Danny Young was an Austinite in the very fullest sense of the term. He was a musician, he was one of nature's talkers (about anything), and he ran a fun, warmly welcoming restaurant that delivered fine food with the friendliest service.
Sadly, his Texicalli Grille closed in 2007, and though there were mentions that it would reopen in a new location, it never did. Danny apparently enjoyed his retirement from the day-to-day bustle of running a restaurant, and I cannot blame him for that. I really enjoyed dining at the Texicalli -- I was addicted to a particular salad, but on the times I'd opt for a sandwich, I was always satisfied. And the Texicalli always used linen napkins, which is a nice and rare touch. There were no strangers at the Texicalli, nor mere customers -- everyone was a friend. The staff didn't bother bringing me a menu unless I asked, and a glass of ice tea always hit my table within a minute of sitting down. Danny talked to anyone and everyone, either greeting briefly if the place was busy or at length if he had the time, and he was always glad to see everyone. My folks once visited and we took them to the Texicalli, and Danny held court with them for at least half an hour. It was the first restaurant we visited after our daughter was born, and she slept in her carrier while Val and I ate.
We miss the Texicalli, and now we miss Danny as well. He died of a heart attack last week. The food and the music in the great beyond just got better, but life here, in Austin and parts elsewhere, is that much less for his leaving.
An appreciation.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Saturday, August 30, 2008
The 2008 Hall Of Fame Veterans Committee Olde Tymers (Pre-1943 Debut) Ballot
Last year, the Baseball Hall Of Fame re-vamped the Veterans Committee, and tasked the new version with voting on four ballots. The third and fourth of these ballots get their first voting cycles this year -- one for players who made their major league debut before 1943, the other for those who debuted in 1943 or later. The Hall recently announced the ten-candidate ballot for the pre-1943 subcommittee. Let's have a look.
1. Bill Dahlen
Primary position: shortstop.
Playing career: 21 seasons, 1891-1911 -- Chicago Colts/Orphans (Cubs) 1891-98, Brooklyn Grooms/Bridegrooms/Superbas (Dodgers) 1899-1903 & 1910-11, New York Giants 1904-07, Boston Braves 1908-09.
Standout season: 1894 (.357/.444/.566, 149 runs, 179 hits, 32 doubles, 15 HR, 107 RBI, 42 SB, 136 OPS+.)
Other noteworthy seasons: 1896, 1898, 1899.
Career highlight stat: 1589 runs scored. Shortstop Range Factor of 5.79, above league average for his career.
Honoraria and statistical crowns: Played most of his career before the big awards were inaugurated. Led the NL in RBI once. Was in the Top Five or Top Ten many other times. Once hit two triples in one inning. Member of the 1905 World Series champion Giants, though he had an awful Series, hitting 0-15 with three walks and one run scored. Also a member of the 1899-1900 NL champion Superbas and the 1904 NL champion Giants, which refused to participate in a World Series.
BBWAA voting: one ballot, peaking at one vote (below 1%).
VC voting: never nominated, 2003-07.
Baseball bonus points: Dahlen was manager of the Brooklyn Dodgers from 1910-13 (technically a player/manager for the first two seasons, but only put himself into four games, so he certainly wasn't abusing the privilege). Results were not impressive, finishing sixth or seventh each season, never getting close to a winning record.
Dahlen was a very good player at a tough position during an era when hitters went for singles and infield defense was difficult under the best of conditions. And it's good to see a real olde tymer on the VC ballot. But Dahlen's era has been pretty well picked over, and while he's not a bad candidate, I cannot see him as a Hall-class one. There's a lot of good to very good in his career record but not enough greatness. Others may disagree.
Chipmaker's vote: No.
2. Wes Ferrell (reviewed in 2007)
Primary position: RH starting pitcher.
Playing career: 15 seasons, 1927-41 -- Cleveland Indians 1927-33, Boston Red Sox 1934-37, Washington Senators 1937-38, New York Yankees 1938-39, Brooklyn Dodgers 1940, Boston Braves 1941.
Standout season: 1930 -- 25-13 (.658), 296.2 IP, 143 K, 3 saves, 1 shutout, 3.31, 146 ERA+.
Other noteworthy seasons: 1932, 1935.
Career highlight stat: 193 wins, .601 winning percentage.
Honoraria and statistical crowns: Two All-Star selections (but did not play either time). Finished second in the 1935 AL MVP voting. Led AL in wins once, innings pitched three times, complete games four times. Numerous other Top Ten finishes in desirable categories. Major league records for home runs by a pitcher in a career (37 of his 38 total) and in a season (9, 1931). Pitched a no-hitter against the St. Louis Browns in 1931. Member of the 1938-39 World Series champion Yankees, though he did not play in either Series.
BBWAA voting: four ballots, peaking at 3.6%.
VC voting: 2003, 14.8%; 2005, 11.3%; 2007, 8.5%.
Baseball bonus points: Generally recognized as The Best Hitting Pitcher In Major League History (not named Ruth, anyway). Holds the career record for home runs by a pitcher with 37, including nine in 1931 (yes, Ruth hit hundreds, but very few while playing as a pitcher). Good enough that he was often used as a pinch-hitter. His 1931 batting season is worth including -- .319/.373/.621, 37 hits in 116 AB including six doubles, one triple, nine homers, 24 runs scored, 30 RBI, 151 OPS+. Career lines of .280/.351/.446, 38 HR, 208 RBI, 129 walks. Brother of Rick Ferrell, who is in the Hall Of Fame, though looking over his career record it is difficult to understand why.
Ferrell was a very good pitcher and certainly a workhorse, winning 20+ games six times in an eight year span (1929-36). He mostly played on not very good teams (by the time of his Yankees tenure, he was nearly washed up) and never played in the World Series as a result. He definitely had good stuff (and was a very good fielder), but began losing it at age 29 and was done after 33. So most of his value is packed into those eight years, and while they were very good years, he never really rose to greatness, maybe bumping the underside but not grabbing hold. I think the writers, and the VC, got this one right. Not Hall class. I didn't support him in 2007 and I see no reason to change that opinion.
Chipmaker's vote: No.
3. Joe Gordon (reviewed in 2007)
Primary position: second baseman.
Playing career: 11 seasons, 1938-43 & '46-50 -- New York Yankees 1938-43 & '46, Cleveland Indians 1947-50.
Standout season: 1942 -- .322/.409/.491, 88 runs, 173 hits, 29 doubles, 4 triples, 18 HR, 103 RBI, 79 walks, 155 OPS+.
Other noteworthy seasons: 1940, 1947, 1948.
Career highlight stat: 253 home runs.
Honoraria and statistical crowns: 1942 AL MVP. Collected MVP votes in eight of his 11 seasons, finishing in the Top Ten four other times. Eight consecutive All-Star selections, including five starts. Led AL in games played twice. Held major league record for home runs by a second baseman until HOFer Joe Morgan surpassed him; currently fourth among 2Bmen. Member of six World Series teams, including five champions (1938-39, '41, '43, '48).
BBWAA voting: eleven ballots, peaking at 28.5%.
VC voting: 2003, 23.5%; 2005, 17.5%; 2007, 12.2%.
Baseball bonus points: Gordon was a manager for four different teams over five seasons -- the Cleveland Indians (1958-60), Detroit Tigers (1960), Kansas City Athletics (1961), and first year expansion Kansas City Royals (1969). He wasn't bad at it, brought the Tigers to second place in 1959, there really was nothing to be done with the A's in that era, and a brand new expansion team is typically a disaster. His overall record was almost breakeven (305-308, .498), not at all bad for the circumstances, but clearly this part of his baseball career isn't going to help him get a bronze plaque.
If there had been a Rookie Of The Year Award in 1938, Gordon surely would have won it. He burst into the big leagues and never slowed down, only taking time off to serve two years in the military during WWII. A short career but a brilliant one, at a position not noted (at the time, and still not so much today) for bringing a lot of offensive value to the diamond. Good fielder.
Chipmaker's vote: Yes (still).
4. Sherry Magee
Primary position: left fielder.
Playing career: 16 seasons, 1904-19 -- Philadelphia Phillies 1904-14, Boston Braves 1915-17, Cincinnati Reds 1917-19.
Standout season: 1910 -- .331/.445/.507, 110 runs, 172 hits, 39 doubles, 17 triples, 6 HR, 123 RBI, 49 stolen bases, 94 walks, 174 OPS+.
Other noteworthy seasons: 1907, 1908, 1914, 1918.
Career highlight stat: 166 triples (15th all-time when he retired, 27th now), .364 OBP, 136 OPS+.
Honoraria and statistical crowns: Won the "rates triple crown" (AVG/OBP/SLG) in 1910 in the NL, which is a pretty rare thing. Led in SLG one other time, games played once, runs scored once, hits once, total bases twice, doubles once, RBI four times. Member of the 1919 World Series champion Reds, though he didn't contribute much (one hit in two AB), and the White Sox weren't trying their best to win anyway.
BBWAA voting: seven ballots, peaking at 0.9% (never got more than two votes).
VC voting: never nominated, 2003-07.
Magee makes a good example of a philosophy I try to bring to Hall ballot reviews -- sometimes a man is underappreciated in his own time, and it takes a longer look, later on, along with improved analytical tools, to gain sufficient perspective on just what he did bring to the diamond. Given that the BBWAA voting gave him very short shrift, and previous VC voting didn't even consider him, it is fair to say that Magee has been overlooked.
That, however, doesn't mean he was a Hall-class player. Clearly he was very good -- Magee piled up doubles and triples, which more than compensated for his dearth of homers, part of which was a product of the times and ballparks. He certainly could hit and hit with inside-the-park power, which is generally what corner outfielders are expected to bring. He finished in the league Top Ten in desirable statistics often.
Magee also had awful timing inflicted upon him -- he went from the 1914 Phillies to the 1915 Braves, just missing two World Series appearances. The Phils won the NL in 1915, after he left, and the Braves in 1914, just before he arrived. He finally did get a wee bit of October time in 1919, his last time on the major league diamond; pity that Series is remembered for other, darker reasons.
Magee was a very good hitter (and a decent fielder) with surges of greatness. He wasn't an amazingly great player, but I think he merits a Yes vote here. He would stand well in Cooperstown.
Chipmaker's vote: Yes (though if I had to throw my candidates off the ballot boat, Magee would be the first to go).
5. Carl Mays (reviewed in 2007)
Primary position: RH starting pitcher.
Playing career: 15 seasons, 1915-29 -- Boston Red Sox 1915-19, New York Yankees 1919-23, Cincinnati Reds 1924-28, New York Giants 1929.
Standout season: 1921 -- 27-9, 336.2 IP, 30 complete games, 1 shutout, 7 saves, 70 K, 3.05, 139 ERA+.
Other noteworthy seasons: 1917, 1919, 1920.
Career highlight stat: .622 winning percentage (207-126).
Honoraria and statistical crowns: Led in wins once, games pitched once, saves twice, innings pitched once, complete games twice, shutouts twice. Numerous Top Ten finishes. Won 20+ games five times. Member of four World Series champion teams (1915, 1916, 1918, 1923, though he did not play in the first and last of these) and two other league champions (1921-22).
BBWAA voting: one ballot, peaking at 2.3%.
VC voting: 2003, 19.8%; 2005, 15.0%; 2007, 7.3%.
Mays was a good pitcher with a few very good seasons and flashes of greatness. A reasonably good hitter as pitchers go, and a very good fielder for his position. But he never sustained the greatness that the Hall seeks to honor.
Mays also carries around one of the heaviest spiritual anchors in the history of the game, that of being the man who threw the pitch that lethally injured Ray Chapman. It was an accident, I do think, and though Chapman obviously had the worse outcome, Mays had the unenviable task of living with it. It's understandable that no one really wants to go near him, with that event on his career record.
Anyway... I wasn't a Mays proponent in 2007, and I see no reason to change that now.
Chipmaker's vote: No (and, for me, it has nothing to do with Chapman).
6. Allie Reynolds
Primary position: RH starting pitcher.
Playing career: 13 seasons, 1942-54 -- Cleveland Indians 1942-46, New York Yankees 1947-54.
Standout season: 1952 -- 20-8, 244.1 IP, 24 complete games, 6 shutouts, 6 saves, 160 K, 2.06, 162 ERA+.
Other noteworthy seasons: 1947, 1951.
Career highlight stat: .630 winning percentage (182-107).
Honoraria and statistical crowns: Six All-Star selections (playing in two), AL MVP votes in five seasons, once finishing second and another time third. Led AL in ERA once, strikeouts twice, shutouts twice, numerous other Top Ten finishes in the good categories. Member of six World Series teams (1947, '49-53), all champions, and he was a strong contributor (7-2, 2.79 in 15 games, 9 starts). Threw two no-hitters in 1951, against Cleveland in July and Boston in September.
BBWAA voting: twelve ballots, peaking at 33.6%.
VC voting: 2003, 19.8%.
Reynolds was a good pitcher for most of his career but had only one truly great season, and I really like seeing great seasons rather than just looking at career summary stats. I'm also not big on pitcher's wins, but given that he only won 20 (and that time, exactly 20) despite having the powerhouse, repeat champion Yankees behind him, it rather underscores that Reynolds was not an elite level player. The Hall seeks greatness; the level of good that Reynolds delivered is an asset on the field but really does not measure up to what belongs in Cooperstown.
Chipmaker's vote: No.
7. Vern Stephens
Primary position: shortstop.
Playing career: 15 seasons, 1941-55 -- St. Louis Browns/Baltimore Orioles 1941-47 & '53-55, Boston Red Sox 1948-52, Chicago White Sox 1953 & '55.
Standout season: 1949 -- .290/.391/.539, 113 runs, 177 hits, 31 doubles, 39 HR, 159 RBI, 101 walks, 138 OPS+.
Other noteworthy seasons: 1943, 1944, 1945, 1948, 1950.
Career highlight stat: 247 home runs, which was a lot coming from a shortstop.
Honoraria and statistical crowns: Eight All-Star selections (played in six), including two starts. AL MVP votes in nine different seasons, finishing in the Top Ten six times, peaking at third. Led in games played twice, home runs once, RBI three times, various Top Ten rankings. Member of the 1944 AL champion Browns.
BBWAA voting: never nominated.
VC voting: never nominated, 2003-07.
Stephens puzzles me. He was never nominated to the BBWAA Hall ballot, and in the 1960s, when he first would have been eligible, everyone got on the ballot. In the 1962 vote, 77 different players got at least one vote, and Stephens was not among them. I don't know how or why this happened. Clearly he has been overlooked by history, never to get on the ballot.
But he's not a better player now than then -- we just understand his career better. Stephens has a heap of All-Star selections and MVP votes, so certainly he was bringing something good to the diamond that contemporary writers and fans were seeing in a positive light. At the time of his retirement, he had the most home runs by a shortstop, and he held this mark by a huge margin (almost +80, going by career totals, strict position data not being available).
Stephens was no Honus Wagner, but in the annals of shortstops, he deserves to rank not too far behind the Dutchman, both at the time of his retirement and up to today. Somewhat similar to Gordon -- short career, but brilliant.
Chipmaker's vote: Yes.
8. Mickey Vernon (reviewed in 2007)
Primary position: first baseman.
Playing career: 20 seasons, 1939-43 & '46-60 -- Washington Senators 1939-43, '46-48, & '50-55, Cleveland Indians 1949-50 & '58, Boston Red Sox 1956-57, Milwaukee Braves 1959, Pittsburgh Pirates 1960.
Standout season: 1953 -- .337/.403/.518, 101 runs, 205 hits, 43 doubles, 11 triples, 15 HR, 115 RBI, 63 walks, 149 OPS+.
Other noteworthy seasons: 1946, 1954, 1955, 1956.
Career highlight stat: 2495 hits, .359 OBP.
Honoraria and statistical crowns: Seven All-Star selections, including four starts. AL MVP votes in five different seasons, with three Top Ten finishes, peaking at third. Two AL batting titles, led in doubles three times, numerous Top Ten finishes (except in homers -- peaked at eighth, once). A bit player on the 1960 World Series champion Pirates, though he didn't play in that postseason. Still holds the major league record for most double plays participated in defensively, with 2044.
BBWAA voting: fifteen ballots, peaking at 24.9% (on his final ballot).
VC voting: 2007, 17.1%.
Baseball bonus points: Vernon was a manager for the second, expansion Senators for two seasons and part of a third, 1961-63. They were a disaster, something of a tradition for both expansion teams and Washington baseball. There's only so much even a brilliant manager can do in such situations, and it certainly doesn't improve Vernon's candidacy.
Vernon had a very long career -- twenty seasons, plus two years away in military service, is rare in any era. As a first baseman, he needed to bring power, and though he played in tough home parks (mainly Griffith Stadium in Washington, a notoriously difficult hitter's park), he really didn't bring enough power often. A few great seasons but not nearly enough. Durable is good, greatness is much better. I didn't support him in 2007 and am going to repeat that here.
Chipmaker's vote: No.
9. Bucky Walters
Primary position: RH starting pitcher, though he started out as a third baseman for his first four seasons.
Playing career: 19 seasons, 1931-48 & '50 -- Boston Braves 1931-32 & '50, Boston Red Sox 1933-34, Philadelphia Phillies 1934-38, Cincinnati Reds 1938-48.
Standout season: 1939 -- 27-11, 319.0 IP, 31 complete games, 2 shutouts, 137 K, 2.29, 168 ERA+.
Other noteworthy seasons: 1940, 1944, 1945.
Career highlight stat: 242 complete games (in 398 starts).
Honoraria and statistical crowns: 1939 NL MVP. MVP votes in four other seasons, including finishing third and fifth. Six All-Star selections, including one start. Led in wins three times, ERA twice, innings pitched three times, strikeouts once, complete games three times, shutouts once -- including the pitcher's triple crown (wins, ERA, K) in 1939. Member of the 1939 NL champion and 1940 World Series champion Reds.
BBWAA voting: thirteen ballots, peaking at 23.7%.
VC voting: never nominated, 2003-07.
Baseball bonus points: Walters was manager of the Reds for part of 1948 and all of 1949, finishing seventh both times. He's not on the ballot as a manager candidate (good call, that), and this doesn't at all improve his baseball record, but it is worth noting.
It's a good thing Walters got moved to the mound, because he was no hitter at all and not particularly distinguished at fielding the hot corner (his lifetime .243/.286/.344 is pretty good for a pitcher, but for a 3Bman, that's ugly). A couple of great seasons, definitely a big part of the Reds winning the NL in two consecutive seasons, but there's a lot of mediocre or league-average seasons mixed in as well. If Walters had sustained a few more very good seasons -- not 1939 level, but better than what he did do -- I'd be inclined to support his candidacy. Given what he did do, I cannot. That MVP Award and All-Star selections are the right amount of honors for him.
Chipmaker's vote: No.
10. Deacon White
Primary position: catcher through 1879, third baseman after that, but also played right fielder, first baseman, and even pitched twice.
Playing career: 20 seasons, 1871-90 -- Cleveland Forest Citys (National Association) 1871-72, Boston Red Stockings (NA) 1873-75, Chicago White Stockings (Cubs) 1876, Boston Red Caps (Braves) 1877, Cincinnati Reds 1878-80, Buffalo Bisons 1881-85 (National League), Detroit Wolverines 1886-88 (NL), Pittsburgh Alleghenys (Pirates) 1889, Buffalo Bisons (Players League) 1890.
Standout season: 1877 -- .387/.405/.545, 51 runs, 103 hits, 14 doubles, 11 triples, 2 HR, 49 RBI, 191 OPS+ (in 59 games).
Other noteworthy seasons: 1873, 1875, 1876, 1879, 1884.
Career highlight stat: 2066 hits (in 1560 games).
Honoraria and statistical crowns: Rates triple crown (AVG/OBP/SLG) in 1877. Another batting title in 1875. Led in hits once, triples once, RBI three times, plus numerous Top Ten finishes in various positive stats. Member of six league champion teams (Red Stockings 1873-75, including the amazing 71-8 team in '75, White Stockings 1876, Red Caps 1877, and Wolverines 1887).
