WILLIAMSONS AND TRAVEL

 

WILLIAMSONS AND TRAVEL

For Oct. 19, 2011

As we begin to pack our suitcases for our auto-trip through our Southwestern national park lodges, I thought this would be the perfect time to see if I couldn’t siphon some money out of your pockets.  After all, that’s what’s been happening to me ever since the first time I stumbled on a Williamson book many years ago.

Have you ever wondered what it would have been like to travel when the automobile was new?  When there were no transcontinental highways (how about hardly any paved roads at all!), motels, service stations, AAA, repair garages, etc.?  Not to mention automobiles that broke down so often that only the foolish traveled without a chauffeur, mechanic, and ample supply of spare parts and tires.

Well, imagine no more.  Back in 1902, an adventuresome British husband and wife writing team, C.M. and A.M. Williamson, partnered with Doubleday Page to produce one of the most fascinating and informative series of travel novels ever written.  Before they could write such a book, however, the fearless couple had to themselves explore a given travel route.  In the process, they devoured local travel lore, legends, history, historical romances—all kinds of fascinating side trips.  Then they incorporated all the usual mechanical breakdowns, and stirred in enough romance to keep the reader up half the night turning pages.  In short, there has never been another series like theirs!  There could not be, for the age vanished almost as quickly as it began.

Following are the books I have been able to find (first editions when possible):

  •   The Princess Passes                                (1903-4)                         Early automobile
  • The Lightning Conductor                        (1903, 1905)                 Early automobile
  • My Friend the Chauffeur                         (1905)                              Early automobile
  • Lady Betty Across the Water                 (1906)                         General early travel
  • Rosemary in Search of a Father            (1906 – 1907)            General early travel
  • The Princess Virginia                               (1907)                         General early travel
  • The Chaperon                                              (1907 – 1908)            Water travel
  • Set in Silver                                                 (1909)                         Early automobile
  • The Motor Maid                                         (1910)                        Early automobile
  • Lord Loveland Discovers America      (1910)                         Early American travel
  • The Golden Silence                                     (1911)        Travel in desert lands (including camel transportation)
  • The Port of Adventure                         (1913)                         General travel
  • It Happened in Egypt                          (1914)                         Egyptian travel
  • Secret History                                        (1915)                         Early airplane travel
  • The Lightning Conductor                    (1916)                         Early automobile Discovers America
  • Winnie Childs: Shop Girl                    (1916)                          General romance
  • Everyman’s Land                                    (1918)                        End of World War I travel
  • The Lion’s Mouse                                    (1919)                         Post-war travel
  • The Second Latchkey                             (1920)                         General
                                                                                               

Here are some passages from their 1905 novel, My Friend the Chauffeur, that will give you a sense of their writing style:

In France: “. . . we moved like a ship under full sail; but suddenly the road reared up on its hind feet and stood almost erect, as though it had been frightened by the huge snow-capped mountains that all at once crowded round us.  An icy wind rushed down from the tops of the great white towers, as if with the swooping wings of a giant bird, and it took our car’s breath away” (118-19).

In Italy: “It [Certosa of Pavia] was too beautiful to chatter about.  But it did seem strange that so pure and lovely a building could have owed its existence to a crime.  I had heard Mr. Barrymore telling Mamma that it was originally founded in thirteen hundred and something, by the first Duke of Milan with the view of taking off the attention of Heaven from a murder he had committed—quite in his own family—which got rid of his father-in-law, and all the father-in-law’s sons and daughters at the same time.  No wonder it took a whole Certosa to atone for it. . . .”(164).

Bellagio, on Lake Como: “The rest of the party were on an entrancing terrace, looking down over other flowery terraces upon the town of Bellagio, with its charming old campanile, and its grey roofs like a flock of doves clustering together on the border of the lake.  The water was so clear and still that the big hotels and villas on the opposite shore seemed to have fallen in head down, and each little red-and-white canopied boat waiting for passengers at the quay had its double in the bright blue mirror.  Clouds and mountains were all reflected too, and it seemed as if one might take one’s choice between the real world and the dream world” (192).

My favorite passage from the book, however, is from Maida (the loveliest passenger in this ancient Panhard automobile) who plaintively poses this rhetorical question: “What becomes of the beautiful army of days marching away from us into the past?  The wonderful days, each one differing from all the others: some shining in our memory, in glory of purple and gold, that we saw only as they passed, with the setting of the sun; some smiling back at us, in their pale spring dress of green and rose; some weeping in gray; but all moving at the same pace along the same road?  The strange days that have given us everything they had to give, and yet have taken from us little pieces of our souls.  Where do the days go?  There must be some splendid world where, when they have passed down to the end of the long road, they all live together like queens, waited upon by those black slaves, the nights that have followed them like their shadows, holding up their robes.

“I’ve had this thought in my mind often since I have been flashing across Europe in an automobile, grudging each day that slipped away from me and would not stay a moment longer because I loved it.  I wish I knew the way to the land where the days that have passed live; for when those that are to come seem cold to me, I would like to go and pay the old ones a visit.  How well I would know their faces, and how glad I would be to see them again in their own world!” (205).

If you too are getting the Williamson bug, just log on the Internet and begin chasing down these wonderful travel romances.  Your travel life will never afterwards be the same!

* * *

Next Wednesday, we’ll ourselves hit the road.  Please come along.


SEEN ONE, YOU’VE SEEN THEM ALL?

What a joy it is to wake up with no schedule for a change!  Indeed, there is something about waking up at sea that trumps any other awakening that I know.  So much of what each of us does, where each of us goes, is repetitive: the radius of our living consisting of intersecting ever-deeper grooves of habit.  This is one reason why travel can be so energizing, especially when it encompasses places where you’ve never been before.

The sea, unlike paved roads, is never repetitive.  Not without reason is it referred to as the “trackless sea.”  And 71% of our planet is water.

