Leavin' Louisiana come hell or high water

Evenin', Campers! Hire u? (That's a common Texas greeting and it's pronounced precisely as written). It's Silver Cliche' here writing to you tonight from beautiful Mission Tejas State Park in Weches, Texas.

We were determined to get out of Louisiana today come hell or high water. Fortunately, we didn't see any hell. We saw plenty of high water. Thanks to the approach of an early morning thunderstorm, Mrs. C' and I were awakened by two frantic dogs. (Both of our traveling companions are terrified of thunder). Looking at the bright side, fresh brewed Starbucks may taste even better at 5:00 AM than at 7:00. The rain hadn't hit us yet. The thunder was coming from a storm that the Weather Channel said would miss us. We had until about 9:00 before the next wave would hit. So, we planned to chill, wait for the sun to rise, hitch up, and break camp about 8:30. The perfect getaway (or so we assumed).

At 7:30 the skies opened up. Living in a tin can on wheels has many advantages which you frequently hear me extoll. Falling asleep to the sound of gentle rain on the metal roof is one advantage I've never written about… very relaxing and peaceful. However, sitting out a deluge is not so peaceful. It's like living in a soup can at the wrong end of a BB-gun range. No, make that a shotgun shell test facility. The kind for shot shells used in machine guns. Yeah, that's about right. Conversation goes from a casual “Would you like more coffee, dear?” to “WHAT? I CAN'T HEAR YOU.” followed by “I ASKED 'HOW LONG IS THIS SUPPOSED TO LAST?' ” then “DID YOU SAY THE GUMBO FROM LAST NIGHT GAVE YOU GAS?” oh… the joys of camping and seeing America!

Given the deluge we pushed back the departure time to “whenever o'clock”. We only had a 3 hour drive planned for today. No problem. At about 8:00 both of our cell phones let out a siren. It was an emergency alert from the National Weather Service that the extreme thunderstorm warning they had already released had been upgraded to an imminent threat of flash floods IN OUR AREA. I looked out the trailer's back window. You know, the one that looked toward the small stream that drained the campground. I performed a quick topographical assessment of the campground and realized that we were parked in the lowest lying campsite in the entire campground. The stream behind us was swollen, but not visibly rising (yet). I have never been in a flash flood, but I've always concluded that the difference between the “flash” variety and, oh, let's say a “plain old ordinary” flood was speed. I didn't know where our little stream drained, but I figured that as soon as the water level in that body of water started to rise then our stream would move toward us pretty quickly. I had visions of being filmed by the local TV station some hours later and saying “Well, we were enjoying coffee and the morning crossword puzzle like we always do when we realized that the trailer was floating away toward Lake Charles. You know what these waterways look like from the air, right? Well we had passed the stomach and about reached the ascending colon by the time we tossed the dogs to safety on a muddy bank and climbed a tree after them.” Like Scrooge being visited by the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, I realized that I could control my own future. I told Mrs. C' that our plan to depart “whenever” needed to be changed to “damn soon” or we might be the teaser followed by some TV yokel saying “watch the complete story at 11:00 after tonight's episode of 'The Voice.' ” So I got on my raincoat and headed outside to hitch up and ready for the road. 20 minutes later the stream had gone nowhere… but we had.

Up to this point of the trip we've been heading West. That changed immediately upon departure this morning as we changed course to Northwest. If the FAA had been directing us then an Air Traffic Controller would have said “Silver Cliche' turn right heading three-one-five” to which I would have gladly replied “affirmative, three-one-five on the heading” and we would have beat feet for the Texas line.

If you look at Google maps and center in on Lake Charles, Louisiana you will notice that Lake Charles sits on a very clear division between coastal flood plain to the south and forest to the north. That band continues around much of the Gulf Coast. We had spent most of the trip within 20 feet of sea level and within 30 or 40 miles of open water. With our new heading in the GPS we quickly entered forest land. The agriculture (sugar cane) and aquaculture (crawfish) that we had seen all day yesterday was completely gone. In its place were stands of pine forest, the occasional logging truck (it was Saturday) and roadside equipment lots with fellers and skidders (not fellows and their sisters… big time logging equipment). In under an hour we crossed the Sabine River and rolled into Texas. The scenery didn't change much as we crossed, but our attitude did. We had spent half of our nights on the road so far in Louisiana. We had seen no rain before entering the Fleur-de-lis state (Is that what they call it? They should. You see that darned symbol everywhere there!) and it had rained… no, check that… poured every day we were there. As a sign that we were not imagining that. 10 minutes after entering Texas the sun popped out, quickly followed by a totally clear sky and temps around 80. I like Texas.

So, we thundered across east Texas through the Angelina National Forest and the Davy Crocket National Forest. I say “thundered” because the speed limit most of the way on simple two lane state roads was 75. I'm guessing the locals would describe our style of travel as “lumbered” since I was doing 65 and they were passing me faster than a goose passes green grass (sorry… this must be my week for intestinal metaphors. Let's hope that passes. Sorry again. I'll try harder next week.) I have never been to east Texas before. I knew it wasn't like central and west Texas, or like the gulf coast. It was a pleasant drive. It was not the horrifying, decay that I named “Americountry” the other night. It was generally well kept even where not modern. Much of it was National Forest land, so that was literally a paved strip through forest. We drove through numerous small towns and two “cities” – Jasper and Lufkin. By 1:00 we had arrived at Mission Tejas State Park.

