I rolled over a few minutes before 5:30 AM and glanced at the sky. The stars are beginning to disappear, but bright above the eastern horizon were Jupiter and Venus, separating from their conjunction a few days earlier. Although I wasn’t planning on it, I dozed off and woke at 6 AM. Not wanting to miss the sunrise, I jumped up, quickly dressed, and trotted across the island to the ocean side. I’d missed a sunset the evening before as cumulonimbus clouds covered the horizon. After dark, these clouds produced a spectacular lightning show on the horizon. Thankfully, the storms stayed well inland.
As I crossed the dunes, the sun appeared. It was a beautiful start to a lovely day.
Paddling Over
I had paddled over to Cape Lookout from Harker’s Island the day before. I started paddling approximately two hours after high tide, assuming I would ride the falling tide out through Barden’s Inlet. I wasn’t counting on 18 mile-an-hour winds out of the Southwest. The wind in my face made for a tough paddle. As the wind was against the tide, it created a chop on the water. The paddle across took two hours, twice as long as I thought it would take to make the 4.5 miles paddle. My plan had been to camp on the beach side, but the wind was high enough that I found a nice place a few hundred yards south of the lighthouse. After walking around the lighthouse grounds, I fixed dinner at sat watching the night fall as several sailboats along with a Coast Guard cutter and a trawler moored for the night in the safety of Lookout Blight. As the skies darken, I could see lightning in the clouds to the west, but the sky above was clear and full of stars. Shortly after dark, crawled into my bivy tent. I was tired and ready for rest. Sleep came quickly. I woke up a couple of times, looking up at the summer stars as Scopious and Sagittarius climbed higher in the southern sky.
Lighthouse and assistant tenders home
After my early morning walk out to the beach to catch the sunrise, I came back to my camp and fixed breakfast (oatmeal and perked coffee). I enjoyed a pot of coffee, as I began to read Billy Beasley’s newest book, Home.
Enjoying coffee and a book from my camp chair
After packing up my gear and pulling my kayak beyond the dunes so it was not too noticeable, I set off on a hike. While I have been to Lookout many times, including camping in the woods north of the Lighthouse, I have never explored the island. Those late fall trips, which were always with others, main purpose was to fish. This time, I wanted to walk around the cape.
snake beside the water
Stuffing a water bottle and some food into a pack, I headed south along the inlet side of the island. Along the way I saw pieces of old ships that had floundered in these waters. I passed a number of old fishing shacks as I made my way to the village that once contained a Life Saving Station (where those in attendance would take surf boats out to save the crew of ships floundering in the offshore shoals). Later, the Coast Guard maintained a station here, and during the Second World War, the army stationed troops here and built machine gun bunkers as well as maintained artillery capable of firing upon enemy submarines offshore. They even had a landing strip and kept planes that were used to spot submarines in the shallow water
flowers among the dunes
me
part of a hull of a wrecked ship
Old Life Saving and Coast Guard buildings
I walked through the wooded areas which are covered with pines. I found the trees odd for a maritime forest, as they generally consist of more hardwoods like live oaks. But a historical interpretation sign indicated that the pines were planted between the 1940s and 70s. My first stop was at the jetty, a rock wall jutting out into the ocean to control erosion and to keep the inlet from closing in. I stopped for lunch, and then took off my shoes as I planned to walk back in the sand along the water.
From there, I headed toward the cape. Along the way, I picked up several old balloons to properly dispose. I wish people realized the danger of letting helium balloons go as they often end up in the ocean where large fish see them as jelly fish. Thinking they are getting a snack; they eat the balloon and die.
At the cape, there were a many people who had backed up their trucks and were fishing. These trucks would have been hauled over on a ferry to the north end of the island and then driven south to the cape. I only saw one fish caught, a small shark. I continued walking north, along the ocean, toward the distant light house.
the lighthouse from the cape
Horse on Morgan Island
After walking probably 8 or 9 miles, I got in my kayak and paddled over the Shackleford Banks, a barrier island that runs east to west. I hoped to see some of the wild horses on the island as I paddled around it. The tide had just started coming in and the waters were very shallow. I final found several horses on Morgan Island, but to the reach them involved walking my kayak in inches of water, as I was on the shallow side of these islands behind Shackleford. I arrived back at Harker’s Island at 7:30 PM. I quickly loaded my gear into the car and stowed the boat on the roof rack. By 8 PM, I was off to find something to eat on the mainland. Later, as I tired, I stopped at a hotel in Kinston, breaking up the drive back to the mountains.
I traveled to Bluefield last Friday to attend the HopeWords Writers’ Conference. I had never been to Bluefield, although I often taken the West Virginia turnpike, I-77, through West Virginia. The turnpike bypasses Bluefield by about ten miles to the north. Known for coal and trains, the Norfolk Southern yard takes up much of the flat land along the valley. The railroad’s shops to maintain engines and cars are on the west side of the tracks and in the middle of the yard, a large coal tipple rises like a village steeple in an English town. There are still a few long coal trains running through the city, but I’m sure not as many as in previous decades with the decline of coal.
The commercial district of Bluefield rises to the east of the tracks, rising up the hill with each road that parallels the tracks gaining more elevation. Like many cities, the downtown suffered greatly over the last few decades. Decay can be seen everywhere. Old houses and abandon buildings became havens for illicit drug use. Many elegant homes that once overlooked the city fell into ruin. Their iron fences and gates rusted and the concrete steps leading up from the street below broken. Thankfully, in recent years there has been an attempt to bring back the downtown. Buildings and homes have been renovated. There are trendy restaurants and funky museums. The old West Virginia hotel is being converted to apartments. Amid this revival is the Granada Theater. Built in 1928, the theater stood abandoned for years. But after a community effort, it has been restored to its previous grandeur and reopened this year. What better place for a writer’s conference focusing on hope?
Bluefield may not be the most likely place for a writer’s conference, but several years ago, Travis Lowe, a city resident, had an idea. Travis, at the time a local pastor, admits he had never been to a writer’s conference but felt that Bluefield was an ideal place for a conference that talked about hope. From this dream, HopeWords was born. This is the fourth conference held, and the first I’ve attended. Kicking off the conference was an hour of wonderful jazz music on Friday evening.
Friday night jazz in the Granada
Makoto Fujimura
Drawing me to the conference was the Japanese/American artist and author Makoto Fujimura. Last year, I read his book Art and Faith: A Theology of Making and reviewed it in my blog in early in January. He gave a masterful presentation on Friday evening. As he started, he joked how he drove 8 hours from his home Princeton, NJ only to find himself back in Princeton (West Virginia).
Fujimura spoke of art rising out of the brokenness of our lives and world. While we prefer “good news,” he noted that we live in a world that is filled with bad news—hate and fear. But our art and writing can bring healing. He drew on the lives of Herman Melville, Vincent Van Gogh, Emily Dickerson along with the Japanese art known as Kintsugi, to show how beauty can come out of tragedy. Then he moved to the story of Jesus’ resurrection, suggesting that God is the real Kintsugi Master. He closed with the benediction that is found at the end of his book, Art and Faith, a part of which I’ve copied below:
May we steward well that the Creator King has given us, and accept God’s invitation to sanctify our imagination and creativity, even as we labor hard on this side of eternity.
