I planned to finish up my tales from my Michigan trip, but the week has been too busy, so I bushed and edited a piece I wrote back in 2017. On the trip, I was coming home (to Skidaway Island) from a conference at Calvin College (now University) in Grand Rapids, Michigan. The route from Pittsburgh to Cumberland paralleled the bicycle trip I took in May with my brother. Click here to read about that trip.
The train arriving in South Bend
I wake up, realizing the guy in the seat next to me is gathering his stuff. Looking out the window, I see we’re running alongside a river. It must be the Ohio. I pull out my iPhone to check the time. It’s 4:45 AM, we’re approaching Pittsburgh.
“Getting off in Pittsburgh?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he answered. He was asleep last night when I boarded the train in South Bend. I was tired myself and had quickly fallen asleep. I vaguely remember train stopping at Elkhart, and totally missed Waterloo, along with longer stops in Toledo and Cleveland and several quick stops in smaller towns. We pass the Emsworth Lock and Dam. I’ve been here many times before. I’m surprised to see the barges are still running on the first of February, but then it’s been a warm winter.
“Live in the ‘burgh?” I ask.
“No, Philly.”
“But you’re getting off here?” I resisted the temptation to make a disparaging remark about the Phillies and Eagles.
“Yeah, I gotta catch another train. I have a two-hour layover. You from here?”
“Nah, but I lived here for three years when I was in school back in the ‘80s. It’s a great city.”
We talk for a few minutes. The train slows down and then pulls away from the river. I learn he’s a long-haul truck driver. They found a beer in his truck when it was being serviced. He said it was left over from New Years, but it’s a violation and they terminated him. But it’s okay, he says, as he’s already has another job lined up with another trucking company.
As he talks the train swings to the right and soon, we on a bridge across the Allegheny River.
“The Three Sisters,” I say, pointing out the identical yellow bridges below us. The train slows, stopping at the Pittsburgh Station underneath the massive building which used to house offices for the Pennsylvania Railroad. The conductors and engineer change crews here, providing a fifteen-minute break. After all the passengers depart, I get off and walk for a few minutes along the tracks enjoying the fresh air. Most passengers remain asleep, but a few shuffle around on the platform enjoying an infrequent smoking break. It’s odd to be outdoors in the predawn hours on the first of February without a coat. When the conductor shouts, “All Aboard,” I step back onboard and take my seat. Soon, I’m back asleep.
I’d boarded the train the evening before in South Bend, Indiana. I’d taken the train up from Savannah the week before to attend a conference at Calvin University. While I could have taken the train into Grand Rapids, it would have required an extra day each direction with a long wait in Chicago. Instead, I got off in South Bend and rented a car from Enterprise. They picked me up early in the morning on my arrival.
The evening before, I had to turn the car by 6 PM, to get a shuttle back to the station. The train was scheduled to arrive a bit after nine. I had brought a sandwich for dinner and ate it in the station while I waited. It wasn’t a very fancy meal, but sufficient. I would have preferred to eat in the dining car on the train, but suspected it would be closed by the time I boarded.
Taking up a seat along the back wall, I pull out my book, Robert Harris’ Pompeii. This is the original train station and the seats are heavy, old, curved oak benches. While they look like church pews, they more comfortable. Every few minutes when the crossing gates just outside the station would begin to ring in announcement of another train. The ringing was followed by the horn of a train coming closer until it whisked by, followed by the waning sound of the horn and the clacking of the wheels. This was the main line serving trains heading from Chicago east to New York, Pittsburgh and Philadelphia. The station was never very busy and only a half dozen of us who board in South Bend when my train, the Capitol Limited, arrived.
I wake up a little after seven and in the dark can make out a river that parallels the tracks. According to the timetable, we must have already stopped in Connellsville and are beginning the long slow climb over the Alleghenies. The river appears deep and slow, with just a few rocks, but I know that’ll change as we gain altitude. Snow dusts the ground. The trees are barren. Occasionally I’ll spot a pine or cedar, frosted with snow, but the trees are mostly hardwoods of some variety. In the dark, it’s hard to tell the specie. I take my book and notebook up to the snack car for breakfast, ordering a breakfast burrito and coffee. Sitting at a table, I eat, while watching the scenery change. As we gain elevation, cedars appear, and the water runs faster between eh rocks. Snow covers the ground with more falling.
The train slowly winds its way up the tracks, its wheels at time squeaking against the rails. We reach the village of Confluence. The morning is gray, foggy, and wet. Only a few cars are on the roads. As we gain more elevation, the river becomes smaller and swifter. We run through the first tunnel. On the top of the hills are many windmills. Mountain laurel covers the hillsides.
We enter another tunnel, a longer one, and when we come out, I notice that the river has changed directions. We’re heading downhill, but the engineer holds the train back, going as slowly downhill as we did uphill. The sun attempts to burn off the fog. Its golden reflections reflect from the ripples of the creek below. As we lose altitude, there is less snow on the ground. The train picks up speed. By the time we reach Cumberland, the snow is gone. We’re a bit early, so I step off the train and enjoy the fresh air. It feels more like spring than deep winter.
On my bicycle trip on the GAP, I saw these same windmills.
After Cumberland, I head back to my seat. The train runs quickly along the Potomac River. I continue reading Pompeii, picking up where I left off last night. A little over an hour later, we make a short stop in Martinsville, West Virginia, a neat looking old town. An old, abandoned roundhouse sits on the north side of the tracks. The business district runs along the south side.
Our next stop is in Harpers Ferry, West Virginia. I look for the old hotel where I stayed when I was here while hiking the Appalachian Trail. The stop is short and soon we’re crossing the river and heading into a tunnel.
Harper’s Ferry
Below Harper’s Ferry, the train parallels the C&O canal. The canal seems to be filled with stagnant water covered in a green slime. The train makes its last stop in Rockville, before pulling into Union Station fifteen minutes early. I head for the food court for a quick lunch, before heading out to the National Gallery for the afternoon. I’ll be back at the station in time to board the train to Savannah. I’ll have better accommodations for this leg as I’ve booked a sleeper.
The fossil ledges which are found on the north and northeastern side of the island.
After the windy evening, the morning turned out calm. The calm mornings are normally the pattern, with the exception being on Thursday. But on Wednesday, I woke early, fixed coffee and oatmeal, read and wrote in my journal before beginning my paddle along the north shore of Drummond. Much of the paddling this morning was along the fossil ledges, where the alvar limestone meets the lakeshore.
For the first few miles, there was no one else in sight, but a couple of miles from Chippewa Point, I began to run into boats fishing just offshore. Chatting with two of the boats, I learned that no one had caught any fished. One said this was the worse for fishing that he recalled. Normally there were a couple of inland lakes along the north side which one could explore, but the lake was so low that wasn’t possible. I also saw two bald eagles during the morning.
I stopped for lunch on a rock bar between Chippewa Point. The wind was blowing out of the east, just strong enough to keep the bugs from bothering me. After lunch, I headed due south, across the wide waters of Potagannissing Bay. The bay is filled with islands. I kept my sights on Bald and Grape Island, setting a course between the two which would land me back on the mainland approximately where Pine Street met the water. I wasn’t exactly sure where I was heading as an address doesn’t do much good on the water, but I knew it was just east of H&H Boat Launch.
Approaching Chippewa Point
After three days of paddling, my arms were tired. I had considered exploring Harbor Island, which has a large inside lake which creates a safe harbor, but since I had been to the island a few years earlier when a member of the DeTour Union Church took me out on his boat, I decided against it. I paddled on, between islands and could make out the marina.
After about an hour of paddling, I found myself just east of the marina. There was a woman out with a toddler. I asked her if she knew the Ledy’s. “You must be Jeff,” she said and introduced herself as Irma. The toddler was her granddaughter. I pulled my kayak up on their sandy beach and spend the next couple of hours talking to her and her husband Clayt, while enjoying a tall Long Island Iced Tea. Clayt, a contractor, had spent time building mission projects in Ethiopia. His stories were fascinating.
That night, I joined them, along with Dave and Sandy for dinner. Dave and Sandy had brought the meal which included tender pork chops which were a lot better than anything I could have fixed. While their cabin was full, they invited me to camp on their porch. I decided my hammock strung between trees would be more comfortable and I could get up earlier in the morning and be on my way.
Thursday morning, June 26
The rain came at 4 AM. Not expecting it, I crawled out of my hammock and pitched out my fly to keep the water from seeping in. I checked the weather. Off and on showers through the morning, but winds only 6-8 mph. It’d be a good day to paddle. Soon, I was back asleep.
At 6:30 I woke. It’d been light for nearly an hour, but the dark low hanging clouds made it seem earlier. I wanted to get a good start to the day, as I was going to complete my circumnavigation around Drummond Island. I needed to be back on the mainland in time to clean up before driving over to St. Ignace to pick up my friend, Bob.
Quickly packing my stuff., most of the gear I stored in a shed where, the night before Clayt, said I could I could store anything I didn’t want to carry. Since I wasn’t camping, I dropped most of my gear in the shed, taking only what I needed for the morning paddle. Then I ate a couple granola bars but decided to forgo coffee to get out earlier on the water.
A little after 7 AM, I was ready to push off. I noticed that the wind seemed to be blowing a lot more than forecasted, but it didn’t seem too bad. Heading out a way into the water, I turned due west. The wind blew out of the northeast, helping me make good time. Quickly passing Sandstone Point, I set my sights on Sims Point, some three miles away.
This course took me across the mouth of Sturgeon Bay. I noticed the water looked choppier than expected. As I moved further from the islands that I’d paddled through the day before, the wind picked up. About a 1/3 of the way across the mouth, I found myself in gale force winds. The waves built and the wind kept pushing me southeast, into Sturgeon Bay, I had to fight to stay on course, dropping my skeg (a small keel) and surfing at a 45-degree angle across 2- and 3-foot swells. The water foamed from the whitecaps.
Paddling with my life jacket zipped up (After crossing the lee of the island)
There were no boats out this morning. I wore my life vest over my rain jacket. Most of this trip, I only snapped the jacket at the bottom, but now I quickly zipped it up tight. In my jacket was a marine radio, in case I got into real trouble, along with snacks and bug spray. The later wasn’t needed this morning. Whatever happened to those 6-8 mile per hour breezes? Paddling became exhausting, but my boat handled the waves well. About a quarter mile from Sim’s point, I slipped behind an unnamed and uninhabited island for a break.