On cruises, however, most travelers—surprisingly—experience very little of the sea.  In most cases, the ship leaves a harbor near sunset and by the time the passengers awaken next morning, the ship is either docking or already moored in another locale.  Only during “sea days” are passengers able to revel in the sea itself.

The Caribbean is sometimes referred to as “The Mediterranean of the Americas” a quadrangle enclosed on three sides by land (South America, Central America, and North America).  I had already experienced Panama, Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Honduras, Salvador, Mexico, Cuba, Jamaica, Haiti, and Dominican Republic, but other than Aruba, I’d never explored the rest of the Caribbean.  Nor would we on this cruise: only part of it.  That is one of the most frustrating aspects of this thing called “life”: so many places to see—and so little time!

I wondered how much variety there would be in our various ports of call.  Especially did I wonder after listening to a day-trip coordinator lecture to us on board Celebrity’s Constellation about the places we would be “seeing”— I use “seeing” advisedly, almost tongue in cheek, because I have ruefully discovered that all too many cruisers don’t really “see” much of anything but the ship itself and port city curio shops.  Some never get off the ship at all—except at the end.  Well, this particular lecturer, in an effort to seem “with it,” after describing many of the islands we’d be visiting, sabotaged the entire cruise by quipping, with a laugh, “Really, though, they’re all the same—beaches and palm trees; once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.”  A summation about as profound as Ronald Reagan’s classic put-down of one of nature’s greatest wonders: “Once you’ve seen one redwood tree, you’ve seen them all.”  In retrospect, I wonder how many of those who listened to that particular lecture ended up not booking any day-trips at all!  I strongly suspect that there were many.  As for me, even though I’d spent several of my growing-up years in the Caribbean, I couldn’t help but wonder, Could it be that he’s really right?  Oh, I hope not!

Well, we’d soon find out.

* * * * *

Next Wednesday, we’ll stop at the island of St. Martin/San Maarten.

TREASURES FROM THE PAST #1

One of the responses to the survey has already had its effect: it urged me to keep mining the bullion of the past in my blogs.

I have been working around the clock on my eighth collection of animal stories (Animals of the Jungle). As I searched for stories, in a long-ago essay written by Hildegarde Hawthorne (granddaughter of Nathaniel Hawthorne), published in a magazine for young people early in the twentieth century, I found a timeless treasure of thought perfect as the follow-up to last Wednesday’s blog: “Don’t Wait Until Tomorrow.”

It was inspired by Emerson’s famous poem:

DAYS

“Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days,
Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes,
And marching single in an endless file,
Bringing diadems and fagots in their hands,
To each they offer gifts after his will,
Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them all.
I, in my pleached garden, watched the pomp,
Forgot my morning wishes, hastily
Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day
Turned and departed silent. I, too late,
Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.”

THE DOORWAY OF THE DAYS
by Hildegarde Hawthorne

A day is a wonderful thing. It is like a great doorway flung wide for you to pass through into all manner of adventures. One after the other, these doorways open to you, each different, each opening on a fresh prospect. Fresh, yourself, after the rest and the stillness of night, you stand each morning on the threshold, and then you step through and are launched on what that day has for you.

Of course, the day, being as it were just this welcoming doorway, can not make you go out to meet what it holds. You can refuse its mighty invitations. It may be a day that opens on shadowy forest paths, on blue headlands, a day where nature is at her most beautiful best. Again it may hold a splendid hour or two of companionship with some one who could tell you much of this nature, who could give you new insight into her mysteries, who could explain what hitherto you had never understood. It might be a day made for running feet and for laughter and joy. It has opened the wide doorway to all this. But of course you can refuse it all. You can turn your back on the prospect before you, spend your hours indoors, fail to meet the friend who was waiting, sulk over some fancied slight or trouble, worry and exhaust yourself in various ways. The doorway of the day will swing close, at last, and the possibilities on which it opened will have gone, perhaps forever.

Supposing you had only one day to live in, like some of the ephemera, whom you may watch in summer, dizzy with their dancing, in a sunbeam. Just one day! Well, it would hold twenty-four hours. How splendid! How much you could do in that time. And how much to choose for the doing, the seeing, the hearing, the feeling, the thinking! A sunrise and a sunset, stars, a moon maybe, winds swaying tree-tops or ruffling water; and then comrades to play with, a fine book to read, music to hear; a ride, perhaps, in a motor-car or on a horse, a walk in a country lane or along a street filled with all manner of things worth looking at; there would be meals to eat, a lesson to study. You would have the joy of bodily exercise, the joy of loving, the delight of conversation with friends. Each hour would hold its own miracle.

At the end, before sleep came, you would find no words to describe the marvel of a day. Room in it for the exercise of all your faculties, for dreams and for reality, for play and for work. A great round day, and you alive in it.

You see, just because there is more than one day, we get too used to them to remember what they really are. We let them slip through our fingers, with their adventures unlived, their beauty unseen. Many a day has been treated as though it were just a bore, when it was simply bursting with exciting thrills. Many a day that held in it a wonderful thing, which you would have cherished all your life, has been allowed to pass away empty. For only what you take from the offerings of each day is yours.

Do you ever think over the manifold ways in which each day is spent by the people on this earth? How an Eskimo spends the day you have given over to school, to football practice, or a game of tennis or to skiing, to a matinee or a quiet time reading while the storm beats on the windows and shouts over the house? How that same day is being spent by a savage in Africa, by a Russian refugee, a coal-miner, a seaman? You can get some notion of all that a day opens on if you let your mind wander a bit in these directions.