On Saturday morning, Fujimara was joined by his wife, an attorney in New York. The two of them spoke of their hopeful work within the brothels of India, teaching art to the children and trying to help them find a way out of such improvised lifestyle. During his morning talk, Fujimura mentioned how his conversion to Christianity came through reading William Blake’s epic poem, “Jerusalem.” I found that interesting!
Hannah Anderson
The first speaker on Saturday morning was Hannah Anderson, who lives with her family in Roanoke, Virginia. Hannah is the author of four books, and I have a copy of Humble Roots on order as I did not get to the table to purchase this book before they were sold out. Having grown up in a part of Pennsylvania abandoned by industry, she said she feels right at home in Bluefield.
Anderson spoke of bringing the natural world into our writing, not as a prop or a setting, but as a part of the story. Nature and creation, she said, is telling a story. Nature provides the best example of “showing and not telling.” Nature reveals. Drawing on Psalm 19 and the writing of Annie Dillard, she linked nature back to God in both its glory and terror. “Nature is hopeful and darker than we image,” she said. She concluded with three points about nature in writing:
Show, don’t tell. Get out of the way.
Partner with nature. Remember that nature is a metaphor only from our perspective.
Trust the story nature tells. Jesus used nature in parables not only because he lived in an agrarian world but because such stories are true.
Winn Collier
Our next speaker, Winn Collier, recently published the authorized biography of Eugene Peterson and directs the Peterson Center at Western Theological Seminary in Holland, Michigan. I received Peterson’s biography as a Christmas present but have not yet read it. I told him this when he signed my book. He laughed and handing the book back said that now I’ll have to read it.
Soft spoken but profound, Collier began discussing the poetry of Genesis 1 and moving to John 1. Collier commended poetry for helping us understand ourselves, God, and the world I which we live. But we must not forget that God spoke first (although he also quoted Rabbi Abraham Hessel, “God begins where words end”). God, at creation, choose to use words. And God always calls first. This also ties into the incarnation of God in Jesus Christ, where holiness and humanity go together. While we don’t do “sacred writing,” our writing becomes sacred when it responds to a God who calls us first.
Calling for bold and fresh words, Collier drew on the work of two authors. The late Jim Harrison (whom I have read and wrote the novella which became the movie “Legends of the Fall”) and the late Brian Doyle (whom I haven’t read, but now have his last book, One Long River of Songs, on my TBR list).
One Thin Dime Museum and Gary Bowlings House of Art
One of the presenters had cancelled, with allowed us to have a longer period for lunch. While there were restaurants nearby, the conference also provided bag lunches. I decided to go the bag lunch option and then use the rest of the time to explore a local history museum (One Thin Dime Museum) and an artist colony (Gary Bowlings House of Art) in the old school three blocks away from the theater. The art was modern, funky, gothic and made more delightful by Gary Bowling welcoming everyone who stopped in to visit.
S. D. Smith
After the lunch break, the conference resumed with Travis Lowe humorously interviewing S. D. Smith. Smith is a West Virginia author from Beckley, who writes fantasy for a young audience. While I haven’t read him, it appears his books are filled with characters like rabbits with swords. Much of the conversation skirted around having children read fairytales. Smith defends the darkness in such stories. After all, they know the world is evil. But the fairytale doesn’t just scare the child with the dragon, but gives them hope in the likes of St. George who slays the dragon. “Write with evil and enemies,” he said, but “also where there is hope.”
Lewis Brogdon
Lewis Brogdon a Bluefield native, spoke on “Writing After a Struggle with God.” Brogdon is African American and an Old Testament scholar. He drew heavily on the writings of Walter Brueggmann, another Old Testament scholar who labelled the term “prophetic imagination” to describe the role of the Biblical prophets who “conjured and proposed different futures.” Recalling the works of Habakkuk and Jonah, along with the New Testament story of the Good Samaritan, he reminded us that our job as writers is not to look away from needs. It was the Samaritan, not the priest or Levite, who saw a need and did something about it.
“The pandemic exposed deep problems we have in the world that we have tried to cover up,” Brogdon said. “God is giving us an opportunity to do better.” He went on to insist that when we fail to show compassion, we lose our humanity. “The pandemic displays our “callous disregard for human life in America,” he said. Brogdon encouraged us to listen to the experiences of others, especially those living poverty. Listening to such stories will help us deepen our faith, for God works in such tensions in society.
Martin Luther King’s “Letter from a Birmingham Jail,” was the example Brogdon used of how writing can help us see. While the answers to the problems are not always easy, “the gospel does not call us to do nothing. We can’t fix the world, but we can make it a better place.” Brodgon then moved to the spiritual of Black preaching, which has generally been described as “pastoral, priestly, and prophetic.” He proposed a new model that moves from moral imagination to moral courage to moral intelligence. Then he asked, “what would it mean to write and inspire, to nurture and deepen imagination, courage, and intelligence in our readers?”
As he drew his remarks to a close, Brogdon offered several writing prompts for our journals (he also humorously suggested that anyone who doesn’t keep a journal should just get up and leave, as they don’t belong in a writer’s conference). First is a question to he asked in a recent piece he wrote on in an article titled, “America on the Blink: Musings on Race, Politics, and Religion:” “Is America endangered in losing its soul.” Brogdon other questions were more general:
What are you struggling with personally (especially that which intersects with a broken world)?
What keeps you up at night, or wakes you up?
What bothers you to the point that you can’t look away?
What issues are you passionate about?
Where have you experienced pain?
What understanding have we gained about the pain in others which can help us tell the truth about racist and sexist things we once laughed about. In the last, he confessed personally about the jokes on homosexuality that used to be regularly laughed over within African American congregation.
Malcom Guite
Our last speaker was Malcom Guite, a British theologian, Anglican priest, and a poet.
Guite began his talk with a humorous “minor exorcism,” he which he dispelled any demons who challenge us not to write or read poetry. Then, he moved into his presentation on poetry which he centered around a poem titled “The Rain Stick,” by the late Irish poet (and his friend) Seamus Heaney. While using pieces of this poem to make his points, Guite used a real a rain stick (a dead piece of cactus with seeds inside that when tipped over makes the sound of rain) to illustrate what he was saying. Woven into this talk was a discussion about his study of chemistry and his challenge to the scientific demand that one only writes in the 3rd person.
Guite drew on Jesus’ saying about its easier for a camel to get through the eye of a needle than a rich person to get to heaven. Dismissing ideas to this saying such as there was a “needle gate into the city, he suggested that the poetic answer is the paradox. He linked Jesus’ “eye of a needle” with Heaney’s use of the term “ear of a raindrop.” In these small things, God can be encountered and experienced.
Guite speaking & holding his rain stick under his left arm (I’m sitting in the balcony)
My favorite quote from Guite: “Sometimes we receive packages that says on the outside, “Contents may have settled in shipping. Sometimes I think our churches need to have these warnings on our outside walls.” Then he turned over the rain stick in his hand, and we once again heard the sound!
Future HopeWords
Next year’s HopeWords Writers’ Conference is scheduled for March 24-25, 2023. Won’t you join me? This year, the conference price was only $95, plus the price of a hotel room (I stayed in Princeton, West Virginia, where there are more hotels along I-77). Registration for 2023 opened today (April 9). Check it out here!
