Summer Dream 2006

This trip began as a motorcycle adventure, it was said before. To feel the independence, to take-what-comes along the way. It quickly became more. Early on it became a journey, not a destination. It became family in Minnesota, fun and memories. It was always a reunion and that became much more, very dear and very wonderful friends. Four days went by so fast there still was more to remember. Hugs and dance and talk and laughter.

And birthplace Sault Ste. Marie, grandparents home. Detour sleepy village by the river, ancient memories of Caribou Lake. A re-uniting with long lost cousins, my new and dearest friends. We will stay together from this day. And classmates extend to a greatest stay in Milwaukee one could ever have. Alyce, Jerry, Noel, Judy. Harley, city, tours; such friends. Sturgis, a plan from day one, yet a coincidence, a part of life now fulfilled.

And Boulder, CO, Aunt Mary. history, heritage, dinners of Nepal, Etheopia. Fossils, to pave the way for a day to come. The Rockies. The march across this great land, so varied, so pristine in so many places, waiting for more to enjoy. Mike and Irene, more days gone by.

Of things,

Prairies, plains, deserts, rivers, mountains, waterfalls,
Dance, hugs, music
Antelope, coyotes, rabbits
Rain, heat, humidity, perfect days
Miles of endless skies and land and smiles
The back roads of America
Camaraderie of bikers along the way, parking lot and restaurant conversations
Firepit, cast iron cooking, GPS
Great ore carriers, the Soo locks
Rushmore, Rockies, Fossils, Craters of the Moon

This is a journey of a lifetime, I hope not the last. It has been adventure. It has revitalized old memories and made new ones for me. I am intensely grateful for how many people these writings touched, in different ways. An outpouring of thoughts from many through email and the blog. It made the trip way more than I had ever hoped a lasting memory. You told me of your own awakening, of roots discovered, of relationships re-borne. To dream, to dare to do. To have been an instrument in any of that is the greatest privilege one could know. I hope you all have found something you can hold. You can do anything that you want to do.

Treasure each day. You never know when it will be your last.
Treasure your friends; good friends are hard to find.
Know your family; we’re only here a short time together.
Live life and be thankful for every day..

I love you all.
And Lil' Joe says "Same for me".

Does that make you as sad as it does this pair?

A great sendoff breakfast and some last minute sharing. Westward, sunrise behind, very cool mountain air. The ‘deserts’ of Idaho. Swearing to Lil Joe that we won’t rush, this is a two-day trip to Portland, 600 miles. A night in Pendleton, a last night party on the town. But the highways slid by those big black tires in the morning sun. Morning becomes noon and the great ribbon of asphalt, I84 to Boise. A gas stop, back to ride, a gas stop, candy bar and cooooold water. Wheels rolling…. westward.

And the lure of home became a challenge. Daily travels four weeks ago ended when 300 or so miles passed by. Later in the journey it was, see and enjoy and travel, ‘til five or so. The goal of today the same. Travel until five and see where wheels stand. 6000 miles of driving has brought great comfort in many motorcycle conditions. Joe kept egging us on “Hold on seventy old man”; the scenery is boring. And big blue rolled on at seventy, mile after mile, hour after hour. With no detours, no side trips, and yes, the lure of home, the magic hour put us one hundred miles from home. “A piece of cake”, says Joe. “Get us there and I’ll buy the Jack”.

And we three scrambled the final rocks to Timber Creek at 6:30pm. Ironically, the exact time forecast at Boise (IF destiny took us that far). Sadly, in the rush, a couple of good photo opportunities along the way were skipped. The deserts of Idaho and Eastern Oregon, the fields and cattle, the lofty pines of nearing the Columbia, tugs plying the river with cargoes bound east and west. The breathtaking Columbia River Gorge again, the Multonomah Falls, second highest year round waterfall in the nation. 611-feet, ironically the number of miles we drove today, the longest day.

The total journey, 6188 miles
100,000 memories.

Miles of Idaho desert. I was calling it the plains until Irene Healy corrected me later in the day.
Craters of moon, the devil’s playground, inferno of the past, many names to describe the tortured landscape, cooled now from a fiery past. Different from a volcano, the region was formed over many eruptions by a long rift in the earth. Magma flowed and cooled, and re-flowed. An awesome place, trying to imagine what it could have been like at the time.

And the route, highway 20, was so appropriate; five miles either side, another tortured landscape in the midst of repair. The good fortune was no work crews on Sunday, no delays, just the jostle and the loose gravel that two wheels love so well.

Midday promised another high school reunion in Hailey, just south of Sun Valley. And a wonderful one with classmate Mike Healy, still as dynamic and active as in high school. We talked and laughed and toured on foot the wonderful community of Hailey. Irene and Mike talked of travels by bicycle with five weeks soon to come in France. No wonder they are trim and fit. And the photo is a stream virtually in his back yard. And an ‘classic’ introduction back to civilization, a Beethoven concert in the park, up Sun Valley way. Third symphony, an hour long, wine and cheese and grass. A perfect evening.

