The Play's Not Always The Thing

The first stop on my latest roadtrip was Stratford, Ontario. My sister and her family, and I shared a bed and breakfast, leaving poor little Van sitting neglected by the curb. My family and I have been enjoying the plays at Stratford since I was a kid. When we first visited, my parents would pull their motorhome into a vacant lot where we'd stay for the weekend. We'd change into our best clothes, then hike up the hill to the Festival Theatre for our yearly thespian treat. When we first visited, the only plays being presented were by Shakespeare. Attending one of the performances was quite an occasion; everyone dressed up and the women often wore long gowns. These days the atmosphere is more casual and the repertoire has expanded.

This year we saw two matinees, The Tempest and Peter Pan, and a musical, Kiss Me Kate, in the evening. If I were asked to choose a favorite, I'd have to say each one was unique and pleasure to watch. I enjoyed them all.

Although I love seeing the plays, they're not the only thing I love about Stratford. The town is full of beautiful parks and natural areas. You can spend an entire day walking up and down the Avon river, exploring the gardens, paths and walks. I love watching the waterfowl on and around the river, under the ancient willows. Stratford is the place to go when both your mind and your spirit need refreshing.

Yes, I Am A Travel Addict

Well, I've been home for a about a month, so it's time for another roadtrip. Anyone who likes to wander will recognize the symptoms of travel deficiency. First, there's a growing restlessness, intensified when reading travel magazines or watching the travel channel. Next, you'll notice yourself day-dreaming, accompanied by copious sighing during routine tasks at home or at work.

You'll pull out maps and markers to highlight interesting routes and destinations. Perhaps you'll hide your actions from those around you who don't share your travel addiction. When you start checking your bank accounts and making packing lists you know it's too late; you've succumbed to the sickness.

There is no cure. Travel is the only treatment.

Drying Out

One of my favorite overnight stops on the Erie Canal bike tour was at Syracuse, NY. We stayed in a city park with access to a pool and dinner at the zoo. But, the activity I enjoyed best was walking around tent city, taking pictures of the ingenious ways people found to dry out after the previous night's rain.

Cycling The Erie Canal

In case you're worried that I'm lost somewhere in a southwestern canyon and you're about to send out a search party, I should let you know, you're looking in the wrong direction. For the last week or so I've been exploring the northeast. I've been traveling with a biker gang. Not motorcyclists, but a group of about 500 bicyclists traveling over 400 miles from Buffalo to Albany, New York along the Erie Canal.

Now, don't get me wrong. I am not a biker. I own a bike, but it's been sitting neglected in my basement for several years. It's more of a clothes rack than a mode of transportation. I like to drive, walk and hike. Biking...not so much.

My sister, Kay, likes to bike. Every year she finds a multi-day, cross-country trip to join. This year she was tired of setting up a tent after a long day of biking, so she recruited me to be her personal "sag" driver. I transported her luggage and bike, drove her to and from the ride, and provided a cozy place to sleep at night. In exchange, I participated in all the fun tour activities, met a lot of interesting people, had plenty of time to take pictures and learn about early American history, and of course, had a chance to enjoy my sister's fine company.

Where Am I?

I entered Death Valley the hard way, through the backdoor. The road was a tiny, twisty, sometimes one-lane track from the Owens Valley through the Sylvania and Palmetto mountains. Traveling back and forth from California to Nevada and back again, I never knew exactly where I was. At one point I was stopped on the open-range by two cowboys herding cattle across the road. I enjoyed watching them so much I never even thought about taking pictures. The only vehicle I saw on my drive was a delivery truck. I guess when you live in the middle of nowhere, on an isolated ranch, that's the way to shop. Why bother driving all the way to town when UPS will deliver right to your door.

I arrived at Death Valley National Park in the late afternoon. The park was full of Spring Breakers and all the campgrounds were full, so I stayed just outside the park entrance with a few other campers. We were in a nice parking area, but it freaked me out a bit. At one end of the parking lot was a sign that read, "Welcome To California" while the other end had a "Welcome To Nevada." We were in the middle in a no-man's land. I couldn't stop wondering exactly which state I was in. I would have been seriously worried if I had outstanding warrants in either state and didn't know legally where I was.

In the morning, solidly back in California, I took a couple of tours of Scotty's Castle, a historic mansion in the park, then went looking for a campsite. Still no luck, so I stopped at the Furnace Creek Inn for lunch and possibly a room for the night. I'd stayed at the inn before with my daughter. We'd shared a great road trip, back and forth across the country, one summer. What we liked best about our stay, not counting the scenery and overwhelming stars at night, was the oasis and pool. The inn has a huge spring fed pool which is drained and refilled every night. The water from the pool refreshes a cool, green oasis of flowers and palm trees. It seems like a mirage, this strange, wonderful little bit of paradise surrounded by the stark, unforgiving beauty of the desert.

Desert Love

To the casual observer, Joshua Tree National Park is a hot, dry, barren and forbidding land full of prickly, poisonous inhabitants; a "drive-through" park with few sights beyond some interesting rocks, a strange cactus garden and weird looking "so-called trees". But, to those who love her, those willing to spend time with her, she will reveal her hidden treasures.

Her secrets lie in the cracks of massive boulders where small desert animals sleep through the day and wildflowers bloom in the spring. Where imaginations can turn inanimate objects into the tortured faces of giants, frozen in time.

Her secrets are in her broad, dry washes which, if you take the time to explore, transform into hidden lands of steep twisty cliffs, rich and moist, teeming with life. Seek out her cool shady spots beneath the giant boulders. Sit quietly, letting the gentle breezes caress you. Smell her clean, dry scent. Embrace the smooth, cool curves of her rocks. Spend the night with her, enveloped by the starry sky, until you lose all sense of perspective and balance and are swept away by the magnificence around you.

Leave with regret, promising you'll be back to see her again and again.

Restless Genes

I'm a product of restless genes. As a teenager, my mother left the country for the city. Her parents moved from the city to the northwood forests. Their families left Europe centuries before, always moving westward. My father was born with wandering genes, too. His life with my mother was one long road trip. He loves maps and my mother is an excellent navigator, so, for as long as I can remember, they've either been planning a trip, traveling or reminiscing about their travels.

I was doomed to wander from the start. My first cross-country trip was when I was two weeks old. Like a baby bird imprinted by the sight of his mother, as an infant I was imprinted by the sight of the open road. My first lullaby was the sound of tires rolling down the highway. The "ding-ding" of a car entering a gas station was better than the sound of sleigh bells at Christmas. Perhaps that's why I liked Picacho Peak so much.

Not a wilderness park by any means, Picacho Peak State Park is located just off of I-10, west of Tucson, Arizona. From the campground you can watch a steady stream of cars and trucks moving across the country. Parallel to the highway, and just as busy, are trans-continental train tracks. Since prehistoric times Picacho Peak has been a landmark for travelers. While definitely not a park for everyone, I enjoyed watching the traffic in the distance from my saguaro-dotted campsite. With my imagination, and by squinting my eyes, I could turn the cars, trucks and trains into long lines of covered wagons, stage coaches and bands of travelers, all following the dictates of their restless genes.