memoir Archives - Page 2 of 9 - From a Rocky Hillside

October 30, 2025November 3, 2025

Funerals on the Comstock Lode

Funerals on the Comstock title slide with photos of the Combination Shaft and the Virginia City cemetery

Earlier I wrote about my presiding over the funeral of Emily Giggs in the play, “Our Town.” You can find that story by clicking here. In this article, I discuss the two funerals I conducted as a student pastor in Virginia City along with some historical funerals.

During the year I was in Virginia City, I had the unfortunate opportunity to officiate at funerals. These, however, were not on a stage, at least not the one in the old high school. Both were for women who died of cancer. We held the first funeral in the church, and it featured the best musical talent Virginia City had to offer. Rudi, a former opera singer who had done studio work for Pink Floyd, lifted our spirits with a stirring solo. At the end of the service, Red, an eighty-five-year-old banjo picker, who hung out at the Bucket of Blood, warmed our hearts with “Amazing Grace.”

In The Protestant Clergy in the Great Plains and Mountain West, Ferenc Morton Szasz suggests funerals were one occasion in which 19^th century when Westerners sought out tradition. At the time of death, they sought the services of clergy. This kept ministers in the mining camps busy. David Henry Palmer officiated at five funerals in his first ten days in Nevada. Shortly after arriving in the territory, Palmer wrote his parents, saying he conducted three funerals in the past two days. “The first an awful drunkard, the second one of the greatest gamblers and the profanest man in the territory and the third was murdered.”

Palmer and William Mulford Martin, the first two Presbyterian ministers in Virginia City, officiated over several funerals for prominent residents who have become part of the city’s folklore. Ironic, but the deceased became legends while the ministers faded into oblivion. Palmer conducted the farewell service for John Jenkins, better known as Sugar-foot Jack.. Tom Peasley shot Jenkins. Peasley was well-known and a jury acquitted him of any wrongdoing without leaving their seats for deliberation.

Two years later, Martin officiated over Peasley’s funeral. His death occurred after a gunfight in the Corner Bar in Carson City’s Ormsby House. Newspapers lamented Peasley’s demise. His funeral, held in front of the Fire Department, became one of the largest held on the Comstock. Mark Twain immortalized Tom Peasley by casting him as Buck Fanshaw in Roughing It. According to Twain:

He was a representative citizen. He had “killed his man”—not in his own quarrel, it is true, but in defense of a stranger unfairly beset by numbers. He had kept a sumptuous saloon. He had been the proprietor of a dashing helpmate whom he could have discarded without the formality of divorce. He had held a high position in the fire department and had been a very Warwick in politics. When he died there was a great lamentation throughout the town, but especially in the vast bottom-stratum of society.

Mark Twain, who never wanted truth to get in the way of a good story, took some liberties with Peasley’s life and demise. Peasley did “kill his man” but, according to all accounts, it was not in the defense of others. Peasley was, however, involved in politics, owned a saloon and an opera house, and had served as a fire chief. Also, Peasley’s helpmate was Julia Bulette, a local prostitute. He certainly would not have needed a divorce to rid himself of her.

Twain continues Peasley’s story with the selection of Scotty Briggs to “fetch a parson” to “waltz” Buck Fanshaw into heaven. The encounter with between Scotty and the young bookish pastor “fresh from an eastern theological seminary” doesn’t sound like Martin, who officiated over Tom Peasley’s funeral. Martin was in his 50s and was a well-seasoned pastor before coming to Virginia City. However, Twain could have replace Martin with David Henry Palmer, who had graduated from Auburn Theological Seminary three months before arriving on the. Comstock.

First Presbyterian Church of Virginia City. Photo taken my the author in 2018.

A year after Peasley’s funeral, Julia Bulette was murdered in her D Street crib. Having been made an honorary member of the Fire Department by her deceased lover, they also held her funeral was held at the fire department. Again, Martin officiated. It is hard for a minister to know what to say at such an occasion, but according to Alf Doten, the editor of the Gold Hill News who attended the funeral, Martin’s words were “comforting and appropriate. He must not have been too condemning or Doten, who frequently visited prostitutes, would have felt the heat.

Twain left Virginia City shortly after Tom Peasley’s funeral. He first stayed in California, then made his way to the Sandwich Islands (Hawaii). On his way back east, Twain, who by this time well known for his humorous writings, stopped in Virginia City. His first morning back coincided with execution of John Millian,. Millian had been convicted of Julia Bulette’s murder. The hanging occurred north of town and witnessed by a large crowd including Twain,. who found the spectacle troubling.

While her murderer has been all but forgotten, Virginia City has immortalized Julia Bulette. Today, a bar on C Street that bears her name. Locals can point out what some say is her grave to tourist. Someone occasionally paints the wooden fence around the faux grave white, making it easily visible from town. Even though Julia died over a century and a half ago, it seems her heart and status keeps growing. Today, most any resident in town will tell you stories about her concern for the poor and the sick and how she could demand a thousand dollars a night for her services. Today, you can find many books portraying her in a saintly fashion. One must wonder if they are talking about a prostitute or Florence Nightingale.

Folklore often twists history. A frequently told tale about Julia is that her funeral was held at the fire department and burial on Flowery Mountain because the Father Manogue, the Catholic priest, wouldn’t conduct the services for a prostitute. It’s not true. As we have already seen, a Presbyterian minister officiated at her funeral. Furthermore, Father Manogue officiated at funerals of others whose lives were a bit shady.

Her burial at the cemetery on Flowery Mountain raises questions about her wealth. Although she probably would not have not been allowed burial in the Catholic portion of the regular cemetery, she certainly could have been buried in another section. Even the fire department had a section reserved for their members. Burial at the Flowery Cemetery was reserved for those who were unable to afford a plot in the cemetery on the north end of town. Furthermore, the customer who killed her was a common miner and certainly would not have been able to pay more than a couple dollars for her service.

The story of Julia Bulette’s burial is an example of how the church and clergy responded to the needs of those outside their religious community. I, too, found myself called on for such a task during my last month in town.

A well-known Comstock resident who was not a member of a church died. I was contacted early the morning of her death and asked to call upon the husband of the deceased . While I was given a phone number, I was also informed I would most likely find him at the Ponderosa Bar at the corner of C Street and Taylor. When the man didn’t answer the phone, I headed down C Street in search of him. It was about 10 in the morning. Sure enough, he was sitting on a stool at one end of the bar, nursing a beer. I sat down beside him and ordered a cup of coffee.

He requested a simple graveside service. At ten o’clock, a couple mornings later, we all gathered on Boot Hill. I read a few Psalms and said prayers. After saying the words of committal, the husband stepped up the grave site with an urn containing his wife’s ashes. Bending over on loose dirt, he slipped into the hole. I tried to catch him and nearly slid into the hole beside him. I am sure the whole event provided for humor for the throngs of tourists who had gathered on the hill overlooking the graveyard and, for a moment, I felt as if I was on stage. Thankfully, a sheriff deputy held the crowds back until the service was over. Otherwise, those watching from a distance would probably have thought the service was staged like the shoot-outs which are occasionally staged on C Street.

The service ended with him pulling a pint out of his pocket. He took a swig and dropped the bottle in with his wife’s ashes. Then he a few other men filled in the grave with the dirt piled up beside the grave.

For more insight into the Twain’s story on Buck Fanshaw along with source notes, see Charles Jeffrey Garrison, “Of Humor, Death, and Minsters: The Comstock of Mark Twain, Nevada Historical Society Quarterly ,#38,3 (Fall 1005), 189-212.

For information on how Julia Bulette became a popular hero, see Andria Daley Taylor, “Girls of the Golden West,” in Comstock Women: The Making of a Mining Community, Ronald M. James & C. Elizabeth Raymond, editors, (Reno, NV: University of Nevada Press, 1998), especially pages 274-278.