I rested for a good half hour. At least, I thought, I was done with the open water piece. From now on, I’d be along the shoreline, with roads and cabins if I got into trouble. I set back out paddling, with a half mile more to go till I would be on the lee side of Drummond. The waves grew taller as the wind pushed around the islands. A few waves appeared to be nearly 4 feet tall. Several times, I would miss a stroke as I crested a wave, with the water too far below the paddle.
Shelter on the lee side of an island. It’s hard to see the white caps in the photo.
Once, a wave caught me sideways and I almost rolled the kayak. At the last second, using a high brace, I pulled myself back upright and over the swell. This was scary. While continuing to paddle hard, I prayed for God to protect me and give me strength. Then, after another hundred yards, I passed Dix Point and turned my boat south, paralleling the island. The water calmed. I watched an ore freighter make its way north toward the Soo in the St. Mary’s River The current pushed me south. I relaxed.
waiting for the ferry to clear the dock before passing the terminal.
Limestone quarry loading docks
For the next hour, I paddled south along the west side of Drummond. The only obstacle was the ferry, which I decided to wait for it to leave instead of trying to race across it’s bow as it made its way back and forth from DeTour Village. Since there were no ships loading at the limestone quarry dock, I was able to see the operation up close as crush limestone falls into piles based on its size and use. Some of the rock is used in the steel making process, other is used in construction and agricultural.
Soon, I was at the southwestern end of the island. I thought I could skirt through the gap between Barbed Point and Crab Island but found that because of the low water in the Great Lakes, the channel was closed. Across the rocky bridge, waves were beating on the other side. I realized my challenge wasn’t quite over. I paddled around Crab Island and headed northwest, with the wind in my face. For a few minutes I was able to rest behind Arnold Island, but as I headed back northeast the wind howled. There was nothing to do but to keep paddling as I was taken back out into open water. But paddling into the wind is just tiring, not as dangerous as when the wind is coming across the boat. After about two miles I was finally in the tributary where Fort Drummond Marina was located. Once there, the last mile was a little easier as the shoreline blocked the wind.
Fort Drummond was named for the British General during the War of 1812 who controlled British troops in Southern Canada. At the time, the British held Mackinac Island. After the war, they gave it up. At first, Drummond moved his solders to the island that now bears his name. Later, they would move back into Canada, which was just north or east of the island.
Thursday morning, back where I started on Monday
I arrived at the marina a little before noon. After loading my boat on the top of the car, talked to the guy at the marina, then drove over to the Ledy’s to pick up my gear. I had to wait a few minutes for the ferry, but by 1 PM, I was back on the mainland, setting out my gear to dry in the garage. I had lunch, took a nap, and late in the afternoon set out for St. Ignace to pick up Bob.
I was going to publish the second half of my solo paddle around Drummond Island this week. However, a governmental ruling on the role of the pulpit made me decide to put that hold. Here are my thoughts on the slippery issue of politics and the pulpit. God willing, I’ll be back to paddling around Drummond next week.
The Pulpit and Politics
Last week an Internal Revenue Service decision allowed clergy and churches to endorse candidates for elected office.[1] I do not plan to make such endorsements. I think this is a bad idea. The pulpit should not be used for political purposes. Jesus himself refused to allow his earthly ministry to become political, telling Peter to put away his sword. Why should we think we’re any different than Peter?
The purpose of the pulpit is to proclaim God’s word and to point to Jesus Christ as the Savior of the world. Some politicians run on platforms suggesting they have what it takes to save their community or country. But all politicians, like all people, fall short of God’s glory. Christians should scrutinize politicians’ words, for we proclaim a different Savior.
Politicians may do good work, but none, not even the best, are without sin. When seeking power, it’s easy to justify doing whatever. Winning becomes everything. He or she can no longer articulate personal shortcomings. The allure to succeed at all costs is great. Few can withstand the temptation. Once a politician believes they have all the right answers and sees their opponent as wrong or evil, they’ve gone against the teachings of Christ.
Pulpit with the quote from John 12:21 in the King James Version
Inside many pulpits, for the preacher and no one else to see, to see, is a quote. “Sir, we would like to see Jesus.” It comes from John 12:21, where a group of Gentiles approach the disciples about meeting Jesus. This quote reminds the preacher of his or her purpose, to make Jesus known. We weaken our message when we conflate Jesus’ teachings with political rhetoric. Endorsing candidates will not serve the gospel. It will only serve those seeking political office.
However, this does not mean political discourse has no place in the pulpit. There are times in which preachers must challenge what’s happening in the world. I felt this was necessary a few times in my ministry, which made some people mad. However, the church must stand up for the integrity of the gospel and insist all people be treated fairly and compassionately.
Anytime those in or wanting to be in power co-opt the gospel, the church should push back. I have seen this recently in a social media Homeland Security commercial in which they show armed men in tactical gear on a helicopter. A voice quotes from Isaiah 8, “Here I am, send me.” By plagiarizing the prophet, the ad attempt to sanitize the behavior of Custom and Border Patrol and ICE by making it seem they’re doing God’s work.[2] The Biblical passage, in which Isaiah speaks to God, is totally taken out of context. Both Testaments of Scripture attest to our need to care for the alien and the friendless in our midst.
The pulpit should discourage Christians from dividing people into “us” and “them” groups. This is especially true when we demonize the “thems.” While the church shouldn’t be involved in partisan politics, we should push back against blasphemy (using God’s name and word for human intentions), and intentional cruelty. Our purpose is to hold up a vision that all people are created in God’s image and to seek God’s will on earth. We acknowledge our own sinfulness and accept the sinfulness of others as we strive to lead them to experience the love of Jesus.
As followers of Jesus, the church has a longer view of history than election cycles. Furthermore, we recognize our true citizenship is in God’s kingdom. Here on earth, to borrow a phrase coined by theologians Stanley Hauerwas and Will Willimon, Christians live as “resident aliens.” This doesn’t mean we shouldn’t care what happens in politics. Instead, as the Prophet Jeremiah implored the people of Israel when heading into exile in Babylon, we’re to seek the welfare of the city (or country) in which we’re exiled (Jeremiah 29:7).
While the church should shun partisan politics, we should be concerned about the society in which we live. We are to be especially concerned about those unable to help themselves. We should be a conscience for society, offering up a vision of a peaceful and more just world.
One of the best documents the church has produced in opposition to what was happening politically around them was the Barmen Declaration.[3] In 1933, the Nazi Party co-opted many of the German Churches. But a group of German pastors and theologians, longing to be faithful to Jesus Christ, challenge the direction of the nation. The document avoids discussing Nazism or Hitler. Instead, it makes a clear statement. Jesus is Lord and we’re to place our trust in him and no one else. That’s the message needing to be heard from the pulpit.
Rounding Raynolds Point, the northeastern corner of the island, the situation changed. I was no longer on the lee side of the island. The wind was in my face and much stronger. Swells suddenly appeared, breaking over my bow and attempting to push me onto the rocky ledges around the shore. Dark clouds gathered. I headed out away from the ledges and paddled harder. Having already covered approximately 19 miles, I was tired. As rain pelted me, I decided to head into Raynolds Bay. The wind helped this decision. I was not sure what’s public and private land, but there were no signs of human activity. The bay provided enough protection for me to safely come ashore. After thirty minutes of excitement, I was exhausted. This was the first bit of difficulty on my trip, but it would not be the last.
Beaver’s Work
I walked along the cobblestoned beach that’s sprinkled with fossils. There is also evidence of beaver activity, but wonder what they might attempt to dam up here. A dam on these waters would be beyond the Army Corp of Engineers ability. Finding a nice place where I could pitch my hammock and with a good view of the shore, I move my kayak.
Fossils
Again, as the previous night, I found a rock out near the water where I set up my kitchen. After dinner, I gathered wood for a fire along the beach. The skies cleared. As the daylight fades, I read and write by the water. Then I build a fire and fix a pot of tea. I hope to see the northern lights., but don’t see them. As darkness falls, I see distant lights of navigation markers and Canadian radio towers. I also pick out cabins by their lanterns on islands on the Canadian side of the water. Twilight seemed to last forever. I crawled in my hammock at 11 PM, after making sure the fire was extinguished. The stars had just begun to appear.
Sunset from Raynolds Bay. The waves are now much calmer than when I came ashore.
Monday, June 23, 2025
My trip started on the previous morning. I take the 7:50 AM ferry from Detour Village to Drummond Island. Arriving at the Fort Drummond Marina at 8:15 AM, shortly after they opened, I unloaded my boat from the top of the car and stowed my gear into the hatches. While I plan for a three-night, four-day trip, I bring extra food in case the weather deteriorates. After loading my boat and moving my car to where it’ll be out of the way. I then leave a float plan with the operator.
Easy paddling
I’m on the water at 9 AM, paddling south out of the tributary where the marina is located. At first I paddle rather slowly as I finish my thermos mug of coffee. Then paddle much faster as I reach Whitney Bay and set my course between Bird and Garden Island. Once I clear Garden, I’m in the upper ends of Lake Huron. From here, I can watch freighters coming up from the south. I turn east and round Anderson Point, then aim between Bootjack and Espanore Island. Next, I head southeast toward Cream City Point. At 11 AM, I pull up on the backside of Gravel Island in Huron Bay for a rest and lunch. I’ve covered 8 miles in two hours of paddling.
Today’s lunch is fancy. I have a left-over steak over from Saturday night dinner. Placing the steak inside a hoagie bun, I eat it while watching another freighter make its way from below the horizon towards the Soo. I then take care of a few messages I received on my phone. One is from my brother and I snap and send him a photo of my kayak resting on the cobblestones. Another is from Dave, a friend on Drummond, who invites me to dinner at a friend’s place on the third night. He asks if I can make it. I think I can. This will be the last reliable cell service until I have paddled around most of the island. For the rest of the day, I leave my phone on airplane mode to save battery.
Gravel Island
After lunch, I paddle around the north side of Gravel Island, and set my course for the distant Traverse Point, 2 ½ miles away. My course takes me further from land. Having paddled by several points, I realize I must give these points wide berth to avoid the rocks which often sit at or just below surface.
After Traverse Point, I head due east toward Scammon Point. This route takes me far from the shore as I pass Canoe Point and Scammon Cover. There are also fewer cabins along this isolated part of the shore. Most of this land is managed as a Michigan State Forest. Leaving Scammon Point, I am tempted to head into Big Shoal Cove, where there is a sandy beach. Having been there before, several years ago, I decide against it. I head southeast toward Long Point, the third of four points I can see (the last is an island).
