Thursday, July 04, 2013

The Wrong Place for Lunch

PLATTSMOUTH, Nebraska—It was hunger that lured us off the highway and into the Twilight Zone.

After exiting Kansas, we found ourselves in Nebraska and a state of immediate unease. Previous encounters in The Cornhusker State had placed the region on our least favorite list, but hunger pangs after a delayed start to our travels lured us like a siren's song into Plattsmouth—home to Mom's Café, ostensibly a purveyor of decent road food, according to at least one travel guide. Against my better judgment, I steered toward Plattsmouth's "Historic Main Street." We joined a cavalcade of highway traffic that had been diverted onto the narrow quarter mile of what at one time must have been a proud center of commerce in the nascent days of Plattsmouth history.

Plattsmounth, Nebraska, Main Street
We got out of the car and stretched our legs. My lingering knee injury had rendered me stiff and hobbled, and the swelling from the bee sting in my eye had become serious enough to blur my vision. Upon exiting the vehicle, we were overwhelmed by the sounds of Doris Day blaring out of loudspeakers mounted on every refurbished retro lamppost inhabiting the downtown district. Even stranger than the anachronistic tune itself, was the fact that every 30 seconds or so a semi-truck applying its Jake brakes would drown out the Les Brown band, despite the music's volume, which had been cranked up to the point of distortion.

"What is this place?" I shouted above the din, as Doris Day faded to Tommy Dorsey punctuated by staccato strains of tractor trailer speed control. Caroline shrugged and pointed down the street.

Mom's Café beckoned. It seemed a suitable refuge from the madness manifesting in front of our eyes. I hobbled down the street to the café to secure a table while Caroline secured the bikes. Although a steady stream of vehicles had been diverted onto the street, ours was the only one that had stopped. Storekeepers gathered at the entrances to their stores and pressed their noses to the glass, watching us hungrily without subtlety. A man hauling a long hose from his truck to the back entrance to the eatery informed me that Mom's closes up at 2 p.m. on Mondays, so I was out of luck.

Mushroom Rock in Kansas, which really has nothing to do with this story
I had to pee so bad that I was sporting wood. I clapped my hand over my crotch and spun around in place so I could hightail it back to the car. I was almost run down by a semi as I crossed the street. I was certain that every person in Plattsmouth was evaluating my stiffee as I danced in place waiting for the truck to pass, hoping that my old prostate hadn't lost pee-arresting powers. I realized I wasn't going to be able to hold out much longer. My eyes darted back and forth and my brain registered the word BAR. I jogged for the wooden front door despite the protests from my knees.

"Can I use your restroom Mr.? Please?"

The man behind the bar used a voice box to answer in the affirmative. Then he picked up his cigarette and turned toward the television. I hustled into the water closet.

Although the bathroom was as cleaner than any I've ever seen during years of travel, the smell of urine was overpowering—as if every generation of Plattsmouth men from the year 1896 forward had peed on the floor daily and the wallboard had stepped in to soak up the mess. I gagged. I finished my business and shook extra carefully to ensure that none of my urine would mix with the angry ghost urine that was haunting the place.

The bartender offered me several suggestions about where to eat with his fuzzy Mr. Roboto voice. We decided to try the restaurant at the historic hotel up the street. Other than a family of plump misfits with dirty hands and angry scowls, we were the only customers. Our waitress was pretty and blonde and couldn't have been more than 20 years old. We overheard her tell the other table that she and her husband had divorced and the she had stopped allowing her kids to visit him because they were not being fed during the previous visits. I searched my memory to match the waitress's face with one of the featured kids on MTV's hit reality series, "Teen Mom." I didn't recognize her as one of the regular cast members.

Strangely enough, Caroline's reuben sandwich was the best she'd ever eaten—a life-changing experience, the pretty waitress had said—but we were distracted by the parade of trucks outside and the endless selection of down-and-out country music hits blaring inside. We left a generous tip and stepped back out onto the diesel-scented street, where Louis Armstrong was saying to himself, "What a Wonderful World."

Our route out of town led us across the Missouri River by way of a toll bridge, a final Nebraska insult. I hadn't seen a toll booth in years, and for all we knew, a family of hobos had taken up residence inside an old Tough Shed at the end of the bridge and had come up with an innovative plan for securing some Fourth of July drinkin' money. But when we arrived at the booth, the guy in front of the shack was wearing a safety vest, so I figured everything was on the level. I paid the man at the toll booth the buck and a quarter he demanded.

"Do I get a gumball or something?" I asked as I plopped my money into his hand.

Later that night we ate at Happy Chef in Mankato, Minnesota
"Come on out of there and I'll give you something," he said, pantomiming a kick to my nuts.

On the other side of the bridge we were in Iowa. The birds were chirping and motorists were smiling once again. We turned on the radio and it was playing Rock 'n' Roll music. Good Rock 'n' Roll music. We were free of Nebraska once again!

See you on down the road.

Wednesday, July 03, 2013

The greening of the highway

SOMEWHERE in Kansas—The farther away we traveled from New Mexico, the greener it became.