A Humorous Look Back at 1975: The year I graduated from high school

Senior year photo of Class of 1975 button

Years ago, I wrote an essay on 1957, the year I was born. I now have an essay on 1975, the year I graduated from high school. Enjoy.

The year wasn’t even half over when we lined up under the bleachers at Legion Stadium for graduation. The evening was warm and humid. Each graduate had been given five tickets. If it rained and we had to move inside the gym at Hoggard, we could only use two tickets. Thankfully, the night stayed dry. In the crowd were my parents, one of my grandmothers and my surviving grandfather along with my brother. The whole evening was a blur. A brown paper bag with a bottle passed down the aisle. Jokes were shared. Despite this, somehow, we all made it across the stage to receive our diploma.

That weekend I went with my church’s youth group on a camping trip to Topsail Island. For those of us who just graduated, it was our last hurrah. Saturday night under the pavilion, a band played for several hours, mostly Jim Croce’s “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.” I was sick of the song halfway through the evening. To this day, I can never hear it without recalling that night on Topsail. Thankfully, we can blame the Class of 1973 for that song. Cell phone cameras were still a quarter century away, which kept us from taking embarrassing photos of each other.

People acted like graduation was a big deal, and it certainly felt like a bigger deal than my other graduations although it didn’t involve researching and writing a dissertation. Academically, I barely skated across the podium. But I did received all kinds of gifts. I was barely shaving and given enough aftershave lotion that I never had to buy another bottle. Before I ran out, I grew a beard and threw out what remained. I’ve had a beard for nearly 40 years. As for the gifts, I had to rush to write thank you notes before stamps jumped by 30% (from 10 to 13 cents) at the end of the year. Today, to buy a roll of stamps, I might have to mortgage my house.

So much had already happened in 1975 by that night on the sixth of June. In January, I turned 18 and was supposed to register for the draft. I got around to it in March and was read the riot-act for being late. Nobody cared. As a country, we hadn’t drafted anyone in several years. But I still received a draft card which in North Carolina could be lent out to someone my size for the purpose of buying beer. The card had no photo, only height, weight, color of hair and eyes.

Of course, for much of the winter and early spring of 1975, as the news reported on the collapse of Cambodia and Vietnam, the war remained real. The question as to if we would go back in to save South Vietnam stayed on our minds. With an unelected President in the White House and people wanting to put Watergate behind us, that wasn’t to be. Those of us with draft cards were saved from having to decide whether we should go to war or buy flannel shirts and head north.

Speaking of Watergate, the year began with four of Nixon’s crony’s, including his Attorney General, being found guilty and sentenced to prison. Take note, Ms. Bondi. Of course, the former President, whom I had defended in Coach Fisher’s class, avoided prosecution. But he lived out his life in shame for what he’d done. When the truth came out, I felt ashamed for having defended him.

Men’s clothing in 1975 could be best described as horondous. We strutted around in bright bell bottoms and double-knit leisure suits. The later didn’t breath and became terribly uncomfortable, but at least they allowed men to ditch ties, which were supersized (just look at the photo of me). Women, at least the girls at school and many of the teachers, were still wearing mini-skirts, although maxi skirts were beginning to make an appearance. Converse tennis shoes were popular. Growing up near the coast meant that after school, we wore baggies and flip-flops and Bert Surf Shop t-shirts. Some things for me have not changed.

In the sporting news, it was a good year for Pittsburgh. The Steelers won back to back Superbowls (in January for the 1974 season and again in January 1976 for the 1975 Season). The legacy of this is we still get to hear the Steeler’s quarterback, Terry Bradshaw, obnoxious voice reporting on the NFL long after his prime. While the Pirates didn’t win the National League pennant, they were still hot. Of course, I wouldn’t care about Pittsburgh teams for another decade, as I went back to school and spent three years in the city.

Shortly after graduation, I made my first overnight canoe trip down the Black River. I’d do a lot more paddle trips over the next fifty years in the United States and Canada, including a four-night paddle trip this year around Michigan’s Drummond Island. At the time of my ’75 trip, the movie Jaws had just been released. I was amazed to get back and learn there were those genuinely concerned on my behalf. Of course, there are no sharks that far inland and the few alligators slipped into the water and hid. Later in the summer, I would make my first backpacking trip on the Appalachian Trail in the Shenandoah Mountains of Virginia. The trail would become my second home for a while 12 years later. I climbed Mt. Katahdin in Maine after covering 2142 miles, the length of the trail, on August 30, 1987.

1975 was a year of death. The old order was dying. Taiwan’s Chiang Kai-shek, and the last fascist from the 1930s, Spain’s Francisco Franko, died. Haile Selassie of Ethiopia also died. He’d held off the fascist Mussolini with a rag-tag army in the 1940s. Who’d thought that 50 years later, the world would be facing a resurrection of fascism? Elijah Muhammad, who Americanized and racialized the Muslim religion died. Two of the remaining Three Stooges, Larry and Moe, died. Jimmy Hoffa disappeared in 1975, along with the iron freighter, the Edmund Fitzgerald. To this day, Hoffa is presumed dead, but decades later they found the ship in 500 feet of water at the bottom of Lake Superior. The story became a wonderful ballad which made Gordon Lightfoot famous. Every November, when the gales of November blow, the song is played repeatedly on the radio and by December I’m sick of it.

On the political side, two crazy women, three weeks apart, attempted to kill President Ford. Closer to home, my grandmother died before the month of June was over. My other grandmother would die a month before I turned 60. She never smoked.

For those who smoked, which were a lot of Americans, 1975 was the year we got to “Flick our Bic.” Cigarettes in North Carolina rose to $2.29 a cartoon (or $2.39 for 100s). I know this, because I got to change the prices at Wilson’s Supermarket on Oleander Drive. Today, a pack of cigarettes cost double what a carton cost in ’75. But I didn’t smoke then or now. I was more likely to use the lighter to start a campfire or light a lantern. Other people sported Mood Rings and kept Pet Rocks. At least the rocks required less food than your traditional pets. Altair came out with a microcomputer, which would become common a decade later, but that fall in college, if you wanted to use the computer, you had to keypunch cards and have them in the correct order.

Medical science introduced the Heimlich Maneuver in ‘75, which made hot dog eating contests much safer. They also introduced CAT scans, allowing physicians a peak of our insides. On the science front, we sent spacecrafts to Mars and Venus and linked up with a Soviet spacecraft high above the earth.

While I didn’t read any of the books published in 1975 during the year, several published then had an affect on my life. Annie Dillard published Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, which I read in 1987 while hiking the Appalachian Trail. This was a perfect book for such a journey. Dillard encourages her readers to wonder about the smallest things within creation. Paul Theroux published The Great Railway Bazaar: By Train Through Asia. I have read almost all his travel books and when on sabbatical in 2011, I modelled my overland trip from Asia to Europe on his trips.

Edward Abbey published The Monkey Wrench Gang. I was first introduced to Abbey as a student pastor in Nevada in 1988, just before his death. This humorous book about a group of eco-terrorists in the American West fed my interest in wilderness and helped me appreciate the desert. I’d go on to read all his books.

The year was a good one for movies and a show only cost two bucks in the theater. My favorite movies included “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest”, “The Man Who Would Be King”, “Three Days of the Condor”, “The Return of the Pink Panther”, and “Tommy” featuring the music of The Who. In time, I’d come to appreciate “Monty Python and the Holy Grail,” which came out that year. The Rocky Horror Picture Show was also released but wouldn’t become well-known until later.

Television was in its prime and by 1975, 70% of American households had a color television. At night we watched shows like “Mash” and “The Jeffersons.” But the real treat came on Saturday. An unrecognized blessing of having to have my date home by 11 PM is that I could drive home in time to watch Saturday Night Live with the “Not Ready for Prime Time” players.