So, let's talk about Mission Tejas (pronounce in the Spanish style… tay-haas). There actually is a “mission” here. It's about 100' from our campsite. Here, let me show you a pic I took this afternoon:

This isn't the Mission Tejas. It may or may not even be on the site of the original mission. It's a recreation from modern times of a building that may or may not have been here and may or may not have looked like that. We know that there was a structure built in 1690 by the Spanish as a base to convert the local Somethingoranother tribe of natives to Christianity. Nice folks, the Spanish. Note the year – 1690. I don't know about you, but I recall the Pilgrims landed in 1620 and there was a bit of activity up and down the east coast of North America. Sort of like an ant colony when the first few ants find the picnic… but not a full blown onslaught. I also think of the West Coast in full bloom in the 1850's with the gold rush. Maybe I think of West Texas in the 1800+ era and the Alamo. I do not think of a place 150 miles from the Gulf of Mexico in dense pine forests which is (evidently) the Las Vegas for mosquitoes (Let's Party!!!) as a place where Spanish Catholic priests were hanging out in the 1690's – but it was. Now, before we ascribe their presence and sacrifice solely to their devotion to the greater glory of God we need to look around. By 1690 it was clear that the French had gained a foothold on the center of North America down to and including the Gulf Coast of present day Alabama (remember Bayou La Batrie is in Alabama) and Louisiana. The Spanish were losing out on what they came here for – loot. So, in addition to the pursuit of the greater glory of God, they came here to recruit Native Americans to their cause in a flanking action against the French. It was warfare and the Bible was their weapon of choice. This idea of using priests as soldiers never reached this level of public acceptance again, although it came close when the first Gulf War and the Catholic priest child abuse scandal opened up at the same time.

Back to the Mission… after a few short years the Spanish and the Natives were at each other. The Natives believed the communion water was contaminated and infecting their people with diseases (The Spanish themselves were more likely the source. It would be over 100 more years before Louis Pasteur would describe how all that worked). The Spanish believed the Natives were stealing their stuff. It ended badly... the Mission was destroyed... the Spanish fled... the French sold the Louisiana Purchase to the fledgling United States about 100 years later and pocketed beaucoup coin... and the only things left behind by the Spanish are diseases and food names. Then 300 years later some folks built that new Mission building so Mrs. C' and I could come here and I could tell the story again. Not bad.

So, tomorrow on to just south of Dallas. We'll take Monday off the road before heading into the Texas Panhandle (do the people there call themselves “panhandlers”? I'll have to go find out.).

Later…

SC'

From the Atchafalaya to Acadiana

Evenin' Campers! Silver Cliche' here with you again. Writing tonight from Sam Houston Jones State Park in Lake Charles, Louisiana. This park named for a governor of Louisana and political rival of Huey Long.

Wow! It's been a week already since Mrs. C', Romeo the puggle, Kailey the 126 year old Wheaten (in dog years) and I left Vero Beach and headed west. We've moved nearly 1,200 miles in that time. That's not the most direct route, but as you know we meander, take side trips and otherwise lollygag as we move along.

So today we started at Lake Fausse Pointe in south-central Louisiana. Tonight we are near the Louisiana/Texas border just north of I-10 still in the southern part of the state. If you think of Louisiana as the shape of a boot trying to kick Mississippi, we are right where the center of the heel meets the upper. We were not tempted to stay at Lake Fausse. The recent rains and the general sense that any ground in Louisiana sits about 6” above the water table makes moving on easy. Here, let me show you. Had we stayed at Lake Fausse we could have looked forward to an evening around the campfire here in this fire ring at our campsite…

 

I think you get my point.

The trip here was interesting. Lake Fausse is in the Atchafalaya National Heritage Area – a region which gets its name from the river that flows through central Louisiana and is the next major river west of the Mississippi. For the first 45 minutes or so out from the campground we saw field after field of plants that were young and healthy. Couldn’t figure it out. Eventually… “of course!”… it's sugar cane. This region is a thorn in Michelle Obama's side when it comes to national nutrition. I figure half the fields we saw today are used to supply powdered sugar to Cafe du Monde in New Orleans to hide beignets each in its own miniature snow bank. The rest puts pounds on Americans all over the country in cola, twinkies and ice cream.

Then we went through a college town, Lafayette and hit I-10 west toward Texas. All along I-10 there were flooded fields. Another brain teaser. There were occasional boats in the fields and each had a metal roof the length of the boat that looked like an archway made of corrugated steel providing shade for whoever was out there working. Each field also had what looked like bouys or the tops of pipes or something at fairly regular intervals. Still stumped. Rice? Probably not. Aquaculture of crabs or oysters? No… not enough water. I had to research this evening to get the answer. Crawfish. Yep. Crawfish are grown here and of course most are eaten here too. The bouys were actually the tops of crayfish traps. They do reportedly grow rice in those fields too… it helps to keep the water the right temperature and purity for the crawfish, but none was visible at this time of year.

The entire region from the Achafalaya to the Texas line is known as Acadiana. So, we thundered actoss I-10 and through Acadiana toward Lake Charles. I say “thundered” because the roads were so rough that at one point it sounded like we had a flat tire. I have never seen the contents of the trailer as shaken up upon arrival as they were today. And we're somewhere near 15,000 miles of travel with her at this point. Back to Lake Charles… this town has a direct connection to the Gulf of Mexico via a ship channel. It, like all of South Louisiana that we've seen so far, is absolutely criss-crossed by rivers, pockmarked by lakes and generally the space in between the rivers and lakes is bayou. If you don't speak Cajun, “bayou” means “swamp”. How they build anything here is a mystery to me. Just looking at this land makes it clear how storms like Katrina or this spring's flooding has such a devastating effect. Even a modest rise in water can impact large areas and the state is so flat that drainage is slow. If you look at Lake Charles on a map, it looks like a diagram from a high school biology text. The lake itself (yes, there is actually a lake called Lake Charles at the town of Lake Charles) is the stomach. A range of twisted, meandering rivers form the intestines and the straight-cut ship channel is the esophagus. We are camped somewhere near the spleen, I think. Never mind that. That's one of the most inappropriate and indelicate metaphors I've included in this blog. If I extended it to tell you where we ate tonight it would have gone too, too far.