Weeds taking over a highway
Our route out of the Land of Enchantment took us through Clayton, where we stopped briefly for a bite to eat at the old Hotel Eklund. Our former neighbors had taken ownership of the place a few years earlier, and they were surprised to see us stroll through the lobby. New Mexico legislator Sen. Tim Keller had scheduled a pre-election campaign stop there as well, so we enjoyed a final taste of New Mexico red chile as the Senator was courted by lobbyists seeking to change the economic development fortunes of the depressed and dry region.

A while later we traveled a stretch of some of the most decrepit and lonely road we’d ever seen in New Mexico. Despite the lack of moisture, healthy green weeds were encroaching on the shoulder of the highway as Mother Nature struggled to wrestle back what mankind had stolen from her. Soon the cardboard colored landscape began to soften somewhat. Wisps of green began to take hold among the stalks of dry brown failure, and we knew we had reached Kansas.

The house of the old Dalton Gang
Our travels in the Sunflower State took us along the path of the old Santa Fe Trail, the Mormon Trail and then later, the Lewis and Clark Trail. Out here in Meade, Kansas, we stumbled upon a fine little  barbecue joint called the Smoke Hoss.  With bellies full of smoked pig, we searched for the hideout of the old Dalton Gang—the fearsome train and bank robbers who swore they’d outdo Jesse James. Though the Dalton escape tunnel was closed for the day, we still managed to get a picture of the outlaw gang's house.

A little ways past that blood-streaked landmark, we came across a town unlike any other we had seen in Kansas so far.

Instead of being dotted with small square farm houses and a strip of drab main street, Greensburg, Kansas, was punctuated with new hip-looking houses with solar panels and energy producing windmills. The town’s main street was a redeveloped strip of tasteful shops and buildings. The modern stone-and-glass architecture was easy on the eyes and definitely incongruous to the rest of the Midwest.

We drove down the refurbished area with awe and wonder as we searched for the Big Well—the community’s tourist draw, and reportedly the largest hand-dug well in the United States. Across the street from the Big Well, we encountered a marvelous building made entirely of glass. The panes surrounded huge wooden timbers.

The Big Well, left, seen though sculpture
“What kind of place is this?” I wondered. “Is it some funky community that was taken over by artists?”

We would learn a day later that Greensburg had literally been wiped off the map in 2007 by a giant tornado. The mile-wide funnel cloud had obliterated every structure except the grain elevator and killed more than a dozen people. The former community of 1,600 was transformed to rubble in an afternoon. Many of the residents fled and never came back.

But the 700 people who now live in the community decided to rebuild Greensburg as a “Green” community. Modern houses capitalize on alternative energy sources and everything in town makes a nod toward sustainability. Like that strip of land in New Mexico that had been asphalted over, Greensburg is slowly sprouting out of catastrophe to rise again from the fertile dirt.

There are surprises and wonders to be found everywhere.

See you on down the road.

Tuesday, July 02, 2013

For amber waves of grain

Junction City, Kansas—We were saved from an expensive speeding ticket by an Atomic Cannon.

Gluten free ain't heard around here.
Driving on back roads through golden fields of waving wheat and emerald stalks of ripening corn, it's easy to become mesmerized by the comforting hum of tires on old asphalt. Just as the speedometer needle crept past 70 miles an hour on the long, straight stretch of rural road we were traveling just west of Junction City, Caroline saw the state trooper. We could feel the radar waves penetrate the windshield and slam into our chests, elevating our heatbeats. We were busted!

The amiable cop introduced himself and asked Caroline if she knew why he had pulled her over.

"Yes," she said unambiguously.

"You were speeding," the cop said. Caroline nodded. "Do you know by how much?"

"No," Caroline said honestly. "What is the speed limit around here anyway?"

"55," the cop answered with a slight smirk. "You were going 71. Pretty fast. Where are you headed, anyway?"

"Junction City," Caroline said solemnly.

"And you didn't take the Interstate?" he asked.
The Atomic Cannon at Freedom Park in Junction City

"We're on our way to see the Atomic Cannon," I piped up, handing the proof of insurance card over to Caroline.

"You folks really are from out of town, aren't you?" the cop asked.

We both nodded in unison.

"Well, sit tight and I'll write this up and get you back on your way in a few minutes."

The cop reappeared sometime later with a yellow slip of paper in hand. Caroline and I had been taking bets during his absence of how big the fine would be. $100? $250? More? Who knew? It had been 25 years since either of us had gotten a ticket.

He handed Caroline a warning and asked her to slow down from now on.

"Wow! Thanks!" we both said brightly.

"Enjoy your visit," the cop said with a smile.

About 15 minutes later we were in Junction city staring up at the top of a huge hill. The Atomic Cannon sat overlooking the highway as a testament to the utter insanity of a bygone era.