I arrived at Long Point around 4 PM and paddle around both sides of the point. After looking around, I decided to camp on the west side, a 100 or so yards inside a small bay. The beaches were covered with cobble stones. As I had done at lunch, I paddled close to the water’s edge and get out of the boat while it’s still in about a foot of water. I lift the boat up, to avoid most of the rocks. After unloading and my boat was lighter, I carry the boat up onto dry land.
Before setting up camp, I take a brief swim. The water in the shallow bay was cool, but not cold. Then I put on long pants, socks, a clean long sleeve shirt.
I find two cedar trees at the edge of the woods, where I hang my hammock. Around it, I felt I am in a garden with purple irises, buttercups, Indian paintbrush, and other flowers. On a large rock about 75 feet away, I place my stove and pot along with my folding chair. After everything is up, I update my journal before preparing dinner. This consists of a beef stew which just had to be heated along with two tortillas and some apple sauce in a squeeze container. Paddling allows for heavier food than backpacking.
After dinner, I hang my food between two trees and explore the shoreline. Afterwards, I fixed a cup of tea. Sitting down, I sip my tea as I watch the sun set and a thunderstorm build south of me. For the next half hour, I observe the storms moving east, just south of me. Huge lightning bolts strike the water a mile or two to my south. These are followed with delayed rolls of thunder. As darkness falls I am treated with a display of synchronous fireflies. Each of these bugs, along the woods, emits four or five quick blinks of light. This is followed by 10 seconds or so of darkness before another set of blinks. To the west, I caught glimpses of the new moon hang between the clouds, low in the west.
Sunset from my camp on Long Point
I fell asleep to the waning sound of thunder. About 3 AM, I wake and crawled out from my hammock to take care of business. The skies have cleared and to the south I see the pincher stars of Scorpio above the horizon. Moments later, I snuggle back in my hammock home and fall back asleep.
Tuesday, June 24, Morning to Midafternoon
Perking coffee
When I wake again, a mosquito buzzes just outside my netting. The sun rays are lighting the trees on the other side of the bay. I get up and fixed breakfast. This consists of oatmeal and perked coffee. Then I packed up everything, and spend some time reading and writing in my journal.
By 9 AM, I am again on the water. I paddle east, crossing to the outside of Shelter Island and the points on each side of Bass Cove. Afterwards, I turn northeast as I reached the eastern side of the island. Unlike the day before, where the island consisted of many points of land the eastern side is smoother. There are only a few jagged points extending into the water. Around Bass Cove, I pass many cabins, As I paddle north, I see fewer cabins. Most of this land is owned by the state. With Drummond Island just a hundred yards to my left, Canada is less than a mile to my right.
Unlike the day before in which, after leaving Whitney Bay, I saw no boats (except for distant freighters), I passed a large sailboat heading east. The boats sails are furled, and it motored on. I later see a few boats come down through the False Detour Passage that links the Northern Passage to Lake Huron.
South of Marblehead
I planned to make my first stop at Marble Head, a rough outcrop of limestone at the eastern most point of Drummond Island. Who knows why they named this place Marblehead. Drummond, as far as I know, has no marble. It is mostly limestone and the mine on the island produces shiploads of limestone every week, which is used in steelmaking, cement, and agriculture. I suppose the name had a nautical sound. I crossed by Marblehead and pulled ashore on the north side. Stepping out of the boat, the biting flies started. I grabbed snacks for lunch and bug spray. I sprayed my bear legs, where the flies seemed drawn (I wore a long sleeve sun shirt which seemed to provide some protection from the flies. But the spray didn’t deter these buggers, and I spent lunch swatting them away.
I had planned to hike up to Marblehead, but the bugs seemed just as nasty inside the forested canopy, so I returned to my boat and slowly continued to work my way north toward Stigraves Bay. I’d also planned to paddle into Pilot Harbor, which has a narrow entry that opens into an inland lake, but decided against it. I paddled north around Glen Point and into Glen Cove. It was only 1:30 PM.
map of the northeast side of Drummond
Most people who paddle around Drummond Island spend their second night at Glen Cove, but since it was too early to stop, I decided to continue north. In the distance, I see a rock that looks like a giant bald eagle sitting. Getting closer I see the white part is from bird poop. But, as I pass this rock, I do see a bald eagle soaring above.
The weather was delightful with a breeze out of the northwest, keeping me cool when I stayed offshore. When I came in close, to explore the limestone ledges which began appearing north of Marblehead, the shore blocked the wind and the bugs would attack. I assumed once I crossed Raynolds Point, 6 or 7 miles ahead, the wind would blow the bugs away.
My decision to continue also was influence by the invitation to have dinner with Dave, Sandy, and their friends on Wednesday night. Except for the bugs, I find the northeast side of Drummond delightful. Much of the shoreline consisted of flat ledges, table-like limestone, a few feet above the waterline. The “tables” appeared properly set with wildflowers growing in cracks. In most places, a second ledge extended out six or 12 inches below the water line.
Getting ashore isn’t difficult, as I exit the boat in six inches of water and climb upon the ledge. It would have been more difficult to have camped along the shoreline north of Glenn Cove, as one would have to load and pack the boat in the water and then lift the boat up onto the higher shelf to keep it safe at night. I decided to camp west of Raynolds Bay. Furthermore, most of this land is privately owned. However, only a few cabins dot the shoreline.
I have been in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan for the past two weeks with limited internet and not very active in blogland. I’ll write more about my time there, including a 50+ mile paddle around Drummond Island over the next few weeks. Here are the reviews of the books I read or listened to and completed in June. The long drive to the UP allowed me to listen to two of these books.
Derwin L. Gray, How to Heal Our Racial Divide: What the Bible Says, and the First Christians Knew, About Racial Reconciliation
(Tyndale, 2020), 281 pages including notes.
Gray was an African American defensive back who played football for Brigham Young University and later for the Indianapolis Colts and the Charlotte Panthers. After several seasons of professional football, he was led by a teammate to accept Jesus. Later, with his wife, he started Transformation Church in Charlotte, North Carolina. His church is an intentionally mix-race congregation. Gray was a speaker at this year’s HopeWords Writer’s Conference.
In the introduction and opening chapter, Gray discusses why he talks about race so much in his sermons. God has created the world with a variety, a kaleidoscope of colors. God loves diversity and longs to bring us all together, through the church, into one family. However, our churches are often less diverse than most our secular world.
After the first chapter, Gray launches into a Biblical overview, where he starts with Abraham and discusses why he believes that God’s purpose from the beginning was to create a multi-racial family. While he mentions that concept of humanity being created in God’s image, he begins his survey of scripture with Abraham’s promised family. While I might have started at creation itself, by tying together Abraham’s story with the vision of Isaiah, the teachings of Jesus, and the writings of Paul, Gray makes the case that God’s desire is for a multi-racial family. Of course, like all families, in this sin-filled world it will be messy. But in the life to come, we will experience it in fulness.
In the second part of the book, Gray discusses what he has learned at Transformation Church and offers ideas for how we can forge relationships across color barriers. For white readers, he explains the differences in how blacks see the world from our perspective.
I appreciate Gray’s interpretation of God’s vision. This book would make a great study for a church group. Chapters are short and ends with a beautiful Trinity-focused prayers followed by highlights, questions, and ways to implement what is being taught.
Les Standiford, Palm Beach, Mar-a-largo, and the Rise for America’s Xanadu
narrated by John McLain,(Tantor Audio, 2019), 8 hours and 11 minutes.
I have been a fan of Les Standiford since I first read his book on the Florida East Coast Railway, Last Train to Paradise. Since then, I have enjoyed his book on Charles Dickens and the writing of the Christmas Carol, The Man Who Invented Christmas, and his book on business partnership of Andrew Carnegie and Henry Clay Frick, Meet You in Hell.
Palm Beach, Mar-a-largo, and the Rise of America’s Xanadu picks up the story of the visionary builder, Henry Flagler, whom Standiford introduced in Last Train to Paradise. In this book he mostly focuses on Flagler’s hotels and personal life instead of his railroads. Flagler first arrived in what would become Palm Beach in 1893. Soon, he was building resort hotels. After his wife was committed to an asylum (she thought she was engaged to the Russian Czar), Flagler obtained a divorce. Later, at age 70, he married a 34-year-old-woman from a wealthy North Carolina family, Mary Lily Kenan. Many North Carolina colleges have buildings named for the Kenans). The Kenans still control the Breakers, the five-star hotel Flager built on Palm Beach.
Early on, Palm Beach was a resort for the newly rich. These who people not accepted into the “old money society” of Newport and other locations. In time, with the likes of sewing machine heir/developer Paris Singer and architect Addison Mizner, Palm Beach became an exclusive place with Mediterranean styles. Standiford ponders if the high walls of the mansions and resorts were designed to keep out those who didn’t belong or to hide the scandal occurring within.
After Flagler, Standiford focuses on the Post family. C. W. Post, who established Postum Cereal Company, doted on his daughter Marjorie Merriweather Post. In her 20s, she inherited much of her father’s estate and expanded the business (even into frozen foods). Marjorie was the one who built Mar-a-lago (which means from the lake to the sea as the property goes from Lake Worth on the backside of Palm Beach to the Atlantic). One of the interesting marriages in her long life was to E. F. Hutton, the New York stockbroker. Marjorie, the richest woman in American, and was the “senior partner” in that relationship. During the Great Depression their marriage broke up, partly for political reasons. Margorie was a supporter of Roosevelt’s “New Deal” while Hutton felt FDR was a socialist and preferred “trickle-down economics.”
In the early 1960s, Marjorie even offered Mar-a-largo was a winter White House, but it was decided the building was too expensive to maintain and impossible to safely secure the president.
After Mar-a-lago had been shuttered for a decade, Donald Trump purchased the property at a basement price. From the beginning Trump ownership came with controversy. He bragged about paying more for the property until the tax bill came in at the higher rate, then he sued to get them to tax it at a much lower rate (from 13 million to 7 million). Finally, he worked out a deal to make the property a private club which provided him with tax favors and allowed him to share the burden of owning the property with others.
This is a fascinating story. I enjoy how Standiford weaves together the stories of interesting characters around Palm Beach.
George Saunders, A Swim in a Pond in the Rain in Which Four Russians Give a Master Class on Writing, Reading, and Life
Narrated by the author and others. (Random House Audio, 2021), 14 hours and 44 minutes.