Let's talk about dinner. I did my usual TripAdvisor search. I figured this is our last night in Louisiana (forever, I think) so I wanted to eat local and local is Cajun. The place where the locals go to eat Cajun is “Steamboat Bill's on the Lake”. My first warning should have been when I looked at the map to see where we had to go to eat local Cajun. “Steamboat Bill's on the Lake” isn't on any lake. I think we need to get the Federal Trade Commission energized to look into false marketing claims being made by Bill. They might demand the restaurant be renamed to “Steamboat Bill's on the I-10 Service Road about ½ mile from the Lake”. I'd accept that. Anyway, the locals say this is where you go for gumbo, shrimp etouffe', catfish and such. It also boasts “Boudin Balls”. We saw billboard ads from various restaurants along I-10 boasting about their Boudin Balls. I've traveled enough to be skeptical. I'll never forget that encounter with Rocky Mountain Oysters. “Hey”, I said “These are not really oysters, are they?”. I'm pretty sure my coworkers in Denver are still laughing. Anyhow when we got to the campground I looked up to see what kind of a critter the “boudin” might be. Fish?... Mammal?... Reptile? Imagine my relief when I learned Boudin is a type of sausage and the balls are deep fried lumps of flour, milk, sausage and, in some recipes, rice mixed with spices. I needed some of that. So we found and entered Steamboat Bill's. This is the only restaurant I have ever been to where you are handed menus at the entrance door and told to figure out what you are having. Unsaid was “and figure it out quick”. In about 20 seconds after entering we were directed to a cashier. We slowed the process considerably by taking cashier time to figure out what 20 seconds of cold prep had not allowed us to do. Eventually we had it: 2 Boudin Balls, a large chicken and sausage gumbo and a regular sized red beans and rice. We paid, got a number and our drinks and were directed to the back room. I think we were sent to the back because of that old restaurant trick of seating the groups who will attract new customers right in the front window. Usually this is the young, attractive couple who are clearly and deeply in love. Passersby who see that couple associate their obvious bliss with the food being served and (like the famous line in “When Harry met Sally” say “I'll have what she's having”). So, Steamboat Bill practices the same technique… place the right diners in the widow to attract more. We were sent to the back room probably because we had all our teeth. So, 10 minutes later the food is delivered and it's just as ordered. Along with the Boudin Balls was a side or what appeared to be ranch dressing. Here's a pic of a half a ball next to an intact one with the dipping sauce.

I'd call it “interesting”. Mrs. C' said “get that thing away from me”. The outside was fried to a slight crunch. The inside was very moist and slightly stringy. Something like damp shredded wheat. I guess that description will not be used by the Acadiana Tourist Board in their upcoming brochure. Among the strange foods I've eaten in our travels I'd say this was not as appealing as the Bierock I ate in Hays, Kansas or the Hot Brown at Lake Cumberland, Kentucky. It was, however, better than Rocky Mountain oysters.

There rest of the food was interesting, too. The beans and rice and gumbo were both very spicy, both used sausage and lots of rice. Both were served with a roll and the gumbo came with “potato salad” which in any other part of the country might have been described as “cold mashed potatoes with something like sour cream beaten in and bits of pickle”. Seriously. Strangest potato salad I've ever eaten. But remember, we set out to “eat local” and eat local we did! Now, if you've been following along closely you may have noted something. This meal included fried rice and flour balls, mashed potatoes, rice, rolls and (I didn't mention this earlier) crackers. It also included a few beans, some sausage and chunks of chicken. This dinner was 90% carbohydrate, 4% protein and 6% fat. It was also 0% fruit and vegetable (no… potato does not count as a vegetable). There may have been vegetables on the menu, we would have needed an additional 15 seconds of study at the front end to determine that. As we left the restaurant, I sure didn't see any on any of the tables we passed. Here's another shot from our table featuring the potato salad

So, our experience at Steamboat Bill's certainly was local and it also illustrated clearly why the stretch of land across the Southern states including Louisiana has the highest incidence of obesity in the country. I'm thinking we tell Michelle Obama to get out of the White House organic vegetable garden and send her here with a can opener and a semi-trailer load of Green Giant and suggest she gets to work on where the problem can actually be addressed… but maybe that's just me.

After dinner we took a short driving tour of old Lake Charles. It's known for its grand homes and we saw several including this one:

A southern town with a rich heritage and culture, hardworking people and a bit of a struggle now with alternating assaults from the weather and economy. I'm thinking that if these people have survived for generations on a high spice, high carb diet that they can survive the hard times they're facing now.

So, campers, that's Louisiana. Tomorrow we cross the border and head into Texas. That will be the 28^th state for the trailer in the 20 months we're been dragging her around. Not bad progress, I'd say. There may be no cell service at the campground we're heading to. It's pretty remote. If I don't write tomorrow, check Sunday night/Monday morning. We'll be just south of Dallas then.

Later!

SC'

Rivers and Levees and Bayous, oh my!

Evenin' Campers! It's Silver Cliche' checking in with you tonight from St. Martinville, Louisiana. No… I'm not sure that is on any map. It is, however what the State Parks Department lists as the site of Lake Fausse Pointe State Park.

I took the day off yesterday as we were enjoying New Orleans and the French Quarter. We started the day with a stroll to Cafe du Monde, a French Quarter landmark. There we ate beignets (rhymes with the sports cream “ben-gay” and comes out “ben yea”) and drank coffee served the New Orleans way… with chicory in it. If you've never had either, beignets are best described as square French doughnuts and chicory is a plant that is related to the dandelion and adds a flavor to coffee that is best described as… well, it's not exactly “earthy”… and it's not quite “floral”… I'd have to say it tastes “French”. Here's a picture of our breakfast:

Note the powdered sugar. Cafe du Monde produces beignets at about the same rate the US Congress and the White House combined pump out bulls**t. I'm not sure where it's parked, but somewhere nearby is a tanker truck of powdered sugar with a big pump or compressor or something to move the sugar onto the stream of beignets at a rate generally only achieved by snow making machines at major ski areas.

So we ate, shopped, looked around and got hit by a rainstorm of biblical proportions. I'm happy to report that the French Quarter smelled much, much better after that bath. I'm not saying a scrubdown with a giant brush and a Superdome size container of Sani-flush isn't still needed… it is… however God gave the sanitation department a head start with a meaningful rinse. Thanks, God!

So this morning we pulled up stakes and continued west. New Orleans was worth seeing and having an RV park within walking distance of the French Quarter was good, but we left with a deeper sense that our purpose and joy in traveling it to get away from cities and congestion and see the small towns and open spaces of America. That makes our planned stop in Dallas in 4 days a little less to look forward to, but we'll figure that out in 4 days.