In your Chevrolet, America’s the greatest land of all. Believe it or not that tune rattled through the cranium at different times today. And tonight in one of America’s fine chain motels, Pat Boone was singing it in an oldie. Coincidence….I think not. Today was travel and, corny or not, it felt the theme, except for perhaps a couple of inspiring moments when song gives way to contemplation.

But first…. And would you believe it…nature struck again! A leisure departure time today towards Idaho began with threatening thunder clouds to the west. NO problem, the road goes north out of Vernal. And the road wound in and out of the edges of this monster. What is this, that the instability which causes thunderstorms should exist in the stable, cool morning air? The work of demons…. or of angels? Large drops… worry…. more rain… finally the suit of yellow puts aside the question. And we ride in rain for a half hour. Joe baths, singing in the rain. And surging North, the rain abates, left behind for travelers yet to come.

Another day in nature’s great amphitheater, Flaming Gorge sweeps by, engulfing all in its path. Another work of art, a majesty, brilliant vermillion, sandstone, water, carved in stone, in awe for all to see. This overwhelming gorge, through the canyon, up the cliffs, atop the mesa, and on the other side a verdant valley, landscape transformed, the canyons gone, as if Houdini lives.

Again across the prairie, then trees, then sage, then rolling hills. Wyoming an infinite number of faces. Rolling in sun for hours, another storm looms near. A detour to Fossil National Monument, escape the storm or in its midst? Six miles off the path, perhaps to return to its wrath. And thanks to Mary, fossils her strength, for the beginnings of an education, a stop at Fossil Beds was so much more worthwhile. Easy to pass by, boring to the uninitiated, but fascinating when you can see. A crocodile fifteen feet or more. It is inconceivable how many fossils exist in this region, how much life was here before humans came to the scene. 4000 million years ago when life began, 400 million when our scale of evolution began. This monument has one of the best fossil collections I have ever seen. You must go.

Today ends in Idaho Falls. A planned 250 mile day ended in 410 miles, side trips and adventures. A meal on camping stove in the room. It says no smoking, bnt not no cooking.

Time is moving on. Today, sleeveless and hatless for some last sun in the remaining days. …. and tonight, no thirst, no burn. I remember day one and two and three. The days were hot and the sun was hotter. Today it feels good. And as the sun sinks slowly in the west. we sit, Joe and I, and listen to Benny Goodman, cooking dinner, blogging, and remembering…. yet another perfect day.

Early out of Boulder with just the right breakfast sendoff from dear Aunt Mary. Such a wonderful stay in Boulder. Lil’ Joe talked about it all day.

Up, up the long delirious burning blue, I topped the windswept height with easy grace. Well a line from High Flight but it felt like that climbing the Rockies. A fuel stop in Estes Park and yes, I had to stop and let the local cattle cross the highway. The Elk run this mountain town, grazing in the medians and wandering the streets of town.

A solid overcast threatened the journey, but at distant edges, blue burned bright. Just out of Estes Park at seven thousand feet, the sun took charge of the scene. A very cool mountain air made the ride invigorating. Steep cliffs at highways edge made the ride intimidating. Thin mountain air and a foolish dart up a hill for a photo made the ride ……. gasp ….wheeze….. puff. Even old blue, fuel injection aside, was more anemic than expected, but made the summit. Twelve thousand feet, you could hear the angels. And the air so clear you could see forever. Those mountains majesty are incomparable.

Descend the western slopes, the verdant valleys, the lush forests, so rich this land. Onward, westward, foothills melt to prairie once again. Western Colorado is incredibly varied. Cliffs, barren land, rolling hills, tall forests, short forests. So beautiful to the traveler in no hurry to leave it all behind. We love to stop the bike along the byway, make the engine still, and listen….. to the wind, the silence most of all. On these vast lands it seems there is no life. There is no sound. One feels to small and yet so much a part of it all. I love these great open spaces, this unspoiled, undeveloped land.

An awesome sight to not believe, the mighty Colorado, the river of Grand Canyon fame, is still a child in these foothills of the great mountains. A mere stream, impossible to imagine what it will become as it grows into adulthood.

Sadly Dinosaur National Monument was closed. Forewarned by Mary the building at the wall has become unstable, not supporting human traffice. A surprise in the dry climate, seen years ago it was concrete and steel. What could have happened.

Afternoon brought Vernal, northeast Utah, big and bussling. The campgrounds of the Green River beckoned. The heat and the lassitude of age diverted this place of rest to a cool motel and ice machines. Camping has given way more often to the luxuries of a cool room, not the best time of year for a monkey that likes JD on ice and a cold shower.

It was a good day.

The morning starts with showers, will it every be dry again? Then off to Harley. A soft front brake and Rocky Mountains to descend, discretion puts on a new set of brake pads. And back to visit, to listen, to learn and to remember.