BBWAA voting: never nominated (no surprise, given the era in which he played).
VC voting: never nominated, 2003-07.
Baseball bonus points: White was a player/manager, very briefly, in 1872 and 1879, compiling a 9-11 record. Just tossin' it in there. White also holds the distinction of recording the first ever major league hit, doubling to lead off the top of the first on 04-May-1871.
To me, White is a perfect candidate for the pre-1943 debut ballot -- it should be used to unearth, evaluate, and recognize really olde-tymers, not guys who just scrape by the ballot cutoff by virtue of debuting in, oh, 1940 or so. Of these ten candidates, six debuted in 1927 or later, so the BBWAA ballot certainly has had its chances at them, as well as the various iterations of the VC; not that they're not worthy of evaluating again, certainly they are (even those whom have been rejected decisively, multiple times), but the pre-1943 ballot is the only doorway left for the 19th century men. White dates back to the very beginnings of major league baseball, having played in the 1871 National Association.
White's positional versatility is something rarely seen, certainly not today (maybe Craig Biggio). The game was different back then, at least how it was played and approached (the parts about hit the ball, catch the ball, throw the ball, score runs is still the same). White wasn't a great fielder anywhere, but he made up for it with his bat. The man could HIT. Seasons were shorter back in White's era -- he only played 100+ games in four seasons, and for the first time in 1884 -- but he made the most of them. Rate stats tell us what counting stats cannot, due to lack of opportunity, and White's rates are very impressive indeed, often rising to the level of greatness I think belongs in the Hall. I don't think there are many unearthed gems left in the deeps of baseball history, few injustices where men have been overlooked, but here is one of those few.
Chipmaker's vote: Yes.
Summing up...
My votes would go to Gordon, Magee, Stephens, and White.
I'm not going to make any predictions about the voting for these candidates because this is the initial cycle of this particular ballot under the current Veterans Committee format. But I will publicly place a hope -- that at least one player gets inducted, and here my preference would be for Gordon or White first.
This ballot will be voted in December at the baseball winter meetings, with the results announced a day later. The Hall will have a second VC ballot to announce sometime soon, that of players who debuted in 1943 or later, and here I hope that Ron Santo gets named on the ballot and then, long overdue but still a welcome result, gets elected as part of the Class of 2009. I'll review that ballot when it is announced, and as for Santo -- we'll see.
1. Bill Dahlen
Primary position: shortstop.
Playing career: 21 seasons, 1891-1911 -- Chicago Colts/Orphans (Cubs) 1891-98, Brooklyn Grooms/Bridegrooms/Superbas (Dodgers) 1899-1903 & 1910-11, New York Giants 1904-07, Boston Braves 1908-09.
Standout season: 1894 (.357/.444/.566, 149 runs, 179 hits, 32 doubles, 15 HR, 107 RBI, 42 SB, 136 OPS+.)
Other noteworthy seasons: 1896, 1898, 1899.
Career highlight stat: 1589 runs scored. Shortstop Range Factor of 5.79, above league average for his career.
Honoraria and statistical crowns: Played most of his career before the big awards were inaugurated. Led the NL in RBI once. Was in the Top Five or Top Ten many other times. Once hit two triples in one inning. Member of the 1905 World Series champion Giants, though he had an awful Series, hitting 0-15 with three walks and one run scored. Also a member of the 1899-1900 NL champion Superbas and the 1904 NL champion Giants, which refused to participate in a World Series.
BBWAA voting: one ballot, peaking at one vote (below 1%).
VC voting: never nominated, 2003-07.
Baseball bonus points: Dahlen was manager of the Brooklyn Dodgers from 1910-13 (technically a player/manager for the first two seasons, but only put himself into four games, so he certainly wasn't abusing the privilege). Results were not impressive, finishing sixth or seventh each season, never getting close to a winning record.
Dahlen was a very good player at a tough position during an era when hitters went for singles and infield defense was difficult under the best of conditions. And it's good to see a real olde tymer on the VC ballot. But Dahlen's era has been pretty well picked over, and while he's not a bad candidate, I cannot see him as a Hall-class one. There's a lot of good to very good in his career record but not enough greatness. Others may disagree.
Chipmaker's vote: No.
2. Wes Ferrell (reviewed in 2007)
Primary position: RH starting pitcher.
Playing career: 15 seasons, 1927-41 -- Cleveland Indians 1927-33, Boston Red Sox 1934-37, Washington Senators 1937-38, New York Yankees 1938-39, Brooklyn Dodgers 1940, Boston Braves 1941.
Standout season: 1930 -- 25-13 (.658), 296.2 IP, 143 K, 3 saves, 1 shutout, 3.31, 146 ERA+.
Other noteworthy seasons: 1932, 1935.
Career highlight stat: 193 wins, .601 winning percentage.
Honoraria and statistical crowns: Two All-Star selections (but did not play either time). Finished second in the 1935 AL MVP voting. Led AL in wins once, innings pitched three times, complete games four times. Numerous other Top Ten finishes in desirable categories. Major league records for home runs by a pitcher in a career (37 of his 38 total) and in a season (9, 1931). Pitched a no-hitter against the St. Louis Browns in 1931. Member of the 1938-39 World Series champion Yankees, though he did not play in either Series.
BBWAA voting: four ballots, peaking at 3.6%.
VC voting: 2003, 14.8%; 2005, 11.3%; 2007, 8.5%.
Baseball bonus points: Generally recognized as The Best Hitting Pitcher In Major League History (not named Ruth, anyway). Holds the career record for home runs by a pitcher with 37, including nine in 1931 (yes, Ruth hit hundreds, but very few while playing as a pitcher). Good enough that he was often used as a pinch-hitter. His 1931 batting season is worth including -- .319/.373/.621, 37 hits in 116 AB including six doubles, one triple, nine homers, 24 runs scored, 30 RBI, 151 OPS+. Career lines of .280/.351/.446, 38 HR, 208 RBI, 129 walks. Brother of Rick Ferrell, who is in the Hall Of Fame, though looking over his career record it is difficult to understand why.
Ferrell was a very good pitcher and certainly a workhorse, winning 20+ games six times in an eight year span (1929-36). He mostly played on not very good teams (by the time of his Yankees tenure, he was nearly washed up) and never played in the World Series as a result. He definitely had good stuff (and was a very good fielder), but began losing it at age 29 and was done after 33. So most of his value is packed into those eight years, and while they were very good years, he never really rose to greatness, maybe bumping the underside but not grabbing hold. I think the writers, and the VC, got this one right. Not Hall class. I didn't support him in 2007 and I see no reason to change that opinion.
Chipmaker's vote: No.
3. Joe Gordon (reviewed in 2007)
Primary position: second baseman.
Playing career: 11 seasons, 1938-43 & '46-50 -- New York Yankees 1938-43 & '46, Cleveland Indians 1947-50.
Standout season: 1942 -- .322/.409/.491, 88 runs, 173 hits, 29 doubles, 4 triples, 18 HR, 103 RBI, 79 walks, 155 OPS+.
Other noteworthy seasons: 1940, 1947, 1948.
Career highlight stat: 253 home runs.
Honoraria and statistical crowns: 1942 AL MVP. Collected MVP votes in eight of his 11 seasons, finishing in the Top Ten four other times. Eight consecutive All-Star selections, including five starts. Led AL in games played twice. Held major league record for home runs by a second baseman until HOFer Joe Morgan surpassed him; currently fourth among 2Bmen. Member of six World Series teams, including five champions (1938-39, '41, '43, '48).
BBWAA voting: eleven ballots, peaking at 28.5%.
VC voting: 2003, 23.5%; 2005, 17.5%; 2007, 12.2%.
Baseball bonus points: Gordon was a manager for four different teams over five seasons -- the Cleveland Indians (1958-60), Detroit Tigers (1960), Kansas City Athletics (1961), and first year expansion Kansas City Royals (1969). He wasn't bad at it, brought the Tigers to second place in 1959, there really was nothing to be done with the A's in that era, and a brand new expansion team is typically a disaster. His overall record was almost breakeven (305-308, .498), not at all bad for the circumstances, but clearly this part of his baseball career isn't going to help him get a bronze plaque.
If there had been a Rookie Of The Year Award in 1938, Gordon surely would have won it. He burst into the big leagues and never slowed down, only taking time off to serve two years in the military during WWII. A short career but a brilliant one, at a position not noted (at the time, and still not so much today) for bringing a lot of offensive value to the diamond. Good fielder.
Chipmaker's vote: Yes (still).
4. Sherry Magee
Primary position: left fielder.
Playing career: 16 seasons, 1904-19 -- Philadelphia Phillies 1904-14, Boston Braves 1915-17, Cincinnati Reds 1917-19.
Standout season: 1910 -- .331/.445/.507, 110 runs, 172 hits, 39 doubles, 17 triples, 6 HR, 123 RBI, 49 stolen bases, 94 walks, 174 OPS+.
Other noteworthy seasons: 1907, 1908, 1914, 1918.
Career highlight stat: 166 triples (15th all-time when he retired, 27th now), .364 OBP, 136 OPS+.
Honoraria and statistical crowns: Won the "rates triple crown" (AVG/OBP/SLG) in 1910 in the NL, which is a pretty rare thing. Led in SLG one other time, games played once, runs scored once, hits once, total bases twice, doubles once, RBI four times. Member of the 1919 World Series champion Reds, though he didn't contribute much (one hit in two AB), and the White Sox weren't trying their best to win anyway.
BBWAA voting: seven ballots, peaking at 0.9% (never got more than two votes).
VC voting: never nominated, 2003-07.
Magee makes a good example of a philosophy I try to bring to Hall ballot reviews -- sometimes a man is underappreciated in his own time, and it takes a longer look, later on, along with improved analytical tools, to gain sufficient perspective on just what he did bring to the diamond. Given that the BBWAA voting gave him very short shrift, and previous VC voting didn't even consider him, it is fair to say that Magee has been overlooked.
That, however, doesn't mean he was a Hall-class player. Clearly he was very good -- Magee piled up doubles and triples, which more than compensated for his dearth of homers, part of which was a product of the times and ballparks. He certainly could hit and hit with inside-the-park power, which is generally what corner outfielders are expected to bring. He finished in the league Top Ten in desirable statistics often.
Magee also had awful timing inflicted upon him -- he went from the 1914 Phillies to the 1915 Braves, just missing two World Series appearances. The Phils won the NL in 1915, after he left, and the Braves in 1914, just before he arrived. He finally did get a wee bit of October time in 1919, his last time on the major league diamond; pity that Series is remembered for other, darker reasons.
Magee was a very good hitter (and a decent fielder) with surges of greatness. He wasn't an amazingly great player, but I think he merits a Yes vote here. He would stand well in Cooperstown.
Chipmaker's vote: Yes (though if I had to throw my candidates off the ballot boat, Magee would be the first to go).
5. Carl Mays (reviewed in 2007)
Primary position: RH starting pitcher.
Playing career: 15 seasons, 1915-29 -- Boston Red Sox 1915-19, New York Yankees 1919-23, Cincinnati Reds 1924-28, New York Giants 1929.
Standout season: 1921 -- 27-9, 336.2 IP, 30 complete games, 1 shutout, 7 saves, 70 K, 3.05, 139 ERA+.
Other noteworthy seasons: 1917, 1919, 1920.
Career highlight stat: .622 winning percentage (207-126).
Honoraria and statistical crowns: Led in wins once, games pitched once, saves twice, innings pitched once, complete games twice, shutouts twice. Numerous Top Ten finishes. Won 20+ games five times. Member of four World Series champion teams (1915, 1916, 1918, 1923, though he did not play in the first and last of these) and two other league champions (1921-22).
BBWAA voting: one ballot, peaking at 2.3%.
VC voting: 2003, 19.8%; 2005, 15.0%; 2007, 7.3%.
Mays was a good pitcher with a few very good seasons and flashes of greatness. A reasonably good hitter as pitchers go, and a very good fielder for his position. But he never sustained the greatness that the Hall seeks to honor.
Mays also carries around one of the heaviest spiritual anchors in the history of the game, that of being the man who threw the pitch that lethally injured Ray Chapman. It was an accident, I do think, and though Chapman obviously had the worse outcome, Mays had the unenviable task of living with it. It's understandable that no one really wants to go near him, with that event on his career record.
Anyway... I wasn't a Mays proponent in 2007, and I see no reason to change that now.
Chipmaker's vote: No (and, for me, it has nothing to do with Chapman).
6. Allie Reynolds
Primary position: RH starting pitcher.
Playing career: 13 seasons, 1942-54 -- Cleveland Indians 1942-46, New York Yankees 1947-54.
Standout season: 1952 -- 20-8, 244.1 IP, 24 complete games, 6 shutouts, 6 saves, 160 K, 2.06, 162 ERA+.
Other noteworthy seasons: 1947, 1951.
Career highlight stat: .630 winning percentage (182-107).
Honoraria and statistical crowns: Six All-Star selections (playing in two), AL MVP votes in five seasons, once finishing second and another time third. Led AL in ERA once, strikeouts twice, shutouts twice, numerous other Top Ten finishes in the good categories. Member of six World Series teams (1947, '49-53), all champions, and he was a strong contributor (7-2, 2.79 in 15 games, 9 starts). Threw two no-hitters in 1951, against Cleveland in July and Boston in September.
BBWAA voting: twelve ballots, peaking at 33.6%.
VC voting: 2003, 19.8%.
Reynolds was a good pitcher for most of his career but had only one truly great season, and I really like seeing great seasons rather than just looking at career summary stats. I'm also not big on pitcher's wins, but given that he only won 20 (and that time, exactly 20) despite having the powerhouse, repeat champion Yankees behind him, it rather underscores that Reynolds was not an elite level player. The Hall seeks greatness; the level of good that Reynolds delivered is an asset on the field but really does not measure up to what belongs in Cooperstown.
Chipmaker's vote: No.
7. Vern Stephens
Primary position: shortstop.
Playing career: 15 seasons, 1941-55 -- St. Louis Browns/Baltimore Orioles 1941-47 & '53-55, Boston Red Sox 1948-52, Chicago White Sox 1953 & '55.
Standout season: 1949 -- .290/.391/.539, 113 runs, 177 hits, 31 doubles, 39 HR, 159 RBI, 101 walks, 138 OPS+.
Other noteworthy seasons: 1943, 1944, 1945, 1948, 1950.
Career highlight stat: 247 home runs, which was a lot coming from a shortstop.
Honoraria and statistical crowns: Eight All-Star selections (played in six), including two starts. AL MVP votes in nine different seasons, finishing in the Top Ten six times, peaking at third. Led in games played twice, home runs once, RBI three times, various Top Ten rankings. Member of the 1944 AL champion Browns.
BBWAA voting: never nominated.
VC voting: never nominated, 2003-07.
Stephens puzzles me. He was never nominated to the BBWAA Hall ballot, and in the 1960s, when he first would have been eligible, everyone got on the ballot. In the 1962 vote, 77 different players got at least one vote, and Stephens was not among them. I don't know how or why this happened. Clearly he has been overlooked by history, never to get on the ballot.
But he's not a better player now than then -- we just understand his career better. Stephens has a heap of All-Star selections and MVP votes, so certainly he was bringing something good to the diamond that contemporary writers and fans were seeing in a positive light. At the time of his retirement, he had the most home runs by a shortstop, and he held this mark by a huge margin (almost +80, going by career totals, strict position data not being available).
Stephens was no Honus Wagner, but in the annals of shortstops, he deserves to rank not too far behind the Dutchman, both at the time of his retirement and up to today. Somewhat similar to Gordon -- short career, but brilliant.
Chipmaker's vote: Yes.
8. Mickey Vernon (reviewed in 2007)
Primary position: first baseman.
Playing career: 20 seasons, 1939-43 & '46-60 -- Washington Senators 1939-43, '46-48, & '50-55, Cleveland Indians 1949-50 & '58, Boston Red Sox 1956-57, Milwaukee Braves 1959, Pittsburgh Pirates 1960.
Standout season: 1953 -- .337/.403/.518, 101 runs, 205 hits, 43 doubles, 11 triples, 15 HR, 115 RBI, 63 walks, 149 OPS+.
Other noteworthy seasons: 1946, 1954, 1955, 1956.
Career highlight stat: 2495 hits, .359 OBP.
Honoraria and statistical crowns: Seven All-Star selections, including four starts. AL MVP votes in five different seasons, with three Top Ten finishes, peaking at third. Two AL batting titles, led in doubles three times, numerous Top Ten finishes (except in homers -- peaked at eighth, once). A bit player on the 1960 World Series champion Pirates, though he didn't play in that postseason. Still holds the major league record for most double plays participated in defensively, with 2044.
BBWAA voting: fifteen ballots, peaking at 24.9% (on his final ballot).
VC voting: 2007, 17.1%.
Baseball bonus points: Vernon was a manager for the second, expansion Senators for two seasons and part of a third, 1961-63. They were a disaster, something of a tradition for both expansion teams and Washington baseball. There's only so much even a brilliant manager can do in such situations, and it certainly doesn't improve Vernon's candidacy.
Vernon had a very long career -- twenty seasons, plus two years away in military service, is rare in any era. As a first baseman, he needed to bring power, and though he played in tough home parks (mainly Griffith Stadium in Washington, a notoriously difficult hitter's park), he really didn't bring enough power often. A few great seasons but not nearly enough. Durable is good, greatness is much better. I didn't support him in 2007 and am going to repeat that here.
Chipmaker's vote: No.
9. Bucky Walters
Primary position: RH starting pitcher, though he started out as a third baseman for his first four seasons.
Playing career: 19 seasons, 1931-48 & '50 -- Boston Braves 1931-32 & '50, Boston Red Sox 1933-34, Philadelphia Phillies 1934-38, Cincinnati Reds 1938-48.
Standout season: 1939 -- 27-11, 319.0 IP, 31 complete games, 2 shutouts, 137 K, 2.29, 168 ERA+.
Other noteworthy seasons: 1940, 1944, 1945.
Career highlight stat: 242 complete games (in 398 starts).
Honoraria and statistical crowns: 1939 NL MVP. MVP votes in four other seasons, including finishing third and fifth. Six All-Star selections, including one start. Led in wins three times, ERA twice, innings pitched three times, strikeouts once, complete games three times, shutouts once -- including the pitcher's triple crown (wins, ERA, K) in 1939. Member of the 1939 NL champion and 1940 World Series champion Reds.
BBWAA voting: thirteen ballots, peaking at 23.7%.
VC voting: never nominated, 2003-07.
Baseball bonus points: Walters was manager of the Reds for part of 1948 and all of 1949, finishing seventh both times. He's not on the ballot as a manager candidate (good call, that), and this doesn't at all improve his baseball record, but it is worth noting.
It's a good thing Walters got moved to the mound, because he was no hitter at all and not particularly distinguished at fielding the hot corner (his lifetime .243/.286/.344 is pretty good for a pitcher, but for a 3Bman, that's ugly). A couple of great seasons, definitely a big part of the Reds winning the NL in two consecutive seasons, but there's a lot of mediocre or league-average seasons mixed in as well. If Walters had sustained a few more very good seasons -- not 1939 level, but better than what he did do -- I'd be inclined to support his candidacy. Given what he did do, I cannot. That MVP Award and All-Star selections are the right amount of honors for him.
Chipmaker's vote: No.
10. Deacon White
Primary position: catcher through 1879, third baseman after that, but also played right fielder, first baseman, and even pitched twice.
Playing career: 20 seasons, 1871-90 -- Cleveland Forest Citys (National Association) 1871-72, Boston Red Stockings (NA) 1873-75, Chicago White Stockings (Cubs) 1876, Boston Red Caps (Braves) 1877, Cincinnati Reds 1878-80, Buffalo Bisons 1881-85 (National League), Detroit Wolverines 1886-88 (NL), Pittsburgh Alleghenys (Pirates) 1889, Buffalo Bisons (Players League) 1890.
Standout season: 1877 -- .387/.405/.545, 51 runs, 103 hits, 14 doubles, 11 triples, 2 HR, 49 RBI, 191 OPS+ (in 59 games).