I asked Mrs. C' to indulge my curiosity as we left NOLA. After all, I had indulged hers yesterday with time spent on retail therapy. I had scoped out the restored plantations on our route and had chosen one to visit. It's Oak Alley Plantation about an hour west of New Orleans. We were there by shortly after 11:00, paid our $20/head (ok… $18 after senior discounts) and headed in. We decided not to get stuck on the 45 minute “big house tour” and instead did what I wanted to do… walked the grounds. We first came upon six recreated slave shacks (there are very few surviving, original slave shacks anywhere in the South and Oak Alley is no exception. As one might expect, the real deal was not built to last, was cherished by nobody and not maintained after the Civil War. Whatever General Sherman didn't address was taken care of by time and termites.) Here' a pic of three of the six shacks. Each has two halves and each half housed four or five people. You may write the rest of the story after digesting that:

Then we focused on the big house, or more importantly the way the big house is set on the property. It is a 3 story ante-bellum home of great splendor. Imagine that at the time it was built it was essentially a farm house. Some farm! The house sits about ½ mile from the Mississippi River and faces it. The River itself is not visible from the house because there is a 20 or 30' tall levee along the River. From the house we could hear both the horns of maritime commerce and even the engines of what must have been tugs pushing barges up river. At the time Oak Alley was a sugar plantation being worked by 130 slaves the River would have been the way material arrived and farm products left the plantation. River frontage must have been essential to the very survival of the people on the plantation. As a visitor walked from the River to the big house, here's the site that would have presented itself to tell the visitor just what type of place he was approaching:

After walking the gauntlet of oaks, the house itself welcomes the visitor:

 

After our tour and pics we went to the trailer and someone made grilled cheese sandwiches to go with the cold drinks from the fridge as a way to say thanks for the indulgence. We like taking our house wherever we go. We thought about nap time, but headed on instead.

The route alternatives from Oak Alley to Lake Fausse Pointe State Park were two. Choice 1: the shorter (by distance) southern route on state roads through Thibodaux and Morgan City or 2. the shorter (by time) interstate route through Baton Rouge. I picked 2 after looking up Morgan City on Tripadvisor to see what was hot. The top 10 things to do included the Offshore Oil Museum (#1 according to TripAdvisor), a public park and the convention and visitor's bureau along with 7 bars. The most common adjective used to describe bars in Morgan City was “biker friendly”.

Even the northern/urban route showed how important oil, gas and the Mississippi River are to Louisiana. There were terminals all along the levee on the south (west) bank of the river. These are, I believe, the places where petroleum products from the offshore rigs in the Gulf of Mexico are loaded onto ships and barges in the River and from there delivered to anywhere in the world a ship or barge can reach. There were about two terminals per mile and these were not small facilities. After that came the refineries. I think “Louisiana” may be “New Jersey of the South”. The sights reminded me of the New Jersey of my youth. Granted, modern industry smells better than it's counterpart of the 1960's. Kids today don't know what they are missing. The intense smell of hydrocarbons mixed with sulfur compounds can stick with a person for life.

We crossed the River several times today. We saw all variety of commercial shipping from vast flotillas of barges with massive River tugs to major ocean going ships of a range of types including container ships, bulk carries and tankers. It's one thing to have your seventh grade geography teacher (mine resembled Ben Stein from “Ferris Buhler's Day Off”. “Anyone?… class…”) say “The Mississippi River is the most important transportation artery in the United States”. It's another thing to actually see it. It's impressive.

On to the campground. Google Maps decided to take us on a shortcut. When you drive something the length and width of a big rig Google Maps doesn't always choose wisely. We had a wonderful tour of rural Louisiana including an area of “fish camps” (it sounds better than what they actually are… drinking shacks in the woods) every one of which had a name. Many times the sign by the road with the name was better looking and better maintained than the wreck of a 30 year old mobile home that it pointed to. We saw “the happy hookers” (with fish hooks!), the Recovery Room and many more.

At the end of fish camp row was a bridge. It had a weight limit that we just cleared. I mentioned that we are the length and width of an 18 wheeler. I didn't mention height. We are 9' 6” according to the manual. This bridge listed it's clearance as 9 ½ feet. I crawled across it watching my mirrors to see if I cleared. It looked good as I passed. Nevertheless when we stopped at the camp office 30 minutes later I took a close look to see that the AC unit was still in place atop the trailer. It was. Immediately after the bridge the road crossed a levee. This levee kept Bayou La Rose from flooding a small community that many people might have thought were prime for the flooding. But the levee was there as a sign that the government felt otherwise. Anyway, levees are steep up and steep down. When the truck reached the top of the levee I came to a complete halt. From the driver's seat I saw sky and a gravel road running along the top of the levee. “Crap” I said (edited for family reading time). “What?????” screamed Mrs. C' (edited also). “This isn't a road” I said. “Yes it is” she said. “It's straight ahead of you and goes down the hill to that major road”. With her assurance I drove truck, trailer, the two of us and two dogs into what appeared from my seat to be open space. It wasn't . The hitch cleared the crest of the hill without detaching the trailer from the truck and down we went.

When we got to the campsite we saw what we had been seeing all day. Water. Everywhere in Louisiana appears to be about 6” above standing water. Our campsite is no exception. Although we are parked on pavement 6” above swamp… er… ah… bayou, adjacent to the paved strip is a rectangle formed by four pieces of 2x8 lumber each about 8 or 10 feet long set on their edges. The outside of that box has standing water. The inside is filled with dirt. In any other part of the country this would be called a “raised planting bed” and would be filled in the summer with tomato plants, zinnias and pole beans. Here is Louisiana it is a “Tent Island” (ok… I made that up… but its a perfectly descriptive term even if not a proper name). Its the place you pitch a tent so you wake up wet rather than soaking wet. A few steps away is a small dock and 6” below the dock surface is… you guessed it… water. Here are some pics from our campsite including the Lake (or Bayou or whatever the main body of water is) and our own private "tent island":

 

I was going to put some burgers on the grill tonight. Seeing the campsite, I offered to cook indoors. We like bringing our home with us wherever we go. The locals (we call them “Swamp People” just like in the TV show… hey, that's set in Louisiana, too!) think we are strange.