Music was great in ’75. The decline into disco was still a few years away, even though cracks in Rock showed as groups like the Bee Gees and K. C. and the Sunshine Band broke onto the airways. Heart released “Crazy on You” and The Marshall Tucker Band released “Searching for a Rainbow.” Both would perform in Wilmington that year. Pink Floyd released “Wish You Were Here,” and Bob Dylan released “Tangled Up in Blue.” These melancholy songs could be the soundtrack of my life. While AM still ruled, FM was catching up and on there you could hear groups like Steely Dan, who took a 20-year hiatus from touring and released the album, “Katy Lied” in ’75. Other great songs included Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody,” Elton John’s “Someone Saved My Life Tonight” and “Island Girl,” Earth, Wind, and Fire’s: “Shinning Star,” and Fleetwood Mac’s, “Rhiannon.”

And then there was Bruce Springsteen, who released “Born to Run.” The song could have been our theme as we ran out of Legion Stadium with our gowns flapping that night in June.

Oh honey, tramps like us
Baby, we were born to run
Come on with me, tramps like us
Baby, we were born to run

We’ve now been running for 50 years. Sadly, some have been forced to give up the race and we remember and honor them. And all of us are a lot slower. But let’s keep it up, as long as we can. I look forward to seeing folks at the reunion on Saturday.

###

Photo taken by Donald McKenzie of me paddling the Black River in 1975 — Paddling on the Black River in 1975. Photo by Don McKenzie.

October 3, 2025October 3, 2025

Readings from September (along with a personal memory from 1968)

Title Blog with photos of covers of books reviewed

Erik Larson, The Demon of Unrest: A Saga of Hubris, Heartbreak, and Heroism at the Dawn of the Civil War

(New York: Crown, 2024), 565 pages with bibliography, notes, and index.

Larson is a gifted storyteller historian and has once again brought a story of a pivotal time to life. His latest book looks at the months between Lincoln’s election as President in 1860 and the attack on Fort Sumter in the harbor of Charleston, South Carolina.

As Larson has done so well in other books, he tells the story from several viewpoints. We have Major Robert Anderson, commander of the Fort Sumter garrison. He’s own slaves and has southern sympathies but is also loyal to the Union. There are those in Washington trying to avoid a war and refusing Anderson’s call for more supplies and troops in the fear such actions will incite a war and encourage other Southern states to leave the Union.

Larson follows radical southern secessionists, such as Edmund Ruffin, who worked hard to encourage states to leave the Union. He even got to fire the first cannon at the fort. There’s Mary Boykin Chesnut, the wife of a planter who was a part of South Carolina’s succession convention. Her diary provides a first-hand view of much of what happened from behind the scenes. And then there’s Sir William Howard Russell, a special correspondent from the Times of London. A famed war correspondent (having reported on the Crimean War), he had access to key politicians in Washington DC, including William Stewart and Abraham Lincoln. But he was late to arrive in Charleston.

During the waiting, the South built more batteries so the fort could be attacked from three sides. Lincoln finally authorized a fleet to sail with additional supplies and the ability to support the fort, but confusion still reigned. The main ship with the necessary firepower had been mistakenly sent to a fort in Florida, leaving the smaller flotilla unable to intervene. It arrived off Charleston the evening before the attack. Confederate guns and sandbars at the harbor entry kept the ships from supporting the fort.

The attack on Fort Sumter, led by Confederate General Beauregard, began in the predawn hours of Saturday, April 14^th. Throughout the dark hours, the fort’s guns remained silent. During the bombardment, the men in the fort even gathered for breakfast. Anderson wouldn’t return fire until after daylight, when they’d have better views of the Confederate positions. During this waiting time, Edmund Ruffin worried that the fort wouldn’t fight back, making the Confederates look bad. But he received his wish as light appeared and the fort’s guns began to strike back.

Despite all the shells and gunpowder expended on both sides, no one died. The fort, which had been built to protect the harbor from enemy shipping, had a difficult time to train its guns on land targets. Furthermore, the best guns for such an attack were on the top parapet, which made them more open to Confederate shelling. Anderson kept his men safely inside the fort itself. The fort, which was almost out of food, had plenty of powder, but as fire burned, a larger concern came from explosions. Quick thinking by Anderson kept this from happening.

The Confederate forces spent much of the morning attempting to take down the American flag. When the pole was finally broken and the flag fell, Captain Doubleday (from whom legend has it created baseball), ordered guns to aim for a holiday hotel, The Moultrie, where many of the Confederate officers stayed. The guns blew holes in the hotel and sent men running for safety, but again, no one died. A makeshift flag was eventually raised during the battle.

Upon surrender, Anderson was allowed to give a 100-gun salute as he struck the colors and marched this troops out of the fort where they were to be transported to Union ships offshore. The salute was cut to 50 when one of the cannoneers was seriously wounded when gunpower in the cannon prematurely explode. He would die later in a Charleston hospital.

This is a good read and help me understand more about how the terrible war began. Larson begins each section with a quotation from The Code Duello. The 1858 manual laid out rules to be followed in duels. These rules provided a civility to such disputes, trying to maintain gentlemanlike behavior in conflict. Such behavior appears to have been honored by both sides at Sumter. Later in the war, things became uglier.

While I don’t think the book is as good as several other Larson’s books I’ve read (especially The Devil in the White City, In the Garden of the Beast, and Thunderstuck), it’s better than most books I read. This is the sixth book by Larson I’ve read. In addition to this book and the three above, I have also read Dead Wake, and Issac’s Storm.

Kevin DeYoung, The Nicene Creed: What You Need to Know about the Most Important Creed Ever Written

(Weaton, Illinois: Crossway, 2025), 93 pages including a general and scriptural index.

This year marks the 1700^th anniversary of the Council of Nicaea, from which came the beginnings of the Nicene Creed. The Nicene Creed would be finalized, adding a longer section about the Holy Spirit at Constantinople in 381 AD. For the Western Church, the creed was finalized in 589 with the addition of the filioque statement which says the Spirit proceeds from the Father and the Son. This last edition has not been accepted by the Eastern Orthodox Churches. But with this small difference, the Nicene Creed is the most accepted creed in Christendom, and used by Protestants, Roman Catholics, Orthodox, and Coptic Churches.

In this short book, DeYoung introduces the readers to the various heresies facing the church (mainly Arianism and Apollinarianism) which led to the writing of the creed. Arianism held to the idea that the Son was created by the Father, not co-eternal. Apollinarism attempted to discredit Arianism, by going too far in the other direction and essentially denying the humanity of Christ. The creed holds the concept of the Trinity together by maintaining a mystery.

DeYoung also fairly lays out both sides of the “filioque” debate. While he accepts the Western version of the Creed, he rightly sees the issue not as important as how the creed sought to maintain Christ’s unity and co-existence with the father. The filioque clause wasn’t added till the 6^th Century with the Council of Toledo.

This is an easy book to read for anyone wanting to understand the importance of the Nicene Creed.

Taylor Branch, At Canaan’s Edge: America in the King Years, 1965-68

(New York: Simon & Schuster, 2006), 1039 pages with bibliography, notes, and index, plus 18 plates of b&w photos. Audible, narrated by Leo Nixon and Janina Edwards, (2023) 34 hours and 37 minutes.