Over the past decade, I have read and listened to several of Saunders’ collections of short stories. Saunders teaches at Syracuse University. This book is based on one of his favorite classes in which he uses Russian authors. Those he draws upon wrote during a creative period of Russian history (between Napoleon’s invasion and the Bolshevik Revolution). Each section of the book begins with the story. In the audio version, a different voice reads the story, followed by Saunders’ discussing it. Many of the stories are about simple every day and even mundane events. Saunders helps his students and readers see how such a setting can make a great story. The stories include:
Anton Chekhov, “In the Cart” Ivan Turgenev, “The Singers” Anton Chekhov, “The Darling” Leo Tolstoy, “Master and Man” Nikolai Gogol, “The Nose” Anton Chekhov, “Gooseberries” Leo Tolstoy, Alyosha the Pot”
Some of the stories like “The Nose” are quite funny and many of the others, especially “Alyosha the Pot” are sad. This book would be helpful for anyone wanting to improve their writing, especially if they are working with fiction! It is also a good introduction into Russian literature. Before reading this book, I had read some of Chekhov and Tolstoy’s stories, but not the others in the collection.
Alex Pappademas, Quantum Criminals: Ramblers, Wild Gamblers, and other Sole Survivors from the Songs of Steely Dan
audio book narrated by Michael Bulter Murray (Tantor Audio, 2024), 7 hours and 15 minutes.
The rock group Steely Dan blended jazz and weird lyrics into some memorable rock tunes. Donald Fagen and Walter Becker were the band’s mainstays. The two met in the late 60s at Bard College. Both loved jazz. In an earlier band in college, Chevy Chase (the comedian), played the drums. Over the years, Fagen and Becker drew on numerous other musicians to meet the needs of the sounds they sought, but the two remained the mainstay of the band until Becker’s death from cancer in 2017.
The band is known for mellow jazz-like tunes mixed, at times, with outrageous lyrics. Their songs feature those who down and out or on the other side of the law. These characters, which include drug dealers, violent or dirty old men, and a kid about seeking “cop suicide” as he yells, “don’t take me alive.” Other songs involve love triangles. And then there’s the desire for inappropriate relationships. “Rikki Don’t Lose that Number,” was about Fagen trying to date the wife of a college professor at Bard.
Mostly, the extreme lyrics are presented without moral evaluation. The music behind the lyrics mellows the songs. Fagen and Becker often refused to interpret the songs, leaving them for the listener to figure out or if not, just to enjoy. It’s not surprising that the band’s name came from sexual object in Wiliam S. Burrough’s novel A Naked Lunch.
Quantum Criminals runs through the discography of Steely Dan, while providing insights into the lives of Becker and Fagen. Those who enjoy the music of the band might enjoy this book. Or you might prefer to skip the book and just listen to their jazzy music without knowing all the secrets imbedded into the lyrics. The print book includes artwork by Joan LeMay depicting the characters in the songs of Steely Dan.
“We’ve lost a good friend, Jeff,” Terry said. It was late in the spring of 2010. I stopped by to see my Uncle Frank on his farm just north of Carthage. Terry, Frank’s oldest son, heard I was around and dropped by to see me.
I’d forgotten my cousin knew Charlie. Terry runs a company which rakes and ships straw from longleaf pines over the East Coast. Charlie’s wife had inherited a track of land, and my cousin harvested the straw off it. Terry told me about the old homestead near Cowpen Landing on the Northeast Cape Fear. Although I’d heard about the place, I’d never been there. My cousin told me the old house had fallen in, but the chimney still stood upright. Charlie had pointed out an indention in the brick where his mother-in-law sharpened the blade of her butcher knife. She ran the blade along the course brick till the blade was sharp. Then she would walk out to the smokehouse to cut off a slap of meat for dinner. Over the years, the metal of the knives carved into the brick.
I met Charlie at the Holsum Bakery. I hired on the summer I was nineteen, between my freshman and sophomore years of college. Charlie would have been almost sixty then. He spent most of life working for the bakery. You could always count on him to lighten things up with a good joke and you knew that any joke he told would be clean. Charlie worked hard but laughed even harder.
One afternoon, there wasn’t much to do as we’d run out of flour and the railcar, which was scheduled to be delivered that morning, had been delayed. We sat out near the loading dock where we could look down the tracks. Charlie came by and told us of growing up next to the railroad tracks, out north of the Green Swamp, east of Wilmington.
His daddy had been a section foreman for the Atlantic Coastline, maintaining the rails and water tower along a section of the mainline between Delco and Bolton. It may not look like much to those who speed by these days on the four-lane highway, US 74-76, but it’s a magical place. The land is as flat as a pancake and grows some of the most interesting plants on earth including the Venus flytrap. In some high sandy areas, higher by only inches, stately longleaf pines, and huge live oaks grow. In wetter areas, tupelo or black gum grow, often capped with mistletoe. And on the edge of swamps, often standing in water, are cypress, their sparse limbs dangled in Spanish moss. On cleared land in these parts, farmers raised tobacco and grew peanuts, along with strawberries and blueberries.
This is black-water country, water darkened by the tannic acid produced by the tupelo and cypress. Often, in the evenings when the air cools, fog develops over the waters, making it even more mysterious.
“Charlie,” I asked, “have you seen the lights?”
Just down the tracks from where Charlie grew up had been Maco Station. There, just a couple years after the Civil War, at a time the line was known as the Wilmington and Manchester Railroad, a brakeman named Joe Baldwin rode in a caboose. His car decoupled from the rest of the train and started to slow down. When Joe realized what happened, he grabbed a lantern and ran out on the back deck of the car. There, he swung his lantern back and forth, a universal sign on the railroad for trains to stop. He knew the schedule. Another train followed them.
Joe hoped to signal the engineer in time. But in the foggy swampland, the engineer didn’t see the signal until it was too late. The engine collided into Joe’s caboose, destroying it. Joe died; his head severed from his body. As they cleaned up from the accident, they never found the head and Joe’s body was buried without it. Most just assumed the head had rolled down the embankment and into the black waters filled with cottonmouths and an occasional alligator.
Shortly after Joe’s death, people started reporting a strange light moving in the swamps near the Maco sidings. Some suggested it was Joe’s lantern swinging along the tracks. A legend developed that Old Joe still looked for his head. People often went to these parts to walk the tracks to see the lights, but the tracks were removed in the late 1970s and not long afterwards, the highway expanded, and the lights fades away.
Charlie had seen the light, but he didn’t believe it to be Joe’s lantern. If I remember correctly, he brought into one popular theory that the lights were caused by swamp gas.
I don’t have any photos of the line near Charlie’s house. This is the Aberdeen, Carolina and Western Railroad in northern Moore County, North Carolina
Living by the railroad tracks, hearing that lonesome cry from the engine pierce through the night as freight rolled toward the port in Wilmington must have been sealed in Charlie’s memory. But that lonesome wail can also bring sadness, as Charlie shared with us.
A year into the Great Depression, when Charlie was still just a boy, finishing up grade school, the lonesome wail wasn’t heard as much. There was so little freight moving that the railroad laid off every other section foreman. Charlie’s dad lost his job. The next day, Charlie went with his dad into Wilmington to look for work. But there were none to be found. Coming back home, late in the day, discouraged, they noticed smoke over the distant pines. As they got closer, they realized their house was totally engulfed in flames. The family lost everything.
Charlie’s life was forever changed. He went to live with family in Wilmington, where he worked hard and earned a little until the war came and he joined the Navy.
You’d think that after such hardships, Charlie would have been bitter. But there wasn’t a bitter bone in his body. He was one of the most joyous and positive individuals I’ve known. He wasn’t a bellyacher. Even when he had good reason to complain, he just shrugged it off.
About a year before I left the bakery, I was called into the General Manager’s office. I wasn’t sure what was up. When I entered, Charlie was there, along with the general manager, plant manager, and the president, who owned the bakery with his brother. It was obvious, they had been talking for some time to Charlie. At this point, Charlie’s responsibility included sanitation, receiving, and building maintenance. I was a production supervisor.
In the past six months, we had several problems in sanitation and receiving. When I entered, they informed me changes were being made. They assigned me Charlie’s responsibilities. Thankfully, they kept Charlie employed. He would continue to handle building maintenance but even there would report to me. It seemed strange for Charlie was nearly three times my age. I felt sorry for him, but he never showed any bitterness toward me.
Thinking about Charlie, I’m left to wonder why some people endure tragedy and disappointment and yet can still be joyful. He continued to maintain a positive attitude. In Charlie’s case, this partly had to do with his faith. Charlie knew he was loved by God. He found joy in creation, in life, in laughter, and in good friends.
My cousin met Charlie long after I had left the bakery “Charlie thought a lot of you,” Terry said. “He was always asking about you.”
Two weeks before Easter, 2010, and a month before Terry and I talked, Charlie died at the age 91. Hearing of his death, it seemed as if a part of my past died with him. Charlie was the one person from my time at the bakery whom I would occasionally see. After he retired, Charlie found a home in the church in which I grew up. Whenever I visited my parents, I would attend church on Sunday. Afterwards, Charlie and I would talk about old times.
Oh, how I wish I could talk to him again.
I haven’t yet been able to find any photos of Charlie. I wrote this in 2010, but edited and significantly expanded it for this post.
While I only completed two books in May (compared to five in April), I am posting three reviews. I finally set out to complete Taylor Branch’s trilogy about the Civil Rights movement in America. I have one more volume to go!
Jim Shea, Get Up and Ride: A Humorous True Story of Two Friends Cycling the Great Allegheny Passage and C&O Canal
(2020), 189 pages with some maps and photos.
Somehow Facebook knows my brother and I are planning to peddle from Pittsburgh to Washington, D. C. in late May. I learned of this book in which two brothers-in-law did the same trip in 2010 from a Facebook advertisement.
Two brothers-in-law. One teaches and has his summers off. The other finds himself between jobs. They decided to do the trip they’d been talking about for a few years. This book is easy to read and humorous, although much of the humor reminded me of listening in at a restaurant to conversation of a family unknown to me. This is not Bill Bryson’s A Walk in the Woods or the writings of J. Marteen Troost traveling in the South Seas. But I did laugh and their stories helped me envision my own planned trips. I just hope the weather is as good for us as it was for them. (It wasn’t as I showed in my blog: Part 1and Part 2). I can handle one day of rain, but it would be a bummer to have a week of rain!