It seems to me that the great difference between those who lead a full and interesting life and those who don’t is that the first do not let the fact that there are three hundred and sixty-five days in a year dull the wonderful possibilities of each individual day. They look before and after, of course, for the past and the future add richness to the present. But the day itself is the thing. Because tomorrow you are to go on an entrancing journey, or to the dentist, there is no reason for slighting today. It too has its worth and its gift. Live it. The combination of you and a day is too wonderful to be missed. People throw days away as if they were worthless pebbles, and then complain that life is a poor affair. One of Emerson’s noble sayings was, “Give me health and a day and I will make the pomp of emperors ridiculous”; and as you grow older you will cherish also in your memories his brief poem on “The Days.” It is a vivid picture in words of what I have been trying to set forth; and every earnest boy and girl can imagine the days going on about their tremendous business rather bewildered and rather amused. Here we are, they say, full of everything. And look how we’re treated and hear how we’re reviled! What’s the matter with these people, anyway?

And then the Days will show each other the unused things they had ready, which were never asked for, like handfuls of fine jewels shining in the light, but which no one stooped to pick up.

“Funny business!” sigh the Days, and if they had heads, there’d be reasons a-plenty for shaking them.

It is interesting to realize that the day that opens its great gate to you is for you only. No one else has just the same day. Even though you go every hour of the twenty-four close with a sister, a brother, a dear friend, and though what happens to you happens too to him or to her, as the case may be, yet the day will not be alike. Half of everything is the thing itself; the other half, its effect on you; and that effect can never be exactly duplicated. That is why it is that one person will get joy and interest out of a day that another will find merely tiresome.

The best will in the world can not keep dull days and dark days entirely away. You are going to miss quantities of things that you could have enjoyed, because you are tired or out of sorts or disgruntled. Other things will come to you that will be hard to bear and sad to live through. But for all that, the greater portion of your days are good days. The doorway they provide leads to much, and it is your own fault if you get only a little.

The fun of being alive and of having these days opening up, one after the other, is tremendous. Out you go to meet them, with your body, your mind, your senses, your questing spirit. You find things to laugh over, or cry over. You find things that set your mind to keen working or that strengthen your muscles or train the faculty of sight or of hearing, that make more proficient your hands, more skillful the whole bearing of your body. You meet something new to you, and have to readjust yourself and your ideas to take it in. To something else you say good-by for the last time. You will have your own interests, however, and the more, the merrier.

As your mind grows and develops, so the interests of your days should grow and extend, and each day coming ought to be more than the one gone, for you yourself are more. The trouble often is that one drops something for each new thing taken up. The play and the ecstasy of youth is lost with the deeper feeling and growing cares of maturity. But the girl or boy who goes on into maturity without losing too much of that young rapture becomes the best sort of man or woman. Don’t let your life go dry; let it keep its sap and freshness. Artists usually excel in this wisdom. The child lives on in them, making them richer and their days more radiant because it has not withered out of them. Keep what has come, and go on to what is due, and you will not be likely to find life a bore or a burden.

I remember how long a day appeared to me when I was a child—not too long, I enjoyed every moment of it, but so much longer than it does now. I had a better understanding of how great a day is, then. Now it seems short; sometimes I feel as though it merely winked at me and vanished. I can quite imagine that when I move on into eternity that eternity will soon seem to be short enough for all I want to do and be. Think of standing and waiting while the great door of eternity swings open and lets you through! But of course a day is after all a portion of eternity, and maybe it is because we are close to one end of eternity in childhood that days are eternal to us then. Why, any spring morning that was fair and welcoming I remember how I would go to lie under a certain apple-tree where the grass grew thick and the bending branches swept it, making a bower of bloom. And there I would dream away several days in a space that must really have been only a couple of hours. I would like to get back the glorious leisure of those days, to feel the promise of eternity in them; but though I haven’t lost the sense of the magnificence of a day, I can’t hold on to its vastness.

Except always in what it offers.

Now and again a day will come with a gift so splendid that you can not help but recognize it and acclaim it. You will say, as you have heard others say, “That was a great day in my life!” But don’t disdain the other days, that blow no trumpets and open no golden treasure-chests. They have their own wonderfulness, that calls to the wonderfulness in you, and through their mighty doorways you step to everything in life.

St. Nicholas, January 1923

DON’T WAIT UNTIL TOMORROW!

Responses are trickling in, in onesies and twosies, as our readers are weighing in, responding to our “First Reader Survey.” We apologize for the delay in posting the March 3 blog—we had a computer glitch. We’re delaying the tabulation of these responses until more come in. But preliminary responses encourage us to hold the course with what has been posted the first year and a half. More on that later.

* * * * *

It has been said that when each of us approaches the autumn of our lives, and looks back, invariably there are many regrets. One of the few exceptions has to do with memories: almost none of us regrets the expenditure of money that made memories possible. Where we do fault ourselves has to do with not making them.

It is so easy, in this journey called life, to postpone vibrant living on the pretext of not having enough money. In reality, with very few exceptions, we always have money for what we really want to spend it on.

Some years ago, in a large Sabbath School in Texas (our average attendance over a thirteen-year period was around 300—all the chapel would hold), I administered a survey. First of all, I asked each person there to look back through the years and rummage around in their minds for the ten most meaningful incidents or events in their lifetime. At the end, they were to rank them according to the long-term impact on the rest of their lives. Then I devoted the rest of the hour to the process, including the prioritizing. Each person would hand in the summation—no names expected—and quietly walk out. There was absolute silence—I can never forget that.

A week later, I reported on the results. So unexpected were they that I subsequently tried the experiment on other groups—invariably, the results remained the same.