I have now finished all three volumes of Branch’s “America During the King Years.” The last volume had more meaning for me, as I remember much of what happened. I would have been between the 3^rd and 5^th grade in elementary school during this time. I was in the 5^th grade when Martin Luther King was assassinated and share below a memoir of that time. Like the second volume of the work, this one read more like snippets from the news media for each day. I mostly listened to the book on Audible but also read some of the interesting sections. Here are links to my reviews of the first two volumes:

Parting the Waters (1954-63)

Pillar of Fire (1963-65)

At Canaan’s Edge shows the tension felt by Martin Luther King. Strains existed between King and President Johnson. Other strains were between King and those within the movement chanting Black Power and calling for violence. Ironically, this call to violence even came from the Student Non-violent Coordinating Committee, which had left behind many of its founders such as John Lewis. And even those who were committed to his non-violent movement resisted King’s visions of expanding the movement to include all poor people and to work against America’s war in Vietnam. Branch helps the reader understand King’s troubles during the last three years of his life.

The book ends abruptly, with an assassin’s bullet striking King on the balcony of Lorraine Hotel in Memphis on April 4, 1968. King had just asked that “Precious Lord, Take My Hand” be played that evening as they dressed and prepared for the event. Then he fatefully stepped out on the balcony.

By providing a “play-by-play” history of what happens up until the shot was fired, Branch provides the reader with the complexity of the world. The beatings of civil rights workers on the Pettus Bridge in Alabama came at the same time as American’s first big engagement in Vietnam in the Ia Drang Valley. The miracle” of Israel’s 6-day war in 1967 occurred during the rising opposition to Americans in Vietnam and the Supreme Court’s decision to end laws against interracial marriage. And finally, King’s desire for a “Poor People’s March” on Washington plays out against the backdrop of the Tet Offensive in Vietnam. And as King’s life came to an end, President Johnson had just decided not to run again for the Presidency.

There was also much tension within the Civil Rights movement as some wanted to advocated violence (especially within the Student Non-violent Coordinating Committee) who leaned into the Black Power movement. The tension also increased as King began to take his movement north, spending significant amount of time in Chicago, a move which caused his movement funds as donors, who supported the work in the south, began to withdraw their support.

Also, in the background of all that happened was the FBI, who hounded King. Even in the last month of his life, they sent anonymous letters to King supporters in the north saying that he had plenty of money. At the same time, they sent other letters to Black churches in the south saying that he was broke. This discouraged those interested in the poor people’s march to Washington (which was being planned), suggesting they’d find themselves stranded.

In these three volumes, Taylor Branch provides a wonderfully in-depth history of the Civil Rights movements. Some of this history is hard to recall, but it must not be forgotten.

Memories of ’68

(this is part 2 of a 4 part series I wrote 20 years ago and edited for this post)

I turned eleven barely two weeks into 1968. It was a big deal. I was finally eligible to join the Boy Scouts and go camping with someone other than my family. I wasted no time. Thursday, two days after my birthday, I attended the troop meeting. It’s amazing I stayed with scouting. I experienced more hazing in those first two meetings than the rest of my life. Brian and I were both new to Troop 206 and they put us in the Rattlesnake Patrol. The patrol consisted of a bunch of older guys (probably all of 13 or 14 years old). When the adult leaders weren’t nearby, they arrange things like beltlines for us to run. But it didn’t last. I’m not sure what went on behind the scenes, but by the third week, the Scoutmaster placed us in a new patrol. Gerald, an older scout, but new to the troop, became our patrol leader. We named ourselves the Cobra Patrol, consciously picking a snake more deadly than a rattlesnake. Gerald put an end to the hazing. In a way, he became a mentor. When I became a patrol leader, I always pondered what Gerald would do in a situation before I acted.

A week or two after being placed in Cobra Patrol, I made my first campout as a Boy Scout. We headed up to Holly Shelter Swamp and camped along the bank of the Northeast Cape Fear River. Gerald had us put our tents in a line. Brian and I ended in a slight depression. I argued that we should move our tent, having done enough camping prior to scouting to know we were in the best location. But Gerald was all for neatness. We stayed in a neat line and when the rains came that night, out tent flooded. I now had a second reason to quit scouting. Thinking back on my experiences, I can’t recall a camping trip that I’ve gotten soaked at night except for when I was a scout. However, Gerald made everything better, offering us his semi-dry tent. We assumed Gerald was going to sleep in our pool but found him in the morning asleep in the back of the equipment trailer, the only totally dry place around. The storm cleared and we dried out our bags and had a grand time in the woods, even though we kept having run-ins with our nemeses in the Rattlesnake Patrol.

We’ve come a long way since 1968. There were no I-pods, laptops, game-boys or other forms of amusements in our packs. All I had for fun was a nine-volt transistor radio and we listened to it that first night, as we tried to ignore or forget the moisture seeping into our sleeping bags. I could get the powerful 50-kilowatt station out of Cincinnati and a few local stations. And that night, laying in a sleeping bag on a bluff overlooking the slow waters of the Northeast Cape Fear River, between the music of the Beatles, Stones and Supremes, we heard news reports about the Chinese New Year and the Tet Offensive. For the first time Vietnam seemed real.

Our second night included a game of capture the flag, played pitting the Cobras against the Rattlesnakes. We didn’t win, but we went down honorably, and it would only be a matter of time before we did win. After the game, we had a big campfire, which concluded when our scoutmaster, Johnny R. told us the story of “the Hand.” He made it come alive. I’d hear this story a dozen times over the next couple of years, as he added new twist so that you were never sure when you’d nearly jump into the fire. That night we didn’t listen to the radio; we wanted things to be quiet so that we’d hear “the Hand,” in case it was about doing its dastardly deeds.

Our second camping trip with the scouts was at a camporee on the grounds around Sunny Point, on the Brunswick County side of the Cape Fear River. This gathering involved troops from all over the council and the theme was getting along with one another, with a special emphasis on racial harmony. All the scouts who participated in the event received a badge showing a handshake. One hand was light colored and the other darker, symbolizing getting along between the races. It was a lesson we’d all need to hear for soon all hell broke loose. But that weekend, we didn’t know that. Instead, we worked hard, and Cobra Patrol earned a red ribbon (next to the highest) while the Rattlesnake Patrol only received a yellow (participation) ribbon. I became a hero during the camporee in the signaling event. Few of the patrols had anyone who could read semaphore, and I shocked everyone with my newly acquired skill.

My self-instruction in semaphore came because of what was happening in Mr. Briggs classroom. My mother told me a few years ago about how she heard me talking about these things we were doing in his class and assumed I had a wild imagination until one night, Mr. Briggs called. And did my mother reward me for my honesty? NO! Instead, I was doubly grounded. Not only could I not leave our yard, but I was also stuck in my room except to go to the bathroom or to eat dinner. This sentence was to last a few years, but she relented after I brought my citizenship grade up a notch. In such tight confinement (and there were no TVs in my room back then, it really was a solitary confinement cell), I was stuck with reading. And my choices were meager. I could read schoolbooks, but I had a natural allergy to them. I could read the Bible but figured that if Mom saw me reading the good book, she might keep me grounded for my own edification. The only book of interest was the Boy Scout handbook, and I quickly set down to the task of learning semaphore (which I long since forgotten) and the constellations (which I still remember).

My third Scout camping trip was back to Holly Shelter Swamp. It was early April. We left home Friday afternoon, knowing of Martin Luther King assassination the night before in Memphis. Things went along well during the camping trip, but my nine-volt transistor radio brought in the news that violence was erupting across our nation. Somehow (along before cell phones), our Scoutmaster Johnny Rogina, a detective with the Sheriff’s Dept., got word to report for duty. But there were enough other men along that we camped two nights. Sunday morning, we packed up and headed back into town. Since our troop met in a church, we’d always come back from camping trips in the early afternoon, so as not to disturb the worshippers. But this Sunday, things were eerie. There were no cars on the road. All you saw were police and a few military jeeps. Rioting erupted in Wilmington, as it had in many cities, and the city was under a 24-hour curfew.

