Category: Travel

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Riding the Taksaka: from Jakarta to Yogyakarta

title slide

I’ve edited this post from one published in an old blog in 2011.

selfie on the train
Aboard the train

The heat and humidity is stifling. Even in an air conditioned coach, a bead of sweat runs down my beard. I could pull the curtains as the sun pours in through the crack glass, but I want to seethe countryside. So I sit with sweat beading on my forehead. The sweat soaks back of my shirt which clings to the vinyl seats. I take another swallow of water from my bottle as I we race past vast rice fields in different stages of production.  

Although large, each field is divided into manageable plots, which are separated by dikes which allow for flooding of the paddies. Here, six degrees below the equator, it’s endless summer and the fields produce two crops a year. In some paddies, the green rice is tall.

rice paddies with workers planting rice

Occasionally I spot a farmer wandering through the rice with a backpack, spraying what I assume is insecticide.  Other paddies remain muddy with bundles of rice laid out waiting for the workers, mostly women working halfway up their calves, to replant. In other paddies, they harvest the rice, cutting the stalks and feeding them into a thresher or, in some cases, beating the stalks on the ground, separating the seed from the stalks. And then there are the paddies in which the harvest has occurred. Some of these fields have been burned. They remain charred. A few still smolder. I can smell the smoke in the train.

I am riding the Taksaka, the train which runs across the island of Java, having left Jakarta’s Gambir Station in the morning, heading to Yogyakarta. We left the capital nearly an hour late. For the longest time, we roll through the sprawling city. Poverty abounds. Trash is everywhere and the canals are filthy. I’m blessed to travel executive class. My ticket cost a bit over twenty dollars, but that’s a lot of money in Indonesia. And this is probably the only first-class train in the world with cracked windows and cracked vinyl seats.

Slums in Jakarata

We pass trains in which the only way people can enjoy air conditioning is to climb to the top of cars. They sit just below high voltage electrical lines, a dangerous position for if they start to slip off and grab one of the lines, they’d be instantly electrocuted. This is a country of great contrast with a few who are extremely wealthy yet most live in dire poverty and unspeakable conditions. For many of the people, the filthy canals being their only source of water for bathing.

train window showing rice fields
view from a train window

Slowly we begin to leave the city behind and move into the tranquil countryside. Farms with elaborate irrigation systems line both sides of the tracks. Along the coastal plain the land is flat, but mountains rise in the distance.  We race pass small stations where, as we approach, the station master steps out in front in an immaculate uniform. They hold red and yellow flags and remains at attention as we speed by. Our first stop is Cirebon. As the train approaches the station, a host of merchants jump onboard the slow moving cars, selling food and drinks and other goodies. Women carry a thermos of hot water and cups and instant packages of coffee and chocolate. Others sell baked and fried goods, fruits, packaged snacks and chips. Outside, other merchants knock on windows and bargain with those of the train.  

It’s almost lunch time and I ask an older Indonesian gentleman sitting next to me what I should eat. He suggests I order a steak from the dining car. I take his advice. It arrives as we leave Cirebon. The plate consists of ground steak, some egg, boiled potatoes, carrots, and green beans. It costs 30000 IRD, a little over three dollars. I ask my traveling friend from where he thought the beef came. Laughing, he said, “Probably Australia.”

After lunch, the tracks turn southward and snakes up the ridge of mountains which form the backbone of Java. Rice remains the main crop as we climb higher. More fields appear ready to be harvested. Many other vegetables also grow. There are a few cows along with sheep and goats. I’m impressed with the fields, and how along the top of the dikes are staked green beans and cassava.  There are also plots of corn, sugar cane, and melons.

The scenery enchants me. In contrast to Jakarta, everything appears clean. The irrigation works are even more elaborate here, the water running through masonry channels.  The neat houses, all roofed with red tile, stand in contrast to the green fields. Tall palm trees many loaded with coconuts, shade the residents.

I walk up to the front of the car and stand by the door, between coaches, trying to get a better angle for a shot of the back of the train as we move through the turns.  An attendant sees what I’m attempting and opens the door for me, allowing me to stick my camera out and photograph the back end of the train. I’m careful, realizing how dangerous such a stunt could be. You’d never be allowed to pull such a stunt in the United States and most other countries.  

train in Indonesia
The back of the train.

I remember once, riding the Coast Starlight from Oakland to Los Angeles. I stood at the door in the bottom of the double stacked car as we raced along the Pacific coastline. Another traveler with a camera opened the window on the door. The car attendant was furious with him! Here, in the mountains of Java, I stay in the doorway for a long time, enjoying the cooler breeze of the mountain air and the ability to photograph without having to shoot through dirty and cracked glass.  

Although the car, with many cracked windows, doesn’t look like what I might expect from “executive class,” I am impressed with the tracks.  Here in the steep section of the line, line is mostly double tracked with welded ribbon rail and there appears to be new ballast under the concrete ties.

tile factory

After passing the town of Bumiayu, nestled in the shade of the forest stand scores of small factories devoted to the manufacture of tiles for roofing.  By each kiln are stacks of wood for the fires and the open air buildings have two levels of roofs, allowing for smoke to rise and clear the work area. The train begins to pick up speed.  Soon, we’re out of the mountains and along the coastal plain of the Southside of Java. We stop in Purwokerto, the second station stop of the trip. Afterwards, we’re back in large fields of rice, racing on toward Yogyakarta  It remains rural for a while, then we began to enter an urban area. My traveling friend tells me we’re only a few minutes from the station. 

We arrive at 5:20 PM, about 50 minutes late. I look for the Kiko restaurant, where I’m to meet a driver from the Green Gardens Bed and Breakfast. He’s not there, but as I turn around, a man runs up to me with my name written on a piece of cardboard. At least I won’t have to worry about finding a place to stay for the evening. 

We hop on his oversized minibike. It doesn’t seem so large with the two of us, me with my backpack. Somehow we fit, but tightly. We take off through the streets. Along the way, at an intersection, he says he needs gas. We pull over, but there are no pumps. He buys two former soft drink bottles filled with gasoline. He pours them into the tank, and hands the empty bottles back to the proprietor. Then we’re on our way to my home for the next four days. 

Other Train Trips:

Riding Coach from South Bend to D.C.

First transcontinental train trip:
 Part 1, Reno to Pittsburgh
Part 2: Pittsburgh to NC
Part 3: NC to Reno via Seattle

Danville to Atlanta, 2020

Getting to Springer Mountain on the Southern Crescent: Gastonia NC to Gainesville, GA

Coming home to Pittsburgh, 1987

Doubly late to West Palm Beach, 1986

Riding on the City of New Orleans, 2005

Edinburgh to Iona, 2017

Riding in the Cab of the V&T, 2013

Bangkok to Seim Reap, 2011

Riding the International: Georgetown to Bangkok, 2011

Malaysia’s NE Line: The Jungle Train, 2011

Coming Home on the Southwest Chef, 2012

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A Stop at Trout Lake

title slide with CN engine moving through Trout Lake, MI
Train moving through Trout Lake MI
train moving through the Y at Trout Lake

This is a piece I wrote in 2013. I focus on a stop during an eight hour drive. I drove up the length of Michigan, then halfway across the Upper Peninsula. It also appeared in a post in “The Trackside Photographer” in 2018.

Crossing the Big Mac into Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, I pay the four dollar toll at St. Ignace for the privilege.   But I don’t follow US 2 which runs along Lake Michigan shoreline nor I-75 which rushes to Sault St. Marie. Instead, I opt for Michigan 123 which runs into the heart of the UP.  The road follows the former roadbed of the Duluth, South Shore and Atlantic Railroad. Ernest Hemingway rode this line a few years after the Great War. He and some friends traveled to a fish camp along the East Branch of the Fox River outside of Seney, Michigan. That adventure provided the fodder for his classic short story, “The Big Two Hearted River.”  In those days, one crossed the Straits of Mackinac by ferry. In 1957 the bridge opened, spanning the straits.

It’s getting late in the afternoon when I stop at Trout Lake.  There is a small IGA here with wonderful sandwiches, piled high with sliced meats.  As I plan to have dinner with friends once I arrive in Marquette, I choose instead a cone of hand-dipped black cherry ice cream.  Waiting for the clerk, I look around the store for a minute.  In addition to groceries and a deli, they have fishing and camping gear and some hardware. The store seems to be a place from the past, which is why I like stopping here.

Stepping outside, the bells of the railroad crossing clang. I walk around the building to watch a CN engine pulling a mixed assortment of log and tank cars in from the Sault. The engineer stops at the “Y”, just shy of the road crossing. The brakeman steps off, unlocks and then turns the switch. The train proceeds. Its diesels rumble and cars sway, as it makes its way through the junction. After crossing the highway, the train takes the tracks which runs toward Seney. Eventually, I assume, it’s destination is the paper mill at Munising.  I watch it rumble down the tracks for a few minutes, then get back in my truck and continue driving.