Atomic Cannons had been deployed across Europe during the Cold War. They were designed to deliver an artillery round about one-foot in diameter to a target 20 miles away. The big difference between this gun and other giant artillery installations, however, was that the Atomic Cannon was designed to hurl a nuclear warhead with a 15-kiloton yield—a payload about equal to what was dropped on Hiroshima at the end of World War II. 


Atomic Cannon, Grable shot, May 25, 1953
The gun was fired only once—in Nevada on May 25, 1953, as part of the Upshot-Knothole test series. The Grable shot proved that devastating nuclear weapons could be delivered effectively from the battlefield if needed. I suppose someone, somewhere can take comfort in that fact.

Fort Riley—the home of the Big Red 1, the Army's 1st Infantry Division—is custodian of the Atomic Cannon. There are just three of them left in the world. The others reside in Oklahoma and Maryland [Editor's Note: I am told that there are more than three still in existence, with one more residing at the National Atomic Museum in Albuquerque, N.M.].

As we scrambled up the steep hill, my knees screamed like an incoming artillery round. I squinted with my one good eye toward the summit, which was still a good distance away. When we finally reached the top, the seriousness of the relic at hand was juxtaposed with the excited chatter of two young boys who were clambering all over the stern steel beast. Their father patiently answered questions about how the weapon worked, as the boys made explosion noises. For a generation that never got to see a mushroom cloud or feel the dread of protracted conflict, the sight of the cannon must have been as exciting as it was to the handful of military Top Brass who gathered at Frenchman's Flat in Nevada to watch the weapon unleash its uncompromising promise of mass destruction.

Road trips allow us to get back in touch with our nation's journey through history so we can better understand how we arrived at our current destination. The Atomic Cannon reminds us of the lengths humans will go to when they feel threatened. Perhaps that Kansas State Police officer knew this when he let us go on our way unhindered.

See you on down the road!

Monday, July 01, 2013

The Sting of the Road

LAWRENCE, Kansas—I woke up blind in one eye in a hotel far from home, wondering what my unexpected affliction would mean for our continuing journey through the Midwest.

Ice takes down the swelling somewhat
Adding to the uncertainty was the grim fact that my knees had been crippled from overuse, so it took a good two minutes of excruciatingly painful hobbling in pitch-dark, unfamiliar surroundings before I was able to get to a mirror to assess the damage to my eyesight. Swaying unsteadily back and forth in front of the bathroom mirror, the full extent of the horror came slowly into focus—the bad eye was ensconced behind grossly swollen rolls of eyelid tissue. The skin had puffed up to the point of translucency, and the lids were wedged together so tightly that my eyelashes were invisible. A slight crust had taken hold in the outer corner. It was worse than I thought, though not unexpected.

Just 24 hours earlier, my traveling companion and I had watched the sun rise over the Switchgrass Mountain Bike Trail just north of Wilson, Kansas. The trail was recently listed as an IMBA Epic, and we were anxious to try some new trails in someplace other than Utah or Colorado. Admittedly, our initial expectations for the trail were way off. The photos we had seen showed ribbons of smooth singletrack trail cutting through calm Kansas grasslands. In reality, however, the trail moves in and out of extremely rugged sections of Dakota Sandstone formations, so the riding was tedious and slow. We had also been warned of an abundance of ticks on the trails, so we had slathered ourselves with a thick layer of DEET before our ride. The chemical smell drowned out the pleasant pastoral odors of Kansas farmland that had soothed us along our previous daylong journey.

Kansas prairie riding!
After riding and walking through a few of the more-gnarly sections, the initial trail panic subsided. We relaxed a bit and began to settle in to the rhythm of the trail, which is a labyrinth of tight switchbacks, rocky descents, rock-armored ascents and ribbons of satisfying smoothness. During one short period of carefree riding—a serpentine section of smooth dirt that descended toward the lake below—I was suddenly jarred out of my zen-like riding stupor by a sharp smack to the corner of my face. I was overwhelmed by a frantic, angry buzzing, accompanied by the alarming sensation of exoskeletal legs clawing at the corner of my right eye.

"Good God!" my mind shrieked, "what kind of hellish tragedy is this?"

I struggled to maintain my concentration to keep the bike on the trail as I wound quickly through the terrain. As I grappled to reason what had happened, it suddenly became obvious that some giant bug had flown into the tight space between my sunglasses and face, and now it was struggling to escape!

The volume of the buzzing and the size of the creature's legs clawing at my tender face flesh made me first believe that I had been assaulted by a giant prairie grasshopper, and that the worse thing that could happen would be that the corner of my eye and the side of my face would be covered with an abundance of tobacco juice and maybe a small yellow stain of bug guts.

But then the stinging began.

After feeling the fourth one, which was dangerously close to the corner of my eye, I let out an audible howl—one that Caroline would later tell me was so loud and girlish that she though she was hearing a bikini-clad tween tipping over on a jet ski in the lake below. With the bike still descending out of control, I grabbed the brakes hard and skidded to a stop in an uncontrolled blind panic. Thankfully I did not go over the bars. I ripped my sunglasses off of my face and saw a dark object fall to the ground at my feet. A sensation of prickly fire gripped the right side of my face.