Uncle Wally and Aunt Mary, a fascinating pair, a geologist and a paleontologist. Together they scoured the earth and have done many things to bring the past to life for the rest of the world. Mary, the educator turned archeologist to spend many hours exploring Mesa Verde, cataloging ruins, specimens, lives of ancient past, the Anasazi. Dropped by helicopter in late 70’s, alone for the day in remote Mesa Verde, to explore, to discover, to record. And Wally, traveling to all corners of the world, geology studies for the US Government. Many, many stories, some too much for timid travelers, and all full of adventure.

World travelers most of their lives, adventures I only read about. This is my family; from whence must come my own spirit of adventure. We reviewed so many photos. Mary told so many stories, countless stories, generations gone before. Would that we humans could do a better job of capturing our past, to pass on to the future. I will never remember a fraction of what I learned. But I learned, that dad was a prankster, a side I never saw. That Scottish ancestery which I have craved for reasons I do not know (bagpipes perhaps) was fleeting in days past but through Mary is now rooted deeply in Andrew Oswald, my dad’s grandfather, born in Scotland. And a photo – proof now irrefutable.

And the German lineage on my grandmothers side, the Farmer family and farther back.
Delightful, memorable, sad for it to end. I loved this visit and what dear Mary has done to help bring heritage to life. And my dad’s father who plied the St Mary’s as a dentist, an error, he was a physician and his brother James was the dentist. And together they served the frontier in a mobile fashion.

And today, cousin Caroline, a veterinarian from Cornell, out of Loveland practices in a mobile clinic, calling on the frontier folks of Colorado. Walking the footsteps of the past. She stopped by on a journey to Canada. This cousin of mine is the primary vet to the famed Iditarod, the great dog sled race of the North. A fascinating lady in her profession. And Jonathon, Julie, Dan and James we met yesterday. And talk made photos forgotten. Memory fails me too.

It was a wonderful and memorable day.

Wyoming, so many miles of open prairie. And the miles rolled by, Cheyene, then Denver. A few showers along the way. The old airplane saying, if you can see through it you can fly/drive through it. Just enough rain to cool a hot biker. Breakfast in tiny Lingel, WY became swapping stories with a new friend Paul from Denmark. He rented a bike in Phoenix for a two week tour of the American West parks, with a detour through Sturgis, his first. It’s a rush trip but he’s having fun. Trading email addresses, we hope to meet again.

And freeways south, the maddening rush of traffic, all in a hurry to go … where? Boulder slides into view and 14th street is as memory served, but it has been only four years since last I came.

And the memories began. Talk and dinner and talk. Let me gather my thoughts.

What - - a - - day.

Breakfast tales of golf ball size hail yesterday. Inch and a half of rain. Tall tales. But the black and foreboding sky westward was a portent of things to come. On the road, concern for ugly skies ahead, a freeway overpass beckoned… don the space suit. Lil’ Joe dived for cover. A silent prayer and westward bound. And that prayer in only minutes became the miracle of sunshine, clouds evaporating. Miles flew by in the cool morning air, the rain a mere zephyr, fading for the day. The bike flew across the miles, suspended in air as if a magic carpet, unmoving, eerie. The Earth rolled by underneath, miles dissolving, the air perfect.

And in no time the Badlands exit loomed. What a place. A crescendo of pillars, canyons, colors and shapes. The Wall! What untold treasures lay hidden within. Mile after mile, 240 wends through the canyons. Just when the last one fades behind, yet another takes its place. It is an enchanted place, inspiring reverernce in its majesty. The winding road, the canyon floor, the monoliths towering overhead and all about. Each minute a new angle of the sun catches yet a new facet. This is truly beautiful. Seen many years ago, it has grown to even greater beautify. You must go there.

Traffic is a river, flowing ever to the sea. From Badlands to the mecca, the thunder grows. Occasional bikes become many and many become overwhelming. Like rivers flowing to the sea, the closer to Sturgis, the more intense it becomes. Gas pumps, five wide and three deep nurse the bikes stacked double, still miles from Sturgis. And the highway is half bikes, then three quarters, then ninety percent. How can it be? Rolling off the ramp into this tiny western town is a solid ribbon of steel on two wheels. This could have been intimidating, overwhelming but prior experience was a godsend.

And it was Sturgis – a constant thunder of motorcycles, a crush of traffic. Park and play or get out of town. Joe found a “T” that’s cool to him, a taco and off we go. "Where’s the babes" I hear him say. Joe, this is a family show. Sturgis is a place you have to go to…. once if never again. Largest rally in the world, but you have to want to hang around. Give me the wide open spaces, don’t fence me in.