Most of the humor of the book come from the experiences of Jim and Marty before they set off to peddle to Washington. We learn about how they often vacation together (after all, their wives are sisters). While one is from Pittsburgh (and still lives in the Steel City), the other is from just outside Washington but now (or at the time of their trip), also lives in the Pittsburgh area. One is an avid bicyclist, and the other is kind of along for the ride. While there are a few humorous things which happened during their ride, most of the laughs come from how they relate within the two families.
The author of the book speaks of not reading much as if that means he won’t sound like a Hemingway or Steinbeck. At least he can make light of himself, but I would suggest that he read more and learn about how humor works. Bill Bryson’s short adventures on the Appalachian Trail, A Walk in the Woods, which he turned into an international best seller might be a good place to start.
Taylor Branch, Pillar of Fire: America in the King Years 1963-65
(New York, Simon & Schuster, 1998), 746 pages including index, notes, and one set of black and white photographs.
This is the second volume of Taylor Branch’s massive undertaking of chronicling the Civil Rights Movement during the life of Martin Luther King, Jr. Unlike the first volume (review below), this is less of a biography of King than recapping what happened in these three pivotal years to the Civil Rights movement. This included the Burmingham Church Bombings, the death of voter registration workers in Mississippi, and significant Civil Rights work in Mississippi, St. Augustine (Florida), and Selma Alabama. In the background there is the death of John Kennedy and America’s deepening involvement in Vietnam.
In a way, reading this book is like reading the newspapers for three years. At times, it seems Branch jumps around, but the movement was in such flux with events happening in multiple places at the same time.
The book also takes us inside both political parties in 1964, as they struggled with what to do with the Civil Rights movement. The Democratic candidate, Lyndon Johnson, had just passed the 1964 Civil Rights act, shifting African Americans further away from the party of Lincoln, who’d freed the slaves. Furthermore, the Republican candidate Goldwater tried to avoid discussion on Civil Rights, there were those within the party who used the movement to steal away Democrats who were unhappy with their party’s move toward supporting the movement. This was the campaign in which Strom Thurmond would become a Republican and Jackie Robinson would condemn his Republican party as being the party of “white men only.” Robinson would later leave the GOP.
Much is made of the FBI’s role with both King and other Civil Rights leaders. They helped solve the murders of Civil Rights leaders, but they also kept close eyes on the leaders of the movement, watching for communist connections. Through wiretaps, they learned of King’s infidelities an even used this to encourage King to commit suicide. They attempted to thwart King’s reception of the Noble Peace Prize, which he later received. They also called in Cardinal Spellman to give him the dirt on King to block a papal visit. While Spellman supposedly took the information to Rome, the meeting papal meeting still occurred partly due to the intervention of Rabbi Abraham Heschel. Like the first book in the series, King isn’t seen as totally a saint or sinner, but a man who struggled with depression and his own humanity.
Branch spends considerable time providing a background on the Nation of Islam and the conflict between its founder, Elijah Muhammad and Malcom X. The Nation of Islam created a vision of separation of the races and violence toward their enemies, which contrasted to King and the Southern Christian Leadership Conference vision of a beloved community. The book begins with a deadly police encounter after a Nation of Islam meeting in South Central Los Angeles in 1962. Toward the end of the book, the Nation kills Malcom X after he left the Nation for a purer form of Islam. His view of religion had become less racially focused, and he softened his stance toward King’s nonviolent resistance.
This book also shows the tension within churches over supporting Civil Rights. Not all African American churches supported the Civil Rights movement, with some seeing it too dangerous. After all, there were many firebombed churches in the American South during the early 1960s. Northern Episcopal bishops struggled with what to say as they didn’t want to be seen as challenging their southern colleagues. This led to the wives of some bishops taking up the clause. One of the interesting stories was the wife of a Massachusetts bishop and mother of the state’s governor, Mary Peabody, who was arrested and jailed for protesting in St. Augustine.
I recommend this book to anyone wanting to better understand the Civil Rights movement in America. I don’t plan to wait another 19 years before I read Branch’s third volume. The final volume holds interest in me as I remember some of the events which happened.
This review is from 2006, after reading the first book in Branch’s series:
Taylor Branch, Parting the Waters: America in the King Years, 1954-63
(New York: Simon and Schuster, 1988), 1064 pages including index, notes, and two sets of black and white photographs.
This book is an enormous undertaking, for both the author and the reader. The author provides the reader a biography of the Reverend Martin Luther King’s work through 1963, a view into the early years of the Civil Rights movement, as well as showing how the movement was affected by national and international events. This is the first of three massive volumes by Taylor Branch that spans the years of King’s ministry, from his ordination in 1954 to his death in 1968.
This volume also provides some detail about King’s family history and his earlier life through graduate school at Boston University. I decided to read this book after hearing Branch speak in Birmingham AL in June. It’s like reading a Russian novel with a multitude of characters and over 900 pages of text. However, it was worth the effort as I got an inside look as to what was going on in the world during the first six years of my life.
Branch does not bestow sainthood, nor does he throw stones. The greatness of Martin Luther King comes through as well as his shortcomings. He demonstrates King’s brilliance in the Montgomery Bus Campaign as well as in Birmingham. He also shows the times King struggled: his battles within his denomination, the National Baptist; King’s struggles with the NAACP; as well as his infidelities.
The FBI also had mixed review. Agents stood up to Southern law enforcement officers, insisting that the rights of African Americans be protected. They often warned Civil Rights leaders of threats and dangers they faced. However, once King refused to heed the FBI’s warnings that two of his associates were communists, the agency at Hoover’s insistence, set out to break King. Hoover’s inflexible can be seen as he reprimanded an agent for suggesting that King’s associates are not communists.
The Kennedy’s (John and Robert) also have mixed reviews. John Kennedy’s Civil Rights Speech (and on the night that Medgar Evers would be killed in Mississippi) is brilliant. Kennedy drew upon Biblical themes, labeling Civil Rights struggle a moral issue “as old as the Scriptures.” Yet the Kennedy brothers appear to base most of their decisions based on political reasons and not moral ones. This allows King to sometimes push Kennedy at his weakness, hinting that he has or can get the support of Nelson Rockefeller (a Republican).
Although we think today of the Democrat Party being the party of African Americans, this wasn’t necessarily the case in the 50s and early 60s. Many black leaders, especially within the National Baptist Convention leadership, identified themselves as Republicans, with Lincoln’s party.
Many of the black entertainers played in the movement. King was regularly in contact with Harry Belafonte, but also gains connections to Sammy Davis Jr., Lena Horne, Jackie Robinson, James Baldwin and others. The author also goes to great lengths to put the Civil Rights movement into context based on the Cold War politics. Both Eisenhower and Kennedy found themselves in embarrassing positions as they spoke out for democracy overseas while blacks within the United States were being denied rights.
The book ends in 1963, a watershed year for Civil Rights. King leads the massive and peaceful March on Washington. Medgar Evans and John Kennedy are both assassinated. And before the year is out, King has an hour-long chat with the President, Lyndon Johnson, a Southerner, who would see to it that the Voting Rights Acts become law.
As a white boy from the South, this book was eye opening. I found myself laughing that the same people who today bemoan the lack of prayer in the public sphere were arresting blacks for praying on the courthouse steps. The treatment of peaceful protesters was often horrible. There were obvious constitutional violations such as Wallace and the Alabama legislature raising the minimum bail for minor crimes in Birmingham 10-fold (to $2500) to punish those marching for Civil Rights.
I was also pleasantly surprised at behind-the-scenes connections between King and Billy Graham. Graham’s staff even provided logistical suggestions for King. King’s commitment to non-violence and his dependence upon the methods of Gandhi are evident. Finally, I found myself wondering if the segregationists like Bull O’Conner of Birmingham shouldn’t be partly responsible for the rise in crime among African American youth. They relished throwing those fighting for basic rights into jail, breaking a fear and taboo of jail. The taboo of being in jail has long kept youth from getting into trouble and was something the movement had to overcome to get mass arrest to challenge the system. In doing so, jail no longer was an experience to be ashamed off and with Pandora’s Box open, jail was no longer a determent to other criminal behavior.
I recommend this book if you have a commitment to digging deep into the Civil Rights movement. Branch is a wonderful researcher, and his use of FBI tapes and other sources give us a behind the scenes look at both what was happening within the Civil Rights movement as well as at the White House. However, there are so many details. For those wanting just an overview of the Civil Rights movement, this book may be a bit much. As for me, I’m looking forward to digging into the other two books of this trilogy: A Pillar of Fire: America in the King Years, 1963-65 and At Canaan’s Edge: America in the King Years, 1965-68.
Lock and a lock house. Some of the lock houses can be rented for those traveling on the C&O.
A couple of miles from the Paw Paw tunnel, we came around a bend and noticed bicycles thrown on the ground and several people kneeling over one of them. I peddled faster, thinking someone was hurt. When we pulled up, we saw Max and three women cyclists. No one was hurt, but one of the bikes had been taken apart. She’d had a flat. Max, seeing the stuff on the ground from the bike, said he threw up his hands and said, “there’s some engineers just behind me who can help.” At dinner the evening before, Max and Warren discussed various metals used in bicycles. From the discussion he learned my brother was a mechanical engineer. For some reason, he thought I was one, too. The women greeted us like saviors. When I shook my head at not being an engineer and pointed to my brother, they dropped interest in me and lauded praise on his arrival.
Warren to the rescue
We spent the next 30 minutes trying to get the bike back together. They had removed the entire back sockets and de-railer. While Warren and the woman with the broken bike worked finding what goes where, Max and I talked to the other women. They were all serious cyclists. When asked what they do when there’s a problem, they pointed to the woman whose bike was torn apart. “We call her husband. He’s a serious racer and knows everything about bikes and can walk us through what needs to happen.” Sadly, for them, we were in an area without cell service.
Once the bike was back together, we had the owner get on it and ride it a ways, making sure everything worked. It did. We ran into them again, late in the afternoon at the bicycle shop in Hancock. This was after 30 some miles of riding. One of the employees went through the bike and confirmed everything was back as it should be. The only issue was the tire pressure was a little low, but that’s to be expected with those emergency pumps which go on bicycles.
As they rode away, my brother joked about telling his wife how he had satisfied three women this morning.