Sucker stung me three times in one spot and drew blood
"Sweet stinging Jesus!" I screamed as Caroline rode up with a look of concern. "What the fuck is that!" I pointed at the ground at the giant black mass wriggling in the dirt below.

"Holy shit!" she exclaimed. "Is your eye bleeding?"

I put my glasses back on to take a look at my attacker just as Caroline's words registered in my head. I jerked the glasses back off and pointed the side of my face at her nose.

"Am I bleeding?"

"A little bit. What is that thing?"

I put my glasses back on, tipped the bug over with the toe of my shoe and gasped. It was a bumble bee!

But it wasn't just any bumble bee. It was a giant Kansas prairie bumble bee with a body as big as my thumb and a three-inch wingspan from tip to tip. The top of its body was a fuzzy dandelion yellow, but underneath it was as black and as evil as the yawning chasm of Tartarus. Its giant stinger flicked in and out of its abdomen sheath as it lay on its back on the trail in its death throes.

"Holy fuck! I hope I don't go anaphylactic," I whimpered, remembering a couple of episodes as a youngster when I was rushed to the hospital after bee stings for a quick dose of Benadryl to keep my throat from swelling shut.

On the other hand, you've gotta die somewhere, so after I ceased my senseless sniveling, we decided to keep riding and see what happens. A few miles later my face started to throb. My eye started feeling funky, so we diverted our course back to the trailhead.

Who doesn't love turtles?
Around a corner, I skidded again to a halt when I saw the gaily-painted boulder with legs crawling down the center of the trail.

"Lucky turtle!" I shouted, as Caroline skidded into the back of my bike. The corners of her mouth betrayed her annoyance until she saw what I was pointing at just in front of my tire.

The critter withdrew its arms, legs and head tightly into its shell and refused to reemerge for a photo op. Finally I picked up the little guy and gently placed him off the trail. Even that act of kindness couldn't coax him out of his shell.

Having recently read about turtle behavior, I have no doubt that the little bugger crawled right back out onto the trail a few minutes after we left and began crawling along its original heading. I hope the other riders on the trail were as kind as we were.

Time is running out to paint this egg!
Back in Wilson after the ride, I placed some ice on my eye and was able to banish the small amount of swelling. Wilson is the Czechoslovakian capital of Kansas, so on our way out of town I stopped to photograph Kansas's largest Czechoslovakian egg, which is supposed to be festively painted for the community's Czechoslovakian Festival on July 27. Judging from the fact that the only paint on the egg so far was an improvised smiley face made of spray paint, and that weeds had grown up around the vehicle owned by the original procurer of the community egg, I'm betting that the painting plan is never going to hatch.

That night at the hotel, as I drifted off for the first full-night of sweet slumber that I had had for three days, I felt as if all my troubles would drift away. Little did I realize that I would wake up blind. But sitting here looking like the English Patient far away from home with an ice-bag draped over my face, I realize that bumble bees and bad luck are a part of the life. If it were not so, we wouldn't have ever had the Blues, and I never would have started playing the harmonica. Whatever that means.

The road is like that sometimes. But it sure is fun nevertheless.

See you on down the road.

Wednesday, May 01, 2013

Thunder Mountain breakdown

RED CANYON, Utah—Someplace about halfway into our ride on the Thunder Mountain trail, perhaps our most favorite place to ride a bike, we had joked about how the skin thins and the body gets a little more fragile as the years wear on. A few miles down the trail I proved my point.


If you've never ridden Thunder Mountain, you should.
We take it for granted that mountain biking is inherently dangerous. We really do. Riding around town is far different than riding on unfamiliar trails far away from home. If something goes wrong out here, a person is left to rely upon his own wits and resources. Contrasted with riding on your home turf—where every bail-out point is well known, every water fountain nearby, and nearly every technical feature of the trail is well rehearsed—riding out in the wilds does present a modicum of danger and risk. But we weren't thinking about that when we hit Thunder Mountain at midday for a nice ride.

We are on the backside of our vacation journey. We were out here ostensibly to celebrate my passing into the second act of life. Such a thing sounds sad and staid when I commit it to the page, but that is not the idea at all. Every stage of life is wonderful! There is still much mystery to be had, adventure to endure...life to be lived. Being out on the road, riding bikes in exotic locations, trying new things. Aging doesn't relegate us to reliving safe prior experiences and ceasing to live. For us, we feel as curious and rebellious as we did when we were two-year-olds testing the surface of a hot burner with our fingers or teenagers exploring the boundaries of free expression and good taste with our words and deeds. We are full of life and relish each new day as if it were a cold glass of water drawn from a good aquifer or a fine cut of Country Fried Steak like the one we ate last night at the Bryce Canyon Pines Inn.