Rushmore bound, the exodus in sound is all around. A missed turn takes us beyond Rushmore, darn, and 20 miles south. Too early to stop and camp, the bike swings north, up old 16 to Rushmore. And what a ride. Down US79, hardly a soul to be seen. Up this winding twisting road, eighteen miles and THREE THOUSAND motorcycles. Every inch of the way, two narrow lanes, twisting, turning up and down the slopes. Fifty feet apart, non-stop, thousands. Don’t fence me in. A fascinating ride through pines and donkeys and cattle. Hairpin turns by the score, cascading down the mountain side. Many hours of training served me well. Look over your shoulder, the bike follows. Rushmore approaches, an overlook, five hundred bikes on the turnout. A looming thunderstorm, first of the day sheds tears, quarter size. Splot here, splat there, in no time soaked to the skin. Pulling off the highway onto the overlook is a mistake. Wall to wall traffic won’t let you back on. Don’t fence me in. And the storm looms larger, threatens and I succumb. No further will I go into this madness, the maelstrom of flesh and steel. A quick photo, proof, and back we go. Dart across the highway and spin a U…. out… and wet. We grab some gas, we done the gear, we head out forty and it pours. I will abandon the campground this night for drier skies. Twenty miles to camp, twenty miles backtrack to the monumment, twenty miles back again.

And miles south, forty odd, to look astern, like Lot of old, disaster looms. Such blackness, such fury I have seldom seen. Lightening strikes, streamers pour and towering tops to thirty thousand, more. The thunderstorm engulfs the region all, the camp, the park, the city, the largest I have ever seen. Like an atomic blast, forty miles away this view is good.

Twice today the helmet road in back, the free breezes and the hot sun, tan yet cool. A great feeling, freedom. More road warriors northward bound to Sturgis, and I have been, and I am homeward bound.

And freedom, I have longed for this ride across Wyoming for two years, and it is here. Don’t fence me in. And to dream and to know what freedoms we enjoy. An expensive motorcycle, a month from town, no barriers as each border is crossed. No where else in the world is such freedom alive. Pause for thought, and thanks.

The Missouri, four hundred miles behind, confirms that we are in the West. The day is hot but the air is dry, it makes all the difference. I’m glad to be home again, out West, with even miles to go. And hours and hours, cruising in the sun. The roads last forever but the land is here and now. Enjoy it as you pass and the miles pass quicly by. The prairie runs west, undulating into infinity, and wraps around the earth, and sneaks up behind you. The prairie is limitless. Stop along the highway. You are alone. As far as you can see in any direction, alone. And it’s good, this South Dakota, this Wyoming.
Tonight we sleep, dry, in Lusk, Wyoming.

It was quite a day

Chapter III, family and friends closed yesterday. Chapter IV begins; a journey through the natural resources of the American West.

O beautiful for spacious skies,
For amber waves of grain,
For purple mountain majesties
Above the fruited plain!
America! America!
God shed his grace on thee
And crown thy good
with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea!

Traveling through America’s heartland inspires in its own unique way. If told to me I would not believe it, but it’s there. Like traveling through any part of this great land there are songs, stories, traditions… and people. Lil’ Joe led off with the Pledge of Alligence. Rolling westward we sang…. and sang… America the Beautiful, God Bless America and every patriotic song that came to mind. This Iowa country does it to you… it did to us. Iowa was remembered as a boring rush across the Midwest years ago; a different journey… a trip, Perhaps years in Oregon farm country have softened memories. Perhaps age brings patience and wisdom. Iowa is a beautiful state. A verdant palette upon which nature has bestowed its own majesty. Miles… thoughts… prayers.

In a search for the right words, I found this link. http://www.llerrah.com/america.htm If you click this link, take five minutes to just let it play. Like this motorcycle, don’t be in a hurry. Travel with me. Slowdown and open your mind. This is waiting for you. Lands seen, vistas yet to unfold.

Iowa is a lush green in the eastern part. Corn for miles, so much corn, that it has a fragrance of its own. Beautiful farms, gleaming silos like rockets poised. A faintly sweet, fresh green smell that lasts for miles. And this is heartland… interspersed every so often, faint and pleasant cattle smells, another mile. This is America.

The east slowly yields to dry as South Dakota encroaches on its western border. Corn still, but small patches; prairie grass and cattle ranches. South Dakota takes control. Straight across US Highway 18, just a half dozen higher than US12 that brought us east. A stop sign at a crossroad every 15 miles.

A detour.. north to I90. A hurried pace but too many detours and chopped up roads. And distance became important…

High speeds, tractor-trailers, and motorcycles everywhere. Fifty percent of the traffic is on two wheels, traveling at high speed. Everyones headed for Sturgis. They’re all in a hurry… we rushed. Joe, the bridle in his teeth, pushing onward, westward, faster…. A south wind tilts the bike hard to the left… another hundred miles. And finally, strength fading and ready for a rest, the bike rolls off the interstate at Murdo, another Super 8.


And I thank the Lord that as tonight' memories flow across the page, the words of America sprang to mind. Slow down; enjoy; see this country. A quick trip through the Badlands has just become the meander that was originally planned. Oh, how quickly our harried pace can take its toll.

And a good down home dinner - crispy fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy.

It was a good day.