Tomorrow on to Lake Charles Louisiana and Sam Houston Jones State Park. No plans for sightseeing, but in Louisiana who knows what we'll see!

Later 'gators!

SC'

The Big Easy

Bonsoir, Campers! J'ecrite ce soir… oh… I forgot… you're not in New Orleans, and I'm still in the 'US of A'… thankfully!

It's Silver Cliche' here, writing to you this evening from the French Quarter RV Resort in New Orleans, Louisiana. That's right, NOLA, the Big Easy, the Crescent City! Been here 6 hours already and first impressions are that the place needs a good cleaning (I think Tidy Bowl might address most of the smells we encountered in the French Quarter. If that doesn't do it then I'd try lye or acetone.) and some property owners who own at least one paintbrush for every missing tooth.

That said, this place is the site of the original social network. It's obvious that there are three types of people here: 1.) people who are here to party. They are seen on the streets drinking as they walk from bar to club to bar to club. The drink in their hand is to make sure they don't lose any time or buzz between venues. 2.) the people who serve the people who are here to party. That includes of course the waiters, bartenders, musicians, hookers and police. Each of those groups is visible in approximately equal numbers during the daylight hours. I can only guess after dark and 3. people who are here to watch group 1 and group 2. Guess which group Mrs. C' and I are in?

You may recall I'm on an “authenticity” kick. I'd give NOLA high marks for authenticity. Sure, you can say it's a fake French town. To that I'd say 'peut etre'. I think its truly being itself. It's too busy and strained doing that to try being anything else. Here, let me show you a couple of shots of street scenes…

 

 

and here's Jackson Square and the St. Louis Cathedral. It's believed that the east face of the Cathedral shown here would photograph beautifully in the morning sun but that has not been proven since nobody in New Orleans has been both awake and sober enough to try it...

and finally some random house that just seemed to capture the French Quarter…

So, we ate, walked around, saw many types of people (the homeless are highly visible here as are a wide variety of free spirits. ok… profoundly strange people). We saw a guy in black clothing whose face was painted red and he had horns riding a bicycle and pausing to have strangers photograph their girl standing next to him. You don't see that in Vero Beach!

More on NOLA tomorrow. We have another day off the road and have time to explore.

How'd we get here, you ask? Today was the longest driving day of the whole trip. Based on availability here at the FQRV resort we almost two days of driving in one. Naturally we took the fastest route rather than then most scenic. That was I-10. We hit 4 states today (also a high for the trip). Leaving Santa Rosa Beach we continued west across the Florida panhandle. We passed Pensacola and the huge military presence in that area. Of course the Navy is big in Pensacola, but also Eglin AFB is there. The trip odometer read 640 miles total since we left Vero Beach when we rolled into Alabama. It's hard to believe you its that far to the edge of Florida from where we live. Its a big state. We zoomed past storied places in Alabama. Of course there is Mobile (that's pronounced like the Cleveland Browns defensive tackle from the 1960's Moe Beel. OK, I made that part up. I am not sure there was a Moe Beel, but there might have been and if there was he would have played DT and it would have been in Cleveland.) If you ask someone in Alabama how to get to Moe Beel then you'd go where we went. If you ask how to get to Mo-bull then they'll send you to a gas station and if you say “can you tell me how to find Mo-bile then you'll get directions to a cell phone store. You've got to know how to talk 'Bama to get around there. We also passed Bayou La Batre where Forest Gump learned shrimpin'. Then on to Mississippi with I-10 places including Biloxi and Pascagoula. I have no idea what happens in Pascagoula but it rolls off the tongue like undercooked biscuits and I like trying to say it. We also drove through the NASA Stennis Space Center and Gulfport and saw endless marshes and all sorts of waterfrontage.

After 3+ hours we reached Louisiana. It started out totally rural. 20 minutes or more later the extended sprawl of a major city kicked in. Then we crossed Lake Pontchartrain (I started singing Hank William's Sr. songs until I was asked to stop by my 'ma cher amio') and 'bam!' New Orleans. This is literally the first time ever that we have stayed in a commercial campground. Its very clean, well kept and expensive. While we have one of the classier rigs at most state parks (new, shiny, etc.) here we are the low end (a travel trailer set among massive motorhomes, some costing well over $1M including the Prevost across from us).

OK… its been a long day. Tomorrow we'll put on our clothespins (for the nose) and head back in to the French Quarter. I'm hoping to down a beignet or three and hear some music. Tune in tomorrow for news of that!

Au revoir…

SC'

Genuine Seaside

Evening, Campers! Silver Cliche' here writing for the second day in a row from Grayton Beach State Park in Santa Rosa Beach, Florida.

We had our first day off the road on this trip and spent it close to “home” (a term we use to refer to wherever the Airstream happens to be parked at the time). Just three or four miles down County Road 30A from our campsite is a place we have known of for almost 20 years – Seaside – but had never visited. It is one of the preeminent examples of a style of community planning and development known as “the new urbanism”. It was designed in the early 1980's by the architecture and urban planning firm of Duany Plater-Zyberk from Miami. We know of Seaside because we lived for 10 years in another community they designed around 1990 – the Kentlands in Gaithersburg, MD. Both of these communities draw inspiration from small towns from the early history of our country. They mix residential, commercial and retail space in close proximity – specifically within walking distance of one another. They provide small lot sizes for individual residences but ample park and community space to avoid a congested, claustrophobic feeling. Both use small, narrow streets and alleys to slow traffic and provide hidden access to the less appealing aspects of life such as parking and trash removal.

If you've shared our journeys before you may recall that a common theme for my daily musings is “authenticity”. I recall spending days railing against that pinnacle of disingenuity -- Jackson, WY. On the other end of the spectrum were places like Cabool, MO which is a small town that appears to aspire to absolutely nothing and achieves far beyond its aspiration. I was prepared to place Seaside close to Jackson on the “Silver Cliche' authenticity scale”. I was wrong. It is clearly a new community. It clearly draws inspiration from seaside towns of 100 years ago. But it doesn't pretend to be them. While Jackon has a Disney-esque facade that attempts to convince the visitor that it is authentic, then surprises them with tee-shirt shops and new age stores inside, Seaside is exactly what it appears to be. It is modern, the portions we visited were unabashedly commercial but didn't pretend to be anyhing else. It works. Both Mrs. C' and I shared that feeling. In fact she summed it up best. Seaside, she observed, fits the place and the role it set out to fill. It is what it appears to be.