Since we lived out of town, far from where the rioting occurred, we weren’t really affected. Instead, we enjoyed a vacation from school, playing sandlot baseball and roaming the woods. With everyone being forced to stay at home, my parents cooked out that Sunday afternoon and invited our next-door neighbors. This was a rarity as I knew my parents didn’t like the man (I later learned that he was very abusive, but as an 11-year-old, I just thought he was a jerk). His wife was nice, and they had a younger daughter. She was several years younger than my sister but occasionally would be in the house early in the morning having slept in my sister’s room. I was an adult when my mother shared that these sleepovers was to protect the girl, as her father had gone on a drunken rampage. But even before learning this, when I first heard of sleeveless t-shirts called “wife beaters,” I envisioned that man in his backyard with wearing such a shirt.

This Sunday evening, after the Holly Shelter’s campout, I remember l sitting in a lounge chair in the yard as the neighbor told my dad (along with my brother and I) about the Wilmington Race Riots of 1898. “The Cape Fear River ran red with n—– blood” he said, suggesting a similar situation out of the problem Wilmington was currently facing. My parents, who didn’t allow us to use the “N” word, weren’t too happy with this conversation and this was the only cookout we ever had with them. Shortly afterwards, they moved. Interestingly, this was the first and only time as a kid that I heard about the 1898 riots. Later I’d learn the event was a massacre. The whites had a Gatlin gun just back from the Spanish American War, while the African American community attempted to defended themselves with hunting guns. I’d also learn later that the guy whose park we played little league ball in, Hugh McCrae, was the one who acquired the Gatlin gun. He, along with several other well-known names in town, were responsible for the “riot.”

I am not sure just how they restored calm to the city in 1968, as we lived far outside its boundaries. After a week holiday, we returned to Bradley Creek Elementary School where everything appeared normal.

###

September 25, 2025September 26, 2025

Nevada 375 and Rachel, Nevada

Title slide with photo of dry rain along Nevada 375

One house we worked on was located near here, where the road is still washed out.

I’ve been away this week, working on a Helene rebuild mission out of Burnsville, North Carolina, so I don’t have time to write anything new. I wrote this piece many years ago and some of you may have read it in another blog. I tried to update and clean up the language a bit before reposting it. Recently, I learned another friend had spent time working around Tonopah, Rachel, Caliente, Nevada on a government contract. He, too, was surprised that not only did I know of these places but had been there many times. Thinking of him, I thought I’d republish it.

The last time I was in Rachel was in 2010, as I drove across Central Nevada, heading from Death Valley to my old stomping ground in Cedar City, Utah.

Rachel, NV during daylight. Photo from the internet

I see the lights of Rachel a good ten miles away, soon after crossing Queen City Summit. “The bar will be open,” I say to myself, “I’ll grab a cup of coffee and stretch my legs and take in some of the night air.”

It’s after ten, early September 1995. I still have two hundred miles to drive to get home, having spent the past two weeks backpacking along the John Muir Trail in the Sierras. When I got off the trail, I learned my parents were driving in the next day, which meant an all-night drive. In the hundred miles since Tonopah, I’ve only passed a couple of vehicles. I roll my windows down and stick my head outside, trying to stay awake and alert. I pop cassette tapes in and out, playing them loudly and trying to find something to keep me awake. Nothing comes in on the radio, except some distant AM talk station from Los Angeles.

I try to stay awake for nobody’s likely to see if you run off the road in this country. Making it more dangerous, this is open range. I share the road with cows. They’re hard to see at night and often seek the blacktop for warmth. If I run into one of these beasts and die, my estate will get to pay for the cow.

“Thank God for Rachel,” I mumble, thinking about how this is one of two stops in the next two hundred miles where I can get coffee. I topped off my tank in Tonopah. Experience taught me the few gas stations along this stretch will close before I drive through.

Entering town, I pull off at the “Little A”le’Inn,” the center of Rachel’s night life. I’m shocked to see so many cars and people mulling around. Normally, there might be a car and a pickup or two out front. Tonight, I must search to find a parking place. The line to the bar starts at the front door.

What’s going on?” I ask the guy in front of me.

“It’s Labor Day weekend,” he says, “people come from all over on Labor Day and Memorial Day weekends to check out the UFOs.” I’d noticed just outside the front door, mounted on a tripod, a parabolic listening device. These people are serious. Many of them have cameras and binoculars dangling from their necks. At the booth closest to me a guy cleans the lens for their cameras I consider telling him not to bother, as I’ve yet to see picture of a UFO taken through a clean lens. But I hold my tongue.

“Do you think they’re really UFOs out here?” I ask the guy in front of me.

“I’m not sure, but you see some strange things,” he says, adding that he mostly comes up from Vegas to enjoy the party.

I look around at the eclectic crowd. There are dudes with pencil protectors in their shirt pockets talking to guys with tie-died t-shirts. Some look college-aged. Others probably have great-grandchildren. Many appear to have been strung out on drugs since the 60s. A few may have come straight from a desk job at IBM. It looks like a lot of fun, and I imagine myself as a reporter for the Rolling Stones, getting to know these people and writing about their shindig. Unfortunately, I must get back home.

It takes me a while to get up to the bar and then I must wait for the bartender to make another pot of coffee. Then he fills my Maverick^[1] insulated cup. I head outside, climb into the car and drive eastward into the darkness, over Coyote Summit and across Tikaboo Valley. It’s sad to leave the lights behind, for even if they don’t see a UFO, they’ll going to have a good time.

In my travels between California and Utah, I stopped at Rachel a dozen or more times. In the late 90s and early 2000s, there were only two businesses in town. The gas station sat on the east end. It includes a store which would make a 7-11 appear to be a supermarket. I’ve never seen it open after dark and their hours seemed to be irregular, another reason why I topped off my tank before heading this direction.

The Little A’Le’Inn sat on the west end of town. A combo restaurant, bar, casino, and motel, it reminds me of a scaled down version of Bruno’s Country Club in Gerlack, Nevada. The Inn seemed thrown together and wouldn’t make the Triple A Guidebook. But people come here because Rachel is the closest town to the supersecret Area 51, where some believe our government holds intergalactic aliens as POWs. Others think the government made a secret pack with some space race to dominate the world. I don’t believe it, but there are strange things seen in the skies along this highway.

Driving along this stretch of highway, I’ve been scared out of my pants when a jet, flying what seemed to be 50 feet above my car came up behind me. I first noticed the. shadow. Because of his speed, I didn’t hear him until he’s gone.

Once, while checking out the mining sites in the Timpahute Range northeast of Rachel with Ralph, we watched several jets in apparent dogfight. I’ve never seen such aerial maneuvers, as they turned and swirled back and forth. One jet climbed almost straight up like a rocket, only to turn and come back to earth at supersonic speeds. When the jet disappeared behind the mountain, we looked for a fireball. We assumed it crashed. Then, to our surprise, the plane pulled back up and climb again as two jets made the same maneuver. Neither of us could believe that a plane could perform like that.

Sun setting amongst Joshua Trees in Central Nevada

This is barren country. The government controls all the land land south of Rachel. This is a training ground and bombing range for Nellis Air Force Base. They tested stealth fighters and bombers here. The vast area also contains the Nevada Test Site, where nuclear weapons used to be regularly tested.

Rachel is a relatively new town. In the 1860s, the town of Tempiute grew up around a vein of silver to the northeast. That petered out. Later, a tungsten deposit was discovered. Until the 1980s, Union Carbide ran a mine there. Most of the miners lived in Rachel. A few ranches dot the countryside along 375, but it takes a lot of this poor arid soil to produce enough grass to feed a cow.