What I fully expected were “big” events: job promotions, honors received, brand new cars, winning big games, inheriting a large estate or a great deal of money—but I didn’t get them. What people valued most in retrospect were memories. Most were surprisingly simple, such as the following:

  • One remembered the night her boyfriend broke up with her; she’d escaped to her room, unable to face anyone with her grief. There came a soft knock on her door. Then her mother came in, took one look at her daughter’s tear-stained face, crawled over to her, took her in her arms, and held her all night, not leaving until dawn—thereby forging a bond that lasted for life.
  • A heart-stopping sunset seen from the North Rim of the Grand Canyon.
  • The look of absolute trust and adoration on one bride’s face, as she looked at her husband-to-be as she came down the aisle on her father’s arm.
  • A never-to-be-forgotten Christmas when there was no money to buy gifts; Dad was out of work and Mom was expecting within only weeks. So they each made their presents with whatever was available, and decorated the scraggliest excuse for a tree anyone could imagine. Yet, in retrospect, so much love was expressed that, with no exception, every member of the family considered that Christmas to be one of the fondest memories of their lifetimes.
  • A son of missionary parents begged, borrowed or scraped up enough money to travel clear across America in a bus to Miami, where he boarded a plane to the island in the West Indies where his parents lived—and, totally unannounced, walked in on them on Christmas Day. Later he would say, “The look of unbelieving shock on Mom’s face when she looked up and saw me standing there—well, it’s as clear in my memory as though it were yesterday!
  • A teen-age daughter who felt estranged from her undemonstrative father, on a vacation, was reluctant at first to accept her father’s invitation to take a walk with him down the beach. But she agreed to go. Sunset came and went, night fell, and he opened up his heart to her, telling her, in halting words, how much he treasured her, loved her; and she, in turn, shared her long pent-up dreams with him. Arm in arm, they walked that beach far into the night.

Relationships. Feelings. Family. Love. What failed to appear on those 300 survey responses were all the things our media and advertisers tell us are essential to happiness: new cars, expensive gadgetry, job promotions, honors, luxuries, large inheritances, winning big games, buying mansions or yachts or expensive jewelry.

I’ve never been able to look at life the same since.

Epiphanies—we never see them coming, don’t recognize them when they’re happening; only in retrospect do we realize how different our lives would have been had that one day never been. That long-ago survey represents just such a day in our personal journeys. Connie and I resolved to stop postponing living: “Someday—we’ll do this.” “Someday, we’ll travel here, there,” realizing that “someday” never happens unless we will them to; unless we sacrifice to make them happen.

Even though we were always short of money, we traveled with our two children, Greg and Michelle, to beauty-spots all across the nation. Oh we wondered if it was worth it when they bickered constantly in the back seat, and complained until we wanted to scream—and occasionally did. So how passing strange it is to hear them reminisce (now that they’ve grown up and established homes of their own) about the wonderful things they saw and experienced during those long-ago trips: “We were so lucky! Most of our friends never got to see all those places that we did!”

IN CONCLUSION

So . . . I urge each person reading these lines to resolve to henceforth live each day of life to the fullest, and make lasting memories—real ones, not vicarious electronic ones—with their loved ones, families, and friends. For none of us is guaranteed a tomorrow.

We only have this moment!

What about you? Looking back over your own life, what are your own favorite memories? Please let us know during this week.

Published in: on March 9, 2011 at 8:54 am  Comments (2)  
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RANKING THE NORTHWEST NATIONAL PARK LODGES

It has been quite a journey, for I began this blog series on the Northwest National Park Lodges way back on August 4, 2010, with just a couple of interruptions, it has taken until now to achieve closure. 

Just to recap, right after the Zane Grey’s West Society convention in Gold Beach, Oregon last June, our cherished friends, Bob and Lucy Earp of Murfreesboro, Tennessee, Connie, and yours truly, finally managed to shoehorn all our luggage into the ample (we thought) deep trunk of a Lincoln Town Car.  To an onlooker, we’d have been considered the counterpart of Desi and Lucy in films such as their Long Long Trailer.  Finally—and I do mean finally—,we all made our nests, asked God to bless and protect us, and headed up that stunningly beautiful Oregon coast.

We were on the road almost a month.  Amazingly, at the end, we were/are still friends!  Truly a miracle; if you doubt it, just try cooping up four independent-minded free spirits in one box for that long a time without fireworks.

It proved to be a journey none of us will ever forget.  And we’d never have thought of doing it without the Ken Burns PBS Series on the National Parks and the Christine Barnes books on the National Park lodges.

If you’ve been following our trail week by week, I hope you’ll let us know your reactions.  If you have tuned in lately, I encourage you to torque up your mouse and vicariously travel along with us since that first August 4 entry.

* * * * *

We have found these lodges very difficult to rank, for there are so many variables to take into consideration.  Especially the differing reactions to the lodges compared to the parks themselves.  Not surprisingly, rarely were the two experiences ranked the same.  Note reasons why: 

CRATER LAKE LODGE.  We have all stayed there a number of times over the years so our conclusions were multi-layered.

OREGON CAVES CHATEAU.  It was the fist time for all four of us, and since we hadn’t booked it for the night, our rankings did a disservice to it.  But we’ve all vowed to return and stay over night there.

MOUNT HOOD LODGE.  Only I had been there before.  Since it was swamped with skiers, it was anything but a serene experience to stay there.  And given the fact that TV sets were in the guest rooms, the experience was totally incompatible with the atmosphere found in the other lodges.

PARADISE INN.  Only Connie and I had stayed there before. 

STEHEKIN.  The cabins were so recent that they by no means could be considered historic or unique.  But the village itself was both historic and unique.

LAKE QUINAULT LODGE.  It was the first time for all of us.

CRESCENT LAKE LODGE.  It was the first time for all of us.

OLD FAITHFUL INN.  We’ve all been to Yellowstone many times over the years, however, it was the first time any of us had ever stayed over night at Old Faithful Inn.  Because of the incredible congestion, none of us are likely to stay there again – however, we wouldn’t have missed the experience for the world!

YELLOWSTONE LAKE HOTEL.  One of the undiscovered gems in the pantheon of National Park lodges.  It was the first time for all four of us.

JACKSON LAKE LODGE.  All of us had stayed here before, and each time have vowed to return.

LAKE McDONALD LODGE.  All of us had visited the lodge before, but none of us have ever stayed over night there.

GLACIER PARK HOTEL.  All of us have stayed here before, and returned.  It is a very special place.