Here are some sights from Seaside. A series of repurposed Airstream trailers create an outdoor food court. We enjoyed sandwiches from the one on the right of the upper frame. The white building behind it with the large American flag is the town post office.

Here a commercial pedestrian street with an iron gate at the end and a park beyond:

 

 

Here a group of condos on the Gulf of Mexico at sunset.

We had dinner at a restaurant in Seaside (including probably the best fried green tomatoes I've ever had) and called it a day. Here at the park where we are camped is a beach open to park visitors and campers. We stopped to take the last pic of the day before calling it quits to go home. Here it is:

So, tomorrow we leave Florida and have one of the few long driving days of the trip (a choice driven by the camping options available downstream). 4:20 of driving to New Orleans. We'll try to hit the road by about 9:00 to go from this place that is pretty much what it appears to a place that is legendary for being precisely what it appears to be. So, until tomorrow from the French Quarter…

SC'

Into the Redneck Riviera

Howdy, Campers! It's Silver Cliche' again. Writing tonight from beautiful Santa Rosa Beach, Florida.

Reflecting on the day, I realized that I often share a perspective on where we are, the history of the area, geography, community, appearance, and even geology. I don't believe I've ever shared how we find these places or how we live on the road. Since today would be known in journalism circles as “a slow news day” this seems the perfect time to share thoughts about that.

The years leading up to Mrs. C' and I becoming the cliche's we are today were hectic. For four years we were planning our retirement and relocation to Florida from Maryland. In those years we moved (slowly at first, then with a flurry) ourselves and family 8 times. Three of those moves were within Maryland, three to Florida and two within Vero Beach. Even after we retired we threw in one more for good luck. For me, traveling was utilitarian. It was something to be achieved quickly, safely and with a distinct purpose. I believe I made 30 round trips between the DC area and Vero Beach, FL in those four years. All of the 60 one-way passages of I-95 during those years were done in a single shot. Twenty or more of those one-way trips were done with a trailer behind my truck. I believe I stopped for gas at every exit on I-95 between Woodbridge, VA and Cocoa, FL. I have been driving on I-95 somewhere between Washington and Vero Beach at literally every hour of the day and night at some point or another. So, travel for me was something one approached with a purpose and a vengeance.

Along comes the Airstream. This seemed like the perfect excuse to slow down and smell the roses. Instead of driving 900+ miles in a single stretch we could slow waaaaayyyyyy down and drive maybe 300 or 400 miles. That's only 5 or 6 or 7 hours. Except 6 driving hours translates to about 9 clock hours by the time you factor in gas stops, traffic slow downs, potty breaks, dog walks and lunch. That means leave the campground at 9 and get to the next one to set up camp at 6. That means start prepping at 8 AM and don't eat until 8 PM then go to bed and start all over again the next day. That sounds a lot like work and work is what we had retired to get away from! That's roughly how we brought the trailer home from New Jersey in October, 2014. Given Mrs. C's professional training and experience, I received a good amount of feedback and counseling about the effect my particular style of trip planning effected those around me. For that, I am of course thankful. Evidently not everyone believes 9 hours on the road is a break from the rigors of travel. I came to understand that after the first trip.

Along comes the second major trip in the Airstream. Yellowstone, 2015. A chance for redemption for this planner-of-trips. This time we would drive no more than 4 hours a day (making six clock hours from camp-to-camp). Better yet, we would spend at least one day per week while transiting to our destination in place… anyplace… no travel whatsoever… a chance to rub elbows with the locals wherever we happened to be. That worked out better, but still required an iron butt and a love of learning about America through a pattern of bug splotches on the Trunda's windshield.

Trip three, fall 2015 to Buffalo, Maryland and down the Atlantic coast. Now its 3-4 hours with 1 or two stops per week. Getting better… not quite there yet.

So, on the planning for this trip we targeted 3 driving hours on days we move and two days per week off the road. So far, so good. It gives us more time to meander or explore on travel days and more time to sightsee and decompress. Today and tomorrow fit that pattern. We hung around reading and drinking coffee at Ochlockonee River until well after 10:00. When we hit the road we took the slightly longer route along the Gulf shore versus the faster route on the Interstate. It was well worth the extra time. We also have our first day off tomorrow (day 4 of the trip) then will travel one day and have another day off in New Orleans.

Today's trip as I said above followed the shore route. It was interesting to see how the communities along the beach here in the Florida Panhandle differ from our beachside community on the Atlantic coast. The type, density and even construction of houses here differs considerably from the Atlantic. Among other things, they build on stilts here like they do in the Outer Banks and the Florida Keys. We don't see that in Vero Beach. In many areas we were on a main road and there were single building lots (maybe 150 to 200' deep) between the road and the shore each with a single house on it. I could see a TV show set in those areas. It could be called “Little cottage on the beach and the highway”. An actor like Michael Landon could be raising a flock of kids while alternately praising God's bounty from the sea and cursing the traffic noise. Naw… I think Gilbert Godfrey might be a better choice.

So as we roamed along on a beautiful Florida Panhandle April day (high of 82 degrees, sunny and breezy) practicing comparative Florida architectural criticism we suddenly found a gem. Apalachicola, Florida was near the mid point of our day. What a pretty little seaside (ok… Gulfside) town. It's town center was small, older, lovingly cared for and (unfortunately) mostly closed on a Sunday after the seasonal people have moved back home. In Florida, any place that actually has an identifiable town center is rare. Urban planning here generally follows the Johnny Appleseed method… let a random passerby scatter seeds everywhere and lets see which ones grow. Apalachicola was not cast in that mold. Also, the best of Florida is generally quite new. The sub-average parts of Florida date from the 1960's and 70's. Apalachicola looks like its from the 1920s or even earlier. This is the sort of charm one might associate with Cape May, NJ or some coastal town in New England where people still carve scrimshaw… not Florida. But there it was.