Other noteworthy seasons: 1873, 1875, 1876, 1879, 1884.
Career highlight stat: 2066 hits (in 1560 games).
Honoraria and statistical crowns: Rates triple crown (AVG/OBP/SLG) in 1877. Another batting title in 1875. Led in hits once, triples once, RBI three times, plus numerous Top Ten finishes in various positive stats. Member of six league champion teams (Red Stockings 1873-75, including the amazing 71-8 team in '75, White Stockings 1876, Red Caps 1877, and Wolverines 1887).
BBWAA voting: never nominated (no surprise, given the era in which he played).
VC voting: never nominated, 2003-07.
Baseball bonus points: White was a player/manager, very briefly, in 1872 and 1879, compiling a 9-11 record. Just tossin' it in there. White also holds the distinction of recording the first ever major league hit, doubling to lead off the top of the first on 04-May-1871.
To me, White is a perfect candidate for the pre-1943 debut ballot -- it should be used to unearth, evaluate, and recognize really olde-tymers, not guys who just scrape by the ballot cutoff by virtue of debuting in, oh, 1940 or so. Of these ten candidates, six debuted in 1927 or later, so the BBWAA ballot certainly has had its chances at them, as well as the various iterations of the VC; not that they're not worthy of evaluating again, certainly they are (even those whom have been rejected decisively, multiple times), but the pre-1943 ballot is the only doorway left for the 19th century men. White dates back to the very beginnings of major league baseball, having played in the 1871 National Association.
White's positional versatility is something rarely seen, certainly not today (maybe Craig Biggio). The game was different back then, at least how it was played and approached (the parts about hit the ball, catch the ball, throw the ball, score runs is still the same). White wasn't a great fielder anywhere, but he made up for it with his bat. The man could HIT. Seasons were shorter back in White's era -- he only played 100+ games in four seasons, and for the first time in 1884 -- but he made the most of them. Rate stats tell us what counting stats cannot, due to lack of opportunity, and White's rates are very impressive indeed, often rising to the level of greatness I think belongs in the Hall. I don't think there are many unearthed gems left in the deeps of baseball history, few injustices where men have been overlooked, but here is one of those few.
Chipmaker's vote: Yes.
Summing up...
My votes would go to Gordon, Magee, Stephens, and White.
I'm not going to make any predictions about the voting for these candidates because this is the initial cycle of this particular ballot under the current Veterans Committee format. But I will publicly place a hope -- that at least one player gets inducted, and here my preference would be for Gordon or White first.
This ballot will be voted in December at the baseball winter meetings, with the results announced a day later. The Hall will have a second VC ballot to announce sometime soon, that of players who debuted in 1943 or later, and here I hope that Ron Santo gets named on the ballot and then, long overdue but still a welcome result, gets elected as part of the Class of 2009. I'll review that ballot when it is announced, and as for Santo -- we'll see.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
The Road Trip, part 22 and last
Day 21 -- Van Horn to Austin, home at last
While Val was outside prepping the car, Carson awoke, sat up, and asked, "who put me in this hotel?"
On the road again, the very tail end of the Rockies finally petered out in west Texas, leaving little more geography than shallow plateaus and long valleys, through which I-10 plowed placidly. We cruised along, making good time, a little over 450 miles to make on the day. The terrain was repetitive and, other than stopping for gas, we had little interest in anything but getting home to Austin.
And then we approached mile 285 (I-10 counts upward going east). Somewhere around here, we spotted wind turbines to the north, atop the ridges and plateaus, and most of them were in service, spinning languidly. At first glance, I counted 18 turbine towers.
Then we spotted more to the south, a bit more distant.
And then, passing around one ridge to the north, we spotted more turbines. MANY more. We quickly abandoned all intents of counting them -- this wind farm was MASSIVE. Ridge after ridge, plateau after plateau was topped with multiple turbines, most rotating. We saw more to the north, where the ridges happened to be closer to the highway, but there were plenty to the south as well. At a guess, we saw over 300 towers, and no doubt there are more of them further distant, beyond the sightlines of the interstate.
Wow. We buy green wind power through the Austin power utility. It costs a bit more today, but locks in our rate for 15 years, and it almost certainly is coming from this huge wind farm. I thought it a beautiful thing to see. And, clearly, it is growing. As we drove along I-10, we saw several components going the opposite way -- two turbine blades, one spindle nose cone, one blade rotor, two spindle housings, and probably we missed other parts as stretches of highway went behind rock formations. Seeing the parts up close, driving by, gives a better sense of scale than the working turbines in the distance, and they are huge.
The wind farm finally appeared to end after at least 25 miles along the highway.
We broke for a late lunch, then made our final push. Finally leaving I-10, with about 110 miles to go, our last road into Austin was Route 290. This winds through Texas Hill Country, through historic (and touristy) Fredericksburg, where we picked peaches, and Johnson City. Along the way is the Lyndon Baines Johnson National Historical Park, the ranch of the former president, now complete since the mansion was handed over to the National Park Service after the death of former First Lady Lady Bird Johnson in 2007. The park officially opens on August 27, 2008, the 100th birthday of the late president. We haven't visited since before Lady Bird died, and so haven't seen the mansion. Maybe some day soon, but certainly not today. Home awaits.
We reached Austin at last, and of course -- and especially being a Friday evening -- the traffic immediately got wretched. I had wan hopes of getting to our post office to pick up the mail, but we missed it by 15 minutes. I made a quick stop for a gallon of milk, a necessity for sure, and made the final turns toward home. Not 100 feet from our driveway, we encountered one of our favorite neighborhoodies, Miss Ruth, who walks about several times daily, treating pets and wild animals on her travels. (Twilight knows her on sight and is an unabashed mooch for kibble.) We spoke a few minutes, general catching-up, then, at last, pulled into our driveway and parked,. Ruth joined us and talked some more. Twilight mooched kibble by acting cute. Central Texas got some rain while we were away (including today), and the withered lawn we had left behind was deep green if not quite lush. I'm going to have to pull out the mower sooner than I expected.
Val and I unloaded everything into a heap in the living room, turning the Civic back into a passenger car again. Still have to take the roof racks off, and it needs a good washing and has earned an oil change soon. Final tally: 3601 miles, almost all in the service of the trip, getting from here to there and back again. Incidental side trips were few. Good little Civic!
Unpacked, kids bathed, one by one we drifted off to sleep. In a rare turn of events, I was the first one down.
And that was our summer road trip. Nothing drastic, nothing transformative, just a good time, fun, with interesting but mercifully uneventful journeying, flexible (we didn't execute at least half of our original plans, but that was fine by all), and more relaxing than not, seeing a generous amount of the large and varied place that is America.
(General note: now that the text is complete, I'll be going back, adding pictures (we have over 1500 to sort through), links, and some basic editorial cleanup. So this entire series will end up richer in detail, but I hope you've enjoyed it so far.)
While Val was outside prepping the car, Carson awoke, sat up, and asked, "who put me in this hotel?"
On the road again, the very tail end of the Rockies finally petered out in west Texas, leaving little more geography than shallow plateaus and long valleys, through which I-10 plowed placidly. We cruised along, making good time, a little over 450 miles to make on the day. The terrain was repetitive and, other than stopping for gas, we had little interest in anything but getting home to Austin.
And then we approached mile 285 (I-10 counts upward going east). Somewhere around here, we spotted wind turbines to the north, atop the ridges and plateaus, and most of them were in service, spinning languidly. At first glance, I counted 18 turbine towers.
Then we spotted more to the south, a bit more distant.
And then, passing around one ridge to the north, we spotted more turbines. MANY more. We quickly abandoned all intents of counting them -- this wind farm was MASSIVE. Ridge after ridge, plateau after plateau was topped with multiple turbines, most rotating. We saw more to the north, where the ridges happened to be closer to the highway, but there were plenty to the south as well. At a guess, we saw over 300 towers, and no doubt there are more of them further distant, beyond the sightlines of the interstate.
Wow. We buy green wind power through the Austin power utility. It costs a bit more today, but locks in our rate for 15 years, and it almost certainly is coming from this huge wind farm. I thought it a beautiful thing to see. And, clearly, it is growing. As we drove along I-10, we saw several components going the opposite way -- two turbine blades, one spindle nose cone, one blade rotor, two spindle housings, and probably we missed other parts as stretches of highway went behind rock formations. Seeing the parts up close, driving by, gives a better sense of scale than the working turbines in the distance, and they are huge.
The wind farm finally appeared to end after at least 25 miles along the highway.
We broke for a late lunch, then made our final push. Finally leaving I-10, with about 110 miles to go, our last road into Austin was Route 290. This winds through Texas Hill Country, through historic (and touristy) Fredericksburg, where we picked peaches, and Johnson City. Along the way is the Lyndon Baines Johnson National Historical Park, the ranch of the former president, now complete since the mansion was handed over to the National Park Service after the death of former First Lady Lady Bird Johnson in 2007. The park officially opens on August 27, 2008, the 100th birthday of the late president. We haven't visited since before Lady Bird died, and so haven't seen the mansion. Maybe some day soon, but certainly not today. Home awaits.
We reached Austin at last, and of course -- and especially being a Friday evening -- the traffic immediately got wretched. I had wan hopes of getting to our post office to pick up the mail, but we missed it by 15 minutes. I made a quick stop for a gallon of milk, a necessity for sure, and made the final turns toward home. Not 100 feet from our driveway, we encountered one of our favorite neighborhoodies, Miss Ruth, who walks about several times daily, treating pets and wild animals on her travels. (Twilight knows her on sight and is an unabashed mooch for kibble.) We spoke a few minutes, general catching-up, then, at last, pulled into our driveway and parked,. Ruth joined us and talked some more. Twilight mooched kibble by acting cute. Central Texas got some rain while we were away (including today), and the withered lawn we had left behind was deep green if not quite lush. I'm going to have to pull out the mower sooner than I expected.
Val and I unloaded everything into a heap in the living room, turning the Civic back into a passenger car again. Still have to take the roof racks off, and it needs a good washing and has earned an oil change soon. Final tally: 3601 miles, almost all in the service of the trip, getting from here to there and back again. Incidental side trips were few. Good little Civic!
Unpacked, kids bathed, one by one we drifted off to sleep. In a rare turn of events, I was the first one down.
And that was our summer road trip. Nothing drastic, nothing transformative, just a good time, fun, with interesting but mercifully uneventful journeying, flexible (we didn't execute at least half of our original plans, but that was fine by all), and more relaxing than not, seeing a generous amount of the large and varied place that is America.
(General note: now that the text is complete, I'll be going back, adding pictures (we have over 1500 to sort through), links, and some basic editorial cleanup. So this entire series will end up richer in detail, but I hope you've enjoyed it so far.)
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
The Road Trip, part 21
Day 20 -- Tucson to Van Horn, Texas
With a long driving day (and possibly a night) ahead of us, we bade our good-byes, took some pictures, and hit the road around 10:00 am, which for us is getting a move on rather early. Bruegger's was the site of our final stop in Tucson, taking a late breakfast with Aunt Mary, who gave the kids a ride in her convertible for some last-minute fun. And then, we departed, heading a few miles south to get on I-10, which would take us most of the way home.
We did stop in Willcox (Exit 340 -- this is important if anyone wants to also make this stop, as signs are sparse, and if you miss it eastbound, turning around is difficult for several miles) at Stout's Apple Mill for some of Val's fondly-remembered apple pies. Both the standard and Dutch (crumbly sweet crust) versions were quite yummy, and we picked up some syrups for gift-giving, including apple pie syrup, which is made from the pan drippings created by pie baking.
We crossed out of Arizona and into New Mexico, though the terrain hardly changed. Most of this state passed by under and beside us with little interest -- we had many miles to go and wanted to get home. (Not even Carlsbad Caverns tempted us much.) The one feature of note in New Mexico was the trains -- very long, and a lot of them, chugging along just north of the highway, moving things westward (at least the trains we saw were going that way; perhaps the eastbound trains run at night). Mainly our route was flat, straight, and long.
New Mexico gave way to Texas in the late afternoon, and we were back in the home state at last. Our travels took us through five total -- Texas, New Mexico, Colorado, Utah, and Arizona, so that's 1/10th of the Union electorally. Of course, these are some of the big ones -- in New England, one can hit all six within one dedicated driving day.
We pulled off for dinner, finding a Golden Corral -- not great, but the buffet style serving means that there will be something the kids will like. I reviewed our road atlas -- of nearly 900 miles to go, we'd knocked off just over 300. The plan for driving through the night was not looking promising. The kids needed some energy draining time, and Val asked our waitress if there was a park nearby. She gave us sound and simple directions, and as sun was setting, we drove off and found the park. Carson and Amie both took to the playscapes (Carson also ran around in general, loving the chance to really stretch), while I ducked back into the car -- sunset is mosquito time, and I had already been bitten. Even under darkening skies, the playscape was crowded with little ones, but eventually families began leaving, and I called time for our needs as well. Fed and exercised, Amalie and Carson settled in, and we got back on I-10 for the drive through El Paso. We saw a gigantic hillside light star -- only one, of course, as befits the Lone Star State -- just north of the highway as we traversed the city, which was quite pretty.
Looking south, Mexico is right across the way, and the lights over the border are dense -- and stay right up to the border for quite some distance. Even after the highway took us beyond El Paso and the American landscape went dark to our right, the Mexican side remained well-lit for miles.
We motored on. I spotted a shooting star (isn't there a meteor shower around this time of year?), which is always a cool sight.
Not far past Sierra Blanca, the highway closed down, all traffic funneled into a truck inspection stop. We waited, clueless to what it was about, and as always happens in such lines, it moved smoothly until the truck right before us, when everything delayed for an extra five minutes. Finally that cleared, and it was our turn. It was US Customs, doing their job late at night. "Are you all US citizens?" the agent inquired. "Yes," I asserted, and offered to provide our passports (we had brought them against vague notions of visiting a border town while in Tucson, but never really pursued it). He declined and waved us through, and we were back on our way.
A while later, cruising along, my attention suddenly was commanded by the mighty blast of a train whistle! Just to our left, another freight (yes, traveling east -- they do run at night) had snuck up on us, and the whistle was alerting a fast-approaching crossing, lights flashing and bells clanging (there was, however, no traffic there to benefit from this son et lumiere performance). It was beautiful -- not only was there this massive engine and train pounding along the prairie tracks, but the moon was rising above it. The image was a nocturnal fantasy. We paced the train for several miles, but then it slowed and we began pulling away, heading into the night.
We pressed on. Now into our third state of the driving day, we also crossed our second time zone line -- Arizona, which doesn't bother with Daylight Savings, was a Pacific clock; New Mexico and the extreme west end of Texas, Mountain; and now we were back in Central. Our internal clocks told us it was 10:00 pm, but the cell phones read midnight; two hours, gone. The kids had been asleep for a few hours, and I was feeling stiff. Val was prepared to drive, but I considered that unfair to the kids. They needed a bed to stretch out. We pulled off in Van Horn, Texas, and took a room for the night. Both kids were transferred to bed without a twitch, Val and I unloaded the minimum bags needed for the morning, and we settled in for our last night on the road, just under halfway home.
With a long driving day (and possibly a night) ahead of us, we bade our good-byes, took some pictures, and hit the road around 10:00 am, which for us is getting a move on rather early. Bruegger's was the site of our final stop in Tucson, taking a late breakfast with Aunt Mary, who gave the kids a ride in her convertible for some last-minute fun. And then, we departed, heading a few miles south to get on I-10, which would take us most of the way home.
We did stop in Willcox (Exit 340 -- this is important if anyone wants to also make this stop, as signs are sparse, and if you miss it eastbound, turning around is difficult for several miles) at Stout's Apple Mill for some of Val's fondly-remembered apple pies. Both the standard and Dutch (crumbly sweet crust) versions were quite yummy, and we picked up some syrups for gift-giving, including apple pie syrup, which is made from the pan drippings created by pie baking.
We crossed out of Arizona and into New Mexico, though the terrain hardly changed. Most of this state passed by under and beside us with little interest -- we had many miles to go and wanted to get home. (Not even Carlsbad Caverns tempted us much.) The one feature of note in New Mexico was the trains -- very long, and a lot of them, chugging along just north of the highway, moving things westward (at least the trains we saw were going that way; perhaps the eastbound trains run at night). Mainly our route was flat, straight, and long.
New Mexico gave way to Texas in the late afternoon, and we were back in the home state at last. Our travels took us through five total -- Texas, New Mexico, Colorado, Utah, and Arizona, so that's 1/10th of the Union electorally. Of course, these are some of the big ones -- in New England, one can hit all six within one dedicated driving day.
We pulled off for dinner, finding a Golden Corral -- not great, but the buffet style serving means that there will be something the kids will like. I reviewed our road atlas -- of nearly 900 miles to go, we'd knocked off just over 300. The plan for driving through the night was not looking promising. The kids needed some energy draining time, and Val asked our waitress if there was a park nearby. She gave us sound and simple directions, and as sun was setting, we drove off and found the park. Carson and Amie both took to the playscapes (Carson also ran around in general, loving the chance to really stretch), while I ducked back into the car -- sunset is mosquito time, and I had already been bitten. Even under darkening skies, the playscape was crowded with little ones, but eventually families began leaving, and I called time for our needs as well. Fed and exercised, Amalie and Carson settled in, and we got back on I-10 for the drive through El Paso. We saw a gigantic hillside light star -- only one, of course, as befits the Lone Star State -- just north of the highway as we traversed the city, which was quite pretty.
Looking south, Mexico is right across the way, and the lights over the border are dense -- and stay right up to the border for quite some distance. Even after the highway took us beyond El Paso and the American landscape went dark to our right, the Mexican side remained well-lit for miles.
We motored on. I spotted a shooting star (isn't there a meteor shower around this time of year?), which is always a cool sight.
Not far past Sierra Blanca, the highway closed down, all traffic funneled into a truck inspection stop. We waited, clueless to what it was about, and as always happens in such lines, it moved smoothly until the truck right before us, when everything delayed for an extra five minutes. Finally that cleared, and it was our turn. It was US Customs, doing their job late at night. "Are you all US citizens?" the agent inquired. "Yes," I asserted, and offered to provide our passports (we had brought them against vague notions of visiting a border town while in Tucson, but never really pursued it). He declined and waved us through, and we were back on our way.
A while later, cruising along, my attention suddenly was commanded by the mighty blast of a train whistle! Just to our left, another freight (yes, traveling east -- they do run at night) had snuck up on us, and the whistle was alerting a fast-approaching crossing, lights flashing and bells clanging (there was, however, no traffic there to benefit from this son et lumiere performance). It was beautiful -- not only was there this massive engine and train pounding along the prairie tracks, but the moon was rising above it. The image was a nocturnal fantasy. We paced the train for several miles, but then it slowed and we began pulling away, heading into the night.
We pressed on. Now into our third state of the driving day, we also crossed our second time zone line -- Arizona, which doesn't bother with Daylight Savings, was a Pacific clock; New Mexico and the extreme west end of Texas, Mountain; and now we were back in Central. Our internal clocks told us it was 10:00 pm, but the cell phones read midnight; two hours, gone. The kids had been asleep for a few hours, and I was feeling stiff. Val was prepared to drive, but I considered that unfair to the kids. They needed a bed to stretch out. We pulled off in Van Horn, Texas, and took a room for the night. Both kids were transferred to bed without a twitch, Val and I unloaded the minimum bags needed for the morning, and we settled in for our last night on the road, just under halfway home.
The Road Trip, part 20
Day 19 -- Tucson one more day
A kick-back morning, preparing for the long drive home (nearly 900 miles). We're sort-of thinking of doing it in one long stretch, Val and I switching off and sleeping in the car, but we'll see. That can work, but it is non-trivial.
Eventually the kids woke up, bounced on the trampoline (fun, but gets the feet very dirty), and played with the dogs. Much of this "playing" entailed feeding them Milk Bones. In particular, Princess, a 120-pound female mastiff, can munch them down like drinking water.