Saturday, Cumberland to Hancock (61 miles of which we rode roughly 40)
Potomac RiPonver, having fallen but still well out of its banks
This was to be the big day, 61 miles. The only problem was knowing there was a section of trail washed away in the floods about ten miles away. The National Park Service said there was no acceptable detour. We also learned from the bike shop that the road around this section was narrow, curvy, and unsafe to ride because of tractor trailers. So that morning, we arranged a shuttle for us and for Max, whom we’d talked to at breakfast. We had them drop us off at Paw Paw, cutting out about 25 miles of trail and the section that had been washed out.
Paw Paw Tunnel
Paw Paw Tunnel (My bike is pointing the wrong way)
The highlight of the day was the Paw Paw tunnel, an engineering marvel for the early 19th Century. We entered the tunnel just a mile or two from where the shuttle dropped us off. Bricks lined the walls of the tunnel. Bicycles (and mules in the day) travel on a wooden walkway that was so unleveled and bumpy we quickly heeded the warning to walk and not ride our bikes. Besides, the railing was only three foot tall, making it easy to tumble over if your bike fell. I attached the light to my handlebars and began the dark cool journey through the 3118-foot tunnel.
Warren pulling his bike over a tree
Little Orleans
The trail appeared better than we expected. While there were places with mud and many trees had fallen, requiring us to dismount and lift our bikes over them, it wasn’t as bad as some of the other places we’d heard of. We ate lunch at the Devil’s Alley Campground. When we came to Little Orleans, we left the trail and headed to Billy’s Place for ice cream. The place was a bar that served food. They advertised in large letters, “Beer, Boats, Bait.” In smaller letters the sign mentioned food, groceries, and shuttles. While we’d just had lunch, the burgers they’d fixed for a man and his wife we met outside of the establishment were enticing.
It didn’t take long this day before my left foot became sore. Over the past couple of days, the soreness would manifest itself late in the afternoon. The evening before I realized the area around the Achilles tendon had swelled. This slowed my pace and made me want to take more frequent stops, sometimes even walking my bicycle.
Western Maryland Railroad bike trail.
The Western Maryland Trail begins at Little Orleans. While this path parallels the C&O canal, it’s high above the river and is paved. This old rail bed, which we’d ridden on from Connellsville on the GAP, was a welcome relief to the mud of the C&O. It was nice to bel able to ride on pavement, even though we still had trees to pull over. We rode it all the way to Hancock, except for one detour for about a mile onto the C&O as there is a tunnel that hasn’t yet opened. About three miles outside of Hancock, we came upon a group of trail workers from the Maryland Parks clearing trees which had fallen during the recent storms.
Arriving back in Hancock
We arrived at Hancock at 5 PM, riding to the Presbyterian Church where I had left my car on Tuesday. We loaded our bikes and drove to Motel 8, where I had made reservations. On Monday night, I had stayed at the Potomac River Hotel, which looked like a bedbug haven. While it seemed to be free of bugs, the hotel had the ambiance of the 1940s. About half the lights were missing bulbs and the bathroom was small and the tub dirty. After discussing it, we decided to try the only other hotel in town. At least the bathroom was clean and larger, but the floors between the bed were soft and I wondered if one of us would fall through.
After cleaning up, we met Max at the Potomac River Grill, across from the hotel of the same name. The food was excellent, and the place crowed. It appears to be owned by the same folks at the hotel. At least they’re doing something right. I had a wonderful burger with a salad and a Stella beer.
After we got back to the hotel, Warren called his daughter, a physical therapist. She had me do a few moves and said she didn’t think my tendon was torn, but thought my tendon and muscles were angry and I may be suffering from Achilles tendinitis. She also recommended taking it easy, icing my ankle after walking or biking, taking ibuprofen for the swelling, and stretching in the morning. While riding, she suggested that while riding not to use toe-caps and to move my foot forward on the peddle so that I weight would be more on the arch of the foot.
Sunday morning, May 18
Not an illusion
As Super 8s don’t provide breakfast, we drove to the IHOP on the east side of town, near the interstate. Coming back, I noticed some of the most creative line painting on a highway I’ve ever seen. Obviously, the Maryland line painters believe in drinking on the job!
Then we worshipped with the good people at Hancock Presbyterian Church. I met Pastor Terry on Tuesday, when I left my car in the church’s parking lot. The 1845 sanctuary reminded me of the church where I was ordained as a Presbyterian minister, the United Church of Ellicottville in New York. Both brick sanctuaries featured high ceilings and a square design with cathedral style windows. While the United Church (formerly First Presbyterian) served as a stop on the Underground Railroad, the Hancock Church suffered damage during the Civil War when Stonewall Jackson’s men shelled the town.
This morning the service honored the church’s graduates and featured a musical trio (soloist, keyboard, and bass) from Fredrick called “Solid Ground.” They lead the congregation in singing and sang several songs themselves. Afterwards, the congregation had a wonderful potluck lunch which they do once a month. If you’re ever in Hancock on the potluck Sunday, don’t miss it!
Fort Frederick
Ft. Frederick
Taking my niece’s advice, I decided not to ride on Sunday, which had been scheduled for our shortest day on the C&O, only 27 miles. Instead, I drove to Fort Frederick. The British governor had the rock-walled fort built during the French and Indian Wars to protect the frontier. In the American Revolutionary War, the fort housed British POWs. It never experienced the tragedy of a battle. Overtime, much of the fort had fell into disrepair, but the CCCs rebuilt it in the 1930s. Today, it’s a Maryland State Park. I toured the fort and reconnected with Warren as the C&O passes by the site of the fort. Then I moved on to Williamsport waterfront, where I waited to pick up Warren later in the afternoon. Williamsport features an aqueduct, where the canal (and its water) crossed a local creek, which was amazing to see.
Williamsport’s Acqueduct
That night, we stayed at a Hampton Inn in Hagerstown. For dinner, I had a pecan chicken salad and sausage chili at Bob Evans, which was across the street from the hotel.
Monday, May 19. A free day of touring the area
First Washington Monument
We had planned a day off, since I had a car in the area and was wanting to see the Antietam battlefield. Leaving early, we first drove to the nation’s first Washington Monument along South Mountain. This monument was built in 1827 by the people of Boonsboro, Maryland. In 1862, the people living in the valley used the site to watch the battle of South Mountain and Antietam. I first visited the monument in 1987, while hiking the Appalachian Trail. In our few minutes at the site, I met several section hikers on the trail.
Fish tacos
After the Washington Monument, we headed to Point of the Rocks, to look at the C&O trail. We had seen Facebook posts of riders who became bogged in mud between Brunswick and Point of the Rocks and, talking with a bike shop owner, learned several had busted their de-railers by trying to ride through the muck. Then we drove along roads which parallel the trail, across from Harper’s Ferry and then across the Potomac to Shepherdstown, the oldest community in West Virginia. We had lunch in this quaint town at Marie’s Taqueria, where I had three delicious fish tacos.
Antietam
Sunken road, sight of fierce fighting, taken from observation tower
After lunch, we headed to the Antietam battlefield, first stopping at the visitor’s center to watch a movie introducing us to the battle and exploring the museum. September 17, 1862 is the bloodiest day in American history. While more died at Gettysburg, that battle lasted three full days. Lee had assembled his troops between the town of Sharpsburg (some still refer to the battle as Sharpsburg) and Antietam Creek. Fighting began that early that morning in a cornfield north of town. It continued in several different locations over the next twelve hours, before coming to an end. Strategically, the north won the battle. They forced the South to retreat into Virginia. But the price was heavy on both armies. The significantly larger northern army lost more soldiers than the south. Dinner for the evening was picked up at a grocery store that had a hot food and a large salad bar.
Tuesday, May 20 (36 miles)
With the reports of muddy and nearly impossible sections of the trail, we decided a new plan. We would start where we planned in Williamsport and ride as far east as possible before the mud became too deep. Leaving Williamsport, we peddled east. The two days’ rest made my ankle and Achilles feel better. I also stopped wearing my toe clips and moved my foot further up on my pedals. I wouldn’t have problems with my ankle until later in the afternoon.
As I was leaving Williamsport, I came up on a man walking his dog. “On your left,” I yelled, to warn him of my passing. He jumped, looked around at me, and started cussing me out. Here, I had tried to be polite and not scare him and instead, I both scared and upset him.
Competing modes of transportation: Lock, lock houses and train
At first, our only challenge was stopping every little bit to pull our bikes over trees. This area is filled with history as we passed where Lee and his army were held up by a flooded Potomac as they retreated from Gettysburg, a year after Antietam. After about 7 miles, the path started to become muddier. After another half mile, we decided to turn around and head back to my car. On our way, just after we passed a huge down tree, in which we’d each be on a different side of the tree and hand bikes over, we met a park service crew cutting fallen trees. The last half of the ride back to my car was much easier.
Afternoon ride
Then we headed to Brunswick. We had hoped to peddle here today, but knowing there were sections of the trail out, we set out and road east to Point of the Rocks, stopping for lunch on the trail about halfway to our destination. Our thoughts were that this would give us only 48 miles to Washington on Wednesday. I appreciated seeing this site in the afternoon. The day before, still early in the morning, had the sun behind the unique train station.
Point of Rocks
Point of Rocks station
The original Baltimore and Ohio (B&O) tracks tracks ended at Point of Rocks, Maryland . Here, the railroad and the canal locked in legal wrangling over right away. It was eventually settled, with the railroad building a tunnel, which allowed them to move the lines westward. The railroad also began building a line eastward, to serve Washington DC. In the 1870s, where the two tracks converged, forming a wye, they built a station. Today, the station closed and owned and used by railroad. The Maryland commuter rail that runs into DC boards just west of the old station.
I waited to catch a photo of the station with a train that was slowly approaching. The train was going slow and I could have easily jumped aboard as a hobo, but then I noticed that this unit train on open containers marked with the symbol of Republic Trash Service. Dirty water poured from the containers and a rotten smell filled the air. The stench encouraged me not to take up hoboing.
Harpers Ferry
Harpers Ferry
After riding back to Brunswick, we continued west on the trail to Harpers Ferry. This also washed out but was temporarily patched with gravel. In 1987, the afternoon before visiting the Washington Monument, I had hiked along part of this section who also serves as the Appalachian Trail. Across from Harper’s Ferry, we locked our bikes up and walked across a pedestrian bridge. My Achilles ached and I mostly hobbled along. We explored a little of the Lower part of Harpers Ferry. Then we rode back to my car, loaded up our bikes and headed to our hotel, where I could ice my ankle. With only two hotel options in Brunswick and no B&B available, Warren had booked us in the closest hotel to the trail, a Travelodge, 1.7 miles away from the C&O. To reach this hotel on bicycles required a hard climb (as did the other hotel which was further away).
