray. (See previous post, "Hanging with the Hooligans," for the back story on these guys and their rants. )

No matter, no harm done, but in somewhere named Klamath Falls, I thought the water would never quit running. Tomorrow: Over the Cascades again, and on to Redding,

*I have been asked by Floyd to correct this statement. .He did NOT have a PhD, but HAD done all the work for it but the dissertation. Right, Floyd???

Yamhill Valley Wine Country

I am just now catching up on blogs, having left the Hotel Grime for southern Oregon, but the day we spent touring wineries in the Yahmill Valley wine country warrants mention. There are over 100 wineries in about a 10-mile radius, so we (Jim) chose carefully. Among them were Ponzi (motto found on merchandising t-shirts in tasting bar in McMinnville: "Live Well. Drink Well. www.ponzi.com); Wellakenzie; Elk Grove; Domaine Serene, and Domaine Drouhan. All are in beautiful settings in the valley, up winding roads and not necessarily well-marked or even placed correctly on the small area map we've picked up, but we manage to taste quite a few very good Pinot Noirs. I am told that wine in this area is made "in the French style," but you would have to ask Jim what that means. He looked up from his sports channel as I was writing this long enough to say it has to do with the blend of grapes, as is done in Burgundy, or perhaps with the new oak barrels used for aging. Who knows? He was only half listening, but he will surely correct me later if I am mistaken.

The wine aficionados among our readers might be interested in the following information, gleaned from brochures, conversations, and Yamhill Valley websites. The Yamhill Valley is found as part of the Wilamette Valley, and is particularly known for its Pinot grapes: Pinot Gris, Pinot Blanc and Pinot Noir. According to the Yamhill Valley Vineyards website, "One of the beauties of the Pinot family is that it offers a tremendously rich and varied palate of flavors and, at the same time, a fabric of structure - acids and tannins - to carry those flavors and keep a wine fresh and exciting through a meal. We've often described this structure as a bright or sparky character that gives a "come-hither" quality to the wine. The second glass is even more rewarding than the first. When enjoyed with food at the table, Pinot Gris, Pinot Blanc and Pinot Noir can create a third element of complexity and contribute to the pleasure of a great match.


I also had a nice walk with Ethan in the town of Yamhill, where new high-end houses have joined the older part of town. THis area, a scant 35 miles from Portland, is where new development meets agriculture, and the end product is Oregon viticulture.