MANY GLACIER LODGE.  We’d all stayed here before, and we return every blessed chance we get!

PRINCE OF WALES HOTEL.  We’d all stayed here before, and love returning to it.

THE RANKINGS

 

In order to separate our hotel evaluations from our Park evaluations, we are listing them separately.  One thing will be obvious to you as you compare rankings: it is amazing that we concluded the journey friends!

 * * * * *

   
Lodge Rankings
   
 
Joe
Connie
Bob
Lucy
Total
Composite
Many Glacier
1
1
2
11
15
3.75
East Glacier
7
9
2
1
1
4.5
Paradise Inn
8
3
6
4
21
5.25
Lake Quinault
6
7
3
6
22
5.5
Crater Lake Lodge
4
5
7
7
23
5.75
Prince of Wales
3
4
11
10
28
7.0
Crescent Lake
11
2
12
5
30
7.5
Timberline Lodge
12
8
5
8
33
8.25
Old Faithful
13
13
4
3
33
8.25
Jackson Lake
10
12
9
2
33
8.25
Yellowstone Lake
9
6
10
9
34
8.5
Stehekin
2
10
13
12
37
9.25
             
   
Park Rankings
   
 
Joe
Connie
Bob
Lucy
Total
Composite
Glacier National Park
1
1
2
11
15
2.0
Grand Teton National Park
3
3
6
1
13
3.25
Yellowstone National Park
1
9
5
2
17
4.25
North Cascades & Stehekin
6
5
4
3
18
4.5
Crater Lake National Park
7
4
3
6
20
5.0
Olympic National Park
5
7
2
7
21
5.25
Mt. Rainier National Park
4
2
8
8
22
5.5
Oregon Caves
8
8
9
5
30
7.5
Mt. Hood
9
6
7
9
31
7.75
             

 * * * * *

Some last questions:    Do you like the addition of photos to the blogs?  Do you think we ought to make the series available in book form for travelers?  Of course, we’d have to first find a publisher interested in printing and promoting such a book.

* * * * *

Do you think we ought to risk our friendship once more by journeying through the Southwest National Park Lodges together?

Thanks so much for taking the journey with us.

PEOPLE WHO WORK IN NATIONAL PARK LODGES

We’ve
come to the end of this series of blogs celebrating Northwest Loop
lodges. But lodges are far more than wood, steel, stone, and glass:
it takes flesh and blood people to bring them to life. Since most
NW lodges close during winter months, it should come as no surprise
to discover that most workers are seasonal, many being students
during the winter months. I couldn’t help but notice a parallel to
life during the Great Depression of the 1930s, when Americans
(especially the young) flooded out of the cities and into the
nation’s heartland, seeking enough work to stay alive.
“Brother, can you spare a dime,” the mantra for that
generation. The difference this time having to do with our
changing mores. Back then, most of those who left home were
males; that is not true today. When we asked those who waited
tables, cleaned rooms, or otherwise kept the park lodges running
smoothly, where they came from, we quickly discovered that they
came from all across the U.S., Canada, and from around the
world. When asked why, one response predominated: “Since I
couldn’t get a job, I decided to follow my dream and see places
I’ve always wanted to see.” Or, “Since I couldn’t afford
college tuition, I logged in at websites such as Coolworks.com to see what was
available out there.” Some were recent graduates unable to
land a full-time job. Collectively, these workers were a very
attractive mix: clearly the best, cleanest-cut, most adventurous of
their age-group. Since I’m such a romantic, I asked a number
of them what resulted from the juxtaposition of young people of
both sexes in these lodge facilities. They’d smile and admit
to “lots of romances—more romances than marriages.” Yet, a
surprisingly large number spoke of marriages. One young man,
at Paradise Inn, Mount Rainier National Park, paused after my
questioning before musing, “You know . . . I must be a throwback to
my parents. . . . They met at a facility like
this, and have worked in parks ever since. They
love what they do! So it’s affected me
too. Growing up in the great out-of-doors, I couldn’t even
imagine being cooped up in a city! . . . . So, yes, I’ll
probably marry one of my co-workers just like my folks did.” They
were a most mobile group. Freed by the worldwide web to soar
across the nation and the world at the flick of a mouse, state or
national borders meant nothing to them. Shoot! All they
needed was a backpack and enough money to put food in their mouths
and pay the small fees required at youth hostels. They were
unabashedly rootless and loved the life. Their preferred
network: word of mouth. In a rain forest near Lake Quinault,
Bob and I met three very attractive coeds who were building
railings on park trails for the Oregon counterpart to FDR’s
Civilian Conservation Corps. Clearly, they were having a
wonderful time! Indeed, they were bubbling over
with joie de vivre. At Stehekin, that “island”
in time of a Shangri-la on Lake Chelan, one of the young waitresses
could be found during off-hours reading Jane Austen on a rustic
wooden bench, meditatively dreaming the vision of water and
mountains away. At Yellowstone Lake Hotel, a young string quartet
from one of the most prestigious music schools on the East Coast
confessed to coming here every summer, so that they could interact
with like-minded people from all around the world, work with
students who, like them, were lovers of the wide world, adventurers
all, and revel in hikes into every corner of Yellowstone and the
Tetons. “What’s not to like about that?” * * * * * But we
were more surprised by the number of older people we found working
in the park. At Stehekin, the postmaster chuckled as she told
of her daily excitement: carrying her bag of outgoing mail to the
boat just before it returned to Chelan. “Postal regulations
mandate that I lock the door when I leave, but I really don’t need
to. People here are honest.” When asked if she was a
native, she laughed again, “Oh, goodness, no! My husband and
I, as retirees, were sick and tired of the sameness of our lives,
so when we heard of this job, we jumped at the chance to move
here. My husband works in maintenance. Here I’m
needed, and we’ve just fallen in love with the
people here. I just couldn’t imagine leaving this magical
place.” At Old Faithful Inn, that madhouse of seething humanity,
during the unnatural serenity of one of the Old Faithful
Geyser-induced ebb-tides, I asked a lovely young woman,
effervescent, radiating happiness, and eager to be of service to
people like us, what brought her there—but before she could even
answer, an older woman broke in: “But what about me—aren’t you even
interested in me?” Then it was almost
like a dam broke as she poured out her story: Left alone at
midlife, she chanced to come to Old Faithful Inn to work for the
summer–and got hooked. She said, “I’ve been coming back here
every summer for over twenty years. It’s my life! I
live for coming back here every summer. Those who work here,”
and she looked fondly at her beautiful co-worker, “are my
children, and they treat me as though I’m
their mother. Oh the stories I get to hear!” In Colorado, I
met a United Airlines pilot retiree, who when I told him where I’d
been, responded with, “Let me tell you about my folks. Many
years ago, my mother-in-law, then a college student from back East,
from a well-to-do family, suddenly decided she wanted to go out
west to work in Yellowstone for the summer. Her father,
aghast at his daughter even daring to do such a thing, reluctantly
permitted her to go, but first made her accept a derringer for
protection. So when I asked him what happened afterwards, he
paused, a far-away look in his eyes: “Well, she never had to use
her derringer—but she did marry her employer,
the manager of Old Faithful Inn.” * * * * * These are just a few of
the stories we heard during our all-too-brief visits to these
wonderful old lodges. As an author, I’ve discovered that most
everyone I meet has a fascinating story to tell, reminding me of
that moving observation by Hans Christian Andersen: Each
of our lives is a fairy tale, written by the hand of
God
.