Hotel in Brunswick
We feared the hotel might be a repeat of the Super 8 night, but it was quite nice. It seemed odd to have a hotel like this off a major road or interstate, but we quickly surmised the hotel primarily customer to be the railroad. They even had a lounge only for CSX employees and featured a 1950s style dinner that was open 24 hours a day. A local taxi company shuttled train crews back and forth to the railroad.
A great ending dinner
Chicken and lamb shawarma
That evening, we decided to forgo the diner and try the Potomac Street Grill near the railroad tracks. They advertised both American and Middle Eastern dishes. It was a good decision. I had a delicious combo shawarma platter, with both chicken and lamb, a wonderful mediterranean salad, and a local beer for $24.
Wednesday, May 21, 2025 zero miles on bike/350 in the car
The night before, we watched the news and weather channels for what the next day would bring. Everyone was saying 100% chance of rain, with rains heavy in the morning and again later in the afternoon. It poured as we walked over to the diner for breakfast. We decided to quit. Having already had gaps in our travels along the C&O, we could come back and do the C&O again. Besides, my Achilles hurt.
Our plan had been to ride into DC, stay with my brother’s sister and brother-in-law, then the next day, Warren would bring me back to my car and we’d head home. Now, we’d both be home a day early.
Great Falls on the Potomac, just outside Washington DC
We left Brunswick at nine, in the pouring rain, hoping to miss the worse of the traffic. As we approached DC, the rain slowed to a drizzle. We stopped at Great Falls to witness the power of the Potomac at high water levels. Amazing rapids! A few minutes after leaving the rapids, we arrived at Hitch’s home, where we transferred my brother’s bike to his car. A few minutes later, we took off on our separate paths. For me, it rained most of the way home.
Ankle Update
I was checked out on Tuesday. While I didn’t tear any tendons, I have angered a few. The recommendation is that I not do any bike riding or long walks for a few weeks while it heals. In addition, I will do a few weeks of physical therapy to strengthen the muscles in my ankles.
“I was asleep. I had been told to wear ear plugs to block the train noise,” he said. “At 4 AM, I woke up to my tent shaking and people yelling. At first, I couldn’t make it out, but then realized they were saying the water rising and I must get to get out.” This was the experience of another bicyclist along the Great Allegheny Passage. He had camped on the banks of the Youghiogheny River, just outside West Newton. He got up just in time to pull his tent and gear to higher ground. Then he joined in the effort to help others with the rising water.
I didn’t get his name. My guess is he was in his 40s and from York, Pennsylvania. We met him on Friday morning, at Meyersdale. He was heading out on his last day on the trail. He would complete the “GAP”, (the Great Allegheny Passage) that afternoon after a 24-mile downhill run. Later that day, as we ate lunch at an overlook just outside the Big Savage Tunnel, my brother recalled his positive attitude. Such an attitude pays off when confronted with challenges.
Day 1: Getting to Pittsburgh
Warren and I began our journey on Tuesday afternoon, when his brother-in-law Hitch dropped us off a block from “The Point” in Pittsburgh. This is the confluence of the Allegheny and Monongahela Rivers, where they form the Ohio River.
Flight 93 Memorial showing the flight path taken on Sept. 11, 2001
It had rain heavily for two days. On Monday, after planting the tomatoes I’d grown from seed in my garden, I’d drove in rain to Hancock, Maryland. The next morning, Warren and Hitch picked me up. I left my car at the Hancock Presbyterian Church. In the rain, we loaded my gear in my brother’s car and placed my bike next to his on this rack. We took the backroad, US 30, which had been the Lincoln Highway before the interstates, so that we could stop at the Flight 93 Memorial near Shanksville. The museum was sobering, but it rain too hard to do anything outside. Then, in Irwin, I introduced the two of them to a Western Pennsylvania stable, an Eat-n-Park Restaurant.
At Three Rivers
Thankfully, as we approached the city, the downpour weakened to a drizzle. Warren pulled the car over a block from Point State Park. We got our bikes off and loaded. Hitch took the keys to drive the car back to his home in Washington. Warren and I headed out to the Point. Looking over the city I called home for three years; I pointed out several landmarks to my brother. Of course, in the nearly 40 years since I moved to the Steel City, many things had changed. Three River Stadium was gone. Replacing it along the north side of the river was two new venues, one a football stadium for the Steelers and PNC Park, where the Pirates play.
Day 1: The Point to Homestead, 8 miles
Pittsburgh downtown from the Hot Metal Bridge
The GAP runs along the east side of the Monongahela through downtown, until it crosses over to the west side of the river on the “Hot Metal Bridge.” When steel was still being made on the Southside and at the J&L plant just outside of Oakland (home of the University of Pittsburgh), this bridge was still in use. When I lived in Pittsburgh, the Southside had been converted to an upscale shopping district known as Station Square. J&L was still running but would close before I left the city. We continued along the river, stopping at a hotel in Homestead. We only rode 8 miles in a hour which included a lot of stops along the way.
Homestead
That’s me in Homestead, late 1980s
Homestead had been completely remade since I lived in Pittsburgh. While there, they began to tear down the huge US Steel plant, which ran for four miles along the river. The first book about the city I read after moving there was Thomas Bell’s Out of this Furnace. The novel, published in 1941, told the story of three generations of eastern Europeans who worked at the mills in Homestead and across the river in Braddock. I found myself making several trips to Homestead, especially after they started tearing down the mill. Today, where the mill once sat is a community of apartments, condos, hotels, restaurants, parks, and shopping. After arriving at the hotel, we explored the community on foot.
Day 2: Homestead to Connellsville, 51 miles
Barge on the Monongahela
We left the hotel in Homestead at 7:45 AM. The remnants of steel mills were all around us with only one mill appearing to operate. Before McKeesport, we had a long detour as they resurfaced the trail. At McKeesport, we crossed over the Monongahela and began our climb alongside the Youghiogheny River. As we were leaving McKeesport, having traveled along some streets, my back tire went flat. Stopping, I discovered an inch and a half finishing nail through the tire and the tube. I replaced it with a fresh tube and after about 15 minutes we were again riding.
Steel mill
The trail along this section consisted of former industrial sites and some forest. With the river to our left, we occasionally would have a waterfall to our right. Often, these falls carried toxic waste from coal mines and left an orange sludge on the rocks.
Lunch in West Newton
At West Newton, we stopped at a bike shop where I picked up a new tube. I kept the old tube to repair so that I would have two tubes available. We’d been told of a good restaurant along the river, just behind the bike shop, but it was closed. The shop suggested we try Gary’s Chuckwagon, where for $15, I had a huge slab of a beer-battered fried cod (fish) on a homemade hoagie bun.
water from a mine (thankfully, you don’t have to smell the sulfur)
Coming out of West Newton, I spotted a possum. It appeared to have badly matted hair. When I got closer, I realized the matted mess of hair were younger possums getting a ride on mom. These weren’t small possums. They looked to be about half grown. I would have thought the mother would have told them it was time to start walking by themselves.
About eight miles from Connellsville, our evening destination, the skies opened. We took shelter for a while under an overpass with two other riders. When the rain subsided, we began to ride again, only to have another downpour. By the time we reached the hotel in Connellsville, we were both soaked, and our bikes were dirty from the mud. Thankfully, the Comfort Inn where we were staying had a wash station for bikes, which we used. They also had a room, which was locked at night, where we could store our bikes. That evening we ate at the River’s Edge Restaurant. I wasn’t overly hunger, so I had a bowl of crab bisque and a salad.
Day 3, Connellsville to Rockwood, 45 miles
We left again at 8:15 in the morning. This was my favorite section as we left behind old industry and mostly peddled through woodlands with lovely stops at Ohiopyle, an old resort town that features some of America’s best whitewater. However, due to the high water levels, no one was kayak or rafting. We stopped at ate lunch in the park at Confluence. Warren had brought a couple of Underwood Chicken Salad cans and was wanting to rid himself of the extra weight. I grabbed an extra bagel at breakfast and used it to make a sandwich.
Rapids at Ohiopyle
The trail became noticeable steeper, especially after Confluence, as we broke away from the Youghiogheny River and followed the Casselman River. But the bed was wider, probably because of requiring double tracks on this steep section. It was easy to ride double through much of this section. For some reason, my left Achilles tendon began to bother me the more I rode. As for animals, I saw several deer and a few garner snakes.
We were the only people staying at the Rockwood Trail House, a bed and breakfast in which the hosts lived elsewhere. Max, whom we’d met the day before, stayed by himself in another B&B. The old home had been magnificently restored. It was also well stocked with healthy breakfast makings including yogurt, multiple kinds of granola, fruits, boiled eggs, and breads. For dinner, we walked into town (about a half mile) and ate at the Rock City Bar and Café. It was your typical Western Pennsylvanian bar with cheap bottle beer ($2.50 each) and great burgers. I had a Rocket Burger, which included sautéed mushroom, peppers, onions with cheese sticks. Including the beer, my tab was $13.65.
Day 4, Rockwood to Cumberland, 43 miles
I woke up after a weird dream mixed with people from the church I served in Michigan with the church in which I grew up in North Carolina. The morning was humid. After eating fruit, granola, and yogurt for breakfast, we headed out. It felt like rain. We still had 19 miles of climbing, but the grade was less than it had been the day before. After an hour, we were in Meyersdale. Thankfully, the trail runs high above the town where there was a nice museum in the old depot. I purchased a GAP/C&O Canal shirt. The town had experienced bad flooding earlier in the week. The trail also became more rutted from the water that eroded the bed. It was at the museum that we met the guy who had been flooded out of his tent site earlier in the week.
Washout near Meyersville
After Meyersville, we had another six miles of climbing as we made our way to the Eastern Continental Divide. Shortly afterwards, we passed through the Big Savage Tunnel. While I had a light for my handlebars, I didn’t need it as we discovered the 3,294 feet tunnel had lights. Coming out of the tunnel on the south end, we were treated to a magnificent view of the mountains to our east. As we took photos of the tunnel, we spoke to a biker heading to Pittsburgh. He was riding a commuter bike with a metal basket on the front. He’d come from Washington and told of the flooding and long detours and carrying his bicycle through knee-depth water along the C&O. He hoped for our sake; things would be drying out. It wouldn’t.