Blood on the ground is never good.
Backing up a bit, I didn't feel like that so much when I was writhing on the ground at the bottom of the Thunder Mountain Trail while crimson droplets of my life essence were pouring out of my arm onto the crazy orange rocks that had shattered and torn me open. I had taken a turn too fast. The sound and feel of my rear wheel washing out barely registered in my head before I found myself on the ground in a dusty heap. The last thing I heard before I felt the sickening rush of pain overwhelming the right side of my body was a loud report—like two big rocks smacking together or a pair of bamboo rods colliding. 

When I looked down at my arm, I could see a deep hole with some white sticking out. A wave of queasiness rippled through me. I asked Caroline if my bone was poking out of my smashed forearm. She answering in the negative. I moved my arm around, searching for the characteristic hot pain that accompanies the fracture of a calcified frame. Thankfully it was not there. 

But there was plenty of blood, and a giant fissure about the size of a quarter that was cradling the giant flap of torn skin and meat that had been ripped by the jagged rocks when my speeding body was rudely hurtled to the ground.

We have learned from experience that it's always good to have a first-aid kit in our Camelbaks when we are riding away from home. But we had gotten rusty. Tragedy was a fuzzy dot in memory past. The last few years of riding conservatively and a boost in our skills have made such things irrelevant in our world. But as the rocks below were stained by the big dark red drops pouring from my damaged arm, we suddenly realized why they were there. Although Caroline's backpack had been emptied of its first-aid kit, mine still had one. And all of its contents were in good shape.


Kissing rocks remind us that love is the greatest good.
Caroline rinsed the wound with a generous amount of water and we covered it with gauze and tape. We still had two miles to go. My knee and shin had also taken the brunt of my fall, and truth be told, my leg hurt a hell of a lot worse than my arm. Needles of fire tormented my lower extremity, as if someone were going to work on it with a red-hot Brillo pad.

Shock and adrenaline are our body's way of helping us get out of danger. But their effects are temporary. I was able to remount my undamaged bike and ride back to the car under the close watch of Caroline. But once we got back to our starting point, I was racked with confusion and pain, and I circled about uselessly back and forth, unable to concentrate on necessary tasks like changing out of my bike clothes and getting the bikes up on the rack.

The Nice Ranger at the Red Canyon Visitor Center pointed us toward the hospital in nearby Panguich and we drove there mostly in silence. The buzz of pain was all I could really hear inside my head anyway.

At the Garfield Memorial Hosipital, Dr. Colin Marshall and Nurse Susan cheerfully treated me while I spewed wisecracks pretending to be brave and robust. Everyone should be thankful for excellent medical personnel in small, unfamiliar towns. Conversation lagged a little bit as the doctor took his needle and injected the giant hole—which was about the size of a bottle cap and probably just as deep—with numerous doses of topical anesthetic. Yes, it hurt as badly as it sounds. And no, even lidocaine doesn't make debriding a deep, jagged wound any more pleasant. 

Although I felt stupid at needing to go to the emergency room for a mountain biking boo-boo, Dr. Marshall made it clear that we had done the right thing. The wound required five stitches in the meat below the skin and five more at the surface. When all was said and done, my little corner of the otherwise empty emergency room was home to a good-sized pile of blood-soaked gauze and wisps of the blue monofilament that had been used to draw the edges of my wound together.


Even the hardest climb is surmountable.
It sounds bad now, but about 45 minutes before the crash, Caroline and I had proclaimed ourselves the luckiest people in the world as we stood at the top of the trail overlooking the insane orange hoodoos that dot Red Canyon and the outstanding ribbon of swooping singletrack trail ahead. And I still believe that.

What is life without adventure and crashes and pain? What is life without triumph and passion and love? What is life without fun? 

Long after the pain has subsided and my scar has mellowed into a barely recognizable aberration of my skin, I hope to be living with as much gusto as I have enjoyed during this first half-decade, and I can only hope that Caroline and I have many more adventures to share.

See you on down the road.

Tuesday, April 30, 2013

Stop and smell the dinosaurs

ST. GEORGE, Utah—Once upon a time not too long ago, there was a marvelous eye doctor who could see things so well that he ignored the lure of big money and opted instead for public service.

Dinosaurs never walked with humans. Or did they?
You see, one day in the year 2000, sometime shortly after his retirement, Dr. Sheldon Johnson had bought a farm out in Northern St. George, Utah, that he had planned to develop so he could live happily ever after. One day as Dr. Johnson was scraping off the upper 20 feet of dirt from his farm so that he could level the land and make it easily accessible to the new road that had been carved in next to it, one of the giant machines that was scraping away at the Earth happened to accidentally drop a giant slab of stone, which upended as it landed. When Dr. Johnson and the others looked at the stone, they thought they saw what looked like imprints of tracks of some strange type of creature that had been running in the mud.

“What’s all this?” Dr. Johnson wondered, scratching his head in the warm air and looking at the stone.

Dinosaur track reliefs at Johnson's Farm.
He and his crew of merry men tipped over more of the slabs and were amazed to see all kinds of things—large and small three-toed imprints, ripples like you’d find at the bottom of an ancient lake, and even long wispy scratches between small footprints, like the tail-drag marks that lizards make when they run through the desert today. Delighted at his wonderful find, Dr. Johnson stopped work on developing the land, and instead called in a bunch of archaeologists, paleontologists and geologists so they could have a look for themselves. What they ended up finding was literally a huge page of history that had been sandwiched within the rock layers beneath Johnson’s Farm.