HOW TO FALL DOWN STAIRS

Yes, there is an art to it, and—inadvertently, it must be admitted—I have perfected that art.  Following are the ideal conditions for pulling it off:

  • Be sure you are sleeping in an unfamiliar bed in a relatively unfamiliar house.
  • Set an alarm clock; but be sure it is some distance away so that, when it rings, you will have to get out of bed and grope for it.
  • By all means set it for an early hour, so that it will be pitch-dark when it rings.
  • Be sure and place a suitcase—for strategic purposes—directly in line of the steps you’ll have to take before you reach the alarm clock.
  • Make certain you are sleeping in an upper-story of a house.
  • Make doubly certain there is a long flight of stairs in close proximity to the alarm clock (descending stairs, of course); and none of those namby-pamby carpeted stairs, but real he-man wooden ones.
  • At the bottom of the stairs you should make sure you have a tile landing on which to conclude your fall, and a solid wooden door to ram your head into.
  • The choice of the right alarm clock is a must: none of those soft, languorous lullabies, but a no-nonsense demanding “Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!” followed by an almost immediate strident double-time beep (guaranteed to disorient and confuse you as you stumble around).
  • With this preamble, you’re almost preordained to blindly launch into space off the top stair.  In the pitch-dark it will seem surreal as you fall into the void.  Then you will hit, hit, hit, and hit, as you roll down the stairs.  Because you are so disoriented and nine-tenths asleep, you will roll down like a rag doll or someone who is blissfully dead-drunk.
  • By the time you reach the bottom, you are guaranteed an audience because of your thunderous fall and unconscious but heartfelt moans.  You’ll immediately rouse the entire household.
  • By all the laws of probability, you should have (at the very least), a broken neck, broken back, or broken hip–with an excellent chance of being paralyzed for life.  But if you follow my fool-proof directions, you’ll merely end up a mass of black, blue, purple, and green bruises (spectacularly beautiful to those with a perverted sense of humor), and rather than be in a body cast, you’ll revel in around-the-clock ice-pack treatments, heat-treatments, and a steady stream of extra-strength pain pills.
  • Did I mention sympathy?  Oh yes, plenty of that.
  • And outright disbelief from the entire medical profession who will consider you a postcard example of the miraculous.
  • One more thing: That God must have an awfully good reason for a deus-ex-machina rescue of His stupid child.

* * * * *

My solo-flight took place at 5:30 A.M., Wednesday, November 10, in Annapolis, Maryland.  I have no current plans to re-enact it.  Once you achieve perfection in something, it makes no sense to do it again!

LAKE CRESCENT LODGE

Pacific Ocean

In the morning, Connie was little better, so the garlic hadn’t quite “stopped the bug in its tracks.” We loaded up, and looked back regretfully at a place we already loved. About an hour later, we stopped at Kalaloch Lodge on the ocean for breakfast. Its predecessor was constructed in the late 1920s; additional cabins were added in the mid 1930s after Hwy 101 had been completed.

Kalaloch Lodge dining room

Between 1950 and 1954, Charles Becker erected the main lodge where we had breakfast. It too is operated by the ARAMARK concession that currently manages Lake Quinault Lodge. Altogether, the lodge services 64 guest rooms, most oceanside cabins. Hard to say which we appreciated most: the delicious breakfast or the sights and sounds of the Pacific.

Crescent Lake

It was early afternoon by the time when, directly ahead of us—smooth as glass—was one of the most beautiful lakes I’d ever seen—Crescent Lake. It almost took our breath away; all the more impressive because we hadn’t expected it; to us it was just another lodge on a lake we needed to check off. We arrived at the lodge just before the wind came up to wreck the mirror imagery. We made our dinner reservations, then since the rooms weren’t ready yet, we drove to Port Angeles then up into the Olympics in order to take pictures of the iconic Hurricane Ridge. Unfortunately, it was socked in by clouds; after having enjoyed beautiful weather at Crater Lake, Oregon Caves Chateau, Timberline, and Paradise Inn, the law of averages now caught up with us—and stayed . So we gave up and returned to Crescent Lake, and found our rooms in a newer addition overlooking the lake.