Every time I stopped at the “Little A’Le’Inn” I meet interesting people. Once there was a family from Germany who came to see UFOs. Another time there were several young adults from the Netherlands. One evening, there was a couple at the bar who had driven up from Las Vegas. They were nearly out of gas. The gas station had already closed for the day (and the owners had headed to Vegas for dinner), so the couple rented a room at the motel and made the best of the evening by drinking heavily. They probably saw some good sights that night as well as some bugs on the wall in the morning.

The bartender is always willing to offer advice as to the best places to supposedly see UFOs. And the walls of the place have pictures and clippings about UFOs and even a signed photograph of Spock from Star Trek. In the mid-1990s, Nevada 375 became known as the “The Extraterrestrial Highway,” a move which helped draw in the curious to support Rachel’s businesses.

I’m sure most people who drive across Nevada 375 think it’s the worst road to travel, but I find comfort in the desolation. US 50 crosses Nevada way to the north. In the 1960s, Life Magazine dubbed US 50 the loneliness road in America. Compared to Nevada 375, Highway 50 is a crowded freeway.

Each end of Nevada 375 is located at a hot spring. The road begins at the site of Warm Springs along US 6. A gas station with a swimming pool sat at the junction, but by the 90s had closed. You can still stop and soak your feet in the warm sulfur smelling water as it runs through a ditch. Crystal Springs is at the other end of the 98-mile highway, at the junction with US 93, which leads south to Vegas and north to Ely. The springs are huge, with deep pools of warm water creating a large wetland and bird sanctuary which never freezes.

For those interested, there are other hot springs in the area. Just south on US 93 are the communities of Ash and Alamo, both of which have hot springs. Further to the east is Caliente, another town with hot springs located in cement pools at one of the towns 1950ish hotels.

If you travel this road, be prepared. It’s a long way to help. Limited services can be found in Tonopah (108 miles west of Rachel) and Caliente (98 miles to the east of Rachel). The nearest city is Las Vegas, 140 miles south of Rachel, on the other side of the government’s testing area which is closed off to the public.

^[1] Maverik is the name of a chain of gas stations and convenient stores.

Other Nevada Adventures:

Great Basin Mining Adventure

Reno to Pittsburgh (April 1989)

Sunday drive to Gerlach

Driving West in ’88

Matt, Virginia City 1988

Doug and Elvira: A Pastoral Tale

Christmas Eve 1988

Easter Sunrise Services (a part of this article recalls Easter Sunrise Service in Virginia City in 1989)

The Revivals of A. B. Earle (an academic paper published inAmerican Baptist Historical Society Quarterly, part of these revivals were in Virginia City in 1867)

Eddie Larson, a good shepherd (he ran his sheep on BLM land in Eastern Nevada during the winter).

Riding in the cab of a steam locomotive

September 18, 2025September 19, 2025

Bakery Stories: Bad Things Happen at Night

The Horrific

During my five years at the bakery, it seems bad things often happened at night. Shortly after I started, a woman working the night shift on the roll line was raped in the women’s locker room. I never knew her, don’t even know if I ever saw her, but she never came back to work. The rapist slipped into the plant and hid in the women’s locker room. I don’t even know if they ever caught the man.

This incident forced the company to develop more stringent security around the plant, including a card reader at the entrance. It was probably long overdue.

A Neighborhood Shooting

A year or so later, on a hot sticky night when I was working night shift during my summer break from classes, I drove up to a surreal scene. Police and ambulances with their lights flashing were parked in front of the plant. The chalk outline of two bodies could be seen on the sidewalk. Yellow police tape ran from the corner by the entry door and across the front of the plant along 13^th Street. They were loading two body bags into the waiting ambulance as I arrived.

I wondered if I should even go to work that evening. It was eerie entering the plant as I no idea what had just happened. Obliviously, people died. As soon as I got inside, co-workers told me about the few exciting seconds. Several versions of stories spread around the plant. The only thing anyone could be sure of was that no one from the bakery had been involved in the shooting.

It turned out, as we learned the next day in the newspaper, the shooter was a jealous husband who lived in a housing project across the street from the bakery. He hid in shrubbery out in front the bakery waiting for his wayward wife and her lover to walk by. When they did, he stepped out and shot her. He then took aim at her lover but missed. As the man ran for his life, the husband turned the gun on himself.

Riding a bicycle to work

I often rode my bicycle to work, especially when I lived in an apartment on Greenfield Lake, about five miles from the bakery. During my first year out of college when I worked the night shift as a supervisor, I had a small office, just large enough to store my bike. I got into the habit of only driving a car when the weather was inclement or on Saturday night. With the housing projects across from the plant, I felt it too risky as a white guy to ride a bike through the neighborhood at midnight on Saturday night.

During the warmer months, I would often leave the bakery in the morning and ride out to Wrightsville Beach and sleep on the beach and do a little swimming before riding home. Then, I’d stay up for a while, going back to bed around 6 PM to catch a few more hours of sleep before returning to work.

Almost burning the bakery down

During the year I worked as a supervisor on the night shift, I was nervous going to work at night, but had only one small disaster. This happened on a rainy night. Harvey, my oven operator, was on vacation. John, who had taken over the second shift oven operator job from me when I was promoted to supervisor, worked Harvey’s shift. This night, I was short staffed in the mixing area and was pitching in when I got a desperate call over the loudspeaker from John telling me that he was having problems raising the temperature on the oven to the proper setting. I checked my watch. It was still 30 minutes before the bread would begin leaving the proof box for the oven.

As soon as I could, I headed back to the oven with a mechanic. About the time we got to the oven, one of the truck drivers who hauled bread to the warehouses around eastern North and South Carolina, came running back yelling that the roof was on fire. Something clicked. I knew immediately the problem. The dampers on the oven had not been closed. As the mechanic headed to the roof with a fire extinguisher, I told the driver to call the fire department as I ran back to the oven.

Fixing the problem

Sure enough, the dampers were the problem. Lighting the oven, which was about the size of a house, required that one first open the dampers and purge the oven with air. This made sure there was no gas present and reduced the risk of an explosion. Only after purging could you open the gas valves and begin to light the burners. There were around 70 burners, and each had to be lighted individually, but with an electrical ignition. As soon as all the burners blazed, you closed the dampers. John forgot that part.

What happened is that thermostats kept calling for more heat. The flames grew larger and drawn into the dampers. Obviously, as we discovered the hard way, the dampers hadn’t been cleaned in some time. Grease built up in one of the dampers, catching fire. As soon as John and I shut the dampers, I grabbed another fire extinguisher and headed to the roof where the mechanic had already extinguished the fire. The rain kept the fire from spreading, but there was a small section of the roof which needed repair. The fire department arrived and checked things out, and the night returned to normal. Thankfully, the rain help prevent a disaster.

Dealing with mechanics

As the night shift mechanics often found places to hid and sleep, I resorted to walking around with a pair of channel locks, an adjustable wrench, and a screwdriver in my back pocket. I quickly gained the skill necessary to do minor adjustments to keep things running. Inexperience became another problem with night mechanics. Most would spend a week or two on day shift, where they worked with an engineer before being moved to night shift. I often knew more about the equipment.

Of course, there could be worse things than an inexperience mechanic sleeping on a job. We began to use a lot more granulated sugar than we should have as most of our sweetener came in liquid form. We received corn sweeter from tank trucks. Honey and molasses came in 55-gallon barrels. We even used more brown sugar than granulated, both of which came in 50-pound bags. Our inventory showed we were using almost twice the amount of granulated sugar than we should have been consuming. It turned out one of the night mechanics would park his truck by the loading dock. When no one was around, he would place a few bags in the back and cover it up with a tarp. We assumed he stole the sugar to supply a liquor still. Of course, he lost his source of free sugar when he was fired.

Replacement workers

Working the night shift, especially as a supervisor, had its challenges. It was always difficult to find a replacement when someone called in sick. There weren’t too many qualified replacements and even fewer available at 2 A.M. All new hires had to go through the Personnel Department, which kept 9 to 5 business hours. I’d be given a name and number when a new hire was coming in.