I’ve stopped at Trout Lake many times, but have never lingered more than a few minutes.  But I like the area and the IGA with its wonderful ice cream and homemade sandwiches.  There’s a nice lake here, a few hundred years south, as I can see through the pines. Today, this area seems so isolated, mainly a place for fishermen on the lake to replace tackle or buy beer and for snowmobilers to fill up in winter as they race through on their cross-country runs across the UP.  It’s not always been this laid back.  

A 100 years ago, Trout Lake was a small but bustling community at  the crossroads of the Eastern UP.  The Duluth, South Shore and Atlantic Railroad which ran across the South Shore of Lake Superior crossed the Soo Tracks here as it headed toward St. Ignace.  The Soo ran from Ontario, through Sault Ste. Marie and past Trout Lake to Naubinway and along the North Shore of Lake Michigan through Manistique, Gladstone, into Wisconsin and eventually to Minneapolis. 

Today, the old Duluth line only runs from this point to Munising, mainly servicing a paper mill and a lumber yard. The old Soo line is still intact, but the track gauge is light as is the amount of freight rumbling along the line. Over the years these railroads have gone by a number of names and an equal number of owners. Today, they’re operated by the Wisconsin Central (it’s an old name but a new corporation which handles a collection of lines own by the Canadian National). Sadly, the Duluth and Boston Express and other passenger trains along this line stopped running long before my birth.

I drive west, crossing the lines of the old Duluth, South Shore and Atlantic several times as I head across the UP on Michigan 28, passing through the quiet towns of McMillan, Seney, Shingleton and Chatham.  

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Wandering Around the Mountains of North Carolina

Title slide with photo of a CSX coal train descending through Spruce Pine, NC

I’m currently back in the North Carolina Mountains, at Montreat at a Board of Pension retreat, as I finish writing about a trip I made down here last month

CSX train heading south through Spruce Pine, NC
Spruce Pine, NC

The smoke poured across the eastern half of the country in mid-July. I was on vacation for a week and planned to work to do in the garden a few days. Then, on the weekend, we were to head north and spend some time in Staunton, visiting Woodrow Wilson’s library and exploring the Shenandoah Valley.  Unfortunately, as bad as the smoke was Southwest Virginia, it was worse further north. We  cancelled hotel reservations and set our sights south. 

The plan had been to stay in the Nuway Inn in Burnsville. I had spotted this place last fall when I was on a mission trip helping rebuild homes in the area. The Nuway Inn is the oldest hotel in state in continuous operation. With no rooms available, I found another interesting place, the Blue Ridge Boutique Hotel in Spruce Pines. With a place to stay for a few nights, I pointed the car south, driving along the Blue Ridge Parkway, and stopping for lunch at the Bluff’s Restaurant in Doughton Park. While I had never eaten in this restaurant, I have enjoyed their food many times as they cater for concerts at the Blue Ridge Music Center.  I recommend their meatloaf!

This area of the parkway just recently opened as several bridges had to be rebuilt and it has been closed most of the time since I moved to the mountains. Thankfully, it’s back open, but due to Hurricane Helene, there are still a section with bridges out around Grandfather Mountain. The re-route took us through the Blowing Rock. Whatever happened to the quaint little town I used to spend time in 40 years ago when I lived just down the mountain in Hickory? The traffic was terrible. 

After getting back on the Parkway, we drove a little further south before exiting at Spruce Pine. I often wondered about the name of this town. Spruce and pines are two types of trees. While both are evergreens, the needles on pine trees are softer and connected together in groups of two to five needles. Spruce (and firs) have individual needles. I found no one who could answer my question about the town’s name. Since both species of trees grow in the town, it works. The town is nestled along both banks of the peaceful North Toe River. The water was nice, but when Hurricane Helene visited the stream became a nightmare. Raging waters submerged the lower part of the town. 

Spruce Pines from the hotel patio
Spruce Pines from the hotel patio

We checked into the hotel, which was an old elementary school built in the 1930s, on a bank high above the river. The rooms were tastefully done and nice. However, walking the hardwood halls between rooms felt a bit haunted. I had nightmares of being transported back to my childhood at Bradley Creek Elementary School. Both schools dated from a similar time period. 

Not finding anything we wanted to eat for dinner in Spruce Pine, I suggested we try Burnsville, which is just down the road. We had a great dinner and good beer at Homeplace Beer Company, eating outside under an awning. While we ate, a light rain fell as thunder rolled through the mountains. I love that sound.. 

Saturday morning, we stopped at TJ Blue Ridge Cafe for a very filling breakfast. We ate on the sidewalk, watching CSX coal trains make their way through town heading south. This is the same line which runs through Camp Bud Schiele, he last camp I directed for the Boy Scouts before going to seminary. That summer, at camp, I stayed across the tracks from the camp . On two occasions missed the morning flag ceremony due to waiting for a coal train to pass. Hurricane Helene did a lot of damage to this line, known as the Clinchfield Route. Along the tracks were stacks of old railroad ties, obviously collected from the rebuilding projects along the line. 

Roan Mountain
Roan Mountain

After breakfast, we headed up to Roan Mountain with plans to do some hiking. Sadly, we were a bit late for the rhododendrons in bloom. This was the first section of the Appalachian Trail I hiked. I would go on to complete  the trail during the first summer break from seminary. It was May 1983 and four of his hiked from the Hot Springs to Highway 19e. It was rainy coming up Roan Mountain. We camped at a shelter near the top of the peak. The next morning was beautiful as the clouds filled in the valleys below.

radio operator working out of the back of his car
Radio operator working on relaying signals on the Appalachian trail

This was my first time back to Roan Mountain since that magical day. With storms all around, we didn’t do much hiking. Stopping at a pull-off, II spotted  a guy with an antenna up near his car, working a radio. I assumed he was working POTA (Parks on the Air). This is where someone sets up an amateur radio station remotely and makes contacts. There are people who log these contacts, trying to collect contacts from National and State Parks across the country. 

Instead, I was surprised to learn he was participating in working the “Appalachian Trail.” A group of 12 or so individuals or clubs staged themselves along the trail at high points. They passed information from Georgia to Maine using the 2 meter VHF band. He kept an eye on the storms. He knew if they came too close, he’d need to take the antenna down and seek shelter inside his car. Thankfully, the storms stayed far enough away, he could continue forwarding messages as we talked about our radio experiences. 

entrance to a felspar mine

Looking for a place where we could stay dry, we headed to the Emerald Village, which sounds as if it was the place which became a city in the Wizard of Oz. On one side of the highway was a museum at an old feldspar mine which, which crushed, provided the abrasive for BoAmi, a household cleanser. The mine displayed various pieces of equipment used in the extraction of the rock. 

inside the mine looking out
inside the mine looking out (much of the mine is now underwater)
Rocks under a blacklight
Rocks under.a blacklight

After the mine tour, we headed across the street where there was another museum and a place where one could shift through ore for gemstones. The museum was interesting, featuring a great collection of carbine headlamps worn by miners before battery power lights were available. There were also dark areas where black lights brought local gems to light.  After touring through the museum and going through a bucket of ore, we left with a bag of gems which included emeralds, amethyst, smoky and rose quartz, Calcite, pyrite, topaz, opals, and garnets.

searching for gems

On the way back to hotel, we stopped by Little Switzerland, visiting an old bookstore before eating dinner at the Switzerland Cafe. I had salmon which was excellent, along with a local beer. Back at the hotel, we walked a path along the river, visited a community garden, and then sat on the patio reading and watching the light fade from the hills. 

Banner Elk Presbyterian Church
Banner Elk Presbyterian Church

On Sunday, we drove the backroads up to Banner Elk, where we worshipped at the Presbyterian Church. The Pastor preached his first sermon in a series on the Beatitudes, which made me smile as I had just finished a series on 17 sermons on the Sermon on the Mount, which includes the Beatitudes. Afterwards, we drove back through Boone, another town that has lost its quaint charm in the decades since I lived in Western North Carolina. From there, we followed the New River home, stopping and checking out places like Todd, which I haven’t seen since the early 1980s. Arriving at Fries (pronounced Freeze), we stopped in a park for ice cream and listening to the river. I finished reading Louis L’Amour’s memoir, Education of a Wandering Man. Leaving Fries, another thunderstorm caught up with us as we approached Laurel Fork.

It was great to get away for a few days and to be out of the pulpit for a Sunday.  

Collection of mining lanterns
Collection of mining lanterns

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Civil War and Civil Rights: Travels in Central Virginia

title slide with author at the end of High Bridge

As I’m finishing up another vacation of which I plan to write about later, I thought I would catch up on Summer travels. In June, I took a week off. I spent a good portion of the time building a retaining wall, but was able to get away for three days and explore a bit of central Virginia.

Bear Creek Lake State Park, where we stayed

Last month I made a three day trip into an unfamiliar section of Central Virginia. Two things peaked my interest. One was to peddle the High Bridge Bicycle Trail.  The other was to visit the Moton Civil Rights Museum in Farmington. But while there, I also checked out a number of other sites dealing with the final days of the Civil War. As I written earlier, we moved to Petersburg, Virginia when I was six years old. I spent my first three years of elementary school in the all-white Walnut Hills Elementary School. We lived in Petersburg at the end of the Centennial of the War, I became interested and the war became real. Pieces of cannon balls and mini-balls (bullets) were often found as dirt was moved for home foundations and roads.