By now the wind had come up, and the temperature dropped. Nevertheless, Bob and I took the trail through the old growth forest up to the 90-foot-high Marymere Falls. Connie had grown up in old growth redwoods in Northern California, so the sight of these didn’t impress her as much as it did the rest of us: but we had now seen the Jedediah Smith grove of Redwoods near Crescent City, CA; the old growth Douglas fir and red cedar in Oregon Caves National Monument and Mount Rainier National Park; then the more diversified old growth at Quinault; now we were back into Douglas fir and red cedar. As we walked through the forest, Bob and I were staggered by their girth and height. Up till this trip, I had always assumed that a redwood tree was the world’s tallest living thing, but on this trip we learned of a Douglas fir that had fallen—it was taller even than the current tallest redwood! These magnificent stands of Douglas fir and red cedar included many thousand-year-old trees! Those who have never seen such trees ought to determine to add them to their bucket list and see them before they die.

THE STORY OF CRESCENT LAKE LODGE

Two fur trappers (John Everett and John Sutherland) first explored the Crescent Lake area in the early 1860s; so captivated were they by its pristine beauty that they settled in the Olympic Peninsula. Early transportation across the nine-mile-long, mile-wide, and 600-feet deep lake was by canoe; not until 1891 did the first steam launch go into service. Lake Crescent came under the jurisdiction of the U.S. Forest Service in 1897 when it was included in the Olympic Forest Reserve. As word got out of its beauty, more and more tourists came to see it for themselves.

At the turn of the twentieth century, following the lead of Teddy Roosevelt, Americans everywhere were embracing the outdoor life. Train travel had tremendously increased the distance they could travel in a short time; now the automobile made it possible to do the same for areas not reached by rail. Indeed it was the automobile industry that reined in train travel, resulting in the long decline that has continued until our time.

On the eve of World War I, 1914, Avery and Julia Singer, recognizing the need for a first class resort on the south side of Lake Crescent, purchased eight acres of lakefront property, constructed a two-story hotel and cluster of cottages—in the then popular Arts and Crafts style.

Crescent Lake Lodge

So what greeted guests here? According to Barnes, “Guests arrived by private launch or ferry, enjoyed strolling gardens filled with roses, lilacs, and rhododendrons, and lounged on the tavern’s wraparound porch, taking in the views of the lake and mountains that jutted from the water’s edge. Wisteria draped the hotel’s eaves; croquet, golf, horseshoes, swimming, boating activities, fishing, and exploring filled the days. In the evening, tuxedoed waiters served dinner to guests in evening wear. ‘Civilized’ described the enclave carved out of Barnes Point, a land promenade off the shores of one of the most scenic lakes in Washington. ‘Pastoral’ might also fit the bill.” (Barnes, 69).

Inside, the wood-paneled 56 x 33 foot living room was dominated by an impressive two-tiered rock fireplace, crowned with the antlered head of a magnificent Roosevelt elk. It was a perfect place to relax after an activity-filled day.

Barnes notes that the entire complex “took advantage of its incredible setting, cupping the shoreline with the bathing beach and small craft and ferry landing docks. The placement of the lodge and cabins to the east created a courtyard effect, making space for a horseshoe pit and strolling gardens a marked contrast to towering mountains, dense forests, creeks, and waterfalls.” (Barnes, 71).

The Singers, after expanding their resort to close to a hundred acres with thirty to forty cabins, sold it in 1927. Over the years, many famous guests have stayed here—including Henry Ford, Frank Sinatra, outdoor-loving Supreme Court Justice William O. Douglas, Robert Kennedy, and First Lady Laura Bush. But perhaps most famous of all was president Franklin D. Roosevelt, who, with his entourage, spent the night of September 20, 1937, here; the #1 topic of discussion: Should an Olympic National Park be established?

We had no idea when booking this trip that we were thereby intersecting with so much history: Teddy Roosevelt, through the Antiquities Act, saving this area for posterity; Woodrow Wilson, tossing half of it back to the logging industry; and Teddy’s cousin, FDR taking the trouble to travel here himself, dedicating Timberline Lodge on September 28, 1937; spending the night of September 30 here at Crescent Lake Lodge; and then moving on to Quinault Lake Lodge on October 1 (all three lodges that we just visited, FDR did too, in only four days).

The lodge remained privately owned until 1951, when the National Park Service purchased the entire property. For a time, FOREVER Resorts managed it; today it is administered by ARAMARK.

* * * * *

In the late afternoon, we were ushered to a table with a great lake view for dinner. It was difficult to take our eyes off the scene out the window. Afterwards, we relaxed in wicker chairs and settees in that enchanting flower-bedecked sun porch, still here after almost 85 years.

Next morning, Lucy and Connie agreed that one of the worst mistakes of the entire trip was not booking at least a two-day stay here. All agreed that we must come back. It is a place that, once experienced, is guaranteed to haunt your dreams.

SOURCES

Barnes, Christine, Great Lodges of the National Parks 2 (Portland, OR: Graphic Arts Books, 2009). [The best source of information for this lodge].

“Discovery and History of Lake Crescent,” [handout].

Scott, David L. and Kay W., The Complete Guide to National Park Lodges (Guilford, CT: Globe Pequot Press, 1998, 2009).

MEASURING OUR LIVES BY BUTCHART GARDENS

Yes, ‘tis true: we do just that. We first experienced British Columbia’s Butchart Gardens 42 years ago (Greg fondly remembers it; Michelle does not because it was dark in the womb—but she was there). We’ve returned to what most likely is the world’s most beautiful garden three more times, in every season except winter. Most recently, in mid May.

We cannot perceive of any garden in the world being more beautiful than it was this time. Tuips, azaleas, rhododendrons, pansies, primroses, and many other May-time flowers—as well as flowering trees and shrubs—made every turn in the path a vision of paradise.

Though each season has its unique loveliness, it’s mighty difficult to imagine anything more magical than the post-winter explosion of spring.