You’ve already met Frank, one of my problem employees. A month after I had tried to fire him and personnel overruled my decision; he was fired after an “expensive joke.” The next night, a new employee showed up.

The new hire was an attractive young woman just out of high school. That evening, while attempting to teach her how to do the job, I had to shoo away guys from other parts of the plant. Everyone wanted to flirt with her, and she enjoyed the attention. Being new, she hadn’t been issued a uniform. The next night, she came dressed like Daisy Duke, of the Dukes of Hazard, which was a popular show at this time. The girl wore short-shorts and a halter top. I sent her home to get more appropriate clothes, which made her mad. She never returned. The next night, I started to train a guy who I knew from high school, and he worked out.

Mostly monotonous

Despite the stories above, the night shift was mostly monotonous. I became good at anticipating sunrise and a few minutes before, when not cloudy, I’d grab a cup of coffee and head out to the loading dock. Standing on the side of the platform, caressing my cup in my hands, I could look back toward the east and watch for the sun to rise between the plant and the flour silo across the street. I knew my time was almost up and soon my worries would be over, and I’d be in my bed sleeping.

1957: The Year of My Birth

title slide with photos of the author and his family from 1957 and 58

I arrived at the Moore County Hospital, just outside of Pinehurst, on a Wednesday morning in the middle of January 1957. The highways through the Sandhills of North Carolina were paved by then, but many of the county roads were still dirt. Longleaf pines surrounded the golf courses around Pinehurst and small farms dotted the rest of the county. Bright-leaf tobacco, cured in barns heated by wood, was the cash crop. It was a simpler time.

The national average family income had doubled since World War II, rising to just above six thousand dollars a year. Of course, per capita income was lower in the South. But on paper Moore County appeared prosperous thanks to its numbers being inflated by rich Yankee golfers. Six thousand went a long way as the average house cost $12,000. However, furnishing it with a pair of Rembrandt portraits remained out of reach for most. A pair of his portraits sold for an even half a million dollars later in the year.

For non-golfers in the Sandhills, such as my relatives from the Highlands of Scotland, tobacco remained king. People considered the leaf safe and when the markets opened in late summer, it sold for 59 cents a pound. North Carolina raised nearly a half million acres of the crop, producing over 1700 pounds an acre. You can do the math.

The year began with a meeting of African American pastors who formed the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. We’d hear more about them in the next decade, but integration moved into the forefront. A year after the last veteran from the war which ended slavery died and three years after Brown verses Board of Education ruled segregated schools unconstitutional, it took the military to desegregate Little Rock Central High School in Arkansas. Things appeared to move slowly in the right direction, but I’d be in the 9^th Grade before schools were completely integrated. In Congress, the Senate under the leadership of Lyndon Johnson passed the first (mostly benign) civil rights legislation since the Reconstruction. We’d be hearing more about civil rights and Johnson in the years ahead.

Two days after my arrival, three B-52s made the first non-stop around-the-world flights. General Curtis LeMay bragged we could drop a hydrogen bomb anywhere in the world. New Mexico became the one place we did drop one that year, accidentally. Thankfully, it didn’t detonate which is why no one knew about it. The military exploded bombs in Nevada but said everything was safe. No one knew differently except for the sheepherders whose flocks lost their wool and began to die off. There were other nuclear accidents in ’57 in the US and UK, but no one talked about them. What you don’t know won’t hurt you, right? And we all knew our government would never do anything to harm us. That myth died before I graduated high school.

Although there were no major wars going on, the world remained tense. The Suez Crisis and the threat of a Soviet nuclear attack loomed. Our government, working with the Canadians, established the DEW line in the arctic to provide us a six-hour warning before the first Soviet bomb could be dropped on an American city. Canadian cities would have a little less time to prepare. By the time the Dew Line became operational, they reduced the margin to three hours as Soviet jets had doubled their speed. In a few months it all became extraneous as the Soviets launched the first intercontinental ballistic missile.

Later in the same year, the Soviets launch Sputnik, and we’d spend the next decade in a space race. Amidst the space race, some yo-yo created the first plastic pink flamingo. The end was near as prophesied by Nevil Shute in On the Beach, his post-nuclear war novel, published in 1957. I’d read it in high school.

To save us from calamity, we placed our faith in Ike, the President. Many thought I resembled as I, too, had a bald head. Ike wasn’t Herod and didn’t see himself as a king. Nor did he waste any time worrying about a newborn impostor as he perfected his golf swing while supposedly preparing himself for a second term as the leader of the free world.

Jack Kerouac published On the Road in 1957. People headed out on the road sporting a new line of fancy cars with high fins and excessive chrome. The ’57 Chevy would become an icon of the era as Ike announced the building of interstates to connect the cities of our nation. Off the radar was a little-known Japanese company, Toyota. They loaded a ship with their first vehicles for the US market.

People began flying more and taking the train less. New York City abandoned its trolley cars in 1957. Shortly afterwards the Brooklyn Dodgers (originally the Brooklyn Trolley Dodgers) announced their move to Los Angeles. They took the last of Las Angeles trolleys out of service six years later as I started the first grade. Now people think the Dodgers must either be named from their ability at dodging wild pitches or an obscure reference to an artful Charles Dickens character.

In other sporting news, the University of North Carolina beat Kansas in the NCAA basketball finals. These teams have remained at the top throughout my life. The Milwaukee Braves led by a young Hank Aaron beat the New York Yankees in the World Series. As a junior in high school, I watched TV as Aaron surpassed Babe Ruth’s home run record. The Milwaukee Braves faded over the next decade and high-tailed it to Atlanta. The Detroit Lions, a team whose demise parallels the city, won their last NFL championship.

Ayn Rand published Atlas Shrugged in 1957. Almost seven decades later, “Who is John Galt?” bumper stickers are occasionally spotted on American highways. In the theaters, The Ten Commandments became the top box office success. For a country which seems so religious, the last commandment about not coveting appears overlooked. Rand launched a frontal assault on this commandment with her godless “look out for me” philosophy. Other commandments were also being broken as the movie “Peyton Place, which debuted in theaters, reminded us.

Radios in ‘57 played the music of Elvis, Buddy Holly, Debbie Reynolds, the Everly Brothers, Pat Boone and Sam Cooke. In Philadelphia, love-stuck teenagers danced for the first time on American Bandstand as more homes acquired televisions. And in England, two chaps named Lennon and McCarthy met and would go on change music as we know it. Humphrey Bogart died just two days before my arrival, but it was still a good year for Hollywood. Not only was Moses selling, but so were dogs. Children everywhere cried watching Old Yeller. Hollywood also released The Bridge over the River Kwai. It inspired whistlers with its catchy theme music (an old British army tune). That tune would later be used in a commercial for a household cleanser which inspired one of the great ditties of my childhood:

Comet – it makes your teeth turn green.
Comet – it tastes like gasoline.
Comet – it makes you vomit.
So, buy some Comet, and vomit, today!

Even today, I have a can of Comet stashed under my kitchen sink. Some things change, and some don’t.

August 12, 2025August 12, 2025

Michigan Ramblings (June 16-July 3)

Title slide with photos from northern Michigan

I spent the last half of June mostly in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. While I have already written about my solo kayak trip around Drummond Island, I thought I’d share some of my other adventures.

I arrived in Michigan on June the 18^th, staying with my friends Bruce and Katie on Jordan Lake. We enjoyed dinner and sitting out by the lake, along with a late evening boat ride around the lake. The next morning, I headed early into Hastings to have breakfast with my friend Jim, at Richies Koffee Shop, a place I often ate breakfast when I lived in Hastings. As I drove up, Dave and John were at the table by the front window. They wondered who pulled up with a sea kayak on top of their car. When I got out, John said to Dave, “Oh, it figures, it’s Jeff.” I talked with them along with Sandy, my favorite waitress, until Jim arrived. Then I moved over to a booth and caught up with my old canoeing partner.