Dating back 195 to 198 million years ago, Dr. Johnson’s land was the location of a huge shallow lake, where dinosaurs, ancient reptiles and primitive fish lived and played. These ancient creatures walked about, some on two legs, others on four, or swam in the shallow waters, leaving marks where their limbs sunk into the mud or scratched the lake bottom. Gradually these prints filled up with sand, and over time, the sand became compressed and it turned into sandstone as the Earth grew older and more sediments piled up on top.

The Moenave Formation: a busy dinosaur landscape
Johnson’s farm held what geologists call the Moenave Formation, a layering of sandstone, siltstone, mudstone and shale. The formation is sandwiched between the Upper Triassic Chinle Foundation and the Lower Jurassic Kayenta Formation, like the chapter of a book frozen forever in time. The bottoms of upper layers of the Moenave Formation formed reliefs of the footprints, like the ones found on the original slab of stone that was accidentally turned over during that fateful day on Johnson’s Farm a decade ago. The lower layers house the footprints themselves that were sunken into the primordial mud.

Scientists have found evidence of a giant meat-eating dinosaur known as the Eubrontes, which weighed close to a half a ton and walked on two legs. They also found evidence of the much-smaller Grallator, which hunted in packs. In addition, they found evidence of some alligator-like creatures, lizards, fresh-water animals, and ripples in the mud from the ancient sea.

Perhaps most wonderful of all, the scientists at Johnson’s Farm found some extremely rare tracks where the skin of these “terrible lizards” of old can be clearly seen imprinted in the mud, as well as swim tracks in the lake bottom that show clear evidence of some very large dinosaurs swimming!

Dinosaurs had lizard skin!
Johnson’s Farm is now open to the public, and a large army of volunteers continues to work the land in search of secrets. They find more each day.

Instead of letting his land turn into a Wal-Mart, which would have sold an array of cheap, Chinese-manufactured goods made from dinosaurs, Dr. Johnson kept his land so it could be enjoyed by Dinosaur lovers from all over the globe. In a way, that makes Dr. Johnson a dinosaur himself, because these days, most people would have chosen to ignore the existence of dinosaur tracks, and instead would have gleefully sold the land to the highest bidder. Because as we all know today, money is what makes kings and queens and all other people worthy of praise, not sentimentality or an appreciation of the past. 

Thank you, Dr. Sheldon Johnson, for being the most marvelous dinosaur of them all! May you live happily ever after.

See you on down the road!

Monday, April 29, 2013

Shaken not stirred

We are eagerly drinking in the local culture.
ST. GEORGE, Utah—There is a charming white-bread wholesomeness here that's endearing and terrifying at the same time. We are smack dab in the heart of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Here in St. George lies the oldest Mormon Tabernacle in North America. Contrary to common folklore, it is this town, not Salt Lake City, that is the epicenter of Mormonism. Not only does St. George house the Temple—a gleaming white architectural marvel situated near the center of town—but it is also the original home of Mormon warrior Brigham Young, second president of the Mormon church.

A focus on the family is big here.
Here in Utah's Dixie—a nickname gleaned from the successful farming of cotton by Mormon settlers back in the 1861—the LDS influence is still alive, well and very apparent. A focus on Family is omnipresent here. Even at the vacation condo where we're staying—a dreary little place that could use some updating into the modern century—families rank high on the priority list. The central swimming pool was choked with good-looking families, each sporting myriad children. Even couples in their early twenties had at least two children, with more on the way, judging from the proliferation of baby bumps below bathing suits out at poolside.

Most of the people here are beautiful and in good physical condition. Most of the men are well muscled and fresh faced—like life-size Ken Dolls strutting about in workout clothes or tasteful fashion. The women are nicely tanned, well-mannered, quick to coddle their children, and active and successful at keeping their bodies toned and supple despite the stretch marks. The vast, vast majority of people we've seen in St. George are Anglo. The city and the church, it seems, have done a good job hiding those with "The Mark of Cain."

A place for promises.
The Mormon influence here was subtle at first. We didn't notice it until we tried to find a liquor store. There are precious few here. While Mormon churches literally can be found on nearly every block in the residential neighborhoods of St. George, we have heard of only two liquor stores, both well hidden. Ironically, nearly every local we asked knew exactly where both were as well as their hours of operation. It seems that among the plethora of pretty tow-headed model specimens active in the church exist numerous Jack Mormons as well. Or maybe the liquor stores are there only for people like us.
 