This piece was originally posted in another blog in 2011. I reworked it and reposted it.
A butt-naked boy ran through the crowd. This is the first thing I see as I step into the country, immediately after having my passport stamped. And he wasn’t just a boy, certainly no toddler. He was at least five feet tall and probably 11 or 12 years old. I do not know what was up with him. Thankfully I never saw another kid his age running around in his birthday suit, but he served as a shocking reminder (along with having to learn a new currency and the words for rice and noodles) that I was in another country. Cambodia!
I’d wanted to see Cambodia since a teenager. As a ham radio operator, I remember reading an article in QST (or maybe it was CQ, both amateur radio magazines in the early 1970s) of a trip made to American ham operator to Cambodia. Before the Khmer Rouge, he met with a few of the operators in the country. The article had photos of the country’s temples. It all looked exotic. A few years later, as the war in Southeast Asia intensified and then came to a horrific conclusion in Cambodia, I wondered what happened to the few amateur radio operators in the country. I’d also heard of some of the temples being destroyed. Now is my chance to find the answer to at least one of my questions.
I was catching the train to the border at Bangkok’s Makkasan Station at 6:20 AM. The train starts at the downtown station at 5:50 AM, but since my hotel was closer to Makkasan, I decided sleep an extra half-hour. But for a while this morning, I wondered if this had been a good idea. I’d asked for a 4:30 AM wake-up call (it came at 5:15, as I was leaving my room).
Leaving the hotel, I venture out into the darkness and (as the Skyway isn’t running yet) meet the cabthe hotel had called. The driver spoke little English. I showed him where I wanted to go. He agreed and suggested what I assumed was a fair price. I tossed by backpacks into the backseat and climbed in.
Two blocks later, something strange happened. A policeman stood in the middle of the road with a blue lighted pointer, indicating for the cab to pull over to the curb. Two other policemen with flashlights shining came over and asked the driver questions as they shined lights into the back of the cab and onto my face and bags. They opened the back door. Pointing at me, he asked in rough English, “where?” Assuming this was where I was heading, I said Cambodia. He looked at me for a moment then, gesturing as if he’s smoking, appeared to ask for cigarettes. I shook my head and said ‘I do not smoke. “Okay,” he said, and waved us on. I had the feeling these Thai policemen wanted to shake me down for a smoke!
Inside the train
My next hurdle was getting to the right station. It turns out there are two Makkasan stations, one for the railroad and one a high-speed rail line only runs to the airport. It was this station that the cab driver insisted must be mine. Having been to the train station to purchase my ticket, I knew it was not the right place. Finally, a Thai man who heard me talking came over and asked in English where I was going. He then gave directions to the cab driver. There were only two dozen or so passengers at Makkasan station, so the cab drivers confusion was justified.
I purchased my ticket for the border a few days earlier. It cost 48 bahts or about $ 1.50. The only option is a non-air-conditioned third-class train for the five-hour trip. At least, early in the morning, the air was damp but cool.
On the station platform, I spot several old steam engines in a yard across the tracks. I walk over to check them out and to see if I could catch photographs. A guard stops me, saying “No photos.” I have no idea why, but it isn’t bright enough yet to get a good photo. On the train, I snap a few photos of the old engines, but with the low light, the photos don’t turn out well. After walking around a bit with my pack, I sat down on the platform to wait for the train. It was still 15 minutes away.
Thai train station with station master in uniform
While waiting, a Thai woman came up and began to talk to me. Her name is Niranya. She’s a travel agent whose customers are primarily Indian, so she speaks to them in English. She was heading back to her family home near the Cambodian border where she had to attend to some business. We talked until the train arrived, then sat by each other on the train. She was getting off the stop before me. Traveling with her is enlightening. Having grown up on a farm, she shares about the various crops grown along with showing where fields are being converted from rice and other food crops to fast growing trees used for pulp. These trees harmed the land because they used so much water. Much of the land in eastern Thailand is dependent on the rainy season for water as there is not enough for irrigation. Such trees, she complain, steals water which could be used to grow rice. But the high demand tempts farmers to plant such trees that require less work than keeping up rice paddies. Another crop that is in demand is tapioca, which also tends to rob the soil of nutrients.
Passing a local train
I’m amazed at the number of rail lines running into Bangkok from the east. At places, as many as eight set of tracks parallel each other as they run into the city. As it was early morning, the trains coming in were all packed with passengers.
Our train, heading the opposite direction, slowly filled. This was a slow train and we stopped at every station, where an agent would step out dressed like a general or war hero, to meet us. We also stopped at other places requested by passengers. At one of these “nowhere places,” a woman stepped off the train and stepped into the jungle, disappearing as she headed to her home as the train moved on. After a while, we were well into the country. After passing Chachoengsao Junction and Khlong Sipkao Junction, where lines split off heading north and south, we were on a single-track line running through a flat countryside, occasionally pulling over to sidings to wait for east bound trains to pass.
Backpackers getting off the train
As the sun rose higher in the sky, the car became warm, and everyone began to sleep. There was little movement, only the occasional seller passing by with drinks and snacks. At one stop, a bunch of women boarded at one town, coming from the market. They’d taken an earlier train into town and were heading back with baskets of produce and stables like cooking oil. The train was so crowded that there weren’t enough places for people to sit. I offered my seat to a couple of the older women, thinking that standing a bit wouldn’t do me any harm. They refused, but my act of kindness caught the attention of one of the women, who looked to be in her 30s. She asked Niranya, whom she’d seen talking to me, if she was my wife. Of course, I didn’t know what had been said. Niranya laughed, and told her no, that we’d just met that morning while waiting on the train. The woman then asked Niranya if I was available! She said she told her that I was married. This led into a conversation about how Thai women seek out American and Western husbands as a way of escaping the hard life, especially smaller villages. I had certainly seen many Western men with Thai women, generally women that were half their age.
The women coming from the market only rode for about 30 minutes before getting off at a small village. Niranya got off Watthana Nakhon. By then, the train had mostly cleared except for those of us heading to the border. The train was mainly filled with tourist and Cambodians returning home, such as a man who sat across from us and had drank at least a six-pack of beer during the trip that ended around noon! He was coming back home after having surgery done on his nose in Bangkok. The train pulled into Aranyaprathet, at the end of the line, a little after noon, about 30 minutes late. As there are at most places, there were a host of tuk-tuk drivers wanting to take us to the border. The prices quoted was what I was expecting and soon I was whisked away toward the border, feeling like I was in a chariot race with each driver vying to get their passenger there first. The drivers also tried to encourage us to book rooms through them in Siem Reap (they all seemed to have a cousin or brother there), but I’d already had my reservations made.
Tuk tuks waiting customers
Crossing over the border
The border crossing was hassle free (except for seeing more than I’d wanted to see). I had lunch (rice and ginger chicken) and then got on the bus for Siem Reap. The Cambodian countryside appears as flat as a pancake. The occasional hill seems out of place. These are called Phnom (as in Phnom Penh), which is named for the hill upon which it sits. I am surprised by the large sizes of the fields. The road is now modern (a few years ago, I heard this was a rode that would jar the fillings out of one’s teeth) and we moved along in air-conditioned comfort. We stopped once, for a bathroom break and to let the engine cool (while waiting the driver sprayed water on the overheated engine!). The bus needed more fuel and the driver pulled up to a garage looking place and they brought out two 5-gallon jerry cans and dumped them into the fuel tank. From the bus station was on the edge of Siem Reap and I hired a driver to take me to the Golden Banana, where I had reservations for three nights. After seeing the Cambodian countryside, the modern style of Siem Reap appears out of place. In the evening, I head into town and have red curry for dinner. Then, it’s off to bed. I plan to get up early to see the sunrise at Angkor Wat.