This time, at the very inception of cruise-to-Alaska season, hordes of tourists were being disgorged from buses, bringing delight to Vancouver Island business owners as well as those cruise ship passengers.

For the first time in four decades, I took a mental inventory of what we’d seen and experienced over the years. In retrospect, I now realized that Butchart was anything but a finished product: it had continued to change, evolve, expand. There were far more pools, brooks, streams, waterfalls, bridges; types of trees, shrubs, and flowers, than ever before. Earlier, it had been merely memorable and beautiful—now, it took your breath away. Of course, with people from all over the world making it a destination stop, with more and more cruise ships docking in Victoria because of it, Butchart owners have more than enough money to hire a veritable army of gardeners to manicure it on an hour-by-hour basis.

Something else I hadn’t noticed before—was kids. Bus loads of them. Most with check-lists in their hands, searching for items to check off, delighted to cross bridges or leap from flagstone to flagstone in pools, etc. Whoever declared that kids no longer appreciate beauty in their lives these days should have been there to listen to those awe-struck children and tweens! Butchart managers are wise to give them special rates, for no child I saw there will ever be the same; for the rest of their lives, they will make a point of returning whenever it’s possible to do so.

At the front of Butchart’s wall calendars is a condensed version of the Garden’s history—it’s now more than a century old. Robert Pim Butchart was the pioneer manufacturer of Portland Cement in Canada. In 1904, with his wife Jennie and two daughters, he settled on Vancouver Island at Tod Inlet, 13 miles north of Victoria. From 1905 – 1910, huge amounts of limestone were quarried from the area. Jennie Butchart sighed at how unsightly and downright ugly the vast pit was becoming.

Because she loved to have beauty around her, she decided to do something about it. She discovered that the mild weather conditions on the island made for perfect flower-growing. First, she planted rose bushes, then, with the help of laborers from the cement works, she developed a Japanese garden.

Word got out, and more and more townspeople from Victoria began to visit the gardens. The Butcharts named their home “Benvenuto” (Italian for “welcome”), and the grounds were always open.

It has remained open for over a hundred years now—with more and more people from around the world adding it to their personal Bucket List of places to see before they die. And more and more like me and Connie, feel impelled to return again and again.

Steinbeck must have envisioned a place like this when he read in Genesis 2:8

And the Lord God planted a garden eastward of Eden; and there he put the man whom he had formed. . . .KJV

When Steinbeck wrote his unforgettable novel, East of Eden, I can’t help wondering: When he wrote it, had he seen Butchart Gardens?

POINT LOBOS, HEART-STOPPING BEAUTY

Every last one of our Bucket Lists ought to contain this line: See Point Lobos before I die.

And for those who have once experienced it: See it again!

As for me—it has been way too long since I’d last immersed myself into this sensual experience on the Carmel Coast of California.  A month ago, we returned to it. 

As we headed south from Monterey, I thought back to my last visit to this magical place.  The Pacific had been raging that cold, clammy, foggy, rainy day—so much so that I could not see Point Lobos, only hear the booming surf from my cozy little perch high above in another Bucket List destination: Highlands Inn.  The equally fabled Amalfi Coast has its Hotel le Sirenuse and Palazzo Sasso—the Highlands Inn rules supreme over the Carmel Coast. The great fireplace is the place to be near in stormy weather—but to really hear the surf, you need to experience it from one of the inn’s glorified bedroom huts.

But this time, though clouds threatened to close in, we knew we’d actually see Point Lobos.  Also its spectacular northern prelude.

Many years had passed since we’d slowed down the pace of our lives long enough to take that legendary self-standing destination that calls itself a drive: Seventeen Mile Drive.  But alas!  The days were long gone when one could revel in it on the cheap.  Now you pay the requisite $9.50 baksheesh just to drive onto it—but it is well worth it!  The deep blue Pacific can be seen from almost every turn, as is the fabulously expensive to play on Pebble Beach Golf Course.  Afterwards, the road snakes its way through the cypress world of the Italianate cliff-side palaces of some of the world’s wealthiest people.  A number of stunning vistas of the rugged coast cause people to stop for photo shoots along the way.

Carmel itself is part and parcel of this almost overpowering affluence.  For us, as glamorous as this Xanadu is, it was still a relief to escape it and head south a couple of miles to Point Lobos.

After paying the entrance fee, we drove through the cypresses to what America’s most beautiful coast once was before the super rich parceled so much of it out for themselves.  Fortunately, Point Lobos, the crown jewel of California’s state park system, has mercifully escaped the fiscal axe during the Golden State’s current budgetary crisis.  A citizen’s watchguard group, the Point Lobos Association, helps to preserve it for us.  Many other state parks have not been so fortunate.

David Starr Jordan famously declared that “Point Lobos is the most picturesque spot on the entire Pacific Ocean.”  Awed tourists ever since have agreed with him.  But mighty commercial forces later moved in on it—only the Panic of 1893 gave it a reprieve.  A full-scale war then raged for 40 long years.  Finally, thanks to the vision of A. M. Allan, funds from the Save-the-Redwoods League, and a public determined to save it at all costs, in 1933, Point Lobos State Reserve came into existence (554 acres plus 775 submerged acres).

After parking, we wended our way through the iconic cypresses to our long dreamed-of-destination.  And then: the reality that never fails to exceed expectations!  Mere words are totally inadequate to capture the sensory overload.  We passed people of all ages, from all over the world.  Even some with walkers and in wheelchairs.  One local young couple told me they come often— “it’s always different, and we can never capture it all.”  How I envied them!

Though the emerald aquamarine breakers smashing into the great cliffs would alone make the experience of watching the scene unforgettable, it is the juxtaposition of the cypress trees that elevates the totality into the realm of the mythical.

* * *

And just to share the experience with others (on the back covers of our books and on the website), Connie took the photo of yours truly that will now replace the earlier one taken on La Selva Beach some 50 miles north.