With a sweet sendoff from my Milwaukie friends, wheels rolled west into a heavy overcast. An hour of blessed cool riding suddenly turned into an hour and a half of hard rain. While accustomed to these conditions in the beloved Northwest, there were about twenty times when I again wondered what I was doing out there. But I had a deadline with a friend. On the way to visit Gordy in Cuba City, there were only two hours of overlap before he departed for his job in Minneapolis. Five miles out it stopped raining, a dry arrival fully clad in yellow rain gear. A wonderful two hours and a tour of the greatest Felix the Cat memorabilia in the world. When Gordy does something, he does it all the way. All too soon it was time again to part, but even stronger friends with a lifetime of fun yet to come.

The drive across Iowa is a lesson in mass production; in high volume. Iowa is corn, from border to border. Nearly two hundred miles of driving, and not a break in the crops. What does America DO with all this corn. (Well, lil’ Joe drinks his share). Tonight it’s heaven to be warm and dry in a little Days Inn in Mason City, Iowa. Tomorrow we’ll reach for the Badlands. The day’s reward was an inordinate number of opportunites to smell wet hay in the field and wet dairy cattle pens, to be ultimately transformed to the sweet smell of new cut lawns in small farm towns of Americana.

By the way, Internet will be hard to come by for the next week so do not despair, those who have become accustomed to blogging:)

After a fantastic omelette, a Gerry specialty, he and Alyce humored me with a trip to Harley’s engine plant. No tours on Saturday but a good video and some time in the gift shop. Then the grand tour of Milwaukie, streets, shops, beaches, and the art museum; all a treat for a first time visit. A late and perfect lunch on the Riverwalk with river side seats, more talk, more memories. This glorious day closed in the Greenfield park with a unique comedy show in the bandstand. Small town America even brushes the big cities.

And the after dark walk into the house was lighted by fireflies. I forgot to mention that the Brady bonfire found them as dense as mosquitoes, but so enchanting. I love the country.

Stress was banished from this trip, but its ugly head was faintly in the distance, growing slowly larger for this morning. The single time commitment on this journey was the 10:15 departure, August 4th, Muskegon to Milwaukie of the Lake Express ferry. I had to make it. A slightly restless night with the typical deepest sleep just before dawn ended when Ward, my promised alarm clock, gently chimed “Time to get up, Buddy”. What a great way to awaken. A shower and coffee and guess what, the sun is not up at 6am in this time zone. Heavy dew, happy heart, on the road again, stars and a moon to guide. And the ferry dock rolled up to the front wheels right on schedule with time to spare. The stress was gone.

And TWO HUNDRED motorcycles boarded the Lake Express – all Sturgis bound. And we talked, great folks all of them all living a dream, to ride to the biggest motorcycle rally in the world. Two and one half hours passed quickly. Unchaining bikes, engines thundered to life. The ramp dropped and an exodus of steel began. And a change of plans. Bound south to meet Alyce and Gerry, I roared up the ramp and glanced to my left ---- I KNOW that guy. And I hear “Bob”, and it’s Gerry. Some fancy pirouetting on six hundred pounds of steel put me in the parking lot with them. We were incredibly lucky to find each other, helmets, bikes, beards… bikers all look alike.

Timing changed a tour of Harley to a tour of Miller; not allllllll that bad. Late afternoon plans revolved around Cedarburg and a visit to classmate Noel and Judy. Noel took three amazed people through his time machine. An old and inspiring home, beautifully trimmed with furniture and mementos prior to great grandparents. Three Harley’s. A modern coach house with the beginnings of a full museum of Cedarburg diligently being pursued by Judy. And an old jukebox in perfect condition playing 50’s rock and roll. These shoes are made for dancing!!! Top off the evening at a local pub, five friends, hundreds of memories.

Gerry, Alyce, Noel, me, Judy

Threat of rain diminished, the journey to Dansville was simple. A three-hour drive down fifty-two and seven miles to go at Williamston. A dozen monster raindrops brought an awareness that only yards ahead a wall of water, biblical proportions stood in the path. Very literally, putting on rain gear with only a few drops hitting us, I looked down the road watching the line of rain on the highway. And it was INTENSE. I now understand events in the bible that sounded so exaggerated. Being comfortable in the rain deferred intelligent thought – Joe dove for the saddlebag and I turned on the fire. It rained hard, harder than I have ever driven in. Fortunately the roads were country and the traffic was sparse. Unable to read the GPS, but having memorized the dozen turns of this last segment, I turned into the Brady compound barely able to see the house (well that’s a ‘little’ exaggerated).

And in ten minutes the rain stopped and the sun shone everywhere. From left in the photo, Janet, Pat, Aunt Catherine, Uncle Bill, Colleen and Nancy.

The rest of the day was reliving more memories over a half century old. Ward Staffeld, a retired and burgeoning writer has the ambition I know only rivaled by brother Bill. He’s building a studio out of old barn and restoring and refinishing everything on the property on a scale I only dream of. We toured the property, an endearing collection of corn fields, deep woods, old buildings; stopping on the Gator to observe to whitetail a deer fattening herself on the corn before bounding off at our approach.

