by Lil Cromer
The second night at sea, the resident naturalist, Sherry, hosted our table of ten. Not only did she regale us with stories of sea otters, whales, bears, birds etc., she bought several bottles of wine for all of us. We passed through College Fjord; however, I was too busy socializing to witness any wildlife.
The third day we entered, which for me turned out to be the most memorable part of my Alaskan adventure, Glacier Bay. As the ship entered the dead-end channel we shivered in the raw wind watching as a mammoth wall of blue ice emerged. When the ship made a U-turn and stopped for forty-five minutes, the temperature seemed to increase by 40 degrees. We watched in awe as the glacier calved, sounding exactly like our Florida claps of thunder. The immenseness of these glaciers puts everything in perspective; we are but a small cog in the scheme of things.
Glacier Bay, Alaska
Getting to Sitka, the little town with Russian influence required a choppy tender ride. At the welcome center, we hopped on a minibus driven by a sixty-nine year old native, his vest weighted down with medals. For $10.00 he provided us with a comprehensive and entertaining tour of the area. Obviously giving tours was a labor of love with this guide as he owned the town bus company as well as the local funeral parlor.
Juneau, the capital, was rainy and cold the day we visited. We took a trolley ride around the rather small city; stopped at a local restaurant, the Hangar, for lunch, where I sampled the best clam chowder I believe I have ever eaten. We were seated at a window where we watched numerous sea planes take off and land ferrying tourists for a glimpse of the glaciers from the air.
Our next port of call was Ketchikan, nestled between the sea and the rain forest, where the weather alternated from sunshine to rain. This town is rich in turn-of-the-century history. We visited the historic Creek Street District where the famous Dollie’s place is located, stopped in a couple of local bars, bought some souvenirs and visited a native museum. Spoke with some locals who related that tourism is the only thing Ketchikan has going for it now — many of the local bars and restaurants have closed only to be replaced with tourist shops. So when the cruises cease for the winter, the locals must go to Juneau or Sitka to earn a living.
After our exciting cruise we disembarked in Vancouver, a fascinating city that demands more than a few days of your time to truly appreciate it. The tourist bureau must be commended for their painless, orderly disembarkation procedure and movement through customs. As we identified our luggage on dock, a smiling gentleman handed each of us a complimentary luggage cart, making it a breeze to pass through customs.
The $8.00 (Canadian) cab ride from the port to our downtown hotel, the Executive, was also effortless. I’d booked this hotel on Hotels.com and lucked out; the hotel turned out to be equidistant between Granville Island and Robson St. We only used a cab once, the rest of the time on foot, ferry and bus. They would be hosting the 2010 Winter Olympics and very excited about the prospect — major construction in preparation was evident.
Vancouver, with an estimated population of two million, is the largest city in the province of British Columbia and the third largest city in Canada. It’s surrounded by water on three sides and is nestled alongside the Coast Mountain Range. Vancouver is home to spectacular natural scenery and a bustling metropolitan core, and boasts one of the mildest climates in Canada.
Tour guide, Captain Dave, provided us with an unforgettable journey through the city, giving us an intimate, personalized and unique presentation of Vancouver’s history. We learned that one seventh of all cruise traffic sails in and out of the city, over one million cruises per year. It has also become the destination of movie makers, because of the proximity to Los Angeles, and the lower costs due to the exchange rate as well as the beautiful vistas. Gays have found a haven in Vancouver; it seemed to be a model city for tolerance.
The city is separated into several sections each distinctive: Granville Island, Chinatown, Stanley Park, Gastown, Shaughnessy (Vancouver’s Beverly Hills), and downtown with the famous Robson Street, a shopper’s paradise. Mid afternoon we stopped in at a rooftop restaurant for beer and oysters on the half shell. British Columbia brews a fine lager named Kokanee, which I enjoyed every place we stopped. Seated at the table next to us was a blond middle-aged Hollywood actor whose name escaped both my traveling partner and myself. Our waiter recognized him as an actor, but couldn’t identify him either.
The day we spent in Victoria was only one half of the time necessary to visit this capital city of British Columbia. By the time we bused south to the ferry, and then rode the ferry to Victoria, and stopped at Butchart Gardens, we only had two hours to explore this gracious old city. Robert Butchart made cement out of the limestone deposits he took out this area. When he was finished all that was left was a big ugly hole. His clever wife, Jennie, transformed it into these gorgeous sunken gardens. We did manage to visit the bar at the majestic Empress Hotel, snap some photos of the Parliament building and walk around the shopping area.
After seventeen fun-filled days we made our way to Seattle to catch a flight back to Tampa. You might be curious as to why we didn’t fly out of Vancouver. My travel partner insisted we fly out of Seattle so we could visit her brother. However, she forgot to notify her brother until we landed in Fairbanks. Turns out he was going out of the country. Hans, our bus driver with a sardonic wit couldn’t have been more accommodating. My partner and I were the only ones left on the bus after the final stop at Seattle airport, but our destination was a Ramada Inn nearby; we were flying out early the next morning. Hans drove us directly to the front door providing tips on restaurants within walking distance from the hotel.