Later in the day, Val borrowed a pickup from Mary and took the kids to the Tucson Children's Museum, where they had plenty of hands-on fun. I didn't go and so cannot give details, but did see the pictures, and it looked like a typical kid's museum, let them have fun while sneaking in bits of science and technology and history and so on. They came back happy and tired, and that's the breed standard for a good museum.
I did a bit of shopping, restocking what we had depleted from the house and making ready for the last car journey, and then waded into the laundry. We never get away from this, even on the road, and while we can only build up so much -- because we only brought a finite supply of clothes with us -- there's also car blankets and pillow cases to throw in, so it's not exactly a quick exercise. (The primary back seat blanket, upon which the kids sit, really takes a beating.)
A kick-back morning, preparing for the long drive home (nearly 900 miles). We're sort-of thinking of doing it in one long stretch, Val and I switching off and sleeping in the car, but we'll see. That can work, but it is non-trivial.
Eventually the kids woke up, bounced on the trampoline (fun, but gets the feet very dirty), and played with the dogs. Much of this "playing" entailed feeding them Milk Bones. In particular, Princess, a 120-pound female mastiff, can munch them down like drinking water.
Later in the day, Val borrowed a pickup from Mary and took the kids to the Tucson Children's Museum, where they had plenty of hands-on fun. I didn't go and so cannot give details, but did see the pictures, and it looked like a typical kid's museum, let them have fun while sneaking in bits of science and technology and history and so on. They came back happy and tired, and that's the breed standard for a good museum.
I did a bit of shopping, restocking what we had depleted from the house and making ready for the last car journey, and then waded into the laundry. We never get away from this, even on the road, and while we can only build up so much -- because we only brought a finite supply of clothes with us -- there's also car blankets and pillow cases to throw in, so it's not exactly a quick exercise. (The primary back seat blanket, upon which the kids sit, really takes a beating.)
The Road Trip, part 19
Day 18 -- Tucson, and into the Sonoran Desert
A big day, a special day -- we're heading back over the Gates Pass to the desert valley to visit the other point of interest, the Arizona Sonoran Desert Museum. This is one of the best museums in the world, and very little of it is kept inside buildings -- most of it is a large swath of the desert landscape, with paths and signs and displays where necessary, and modest fences to keep selected wildlife from running off (the plant life tends to stay put). However, visitors are definitely out in the wild, walking the living desert, which is a rich, diverse, and fascinating ecosystem.
We arose and headed out early, in hopes of catching some of the critters in their active states. Desert animals are no fools -- they know to doze during the heat of midday.
Our first stop was at a local Bruegger's Bagels, where bagels and cream cheese and coffees and milk bottles were obtained. Fortified, we struck out, this time pulling over at the rest stop atop Gates Pass -- we needed to get the kids dressed, and took the opportunity to observe a saguaro up close. We finished crossing into the valley, and soon found our way to the Desert Museum.
We arrived just about 9:30, later than I would have liked but still early enough to catch a tour. Docent Jim was just about ready to go, so we queued up with a few other visitors and took in the first mini-lecture, on rattlesnakes, the most hazardous animal in the desert. On we went, Jim noting various plants and telling about their uses, along with another mini-lecture on saguaros (other docents man small, portable lecterns with visual aids -- hands-on toys, which always improve a given lesson). Part of the primary trail travels through an artificial underground, detailing the geographic makeup and some of the subterranean life, but soon we were back in the sunshine (the weather was clear and, no surprise, sunny). There were custom pens for some of the larger desert fauna, most resting as the day's heat mounted (one, a mountain lion, was completely sacked out and sound asleep -- typical cat). Before we realized it, Docent Jim had led us through the Desert Museum for 90 minutes, and it was his time to leave us to our own explorations.
We were staying well-hydrated, having brought water bottles, which we refilled at need as water fountains were located. Drinking eventually demands payment, though, so while the ladies sought out a restroom, Carson and I took up station on a shaded bench to wait. I pointed out a very tall saguaro not 30 feet away, and told Carson it might be 100 years old, maybe even 200. He grasped this readily, and promptly engaged each and every passerby to look at the big cactus, and that it was maybe 100 years old! Honestly, it was like he was auditioning to be a museum docent, he approached the topic with such enthusiasm. Carson speaks to strangers with great ease, which is one thing (of many) I admire about him, because I don't know from where he got that talent.
We wandered on. I was disappointed that we could not visit the javelina area, which was on a trail temporarily closed -- the story given was that a wild javelina -- a desert boar -- had entered the grounds and had not yet been removed. Ah well, there was still plenty to see. We reached the main aviary, wherein the birds had just been given their lunches, seeds and chunks of fruits and vegetables. The birds are accustomed to humans, and can be closely approached (as long as we stay on the paths). There is even a parrot within, which can speak "hello" in that parrot way.
We broke for lunch, having reached the restaurant at the right time, then visited the art gallery, where the kids did some coloring (printed outlines of desert critters are provided). Finally back to the museum, we observed more animals, fish (water is not plentiful, it is a desert, but where water does flow brings a new dimension to the ecosystem), a second aviary of just hummingbirds (about the size of my finger, and very acclimated to humans -- I got to about six inches away from one, with the camera), and back around to the entry building at last. The sun was high, well into the afternoon, and just before we left we found a display gallery of lizards and other crawlies, so we spent some time in there as well.
We departed some time after 3:00 pm, around six hours at the Arizona Sonoran Desert Museum, and completely well worth the entire visit. My black tee-shirt had a huge salt stain wide around the collar -- a mark I earned, and though I had sweated healthily, I was still quite dry. The desert air wicks away moisture incredibly fast.
One last bit about the Desert Museum -- Amalie's given middle name is Sonora, in honor of the desert Val grew up near. We asked Amie how she liked "her" desert, and she said it was great. I agree.
Heading home, Val navigated us to a much-desired tortilla take-out joint, St. Mary's, where we obtained early dinner foodstuffs -- tortillas, red chile filling, green chile filling, and a piece of tres leches cake. The last time we had visited, which was in 2000, it was near closing time and St. Mary's had been sold out of tres leches, so this time I was very glad to get to try it -- and later on, when I did, it was superb, sweet but not overbearing, moist (soaked, really), yet still firm. The tortillas we made were excellent too.
Carson didn't make it home -- fell asleep in the car. We put him to bed and, amazingly, he stayed down the entire night, sleeping over 13 hours. The desert is just a bit too much for our young man, but this was seen as a good thing. I was drained, too -- when I hit the sack, I slept like a rock.
Our plans had called for getting to El Paso before Thursday and putting Val and the kids on an Amtrak train from there to San Antonio, while I drove I-10 and picked them up. We were enjoying Tucson enough that we dumped this idea and stayed an extra day (not to mention, saved a lot of money). Maybe some other time.
The room Amalie and Val had been staying in was reclaimed by its renter, who came back to town just before classes began at the University of Arizona, just down the street. So Amie had to move. The house is huge -- depending on how it is set up, it can have as many as eight bedrooms -- so Aunt Mary started clearing the storage room, which needed it anyway, and Val and Amie helped. They went at it for hours -- as stated, it needed clearing -- but eventually Amalie had a new home/nest/castle (she decorates vigorously) in which to sleep for two nights. I went down long before they finished -- Val told me they were up until 2:00 am at least -- but when I did see it, I was impressed. The amount of detail was great, even for Amie -- dollhouses, tea tables, dollies and plushes, all over the place. The girl has a real knack, an eye for detail.
A big day, a special day -- we're heading back over the Gates Pass to the desert valley to visit the other point of interest, the Arizona Sonoran Desert Museum. This is one of the best museums in the world, and very little of it is kept inside buildings -- most of it is a large swath of the desert landscape, with paths and signs and displays where necessary, and modest fences to keep selected wildlife from running off (the plant life tends to stay put). However, visitors are definitely out in the wild, walking the living desert, which is a rich, diverse, and fascinating ecosystem.
We arose and headed out early, in hopes of catching some of the critters in their active states. Desert animals are no fools -- they know to doze during the heat of midday.
Our first stop was at a local Bruegger's Bagels, where bagels and cream cheese and coffees and milk bottles were obtained. Fortified, we struck out, this time pulling over at the rest stop atop Gates Pass -- we needed to get the kids dressed, and took the opportunity to observe a saguaro up close. We finished crossing into the valley, and soon found our way to the Desert Museum.
We arrived just about 9:30, later than I would have liked but still early enough to catch a tour. Docent Jim was just about ready to go, so we queued up with a few other visitors and took in the first mini-lecture, on rattlesnakes, the most hazardous animal in the desert. On we went, Jim noting various plants and telling about their uses, along with another mini-lecture on saguaros (other docents man small, portable lecterns with visual aids -- hands-on toys, which always improve a given lesson). Part of the primary trail travels through an artificial underground, detailing the geographic makeup and some of the subterranean life, but soon we were back in the sunshine (the weather was clear and, no surprise, sunny). There were custom pens for some of the larger desert fauna, most resting as the day's heat mounted (one, a mountain lion, was completely sacked out and sound asleep -- typical cat). Before we realized it, Docent Jim had led us through the Desert Museum for 90 minutes, and it was his time to leave us to our own explorations.
We were staying well-hydrated, having brought water bottles, which we refilled at need as water fountains were located. Drinking eventually demands payment, though, so while the ladies sought out a restroom, Carson and I took up station on a shaded bench to wait. I pointed out a very tall saguaro not 30 feet away, and told Carson it might be 100 years old, maybe even 200. He grasped this readily, and promptly engaged each and every passerby to look at the big cactus, and that it was maybe 100 years old! Honestly, it was like he was auditioning to be a museum docent, he approached the topic with such enthusiasm. Carson speaks to strangers with great ease, which is one thing (of many) I admire about him, because I don't know from where he got that talent.
We wandered on. I was disappointed that we could not visit the javelina area, which was on a trail temporarily closed -- the story given was that a wild javelina -- a desert boar -- had entered the grounds and had not yet been removed. Ah well, there was still plenty to see. We reached the main aviary, wherein the birds had just been given their lunches, seeds and chunks of fruits and vegetables. The birds are accustomed to humans, and can be closely approached (as long as we stay on the paths). There is even a parrot within, which can speak "hello" in that parrot way.
We broke for lunch, having reached the restaurant at the right time, then visited the art gallery, where the kids did some coloring (printed outlines of desert critters are provided). Finally back to the museum, we observed more animals, fish (water is not plentiful, it is a desert, but where water does flow brings a new dimension to the ecosystem), a second aviary of just hummingbirds (about the size of my finger, and very acclimated to humans -- I got to about six inches away from one, with the camera), and back around to the entry building at last. The sun was high, well into the afternoon, and just before we left we found a display gallery of lizards and other crawlies, so we spent some time in there as well.
We departed some time after 3:00 pm, around six hours at the Arizona Sonoran Desert Museum, and completely well worth the entire visit. My black tee-shirt had a huge salt stain wide around the collar -- a mark I earned, and though I had sweated healthily, I was still quite dry. The desert air wicks away moisture incredibly fast.
One last bit about the Desert Museum -- Amalie's given middle name is Sonora, in honor of the desert Val grew up near. We asked Amie how she liked "her" desert, and she said it was great. I agree.
Heading home, Val navigated us to a much-desired tortilla take-out joint, St. Mary's, where we obtained early dinner foodstuffs -- tortillas, red chile filling, green chile filling, and a piece of tres leches cake. The last time we had visited, which was in 2000, it was near closing time and St. Mary's had been sold out of tres leches, so this time I was very glad to get to try it -- and later on, when I did, it was superb, sweet but not overbearing, moist (soaked, really), yet still firm. The tortillas we made were excellent too.
Carson didn't make it home -- fell asleep in the car. We put him to bed and, amazingly, he stayed down the entire night, sleeping over 13 hours. The desert is just a bit too much for our young man, but this was seen as a good thing. I was drained, too -- when I hit the sack, I slept like a rock.
Our plans had called for getting to El Paso before Thursday and putting Val and the kids on an Amtrak train from there to San Antonio, while I drove I-10 and picked them up. We were enjoying Tucson enough that we dumped this idea and stayed an extra day (not to mention, saved a lot of money). Maybe some other time.
The room Amalie and Val had been staying in was reclaimed by its renter, who came back to town just before classes began at the University of Arizona, just down the street. So Amie had to move. The house is huge -- depending on how it is set up, it can have as many as eight bedrooms -- so Aunt Mary started clearing the storage room, which needed it anyway, and Val and Amie helped. They went at it for hours -- as stated, it needed clearing -- but eventually Amalie had a new home/nest/castle (she decorates vigorously) in which to sleep for two nights. I went down long before they finished -- Val told me they were up until 2:00 am at least -- but when I did see it, I was impressed. The amount of detail was great, even for Amie -- dollhouses, tea tables, dollies and plushes, all over the place. The girl has a real knack, an eye for detail.
The Road Trip, part 18a -- At Last, A Ballgame
Night 17 bonus -- I go to a ballgame!
Throughout our travels, baseball has been in short supply, though the XM while driving or the MacBook whenever I can get on the Web have kept me updated with most of the news. But, neither the Rockies in Denver nor the Diamondbacks in Phoenix (where we never really approached) had favorable schedules. Oh, I could have made an effort, but I've been to Coors Field before, and I'm at the point where I either want massive convenience or a never-before-visited ballpark if I'm not going to see the Red Sox live.
Tucson, however, does have a minor league team, the Sidewinders, the AAA-level affiliate of the Diamondbacks. The park is about six miles from the house, a quick and simple drive, the team was in town, and I was cleared to go forth and enjoy myself -- so I did.
Tucson Electric Park, opened in 1998 and the spring training home of the Diamondbacks and the White Sox, is a nice little park, I think. Roomy seating, wide walkways, excellent sightlines. The outfield grass was rather scruffy, but it is near the end of a long season. Everything else was very nice for a ballpark, and I was glad to be there.
I shelled out $9 for a reserved seat behind the home dugout, but would have been fine had I bought a $6 general admission ticket, as the park was nowhere near full. Announced attendance was 1600 or so, but it looked like maybe half that many people were actually there. I moved about freely, and walked a full circuit of the park in the middle innings. Taking up an outfield position near one of the bullpens for a few batters, I could hear the relief pitchers talking about the sorts of things young men discuss in groups. The concessions were ballpark standards, nothing fancy or unusual but served quickly and hot (a benefit of the small crowd -- no lines). I partook of a few hot dogs and some soft drinks, which isn't a very good dinner, but an appropriate one for the setting.
Tucson Electric Park, a perfect evening's distraction. That cloudbank in the distance? Thunderstorm. (Full-sized.)
Ballgame! The Sidewinders took on the Portland Beavers and won, 4-0, but the game wasn't really close -- the Beavers never made any serious threats, and after the home team got two runs in the first on a homer, it was just a matter of playing nine innings. I was pleased to see several attempts at stealing bases, some successful, some thrown out with deadly accuracy.
The park lived up to the "Electric" part of its name thanks to a distant thunderstorm past left field, wherein lightning frequently lit up the storm clouds for the first half of the game. Later, the moon, just past full, rose over right field. The weather was perfect -- mid 80s once the sun set, light breezes, dry (the storm never approached the ballpark).
The game ended routinely, no surprises, no rallies. It was over in under 2 1/2 hours, and that was that. I collected my program, tossed my trash, had another look around the field and park, and took my leave. Some 15 minutes later, I was back at the house, and it wasn't even 10:00 pm.
I love baseball, and in some ways, the minors are even more fun than the big leagues.
Box score: Tucson 4 - Portland 0.
Throughout our travels, baseball has been in short supply, though the XM while driving or the MacBook whenever I can get on the Web have kept me updated with most of the news. But, neither the Rockies in Denver nor the Diamondbacks in Phoenix (where we never really approached) had favorable schedules. Oh, I could have made an effort, but I've been to Coors Field before, and I'm at the point where I either want massive convenience or a never-before-visited ballpark if I'm not going to see the Red Sox live.
Tucson, however, does have a minor league team, the Sidewinders, the AAA-level affiliate of the Diamondbacks. The park is about six miles from the house, a quick and simple drive, the team was in town, and I was cleared to go forth and enjoy myself -- so I did.
Tucson Electric Park, opened in 1998 and the spring training home of the Diamondbacks and the White Sox, is a nice little park, I think. Roomy seating, wide walkways, excellent sightlines. The outfield grass was rather scruffy, but it is near the end of a long season. Everything else was very nice for a ballpark, and I was glad to be there.
I shelled out $9 for a reserved seat behind the home dugout, but would have been fine had I bought a $6 general admission ticket, as the park was nowhere near full. Announced attendance was 1600 or so, but it looked like maybe half that many people were actually there. I moved about freely, and walked a full circuit of the park in the middle innings. Taking up an outfield position near one of the bullpens for a few batters, I could hear the relief pitchers talking about the sorts of things young men discuss in groups. The concessions were ballpark standards, nothing fancy or unusual but served quickly and hot (a benefit of the small crowd -- no lines). I partook of a few hot dogs and some soft drinks, which isn't a very good dinner, but an appropriate one for the setting.
Tucson Electric Park, a perfect evening's distraction. That cloudbank in the distance? Thunderstorm. (Full-sized.)Ballgame! The Sidewinders took on the Portland Beavers and won, 4-0, but the game wasn't really close -- the Beavers never made any serious threats, and after the home team got two runs in the first on a homer, it was just a matter of playing nine innings. I was pleased to see several attempts at stealing bases, some successful, some thrown out with deadly accuracy.
The park lived up to the "Electric" part of its name thanks to a distant thunderstorm past left field, wherein lightning frequently lit up the storm clouds for the first half of the game. Later, the moon, just past full, rose over right field. The weather was perfect -- mid 80s once the sun set, light breezes, dry (the storm never approached the ballpark).
The game ended routinely, no surprises, no rallies. It was over in under 2 1/2 hours, and that was that. I collected my program, tossed my trash, had another look around the field and park, and took my leave. Some 15 minutes later, I was back at the house, and it wasn't even 10:00 pm.
I love baseball, and in some ways, the minors are even more fun than the big leagues.
Box score: Tucson 4 - Portland 0.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
The Road Trip, part 18
Day 17 -- Tucson
Ah, a down day, no long travels -- Tucson is out last major stop, and we've set up camp, as it were. The dogs (four of them) have accepted us as house guests -- Amalie feeding them dog biscuits generously has no doubt sped up the process -- and our schedule is all our own.
But there are things we want to do in Tucson, so we cannot kick back for too long. Eventually fed and showered, we set out to visit Old Tucson Studios, east of the city (past the Tucson Mountains, which aren't a patch on the Coloradan Rockies). Built decades ago for movie making, the place took root as an attraction in its own right, and even though it burned down a few years ago, it has been rebuilt, a testament to its success.
A few miles west of Tucson, the road climbs up Gates Pass, a tiny and very twisty climb but nowhere near the steep, towering challenges we met in Colorado. Plus, the mountainsides are peppered with saguaros, so the view is quite scenic. Once over the crest, the Sonoran Desert spreads out broadly before the viewer, which is just lovely. This is no land of barren dunes -- the desert is quite alive, green from the bounty of rain this year, the plant life fulsome and tenacious. And, as noted, the prickly pear cacti alone are laden, almost overburdened, with dark, red fruits. The desert has had a very good year.
Old Tucson Studios is easy to find -- it's one of only two points of interest in the desert valley -- and we arrived about 11:00 in the morning, the heat mounting but not yet withering. The flies were the toughest challenge, just everywhere, almost constantly. Val and Amie took a horse ride (additional fee) first thing, and enjoyed it -- but mercy, the flies near the corral were the worst! I couldn't get away fast enough. The studio buildings are a bit shabby, though it seems suiting to an old west simulacrum, and overall the place is agreeable fun. There's a few live performances -- Carson and I saw a "magic elixir" (snake oil) show, which was mostly predictable but delivered with enthusiasm by the players, and later we all caught a stunt show with shotgun blanks and an explosion (I had to explain to the kids that, while the bangs were real, there were no bullets -- the actors pretended to dodge the ricochets, it's all part of the fun). Later we panned for gold (didn't find any, but the sluice was plenty full with iron pyrite, fool's gold, and the kids brought home many pieces), and finally had to leave as we had committed to picking up Mary's younger girl, Kylene, after school.