It was great to get away and it’s good now to be back home. Most of my time away was spent reading and relaxing. Daily, I would take long walks, enjoy coffee on the porch with a book and an eye out for freighters. In the evening, after returning from a walk I would do the same with a bourbon. The air remained mostly cool and even the days of rain felt good. I preached twice at the Union Presbyterian Church in Detour Village.
Reading while away
My stack of books (I didn’t get to them all)
My reading varied greatly. I spent a lot of time with the Bible and a couple commentaries on Daniel in preparation for preaching on the book this fall. I finished reading a wonderful book on reading and writing poetry (Gregory Orr’s, A Primer for Poets and Readers of Poetry). This book had many exercises, some of which I did, leaving notes in my journal such as the poem I printed below.
I also enjoyed Casey Tygrett’s As I Recall: Discovering the Place of Memories in Our Spiritual Life. Like Orr’s book on poetry, this book had many exercises, of which I did most as a way to ponder memories. Howard Thurman’s Jesus and the Disinherited, was eye opening. Thurman was a classmate and friend of Martin Luther King Jr’s father and this short book written in the 1940s captures the meaning of the gospel for those who lived in a segregated world with many opportunities denied. Another book that I just finished yesterday is Christiane Tiez’s Karl Barth: A Life in Conflict (Victoria Burnett translator). Barth, probably the most influential 20th Century theologian, best known for his opposition to the rise of Nazism in Germany in the 1930s, provides an insight into how the church should behave when oppressed. This reading fed into my thoughts that arose from my study of Daniel.
I also read some poetry along with the first half of Richard Lischer’s memoir, Open Secrets: A Memoir of Faith and Discovery.
Sandhill cranes dropped in for a visit as I read under a tree in the yard
Traveling to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and around the area gave me plenty of time to listen to books on Audible. I began with Erik Larson’s Isaac’s Storm: A Man, A Time, and the Deadliest Hurricane in History, John Ketchmer, Sailing a Serious Ocean; Sailboats, Storms, Stories and Lessons Learned from 30 Years at Sea, and Carl Hiassen, Tourist Season. Having read many of Larson’s books, Isaac’s Storm lived up to my expectation as he captured both the event of the Galveston hurricane of 1900 along with providing insight into those involved in the storm and into how such storms are created. Ketchmer’s book is a first. I enjoyed it and it provided me with a refresher before sailing. Hiassen is another favorite author. I have read or listened to eight of his books. This was his first novel and while not as funny as some of his later ones (Skinny Dip remains my favorite), it’s still good and has humorous moments.
Sightseeing and other activities
I spent two days sailing with a friend in Grand Traverse Bay. We left out of Northport harbor on the Leelanau Peninsula. The first day was rough with 20 knot winds. It was scary when I couldn’t get the main reefed quickly as the lines were dry rotted. Finally, I was able to get it secured and we sailed for a bit that afternoon before enjoying a good meal on the town. On the second day, it was lovely with winds in the 10 to 12 knot range. We sailed out passed Mission Point and up the east side of the bay toward Leelanau Point before coming back to the marina.
While in the UP, I spent one day on Drummond Island. There, I enjoyed a morning hike in Maxton Plains. The plains are an “alvar” landscape, which consist of flat limestone pavement with little soil to provide growth for plants. In the cracks are many different species of grass and flowers along with paper birch and spruce trees. Next time I visit here, I need to bring a bicycle so I can explore more of the plains. After lunch and a visit to the island’s museum, I enjoyed a shorter but refreshing walk under the beech trees of Clyde and Martha Williams Nature Preserve. To reach to Drummond Island, I took the ferry which was just a block from where I was staying.
Whitefish Point light & fog horn
I also took another trip to Whitefish Point, a place that many know about from Gordon Lightfoot’s ballad, “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.”
The searchers all say they’d have made Whitefish Bay If they’d put fifteen more miles behind her. -Gordon Lightfoot
Leaving the UP, I visited friends from Skidaway on Mullet Lake, then old friends in Grand Rapids and Hastings. There’s never enough time to see everyone.
A poem I wrote in the UP
The freighter rides low in the water its screws pushing 70,000 tons of ore southbound toward Gary or Cleveland.
Behind the stern trail angry ripples of water, a turmoil of whirlpools and danger for small boats that cut behind too close.
There are people like the freighter, those who churn the air and leave a path of emotional distraction. Like the ship, they’re best given a wide berth.
View of Lake Huron from the top of the 40 Mile Lighthouse
I am spending the next two weeks in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. I’m staying in DeTour, which is at the far eastern end of the UP’s mainland. It’s where you catch the ferry from Drummond Island. I have a wonderful view of the St. Mary’s River, where the freighters make their way from the lower lakes up to the locks at Sault St. Marie (the Soo Locks). During this time, I will be reading books, maybe doing some writing, some hiking and spending a few days with a friend on his sailboat. I will also preach two Sundays at DeTour Union Presbyterian Church (in exchange for staying in their manse, the church is seasonal and brings in ministers to preach in exchange for a week in a very comfortable home).
Also, I have very limited internet, so don’t expect to see me too much on the WWW for the next two weeks. But I’ll be back in August.
40 mile Lighthouse
Driving up, I took US 23, which runs around Saginaw Bay and the shoreline of Lake Huron, through the towns of Tawas City, Alpena, Roger City, and Cheboygan. Even though I lived in Michigan for over a decade, this was the first time to take this drive or to be beside Lake Huron. I have driven MI 22 (which runs from the Leelanau Peninsula down the west side of Michigan) many times (and I highly recommend that drive). But this time, taking US 23, I was in for a new treat.
I spent Wednesday night in Standish, heading out in a new direction on Thursday morning. Sadly, it rained most of the way, but by late morning, it had stopped. So I stopped and spent an hour or two exploring the 40 mile lighthouse.
The view from the front porch… The island across the water is Drummond.
One of the hardest things for a pastor is to say goodbye as someone moves away. A few years ago, I started writing blessings for those moving away. This past Sunday at Bluemont, we said goodbye to Charles and Diane. Here’s my blessing and a photo of the three of us. Bluemont is currently meeting outdoors so this was done under our picnic shelter.
A Blessing for Charles and Diane Sullivan
For the past twelve years, you have lived on the mountain, bringing joy to your neighbors and to our little rock church. Charles played Santa at Christmas while Diane faithfully attended the Women’s Bible Study and, with her sister Bev, began “Hanging of the Greens.”
You’ve enjoyed the seasons, the warm summer days, the cool fall ablaze in color, the winters with whisps of smoke from chimneys indicating a warm home, and the rebirth in the spring, when the birds fill their air with their songs and dogwoods line the Parkway.
But like the seasons, our lives and our needs change, and health reasons call you back to the flatlands, to be closer to your children.