When we visited the St. George Temple, we were immediately greeted by a pleasant young missionary woman who quickly quizzed us on our religious foundations and our knowledge of the cult church. In the visitor center, she showed us a giant scale model of Jerusalem as it existed during the time of Christ. Jesus in all of the paintings in the visitor center was depicted as a good-looking light-haired man with blue eyes. Go figure.
In the Garden of Gethsemane

Our hostess was quick to point out the Garden of Gethsemane among landmarks on the map. That was the location where Jesus had his moment of doubt after being tempted by Lucifer. The missionary's eyes kept wandering down toward Caroline's breasts as she told us about church beliefs. I later nicknamed my companion's ta-tas as the temptresses, because of the fascinating spell they seemed to have cast upon our hostess. To me such a thing was not surprising; I remain fascinated by them every day. 

When we asked to see the inside of the Temple, our hostess told us that such a thing was not possible for non-church members.

"The Temple is a place where church members make promises to God," she explained. "Inside are where the most important facets of the church take place."

According to our guide, people (including dead ones) are Baptized by immersion into the church. Also, "sealing ceremonies" take place there because "we believe that a marriage can last for eternity," she said. I'm sure there are some Mormon men out there who are thinking exactly the same thing as they make their way to the hidden liquor stores.

Interestingly enough, she made the analogy that the "sealing process" was a lot like canning beans: "Beans can go bad unless they're sealed!" she giggled.

The wholesomeness is thick!
I was fascinated and I really did want to go inside the Temple. But I knew it never was to be. Even though Jesus gave his message freely to anyone who cared to hear it, access to such things are by invitation only in the realm of the LDS, apparently. Though I don't tend to pretend to know what Jesus would do, I can only think that such exclusivity would make him sad. But maybe that's just me.

With the array of wholesomeness here, however, there is an abundance of dairy treats to be had. We found some awesomely thick shakes at the Iceberg Drive Inn. They didn't really serve shakes; their product was more like a giant cup of deliciously cold and fresh soft-serve ice cream in dozens of possible flavor combinations. Refreshing? You bet!

We like it here in St. George for the most part, but even Ice Cream every day would probably get a little tedious. We crave a little more diversity, and we'll find that soon enough, I suppose. 

See you on down the road!

Sunday, April 28, 2013

Gut check

ST. GEORGE, Utah—Sushi. Most times it’s delicious, but if you eat it during one of those times that it’s just a little off, well watch out!

Everything's in bloom out here!
It became clear after waking that something was amiss after a night out eating raw fish. We had gotten up early to hit the trails out near Hurricane, Utah, in order to escape the heat. But instead of making it to the trailhead while the air was still cool and fresh, I spent a coupled of hours camped out on the can, purging my system of whatever bad Ju Ju I had ingested the night before.

We arrived at Gooseberry Mesa just before 10 a.m. We had originally mapped out another ride for the day, but the thought that maybe the intestinal distress I was battling was only the beginning, we decided to cut back the mileage and find a more familiar place to ride. Gooseberry Mesa is a slickrock playground, and it became our fallback plan.

Nothing about it was second best!

Oh, she can ride alright....
Located just outside of Hurricane, high above the Virgin River and within spitting distance of Zion National Park, Gooseberry Mesa formally sprang onto the Mountain Biking scene less than a decade ago. In just a short time, the riding area has become extremely popular. Now more than just a series of white dots spray-painted onto slick rock in the middle of nowhere, Gooseberry has been improved and formalized with multiple trailheads, outhouses and a steady stream of devotees all eager to enjoy Sunday morning worship at the Church of the Divine Ride. Those who have been baptized on the trails here are lifelong converts. We tasted the singletrack sacrament here about seven years ago. it was a life-changing experience.

This day we were just happy to be riding at all. Once we were on the bikes out in the hot, dry air, the discomfort in my gut started to subside, probably because I became fixated on navigating through the relentless maze of rocky climbs and drops that snake in and out of the piñon and juniper landscape. Unlike our earlier experience at Gooseberry, the place was crowded with other riders. Some lingered at the top of intense climbs, throwing off our concentration. But we’d regain it quickly enough, so we pressed on toward the end of the trail. We met a nice couple from Crested Butte, Colo., and we rode the last mile or so with our new-found friends.

Trail's end!
The payoff at the end of the trail is an insanely high butte that towers thousands of feet above the Hurricane Valley. Red earth, white rocks, and blue sky were the colors of the day. We live in a great country—even if we are trying hard to ruin it.

The sun had drilled straight into our noggins, making us feel loopy and unsteady on the way back. After a few close calls, we regained focus and started cleaning tough sections of trails. Because the point of the trip was to celebrate my emergence into Senior Citizen status, we branded the trail as AARP approved—we survived the ride without breaking a hip or wandering away into oblivion, though at one point I did smack my hand on the unyielding trunk of a juniper tree, which caused me to spin out of control and tip over into the dirt.

If you could see what's at the bottom....
“I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!”

Oh well, mountain biking is like that sometimes.

We hit the new Windmill Trail for the last part of our ride back to the trailhead. The ripping fast stretch was fun, but it was full of exposure and some really wild off-camber rock obstacles, so we still had to use our A-Game for the final part of our journey.

A very late lunch at the Cafe Rio Mexican restaurant was the perfect end to the day. Even my intestines were happy. What more could you ask?