The drive back over the pass was quick, Carson fell asleep, and I stayed at the house with him as Val and Amie went to pick up Kylene. Carson ended up napping for almost five hours -- desert air and heat can really drain a little guy.
Ah, a down day, no long travels -- Tucson is out last major stop, and we've set up camp, as it were. The dogs (four of them) have accepted us as house guests -- Amalie feeding them dog biscuits generously has no doubt sped up the process -- and our schedule is all our own.
But there are things we want to do in Tucson, so we cannot kick back for too long. Eventually fed and showered, we set out to visit Old Tucson Studios, east of the city (past the Tucson Mountains, which aren't a patch on the Coloradan Rockies). Built decades ago for movie making, the place took root as an attraction in its own right, and even though it burned down a few years ago, it has been rebuilt, a testament to its success.
A few miles west of Tucson, the road climbs up Gates Pass, a tiny and very twisty climb but nowhere near the steep, towering challenges we met in Colorado. Plus, the mountainsides are peppered with saguaros, so the view is quite scenic. Once over the crest, the Sonoran Desert spreads out broadly before the viewer, which is just lovely. This is no land of barren dunes -- the desert is quite alive, green from the bounty of rain this year, the plant life fulsome and tenacious. And, as noted, the prickly pear cacti alone are laden, almost overburdened, with dark, red fruits. The desert has had a very good year.
Old Tucson Studios is easy to find -- it's one of only two points of interest in the desert valley -- and we arrived about 11:00 in the morning, the heat mounting but not yet withering. The flies were the toughest challenge, just everywhere, almost constantly. Val and Amie took a horse ride (additional fee) first thing, and enjoyed it -- but mercy, the flies near the corral were the worst! I couldn't get away fast enough. The studio buildings are a bit shabby, though it seems suiting to an old west simulacrum, and overall the place is agreeable fun. There's a few live performances -- Carson and I saw a "magic elixir" (snake oil) show, which was mostly predictable but delivered with enthusiasm by the players, and later we all caught a stunt show with shotgun blanks and an explosion (I had to explain to the kids that, while the bangs were real, there were no bullets -- the actors pretended to dodge the ricochets, it's all part of the fun). Later we panned for gold (didn't find any, but the sluice was plenty full with iron pyrite, fool's gold, and the kids brought home many pieces), and finally had to leave as we had committed to picking up Mary's younger girl, Kylene, after school.
The drive back over the pass was quick, Carson fell asleep, and I stayed at the house with him as Val and Amie went to pick up Kylene. Carson ended up napping for almost five hours -- desert air and heat can really drain a little guy.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
The Road Trip, part 17
Day 16 -- Holbrook to Tucson
Best Westerns are pretty good as quick in-and-out, one-night hotels right off the highway go. The one in Holbrook had a breakfast bar, nothing fancy but definitely served the need. Walking back to our room, I showed Carson how to check under vending machines for coins, and happened to spy two pennies in the filth under a Coke machine. We couldn't reach them, but a plastic knife came to the rescue, and soon two very dirty coins were ours. I made sure Carson washed them, and his hands.
Packed up and ready to move on, we first stopped at the Wigwam Hotel. A bit of old Rte. 66 runs through Holbrook, adorned with all sorts of old, schlocky signs and facades along the way. The Wigwam was the inspiration for the Cozy Cone hotel in Cars, and the parking lot has over a dozen vintage models (in various states of disrepair), so for Carson it was a treat and a half. (This road trip really was not meant to be an homage to Cars, but it rather turned out that way. The bluffs and cliffs in Utah are, with just a whiff of imagination, dead ringers for some of the car-shaped bluffs in the movie.) The lobby building wasn't scheduled to open until 3:00 pm, much too late to stay in hopes of buying a souvenir shirt, so we hopped back in the car and drove off.
But not far. Just outside of Holbrook is a huge store of souvenirs and petrified wood. We had picked up a coupon at the hotel for a free half-pound of petrified wood, and how could we resist? There were all sorts of raw and polished rocks -- semiprecious stones, petrified wood, fossils, meteorites. Unfortunately, there was a display of toys (not for sale) mounted high on one wall, which included two in-package Hot Wheels cars. Once Carson spotted those, he forgot about everything else. I told him they were not for sale, Val told him they were not for sale, the store clerk told him they were not for sale -- yet he had a very, very hard time letting go of hopes of buying the two cars. Val finally distracted him enough to select a few pretty stones, and we were off again, but dang, his near-addiction to toy cars really gets in the way sometimes.
The next town was Snowflake, where Jenny used to live (she was a teacher then); I hadn't been there since 2000, Val since 2003, and now it is showing many signs of growth. Immediately south is Taylor, and then there's a bit of a drive to Show Low -- very pretty, tall pine country. A few years ago, in 2002, there was a huge fire (the Rodeo-Chideski Fire) in the area. Dickie Joe ran a salvage company at the time, and when the fire was out he arrived to get to work. Dickie Joe prefers renting a room to taking a hotel, and Jenny (up in Snowflake) had one available. They hit it off, were married in late 2003, and now spend half their time in western Colorado. Life can take interesting turns.
It was 76 degrees in Show Low, Val noted from a bank signboard.
Out of Show Low is a long stretch on ridge tops and along canyons, until finally the road, Rte. 60, twistily climbs down the canyon walls above the Salt River. Near-hairpin turns finally reach a bridge, still high above the river; it looks fairly new, and the old span, now closed to traffic, runs alongside. The trek back up out of the canyon is equally or more challenging -- yes, paved roads, but tighter hairpins, steeper grades, and windy. Eventually we crested the canyon entirely, and were on our way into desert lands. It was obvious that this part of Arizona had had excellent rains this year -- it was very green, and Val (who lived in Tucson for several years) could not remember seeing the region so verdant. And, at last, we sighted the iconic Arizona flora -- the saguaro cactus.
These massive desert plants grow only in Arizona, a very small bit of eastern California, and Mexico, a region known as the Sonoran Desert; nowhere else. Despite its longtime use as the graphic shorthand for "American desert", they do not grow in Texas, or New Mexico, or Nevada, or Utah. They are magnificent, some truly towering, others with enough limbs and offshoots to look almost tree-like. They can live for many decades, perhaps centuries when conditions are right, and in some places are quite plentiful, dotting the hillsides and arroyos. The kids were delighted to see them, and they brought a smile to my face too. Val, an Arizonan from way back, is a bit more jaded to their appearance, but they are unmistakably Arizona's own.
We pulled over in Globe to take a break from the road, and to beat the heat, Val requested a stop at the local Dairy Queen. Again we scored -- the good DQ variety, vanilla and chocolate, with chocolate, cherry, or butterscotch dips (why the Austin franchises settle for only vanilla with chocolate dip is a mystery to me; popular, sure, but the different flavors are so worth having available). Refreshed, we saddled up, tanked up, and headed on down the road.
I was leading a small platoon of four or five vehicles as we entered the town of Mammoth, closing on Tucson, when suddenly I spotted an object in the road. I swerved a bit to avoid it, braked, and pulled into the first driveway, about 100 feet along. I hopped out and trotted back, hoping that the other cars had missed it as well. They had! With no other traffic in sight, I stepped out into the lane and picked up a rather frightened box tortoise, completely pulled into its shell. By this time the kids were closing on me, coming down the sidewalk -- I showed them the tortoise, which was just starting to think about poking out its head. Amalie and Carson were both pleased that Daddy had saved a "turtle". I walked it back into the roadside scrub and set it down, telling the kids to stand back and just watch. Soon it poked out head and limbs and began crawling away, but the kids kept a watchful eye on it until Val could ready the videocam. Silly tortoise got itself stuck under a scraggly bush, and though I'm sure it would have gotten out easily, I extracted it for better viewing. Then I stepped over to a prickly pear cactus, bedecked with fruits (a clear sign of the generous seasonal rains), plucked one (and they are prickly), squished it, and put it right before the tortoise. After a few moments analyzing the situation, the tortoise began munching the pear with obvious enthusiasm. We watched it for another few minutes, hoping it wouldn't go back toward the road, wished friend tortoise the best, and were back on the road to Tucson.
A rare event for us, reaching our destination before sundown -- we tossed aside the Google map and let Val's memory be our guide. She was visibly excited to be back in Tucson. Though Val hasn't lived in Tucson in over 16 years, the parts she remembers haven't much changed, and we soon found our next rest, the home where she and her family used to live, now inhabited primarily by sister Mary and her two daughters.
Joyous greetings given, we dragged in our bags and, finding my quarters for the stay, I dropped on the bed and took a late but much-needed nap. I almost never feel tired while driving, but it does wear me out when I'm done for the day.
From 76 degrees in Show Low, it had hit 100 in Tucson earlier in the day, though was down into the 90s when we arrived. That's one thing about dry heat country that doesn't get enough mention -- when the sun goes down, the temperature drops appreciably, as there's little humidity to hold it back. So the evenings are pleasant and cooler.
Best Westerns are pretty good as quick in-and-out, one-night hotels right off the highway go. The one in Holbrook had a breakfast bar, nothing fancy but definitely served the need. Walking back to our room, I showed Carson how to check under vending machines for coins, and happened to spy two pennies in the filth under a Coke machine. We couldn't reach them, but a plastic knife came to the rescue, and soon two very dirty coins were ours. I made sure Carson washed them, and his hands.
Packed up and ready to move on, we first stopped at the Wigwam Hotel. A bit of old Rte. 66 runs through Holbrook, adorned with all sorts of old, schlocky signs and facades along the way. The Wigwam was the inspiration for the Cozy Cone hotel in Cars, and the parking lot has over a dozen vintage models (in various states of disrepair), so for Carson it was a treat and a half. (This road trip really was not meant to be an homage to Cars, but it rather turned out that way. The bluffs and cliffs in Utah are, with just a whiff of imagination, dead ringers for some of the car-shaped bluffs in the movie.) The lobby building wasn't scheduled to open until 3:00 pm, much too late to stay in hopes of buying a souvenir shirt, so we hopped back in the car and drove off.
But not far. Just outside of Holbrook is a huge store of souvenirs and petrified wood. We had picked up a coupon at the hotel for a free half-pound of petrified wood, and how could we resist? There were all sorts of raw and polished rocks -- semiprecious stones, petrified wood, fossils, meteorites. Unfortunately, there was a display of toys (not for sale) mounted high on one wall, which included two in-package Hot Wheels cars. Once Carson spotted those, he forgot about everything else. I told him they were not for sale, Val told him they were not for sale, the store clerk told him they were not for sale -- yet he had a very, very hard time letting go of hopes of buying the two cars. Val finally distracted him enough to select a few pretty stones, and we were off again, but dang, his near-addiction to toy cars really gets in the way sometimes.
The next town was Snowflake, where Jenny used to live (she was a teacher then); I hadn't been there since 2000, Val since 2003, and now it is showing many signs of growth. Immediately south is Taylor, and then there's a bit of a drive to Show Low -- very pretty, tall pine country. A few years ago, in 2002, there was a huge fire (the Rodeo-Chideski Fire) in the area. Dickie Joe ran a salvage company at the time, and when the fire was out he arrived to get to work. Dickie Joe prefers renting a room to taking a hotel, and Jenny (up in Snowflake) had one available. They hit it off, were married in late 2003, and now spend half their time in western Colorado. Life can take interesting turns.
It was 76 degrees in Show Low, Val noted from a bank signboard.
Out of Show Low is a long stretch on ridge tops and along canyons, until finally the road, Rte. 60, twistily climbs down the canyon walls above the Salt River. Near-hairpin turns finally reach a bridge, still high above the river; it looks fairly new, and the old span, now closed to traffic, runs alongside. The trek back up out of the canyon is equally or more challenging -- yes, paved roads, but tighter hairpins, steeper grades, and windy. Eventually we crested the canyon entirely, and were on our way into desert lands. It was obvious that this part of Arizona had had excellent rains this year -- it was very green, and Val (who lived in Tucson for several years) could not remember seeing the region so verdant. And, at last, we sighted the iconic Arizona flora -- the saguaro cactus.
These massive desert plants grow only in Arizona, a very small bit of eastern California, and Mexico, a region known as the Sonoran Desert; nowhere else. Despite its longtime use as the graphic shorthand for "American desert", they do not grow in Texas, or New Mexico, or Nevada, or Utah. They are magnificent, some truly towering, others with enough limbs and offshoots to look almost tree-like. They can live for many decades, perhaps centuries when conditions are right, and in some places are quite plentiful, dotting the hillsides and arroyos. The kids were delighted to see them, and they brought a smile to my face too. Val, an Arizonan from way back, is a bit more jaded to their appearance, but they are unmistakably Arizona's own.
We pulled over in Globe to take a break from the road, and to beat the heat, Val requested a stop at the local Dairy Queen. Again we scored -- the good DQ variety, vanilla and chocolate, with chocolate, cherry, or butterscotch dips (why the Austin franchises settle for only vanilla with chocolate dip is a mystery to me; popular, sure, but the different flavors are so worth having available). Refreshed, we saddled up, tanked up, and headed on down the road.
I was leading a small platoon of four or five vehicles as we entered the town of Mammoth, closing on Tucson, when suddenly I spotted an object in the road. I swerved a bit to avoid it, braked, and pulled into the first driveway, about 100 feet along. I hopped out and trotted back, hoping that the other cars had missed it as well. They had! With no other traffic in sight, I stepped out into the lane and picked up a rather frightened box tortoise, completely pulled into its shell. By this time the kids were closing on me, coming down the sidewalk -- I showed them the tortoise, which was just starting to think about poking out its head. Amalie and Carson were both pleased that Daddy had saved a "turtle". I walked it back into the roadside scrub and set it down, telling the kids to stand back and just watch. Soon it poked out head and limbs and began crawling away, but the kids kept a watchful eye on it until Val could ready the videocam. Silly tortoise got itself stuck under a scraggly bush, and though I'm sure it would have gotten out easily, I extracted it for better viewing. Then I stepped over to a prickly pear cactus, bedecked with fruits (a clear sign of the generous seasonal rains), plucked one (and they are prickly), squished it, and put it right before the tortoise. After a few moments analyzing the situation, the tortoise began munching the pear with obvious enthusiasm. We watched it for another few minutes, hoping it wouldn't go back toward the road, wished friend tortoise the best, and were back on the road to Tucson.
A rare event for us, reaching our destination before sundown -- we tossed aside the Google map and let Val's memory be our guide. She was visibly excited to be back in Tucson. Though Val hasn't lived in Tucson in over 16 years, the parts she remembers haven't much changed, and we soon found our next rest, the home where she and her family used to live, now inhabited primarily by sister Mary and her two daughters.
Joyous greetings given, we dragged in our bags and, finding my quarters for the stay, I dropped on the bed and took a late but much-needed nap. I almost never feel tired while driving, but it does wear me out when I'm done for the day.
From 76 degrees in Show Low, it had hit 100 in Tucson earlier in the day, though was down into the 90s when we arrived. That's one thing about dry heat country that doesn't get enough mention -- when the sun goes down, the temperature drops appreciably, as there's little humidity to hold it back. So the evenings are pleasant and cooler.
The Road Trip, part 16
Day 15 -- Bedrock behind us, on to, um, Holbrook, Arizona, as it turned out
Time to leave Bedrock at last, and head toward Tucson, we took to the road at 1:30 in the afternoon, having spent the morning doing laundry and packing and saying good-bye. By now we had dumped the Grand Canyon from our plans, for several reasons. One, Val and I have seen it and the kids are still a bit young to appreciate it in depth. Two, the Durango-Silverton train was plenty of train fun, and demonstrated that the kids don't have the attention span for a long train ride. Third, it wouldn't be a cheap stop, what with driving to Williams, taking a hotel for two nights, and the train tickets. Plus we stayed longer in Bedrock than we'd planned, so maybe in a few years, but not now. We adjusted our driving route to take us more directly toward Tucson.
Getting out of Colorado was, of course, twisty and uphill. We did spot one deer ahead on the road, but he scampered off into the trees.
Crossing into Utah, the roads were not appreciably straighter until we reached high desert territory. We saw many wind-sculped rocks and mesas and buttes, and even one arch right by the road (Wilson Arch, I've since learned). But the boy was dozing and there were miles to go, so we didn't stop. To our surprise, though we expected a long, hot drive, we actually got a good bit of rain along this stretch and again in Arizona -- monsoon season, Val calls it. It certainly broke the heat nicely.
We did stop once in Utah, to top off the gas tank. This was, easily, the highest price we paid for fuel the entire trip, over $4.50/gallon.
Motoring on into Arizona, the land changed little -- high desert and barren bluffs. It would have been very dry but for the storm system overhead, which occasionally slashed us with rain or provided entertaining, distant thunderbolts. Small towns clearly embraced the fundamental geologic theme of the region -- Rock Point, Rough Rock, Round Rock, Window Rock, Flat Rock. Val (naturally) spotted one coyote scurrying through the roadside scrub (I did catch a glimpse).
We finally reached I-40, our last major road for the day, and turned west for about 30 miles to Holbrook. Jenny had suggested we stay at the Wigwam Hotel, another Route 66 era relic, which places its guests in stereotyped teepees. A nice thought, but it was getting on toward 9:00 pm and, rather than search for the Wigwam, we simply pulled into a Best Western. As on other nights afield, I set out to forage the local restaurants for dinner; an Italian place provided spaghetti, meatballs, salads, and a pizza. Thus sated, and the kids having burned off energy by jumping on the beds, we dropped off, one by one.
Time to leave Bedrock at last, and head toward Tucson, we took to the road at 1:30 in the afternoon, having spent the morning doing laundry and packing and saying good-bye. By now we had dumped the Grand Canyon from our plans, for several reasons. One, Val and I have seen it and the kids are still a bit young to appreciate it in depth. Two, the Durango-Silverton train was plenty of train fun, and demonstrated that the kids don't have the attention span for a long train ride. Third, it wouldn't be a cheap stop, what with driving to Williams, taking a hotel for two nights, and the train tickets. Plus we stayed longer in Bedrock than we'd planned, so maybe in a few years, but not now. We adjusted our driving route to take us more directly toward Tucson.
Getting out of Colorado was, of course, twisty and uphill. We did spot one deer ahead on the road, but he scampered off into the trees.
Crossing into Utah, the roads were not appreciably straighter until we reached high desert territory. We saw many wind-sculped rocks and mesas and buttes, and even one arch right by the road (Wilson Arch, I've since learned). But the boy was dozing and there were miles to go, so we didn't stop. To our surprise, though we expected a long, hot drive, we actually got a good bit of rain along this stretch and again in Arizona -- monsoon season, Val calls it. It certainly broke the heat nicely.
We did stop once in Utah, to top off the gas tank. This was, easily, the highest price we paid for fuel the entire trip, over $4.50/gallon.
Motoring on into Arizona, the land changed little -- high desert and barren bluffs. It would have been very dry but for the storm system overhead, which occasionally slashed us with rain or provided entertaining, distant thunderbolts. Small towns clearly embraced the fundamental geologic theme of the region -- Rock Point, Rough Rock, Round Rock, Window Rock, Flat Rock. Val (naturally) spotted one coyote scurrying through the roadside scrub (I did catch a glimpse).
We finally reached I-40, our last major road for the day, and turned west for about 30 miles to Holbrook. Jenny had suggested we stay at the Wigwam Hotel, another Route 66 era relic, which places its guests in stereotyped teepees. A nice thought, but it was getting on toward 9:00 pm and, rather than search for the Wigwam, we simply pulled into a Best Western. As on other nights afield, I set out to forage the local restaurants for dinner; an Italian place provided spaghetti, meatballs, salads, and a pizza. Thus sated, and the kids having burned off energy by jumping on the beds, we dropped off, one by one.