Petersburg is also where I have my first memories of race racial tension. We left in the summer of 1966 and you could feel the tension in the air. Petersburg would begin to integrate their school system that fall. There were four of us boys in a two block area who moved that summer. Everyone thought we were moving because of integration, but that wasn’t the case. Dad had always wanted to live near the coast and my brother and I headed with ur family into Southeastern North Carolina. The other brothers, Mark and Mike, moved with their mother to be near family in Michigan. Their father, who was a Master Sargent in the Army at Fort Lee, headed overseas. This time, they were not allowed to go with him. In the spring of 1966, Vietnam wasn’t on our radar. That would soon change. I’m pretty sure that’s where their dad headed. I often wondered if he made it back safely.

Thinking back to the spring of 1966, it’s easy to see how entwined the events of that year entangled with the events 101 years earlier. In early April 1865, after nine months of battle around Petersburg and Richmond, Union forces breached the Confederate lines. Lee had no choice but to pull his army out and make a dash west, in the hope to reunite with another Southern army in North Carolina. For a week, as Lee moved west, northern troops kept cutting off his retreat until finally, seven days later, he surrendered at Appomattox Courthouse. 

For whatever reason, we never visited these places when I lived in Petersburg. Maybe it was because there were more than enough Civil War battlefield sites around Petersburg. Maybe my parents didn’t want us to see where the surrendering took place. But it probably had more to do with us taking vacations either in the mountains or along the Atlantic shoreline. Yet, I remember many of the towns around these parts from my father who traveled there for work. He called on businesses and schools around Farmville, Dinwiddie, Amelia, Prince Edward County, and South Boston among other places. Driving along these roads on these dry June days, I found myself wishing I could ask him questions, especially about the schools as he often performed boiler inspections there. I don’t remember him saying much about the difference in black and white schools, but know he visited both. 

Beaver Dam
Beaver dam at Bear Creek Lake State Park

For the two nights on this strip, we stayed at a lovely cabin at Bear Creek Lake State Park. The cabin sat in the woods, not far from the small lake around which the park sat. Most of the park’s features were on the other side of the lake, a walk of a couple of miles in which I saw a beaver, a few harmless snakes, rabbits, and a few deer. After making the walk on the first night here, I came back to the cabin and fixed steaks while enjoying the evening.. 

At home, I live on a ridge overlooking a hay fields to the north with woods to the south and east. The birds often nest in the trees, but spend much of the day catching bugs or eating seeds in the high grass, while robins find worms in the yard. The thick hardwood canopy shading the cabin provided different bird sounds in the morning: flycatchers, warblers, gnat catches, and blue jays. But we didn’t spend a lot of time at the cabin.

bicycling. across high bridge

The next morning, we were in Farmville early as the day was going to be hot. By eight, we were peddling on the High Bridge Trail, which runs about 15 or so miles east and west of the city.  We didn’t plan to ride the entire trail. The highlight of the trail is the bridge, which is located five miles east of the city. The bridge spans the floodplain of the Appomattox River. The river itself at this point is not very wide, but the bluffs on each side create a half-mile wide valley covered with trees. When we arrived at the bridge, we crossed slowly. The bridge stands barely above the trees, providing interesting observations of birdlife in the top of the canopy.

At the ends of the bridge, plaques showed what the site looked like during the Civil War. The forest of today was absent, the trees having all been cut, probably for timbers for the massive structure. About a half mile after the bridge was a museum with the history of the bridge. One section showed the various tress patterns used in the the bridge, which was rebuilt three times during it’s history.. Another section explained the bridges role in the closing days of the Civil War.  

Appomattox. River from High Bridge

This line, built in the 1840s by the Southside Railroad, linked Petersburg to Lynchburg. It later became a part of the Norfolk Southern Railway. The maintenance on the bridge became to expensive and, with other alternatives linking the east to the west, the railroad abandoned the line in the early 2000s. It’s now a linear state park running from Burkeville to Pamplin City. 

This was a bridge that wouldn’t burn. As Lee’s armies evacuated Petersburg and Richmond and moved west, a Union calvary was dispatched to burn the bridge. This could have trapped Lee’s forces which consisted of 1800 wagons. However, the Confederacy had already fortified the approaches to the bridge and repelled the attack. A few days later, after Lee’s army with its massive number of wagons crossed the bridge, the South attempted to burn it. But with the Union forces on their heels, they extinguished the flames and quickly repair the bridge, allowing them to continue their pursuit. 

Civil Rights walking tour
Sidewalk walking path marker

After riding the trail, we headed to the Moton Museum which interprets the Civil Rights struggle in Farmville. This was an African American school which, in 1951, faced a student strike for better conditions. While the law required separate but equal facilities for all races, this wasn’t the case.

Moton School, now a museum
Restored Moton School in Farmville, now a museum

Students at the Moton School used old text books from the white schools. When room ran out in the older building, the school board built tar paper shacks around the brick building, where students froze in winter and sweated during the warmer months. There was no gym or shower facilities as in the white high school. In 1951, the students walked out. This was considered the first civil rights protest in the South. Later, this area saw white resistance to court ordered integration of schools. Instead of integrating, they shut down all the schools for several years. During this time, white students mostly moved to church sponsored schools and to this day, the racial divide continues between private and public schools. 

After two hours touring the museum, we headed out to Sailor’s Creek and then Cumberland Presbyterian Church. Both of these locations where locations of battles toward the end of the war. At Sailors Creek, the Confederates had difficulty getting all the wagons over the two bridges crossing the creek. While they repelled the attack, allowing most of the army to escape, about a quarter of Lee’s army surrendered. The end at Appomattox was only 72 hours away. Cumberland Presbyterian Church, which is about 5 miles north of Farmville, was another blocking battle where a few units of Lee’s army attempted to slow Grant’s army. On the edge of the property of this church was a sign I’d never seen on a church ground: No Relic Hunting!

Cumberland Presbyterian Church
Cumberland Presbyterian Church
McLean House at Appomattox Courthouse
McLean House

On our last day, we spent the morning at Appomattox, which had been restored to look like it might have appeared in 1865, when Lee and Grant meet. I didn’t know the McClean House, where the papers were signed, had been taken down to be used in the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair and then to be displayed in Washington, DC. But it never made it and the building was rebuilt on its original foundation in 1948. It wasn’t till after World War 2 that the site received federal protection as a National Historic Site. Surprisingly, Appomattox, unlike most Civil War battlefields, remains mostly free of monuments. The exception being my home state of North Carolina. Maybe my relatives felt it appropriate to celebrate the end of this “rich man’s war.”  

Appomattox Courthouse
Patrick Henry's dining room
Patrick Henry’s dining room

That afternoon before we headed home, we stopped at Patrick Henry’s Red Hill. This was the home he retired to 1794, after his career in politics. Henry died in 1799. The estate is ran by a private foundation who attempts to reclaim the heritage of Patrick Henry. We remember his inflammatory words, “Give me liberty or give me death.” The interpretation along the grounds doesn’t shy away with the ironic view of such liberty for himself the enslaving people. They do a good job on displaying the lives of the slaves on the plantation. A short walk from the Henry home are the restored slave cabins and slave cemetery. Patrick Henry is also known for his work for the adoption of the Bill of Rights. 

Patrick Henry's Home
Patrick Henry’s Home

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Festival of Faith and Writing and My April Trip to Michigan

title slides with photos from trip

I’m delayed in finishing up this post on part two of my trip to Michigan for Calvin University’s Festival of Faith and Writing. To read part 1, click here. Sorry, but I didn’t take many photos at the Festival.

Friday, April 17, 2026 

Barbara Brown Taylor speaking at the Festival of faith & writing
Barbara Brown Taylor speaking at the end of the Conference

On Thursday morning I first attended a discussion between Robin Kimmerer and Kyle Meyaard-Schaap, moderated by Debra Rienstra. I’VE read all of Kimmerer’s books and have just finished Meyaard-Schaap’s book, Following Jesus in a Warming World.  I also read Rienstra’s weekly Refugia newsletter. The conversation started with an interesting twist. Kimmerer expressed curiosity as to why she was invited to a conference about faith. Not thinking of herself as a faith writer, she expressed interest into why so many Christians seem drawn to her work. Meyaard-Schaap responded that Christians long for a deeper story than we sometimes are fed, and that the Old Testament is essentially an indigenous story. Kimmerer is Native American. 

The 45-minute conversation provided many insights which ranged for what we think about the human body, to the land we inhabit, and to how fear is not sustainable. Everyone agreed in the need theologians to address the ecological crisis.

My second morning session was a conversation between Laurie Halse Anderson and Ayana Mathic titled “Rewriting the Record: Literature, Memory, and the Histories We Inherit.”  Deb Van Denen moderated the conversation. 