Then we popped in next door on Aunt Katy and Uncle Bill. And we talked and the entire trip was so worthwhile at that moment. Nancy left work early and joined in. And we talked, and she remembered things I had forgotten. And Pat, the “oldest and wisest” arrived, and we talked, and more and different ancient thoughts emerged and burst into existence.

And little Janet, the youngest girl, arrived, as cute as I remembered. Her sweet comment as we hugged, “you probably changed my diapers” Well she’s not that much younger but it touched me lovingly, how far back and how long ago that we had any time together. And Colleen arrived “I’m number three”. And we talked some more.

A beautiful country dinner, photos, garden talk and the most family, country living experience that I know, the evening bonfire. By now the skies were solid blue and the sun was well over Oregon, hopefully inspiring the country friends I share back there. And Pat, bless her heart, recognized Joe’s fondness for a nip, brought a flagon of JD. Joe joined us at the fire, made the rounds, kissed the girls, and lounged against a tree, a smug and satisfied look on his face.

So many memories brought to life, perhaps new dreams launched, content with family around the campfire. I love them all. We MUST meet again. And next time with Dan, the youngest and working in far off Milwaukie to be along.

I have very limited internet connection for a few more days so a quick & short update.

I had the more wonderful yesterday with Aunt Katy, Uncle Bill and cousin Pat, Nancy, Coleen & Janet. While getting there required an 8 mile drive in the heaviest rain of my life, it was worth every second. Rediscovered each other with a million memories. I love my new friends and hope to be able to stay in touch. All are doing well and we talked from 10am to 11pm.

Took the high speed ferry from Muskegon to Milwaukie today and met Alyce & Gerry at the terminal. Tour of Miller (Joe liked that too). Lunch at their house and a long visit. Two more of the nicest people in the world and two new best friends.

We went up North to Noel & Judy for an incredible trip into the past in their enchanting home of old victorian and antiques from way back in the family. Three harleys, a pritine 1968 mustang of which he is the original owner. And a great dinner as old friends at the local pub. Many more stories. Many more memories.

Lots of photos and when I get a high speed connection again I'll update a few more details.

Thank you faithful readers.

Trouble loading the photos. I'll more try later.

What a day; wet, boring and hot, in that order. Mack City morning streets ran to the curbs with water as if Lake Huron had overflowed. A too leisurely breakfast had the maid chasing me out of the room. Donning yellow oil cloth, like the mariners of old, a quick tour of the Old Mackinaw Lighthouse before heading on. I love the colorful and rich history of the Great Lakes, the lighthouses, the ore carriers, the shipwrecks (sadly). Lighthouses are endearing to me, beacons of hope in a dark and stormy sea. My love of them will grow from this.

Leaving town on the interstate Lil’ Joe was sacked out in the sidecar – forgot his rain gear he says with a grin. The rain had stopped and so did we at the next rest stop on “75” to shed the baggage. No sooner was the rain gear packed in the bike than a gully washer hit. Back into the baggie and off we went, for another hour driving in the rain, ‘occasionally heavy at times’ as they say on TV. Freeways everywhere are boring, painted with a #70 brush in simple green. Michigan is no exception; motorcycle trips are intended for country roads, rural America.

Farther south lead to clear skies and high humidity. Today’s title is 90 degrees and 90 percent in case you didn’t guess. The GPS wizard led old Blue directly to Jean Boesler’s door… and no one was home. Figuring she was at work although I thought she retired, I settled down under a tree to wait. Some neighborhood security; no one asked what a big bike was doing parked on her sidewalk. Unfortunately I left at six with a note on her door, remembering vaguely that she might be off on a vacation trip.

I passed the 45th parallel, same as Salem, OR. And the Michigan farms and fields look just like Oregon a mirror image. The wheels wound southeast to Saginaw. My dad grew up here and graduated from UofM. I needed to touch the soil. So hot, so humid, even the monkey was wet. It’s great in the room now, this Super 8 oasis.

Tomorrow it’s a day with my dear cousins. I’m ecstatic. And now off for pizza. The monkey hasn’t eaten for nine hours.

Last night after sundown, sleep almost came while stretched out on a rock at lakes edge. A place bug free and a bit cooler, the waves sound finally stirred me to action and back to camp. Sleeping at most an hour between ten and four, I ventured out to look at the stars. An incredible night sky as the Milky Way galaxy spun its way through the cosmos before my very eyes. The purest, most vitalizing air on earth. Stars so crisp, air becoming cool, even the insects, still wary of man made protection, let the night be perfect. And then sleep came for two hours until six. Thirty minutes to break camp had us headed back to Detour for breakfast. Passing two cafes I stopped at a third. It opened at seven but the owners, seeing me peep through the windows, granted entrance. A local fellow, Bob it turned out, motioned to a seat beside him. And we chatted as the grill heated and breakfast smells began to emanate from the tiny kitchen. A few stories back and forth evolved to my casual mention of seeing the old cabin at Caribou. And Bob probed about location. As I described the Oswald place, his confused look gave way to a realization that I was talking about the Griffitt place. And when he made that observation I realized that my Aunt of course uses her married name!! And HE is her caretaker…. and he has the KEYS. Reluctantly I passed on the offer to journey back to the lake with him for a look inside, knowing it would be a long morning. Places to go and people to see.