Brief Interrupt
We are home -- arrived yesterday, Friday 22-August, Day 21 of the road trip. I will be finishing the series, plenty of notes, but just getting settled back in at the ol' homestead (walking in, I briefly wondered if I'd ever been here before...) has been commanding our time. Plus Amalie begins first grade on Monday, so there was some supplies shopping that needed doing.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
The Road Trip, part 15
Day 14 -- Bedrock
Carson and Amalie both piled into the tractor cab with Jenny to help her till a field. Carson fell asleep, and stayed down the rest of the field and on the entire ride back up to the house.
Six horses got out from a neighboring ranch and ranch manager James caught two of them early in the morning, so Amalie had two extra customers at feeding time.
Other than that, we didn't go anywhere or do much of anything noteworthy today, so let's run down some trivia and general observations.
There are no families named Flintstone, Rubble, or Slate living in Bedrock.
Every road in western Colorado goes uphill. Even the roads that, geographically, topologically, and physically go downhill still go uphill in spiritual and metaphorical senses. Gravity never, ever gives a break.
This is known as Paradox Valley because the river (the Dolores) runs perpendicular to the long axis of the valley, which apparently is unique or at least pretty rare. That's the story, anyway.
We have decided to skip the Grand Canyon, mainly because we have spent longer here than we expected, but also because Val and I have seen it, and the kids are a bit too young to appreciate it yet. (Amalie has seen it, actually, but was little older than a baby.) So it'll be straight on to Tucson.
Sweat evaporates quickly here. Dry country.
General observation upon the state of the land: wherever man (or woman) travels, for some reason, he feels compelled to drop an empty beer can, or similarly durable piece of trash. I honestly do not understand this. It was heavier carrying it in, why not carry out the remains? Seriously, there is a substantive difference between making an abstract declaration of "I was here" or demonstrating "I was a jerk here". People should do better, it certainly isn't difficult.
Carson and Amalie both piled into the tractor cab with Jenny to help her till a field. Carson fell asleep, and stayed down the rest of the field and on the entire ride back up to the house.
Six horses got out from a neighboring ranch and ranch manager James caught two of them early in the morning, so Amalie had two extra customers at feeding time.
Other than that, we didn't go anywhere or do much of anything noteworthy today, so let's run down some trivia and general observations.
There are no families named Flintstone, Rubble, or Slate living in Bedrock.
Every road in western Colorado goes uphill. Even the roads that, geographically, topologically, and physically go downhill still go uphill in spiritual and metaphorical senses. Gravity never, ever gives a break.
This is known as Paradox Valley because the river (the Dolores) runs perpendicular to the long axis of the valley, which apparently is unique or at least pretty rare. That's the story, anyway.
We have decided to skip the Grand Canyon, mainly because we have spent longer here than we expected, but also because Val and I have seen it, and the kids are a bit too young to appreciate it yet. (Amalie has seen it, actually, but was little older than a baby.) So it'll be straight on to Tucson.
Sweat evaporates quickly here. Dry country.
General observation upon the state of the land: wherever man (or woman) travels, for some reason, he feels compelled to drop an empty beer can, or similarly durable piece of trash. I honestly do not understand this. It was heavier carrying it in, why not carry out the remains? Seriously, there is a substantive difference between making an abstract declaration of "I was here" or demonstrating "I was a jerk here". People should do better, it certainly isn't difficult.
The Road Trip, part 14
Day 13 -- Bedrock and Paradox
A slow, quiet, laid-back day. Jenny was down the valley, hired out to swath a field. The swather looks like what many would think of as a harvester, but it doesn't collect anything, just cuts the hay and swaths it into rows, where it dries before being collected and baled. Jenny took Val along to help drive it (the swather has a passenger seat, air conditioned cab, and FM radio, though out here there's only one station). So the kids and I relaxed all morning.
After a late lunch, Val came back and gathered us up -- Jenny wanted us all to try the swather. Okay. About five miles down the valley, almost to the end, is the town of Paradox -- technically a bit bigger than Bedrock, but set back from the main road so you'd never know it. Jenny was swathing half of a circular field, cutting huge C's back and forth, and had completed about half the diameter -- the longer, outside arcs take forever, but things speed up just a bit as the C's get smaller.
I climbed aboard and took lessons for two swaths, then took the helm. The steering is very sensitive, and cutting semicircles means no driving in a straight line. But, other than watching for prairie dog holes (and briefly lifting the cutting blade over them), it's pretty much the same as cutting a lawn, just on a much larger scale. It is a time-consuming and somewhat tedious job that takes a full day, but it needs doing.
While waiting their turns, the kids built a river fort in the dirt, with bridges and reservoirs and mountains and so forth. Val ran a one-woman bucket chain to a nearby creek to keep the fort in running water.
The sun was falling and the kids were getting hungry, and the field still not finished, so I drove us back to the ranch, dropped off the family, and then headed back to Paradox to pick up Jenny. She was finishing up the last two or three, very small C's just as I pulled up. Five minutes later, we were on the way home, and ten minutes after that, on our way to dinner.
Jenny and Dickie Joe's neighbor, Muffin, had invited us over, wanting to show off her new solar oven and cooking skills. She was very sweet, as was her dog Houdina, and the meal was excellent, all the cooking done in the solar oven. Roast bison, potatoes, whole beets, homemade pickles, and mesquite bean bread. This was amazing stuff, rolls made with flour from ground mesquite beans, chewy like a brownie without clotting in the mouth, not at all dry. I'll have to get some of this flour and try a few recipes.
As always happens around sunset, the mosquito forces attacked. Muffin had some Deepwoods Off, and I have no hesitation using chemical warfare on the little twerps, so a quick spray-down and I was clear. Val, however, opted to keep up the hand-to-bug combat; I don't know how she can take it. Dinner over, we snacked on watermelon slices and then bade our good-byes.
A slow, quiet, laid-back day. Jenny was down the valley, hired out to swath a field. The swather looks like what many would think of as a harvester, but it doesn't collect anything, just cuts the hay and swaths it into rows, where it dries before being collected and baled. Jenny took Val along to help drive it (the swather has a passenger seat, air conditioned cab, and FM radio, though out here there's only one station). So the kids and I relaxed all morning.
After a late lunch, Val came back and gathered us up -- Jenny wanted us all to try the swather. Okay. About five miles down the valley, almost to the end, is the town of Paradox -- technically a bit bigger than Bedrock, but set back from the main road so you'd never know it. Jenny was swathing half of a circular field, cutting huge C's back and forth, and had completed about half the diameter -- the longer, outside arcs take forever, but things speed up just a bit as the C's get smaller.
I climbed aboard and took lessons for two swaths, then took the helm. The steering is very sensitive, and cutting semicircles means no driving in a straight line. But, other than watching for prairie dog holes (and briefly lifting the cutting blade over them), it's pretty much the same as cutting a lawn, just on a much larger scale. It is a time-consuming and somewhat tedious job that takes a full day, but it needs doing.
While waiting their turns, the kids built a river fort in the dirt, with bridges and reservoirs and mountains and so forth. Val ran a one-woman bucket chain to a nearby creek to keep the fort in running water.
The sun was falling and the kids were getting hungry, and the field still not finished, so I drove us back to the ranch, dropped off the family, and then headed back to Paradox to pick up Jenny. She was finishing up the last two or three, very small C's just as I pulled up. Five minutes later, we were on the way home, and ten minutes after that, on our way to dinner.
Jenny and Dickie Joe's neighbor, Muffin, had invited us over, wanting to show off her new solar oven and cooking skills. She was very sweet, as was her dog Houdina, and the meal was excellent, all the cooking done in the solar oven. Roast bison, potatoes, whole beets, homemade pickles, and mesquite bean bread. This was amazing stuff, rolls made with flour from ground mesquite beans, chewy like a brownie without clotting in the mouth, not at all dry. I'll have to get some of this flour and try a few recipes.
As always happens around sunset, the mosquito forces attacked. Muffin had some Deepwoods Off, and I have no hesitation using chemical warfare on the little twerps, so a quick spray-down and I was clear. Val, however, opted to keep up the hand-to-bug combat; I don't know how she can take it. Dinner over, we snacked on watermelon slices and then bade our good-byes.
The Road Trip, part 13
Day 12 -- Bedrock to Gateway and back
It was suggested we visit the nearby Auto Museum in Gateway, in order to let Carson appreciate a collection of classic cars, as well as enjoy the drive and dine at the excellent Gateway Grille. So we did.
Gateway is a town-in-progress, mainly a budding resort developed by the owner of the Discovery Channel. It is fifty miles from Bedrock, the first 15 miles of which are a twisty (sigh...) gravel path through the river canyons. It wasn't a bad drive, just as scenic as when we explored it on the quads, and there were no rockfalls to muck up our progress. Finally emerging from the canyon, we reached Rte. 141, and turned left toward Gateway -- or so I thought. Nearly 30 miles later, with not yet a single sign encouraging our progress, I was beginning to think I had made a wrong turn -- which would have been difficult, as so far we had made only one turn. I decided to push on another five miles when, suddenly and with little notice, Gateway appeared. We turned in to the parking lot.
The Gateway Auto Museum is one of the early magnets for what eventually might become a larger resort. The surrounding mesas are lovely in that stark, rocky way, and the valley itself is lush with well-irrigated greenery. Cars greet visitors -- four outside, one right by the doors, and three more immediately inside. After taking a few pictures, I decided I needed the big flash, and returned to the car to get it. Back inside, attach the flash, and find the batteries are dead. Back to the car, scavenged the fresh batteries from the video cam, insert into the flash, and at last I was ready to go. Back inside.
The museum begins with a short film hosted by Walter Cronkite -- good to see ol' Uncle Walt out there. The cars, all immaculately restored, maintained, and polished, date from the 1900s to the 1970s, with one or two from the early 80s. Basically, these are not my cars, but my parents' generation is well-represented, huge 1950s art deco roadmonsters. The whole collection is quite interesting even if not personally resonant with me. The jewel of the collection, a mid-1950s Oldsmobile 88-something, one of a kind, test vehicle, was currently on tour elsewhere, so the huge turntable on which it typically rests was empty, but for a toy car sitting dead center. I appreciated the gesture. The cars are slightly cordoned off with low rails, and could easily be touched -- but, per museum policy, I resisted, and easily (the urge was not so great; these are not "my" cars). A well-done bonus is a selection of short, descriptive films, activated by motion sensor when stepping into the right zones around the museum.
We all enjoyed the cars (and had the place practically to ourselves), but what really snagged the imaginations of Amalie and Carson was a dual test track for pinewood derby racers. The museum had a dozen cars, three different models, which could be raced competitively on a manual track with automatic timing. The primary lesson is to evaluate what car designs give best performance under such conditions, but in short, it is a hands-on toy display which the both of them found captivating. With the kids anchored in one spot, I could roam the museum freely. It's not that big overall -- an hour is plenty unless one is really dazzled by particular models -- and soon I was back. Val had been monitoring them, and I relieved her, and Amie went along as well. With just us boys left alone at the track, I quickly made a plan for us to execute.
Tracks and cars -- well, let's have a runoff! We sorted the cars by models, then paired off individual cars by class to determine the fastest car of each model, diligently switching tracks and re-racing to ensure robust results not influenced by the quality of the tracks. Soon we had a red, blue, and silver car selected as best of each model, and then we were ready for the finals. Red against blue -- blue won. Red against silver -- silver won (reds really were clunkers). And then, the championship -- blue against silver. First run, silver won. Switched tracks and -- silver won again! Carson did note that the silver car went faster but the blue car went every so slightly further on the track. I commended his careful observation, but noted that we were racing for speed, and silver was the unquestioned winner. Champion -- Silver! (It was, coincidentally, the only car missing a numbered sticker, though by elimination it should have been car #5.)
Val and Amie returned and we described our experimental method and results with pride. Carson demonstrated the championship heat again, and then he and Amie were back to futzing about with the cars and tracks. But, the museum completed, we soon moved on to the small gift shop.
A stunner -- the gift shop at the Gateway Auto Museum has NO toy cars offered. NONE. Not even tiny versions of the displayed collection, not even the supercool (and absent) Oldsmobile. Oy. Carson settled on the only comp, a sizable toy motorcycle, the last in stock. Val got a shirt, Amie a plush toy and a cap. I skipped the merchandise altogether.
We retired to the Gateway Grille, and had a delicious dinner with wonderfully attentive service. Afterwards, the kids roamed the courtyard while I took advantage of the wireless connectivity, which was such a relief.
The ride back was mostly quiet. Carson nodded off quickly, and Val dozed as well until we got to the canyon. We entered just at dusk, though the darkness did not make it more challenging. We kept the windows open, and soon were spying bats silhouetted against the twilight skies. Finally pulling up to the ranch, we found Jenny and Dickie Joe sitting outside, enjoying a bonfire in the hearth. Carson roused briefly but soon drifted off on Jenny's lap. Amalie toasted marshmallows (she likes toasting them, but hardly eats any), and we spotted a satellite or two cruising along. A call to Grandma Nana (who, to the present group, also holds offices of "mom" and "mother in law") ascertained that, despite a health scare, she was doing fine and back home in Alaska.
It was suggested we visit the nearby Auto Museum in Gateway, in order to let Carson appreciate a collection of classic cars, as well as enjoy the drive and dine at the excellent Gateway Grille. So we did.
Gateway is a town-in-progress, mainly a budding resort developed by the owner of the Discovery Channel. It is fifty miles from Bedrock, the first 15 miles of which are a twisty (sigh...) gravel path through the river canyons. It wasn't a bad drive, just as scenic as when we explored it on the quads, and there were no rockfalls to muck up our progress. Finally emerging from the canyon, we reached Rte. 141, and turned left toward Gateway -- or so I thought. Nearly 30 miles later, with not yet a single sign encouraging our progress, I was beginning to think I had made a wrong turn -- which would have been difficult, as so far we had made only one turn. I decided to push on another five miles when, suddenly and with little notice, Gateway appeared. We turned in to the parking lot.
The Gateway Auto Museum is one of the early magnets for what eventually might become a larger resort. The surrounding mesas are lovely in that stark, rocky way, and the valley itself is lush with well-irrigated greenery. Cars greet visitors -- four outside, one right by the doors, and three more immediately inside. After taking a few pictures, I decided I needed the big flash, and returned to the car to get it. Back inside, attach the flash, and find the batteries are dead. Back to the car, scavenged the fresh batteries from the video cam, insert into the flash, and at last I was ready to go. Back inside.
The museum begins with a short film hosted by Walter Cronkite -- good to see ol' Uncle Walt out there. The cars, all immaculately restored, maintained, and polished, date from the 1900s to the 1970s, with one or two from the early 80s. Basically, these are not my cars, but my parents' generation is well-represented, huge 1950s art deco roadmonsters. The whole collection is quite interesting even if not personally resonant with me. The jewel of the collection, a mid-1950s Oldsmobile 88-something, one of a kind, test vehicle, was currently on tour elsewhere, so the huge turntable on which it typically rests was empty, but for a toy car sitting dead center. I appreciated the gesture. The cars are slightly cordoned off with low rails, and could easily be touched -- but, per museum policy, I resisted, and easily (the urge was not so great; these are not "my" cars). A well-done bonus is a selection of short, descriptive films, activated by motion sensor when stepping into the right zones around the museum.
We all enjoyed the cars (and had the place practically to ourselves), but what really snagged the imaginations of Amalie and Carson was a dual test track for pinewood derby racers. The museum had a dozen cars, three different models, which could be raced competitively on a manual track with automatic timing. The primary lesson is to evaluate what car designs give best performance under such conditions, but in short, it is a hands-on toy display which the both of them found captivating. With the kids anchored in one spot, I could roam the museum freely. It's not that big overall -- an hour is plenty unless one is really dazzled by particular models -- and soon I was back. Val had been monitoring them, and I relieved her, and Amie went along as well. With just us boys left alone at the track, I quickly made a plan for us to execute.
Tracks and cars -- well, let's have a runoff! We sorted the cars by models, then paired off individual cars by class to determine the fastest car of each model, diligently switching tracks and re-racing to ensure robust results not influenced by the quality of the tracks. Soon we had a red, blue, and silver car selected as best of each model, and then we were ready for the finals. Red against blue -- blue won. Red against silver -- silver won (reds really were clunkers). And then, the championship -- blue against silver. First run, silver won. Switched tracks and -- silver won again! Carson did note that the silver car went faster but the blue car went every so slightly further on the track. I commended his careful observation, but noted that we were racing for speed, and silver was the unquestioned winner. Champion -- Silver! (It was, coincidentally, the only car missing a numbered sticker, though by elimination it should have been car #5.)
Val and Amie returned and we described our experimental method and results with pride. Carson demonstrated the championship heat again, and then he and Amie were back to futzing about with the cars and tracks. But, the museum completed, we soon moved on to the small gift shop.
A stunner -- the gift shop at the Gateway Auto Museum has NO toy cars offered. NONE. Not even tiny versions of the displayed collection, not even the supercool (and absent) Oldsmobile. Oy. Carson settled on the only comp, a sizable toy motorcycle, the last in stock. Val got a shirt, Amie a plush toy and a cap. I skipped the merchandise altogether.
We retired to the Gateway Grille, and had a delicious dinner with wonderfully attentive service. Afterwards, the kids roamed the courtyard while I took advantage of the wireless connectivity, which was such a relief.
The ride back was mostly quiet. Carson nodded off quickly, and Val dozed as well until we got to the canyon. We entered just at dusk, though the darkness did not make it more challenging. We kept the windows open, and soon were spying bats silhouetted against the twilight skies. Finally pulling up to the ranch, we found Jenny and Dickie Joe sitting outside, enjoying a bonfire in the hearth. Carson roused briefly but soon drifted off on Jenny's lap. Amalie toasted marshmallows (she likes toasting them, but hardly eats any), and we spotted a satellite or two cruising along. A call to Grandma Nana (who, to the present group, also holds offices of "mom" and "mother in law") ascertained that, despite a health scare, she was doing fine and back home in Alaska.
The Road Trip, part 12
Day 11 -- Bedrock, staying put for a day
Amalie loves feeding the horses, both pitching hay and treating them with apples and carrots. The horses have figured they're on to a good thing, and show happy horse signs -- whinnying, thrashing their heads -- when she draws near.
Carson and I did a grocery run in the afternoon -- up the valley and out to Naturita, about 21 miles. A small store but well-stocked, we found everything we wanted but fresh corn. We bought some frozen corn on the cob instead, and it was delicious at dinnertime.
Both Jenny and Dickie Joe spent all day in the fields, prepping for winter planting. Carson and Amalie both helped out for most of the late afternoon. I cooked dinner and had everything ready at 7:30 and no one came in (including Val, who was taking pictures) for almost an hour. There were no leftovers by the time everyone ate up, though.
Jenny and Dickie Joe kept at the field work into the night, as all the heavy equipment has headlights and they wanted to finish.
Amalie loves feeding the horses, both pitching hay and treating them with apples and carrots. The horses have figured they're on to a good thing, and show happy horse signs -- whinnying, thrashing their heads -- when she draws near.
Carson and I did a grocery run in the afternoon -- up the valley and out to Naturita, about 21 miles. A small store but well-stocked, we found everything we wanted but fresh corn. We bought some frozen corn on the cob instead, and it was delicious at dinnertime.
Both Jenny and Dickie Joe spent all day in the fields, prepping for winter planting. Carson and Amalie both helped out for most of the late afternoon. I cooked dinner and had everything ready at 7:30 and no one came in (including Val, who was taking pictures) for almost an hour. There were no leftovers by the time everyone ate up, though.
Jenny and Dickie Joe kept at the field work into the night, as all the heavy equipment has headlights and they wanted to finish.
The Road Trip, part 11
Day 10 -- Durango to Bedrock, stopping by Mesa Verde National Park
As is customary, we got off to a pokey-slow start. Best Western had a complimentary breakfast bar, which served our needs well, and afterwards Val and the kids went for a swim, having been denied the night before by an early closing hour. Of course we had a checkout deadline, so I clock-watched while they splashed about -- Amalie particularly liked the adjacent hot tub. I called the time, they piled out, and we packed up and got ready to move on.