From there things got worse (that was predictable… they couldn't have gotten much better as far as a delightful Sunday drive goes). We passed through Port St. Joe, Tyndall Air Force Base and the gleaming rhinestone in the buckle of the redneck beach belt… Panama City! The good news about Panama City is you can get a tattoo while waiting for your transmission repair then eat sushi without leaving the strip mall where you stopped for a bottle of Southern Comfort and a new handgun. What a town!

Thanks to the time change (we are in CDT now!) we got to the campsite at Grayton Beach State Park by mid afternoon. We thought about running right over to Seaside but decided to lay low for the evening and do that tomorrow (you see… the shorter driving days are having their effect!). So, I tried something new. This trip I brought a baking stone for the grill. I made up a batch of scratch bread dough, left it outside (but covered) to rise and beat it senseless into pancakes to toss on the wicked hot baking stone. 10 minutes later… voila!… campground pita! I think it went quite well with some avocado/tomato/mozzarella salad. Here, take a look at the bread:

Ok, Campers. That's the story of how 1,000 mile driving days became 130 mile driving days and how that allowed us to find Apalachicola and fresh pita from a camp grill.

Tomorrow we explore Seaside and (I hope) wash the dogs… its getting a bit ripe in the truck with them all day.

Later,

SC

americountry

Evenin' campers! SilverCliche' here checking in tonight from Sopchoppy, Florida (with apologies for calling it “Slopchoppy” last night… oh well!)

We're rapidly settling back into life on the road. We woke up to a Florida April morning with thin fog, temps in the low 60s and the sound of a crow in a tree above the Airstream. Given that we had windows and both roof hatches open for ventilation, it sounded more like the crow was in the trailer. And April in Florida at 60 degrees means wet and humid. Every soft surface including linens and clothing feels like it spent 5 minutes too few in the clothes dryer. We ran the coffee pot and settled into the recliners for the first good test since they were installed. Ahhhhhh…. And we started the morning reading. The combination of fresh coffee, reading and no particular plans for the day drove the distraction of dampness right out of my head.

Eventually we got tired of leisure and caffeine (after several hours!). I generally plan the route during that time of day if we have travel ahead. Tripadvisor is a great tool to scout out interesting things to see or do en route and especially any places to eat. Today was not typical. Scouring the route from Dunnellon to Sopchoppy was easy enough. Finding a place to eat was easy enough (Deals Famous Oyster House in Perry, FL won our business) but finding interesting things to do was not so easy.

As we began the drive it hit me. We've been here before. We've seen this place. We've passed through the interstellar wasteland that is the space between our country's bright and shining spots. At one point I asked Mrs. C' “If you just woke up from a coma and looked outside could you tell me what state we are in?” (Take it easy out there… that coma thing is just a thought experiment… no actual comas are involved in this travelogue… plus, if Mrs. C' was in a coma the last place I'd have her is in the front seat of the truck driving between Dunnellon and Sopchoppy… I'd have her at the Mayo Clinic and I wouldn't be asking if she knew where we were driving… I'd be asking “Doctor… when will she emerge from this frickin' coma?”… and when she did emerge I'd ask “Honey… it's me… are you ok?”… but for today the imaginary coma created the necessary mind clearing scenario for my question… I'll be more thoughtful next time.) Back to our story… she responded “I don't know… Maryland?… Arkansas?… Nebraska?… Kentucky?” My suspicions were confirmed. There is a certain sameness to portions of rural America that appears in every state we've visited. There are long stretches of flat ground crisscrossed by two lane State highways (with three foot paved shoulders!) bordered by fields in which no marketable crop is growing and backed by stands of trees that looks the same everywhere. These stretches are interrupted occasionally by a crossroads or even a small settlement. Those locations inevitably included a traffic light that is flashing yellow in our direction, a permanently closed gas station (if the last price per gallon sign is still visible I try to guess in what year the last gallon was pumped) and generally ¼ mile past the intersection a “courtell” (roadside motel) of about 10 rooms each of which has its own parking spot and a door facing the main road and which is either abandoned or one room appears to be occupied by (presumably) the owner of the establishment. There are occasionally other forms to be seen. A shuttered storefront (farm implements? auto parts?) a working US Post Office the size of a one car garage and the magnet of any place two paved roads with double yellow lines intersect in middle America a very busy Dollar General store! I realized we've seen this over and over and over. Perhaps some of you know this already. Maybe that's why you wave and say “have a good trip!” when we leave. I'm thinking some of you prefer to read this rather than taking the trip because you realize what I'm about to say. These stretches of American pavement are endlessly boring. That's where we spent the day and those bastards at Tripadvisor saw it coming and all they had to offer us was an Oyster House!

I've decided these segments of America need a name. Everything that is common and annoying has a name. Think about it: mosquito, Federal Income Tax, television commercial, teenage years. Doesn't the repeating pattern of boring, rural American sameness deserve the same honor? If we name it then we can use that name in conversation and nod knowingly as our friends and acquaintances tell us what happened to them. So, I propose “americountry”. Let me use it in dialogue:

My friend said “Silver Cliche' you look horrible. What happened to you?”. “Mrs. C' and I spent nearly three hours today trying to get through a wicked stretch of americountry” I replied. “That accounts for it.” he answered “At first I thought you had pneumonia, but I realized you look way too bad for that. Hours stuck in americountry makes way more sense."

So that's how we spent the day. Stuck in amercountry (Note that the “a” is not capitalized. It doesn't deserve to be.)

There were a couple of interesting things to see today. I told you I'd look to get a panorama of the Rainbow River in Dunnellon if the sun allowed this morning. It did (after it dispatched the fog) and here's what that looks like:

I wish you could see how clear that water is and how quickly it was moving from right to left in the frame. A very peaceful spot.