Downhill from the Savage Tunnel
at the Mason Dixon line
After the tunnel, we stopped for lunch. Eating tuna salad sandwiches, we could hear the wisp of windmills generating electricity from the ridge above the tunnel. While we still had a little over 20 miles to go, we felt as if we had completed the trail as it was downhill from here. A mile or less after the tunnel, we paused at the monument for the Mason Dixon line, which separates Pennsylvania from Maryland. Crossing over, we were officially back in the South!
Western Maryland tourist train between Frostburg andCumberland
The GAP passes underneath the town of Frostburg. We talked of ice cream, but it required a climb to get into the town. Frostburg is a college town and on both sides of the town, we passed college students walking and running along the trail. About a mile south of Frost burg, I had another flat on my back tire. This time, I couldn’t find the cause. But the tube had a ¼ inch hole not far from the valve stem. One set of tracks of the Western Maryland still operate through this section and moments after having sat on the raised ballast to change my tube, a tourist train came down the tracks.
Taking refuge in the Brush Tunnel during a Thunderstorm
As the trail became steeper going down the hill, it also became more washed out. Instead of flying downhill, we had to control our speed on a roadbed that felt like a washboard. At places, the trail was so rough we walked the bikes. Clouds began to build, and thunder could be heard. We entered the 914-foot Brush Tunnel as the skies opened and waited out the storm inside. Another biker, who had ridden much of which had walked, joined us. The rocky and jarring path had caused him to lose both his light and his water bottles.
In Cumberland, at the end of the GAP
As the rain slowed, we again ventured out and rode all the way into Cumberland, arriving a little after 4 PM. We had hope to get there before the National Park Service office for the C&O Canal closed, but learned they work only till 4 PM. The rain and lightning had slowed us down and we just missed them. A maintenance employee for the park service came out and talked to us, confirming our fears. Parts of the trail were completely washed out and closed. We then went to a bike shop where we learned that the bypass to the C&O wasn’t a good option as it was a narrow windy road with semis traveling on it. We tentatively made plans for a shuttle in the morning.
Next, we headed to the Ramada Inn, where they had a room for bikes. After cleaning up, we headed out for dinner. Checking in as we were leaving was another biker who had passed us. He had continued along the C&O but came to place where he couldn’t go any further and didn’t want to ride the roadway. He came back to Cumberland and was planning to take the next day’s train to Pittsburgh.
We ate dinner at City Lights, a place that sounded a lot like a North Beach bookstore in San Francisco (and there’s another one in Iowa City). I had a Greek Salad with grilled chicken, which was delicious. After dinner, we walked around town, crossing a creek to see the Cumberland First Presbyterian Church, where I had once preached during my second year of seminary. We headed to bed early, not knowing what the next day would hold. At least, we’d completed the GAP.
Hopefully, I’ll write about the C&O experience next week.
This is my third trip to Bluefield, West Virginia for the HopeWords Conference, which is held in the beautifully restored Granada Theater. This year’s theme was “Writing in the Dark.” I have also attended this conference in 2022 and 2023. Unlike the other years, probably because I wasn’t feeling well, I didn’t take many photos.
Bluefield is an interesting setting to discuss hope and writing, as the city has struggled in recent years. At one time, Bluefield was a happening place, as Travis Lowe, the founding director of HopeWords loves to tell. Lowe grew up in Bluefield and while he currently lives in Oklahoma, he still considered Bluefield home. While coal mining was just a bit west of Bluefield, the city grew as a supply point for the mines and for the railroads that served the mines. Still today, cars of coal are built up in the Bluefield rail yard to be hauled to distant locations to “make the electricity to light up the world.”
I had only two complaints about this year’s conference. Neither had anything to do with the conference and everything with my enjoyment of the event. The first had to do with the pollen count in the air. It was at an all-time high. My head pounded. I just wanted to sleep, which was hard because of sinus drainage causing me to wake as I coughed. The second was the replacement of the flooring in the hotel I stayed. In previous ones, I stayed in Princeton, about fifteen miles away, and the hotels were nicer. This time, I stayed in a Quality Inn in Bluefield, Virginia, about seven miles away. The hotel was older and will be nice once the remodeling is done, but for now is under construction.
Wiman served as the main speaker this year. The last conference I attended, in 2023, featured Miroslav Volf, a theologian from Yale. In introducing Wiman, Lowe noted that when Volf was the featured speaker, he confessed that he wasn’t worthy and recommended his colleague at Yale, Wiman. While Volf had much to add to the conference, it was a pleasure to hear Wiman, an excellent poet.
In Wiman’s opening lecture, he discussed faith and God, in contrast to religion. We only experience a fraction of God, yet we don’t have to name God for God to be God. God is always God. And our faith needs to be growing, as we put away our childhood and silly notions of the divine.
On the second day of the conference, Wiman and Lowe had a conversation. For some reason, I assumed (wrongly) that Wiman was European. He grew up in Texas, raised by parents who were first poor, then his father became a physician. He told about attending First Baptist Church in Dallas and writing a poem which first line went, “I love the Lord and He loves me.” He gave the poem to Criswell, the pastor, who had it published in the Baptist Standard. Wiman joked that his first poem was published when he was eight.
Anderson was the first speaker on Saturday morning. This was a shame as I found her insights some of the best at the conference. Most attendees (myself included as I was five minutes late) missed the opening of her talk. Focusing on the conference theme, she spoke about a personal time of crisis (darkness) in which she felt she would never write again. She discussed the need to give herself permission to write again. She also reminded us how, in darkness, we can use other senses to experience the world. But she warned writers not to give too much artificial light into a dark situation. She closed with an essay of hers on Psalm 74, where she acknowledges that God creates light but doesn’t obliterate darkness.
I had read one of her books, Humble Roots, a few years ago. I picked up her book, All That’s Good, from the conference bookstore and recently read and reviewed it. I look forward to hearing wonderful things from my congregation about her as she’s scheduled to preach for me on June 22.
This is Prior’s third appearance at HopeWords. Like Wiman, I’ve also seen her at Calvin’s Festival of Faith and Writing. She began discussing her upcoming book on “calling,” and then gave suggestions for those wanting to be writers:
1. Study language. 2. Read good words by others. 3. Seek honest feedback. 4. Writing is not the same as publishing. 5. Journal, it’s a place for you to record and work out ideas and you may have them burned after your death. 6. If you want to write to feel good about yourself, do something else. Writing is humbling. 7. Don’t write to make a living. While Prior is making money from writing, it’s only after 30 years of teaching in universities. 8. Do the writing you’re called to do.
Gray and his wife pastor Transformation Church outside of Charlotte, NC and has published several books. I am currently reading his book, How to Heal Our Racial Divide: What the Bible Says, and the First Christians Knew, About Racial Reconciliation.
As an African American, Gray attended Brigman Young University on a football scholarship. He later played five years for the Indianapolis Colts and a year for the Carolina Panthers. As he introduced himself, he joked that NFL meant, “Not For Long,” for most players only make it a few seasons. During his fifth year in Professional Football, another teammate led him to Christ. Since he retired from football, he has attended seminary and done doctoral work.
Gray began by telling his story. Much of his early years were spent in special education. He also didn’t grow up in church but, as he proclaims, “God loves to use the ordinary to do extraordinary things.” His talk resembled more of a sermon, mostly based on Psalm 23, with a lot of one-line zingers. “
“God is not a microwave. He’s more like a crockpot.” “Our challenge: May our lives be better than our books.” “Fight for your readers.” “David defeated a giant but lost to lust.” “All of life is worship.” “Let your ink pen become a means of grace.” and from the Roman philosopher Cicero: “The greatest form of revenge is not to become like your enemies.”
We had a long lunch hour, and I went back to the hotel and slept, causing me to miss the S. K. Smith, the afternoon’s first speaker.
A professor at Asbury Theological Seminary, Dr. Craig Keener has been prolific in publishing commentaries on the Bible. While I have a decent commentary library with two or more commentaries on each book in the Bible, I have not read Keener. This cause of this oversight is that I tend to read mainly Reformed commentaries while Keener writes in the Wesleyan tradition.
Keener began his talk which he titled, “Writing Because It Matters,” with a confession. “I like writing better than speaking because you can edit before it’s public.” Most everyone laughed. He also confessed that it was because of God’s grace that he, someone diagnosed with ADHD, could become a writer.
Keener discussed his writing journey. From meeting two missionaries in high school, to his first wife leaving him, which locked him out of evangelical circles, he spoke about how writing and dealing with Scripture was forged with struggles. Fifteen years after his first wife left, he married a woman he met as a missionary in the Congo (she also has a PhD from the University of Paris). Together, they have a book, The Impossible Love.
Keener encouraged the writers in the crowd to remember that they’re not writing for themselves but for Jesus Christ.
Like Hannah Alexander and S. K. Smith, the last speaker on Saturday was another HopeWords regular. Lewis Brogdon, like Travis Lowe, is a native of Bluefield. He teaches homiletics at Baptist Seminary of Kentucky but also holds a part-time position at Bluefield College. Brogdon began discussing an upcoming book of his, The Gospel Beyond the Grave: Toward a Black Theology of Hope. While making the point how writing takes time, he suggested that this book had a long gestation period going back to article he read by a Catholic theologian 25 years ago. The theologian suggested that racial reconciliation would happen in purgatory. Of course, Brogdon acknowledged that as a Black Baptist, purgatory isn’t something he believes in, but the article caused him to think. Then, 23 years ago, his father died. These events, while also dealing with recent events in America, led to the book (which I will look forward to reading).
His theme was how writing can be a place of light, and he discussed how our journeys involve the work and word of God along with our own holy conversations.
Evening and Sunday morning
Inside Christ Episcopal after the service. I especially like the cork floors (which we have in our new addition at home).
After the final speaker, there was free time where I went back to my hotel and napped. Then I went to an evening reception. I wasn’t hungry and a small plate of hors d’oeuvres sufficed for dinner. I had conversations with a few folks but called it an early evening and headed back to the hotel for bed around 8 PM. On Sunday morning, I attended Christ Episcopal, where Amanda Held Opelt, who’d provided music between speakers at the conference, preached. Her text was from John 12:1-8 was on Mary of Bethany, the sister of Lazarus and Martha.
First Presbyterian Church, across from Christ Episcopal. Like most of the large downtown churches in Bluefield, they have lots of extra space. I recently learned that the Presbyterians have converted part of their extra space into bunk rooms for those coming in to volunteer for mission work in Appalachia.