Our first stop, though, was a mere walking distance -- the D&SNGRR depot, to explore the gift shop one more time. Val had wanted to get some posters (a very good value at a mere dollar each), but they were out of stock on Sunday. The promise of Monday re-stock was fulfilled, and posters in bag, we walked back to our car, still at the hotel. On the way, in front of the depot, I spotted a bright red parking meter, which obviously was not metering a parking space as it stood some ten feet back on the lawn. Inspecting closer, it was a collection box for a help-prevent-homelessness concern. I thought it was a novel enough method for contribution collection that I dropped in a quarter. The meter granted three hours. And, at last, we were on the road out of Durango at the crack of noon.
Our stop for the day was Mesa Verde National Park, just outside Cortez. This is vast tract of canyonlands, where about a millennium ago a native people now known as the Anasazi built various cliffside dwellings, storerooms, and temples. Getting to these ruins, however, is no short hop. The park entrance ($15 for a car) is over a mile off the highway. The visitor's center is another 15 miles, of the usual insanely twisty, mountain-conquering, Coloradan roads, though at one point the road designers, possibly in a burst of rage but more likely for general aesthetic purposes, got sufficiently annoyed with one peak and, rather than wind up and down its shoulders, simply punched a tunnel through the damn thing (and then included no lights). I applaud this decision (the tunnel, not the "no lights").
Signage along the way is woefully inconsistent -- landmarks and distances are given in apparently random pattern, and sometimes different names are used for the same destinations (sometimes the geographic feature, sometimes the ruins group, sometimes the specific ruin). Carson fell asleep, and when we got to the visitor's center, we trundled him inside and planted him and a pillow on an out of the way bench. Val took a hungry Amalie on a walkabout to find something to eat (which was indescribably frustrating; again, signage failed to provide any useful information; Mesa Verde has had several serious fires in recent years, and perhaps all the good signs have burned down), while I monitored the sleeping boy. Not our best afternoon. Val and Amie eventually returned, hot and flustered and unsatisfied, Carson woke up, and all the good tour tickets were long since sold. A ranger suggested our best chance at seeing interesting ruins with the least out-of-car time, and we followed the map she highlighted. Another six miles down a ridge, and finally we came to the ruins, though the best feature of this drive is seeing ruins on the opposite side of a canyon. We alighted, took in the sights, shot some pictures, the usual, and hopped back in the car, mollified that our trek had not been entirely in vain. Another 21 twisty, uphill miles got us out of the park, during which Carson felt ill -- so, while it is a good park, we didn't get nearly good value from our visit. It just seems a very long way to go to see what an ancient people left behind when they got fed up with the place and left.
With still a long way to go on the day, we headed off again. A gas stop in Cortez brought a very strange sight -- super, 91 octane priced lower than mid-grade 88 octane gas. I suppose the super supply had not yet sold out from the previous delivery, gasoline prices being as volatile as they are in recent weeks. I topped off with super.
Rather than take yet another scenic mountain drive, I opted to head into the lesser hills nearer the Utah border. This is horse country -- I cannot recall seeing another ranch animal the entire way. There were also some crop fields, the most unexpected and attractive of which were acres and acres of sunflowers, in full bloom. Wow. Our route went basically north, with few towns and all of them small. Finally the road led into red rock land, hills and valleys, like Mars with scrub brush scattered about, land with no apparent use in farming, ranching, or mining. Were it not for the actual road, there would be no signs of civilization for miles. Stark, demanding, beautiful country. We saw maybe half a dozen other vehicles over a 65 mile stretch, and one balancing rock (erosion having eaten the bottom more deeply).
The sun set and there was but twilight gleaming when we re-entered Paradox Valley, the last 20 miles to the ranch. It was dark as we turned on to the gravel approach road, but then -- firelight. Surprise! Jenny and Dickie Joe were still in residence, sitting out enjoying a bonfire before bedtime. The storms of last week had crimped their field work schedule, and they decided against going to Lake Powell in order to catch up. We were all glad to see each other, and lucky me -- there were a few leftover pork chops, which went down a treat.
As is customary, we got off to a pokey-slow start. Best Western had a complimentary breakfast bar, which served our needs well, and afterwards Val and the kids went for a swim, having been denied the night before by an early closing hour. Of course we had a checkout deadline, so I clock-watched while they splashed about -- Amalie particularly liked the adjacent hot tub. I called the time, they piled out, and we packed up and got ready to move on.
Our first stop, though, was a mere walking distance -- the D&SNGRR depot, to explore the gift shop one more time. Val had wanted to get some posters (a very good value at a mere dollar each), but they were out of stock on Sunday. The promise of Monday re-stock was fulfilled, and posters in bag, we walked back to our car, still at the hotel. On the way, in front of the depot, I spotted a bright red parking meter, which obviously was not metering a parking space as it stood some ten feet back on the lawn. Inspecting closer, it was a collection box for a help-prevent-homelessness concern. I thought it was a novel enough method for contribution collection that I dropped in a quarter. The meter granted three hours. And, at last, we were on the road out of Durango at the crack of noon.
Our stop for the day was Mesa Verde National Park, just outside Cortez. This is vast tract of canyonlands, where about a millennium ago a native people now known as the Anasazi built various cliffside dwellings, storerooms, and temples. Getting to these ruins, however, is no short hop. The park entrance ($15 for a car) is over a mile off the highway. The visitor's center is another 15 miles, of the usual insanely twisty, mountain-conquering, Coloradan roads, though at one point the road designers, possibly in a burst of rage but more likely for general aesthetic purposes, got sufficiently annoyed with one peak and, rather than wind up and down its shoulders, simply punched a tunnel through the damn thing (and then included no lights). I applaud this decision (the tunnel, not the "no lights").
Signage along the way is woefully inconsistent -- landmarks and distances are given in apparently random pattern, and sometimes different names are used for the same destinations (sometimes the geographic feature, sometimes the ruins group, sometimes the specific ruin). Carson fell asleep, and when we got to the visitor's center, we trundled him inside and planted him and a pillow on an out of the way bench. Val took a hungry Amalie on a walkabout to find something to eat (which was indescribably frustrating; again, signage failed to provide any useful information; Mesa Verde has had several serious fires in recent years, and perhaps all the good signs have burned down), while I monitored the sleeping boy. Not our best afternoon. Val and Amie eventually returned, hot and flustered and unsatisfied, Carson woke up, and all the good tour tickets were long since sold. A ranger suggested our best chance at seeing interesting ruins with the least out-of-car time, and we followed the map she highlighted. Another six miles down a ridge, and finally we came to the ruins, though the best feature of this drive is seeing ruins on the opposite side of a canyon. We alighted, took in the sights, shot some pictures, the usual, and hopped back in the car, mollified that our trek had not been entirely in vain. Another 21 twisty, uphill miles got us out of the park, during which Carson felt ill -- so, while it is a good park, we didn't get nearly good value from our visit. It just seems a very long way to go to see what an ancient people left behind when they got fed up with the place and left.
With still a long way to go on the day, we headed off again. A gas stop in Cortez brought a very strange sight -- super, 91 octane priced lower than mid-grade 88 octane gas. I suppose the super supply had not yet sold out from the previous delivery, gasoline prices being as volatile as they are in recent weeks. I topped off with super.
Rather than take yet another scenic mountain drive, I opted to head into the lesser hills nearer the Utah border. This is horse country -- I cannot recall seeing another ranch animal the entire way. There were also some crop fields, the most unexpected and attractive of which were acres and acres of sunflowers, in full bloom. Wow. Our route went basically north, with few towns and all of them small. Finally the road led into red rock land, hills and valleys, like Mars with scrub brush scattered about, land with no apparent use in farming, ranching, or mining. Were it not for the actual road, there would be no signs of civilization for miles. Stark, demanding, beautiful country. We saw maybe half a dozen other vehicles over a 65 mile stretch, and one balancing rock (erosion having eaten the bottom more deeply).
The sun set and there was but twilight gleaming when we re-entered Paradox Valley, the last 20 miles to the ranch. It was dark as we turned on to the gravel approach road, but then -- firelight. Surprise! Jenny and Dickie Joe were still in residence, sitting out enjoying a bonfire before bedtime. The storms of last week had crimped their field work schedule, and they decided against going to Lake Powell in order to catch up. We were all glad to see each other, and lucky me -- there were a few leftover pork chops, which went down a treat.
The Road Trip, part 10
Day 9 -- Silverton to Durango, and then back to Silverton, and then back to Durango. You can't make this stuff up, folks.
We woke early -- I had set my cell phone alarm for 6:00 am -- and packed everything back into the car by 6:45. Then, one by one, we transferred the kids from the bed to the backseat. Amazingly, though, they both woke up, determined not to miss anything. Making a quick final check, I noticed that fresh coffee had been set out, and poured up two cups for groggy adults. Thus bolstered, we set off, 50 mountainous miles south to Durango.
There were at least two passes over 10,000 feet -- they may have been slightly higher than Monarch but, inconveniently, the peak altitudes were not marked. Saw a few deer standing by the road, and one yearling actually bounding along (until we got close, when he stopped, stared, and bolted in the other direction). A gas station and convenience store near a resort area provided both breakfast and bathrooms, and we cruised into Durango around 8:15. Just north of town, we spotted the narrow gauge railroad tracks just to our left, and soon a small, yellow, one-man car zipped by. I guessed -- and later asked and had confirmed -- that this was a track inspection, rolling out before the first train run of the day.
We zeroed in on the train depot, but upon spotting a Best Western (one of several hotels suggested by the train clerk over the phone), I went in and made a reservation for that night. Having found our place for the day, Val took the kids inside to change their clothes (still in pajamas) in the lobby restrooms, and I prepped our small daybags for the train ride. Finally outfitted for the train, we walked over and picked up our tickets. The kids, as usual, explored the gift shop. We boarded our car -- an open-air gondola, no windows -- and took four seats. (We had assigned seats but no one made a fuss about this, so we sat nearest the back of the car instead.) Then Val sent me back for coffee; okay. I bought the free-refill mug, which we used several times in the concession car on both rides. Our train, the 9:45, last of the day, blasted forth its whistle, and we were off.
The rails are pretty much flat getting out of Durango and a little bit up the valley, but soon begin climbing into the mountains, and from that point the entire ride is uphill to Silverton; altitude gain is about 2700 feet. Soon after beginning the rise, the train runs alongside the Animas River for much of the line, crossing over a few times. If you've ever imagined what a rock-strewn mountain river looks like, the Animas is probably a perfect match for your expectations. Rough, rocky, white waters, gorge-cutting, challenging, a tough river though not an obvious killer; it could be rafted by the daringest of daredevils. (Not me, thanks.) As with pretty much everywhere else, Colorado saturates the senses with stunning scenery and spectacular sights. Whether looking east, over the valley, or west, up various cliffs, it is a sight well worth seeing.
Not surprisingly, the uphill run requires the train to work harder. The Durango & Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad (D&SNGRR, yes, they really use that too-long acronym) is a genuine coal-fired boiler train, and so twice had to stop for water. Mountain spring output channeled into tanks provide plenty of available water, which otherwise drains into the Animas. (The tanks and pipes are quite leaky, which I expect is deliberate, keep the water circulating and prevent any mineralization or buildup of algae.) At one water stop, immediately beside the Animas, the riverbank is a rocky slope, from which quickly poked up several chipmunks. They obviously have learned a good lesson -- the noisy train stopping means it is time to charm humans into tossing snacks. And, of course, we did (popcorn for us; gotta be better than corn chips or candy).
Each train ride is 3 1/2 hours, and that's a bit long to command the attention of youngsters. Carson napped down after about two hours, and Amalie a half-hour later, so they were both asleep for the last ten to fifteen miles, which is the stretch the train must work the hardest. Riding in an open-air car, we were dusted with cinders (I got one or two in my eye, and they do sting; not hot, but just irritating). We shrouded both kids best we could with jackets, but by the time we reached Silverton, our clothes were all covered with ashes and soot. Up by Silverton, the Animas is much tamer, more a wide brook just getting started. We hove to in Silverton right on time, and the kids roused without too much fuss. We had about two hours to explore the town.
Honestly, I had seen enough of Silverton the night before, looking for a hotel, but it was daytime and most stores were open, so we walked over to the main street and sought lunch. A place called the Brown Bear Cafe looked promising, and did provide good burgers. Fortified, we headed back out, and Carson pointed out a souvenir store he wanted to explore. Okay. These types of stores don't much interest me, as much of the merchandise is mass-produced items (of variable quality) that can be found elsewhere, sometimes for less -- but then, I'm a jaded 40something, and he's only 3 (now officially 3 1/2, as of August 11). I picked out a woodcrafted nightlight, and reminded the kids to look for things they cannot easily find elsewhere. Nonetheless, Carson chose polished rocks, and Amalie selected some postcards. Well, neither is so bad. Val found a southwest-style candle holder as a gift for Jenny.
Things purchased, we wandered up the main drag aimlessly, then east a few blocks to where a stream was bridged. We took pictures, both of the family and surrounding mountains. Silverton is too small and low-profile to get lost in, so we easily found the train depot again. We climbed aboard, took our seats, and at 3:30 on the dot, the whistle blasted and we were off again. Once out of the Silverton valley, the train is downhill, and the engine works very little -- only one water stop. Twenty minutes down track, Val spotted a young black bear halfway up the hillside -- it watched us a moment, then went back to foraging. (She's the best at spotting critters -- sighted a black bear on a Canadian road trip in 2004, as well -- I never spot anything unless it is standing almost in front of me, waving a flag.)
The D&SNGRR has one real stop between Durango and Silverton, a small, passenger-only depot named Rockwood. Our train had stopped on the way up to pick up a handful of passengers, and was to stop again on the south trip. As we approached the station and began to slow, Carson, who had been playing with his Telluride-discovered Hot Wheels car, jumped up to grab the handrail and see what was happening, and the car in his hand smacked the rail and bounced overboard. I quickly sighted it and gauged some landmarks -- it landed on a tie on an adjoining track, which had just sided off from our track, nearby a shed. I sped forward to find our conductor, Mike, and told him Carson had dropped a toy and I knew exactly where it was, could I run back for it? Conductor Mike said no, we were only going to be stopping a moment (true), but he radioed the train-end conductor about it, and they asked the line inspector -- who would make the last run of the day -- to check as well. Carson was disappointed, but recognized that it was his own actions that led to the car being lost, and that he should use his pockets for toys. Plus there was the hope that the train personnel would find it.
Conductor Mike took up position near us for a stretch -- the open-air cars make it very easy to lean out and check the train fore and aft -- and was happy to answer some questions. He pointed out where a scene from Butch Cassidy And The Sundance Kid was filmed (I haven't see the movie in years, and didn't recall the scene -- a train robbery, naturally). I asked him what the last movie to use the D&SNGRR was, and he named The Prestige -- a movie which, coincidentally, I had seen on satellite TV at the ranch for the first time just days earlier. There was a very brief shot of a mountain railroad -- an establishing shot for "Colorado 1899" -- and I thought that, hey, there can't be too many trains that run along mountainous cliffs. Sure enough, Conductor Mike said, that was the D&SNGRR, and we had just come around the turn seen in the movie -- he pointed back toward the curve behind us, which we could easily see since the train was chugging back around the next curve. Conductor Mike was brimming with train trivia, and entertained us until his job required him back to attention.
Carson was quite sedate for the next few miles, but perked up to his usual, energetic self for the last stretch into Durango depot. We spotted some groundhogs, who popped out of their holes as the train rumbled by. Our train ground to a stop, right on time, and we disembarked. Conductor Mike told us that Inspector Jason would be the last off the line, and he might find Carson's toy car. Another agent told us that Inspector Jason would be along shortly, since the inspection car stopped about a mile north at a maintenance depot, but that he would bike down to finish up his day's reports. The agent also told me how to drive to Rockwood Station just in case. While Val and the kids roamed the gift shop, I waited and watched -- and a man biked up. I asked if he was Inspector Jason, he affirmed, and I told him my boy was the one who dropped a car. Jason apologized, but he could not find the car. He described where he had searched, and it sounded to me like he had missed the key area, that communications were a bit garbled and described the wrong side of the train. I thanked him and told Carson the hard news -- no toy car (yet). But, I knew how to get back to the station, and would drive up right after we checked in to our hotel. We did that, and I asked Carson if he wanted to drive up with me. No, he wanted to go swimming, so I departed alone.
The D&SNGRR agent's (I wish I'd gotten his name) directions were true -- up Rte. 550 for 18 miles, then turn right. The road down to Rockwood Depot was twisty (typical) but there were no turnoffs to confuse the issue. Rockwood Depot -- little more than a gravel yard -- appeared. I turned in, and drove almost to the end, where the rail sidings began branching off. I walked directly to the shed -- a Best Western-lent flashlight at the ready, there was but a glimmer of sunlight left as the sun had set 20 minutes ago -- and started searching the side track back toward the main line. Not twenty steps along, there it was, blue side up, sitting on a tie. I picked it up, briefly studied it (no damage), and walked back to the car. Lucky little Hot Wheels toy; if we lose it and find it again, I'm taking it to Las Vegas, because it will have proven itself one of the luckiest cars in the history of the world.
I drove back to Durango. On the way back up to Rte. 550, I spotted some quadruped critter -- fox or small coyote, probably -- slinking off into the bushes. Good hunting, little beastie. A better night for you than me, as this was an extra 42 miles of Colorado that I was not compelled to see a second and third time.
Back at the hotel, I spoke with Carson. He agreed that he will use his pockets to hold his toy cars more often, especially if there is a chance he might drop one where we cannot easily recover it. Then I pulled out the blue car and handed it to him; he was very happy. That made it worth the many extra miles.
However, everyone was hungry. I ventured out on foot to find some dinner, but many of Durango's eateries pull in the sidewalks at 9:00 pm on a Sunday night, and it was just after, curse the luck. After a few blocks, I happened upon a bar, Farquahrt's, that was still serving pub foods, so I sat down and placed a take-out order -- a pizza, salad, and turkey sandwich. While waiting, I had a draft pale ale, which was delicious. So I had another, and then nursed a third. I cannot remember the last time I had three beers, and certainly not within 20 minutes. (I paid for this indulgence during the night and into the next day -- cor, but alcohol can assault the gastrointestinal tract in so many ways.) Food secured (thanks so much, Bartender Mark!), I headed back. Val was dozing but roused to munch some pizza, and the kids were ravenous -- they tore the pizza (which was delicious, much better than I had expected) to shreds. The room's small refrigerator preserved the sandwich and salad and few pizza remains for the next day's drive.
Teeth brushed, we bedded down for the night. Long, long day, some frustrations, but much more fun.
We woke early -- I had set my cell phone alarm for 6:00 am -- and packed everything back into the car by 6:45. Then, one by one, we transferred the kids from the bed to the backseat. Amazingly, though, they both woke up, determined not to miss anything. Making a quick final check, I noticed that fresh coffee had been set out, and poured up two cups for groggy adults. Thus bolstered, we set off, 50 mountainous miles south to Durango.
There were at least two passes over 10,000 feet -- they may have been slightly higher than Monarch but, inconveniently, the peak altitudes were not marked. Saw a few deer standing by the road, and one yearling actually bounding along (until we got close, when he stopped, stared, and bolted in the other direction). A gas station and convenience store near a resort area provided both breakfast and bathrooms, and we cruised into Durango around 8:15. Just north of town, we spotted the narrow gauge railroad tracks just to our left, and soon a small, yellow, one-man car zipped by. I guessed -- and later asked and had confirmed -- that this was a track inspection, rolling out before the first train run of the day.
We zeroed in on the train depot, but upon spotting a Best Western (one of several hotels suggested by the train clerk over the phone), I went in and made a reservation for that night. Having found our place for the day, Val took the kids inside to change their clothes (still in pajamas) in the lobby restrooms, and I prepped our small daybags for the train ride. Finally outfitted for the train, we walked over and picked up our tickets. The kids, as usual, explored the gift shop. We boarded our car -- an open-air gondola, no windows -- and took four seats. (We had assigned seats but no one made a fuss about this, so we sat nearest the back of the car instead.) Then Val sent me back for coffee; okay. I bought the free-refill mug, which we used several times in the concession car on both rides. Our train, the 9:45, last of the day, blasted forth its whistle, and we were off.