If I were to advise others traveling to Alaska, I would suggest, don’t go in September. Take the land portion of the tour first and the cruise portion second then spend several days in Vancouver & Victoria before flying home.
Chapter 7
North Carolina
*
Travel is intensified living — maximum thrills per minute and one of the last great sources of legal adventure. Travel is freedom; it’s recess and we need it.
I have an affinity for the mountains of western North Carolina as this is where my husband and I spent eight pleasant summers back in the 80s. We stumbled upon a nicely appointed log cabin in Franklin, NC and established a rapport with the landlady. One summer she and her husband needed to travel to Raleigh to see her son and asked if Hal and I would run the nineteen room motel for a week or so. Not having a lick of experience, we gave it a go; it was a unique experience and one I’ll never forget.
Since Hal died, I’ve tried to make a trip there every year. The past three years, I’ve been fortunate to rent a little house in Franklin for the summer months, giving me lots of time to relax and write.
Hal’s cousins bought a little house in Spruce Pine up in a holler — you talk about country. We helped them remodel the place and stayed there a couple of times before we settled on Franklin. One day we noticed an ongoing murder trial in Marion, twenty miles from Spruce Pine. Ever the adventurers, we found the courthouse and sat in on the trial. The defendant was a Boy Scout leader who was accused of murdering two young boys. Of interest were the Bible verses quoted by the attorneys. The prosecutor used “… an eye for an eye and tooth for a tooth,” and the defense attorney used, “… turn the other cheek.” We returned for the sentencing, the man was found guilty and sentenced to death.
When we entered widowhood, my friend Millie and I traveled to Maggie Valley for a few years. We tried to go in September when the Rally in the Valley was going on, even enjoyed motorcycle rides up into the mountains from some of the guys at the Rally. We were there when 9-11 happened. A few days after the attack, Millie and I went up to Cataloochee Ranch to ride horses. Midway through the ride, the guide stopped at the top of the mountain — what a view! We dismounted and all offered a moment of silence for the victims.
Also during the week, we challenged a couple of male friends to a round of golf at Maggie Valley Country Club.
I must add here that back in the 80s Millie and I used to play a lot of golf and successfully partnered up several times for semi-professional tournaments. If I do say so myself, we were pretty damn good. We played from the white tees right along with our two friends and won the bet, which were drinks at the Elks Club in Waynesville. Across the bar sat an FBI agent with his eyes glued to the TV who said, “We should just bomb the hell out of Afghanistan, that landlocked useless country is merely a breeding ground for terrorists.”
While in Maggie Valley I ran across a unique museum called “Wheels Through Time” where I met Dale the owner, a little firecracker who has been collecting motorcycles since he was sixteen. I told him I was a writer and offered to write an article and see if I could get it published in a motorcycle magazine which I did. Here are some excerpts from that article:
One man, one dream! From an old discarded Harley-Davidson he fixed up at age sixteen to a personal collection of over 230 machines displayed in a new 38,000 sq. ft. facility in the Blue Ridge Mountains, Dale Walksler has realized his dream.
“Why Maggie Valley?” I asked. His answer: “Please come here and you will understand.” In terms of lifestyle, this simple community exhibits seasonal decorations, southern hospitality and country charm. In terms of tourism, the town has earned its reputations as being the “Coolest Valley in the Smokies!” The area also boasts a lively tradition in motor sports. Maggie Valley is entertaining to people of all ages.
This picturesque mountain location and river frontage makes an inviting setting for this unique attraction. Physically, the structure is impressive. Secured atop a stone retaining wall, the building houses a walk through history.
Your first glance makes it clear that the Wheels Through Time Museum can’t be comprehended by that first glance. Your next impression is that this collection has to be the result of lots of people spending lots of money.
Not so. Walksler, the museum’s founder/owner/curator/guide, is proud of his work and is quick to say, “When you know what you want to do in life, the rest is easy.”
A Harley dealer in Illinois for twenty-five years, Walksler’s boundless energy, exuberance as well as a good head for business contributed to his success. “I don’t want to be rich,” he said, “only happy.” Over the years, he became a member of the network of enthusiasts who were stalking old shops, garages, and barns looking for antiques and classics. Walksler believes many of his finds are a matter of luck: “Things just seem to fall my way.”
He pursues his passion with the intensity of a child learning to tie his shoe. “I’m not married, that’s why I have so much time and energy to devote to my museum,” he disclosed. “My fondest wish is that my sons, Matthew and Aaron, become absorbed in my vision and carry on the museum.”
The museum has the appearance of an art gallery with carefully arranged scenes of how motorcycles and autos have influenced the popular culture and shaped the lives of the people who rode them, from the early 1900s on, as well as how they impacted our nation and economy over time. It is difficult to describe the significance of this place, perhaps a “Collection of Collections.”
*
Here I sit at the corner of Missouri and Belleair in Clearwater, Florida rivulets of sweat coursing down between my breasts wondering why it’s taking so long for the a/c to cool off the interior of my Lincoln. After all I did buy a white car with light interior. Leaning over I pressed the outside temperature button on the dash — 96 it read. And it was only June!