My next lecture was by Kiki Petrosing, titled “Spell, Ceremony, Miracle: The Literary Narrative of a Lapsed Catholic.” I was especially interested in hearing her conversation having read two of her books of poetry, Bright: A Memoir, and White Blood: A Lyric of Virginia.  I also learned more of her relationship to her mentor, Gregory Orr, as both have tragedy in their past. 

At lunch, I took part of a writing circle focusing on memoir. Courtney Ellis, who along with her husband, pastors a Presbyterian Church in California, led the discussion.  Most of the lunch hour focused on the mechanics of memoir writing, drawing heavily on Annie Dillard and Anne Lamont.  She reminded us of the difficulty of publishing memoirs unless we were able provide a different hook to make our story even more interesting.  This “hook,” can help us create a framework. She also reminded us how we can’t write everything and must make decisions as to what we should cut. As a preacher, she thinks about her stories from the pulpit and won’t include anything which she would feel uncomfortable saying in a sermon. She also encouraged us to write within a community (writing group) to get helpful critique. 

After lunch, I attended the most straightforward “how-to” lecture of the conference. Margot Stenbuck, an editor and author of A Grown Woman’s Guide to Online Dating,” talked about how to pitch non-fiction books. While her outline was straight and organized, with details about the cover letter and what to say not to say, she tied it all together referring to clips from the movie “Hitch.” In a humorous manner, she presented finding a publisher (or editor) akin to finding a spouse.

My closing lecture was Ross Gay, a poet, who describes himself as a student of joy. He mostly drew on his work, Why I Garden, which sold out, but I did come home with another of his book of poetry, Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude.  His readings were enjoyable, but I didn’t take many notes. However, I did appreciate a side comment made between poems as to his indebtedness to Amy Leech’s work. I recently read another of her books and reviewed it here. 

Saturday, April 18, 2026

I began the final day of the conference sitting in on a discussion between Ross Gay, whom I heard the evening before, and his friend Patrick Rosal.  Not only delightful, but the conversation showed their genuine friendship for each other. They play basketball together but now live far apart so they appreciated the festival bringing them together. Throughout the conversation they told stories about the other and spent a lot of time laughing and causing us to laugh. 

Next, I attended a conversation with Barbara Brown Taylor, an Episcopal priest and college professor. Back in the 1990s, as Taylor began her ascent as one of the great preachers of the generation, I spent a week with her and 12 other preachers in San Francisco. A lot has changed since then as she left the church for the college classroom. For much of this presentation, she talked being “a free-range preacher.”  While she no longer a pastor of a congregation, she still gets invited to preach in churches all over the nation.  She joked about this new role, comparing herself as the babysitter who brings with her a dart board and steel darts.  The other thing which impressed me is how she still draws and relies on her mentor from seminary, the late Fred Craddock.  She mentioned him several times including his saying, “you’re a preacher. You hold the camera; you don’t get in front of it.” 

At lunch, I was with the second meeting of the memoir writing group. Courtney Ellis began with an exercise. We had to give two sentences of a scene from our story. Then, each of us had to ask questions based on those two sentences, to help the writer draw deeper into the story.  After this exercise, she provided a few closing insights into publishing and the role of social media. 

After lunch, I attended a conversation titled “Witnessing What’s There: Writing and Attention in a Wounded World” which featured Daniel Jose’ Camaco and Alejendra Oliva with Alisa Tigchelaar moderating.  The conversation centered around their work as activist writers in a conflicted world of immigration. Then I attended Christine Byl’s talk titled Place and Landscape as Character. Living between Montana and Alaska, Bly has written about her work building trails and living in remote areas. 

The closing plenary lecture featured Barbara Brown Taylor. As always, she was amazing as she spoke about the power of words. As she often does, nature played a role in her insights. She also drew from her recent book, Holy Envy, in which she writes about engagements with students from other faiths through her teachings. Part of her talk she included in a recent Substack post. 

After leaving the conference, driving back to the hotel and thinking about dinner, I spied Red Lobster. For some reason, I recalled a day of Christmas shopping with my daughter twenty years earlier.  At this point in her life, people thought she was Dakota Fanning, the child music star. Twice that morning, in stores, people had told her she looked like the star. Then, at lunch at Red Lobster, the waitress fawned all over her, again, thinking she was Dakota Fanning. I’m not sure what came over me, but I suggested she sign a napkin Dakota and leave it on the table. While I thought it would be a good joke, my daughter conscience wouldn’t allow it. I pulled in for a late dinner, recalling the events of twenty years earlier, before heading back to the hotel. 

Sunday, April 19, 2026 

Sunday morning, I attended The Church of the Master, which has over the years done incredible work with worship. I have attended this church many times, going back before living in Michigan. Several times when staying with Jack Stewart, we’d attend church there. The last time, they’d just called a woman from Scotland as pastor, and I really enjoyed her sermon. This church also an incredible group of congregants who were the intelligentsia within the Christian Reformed Church. But this time, the preaching wasn’t overly impressive. But I enjoyed other parts of the service. The most unique thing was the detailed bulletin that didn’t name any of the clergy participating. 

After church, I headed to Hastings. While I waited to meet my friend Bob for lunch, I walked along the riverwalk which runs where the old Michigan Central Line used to be. There, along the Thornapple River, was a series of monuments consisting of pages from a children’s book about an owl in Central Park in New York City. At each stop, there was a place for those walking to stop and read. This new feature was dedicated to Jane Arnold, a former 1st Grade teacher from Hastings who was a member of the church when I served this community. I had heard but forgotten that she had died. 

Bob at Cedar Creek
Bob at Cedar Creek

After lunch, Bob and I headed down to Pierce Cedar Creek, where we hiked back in the woods by Cedar Creek, where I had walked and skied or snowshoed many times when I lived in Hastings. The leaves on trees were just beginning to unfurl, allowing the flowers along the ground to put on a display. I estimated nature here is about two weeks behind what where it’s at in the Virginia Mountains. 

Swamp marigold amongst skunk cabbage
Swamp marigold amongst skunk cabbage

It’s always a joy to be in the woods with Bob as his botanical knowledge far exceeds mine. We looked at the small flowers blooming before the forest canopy closed in and shaded the ground. The swamp marigolds amongst the skunk cabbage in the lowlands were especially beautiful. 

That night, we had decided to eat ice cream for dinner at the new Culvers in town. We stayed up late talking. 

Cedar Creek

Monday, April 20, 2026

Jim paddling a canoe in winter
Nim paddling in the bow in winter

On Monday, I met Jim, my winter canoe partner, for breakfast at Richies. It was good to be served by Sandy, who still waits on tables there, and to see a lot of old regulars from when I lived in town. After lunch, I meet with the other Jim, who was my assistant at the church when I was there. He doesn’t get out much these days as he cares for his wife and depends on a walker or cane to get around. 

Afterwards, I called the finance manager at First Presbyterian Church. Nancy lost her husband a little over a year ago from a heart attack just a month after he’d retired. She had planned to retire a year earlier but stayed on a second year to have a place to go and to let the church minister to her in her grief. I had talked to her after Dave’s death, and wrote to her, but hadn’t seen her since I left Hastings. Nancy now plans to retire after the books close this year. 

author standing by his portrait
Standing by my portriat

I dropped by the church to see her, which seemed odd as this was the first time I had been in the church since I left in the summer of 2014. I had called Nancy, the church’s finance manager, to see if I could visit. She seemed delighted and had some time before a 1 PM finance meeting. Nancy has been the finance director for the past 25 years, including all the time I was at the church. She had planned to retire a year earlier, but then her husband who had just retired, died from a massive heart attack. I talked to her afterwards and wrote to her, but had not seen her since that tragic event and wanted to drop by. Nancy insisted on showing me my “full-sized” portrait on a hallway in the church. We talked about old times and how she was doing without Dave, along with what her kids (and grandkids) are doing.  She introduced me to their pastor (the second one since I left). I stayed long enough to greet those on the finance committee, all who were in the church when I was the pastor. 

When I left the church, I stopped for a quick lunch and then drove to South Bend. I picked dinner as I knew I would be boarding the train after the dining car closed. Next, I dropped the rental car off at Enterprise and had them give me a lift back to the train station.  A little after nine, I boarded the train and headed east, running through the towns and cities below Lake Erie. I slept. I don’t even remember stopping in Cleveland. 

Tuesday, April 21, 2026

Selie by train
Selfie by train in Cumberland MD

I woke up early in the morning, just before we pulled into Pittsburgh, watching another familiar area as the train ran along the Ohio River and then over the Allegheny and into the Steel City.  I noticed a bicyclist getting on the train at the stop in Pittsburgh. It was 4:30 AM. Soon, I was back asleep, but at breakfast I talked to the bicyclist who’d just completed the C&O Canal and the Great Allegheny Passage train, which brother and I had done last May. This was his fourth ride on the trail and now headed back to his home to Washington, DC. 