So go forth with our blessings, trusting in God as you enter this new season. Continue to “have a ball” and to be “the life of the party.”
And when the weather is good, and you have a few hours to spare, we’d love to have you drop in, we’re not that far away.
Until then, go with God whose unbounded love connects us in this life and the one to come.
Barry Lopez, About This Life: Journeys on the Threshold of Memory (New York: Random House/Vintage Books, 1999), 273 pages.
This is a wonderful collection of essays. I listened to an abridged edition as well as read the essays. The Audible version of the book was wonderful because the late Lopez read his work.
The collection (in the book and on audible) begins with a memoir essay titled “A Voice.” In this wonderful piece, Barry tells the story of his young life, from his early years in New York, to moving and living much of his school years in California, and then back to New York for a few years before he headed off to Notre Dame. During this time, Barry experienced the world (often through his mother’s husbands and boyfriends). He even gets a first-hand view (although a somewhat skewed view) of what the writing life is about as he meets John Steinbeck at a summer camp. Steinbeck’s boys were at the same camp. I came away with the appreciation that Lopez never lost his childhood curiosity and these early experiences helped him develop a voice that has made him a beloved storyteller. This is the second book I’ve read of Lopez. Many years ago, I read River Notes.
One of the unifying themes running through these essays is the journey. While many of the essays highlight travels to faraway places (Hokkaido, the Arctic, Antarctica, Galapagos), others focus on the journey itself. In “Flight,” he jets around as a passenger on air freight planes while collecting information for a story. One day in Asia, the next Europe or South Africa, and then he’s back in the States. The whirlwind of travel informs the reader about modern commerce, but we also see how Lopez was intensely interested in everything, from walking the streets of Seoul in the early morning hours to learning from the pilots.
The essay “Apologia,” focuses on bits of travel around the United States as he stops to remove dead animals from the highway. This is not just a good deed as he has interest in each of the animals.
In “Speed,” he drives his brother’s Corvette from Chicago to the Amish Country of Northern Indiana, taking a friend who is scouting out locations to film a documentary. But the shooting location is a side-story. The main story centers on driving this muscle car on rural backroads. I found it intriguing that one known as an environmental writer would enjoy speeding in a Corvette, but then remembered stories of Edward Abbey tossing beer cans out of the window of this truck.
The essay, “Murder” finds Lopez driving from Sante Fe to a summer job in Wyoming. In Moab, Utah, he meets a woman who asks him to kill her husband. He quickly flees, racing through the sagebrush of the America West.
Another common theme About This Life are the skills displayed by others. Whether it is the building and flying of airplanes in “Flight,” or the firing of pottery in a dragon kiln in “Effleurage: The Stroke of Fire,” or the gracious naturalist author in Hokkaido, Lopez appreciates talent. He also is constantly aware of his natural setting, whether it’s hearing the occasional “staccato cry of a pileated woodpecker” or the change in the air in the summer of ’76 in New York. As the nation celebrated the bicentennial, his mother was dying. Lopez always catches the details.
“The American Geographies” was my favorite essay in the collection. Part incitement of our lack of knowledge of geographies, Lopez acknowledges the “local nature” of geography. Few people have the time or opportunity to full appreciate the diversity of America’s landscape. He invites us to be more intimate with our surroundings, knowing the geology and the natural world from firsthand experience.
Now I want to pull River Notes off the bookcase and reread it along with other books by Lopez.
Last week, I wrote about my last day in Korea. This week, I’m resurrecting another story about that wonderful trip. I had taken a bus from Seoul to Wonju early on Sunday morning. Seung Hwan met me at the bus station. I preached to his congregation at the medical college in Wonju, then we spent the afternoon with a number of clergy in the area. One, I remember, was much older than us and had fled from the north before the Korean War. That evening I stayed in a retreat center east of Wonju.
That’s me with Seung Hwan and family
Monday morning, 4 AM
The sounds of the bell tolling down off the mountainside wake me. I turn on my flashlight. It’s 4 A.M. For a few moments, I lay on my back, the warmth of the floor soothing my body. Seung Hwan had told me the floor would stay warm throughout the night. I had my doubts, but it’s still warm even though when I sit up, the air above me is quite chilly. The caretaker had built a small fire with just a half dozen pieces of split wood in the hearth under the flooring late yesterday afternoon. And now, 12 hours later, long after the coals have died out, the floor retains the heat.
I pull on socks and my pants and thrown on a coat. Stepping out of the sleeping room, I slide on my boots in the bathroom. I don’t lace them up. While I don’t plan to be gone long, I want to be outdoors. The air is cold. My breath, when I exhale, appears as smoke. I walk over to a ledge in front the lodge, hoping my movement will ward off the chill. In the distance I hear a train making its way through the valley. Wonju lies to the west, still sleeping. The sky is clear, the rain and snow of the day before has moved out.
Orion stands, perched high above Wonju, just above the western horizon. I make out several other winter constellations setting in the west before I turn and look toward where the sound from where the bell tolled. The mountain is dark; it’s a couple of hours to dawn. I imagine the priest at the temple, in the cold darkness of morning, getting up daily for their prayers. I, on the other hand, am ready to get back in my warm bed. Sleeping on the floor has never been this good. My bed is on the floor, on top of a rice matt and between two thick quilts. I crawl in. It’s still warm. Immediately, I fall back asleep, only to awake when the sun pierces through a small window.
Inside the sleeping room at the lodge
In Wonju, Korea
I am on a two-week trip through South Korea. Yesterday, I had preached in Seung Hwan’s church at the Medical College.
He’d arranged for me to stay in this retreat lodge located just out of town, up in the foothills of the mountains. He’d given me the option of staying in a western hotel or traditional style lodging. I chose the traditional.
There are only a few others staying here, and none of them seems to speak English. We’re each assigned our own quarters consisting of a small bathroom with a toilet and sink attached a raised sleeping room. There are showers in the main lodge. There are no beds. The raised room has low ceilings, barely six feet high. The walls are mud. The floor is also mud with, I presume, slate or some kind of rock underneath. In the front of each sleeping chamber is a hearth. The fire in this hearth, which runs under the sleeping room, heats the floor. Once warm, the floor maintains its heat through the night.
Catching a bit of the Superbowl
Seung Hwan arrives shortly after daybreak. We have breakfast. It’s Monday morning and as we eat, we catch a bit of the Superbowl being played back in the States. St. Louis is playing Tennessee at the Georgia Dome. I try to explain the game to him. When it is over, we head out. We have a long climb ahead in Ch’iaksan National Park. We drive to the south end of the park, leave the car behind. Our packs contain heavy coats and crampons.
The Climb
We begin our climb on a dirt two track road. While the cities have modernized, rural Korea doesn’t appear to have changed much in centuries. We pass several small farms. Chickens run loose and dogs are penned behind the homes. After a few kilometers, the dirt road ends. We begin climbing a small path up into the mountains. The climb is steep, and we often have to stop and catch our breaths. Soon, the dirt and mud give way to packed snow and ice. We strap crampons onto our boots and continue climbing. It’s a long way up. Occasionally we hear trains making their way through the valley. There is a circle tunnel just south of us where the train makes a loop as it climbs into the mountains. There are few birds, but its winter. Although these are the Magpie Crags, I don’t see any magpies.