I left Hastings a little before 9 so I could make it to the Upper Peninsula (UP) by 2 PM. It rained most of the way, but I made good time.

At 2, I had lunch with Gary and Ron. Gary and I were in the fire department on Skidaway Island and paddled together several times in the Okefenokee Swamp. I hadn’t met Ron before, but he also lives on Skidaway during the winter and on an island outside of Cedarville, Michigan in the summer. Gary and his wife were traveling through, visiting friends in Michigan before going on into Canada. We met at Snow’s Bar and Grill in Cedarville, a great place for white fish and walleye. It enjoyed catching up with Gary, who grew up in Michigan. We said goodbyes at 4:00 PM. I stopped by Cedarville’s grocery store and arrived in Detour Village a little after 5 PM.

On Thursday, I rested and checked out my gear for my trip around Drummond. I realized I had forgotten to bring a battery pack to recharge my cell phone. On Friday, I paddled around Detour Point early in the morning. Then I headed to Sault St. Marie for Walmart, where I picked up a battery pack and the rest of what I needed for my trip. Afterwards, I decided to travel over to Point Iroquois Lighthouse.

I’d been here once before but forgotten the reason why it was named after a native American tribe found much further east. In the 17^th Century, facing pressure from European settlers, the Iroquois tried to extend their territories further west. Here, on the east end of Lake Superior, the Chippewa, the native tribe of the Great Lakes Region, stopped the Iroquois advancement after a bloody battle. Then, in honor of their dead foe, the Chippewa named this point along the lake, Iroquois. With all the talk about changing or not changing names to make it more “American,” I had to salute the Chippewa graciousness. The next week, I would learn that Drummond Island was named for the British General in charge of northern Michigan. At the end of the War of 1812, he was ordered to move his garrison back into Canada.

On my way back that Friday, I stopped for dinner at Cozy Corners in Barbeau. I’d eaten at this place before, but never on a Friday night. The place was packed. I sat at the bar, talking to my neighbors, watching the Detroit Tigers play on TV, while also catching glimpses of two southbound freighters. I ate fish tacos made with walleye.

On Sunday, in exchange for staying at the church’s manse, I preached at the Union Presbyterian Church, using a sermon I had preached a few weeks early at home. On Monday morning, I headed over on an early ferry run for my paddle around Drummond.

If you didn’t read about my Drummond Island circumnavigation, you can catch up here: Days 1 & 2, and Days 3 & 4

I came back to Detour from Drummond Island around 2 PM on Thursday. I laid out my gear in the garage and the sunporch to dry, showered, and took a nap. Around 5:30 PM, I got up and drove over to St. Ignace to pick up Bob, a friend of mine from Hastings. He took a bus up to the UP from Grand Rapids. He was scheduled to arrive at 10:10 PM, so I decided to go over early and eat dinner.

Of all the times I have been across the Mackinaw Bridge, which crosses at St. Ignace, I have never been into the town. I exited I-75 at Castle Rock and drove through the town and realized soon it was a mistake. The place was packed. I found myself at the end of a parade of old cars, not knowing that this was the first night of a four-day car rally. All the restaurants were packed.

I stopped at a grocery store to pick up a few supplies, then decided to try the St. Ignace Truck Stop. It, too, was busy, but by 9 PM had slowed down as patrons left. I sat at the bar and ordered walleye. I was finishing my meal at 9:45 PM, when Bob called. The bus arrived early. Thankfully, he was only a couple of blocks away. I picked him up and we headed back to Detour Village.

Friday was wet and foggy. I spent the morning reading while Bob, who’s an editor, worked on a project. Occasionally, Bob shared his frustration at the book he was editing. He felt he had to rework too much of the author’s words. But he had been hired by the publisher to get the book ready for print, so he kept at it. Around 2 PM, we took a break and headed over to the Detour Village Inn for one of their great hamburgers.

The Village Inn is a baseball themed park. Tim Grisdale (Grizz) started the inn after he hung up his glove having played minor league baseball in the Detroit Tigers organization. In addition to running a bar and grill, he was a big supporter of baseball and softball in the town. He died in 2018, before I started coming up to Detour Village, but his memory lives on. There’s the Grizz burgers and lots of photos and newspaper clippings posted on the walls.

After lunch, we headed to a preserve off Prettiss Bay, where we stayed exploring till almost sunset. Plants seen included wood lilies, thimbleberry, yellow coreopsis, yellow lady slippers, shrubby cinquefoil, red osier dogwood, along with irises, columbines, and shinleaf. Then we drove over to Cedarville and I had a whitefish sandwich for dinner at Snows Bar and Grill.

You might think that Snows gets its name from the extreme winters of the UP, but that’s not the case. There is a “Snows Cut,” which runs between the islands, just south of the joint. I have always found this interesting since I grew up just north of “Snows Cut,” where the Intracoastal Waterway cuts from Myrtle Grove Sound to the Cape Fear River, just north of Carolina Beach. That cut was named after the engineer who directed digging this part of the waterway in the 1930s.

On Saturday, after a morning of reading and editing, we took the ferry over to Drummond Island and met Dave and Sandy, who took us to a potluck dinner hosted by Lighthouse Church. The dinner was outside. Bob, who is an excellent saxophonist, did a short concert.

On Sunday, I again preached at the Union Presbyterian Church and Bob supplied special music. He had come up with me in April 2024, so folks on the island knew him and enjoyed his music. Afterwards, we were invited to join a group at the Mainsail Restaurant for Brunch.

In the afternoon, after a nap, we explored the fins along Lake Huron, just east of Albany Creek. A fin is a wet boggy area. In this case, it’s separated from the lake by a series of dunes. This place is rich of wildflowers, especially carnivorous plants. While Bob has worked much of his life in the publishing business, he is the best botanists I know. Not only does he know the names of all the plants, but he also knows most of their Latin names.

Albany Fin

Plants seen: Northern Pitcher Plant, Butterwort (rare), round leaf sundew, linear leaf sundew (rare), horned bladderwort, rose pogonia (orchid), and pitcher thistle (rare).

After exploring the Albany fin, we came home and fixed steak for dinner. Monday, we lounged around reading and editing. On Tuesday, we packed up and headed over to the Detour Village Inn for lunch before driving south. On our way south, we stopped at Wilderness State Park to look for some rare plants which Bob had seen there years earlier. He found the plants, but it was after they’d bloomed. I stayed at Bob’s Tuesday night.

Wednesday morning, before leaving Hastings, I had breakfast with “Doc,” my former associate at First Presbyterian Church. Now confined to a walker, “Doc” or Jim, cares for his wife who struggles with dementia. But Doc still gets around some and remains in good spirits. Then I started the long drive home.

I decided to spend one more night out in the woods, so I headed to Ohio’s Hocking Hills. I’ve heard about this place before and wish I could have spent more time there. The hills are beautiful with some interesting rock formations around the creeks. I slept in my hammock and enjoyed dinner at the lodge as I watched the sun set. I arrived home on Thursday afternoon, after racking up almost 3,000 miles over 16 days.

On the way back, I discovered Southern Ohio is filled with Covered Bridges. I’ll have to explore these some other time.

July 31, 2025July 31, 2025

Riding Coach from South Bend to D.C.

Title slide with photos of the train in South Bend and Savannah

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.

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.

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.

July 9, 2025July 24, 2025

A Solo Paddle Around Drummond Island, Days 1 & 2

title slide with photos of Drummond Island

Tuesday afternoon and evening, June 24, 2025

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

Category: memoir