Off to Drummond Island on the little ferry, a ten minute crossing on St Mary’s river. Three bucks round trip with a motorcycle. Disappointment, the first of the trip, as there were no settlements on the island. Just miles of resorts and inns and restaurants scattered in individual isolation.

Southbound, further, more miles, forboding, the Mackinaw Bridge. I had heard of high gusty winds, and open steel grates. Was it too cold? I had shed all layers but the last to stay cool, even at nine in the morning. A stop along the interstate to add leather and off. Two dollars fifty the fare each way. And it wasn’t cold even with light fog and swirling mists adding to the intrigue of this great structure. And the iron grate fought hard and old blue fought back. And we arrived in Lower Michigan.

First a motel and a shower! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Tomorrow’s another day.

From a sleep like the dead, 8:30 saw the start of a new day, AND an intense thunderstorm (in the morning??) ran rivers through the sleepy motel parking lot. A sudden storm is soon over – sometimes. A slow breakfast and planning for the day eventually saw the storm pass and sunny skies prevailed (for a while). Southward to Detour, a quaint little village on the shores of St. Mary’s river; birthplace of my father. And on the way, a search for the old family cabin on Caribou Lake. Following great directions from Aunt Mary and the ancient navigation methods of the Ojibwa Indians (and a GPS), I found it with minor searcing. It was very nearly what I remember from a last visit circa 1955. And the big disappointment; Aunt Mary said to take the screws out of the lock and make myself at home….. someone finally repaired the lock and concealed the screws. Well, photos of the outside, a long wade on the sandy bottom of the lake, and a visit to the former Tallion property next door. Grandpa and I used to walk that path together, talking and whittling. And I think he was there today. And the smells of old cabins in the woods.

Onward to Detour to explore; my dad’s birthplace. I stopped at the museum and chatted on and on with Julie, a resident of Detour. Spying a copy of the history of Detour on a table I located the photo of my grandparents, dad’s parents. Dr. Edward Oswald was a dentist plying his trade from his tugboat on the waters of St Mary/s river to service the residents of Drummond Island. Aunt Mary has the original of that photo. Julie was suitably impressed to see a grandson. She’s sweet to humor this older gentleman:)

And we talked about Goetz, my maternal grandmothers name. And Julie suggested that a visit to Thatcher Goetz up in Goetzville might yield some branches on the tree. Perhaps tomorrow. And an article about another Goetz, first name forgotten, who was building a spacecraft a few decades back. A five page news article and photos talked about limitless free energy, tapped from the forces of the universe and Veneutian designs and a truly remarkable spacecraft under construction. And the story goes on, but it never left Earth. And beyond belief, there was a portion of that craft in the back yard of the Detour museum. Plywood and gears and interesting construction…. now I wonder about my own sanity…and I come by my intrigue of the cosmos honestly.

Checking on local accommodations from the museum phone, deciding they were all too pricy, Julie determined that I looked scroungy enough to appreciate Detour State Forest Campground, from whence I write these notes. It’s hot, humid and buggy. The bugs vanish with “Deep Woods Off”. A spacious Alpine Ultralite from REI dominates the campsite, the waves of Lake Huron add to the symphony of the evening. Both Joe and I are hoping for no repeat of this morning’s thunderstorms. Lil’ Joe is enjoying a warm JD in a titanium cup; no ice is uncivilized. Dinner of handful of trail mix, too hot to run the camp stove. The only food since breakfast and it was enough.

Another good day (and dirtier than I have ever been and gone to bed). Campground is unimproved.

Phase III – childhood memories, cousins, classmates. I didn't intentionally divide this trip into segments, but it turns out that way. This segment is about people in the Lower Michigan, Wisconsin area.

By the shores of Gitche Gumme, by the shining big sea waters, stood the wigwam of Nookomis, daughter of the Moon Nikomis.

We are Lake Superior. Houghton lives on the canal that connects the north to the south. The big sea waters create the massive winters of the Keweenaw Peninsula. To drive along its shore for many hours is to be inspired by its massive greatness. The sweet fresh lumber smell of the Lanse sawmills permeate the air.

Arrival at Lockview Motel was early enough to participate in a tour of the Locks. Setting out on foot for Dock 2, a scant half mile away, while reading the schedule, yielded the disconcerting discovery that on Sunday only Dock 1 has a tour, another mile and a half walk in high humidity. With a four o’clock deadline, a two mile hike and fifty minutes remaining, this trooper set out. And it was a successful jaunt, arriving fifteen minutes before departure, very hot and drenched. A cool breeze off the lake lowered this elevated body temperature back to normal, and began to renew the suntan, fading from days of indoor activity in Houghton. History of the Sault locks - Sault Ste Marie – French for Falls of St Mary. Lake Superior exits through St. Mary’s river over rapids cascading twenty one feet into Lake Huron. The Sault locks were created both on the U.S. and the Canadian shore to facilitate shipping between the Great Lakes. The upbound cruise used McArthur lock, lithely skirting a downbound ore carrier just exiting the lock. From the iron fields of Duluth, where no compass is allowed, to the steel mills in Indiana at the south end of Lake Michigan, the great behemoths inch their way back and forth.