We take a break and eat lunch at a spring located below Sangwona Temple. Seung Hwan explains that pilgrims stopped here to bath and purify themselves before going to the temple to pray. The water is cold and refreshing. The wind comes up. We both pull on heavy coats, keeping in them on for the final climb.
The Temple
The temple appears to be deserted, although it’s well-kept. We see only one monk, walking away. The most notable feature of the grounds is the bell. Cast out of bronze, it’s as tall as me and mounted on the side of a ledge that looks out to the South. A large log, suspended from two chains, is used to strike the bell. The monks have taken precautions and have padlocked the bell so that tourist like us won’t ring it at an inappropriate time. I ask Seung Hwan if this is the bell I heard in the morning. “Probably not,” he said. “There are many temples in these mountains.” The bell I heard most likely was from the Ipsoksa Temple, located on the flanks of Mount Pinobong.
We take our shoes off and go inside the temple area. Several beautifully cast statues of Buddha are on display. Although we’re both Presbyterian, we are respectful and reverent. There is a holy aura about the place. I could stay here a long time, but we don’t want to be caught out in the dark.. Going down is easy. The spikes on our boots hold our feet on the icy spots. As we walk, I ask Seung Hwan about the temple and its bell. This is rugged country; it took a Herculean effort to build such a temple. I can’t imagine hauling the statues and wonderful bell up this incline.
The temple grounds
The Legend of the Magpies
Seung Hwan tells me the temple was built late in the Shilla Dynasty, at a time when Confucianism was taking root in Korea. Soon thereafter, under the Yi Dynasty, Buddhism was seen as an enemy of the people. Many of the temples were closed due to the lack of priests. Then he tells me a story.
Once Confucianism became entrenched in Korea, anyone desiring in a government position had to take a national exam at the capital. One day, a man passed along the mountains in which we’d been climbing, heading to take the exam. A kind man, as he made his through the valley in the shadow of the mountain we’d been climbing, he heard a bird cry for help. Looking around, he saw a snake squeezing the bird that would soon be its dinner. Feeling compassion for the bird, the man shot an arrow into the snake, killing it but freeing the bird.
Shortly afterwards, as it was getting late, the man came to a home. He knocked on the door and a beautiful woman answered. He asked for lodging and she agreed. She even prepared him a wonderful dinner. But after dinner, the woman turned into a snake and wrapped herself around the man, telling him that he’d killed her husband and now she was going to do the same to him. He begged for his life and the snake, playing with the man, said that if the bell rings three times before dawn, he’ll be spared. Otherwise, she’ll kill him in the morning.
This was a cruel reprieve. Both the snake and the man knew there were no monks living in the mountains to ring the bell. So, the man spent the night embraced by the snake, waiting for a fateful sunrise. But right before dawn, the man and the snake were surprised to hear the bell ring. The first time, it was very loud. Then it rang a second time, a bit weaker. Then they heard a very weak third ring.
The snake kept her word and allowed the man to go free. Instead of heading on the capital, he decided to climb the mountain and to see who it was that rang the bell. Sure enough, the temple was empty. But there under the bell was the bird that he’d saved the day before, its beak shattered from having flown into the bell three times. To this day, the bell is known as the “Compassion Bell.”
Another restful night
That night, back at the retreat house, a light breeze jingles the wind chimes along the porch. Tired and sore after climbing in the mountains, I immediately fall asleep upon the warm floor. Again, I wake at 4 AM with the toll of the bell. It’s more muffled than the morning before. I’m surprised I’m not sore from the climb. This sleeping arrangement is magical. And again, as with the morning before, I get up and go outside. A light snow falls, dusting the ground.
In early 2000, I spent a two weeks in Korea, preaching and visiting friends and my parents (my father’s company had assigned him to a Korean factory making power plants near Pusan). I preached at a couple of churches, one of which had nearly 2000 in attendance at one service, which is the largest congregation to which I’ve preached. This tells of my last day in the country, as I took the train up the Korean peninsula to Seoul and then caught a plane for San Francisco.
Morning train to Seoul
It’s still dark when I board the morning express in Masan, heading toward Seoul. This far south, in this port and industrial city, the weather is chilly and wet but not really cold. I find my seat, stow my two bags overhead (a backpack and a suit bag) and push my jacket up against the window as a pillow. A pretty Korean woman sits next to me. She looks to be in her mid-20s and wears a dress and heels. We smile but when I speak, she shakes her head and says, “No English.”
Shortly afterwards, a whistle blows. The train jerks and my journey begins. I lay my jacket against the window, and my head upon it, alternating my time between looking and reading a book on Korean history and culture. Outside, fog mysteriously shrouds the streets lights.
Dark clouds hid the sunrise; all is gray. As we rush north toward Taegu City, we pass through many rural villages that seem the anti-thesis of Korea’s modern cities. Instead of concrete high-rise apartments, rural homes appear to have changed little over the past century. Most have small courtyards, protected by a high concrete walls. The house sits inside the courtyard, built out from the side of one of the walls. Smoke puffs from the clay pipes above these humble adobes. They use either coal, charcoal or wood fires to heat and to cook. All around the villages are fields for rice or vegetables, onions and cabbage and peppers. At Taegu, the woman next to me gets off.
After pulling out of Taegu, the train heads in a northwestwardly direction to Taejon City. This is mountainous country, but the hills are old and worn, like the Appalachians, not rugged and young like the Rockies. With the trees bare of leaves, I can make out the large nests of magpies.
Burial customs
These were not the graves I saw from the train, but graves on Kojeto Island (where they seldom receive snow)
Dotting the hills in the rural areas are many mounts representing burial sites. They place coffins on the ground. Stones and dirt are piled up around it. The government banned this practice because it takes up too much land in a country where land is precious. However, I’m told some people still bury their dead in this manner. Only today, they do it at night, in order not to attract attention.
Yongdong atrocity
Here, snow covers the ground. The roads are icy. At a crossing, just beyond the railroad gate, catch a glimpse of two cars in the ditch and a wrecker working to pull one back onto the highway. Along this section, we pass Yongdong. Near here, during a hasty retreat during the Korean War, scared American soldiers opened fire on civilians, killing many, in a tragedy of the war. Although I am not sure exactly where the site is at, I think about as it’s been in the news recently.
From Taejon, the train races north toward Seoul, traveling through a highly populated area that’s mostly industrial and suburban. High-rise apartments dot the landscape and there are many factories. The train pulls into the station at Seoul a few minutes early. I retrieve my bags and head up an escalator to the main station, worried how I’ll be able to find my ride with so many people. There, at the top of the escalator, I’m pleasantly surprised to see Chanrank and Chang waiting for me. They suggest we stop and have lunch at a café across from the college where Chanrank teaches.
Chop Head Hill
After lunch, as we have four hours before I need to be at the airport; Chang asks if I still want to visit Chop Head Hill. When I had arrived in Korea two weeks early, I had asked Chanrank and her husband about this place. I immediately worried that I had insulted them, but her husband told me more about the place. As he was required to be at the university where he taught this day, Chang came along to take us there. Yes,” I said. I would like an to visit the site.