Breakfast became an interesting place to meet folks. There was an attorney who worked for the District Attorney in Austin, Texas. Another woman had spent the past six years taking care of her sister in Salt Lake City, Utah. She decided to buy a rail pass and was heading to Miami.  After a stop in Washington, I boarded the Southern Crescent for the last leg of my ride through the Virginia Countryside. Sitting next to me was a guy named Brandon, heading to Charlotte to see his brother who was in a traveling theater group. Brandon lives in Narobi, Kenya and works as an attorney for the United Nations.  I enjoyed our conversation.  I arrived back in Danville, from where I started a week earlier, a little after 11 PM. 

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Pentecost, The Right Path, and a Paddle Down the Missinaibi

Title slide with photo of Mayberry and Bluemont Churches

Jeff Garrison
Mayberry & Bluemont Churches
May 24, 2026
Matthew 7:13-14

Sermon recorded at Bluemont on Thursday, May 21, 2026

Theology minute on “Pentecost” 

Bird nest in arms of a cross decorated for Pentecost
Bird nest in arms of a cross decorated for Pentecost at Bluemont Presbyterian Church.

Today is Pentecost. As a theology minute, and before we get to the sermon, let’s reflect on the meaning of Pentecost. The word comes from the Greek for 50. Depending on how you count it, Pentecost is 50 days after Easter. Most of us would count 49 days, so close enough. In some English traditions the day is also known as Whitsunday, referring to the white robes of baptism often performed on this day. 

Pentecost is the day the Holy Spirit descended as in a flame on the faithful who had gathered in Jerusalem, giving the disciples the spirit and the power to begin the church. From a standpoint of the church, the day is perhaps third in importance to our theology, behind Good Friday and Easter.[1] However, it often gets overlooked since many years it falls after Memorial Day, when people take off for vacations. 

Many people wear red on Pentecost as we recall the flames of the Spirit. In most Presbyterian Churches, and in our denominational seal, you’ll find two flames. They represent the flames of the Spirit in the Old and the New Testament. The Old Testament flame was God’s encounter with Moses at the Burning Bush which didn’t burn. In the New Testament, it’s the coming on the Spirit. 

In the Jewish world of the first century, this was a time for pilgrimages to Jerusalem. If you couldn’t make it for Passover, when the Mediterranean Sea was rougher, you’d come for Pentecost or, as it is known in the Old Testament, the Feast of Weeks, a harvest festival.  

As we heard earlier in our reading from Acts 2, Jews throughout the Roman World gathered in the holy city on this day. The empowering of the church encouraged incredible preaching in languages people understood, allowing them to carry back the good news to all corners of the empire. God works in mysterious yet incredible ways. 

Before reading the Scripture:

Today, we’ll begin the ending of Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount. Last week, we saw how Jesus provided those listening to the sermon how they might live a notable life which helped not only them, but the world around them, to flourish. Jesus now moves to his closing in which he gives three eschatology or “end times” warnings to insist those listening to him take his teachings seriously.[2]  All three of Jesus’ warnings contrast two different concepts: gates, prophets, and houses. We’ll look at each set individually, starting today and in my next two sermons.  

Jesus began the sermon with the beatitudes which sounds mellow. Then, in a way, the center of the sermon which we finished last week, focuses on expanding the beatitudes into helpful ways we might be more Christ-like.[3] Now, at the end, he warns us to be careful. A good life is not just obeying the law in a manner others may praise. A good life means we strive for righteous, not just in our deeds, but also in our hearts. That latter part is more difficult.


Read Matthew 7:13-14

Missinabi River canoe trip, 1992
On the Missinaibi

In the summer of 1992, I paddled the Missinaibi River in northern Ontario. The river ends at the James Bay in the sub-arctic region of Canada.  About halfway through the trip, the river slips off the Canadian Shield, a large granite base which stretches from just north of the Great Lakes to the sub-arctic. Where the river comes off the shield, a series of waterfalls and dangerous rapids requires two long portages. The first, at Thunderhouse Falls, is a mile long. The second, around some difficult rapids, is two and a quarter mile hike through a bog. It was a workout.  

Thunderhouse Falls is up there with Niagara. You don’t try to run it. The river, which has been two to three hundred yards wide narrows down into a slot between the rock that in places is less than ten yards across. If you hike up to the edge and to look down, it’s scary to see the force of the water. It’s also so noisy you must yell to talk to someone next to you. It’s so noisy you don’t even hear the buzz of mosquitoes feasting on your exposed skin. 

Thunderhouse Falls

Thankfully, during this trip, the guy who helped me arrange for shuttles and stuff, sat me down with a map and pointed out this rapid and a problem which existed on the map. The map showed the portage trail on the east side of the river, but it was on the west side. Making it even more dangerous for those who didn’t know this, they would have to ferry back across the river at a point where the flow accelerates. A little mistake could easily pull you past the point of no return and you’d be sweep down a mile long rock crushing gorge with a series of good-sized waterfalls. 

The guide suggested after we passed a small easily identified rapid a mile upstream, we hug the west or left bank and carefully look for the trail.[4] We did and didn’t have any problems other than sore shoulders from lugging the canoe and gear overland. I later learned that over a dozen years the misguided map was in circulation, ten paddlers died in the river. 

Had the guide not given us the clues needed, I don’t know what would have happened. Like with Jesus’ teachings in our text today, we must find the right gate and travel on the right path. Moses and a generation later, Joshua, called the Hebrew people to decide between life and death.[5] Jesus issues a similar challenge to those who listen to him preach. The passage today calls us to seek the narrow gate and the hard road. 

But it’s tempting to enter the wide gate and the easy road. But that journey will end in destruction. Think of getting caught in the current on the Missinaibi and drawn down the roaring river toward Thunderhouse Falls. Once the current catches you, it’s hard to make it out before it’s too late. 

With this warning from Jesus, we could be tempted to throw our hands up in resignation. After all, it appears Jesus suggests most people don’t take his path and are bound for damnation. But with these warnings, as he’s done throughout the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus offers practical and not dogmatic advice.[6] He’s not saying, look at all the people bound for perdition. Instead, he encourages us to take the right path. 

We don’t know who or how many are saved. Instead, this passage challenges the idea that we should make our determination on what is right or wrong based on an opinion poll. Don’t strive to be in the majority. Think about this. Jesus may be calling us to join the “moral minority.”[7] Just because everyone else is on a particular path doesn’t mean it’s the right way.

And, the right path isn’t easy. We’ve seen this throughout Jesus’ teachings here. Jesus wants us to follow him, and we know the direction of his travels. Jesus’ path led to Golgotha. His path took him to the cross. Jesus willingly gave up a life he loved for us. And we’re called to be willing to give up our own lives for others. As the hymn The Old Rugged Cross goes, to lay down the trophies of this life for a cross for which we, one day, can exchange for a crown. 

Jesus, at the end of the Sermon on the Mount, calls us to a conversion. We’re to make him our Lord,[8] and be willing to live for him. For, as Peter would later claim in John’s gospel, only Jesus has the words of eternal life.[9] The wide and easy road may look appealing, but that’s not where our Savior leads. Often, we want to take the easy way, along with everyone else, but such a path is not where we’re called as followers of Jesus. The life of discipleship requires us to make Jesus our Lord and to commitment ourselves, day after day, to follow him and not the crowd. 

One of the problems with an over emphasis on making the decision to follow Jesus is that it sounds as if all you must do is confess your sins and invite him into your heart and then your set. But that’s not scriptural. Think about the Hebrew people. When they crossed the Sea, they experienced salvation from the Egyptian army, but still had the wilderness to cross and would spend 40 years there. The Apostle Paul encourages us to work out our “own salvation with fear and trembling,” but Paul also goes on to remind us that God also works within us to make our own work possible.[10]

The gate represents our decision to accept Jesus as Lord. The road represents the ongoing journey, which we struggle throughout our lives as we move closer toward the eternal kingdom. This struggle, as we’ve seen throughout the Sermon on the Mount, involves not just external piety. Obeying the letter of the law, as demonstrated by the Pharisees of Jesus’ day, could be done. But Jesus desires a deeper change within our hearts, as he pointed out repeatedly in the Sermon on the Mount.[11] Our call and our only hope for salvation is to follow him through the tight gate and down the narrow and hard road. Amen.  

photo of Jeff Garrison in the pulpit at Mayberry Presbyterian Church
The video of the sermon shows me in something other than red, today I was wearing red!

[1] I place Pentecost before Christmas because without the church, we’d not even have a reason to celebrate Jesus’ birth. Besides, only two of the Gospels recall Jesus’ birth. Good Friday offers us salvation; Easter provides us with a future hope. These two realities, transmitted to the world through the church, starts on Pentecost.

[2] Douglas R. A. Hare, Matthew: Interpretation, a Commentary for Teaching and Preaching (Louisville, KY, JKP, 1993), 81. 

[3] See https://fromarockyhillside.com/2026/05/17/asking-god-and-the-golden-rule/

[4] There were no good guidebooks to the river in 1992.  Hap Wilson has since published Missinaibi: Journey to the Northern Sky (Erin, Ontario: Boston Mills Press, 2004). Wilson mentioned the deaths at Thunderhouse Falls due to the mistaken map. 

[5] Deuteronomy 30:15-20 and Joshua 24:15.

[6] Hare, 82.