The mountains are calling. I must go! Was there any good reason why I didn’t pack up and head for the cool mountains of North Carolina? None I could justify, so the next morning I got up early threw some clothes into my duffel bag, a few beers into my cooler and set off for Franklin. Should have stopped by the library for some books on tape, but my CDs would provide me with enough entertainment for the twelve hour drive. Negotiating the Tampa rush hour traffic, I listened to soothing Mantovani, some would call elevator music. On the outskirts I popped a Mozart in and the miles just sped by.
Over the border into Georgia, I stopped for gas, thirty cents a gallon cheaper than Florida, and a sausage biscuit, then rolled back up onto I-75 and continued northward. Andrea Bocelli was now serenading me with his arias. The temperature still hovered in the 90s. At Macon I exited the interstate and enjoyed the scenery along the backwoods, passing through one small town after another, my favorite being colonial Madison. Soon gentle rolling hills and lower temperatures provided me with a sense of peace. After checking into a mom and pop motel, I took a hot shower and snuggled under a quilt.
How refreshing to wake up to fresh crisp mountain air. I needed a sweatshirt for my morning walk to the newsstand for a paper. An entire day to do as I wished nothing or everything. I chose the former. Lolled by the pool, took a nap, read a novel. At 5:00, I cracked a beer and sat on the porch rocking and observing the latest checkins.
I tried minding my manners, but the urge to stare was too strong when a mammoth red and yellow Plymouth station wagon pulled up in front of the office. In its day this behemoth with woodgrain side panels and chrome wheels and door handles must have been an engineering marvel. This wagon resembled a flea market on wheels: Styrofoam cups & plates, paper bags, small appliances, plastic flowers, purses, assorted clothing, as well as many unidentifiable items.
The parking production was a thing of beauty. Good thing the side mirrors were attached as his view was obstructed by the stuff piled to the ceiling. His first pass backing into the stall was only moderately successful. He tried again. He seemed pleased with the second attempt, until he got out and assessed the distance between his bumper and the sidewalk fronting the motel door. He jumped back in, pulled up one half of a tire rotation, put the car in park then proceeded to unpack. Priority one was his traveling companion.
He was clad in flip-flops, a once white T-shirt, so thin you could read a newspaper through it, and a pair of faded orange nylon shorts. When he opened the passenger door, out tumbled a fast food bag and cups. Next came female feet shod in scruffy pink slippers, followed by a plump body covered with a paisley smock and green shorts. Both appeared to be sixty-somethings, with thirty teeth between them. He thoughtfully grabbed her arm and escorted her into the room. Typical pleasantries were exchanged as they walked passed me and into the room next door.
After he settled her in the room he returned to the car, rooted through the stuff, came up with a couple of brown paper bags with clothes spilling out and toted them in. A few moments later he appeared with one of the motel’s fluffy white towels and proceeded to wipe each of the four impressive mag wheels.
“I see you’re from Florida,” I said.
“Yep, small town south of Tallahassee, Sopchoppy.”
“Don’t believe I’ve ever heard of it.”
“Not surprised. Only got 410 people — nice place to live,” he said.
His companion opened the door, peeked out and said, “Pooky, would you please turn off the air conditioner and open the windows, it’s freezing in here.”
He set the towel on the hood, went back into the room and cranked open the windows. Back outside, he polished the chrome door handles.
“You remind me of my neighbor Joan,” he said.
“Really, is she a nice person?”
“You bet she’s watching my trailer and dogs while I’m gone. People lied to me; said motels here in the mountains were cheap. Too expensive for me and the missus, we’re gonna head back down to Georgia tomorrow and get one for $25.00.”
The door opened again, this time she stepped out onto the porch and said, “When are you coming in, Pooky, I miss you.”
He walked over, gave her an affectionate hug and said, “In a minute, Sweetums, I’m almost finished with the car.”
She looked directly at me and said, “I’ve accepted Jesus Christ as my savior; I’ll be spared eternal damnation.” With that she slammed the door.
“The poor missus is a sandwich shy of a picnic,” he said, “
gotta look after her like a new puppy.”
I hurried into my room to fetch another beer not wanting to miss anything. But when I returned he’d finished wiping off the car, smiled as he walked past and went inside their room. As the sun sank behind the smoky haze of the mountains, I could hear the rhythmic sounds of squeaking bedsprings next door. I finished my beer and went out for dinner.
When I returned, Pooky and Sweetums were still at it. I turned on a movie to drown out the sound and promptly fell asleep.
Next morning, after a tasty continental breakfast, I checked out. As I was pulling out of the parking lot I saw the two of them carrying Styrofoam plates laden with food as well as several cups of coffee back to their love nest; she in a pink robe which matched her slippers, he in yesterday’s clothes.
*
It’s the summer of 2014 and here I sit watching two bluebirds who have taken up residence in the birdhouse outside my kitchen window with the Blue Ridge Mountains in the background. This little house is just perfect, so peaceful; it feels like you’re way out in the country but are actually only a short distance from the highway. And, it has all the conveniences of home and then some.