Tonight we are camped in Ochlockonee River State Park on the banks of the Ochlockonee River (duh!). The Ochlockonee (It's most accurately pronounced with a distinct clearing of the throat. Try it. Just don't make the mistake I did. Turn away from your loved ones for the first three attempts.) While the Rainbow River was a short sprint of clear water rising from the Floridan aquifer through a natural spring, the Ochlo… oh to hell with it… “the 'O'”… seems to be comprised of water that didn't make it into the aquifer. The river is a distinct red color where it is shallow enough to see through at all. It's quite wide, meandering, eroding the land and dropping the trees that stood on its banks. Here, look at this:

Those roots were once in soil and that tree will soon be in the river. For you, my reader (or, hopefully, 'readers') I climbed out onto that tree to take the panorama below. Don't tell Mrs. C' (she generally doesn't read the blog. I give her a summary as we drive through americountry the next day) that I risked a drop into the blood red waters of the “O” to bring you this pic. She might drop into a coma if she knew. Here it is:

So, that's our trip for today. Tomorrow we head to Destin, FL. We've both wanted to see a community in that area called Seaside. We owned and for 10 years lived in the first house built in its sister development “the Kentlands” in Gaithersburg, MD. You may have seen Seaside. It was the location chosen for the filming of the Jim Carey movie “The Truman Show” about 15 years ago or so. On the way to Destin we will follow the coast, see the Gulf and escape americountry with a stop in Panama City (Florida that is).

Until then…

SC'

Back on the road... finally!

Evenin' Campers! It's Silver Cliche' here. Writing tonight from Dunnellon, Florida and Rainbow Springs State Park.

Finally! On our way to the Grand Canyon. It wasn't a travel day that will be remembered in the “family travel hall of fame”. We got off a bit late, leaving was less than graceful, we hit rain and made a wrong turn (the GPS did it… but I was the one who wound up piloting a 14,000 pound vehicle out the entrance road to the wrong half of the state park we were seeking) but we are now three hours from home and that means three hours closer to Arizona and Utah. It seems like a good time to quote Neil Armstrong (“That's one small step… ) or Lao Tzu (“A journey of a thousand miles… ) since our modest journey today is hopefully the start of a much bigger adventure.

So... Rainbow Springs… Dunnellon… what's that about? Well, geographically we are about 100 miles northwest from Orlando. Said another way, we are 20 miles west-southwest of Ocala. The springs for which the park is named and around which it is built are in the other half of the park (the part that clearly needs a different name on Google maps and better “one way” signage). We are 2 miles down stream from there camping near the Rainbow River. There is an unseen, but dominant, geologic force in this part of Florida. It's the Floridan Aquifer. Essentially an underground lake that gets its immense supply of water from the abundant rainfall in this area. The water moves through cracks, channels and vast openings in the limestone that underlays this part of the state. It is crystal clear water in unimaginable quantity and it is slowly flowing through a Swiss cheese matrix of stone. This moving water is ever so slightly acidic. That acid erodes the limestone and every once in a while that erosion pops through the surface of the earth to form a spring. Unfortunately, that same phenomenon occasionally forms a sinkhole that gobbles up a home, busy intersection or fast food restaurant parking lot with the same intensity I use to attack a hot, gooey s'more. But let's look at the bright side. This area is dotted with natural springs that roughly form a pattern like a lower case “h”. It's a big “h” with the top of the tall stroke in southern Georgia, the bottom north of Tampa and the bottom right near Orlando. We are just about where the arch joins the tall stroke. Rainbow Springs itself is the fourth largest spring in Florida based on water flow. It emits between 400 million and 600 million gallons of crystal clear water at 73 degrees Fahrenheit every day. Hey, California! Need some water? That steady flow produces the Rainbow River that moves pretty quickly for about 5 or 6 miles before joining some other river with a Seminole name that I couldn't pronounce or remember… I think it ends in “…ahatchie”.

Anyway, that's where we are as the geologist sees it. What may be more interesting is where we are as the sociologist sees it. Do you remember the movie “Cars”? I do. I always will. I can still quote lines from it. It hit DVD at precisely the time when my little buddy Gavin (grandson #3 and my frequent companion) was ready to declare it would replace “Gone With the Wind” as the greatest movie of all time. He was 3. If you are not acquainted, it's a Pixar animated story about a hotshot race car who falls off his 18 wheeler en route to his next big race and lands in a podunk southwestern town called Radiator Springs. Now, Radiator Springs wasn't always the capital of podunk. It was a hopping place once when Route 66 ran down its main street. That changed when the Interstate went through and diverted the lifeblood of Radiator Springs along a different artery. No lifeblood, no life. Dunnellon is the Radiator Springs of Florida. Even its main attraction – Rainbow Springs – recalls the setting of the movie “Cars”. Eerie. From the 1930's onward, traffic along US 41 passed right by Rainbow Springs. It was developed as a tourist attraction including glass bottom boats, watersports and even a sightseeing submarine… a frickin' submarine! Then came I-75 and a new attraction to the south – one with a famous mouse. The lifeblood was gone from Dunnellon. The attractions eventually closed and the state parks department took over where commercial ventures had folded.

Signs of this history are all around if you look for them. I took a walk around and went down to the river before dinner. Here's a single frame from the dock about ¼ mile from the campsite:

Just to drive home the point about the past versus present of Radiat… er… I mean… Rainbow Springs, here's a pic of the swimming pool:

I could continue, but I'm ready to crash. Suffice it to say that our hotshot race car in “Cars” underestimated the power that Radiator Springs and its people had to inform and transform him. He came out the better man… or car… or car-man… for the experience. Hopefully this place has that power to illuminate us and all who visit and connect with it.

I hope to get a better set of pics of the Rainbow River in the morning light. The flat gray sky this evening just wasn't what I needed to capture the place and share it with you.

Oh, one last thing. Every now and then I see something that just calls out to me. As I was walking back from the river I saw this mound of chain with some padlocks in it sitting by the edge of the road near what looked like a bus shelter. I wondered how it got there, so I took a pic. I think I'll call it “Houdini was here”.

After months of planning and prep work, a few hours on the road and a bunch of relief to be underway I'm ready to call it a night! Tune in tomorrow when we'll be at Ochlockonee River State Park in Slopchoppy, FL (no… seriously).

Later,

SC