[7] Frederick Dale Bruner, The Christbook: Matthew 1-12 (1990, Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2004), 350

[8] Bruner, 349. 

[9] John 6:68.

[10] Philippians 2:3-4.

[11] Jonathan T. Pennington, The Sermon on the Mount and Human Flourishing: A Theological Commentary (Grand Rapids, Baker Academics, 2017), 274. 

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Heading to Grand Rapids and Part 1 of the Festival of Faith and Writing

title slide
Selfie of me by the train
When I returned home, not only did I get a chair cut, I trimmed my beard!

On Tuesday morning, April 14, after filing an extension for my taxes, I boarded the northbound Crescent, in Danville, Virginia. At Union Station in Washington, DC, I had long enough a break to eat before catching another train bound for Chicago. My destination was South Bend, Indiana, a city I arrived in a little before 8 AM on Wednesday.  I had planned to get a sleeper. When I first looked at this trip, I could have done each leg for about 400 dollars, but after the debacle of airlines and unpaid TSA agents, train travel became more popular. Two weeks later the cost for a sleeper on each leg jumped to 900 dollars (over $1800 total) and I decided I could travel coach. 

Stair in Lowery's Book Store painted to be the back of books
Stairs inside Lowry’s

I have attended the Festival of Faith and Writing many times. It’s held every even year and Calvin brings in around 60 authors. They don’t have to be Christian, although most are. The one requirement is that the authors write seriously about faith. As with the other years, this year didn’t disappoint. As before, there those authors I wanted to hear and meet. In addition, there were other authors I didn’t know, whom I heard and are now interested in reading their works. 

The festival opened with its first plenary speaker, Laurie Halse Anderson, who writes historical fiction for young adults. I was not familiar with her work, but she has won the Nobel Prize in Children’s literature.  She has written some interesting books around the American Revolution. Her success, she credits, is with doing the research of a non-fiction writer to assure her stories are factual. She also focuses on the “ordinary.” Instead of writing about Washington or Franklin, she tries to bring in the common people, especially women, children, and minorities. Through their eyes, she shows how they perceive the events of the day. She also talked about how writing one book leads to another. Having written about the Revolutionary War, she became interested in a Yellow Fever epidemic in Philadelphia a few years later, which resulted in Fever 1793.  I plan to read that book. 

In addition to four plenary speakers, the Festival offers numerous concurrent sessions throughout the three-day period. The first afternoon, I attended a conversation by two young adult writers (Kate Albus and Dana VanderLugt) discussing the craft of writing fiction and how it can be used to draw younger readers into the past. 

Next, I attended a presentation by Carrie Fountain titled “About a Million Blessings a Day.”  Fountain is a poet who sets out every morning to write a poem. She acknowledges, most are not very good, but she feels the need to get something on paper and overtime has a collection of material with which to work. I enjoyed listening to the poems she recited and came away with an autographed copy of her book of poetry, The Life. Fountain charmed me by asking where I was from when I was having her book signed. She then complementing me on the sound of my voice. The next day a guy I was talking to during a break stopped me in mid-sentence to ask if I read Audible books. I thought he meant listening and I said I generally have one going all the time. Then he said, I don’t mean listening, I mean reading, you have the ideal voice.  I laughed and said it would be ideal until I butchered the punctuation of some word. 

That night, the plenary speaker was Robin Wall Kimmer. The title of her talk “The Serviceberry: Abundance and Reciprocity in the Natural World” is also the title of her latest book which I read and reviewed (link above) in January. Of all those authors in attendance, Kimmerer was the one I really wanted to hear. She’s both a scientist and a Native American and draws on both in her books, of which I have read all three. I read Gathering Moss in 2021 and Braiding Sweetgrass (her most popular) in 2024. While Kimmerer titled her talk after her book, it wasn’t a recap of writing. Instead, she presented a thesis around what the writer can do to help heal the world. Her first rule: always begin with gratitude. She encourages writers to help people know their place on earth. For nature writers, she suggests we celebrate the living world, foster kinship, incite wonder, inform, sound the alarm on danger to the planet, seek justice, and defend wild places. She also peppered her talk with startling statistics such as the average American child can identity only 10 plants but knows around 100 cooperate logos.

Discussion with Debra Rienstra, Robin Kimmerer, and Kyle Meyaard-schaap
Kimmerer (in the middle) talking to Debra Rienstra and Kyle Meyaard-Schaap

Kimmerer also spoke of the danger of linguistic materialism, moral exclusion, and how the colonial experiences around the world have damaged native languages which were more earth based. Of all the presenters over the three days, I took far more notes (4 whole pages) on Kimmerer’s talk. Most other talks I only took a single page of notes. After her talk, I checked into my hotel and then walked over to a nearby Olive Garden where I had dinner with a former colleague. MaryMartha served with me when I was the pastor in Hastings (2004-2014), serving as the church’s adult ministry coordinator. Several years ago, when her husband Larry began to decline in health, they moved to a continuing care center on the southside of Grand Rapids. Larry has since died. I enjoyed our late dinner and talk, but was ready to crash when I got back into my room.

To read Part 2, click here.

  (look for part 2 in a couple weeks) 

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A Trip to the Low Country

Title slide with a photo from inside the church, kayak in the Okefenokee, and a train

Earlier this month I was able to get away for a week to attend the Theology Matters Conference at Providence Presbyterian Church on Hilton Head. In addition, I was able to spend a few days in the Okefenokee, watching trains, and catching up with a few former co-workers. I left home with temperatures just above freezing, worrying that the rain would begin to freeze. Thankfully, by the time I was down off the Blue Ridge, the temperature was much warmer with no chance of ice. As I continued to drive down, with a kayak lashed to the top of my car, I listened to Gilbert King’s,  Devil in the Grove: Thurgood Marshall, The Groveland Boys, and the Dawn of a New America. I’ll review the book early in April. 

On the way down, I met Deanie for lunch. During my tenure as pastor on Skidaway, she was an associate pastor and a delightful colleague. We had wonderful Mexican meal at a restaurant just outside of Savannah. We caught up on what’s going on in our lives, with our families, and with friends.  Then I turned east and drove to Hilton Head, passing the never-ending sprawl with countless stoplights which has become the South Carolina Low Country.  I checked into my hotel, then headed over to the church for a low country boil (shrimp, sausage, corn, potatoes and seasoning). 

While at the conference I enjoyed catching up with old friends and making some new ones while listening to the speakers at the lecturers. The weather was wonderful, but like always, the island feels overcrowded. I didn’t even walk out to the beach! This year’s theme was “The Good Shepherd Lays Down his Life for the Sheep.” 

Providence Presbyterian Church Sanctuary. Rev. Dr. Raymond Hylton speaking

While I enjoyed all the speakers, especially the sermons by Raymon Hylton, Pastor of National Presbyterian Church in Washington, DC, the highlight was Andy Dearman. A retired Biblical scholar who did a marvelous job of weaving the Old and New Testament together around the conference’s themes. While I enjoyed the conference, I kept looking out those beautiful windows at the church. From my pew, I could se the tops of magolias, pines, live oaks decked out in Spanish moss, and sweet gum trees. My mind kept being drawn to the kayak on top of my car and what I’d be doing a few days later…

After the conference, I drove down to Skidaway and met with Jim, who is still the Administrator at Skidaway Community Church. This was my first time being back at the church since the January of 2022, when I was there to officiate at the funeral for a friend.  It was great seeing the improvements and hear of the plans for the church’s future. Since I lift, Jim has taken to writing, especially “flash fiction.”  He’s even had a couple of pieces published in a local magazine which often published my work when I was living there.

A good sized gator

I then drove down to the Okefenokee.  I spent two days in the swamp, but was unable to obtain camping reservations inside the park due to the busy season and the low water which cut off some of the canoe trails.  

The first night, I was able to stay in a caboose. Folkston is a great place to watch trains as just above the town two main lines merge which bring trains to and from Florida to the Northeast and Midwest. Especially during the night, the tracks seemed busy, often with two trains, one heading north and the other south, crossing at the same time. The caboose was comfortable for me, with a deck out back where I did some writing and reading as I watched trains. There were four bunks on one end of the caboose, a sitting area in the middle and a small kitchen and even smaller bathroom on the other end. 

Home for a night
My plate: Grilled chicken, chopped
barbecue, collards, and beans

 After spending the day in the refuge, and checking into the caboose and then walked over to Jalen’s Barbecue. Many people will probably pass it by as dump, but their chopped barbecue and roast chicken was wonderful. I just wish I had arrived in time to have had ribs, but they’d sold out. And, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but they had the best collards I’ve ever had. They were not mushy and were quite tasty.  Normally, I prefer turnip greens, but I’d go for collards if they were that good. 

It was weird paddling within the swamp as the water was a couple feet lower than any of my previous trips into the swamp. I mostly paddled Chesser and Mizell Prairies. In previous times, you could paddle across the prairies, but this time the water level kept me in the canals.  I was a little early for flower blooms. But as always, birds were plentiful. Egrets, ibis, sandhill cranes, kingfishers, woodpeckers, and so on. There were plenty of turtles and alligators sleeping along the banks. 