The three of us seemed to be an odd pair to tour this site scared to Korean Catholics. Like me, Chanrak is Presbyterian. Chang is Buddhist. We wind through the narrow streets north of the Han River in Chang’s car till we finally arrive at the the infamous bluff overlooking the river.
For years, this hill was the site for executions, where the heads of the condemned rolled down into the river. One of the artifacts is a round stone, looking somewhat like a millstone, which was used in the beheadings. The condemned had a rope tied around his or her necks. The rope ran through the hole in the middle of the stone. One of the executors would pull the head of the condemn through the stone while the other used an ax to remove the head from the body.
In the middle of the 1860s, the French tried to gain a foothold in Korea. Sending a gunboat up the Han River, they shelled Seoul. The emperor, seeking a way to cleanse his country of the foreign devils, ask his shaman what to do. They suggested the execution of all Christians in Korea.
Catholic massacre in 1866
In 1866, the Korean emperor ordered the extermination of Korean Christians. At the time, almost all Korean Christians were Catholics. Priest from China converted most of these Christians. Members of churches were bound in chains and dragged across the nation to this place, where they were executed by beheading.
After a decade of tension, in the late 1870s, the French and Korea signed a treaty that guaranteed religious freedom for Korean citizens. In the aftermath of this treaty, Protestants missionaries—especially Presbyterians and Methodist—flooded into the country. In all of Asia, only the Philippines have more Christians than Korea. About 40% of the population claim to be Christian, half of which are Presbyterian. Another 40% of the population is Buddhist. On the hundred anniversary of the martyrdoms, the Catholic Church built a shrine in the honor of the martyrs. Known today as Chou Du San Martyrs’ Shrine or it’s English equivalent, “Chop Head Hill.”
Yongdo Full Gospel Church
As we still had two hours before we had to be at the airport, we swung by the Yongdo Full Gospel Church. An independent Pentecostal Church with roots in the Assembly of God, they claim to be the largest congregation in the world with 750,000 members. We quickly tour the church. Chang, a Buddhist, seems especially proud of the idea that his country has the world largest church. The sanctuary looks a look like a basketball area and seats nearly 20,000. Although large, I’m left to wonder where everyone worships. Even with their five worship services on Sunday, they would only be able to have 20% of their members member’s present.
After visiting the church, we rush to the airport. After checking bags, we have time for a cup of tea before I have to go through security. I shake Chang’s hand and hug Chanrank, then head through security. In an hour, I’m flying east and sleeping the night away on a Singapore Air flight to San Francisco.
A high bluff along the western bank of the Lumber River just south of US 74, Pea Ridge is a lovely spot. We arrive early enough to enjoy it. For a wilderness site that is only accessible to the public from the water, this is near perfection. There are a few benches, a picnic table and a trash can and grass! Across the river stands several huge cypresses, their needles turning brown. Around us are a variety of trees. The bank of the river is lined with cypress and water birch. The site itself features sweet gum, maple, sycamore, pines and holly. I place my hammock between trees and find a mossy place to set up my tent so that I have a good view of the river. After setting up camp, I lie in my hammock resting and reading for an hour, then go for a swim before dinner.
This is our second night on the river. We’ve covered 14 or so miles after launching at Matthew Bluff bridge late yesterday morning. The first day was supposed to be easy for we knew it was going to take time to shuttle vehicles. Not wanting to leave a vehicle at a bridge for two days, Joe Washburn, the pastor of First Presbyterian in Whiteville agreed to help us with the shuttle. After we got everything ready and loaded in our boats, we slid them down the muddy bank into the river. My dad has his boat in the water first but falls into the water as he tries to enter his boat. The river drops off quickly. After fishing out his equipment and restowing it, we were soon on the way. The river around the Matthew Bluff bridge was trashed with beer and soda cans and household waste, as some people treat the area as a dump. Thankfully, after a couple turns, the river becomes more natural. We’d been warned when we presented the ranger with our float plans that the river had not been cleared of blow-down trees since Hurricane Florence. That was a year ago. Sadly, they’d just finished clearing the entire 100-mile waterway from on Drowning Creek and the Lumber River of down trees from Hurricane Matthew which occurred in 2016 a month before Florence struck. He told us to be aware that there would be some blow downs above Boardman (Highway 74). He was right. About a mile into our trip, we came across the first, a huge old oak that laid across the river. The water was deep and I pulled my kayak parallel to the log, slid out of the boat and straddled the log (as if I was riding a Clydesdale, pulled my boat over the log and tied it off and then helped my father get his boat across. Thankfully, there were no problems and we were soon on our way.
After crossing the Willouby Bridge, four or so miles down the river, we came to another blowdown where we had to get out and cut a path for our boats to make it through the branches of the down tree. Our first campsite, Buck Landing, was a mile or so south of the Willouby Bridge, on the east side. I kept wondering when the site was going to show up, as I saw few pine, trees that indicate high ground. This area was swampy and populated with cypress, tupelo, river birch and a few bay trees. But soon after wondering where the pines were, they appeared and right afterwards was the campsite.
my tent at Buck Landing
Like Pea Ridge, Buck Landing was also a wilderness/canoe-in site but with easier access by locals as the one trash can “over-runneth” with beer cans. I spent a good deal of time emptying the trash and crushing the beer cans so that they were all able to be contained within the provided can. Although I may be mistaken, I was pretty sure the no one had paddled the river with that many cases of beer. This site also had a small pavilion, which wasn’t needed due to the clear skies, but the supports made a good place to sling my hammock. As the site was on the eastern side of the river, we saw a nice sunset through the hardwood swamp on the other side. Shortly thereafter, a thin crescent of the new moon was visible. After a dinner of some MREs that my father had brought along, we both decided to avoid the mosquito battle and headed off to bed, listening to the owls hoot and the buzz of insects.
The next morning, I’m a little panicked. When I pulled out my glucose test meter (I am a diabetic) to check my blood sugar level, it wasn’t working. I wasn’t bothered too much until I made my way over to my boat and pulled out the small dry bag I always carry with me whether kayaking or sailing, in which I keep a backup meter. The battery was dead. As they are different kind of meters, I can’t change the battery from one to the other. I wasn’t sure what to do, but my father was more concerned than me as he’s never dealt with diabetes. I told him I thought I would be okay and hopefully I could get a new meter when we crossed US 74 at Boardman, later in the morning.
cutting our way through a blow-down so we can push the boats under
After breakfast of coffee, an orange, and oatmeal, we shoved off a little after 9 AM. It was to be a difficult morning. It takes two hours to cover just a few miles as we spend almost as much time in the water as in the boat as we pulled over, under, through, and around fallen trees. When we weren’t pulling ourselves through down trees, we enjoyed watching kingfishers dart up and down the river, and great blue herons led us downriver when we interrupt their hunting. I even saw a red tail hawk. Throughout the morning, I keep snacking, not wanting my blood sugar to drop. After two hours of exhausting work, we finally get to where the river opens up more. Then, maybe a mile from the bridge, we passed a fisherman who’d pushed a jon boat up the river with a small battery powered motor. Only then did we know we were done with blowdowns.