The tour boat detoured through more history around an ore carrier offloading taconite pellets at the blast furnaces of Sault Ontario, for smelting into steel strips for further transport to the world markets. And on the wind, the oily smell of hot steel billets headed for the rolling mills. For a guy, that’s a good smell.

And as I walked the three miles back from the boat tour to the motel, I locked in the GPS on “Grandma”. And I was only a block from the house; and I detoured. And I found it exactly where it was supposed to be. And the layout of the dangerous river was exactly as it was supposed to be. And it was still green shingle siding as it was in 1958. And I lost the nerve to knock on the door. Perhaps tomorrow…..

The location of grandparent’s house, 541 Cedar Street. A strange juxtaposition of memories confusing the position of the house on the street and a dangerous dead end street ending in a river that fed the Union Carbide plant. And very stern warnings from father about n-e-v-e-r climbing the fence to certain death in the waters below. And on Christmas eve, the upstairs bedrooms heated by registers to the rooms below, carried the sounds that told me... Santa Clause lives in your parents. And I was sixteen – was I that naive? Nooooooo, it must have been a Christmas of years earlier and I only remember the Dickens trip. I prefer not to conjecture.

Houghton to the Sault - another memory. Imagine Christmas vacation as a child. Imagine high school assignments. Imagine riding three hundred miles in the snow in a car with 2 adults and four children. Imagine trying to read “Tale of Two Cities” and learn anything. One page forward, one page back. And then we arrived at Grandma’s. And the smells of a grandmother’s kitchen. And the mystery of two staircases; a formal one from the living room and the best, one that seems only to descend in early morning to a kitchen of cinnamon smells and butter. That would be the winter of 1958. I hate Tale of Two Cities. I know it was written by Charles Dickens. I think it was about war and beheadings. I know it was supposed to be good for learning the English language.

The morning was delayed by the heavy grey overcast of local thunderstorms. Raining softly with an occasional flash of lightning; Thor roamed the skies. Lil’ Joe had made his bed under the stars and this morning had his first bath in two weeks. Praise the Lord is all I can say.

Morning breakfast ran the by now familiar gauntlet, 7am and ran until 11am. A brief mention to Steve yesterday about tracking down two class holdouts, Jim and Clyde, was all it took to have him in the saddle behind me. He beat me to the bike for the long thirteen mile ride out to Freda. The sailed by mindless of the threat of rain. And Old Blue maneuvered the gravel roads with an extra passenger better than expected. Jim wasn’t home but we enjoyed he view from the magnificent bluff overlooking Lake Superior. What a paradise he has picked. A couple talks with the residents had us headed for Atlantic Mine, miles away in search of Clyde. But just a mile up the road, words from Virginia hit like the thunderbolts of last night, his house emerged from behind the disguised schoolhouse.. Thankfully avoiding a long cross country ride to another wrong location, we found Clyde at home. A great visit, talk of birds and mines and days gone by.

Time to dance. Headed for the hotel to help with decorations, it was already complete. I was awestruck…….. Audrey, Alyce, Jerry and Bob had turned today’s banquet room into a 1960 gymnasium, ready for the dance. Streamers orange and black, artfully done……. tables begging for occupants, with so much of yesterday heaped around. You four were magnificent….. you ARE magnificent.

And the folks started arriving…. and the music started playing…. tears… Dick Tuisku had two friends volunteer to DJ the evening. Daryl brought a thousand records of the era, the top 100 from 1957, 58, 59, 60. All original 45’s in unrealistically prime condition. Spinning platters like the DJ’s of days way gone by. Chuck ran the electronics like the professional he is. This music, this presentation, was a dream come true for me. And I danced and felt the music all night long…. and the evening ended all too soon.

And Dick, retired golden voice of the radio waves in the U.P. put together a small program. And he is funny!! A few speeches; too many lavish praises to me; it took thirty one people, Mary and Audrey to make this happen. And an incredible and total surprise to me, Audrey had ordered in a print from Dale Klee, old car art and a motorcycle, complete with Harley Davidson shirt. The work I did was because I wanted to, and the unexpected reward left me totally speechless and teary. I don’t know what to say….I did not in my wildest dreams expect anything more than for people to get together and have a good time. And they did. And everyone said this was so different from any other reunion. So close, real, memorable. And their partners came and had a great time, and it was incredible. These classmates are the best friends in the world.

Phase II is over; phase III begins, with more letters from my cousins. Yet another adventure unfolding.

It was a good day.