It’s been a while since I paddled my Phoenix Isene Kayak. Lately I’ve mostly paddled my big sea kayak, which is 18′ 6″ long. This boat is 14′ 9″ and weighs (empty) 28 pounds. It was good to be back in this boat.

Sandhill Crane

I spent my second night camping in my hammock at Okefenokee Pastimes, a campground and restaurant just outside the park. I had a Philly Che esesteak Sandwich and beer for dinner as I talked with the new owner of the campground. That night, I slept in my hammock. While it was good to camp, I ran around too much with flip-flops and my ankles were well-chewed by sand gnats!

On Sunday, I set my sights north, heading up 301 to Waycross, and then on US 1 up into South Carolina. Somewhere along the way, I finished listening to Devil in the Grove. It began to rain as I crossed into South Carolina, so I slipped over to the interstate and made it home shortly after dark. 

This wasn’t my first rodeo… Links to past events

Theology Matters, October 2021

Theology Matters, March 2023

Day 1 of a 5 Day Okefenokee Adventure

Days 2 & 3 of a 5 Day Okefenokee Adventure

Days 4 & 5 of a 5 Day Okefenokee Adventure

Another Okefenokee Adventure

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The Battle of Moores Creek 250 Years Later

title slide with photo of the bridge and the 250 anniversary logo
My dad paddling in Moores Creek in November 2018

This July, our nation will celebrate its 250th anniversary. But before signing of the Declaration of Independence in Philadelphia on July 4th, battles occurred between British loyalist and colonists. Most these battles occurred in the New England states, and in New York and New Jersey. But one small yet significant battle occurred in Eastern North Carolina. This Friday will mark the 250th anniversary of this skirmish.

To raise troops to suppress the rebellion, the British set their eyes on raising an army of 3,000 soldiers from the Scottish Highlanders who had settled in the Sandhills of the Upper Cape Fear River region of North Carolina. Many of these Highlanders moved to North Carolina following the failure of the Scottish Bonnie Prince Charlie to take the British throne in the Jacobite rebellion. After the Battle of Culloden in 1745, under the threat of death, many Scots confessed their loyalty to the British crown and left Scotland. Quite a few of them ended up in the Sandhills of North Carolina. Others, who had not participated in the Jacobite Rebellion also relocated on the promise of free land offered by the frown. 

Cypress knees and ice, February 2010

The British governor of North Carolina, Josiah Martin suggested raising an army of Highland Scots from the Sandhills of North Carolina to help stabilize the Southern Colonies and give the British a base to quell the revolt. Martin hoped to raise an army upwards of 10,000, but his military commanders were only able to raise an army of approximately 1,600. 

In late February, the troops lead by Donald McDonald assembled at Cross Creek (now Fayetteville) to begin their march to the port in Wilmington. The plan was to unite with a larger British force coming to the colony by sea. They found the main road, on the south side of the Cape Fear River blocked at Rock Creek by Patriots led by Col. James Moore. Unwilling to fight as only about half of his new recruits had firearms, McDonald moved his force northeast, crossing the Cape Fear, and then south, along another road which paralleled the Black River. There were a few skirmishes along the way.

Reconstructed Moores Creek’s Bridge

On the night of February 26, the loyalist found a small contingent of patriots camped in from of what known as Widow Moores Creek bridge. They sent a Messager asking the colonist to surrender. They laughed the suggestion off. Thinking they vastly outnumbered the patriots, Mcleod, who assumed command on MacDonald’s illness, planned to attack. 

Two units of patriots had converged at Moores Creek, some twenty miles from Wilmington. The site was considered an ideal location to stop the Loyalists. The swamp around the creek would force the army to stay on the high ground. This allowed the patriots to create an effective field of fire. Col. Alexander Lillington and his unit of 150 men dug in along the eastern approach. These men were whom MacDonald’s scouts had observed on the 26th. What he didn’t know is that Col. Richard Caswell with 850 men from New Bern had dug in on the opposite bank. 

Reconstructed earthworks on the east side of the creek

Thinking there was only a small contingent of men guarding the bridge, Mcleod’s soldiers prepared to attack in the early morning hours on the 27th. After a six-mile night hike on a spooky road running through a swamp with trees draped with Spanish Moss, they prepared to assault Lillington’s forces in the early hours of the morning. Instead, they discovered his camp deserted, but the campfires coals remained warm. 

Col. Mcleod handpicked a contingent of men to cross the creek and to see where the enemy might be hiding. Dawn was just beginning to break, and a fog concealed the lowlands around the water. They carefully crossed the slippery timbers which had been greased with fat.

Road heading through the swamp

Coming off the bridge, they silently made their way through the fog and up the road out of the swamp. Maybe a twig snap. Suddenly, someone ahead shouted, “Who goes there?” “A Friend of the King,” was the response. At that point, knowing the enemy was just ahead, they drew sabers and charged up the road yelling “King George and Broadswords.” They were brave but foolish. But the patriots had dug in. It was a trap.

The patriots held their fire, hiding behind breastworks as the Scots came out of the fog. They charged like William Wallace reincarnated. When only 15 or 20 yards from the line, the patriots opened fire. In addition to their muskets, they were armed with two small canons loaded with grapeshot. With the road flanked on both sides by swamp, the Scots had nowhere to go. McLeod fell first, followed by fifty-some of his handpicked men. The rest of the Highlanders fled. The battle lasted only minutes. Over the next couple of days, they captured 800 or so of the Highlanders. They granted some pardons and went headed back to their farms. But many they banished to Nova Scotia, Florida or the West Indies.

It was a small engagement early in the war. But the battle discouraged the British from trying to conquer the Southern colonies. Their forces moved north where most of the fighting would occur for the next several years. The battle also helped the colonists in North Carolina by providing weapons and supplies. Interestingly, most of their Patriot weapons had been given to them by the British during the French and Indian Wars. That’s a lesson we still haven’t learned from history.

The battlefield is a National Park site. The earthworks are reconstructed. Numerous monuments have been erected, most given by the people of North Carolina in the great monument age (1890-1920). Two of the larger monuments are for Pvt. John Grady, the only death on the Patriot’s side, and for those Scots fighting as loyalists. After 120 years, old grudges died and the state (which after the Civil War entered a Scottish revival era) no longer harbored ill feelings for the losing side. 

In addition to the battlefield trail, there is a small museum with several period weapons. There is also a short “Tarheel” interpretive trail. This trail focuses on the role the longleaf pine played in the development of the “naval stores” industry. Interestingly, all the native longleaf pines have been cut. There are younger longleafs growing, but all the mature pines are loblollies. The battlefield trail takes you along a boardwalk into the swamp around Moores Creek, allowing up close views of a cypress swamp. The water is stained brown from the tannic acid of the cypress trees. These trees also have “knees” that protrude up from the muck. The Spanish moss gives the swamps an eerie feeling. In the summer, there’s a good possibility of encountering snakes and perhaps, if lucky, of seeing an alligator. 

I was last at Moore’s Creek in November 2018, with my father. We paddled up the creek from the Black River. 

Speaking at the Savannah St. Andrew’s Society in November 2019

In 2019, I spoke of this battle at the St. Andrews Society of Savannah annual St. Andrews banquet.  To read this speech, a part of which I used above, go to:  https://fromarockyhillside.com/2019/12/01/st-andrews-talk/

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Remembering Ralph on his 100th Birthday

title slide with photo of Ralph in California Majove Desert and his truck near Hamilton, Nevada

bottle of scotch with a glass of scotch on ice

Last Thursday, February 12th, Lincoln’s birthday, was also the 100th birthday of a late friend of mine, Ralph Behrens. That evening, his son (Rob who lives in Northern Utah) and I each had a Scotch in memory of his dad. 

Ralph and I met at a potluck dinner for Boy Scouts Troop 360. It was late 1993 or early 1994,, shortly after I moved to Cedar City, Utah. Sometime that evening we started talking. Ralph learned of my interest in mining towns as I had written a few journal articles on the Comstock Lode. At the time, I was considering returning to school for another degree. My hope was to write a dissertation focusing on the role the church played in mining camps.

I learned that Ralph grew up in Goler Gulch, a mining community in the Mojave Desert of California. It was a rough place to live during the Depression. Ralph graduated from high school in 1944 and joined the Army Air Corp. He arrived in the South Pacific near the end of the war, but earn a combat ribbon because, as he was fond of say, “some General wanted another metal so they loaded up a bunch of bombs on a 100 airplanes and we flew and blew the hell out of a handful of Japanese on an island we didn’t deem important enough to invade.” 

Shortly after that potluck dinner, Ralph and I started taking regular trips out into the desert. I’m not sure exactly how many trips we made, but we did at least a dozen or so trips in Utah, Nevada, California, and along the Arizona Strip. I even helped Ralph cut and haul wood for several years to heat his house. One trip we didn’t get to make when I was in Utah, but had discussed, was to the Hole in a Wall. In 2006, a couple years after having left Utah, I flew back and the two of us set out to visit this spot. While not an overnight trip, this was the last big trip we took. The next few times I visited, Ralph’s health had declined to the point he could no longer able to travel in such a manner. Ralph died in 2010. 