The rails are pretty much flat getting out of Durango and a little bit up the valley, but soon begin climbing into the mountains, and from that point the entire ride is uphill to Silverton; altitude gain is about 2700 feet. Soon after beginning the rise, the train runs alongside the Animas River for much of the line, crossing over a few times. If you've ever imagined what a rock-strewn mountain river looks like, the Animas is probably a perfect match for your expectations. Rough, rocky, white waters, gorge-cutting, challenging, a tough river though not an obvious killer; it could be rafted by the daringest of daredevils. (Not me, thanks.) As with pretty much everywhere else, Colorado saturates the senses with stunning scenery and spectacular sights. Whether looking east, over the valley, or west, up various cliffs, it is a sight well worth seeing.
Not surprisingly, the uphill run requires the train to work harder. The Durango & Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad (D&SNGRR, yes, they really use that too-long acronym) is a genuine coal-fired boiler train, and so twice had to stop for water. Mountain spring output channeled into tanks provide plenty of available water, which otherwise drains into the Animas. (The tanks and pipes are quite leaky, which I expect is deliberate, keep the water circulating and prevent any mineralization or buildup of algae.) At one water stop, immediately beside the Animas, the riverbank is a rocky slope, from which quickly poked up several chipmunks. They obviously have learned a good lesson -- the noisy train stopping means it is time to charm humans into tossing snacks. And, of course, we did (popcorn for us; gotta be better than corn chips or candy).
Each train ride is 3 1/2 hours, and that's a bit long to command the attention of youngsters. Carson napped down after about two hours, and Amalie a half-hour later, so they were both asleep for the last ten to fifteen miles, which is the stretch the train must work the hardest. Riding in an open-air car, we were dusted with cinders (I got one or two in my eye, and they do sting; not hot, but just irritating). We shrouded both kids best we could with jackets, but by the time we reached Silverton, our clothes were all covered with ashes and soot. Up by Silverton, the Animas is much tamer, more a wide brook just getting started. We hove to in Silverton right on time, and the kids roused without too much fuss. We had about two hours to explore the town.
Honestly, I had seen enough of Silverton the night before, looking for a hotel, but it was daytime and most stores were open, so we walked over to the main street and sought lunch. A place called the Brown Bear Cafe looked promising, and did provide good burgers. Fortified, we headed back out, and Carson pointed out a souvenir store he wanted to explore. Okay. These types of stores don't much interest me, as much of the merchandise is mass-produced items (of variable quality) that can be found elsewhere, sometimes for less -- but then, I'm a jaded 40something, and he's only 3 (now officially 3 1/2, as of August 11). I picked out a woodcrafted nightlight, and reminded the kids to look for things they cannot easily find elsewhere. Nonetheless, Carson chose polished rocks, and Amalie selected some postcards. Well, neither is so bad. Val found a southwest-style candle holder as a gift for Jenny.
Things purchased, we wandered up the main drag aimlessly, then east a few blocks to where a stream was bridged. We took pictures, both of the family and surrounding mountains. Silverton is too small and low-profile to get lost in, so we easily found the train depot again. We climbed aboard, took our seats, and at 3:30 on the dot, the whistle blasted and we were off again. Once out of the Silverton valley, the train is downhill, and the engine works very little -- only one water stop. Twenty minutes down track, Val spotted a young black bear halfway up the hillside -- it watched us a moment, then went back to foraging. (She's the best at spotting critters -- sighted a black bear on a Canadian road trip in 2004, as well -- I never spot anything unless it is standing almost in front of me, waving a flag.)
The D&SNGRR has one real stop between Durango and Silverton, a small, passenger-only depot named Rockwood. Our train had stopped on the way up to pick up a handful of passengers, and was to stop again on the south trip. As we approached the station and began to slow, Carson, who had been playing with his Telluride-discovered Hot Wheels car, jumped up to grab the handrail and see what was happening, and the car in his hand smacked the rail and bounced overboard. I quickly sighted it and gauged some landmarks -- it landed on a tie on an adjoining track, which had just sided off from our track, nearby a shed. I sped forward to find our conductor, Mike, and told him Carson had dropped a toy and I knew exactly where it was, could I run back for it? Conductor Mike said no, we were only going to be stopping a moment (true), but he radioed the train-end conductor about it, and they asked the line inspector -- who would make the last run of the day -- to check as well. Carson was disappointed, but recognized that it was his own actions that led to the car being lost, and that he should use his pockets for toys. Plus there was the hope that the train personnel would find it.
Conductor Mike took up position near us for a stretch -- the open-air cars make it very easy to lean out and check the train fore and aft -- and was happy to answer some questions. He pointed out where a scene from Butch Cassidy And The Sundance Kid was filmed (I haven't see the movie in years, and didn't recall the scene -- a train robbery, naturally). I asked him what the last movie to use the D&SNGRR was, and he named The Prestige -- a movie which, coincidentally, I had seen on satellite TV at the ranch for the first time just days earlier. There was a very brief shot of a mountain railroad -- an establishing shot for "Colorado 1899" -- and I thought that, hey, there can't be too many trains that run along mountainous cliffs. Sure enough, Conductor Mike said, that was the D&SNGRR, and we had just come around the turn seen in the movie -- he pointed back toward the curve behind us, which we could easily see since the train was chugging back around the next curve. Conductor Mike was brimming with train trivia, and entertained us until his job required him back to attention.
Carson was quite sedate for the next few miles, but perked up to his usual, energetic self for the last stretch into Durango depot. We spotted some groundhogs, who popped out of their holes as the train rumbled by. Our train ground to a stop, right on time, and we disembarked. Conductor Mike told us that Inspector Jason would be the last off the line, and he might find Carson's toy car. Another agent told us that Inspector Jason would be along shortly, since the inspection car stopped about a mile north at a maintenance depot, but that he would bike down to finish up his day's reports. The agent also told me how to drive to Rockwood Station just in case. While Val and the kids roamed the gift shop, I waited and watched -- and a man biked up. I asked if he was Inspector Jason, he affirmed, and I told him my boy was the one who dropped a car. Jason apologized, but he could not find the car. He described where he had searched, and it sounded to me like he had missed the key area, that communications were a bit garbled and described the wrong side of the train. I thanked him and told Carson the hard news -- no toy car (yet). But, I knew how to get back to the station, and would drive up right after we checked in to our hotel. We did that, and I asked Carson if he wanted to drive up with me. No, he wanted to go swimming, so I departed alone.
The D&SNGRR agent's (I wish I'd gotten his name) directions were true -- up Rte. 550 for 18 miles, then turn right. The road down to Rockwood Depot was twisty (typical) but there were no turnoffs to confuse the issue. Rockwood Depot -- little more than a gravel yard -- appeared. I turned in, and drove almost to the end, where the rail sidings began branching off. I walked directly to the shed -- a Best Western-lent flashlight at the ready, there was but a glimmer of sunlight left as the sun had set 20 minutes ago -- and started searching the side track back toward the main line. Not twenty steps along, there it was, blue side up, sitting on a tie. I picked it up, briefly studied it (no damage), and walked back to the car. Lucky little Hot Wheels toy; if we lose it and find it again, I'm taking it to Las Vegas, because it will have proven itself one of the luckiest cars in the history of the world.
I drove back to Durango. On the way back up to Rte. 550, I spotted some quadruped critter -- fox or small coyote, probably -- slinking off into the bushes. Good hunting, little beastie. A better night for you than me, as this was an extra 42 miles of Colorado that I was not compelled to see a second and third time.
Back at the hotel, I spoke with Carson. He agreed that he will use his pockets to hold his toy cars more often, especially if there is a chance he might drop one where we cannot easily recover it. Then I pulled out the blue car and handed it to him; he was very happy. That made it worth the many extra miles.
However, everyone was hungry. I ventured out on foot to find some dinner, but many of Durango's eateries pull in the sidewalks at 9:00 pm on a Sunday night, and it was just after, curse the luck. After a few blocks, I happened upon a bar, Farquahrt's, that was still serving pub foods, so I sat down and placed a take-out order -- a pizza, salad, and turkey sandwich. While waiting, I had a draft pale ale, which was delicious. So I had another, and then nursed a third. I cannot remember the last time I had three beers, and certainly not within 20 minutes. (I paid for this indulgence during the night and into the next day -- cor, but alcohol can assault the gastrointestinal tract in so many ways.) Food secured (thanks so much, Bartender Mark!), I headed back. Val was dozing but roused to munch some pizza, and the kids were ravenous -- they tore the pizza (which was delicious, much better than I had expected) to shreds. The room's small refrigerator preserved the sandwich and salad and few pizza remains for the next day's drive.
Teeth brushed, we bedded down for the night. Long, long day, some frustrations, but much more fun.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
The Road Trip, part 9
Day 8 -- Bedrock to Silverton, by way of Telluride
We got a woefully late start -- after 1:00 pm -- and our travel plans were complicated, pleasantly but drawing out the driving time, by Jenny taking us to Telluride. We parked the car just past the turnoff at Placerville, tumbled into the pickup, and journeyed down the valley toward the ski resort town. However, we did not drive into Telluride proper, but instead drove up the western side of the valley to a tiny burb known as Mountain Village.
Colorado's state transportation authority underwrites a free tramway from Mountain Village into Telluride, in part to keep down car traffic, and that this is also a more reliable means of public transportation in all forms of weather than buses would be. It takes three tram rides to reach Telluride -- one downhill to a shopping center, another up the next ridge (where riders can hop off or stay on), and then a long drop to Telluride at the bottom of the valley. We got off at both midway stops to take pictures. At the first stop, there was a metal grated staircase -- to facilitate snow melt, and provide good wintertime traction for ski booted pedestrians -- through which Carson espied a penny. I told him there was no way to get it (and we spotted a few other coins as well), and he reluctantly left it behind.
Soon were in town. It's a lot like other towns in the Rockies -- no tall buildings (three stories, maximum), everything rather cramped together, walking and biking the preferred methods of transport. At the southern end of the valley, high above the town, is Bridal Veil Falls, the headwaters of the San Miguel. While walking along, I found a dime (pointed it out to Carson, who recovered it with glee), and then spotted a couple of sticks, branches that had been trimmed or broken. I picked up the smaller one, while Amie took the longer, which made an ideal walking stick for her. Eventually we reached our destination, a candy store Jenny likes, decorated in a 1940s diner style, complete with soda fountain, ice cream bar, and grill (which wasn't serving at the time). It was interesting enough, and the kids picked out a few sweets (something that is getting tiresome from my point of view). Before getting back on the tram, I bought a pack of chewing gum, with a purpose. And then I found another dime in the street, which I gave to Amalie.
Riding back up the tram, we spotted a large rodent critter, sort of like a groundhog grande; we had sighted a few on the way down as well, and were not sure what they were. We rode through the top station this time, and when disembarking at the shopping center, asked the attendant. He said they were marmots, obviously a rather common thing to see.
I took Carson by the hand, walked over to the metal staircase, and asked if he remembered where the penny was. He did. I pulled out a piece of gum, chewed it up, and put part of it on the end of the stick. Thus equipped with a cutting-edge, high-tech durable currency recovery system, I poked the sticky stick down through the grate and, after a moment's manipulation, extracted the penny. Carson was impressed. We wandered down the stairs, spotting and recovering more coins as we could (the stick was only so long, and the last several inches of it was too thick for the grating). Dimes, pennies, even a nickel -- all were brought up from the dirty depths. Several passersby watched us, somewhat amazed. One even asked if we had lost something -- "no, finding things!" I replied.
I mentioned to Carson he should put all the coins in his pockets, because if he dropped one, it would go back down through the grate. Nonetheless, one penny did fall from his hand, and try though we might we could not re-spot it, so that one got away.
After about 20 minutes -- time I insisted was mine to squander, as I was having fun with my kids -- we could not see any more coins to recover. But then -- treasure! Val spotted a toy car! I wasn't sure the gum would be equal to the task, but as most are made of plastic these days (not metal like when I was a kid), it was sufficiently light to yield to our efforts. I pulled it up, Carson helped me maneuver it through the grate, and there it was -- a genuine Hot Wheels car. For Carson, all the coins immediately faded to background. He quickly analyzed the car and concluded that he had the same model, in a different paint scheme. And he was right; smart kid.
We lined up the coins and car for a trophy picture -- eight dimes, four pennies, one nickel, 89 cents total (plus one penny lost). Including the two dimes found in Telluride, we scored $1.09 and one Hot Wheels car.
(Advance notice, the toy car story gets better.)
We drove back to Placerville, where Val and I returned to our car. The kids stayed with Jenny as we drove to Ridgway, taking a long detour to see some valley property she owned, on which eventually may be a house. Finally splitting up in Ridgway, Jenny headed back to Bedrock and we turned south, hoping for Durango. But it was late, it was getting dark, I wasn't inclined to drive unfamiliar mountain roads at night, and so when we reached Silverton a little before 9:00 we decided to stay there if we could find a hotel room.
There are several hotels along the main road, none of which had rooms, and all of which have an unwritten policy that any "No Vacancy" sign shall not be readable from the car (one actually used a post-it note in the front door, despite the neon "OPEN" sign). Having struck out five times (in a town which, due to its size, surprised me that it had at least five hotels), we turned off in hopes of finding another possibility that had advertised itself back at the city line. We never found it, but did happen upon a bed & breakfast which was still open. The proprietor told me she had one room -- a limit imposed by the housekeeper feeling poorly -- that we could have, and she gave me a small discount since I told her we'd be leaving before breakfast. I took it. First floor, large bed, impeccable turn-of-the-last-century decor (the building, Alma House, is solid stone, built in 1898), shower/tub in the corner of the main room and not in the bathroom. There was also a sitting room with coffee and some leftover dessert bars, a hot tub in the garden, and wireless access. Despite the hour, we spoke a bit with the proprietor, Miss Pam, formerly a schoolteacher in San Antonio. This could not have been more perfect.
Val and Amie soaked in the spa (Carson said it was too warm) and sat outside a while. I logged on, blogged, helped Carson to bed (he asked to lie down, which is rare). I lugged a down mattress from an upstairs storage closet and set myself up on the floor, turning in after Val and the kids had crashed in the bed. It was plenty comfortable. A long day with a very surprisingly good ending.
If you are ever in Silverton, consider staying at The Inn Of The Rockies, 220 E. 10th Street. You'll be glad you did.
We got a woefully late start -- after 1:00 pm -- and our travel plans were complicated, pleasantly but drawing out the driving time, by Jenny taking us to Telluride. We parked the car just past the turnoff at Placerville, tumbled into the pickup, and journeyed down the valley toward the ski resort town. However, we did not drive into Telluride proper, but instead drove up the western side of the valley to a tiny burb known as Mountain Village.
Colorado's state transportation authority underwrites a free tramway from Mountain Village into Telluride, in part to keep down car traffic, and that this is also a more reliable means of public transportation in all forms of weather than buses would be. It takes three tram rides to reach Telluride -- one downhill to a shopping center, another up the next ridge (where riders can hop off or stay on), and then a long drop to Telluride at the bottom of the valley. We got off at both midway stops to take pictures. At the first stop, there was a metal grated staircase -- to facilitate snow melt, and provide good wintertime traction for ski booted pedestrians -- through which Carson espied a penny. I told him there was no way to get it (and we spotted a few other coins as well), and he reluctantly left it behind.
Soon were in town. It's a lot like other towns in the Rockies -- no tall buildings (three stories, maximum), everything rather cramped together, walking and biking the preferred methods of transport. At the southern end of the valley, high above the town, is Bridal Veil Falls, the headwaters of the San Miguel. While walking along, I found a dime (pointed it out to Carson, who recovered it with glee), and then spotted a couple of sticks, branches that had been trimmed or broken. I picked up the smaller one, while Amie took the longer, which made an ideal walking stick for her. Eventually we reached our destination, a candy store Jenny likes, decorated in a 1940s diner style, complete with soda fountain, ice cream bar, and grill (which wasn't serving at the time). It was interesting enough, and the kids picked out a few sweets (something that is getting tiresome from my point of view). Before getting back on the tram, I bought a pack of chewing gum, with a purpose. And then I found another dime in the street, which I gave to Amalie.
Riding back up the tram, we spotted a large rodent critter, sort of like a groundhog grande; we had sighted a few on the way down as well, and were not sure what they were. We rode through the top station this time, and when disembarking at the shopping center, asked the attendant. He said they were marmots, obviously a rather common thing to see.
I took Carson by the hand, walked over to the metal staircase, and asked if he remembered where the penny was. He did. I pulled out a piece of gum, chewed it up, and put part of it on the end of the stick. Thus equipped with a cutting-edge, high-tech durable currency recovery system, I poked the sticky stick down through the grate and, after a moment's manipulation, extracted the penny. Carson was impressed. We wandered down the stairs, spotting and recovering more coins as we could (the stick was only so long, and the last several inches of it was too thick for the grating). Dimes, pennies, even a nickel -- all were brought up from the dirty depths. Several passersby watched us, somewhat amazed. One even asked if we had lost something -- "no, finding things!" I replied.
I mentioned to Carson he should put all the coins in his pockets, because if he dropped one, it would go back down through the grate. Nonetheless, one penny did fall from his hand, and try though we might we could not re-spot it, so that one got away.
After about 20 minutes -- time I insisted was mine to squander, as I was having fun with my kids -- we could not see any more coins to recover. But then -- treasure! Val spotted a toy car! I wasn't sure the gum would be equal to the task, but as most are made of plastic these days (not metal like when I was a kid), it was sufficiently light to yield to our efforts. I pulled it up, Carson helped me maneuver it through the grate, and there it was -- a genuine Hot Wheels car. For Carson, all the coins immediately faded to background. He quickly analyzed the car and concluded that he had the same model, in a different paint scheme. And he was right; smart kid.
We lined up the coins and car for a trophy picture -- eight dimes, four pennies, one nickel, 89 cents total (plus one penny lost). Including the two dimes found in Telluride, we scored $1.09 and one Hot Wheels car.
(Advance notice, the toy car story gets better.)
We drove back to Placerville, where Val and I returned to our car. The kids stayed with Jenny as we drove to Ridgway, taking a long detour to see some valley property she owned, on which eventually may be a house. Finally splitting up in Ridgway, Jenny headed back to Bedrock and we turned south, hoping for Durango. But it was late, it was getting dark, I wasn't inclined to drive unfamiliar mountain roads at night, and so when we reached Silverton a little before 9:00 we decided to stay there if we could find a hotel room.
There are several hotels along the main road, none of which had rooms, and all of which have an unwritten policy that any "No Vacancy" sign shall not be readable from the car (one actually used a post-it note in the front door, despite the neon "OPEN" sign). Having struck out five times (in a town which, due to its size, surprised me that it had at least five hotels), we turned off in hopes of finding another possibility that had advertised itself back at the city line. We never found it, but did happen upon a bed & breakfast which was still open. The proprietor told me she had one room -- a limit imposed by the housekeeper feeling poorly -- that we could have, and she gave me a small discount since I told her we'd be leaving before breakfast. I took it. First floor, large bed, impeccable turn-of-the-last-century decor (the building, Alma House, is solid stone, built in 1898), shower/tub in the corner of the main room and not in the bathroom. There was also a sitting room with coffee and some leftover dessert bars, a hot tub in the garden, and wireless access. Despite the hour, we spoke a bit with the proprietor, Miss Pam, formerly a schoolteacher in San Antonio. This could not have been more perfect.
Val and Amie soaked in the spa (Carson said it was too warm) and sat outside a while. I logged on, blogged, helped Carson to bed (he asked to lie down, which is rare). I lugged a down mattress from an upstairs storage closet and set myself up on the floor, turning in after Val and the kids had crashed in the bed. It was plenty comfortable. A long day with a very surprisingly good ending.
If you are ever in Silverton, consider staying at The Inn Of The Rockies, 220 E. 10th Street. You'll be glad you did.
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