Going over a blow-down
At the wildlife boat ramp at US 74, I knew better than walking into the village of Boardman. It used to be a large town, back in the early 1900s when the area was heavily lumbered,but the only business left today is a gas station. I tried calling local pharmacies in Fairmont and Chadbourn, hoping to find one that delivered. Unfortunately, as it was now noon, all their delivery drivers had gone out to make their daily runs. They laughed when I asked about Uber or Lyft. But, while I was waiting, with my meter out in the sun, it began working again, which made me pretty sure it was a problem with humidity. Being able to see that my blood sugar was in a good range, we continued paddling another mile to Pea Ridge campsite.
For being in his 80s, my dad did well on this trip!
Notice the grass around the fire pit
That night, we built a fire and talk. For some reason, my dad asked me about which of his guns I want him to leave me. While I have guns (all of which are in need of being oiled because they haven’t been shot in decades), I’m not a gun collector. All my guns stay locked up in a gun safe. But I told him I’d take the 30-30 Winchester lever action in case I move back out west. He suggests instead taking a higher powered gun, but I told him the Winchester was enough. Then he asks about shotguns and I was surprised to learn that he has a 20 gauge double barrel coachman (short barrel gun that those who rode “shotgun” on stagecoaches carried). What are you doing with that? I ask. “It’s your moms.” “What?” Then I learn the story. They were visiting my great aunt who, after my father’s uncle had died. She lived by herself out in the country. My mother asked if she wasn’t scared living out there. She said no, and showed my mother the gun. My mom, who I am sure was trying to be nice or trying to make a joke, said “maybe that’s what I need.” Well, lets just say, “I don’t think her next birthday went over well.”
Pea Ridge Campsite launch
After crawling into bed, I have a great view of Cassiopeia, Pegasus, and Andromeda, rising over eastern bank of the river. I fall quickly asleep and wake up once before morning. Taurus is overhead and Orion is rising just behind him. It must be well after midnight, but I don’t check the time and when I wake up again, it’s dawn. I get up, write a bit, then prepare coffee and water for oatmeal.
timbers left over from an old logging railroad
not what I thought Paradise would look like…
Queen Anne Landing
We’re on the river at 9 AM. It’d been cleared from here on down to our takeout point at the State Park at Queen Anne’s Landing. It was an easy 9 ½ miles. Down trees are not a problem, but at one place there’s a sandbar that runs across the river and we end up getting out of our boats and pulling them across it. After a lazy float, we arrive at the landing a little after noon.
The Lumber River is located in Southeastern North Carolina. The river starts north of Laurinburg, as Drowning Creek and wanders 115 miles as it passes the city of Lumberton and the town of Fair Bluff on its way to merge with the Pee Dee RIver a few miles into South Carolina. The state of North Carolina maintains a linear park along the river from the 15-501 bridge to Fair Bluff. In 2016, Hurricane Matthew dropped so much water into the river basin that much of Lumberton and Fair Bluff were below water. I used to work this area back in the early 80s for the Boy Scouts of America. At the time, Fair Bluff was a delightful small town. Today, the town is mostly deserted. To learn more about the river, check out the Lumber River State Park website.
It’s been a while since I had a post on my activities, so I decided I’d do a full moon to full moon post. The August full moon occured on the 15th, and I was at Cumberland Falls, Kentucky. It was a clear night and those who came out to the falls an hour or so after the moonrise, were treated with seeing a “moonbow.” It’s just like a rainbow, except it is more whitish, appearing a little like a ghost of a rainbow. The moonbow occurs in the spray from the falls, which also creates a lovely rainbow in daytime, as you can see from the two photos I’ve posted.
Rainbow the next morning
From one of the historical markers around the site, I learned that the Cumberland River was named by Dr. Walker, an early explorer in the area. According to him, the river was the crookedest he’d seen, so he named it after the Duke of Cumberland because it reminded the explorer of the Duke.
Leaving Cumberland Falls, we headed toward Cumberland Gap. It was about lunch time when we hit Corbin and we decided to have lunch at Colonel Sander’s place. The original restaurant and hotel was torn down, but they rebuilt a Kentucky Fried Chicken on the site many years ago. In addition to the children and biscuits, three was a small museum showing how it was back in the 30’s. It’s also a major stop on the old Nashville and Louisville Railroad, so I had time to watch a few trains.
At Cumberland Gap, we rode the bike/horse part of the Wilderness Road. We needed Daniel Boone, for it was rough with several down trees. Also, after a long downhill run, we crossed a small bridge and at the other end, a horse had relieved himself. It took some maneuvering to miss that pile of crap! We enjoyed the delightful town of Cumberland Gap which has an interesting bicycle museum and several good coffee shops/restaurants. I had my first beet burger at the Pineapple Tea Room and Coffee Ship. It was good! Camping, we also ate good as we picked up in a rural grocery store some rib-eyes to grill. They were local and grass fed and it was some of the best meat I’ve had in the eastern part of the country where all the meat tends to be corn-fattened.
Black-eyed Susans along the Wilderness Road bike/horse path
After a couple of nights at Cumberland Gap, we headed over to Abingdon and Damascus for the purpose of riding the Virginia Creeper trail. We found a wonderful camping spot (with a cucumber tree, which I had to look up to identify). I enjoyed being back in this country, as it’s been well over thirty years since I came through here while hiking the Appalachian Trail.
The Virginia Creeper is a neat trail that follows an old railroad bed from Abingdon to Whitetop, Virginia, and on to Todd NC. The train stopped running in the mid-70s, and in the 80s, it was converted to a bike trail. Where were lots of people on the trail. You can catch a shuttle from Damascus to the top of Whitetop, which we did. There were several shuttles running every hour. Talking to a driver, I learned that during the fall color season, there are as many as a dozen vans an hour coming up to the top! It was a nice and easy ride. I stopped and walked a bit on the Appalachian Trail for old time sake (but the AT has been relocated here since I hiked this area, so I wasn’t exactly walking in my old steps.
New River as seen from an old trestle
Leaving the Damascus/Mount Rogers area, we headed over to the New River State Park, where the state of Virginia runs a fifty some mile long linear park along the New River from Galax to Pulaski. We road the trail from from Galax to our site, about 28 miles, which made a nice day. But this trail involved more peddling than the Creeper trail in which you could almost coast the whole way.
I-77 bridge over the New River
My bike resting against a mile marker on the New River trail 27 miles from Pulaski
One of two tunnels on the trail
One of many trestles along the New River Trail
The campsites are rather expensive for pit toilets and no showers ($25/night), but we loved our site. It was just steps from the river and we had the place to ourselves. We slept to the sound of water running over rocks (augmented by the sounds of birds, frogs, insects, and the wind). It was a wonderful place to camp. And every evening, I took a swim in the river.
After getting back and having a hurricane threaten, another full moon came around. This time, at home and on a semi-clear evening, I made the best of it by paddling around Pigeon Island (about 6 miles). It was a magical evening starting with incredibly red skies and then the beauty of the moon.
The campsites are rather expensive for pit toilets and no showers ($25/night), but we loved our site. It was just steps from the river and we had the place to ourselves. We slept to the sound of water running over rocks (augmented by the sounds of birds, frogs, insects, and the wind). It was a wonderful place to camp. And every evening, I took a swim in the river.
After getting back and having a hurricane threaten, another full moon came around. This time, at home and on a semi-clear evening, I made the best of it by paddling around Pigeon Island (about 6 miles). It was a magical evening starting with incredibly red skies and then the beauty of the moon.