Ralph, his dog, brother, and father around 1930 in Goler Gulch, CA
Ralph’s dad, Ralph with his dog, and his brother. Goler Gulch, CA, around 1930

The story below I wrote in 2006. I’ve edited it and republished it here. 

We arrive in Escalante around 11 AM. This must be one of the strangest towns in Utah. A few years ago, the Mormon influence remained so strong you had a hard time finding 3.2 beer. Interestingly the town isn’t named after a saint, but a Catholic priest. Father Escalante came through here a century before the Mormons settled this area. He searched of a faster way from Santa Fe to the California missions. At that time only a few small bands of Paiutes lived in this hostile environment, descendants of the Anasazi whose culture flourished here until abruptly disappearing around 700 years ago. As Escalante discovered, travel in canyon country is difficult. It’s easier today, but by modern standards is still difficult.

I hadn’t been in Escalante for five or six years. The town appears prosperous; almost negating the doom predictions of the naysayers who predicted President Clinton’s creation of the Grand Staircase National Monument would be a catastrophic event. The town now has sidewalks with classic streetlamps, several new businesses and a new high school. Ralph pulls up in front of the Golden Loop, a diner. The logo has a cowboy standing tall in the saddle, with the “golden loop” of his lasso falling over the neck of a calf. As it’s not quite time for lunch, we hit the Roan Pony Bookstore next door first. I know right away things have changed in Escalante. 

“Don’t sell too many books to locals, do you?” I quip sarcastically to the salesclerk.

“We sell a few children books,” she replies, “but not many to adults.”

“I bet not,” I say while reading through the titles of books critical of the Mormon faith. She has a couple copies of Fran Brodie’s, No Man Knows My History. It’s a good biography of Joseph Smith, the faith’s founding prophet, and written by a granddaughter of Brigham Young, the faith’s second prophet. It’s been over fifty years since this book came out. Its publication got Brodie excommunicated and the book placed on the church’s blacklist. There are other books critical of the Mormon Church including a few titles by people who have left the church, encouraging others to follow in their footsteps. In another section of the small store are the works by Michael Moore, Calvin Tillian, Al Franklen, and other liberal thinkers. Not only is this Mormon country, but this is also Republican country, and these titles won’t gain her any friends. 

The Roan Pony also features a section reserved for environmental writers, Abbey and McPee and a host of others. The only thing worse than a liberal in this country is an environmentalist. Pick-up trucks all sport bumper stickers critical of environmentalists and nature lovers. “Hungry: Eat an Environmentalist,” reads one. Not too far from here, over on US 89, more than one effigy of Robert Redford has dangled in a noose. It’s obvious the Roan Pony isn’t marketing itself to the locals, but there are now plenty of tourists now flocking in to see this rugged country. I admire the owner. She’s a brave soul. Just having this bookstore in Escalante is akin to Jeremiah of the Old Testament standing up and telling King Zedekiah and his court what they didn’t want to hear. Of course, Jeremiah got thrown into a well.


The Roan Pony advertises a 20% off sale. She’s preparing to close for winter in a few weeks. I pick up a book that’s been on my reading list, Paul Theroux Dark Star Safari, figuring with a 20% markdown, I can support the local economy.

After the bookstore, we enter the restaurant and sit at a table. It takes a few minutes for the waitress to get to us. I order a hamburger and iced tea. Ralph asks for chili and coffee. After a few minutes more she brings out drinks. Then the waiting really starts. After a good fifteen minutes, after I’ve finished my tea and he’s drunk his coffee, Ralph quips: “If they keep up at this pace, we can make it dinner.” Not very happy at the service, I nod in agreement, saying something about them having to catch a cow before they can butcher it. But then the meal comes and the burger is tasty. This isn’t any corn fattened cow, its range fed and you can taste the difference.


As we’re finishing up with lunch, Ralph tells me the problem he’s been having with the lights on the truck. He can’t remember if he got ‘em fixed. I’m sure there was a speck of horror on my face. Ralph doesn’t use this truck much anymore, but he’s always keeps it in good running order. Seeing that we’ve lost an hour between the bookstore and diner, and there is little chance we’ll get back before dark, I heartily agree that we should check the lights out before we leave town. They work!

Ralph then tosses me the key and asks me to drive, complaining of his shoulder. As I maneuver out into the street, I ask if we should top off the tank. He doesn’t think so since the truck has a full 18 gallons reserve tank. We have plenty of snacks and water, just in case. We leave the town and civilization behind.

Just out of Escalante, we take the graveled “Hole in a Rock Road,” which runs southeast. Its fifty-four miles from the point we leave the pavement until the trail dead-ends on an overlook at the Colorado River. In the 19th Century, Mormons used this road to migrate into the Arizona Territory. It was a long and punishing trip. Once they got to the “Hole in a Rock,” an opening in the mountains above the Colorado, they lowered their wagons with ropes down to the ford in the river. The ford is gone; the Glen Canyon dam has flooded this part of the river to create Lake Powell.

Imposing cliffs rise to the right of the road, with bands like chevrons of different colored sediment running nearly the fifty miles. To the left, the country drops off into canyons that lead down into the Escalante River. There are a few signs noting points of interest along the way. There are also a handful of mileage signs which aren’t consistent. After ten miles on the road, a sign says its 51 miles to the end. Then, after only a mile, another sign says its 42 miles, which is about what we expect. Yet just a few miles beyond that sign, another one says we got 46 more miles. 

“You driving backwards, Ralph asks? We don’t place any confidence into the signs.

Hole in the Wall Road, Utah

The first thirty miles of the road is good; or as good as gravel roads in this country get. This is high desert; as far as one can see there are pinion and juniper trees, yellow rabbit brush, and sage. Just off the road, to the west, are acres of unique rock formations known as the Devil’s Garden. Large beige columns of mushroom like sandstone cover the area.

Afterwards, the road continues to lose elevation, and fewer trees are seen until somewhere under 4500 feet, they become non-existent. However, there are flowers: Orange Mellow, Sego Lilies, Snakeweed. It’s a pleasant surprise to find so many flowers blooming this late in the season, but the area has recently had rain as evident by the muddy bottoms in the ravines. Yucca plants are also prevalent, their spring blooms long dried by the sun and wind. Cottonwoods grow in a few washes, an indication of water in this barren land.

at the beginning of the Hole in a Rock road

As we approach the end, the cliffs and the canyons draw closer and the road snakes down into washes, only to wind steeply out of them. Driving is a challenge. The truck has no power steering, and I fight with the wheel while constantly downshifts to keep from burning out the brakes. On a few occasions, I even double clutch the truck into low, to get enough power to climb a steep embankment. We’re swung around at every bend. Driving, I recall the chase seen across slickrock in Edward Abbey’s Monkey Wrench Gang. But we’re not being chased by the Sheriff out of Moab, so I slow down.

It’s getting late in the afternoon, and we both begin to worry about getting back to the pavement before nightfall. Around 4 PM, after having covered maybe 2 miles in the past thirty minutes, we give up. We’re at least 4 miles from the “hole.” I was willing to continue, but I’d been there about 10 years earlier. Ralph had never been out this far. After swearing that it’s the worst road he’s ever been on (and he grew up in the desert Southwest), Ralph suggests we turn around.



Coming out goes faster than going in even though we’re driving into a north wind blowing sand down the road. Whenever we stop and get out, the sand stings my bear legs. As the sun drops closer to the Kaiparowits Plateau, we have one final adventure. I tell Ralph we’re low on fuel in the main tank and he instructs me on how to change tanks. I do and a minute or so later, the truck runs out of fuel. We stop to check things out. The switch has broken. 

“What are we to do now,” I ask? 

“Don’t worry,” Ralph says. “I’ve got my Oklahoma Gas Card,” as he pulls out a flexible tube from behind the seat. Although a toddler when his family left Kansas for the desert, Ralph somehow retained a prejudice against the southern neighbors of his infancy. 

Cliffs with pocket of water from recent rains

For the time being, I switched back over to the main tank and drove cautiously. The needle pegged empty as the sun slips below the mountains. I let out a sigh of relief when we turned back onto the blacktop of Utah Highway 12. A few minutes later, we’re back in Escalante and I pull in under the lights at a gas station. Filling up the main tank, I calculate we had less than half a gallon left in the tank. Had we continued on to the hole in a rock, we’d been out of gas and siphoning it from the other tank before we got back to civilization.

Once back on the highway, I watch the stars appear as we head west, arriving back at Ralph’s home in time for a late but wonderful dinner of short ribs, prepared by Pat, Ralph’s wife. Ralph fixes himself a martini and offers me a Scotch. 

Other stories of traveling with Ralph

Great Basin Mining Trip 

Camp Bangladesh (A humorous look at the two of us as summer camp Scoutmasters)

Goler Gulch (where Ralph grew up)

A 94 year old red head and the mother of Ralph’s childhood friend