See you on down the road!

Saturday, April 27, 2013

If not now, when?

SOMEWHERE IN THE FOUR CORNERS REGION—Vacations are hard to come by these days. The Great Recession of Twenty-Ought-Whatever-It-Was has successfully squeezed the wealth out of the hands of the Little People and placed it in the hands of the One Percent. But they'll get their comeuppance soon enough. Retribution is at hand, and a disenchanted rabble with no hopes for leisure or vacation time is a dangerous rabble. As Boston showed us, America is a pressure cooker with the relief valve welded shut.

Beauty still exists in America.
The American economy is being held together by nothing more than the thinnest veneer of public faith that the money we're spending is actually worth something. Soon it will become crystal clear that Fed printing presses have been kicking out bushel basket after bushel basket of worthless fiat currency. While this ocean of cash would seem impressive if piled up inside some great sports stadium somewhere, deep inside each and every American lies an uncomfortable realization that the amount of money in circulation far exceeds the actual value of all the goods and services that have been procured with it.

We all know that dollar notes are worth mere pennies. Inflation is just around the corner, and it won't be long now until the system begins to right itself by collapsing under its own weight. When the debts are called in, no amount of cash out there will cover them. Once that happens, a loaf of bread will actually cost what it's worth in terms of materials and human sweat. Visions of people carting wheelbarrows full of bills to the grocery store will become commonplace. Austerity measures will be enacted across the country as the Super Rich attempt to roll everyone else under the bus and make off with whatever ill-gotten gains they can—like cockroaches skittering out of the country with an armload of toxic Rembrandts before the stompings begin. Riots in the street with thwart most of them, as Wall Street executives are tarred, feathered, hoisted up on rails and dumped at the edge of the cities by those who were gullible enough to trust them to manage their retirement nest eggs. Cities will collapse under the weight of worthless promissory notes, and their rubble will be filled with the stench of rot.

The poor won't notice any difference, and many of them will actually find opportunity once the playing field is finally leveled by the very sledge hammer of greed and excess that had ruled it for far too long.
The air freshener reminded us to search for pie.


The One Percent and the Middle Class will become casualties in what is to become known as The Great Reckoning, and no amount of Fiscal Policy, Punditry or Fox News Outrage will drown out the mournful howls of the victims.

This is precisely why we decided to sneak away for a quick road trip while there is still time. Nature doesn't care about banking crises or Stagflation, and there are no televisions out in the the woods and the wild.

Knowing that it will only be a matter of time before our savings becomes essentially worthless, we decided to crack open our wallets and flee on vacation, away from worries about the mortgage debt of our home or the televised cacophony of Monday Morning Quarterbacking about the Boston Marathon bombings. Nature doesn't live by a script, and animals don't hire collection agencies; entrance into the wilderness does not require laying yourself out naked under a curtain of radiation or a pat-down by a Federal Agent with a 30 percent chance of having a felony rap on his or her record.

This place is remarkably safe!
Being out in the wilderness is much safer these days than being out in the cities.

Our path took us north, away from the cities and toward the dry desolate outback of the Desert Southwest—where the U.S. Government had banished the American Indian. These days out here, gas is cheap and mutton is easy to find. A tank of gas is synonymous with Freedom and a few strips of roast sheep flesh atop a greasy sopapilla means you're well nourished, all things considered.

We threaded our way west into Northern Arizona and then up into Utah, where the rock is pink and the pie is plentiful—at least in theory.

She'll lure you in for pie, alright....
Despite the promises of the sign outside of the Thunderbird Inn in Mt. Carmel, Utah, the eastern gateway to Zion National Park, the last decent slice of pie in America has been subverted and corrupted. Based on previous road-trip experiences and this final blow of gastronomic indignity, there really is no more decent pie for sale in America anymore these days. Like everything else, pie has been outsourced, optimized and brightly packaged for low taste and high profit. The only thing sweet and tasty about pie these days is the profit margin for the shareholders of the companies that produce them. Like the Cherry Pie air freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror of our Family Truckster, road food these days smells a bit off, and it gives us a headache.

People these days blame such discomfort on the presence of gluten; personally, I blame it on bad ingredients and the system of abject apathy that has been cultivated in the New Breed of American Worker. While corporate profits rate at an all-time high, wages have stagnated and have lost ground against increases in the cost of living over the past 30 years. While Wall Street was partying and growing fat on taxpayer bailouts, the American worker grew poorer and more discouraged, cultivating a work ethic similar to the one currently employed by migrant workers: Pride and quality supplanted by the promise of low wages.

Animals know better than to approach humans.
We have entered The Age of Good Enough. Our vacation is no different. We are taking some time to sit in the sun without spending a wheelbarrow full of money. And along the way, we're stopping to marvel at what's still left of the natural world—before Northern Arizona and Southern Utah become permanently obscured behind a sickly whitish haze from the coal fires that are so necessary to keeping the illusion of American Superiority alive.

See you on down the road.