Stopping in Time?

One of the best experiences on a trip is discovering special, unexpected places. So it was, as I was driving on a quiet highway, U.S. 301, near Bushnell, which is in Central Florida. It was a beautiful morning and, after driving an hour or so, I began to feel the urge to stop. Then, almost simultaneously, I spied a sign at County Road 603 announcing that somewhere nearby was Dade Battlefield Historical Park. I had heard the name Dade before and knew that Miami, which was hundreds of miles away, was in Dade County. So I asked myself who was Dade and, as I was about to put this question in Notepad on my phone to remind me to look up the answer later, I decided to follow the arrow and explore the park. I considered momentarily I would find myself at some obscure, insignificant Civil War site. As I drove up to the entrance and its ticket booth, I had hoped that there would be no money-taker to collect the $4.00 entry fee because all I wanted to do was drive in, cruise around, satisfy my curiosity, and resume my trek north. Unfortunately, a portly uniformed guard peering down at me suspiciously sat inside, informed me of the cost in a most unpleasant accent, and thrust a brochure in my hand. As I handed him the money, I found myself tongue-tied and drove off still unclear about what lay before me. The short gravel road ended at small empty parking lot nestled in a grove of magnificent trees shading a block building which appeared to possibly be a visitors center.

Near the door, a stone monument with a bronze plaque explained that this luxurious, peaceful, forested spot was, in 1835, the site of a well-calculated ambush by Seminole Indians against a column of American cavalry as it was crossing tribal lands. The massive defeat of the soldiers marked the beginning of what is called the 2nd Seminole War. Recently I had read a book about Andrew Jackson, who was president at the time, and I had  learned something of the tragic story of the Seminoles. White settlers had coveted the lush timber and the wildlife-rich tribal lands after Florida had been purchased from the Spanish and had become an American territory. They were also piqued by the Seminole tradition of harboring and then integrating runaway black slaves into their culture. In addition, the Indians had shown disdain for Christianity and had resisted conversion. The visitors center chronicled the salient events of the entire conflict with the Seminoles on signboards and also with a movie which showed reenactments of the pivotal battle that took place several hundred yards away. I learned how Major Francis Dade had been ordered to march two companies of men on an established path from a fort in Tampa through the Indian lands in order to supply an outpost, Fort King, near present day Ocala. He had been attacked here and 108 men, including Dade, had been "massacred." The Natives lost only three braves in the conflict.

I then chose to walk the original military trail and reflect on the Seminole Wars which had transpired  177 years ago. It was not hard to feel the appalling disrespect and reprehensible immorality perpetrated against the Indians in the name of progress. The war ended in the utter defeat, enslavement, and relocation of the local population to Oklahoma. Even though the tone at the visitors center was to report the sad, complicated history in a matter-of-fact manner and to avoid any critical point of view, I couldn't help being struck by the feeling that this park was no lasting memorial to the Native horror, but was established solely to commemorate the only place in this war where the aggressors had been handily defeated. I had experienced a similar park years ago when visiting the Alamo, where a minor loss for American conquerors had been heralded as a great tragedy of the time. The repercussion was enormous. It stimulated increased brutality against the Mexicans and fostered further justification for seizing their land. Similarly, every American history book focuses on the story of the atrocity perpetrated by the Seminoles on the Americans that took place here, and thereby gives a distorted impression of equivalent suffering. It portrays the eventual victorious invaders as victims who had  a justifiable excuse for revenge.

As I walked quietly across a stone bridge, the trail jogged slightly and turned into a small glen. There placed in the leaves were two large grave markers. The songbirds in the canopy above became aware of my presence in this idyllic setting and ceased chirping as I came nearer. I read the description on the stones and learned that before me were the remains of Francis Dade and one of his soldiers. I felt strangely placid and in touch with the desire to accept the sad facts without judgement. I know that questions of historical choices are important to ask, especially when events are recent. It is worth debating about what should have been or could have been, or what behavior was right or wrong. Yet the day and circumstances of the battle played out here seemed to me now like a drop of rain which had fallen long ago, had mixed with volumes of water from subsequent showers to join a river and was now far downstream into the present, bobbing as an idealized memory of the past.

I continued walking on the well-maintained path until it ended at a fence, marking the boundary of the park. I stood there for a moment, let my eyes travel across a marsh and imagined the continuation of the route, now long overgrown, a length the soldiers never reached. Beyond the marsh I knew the trail had been covered with concrete. I could hear the traffic from it on Hwy 301 and then from I-75. Soon I would be back on that trail getting gas for my car, also perhaps buying a sandwich at Subway, and then taking my turn to complete the soldiers' journey to Ocala.

Getting Beyond St. Augustine

Perhaps my present journey or maybe every remaining day of my life has something to do with looking for the Fountain of Youth. Therefore I found it apropos that I was now in St.Augustine, the oldest city on the continent, which is mistakenly associated with Ponce de Leon's search for the waters of eternal life. DeLeon had been killed by a poison arrow in Cuba in 1521 and the myth about him started long before St.Augustine had been founded in 1565. I stood at the entrance of Fountain of Youth Park, the grounds of the first settlement where Spaniards began christianizing Natives. A peek through the wrought-iron fence showed me that the ancient village  appeared to have been transformed into a theatrical tourist attraction. I peeked through the wrought iron fence and decided that I would not step through these gates of history but would rather stroll carefree along the waterfront and walk through the narrow streets of the renowned old city.

I parked several blocks away in a neighborhood of stately turn-of-the-century houses adjacent the campus of Flagler University which consisted of some of the most glorious gothic-style buildings and churches I had seen since I had been to Europe.  According to a brochure and map a hotel clerk had thrust in my hand along with a coupon for a discount at some eatery, I had to find a lane which was purported to be lined with authentic buildings dating from the 17th Century. I turned a corner from an alley and found myself on a cobblestone path and was practically swept up by a throng of bodies in gawdy shorts, designer tank tops and t-shirts which touted the importance of various towns and colleges. On both sides of this pedestrian mall, in replicated buildings mimicking the Spanish settlement, were stores selling tourist kitsch from stuffed baby alligator heads to plated silver Mexican jewelry.  Live music of various kinds blared from pirate-themed restaurant courtyards packed with couples and families enjoying tropical drinks, beer, and platters of catchy-named food such as a Captain Morgan Cajun burger. Farther along, beyond replicas of an old schoolhouse and water wheel, I finally spied at the end of the street a genuine vestige of the past with redeeming value, an ancient stone portal, the remnants of the original city wall. To reward myself for this find, I proceeded to buy a slice of Chicago-style pizza from a nearby concession.

I had thought of leaving but decided to make one more pass through this morass of Americana. At the opposite end of the lane, I saw a statue in a grassy courtyard in front of a tastfully-renovated building which turned out to be the city hall.  A sign declared that I was looking at the figure of Don Pedro Menendez de Aviles leaning against his sword. Aviles had been sent by Spain in 1565 to build a new fort to protect his mother-country's riches from French pirates. Aviles sighted land near this spot on August 28, the feast day of St. Augustine of Hippo, and as a result named the new territory after this adored Christian icon. Adjacent the monument in the oldest  park of North America, the Plaza de Constitucion, freshly-painted canons and balls from a more recent date were displayed as a reminder that strangers were not always welcome. Now invaders from Disney World or nearby Sea World, mainly barbarians from the North, had descended in droves, overrunning the integrity of the past.

It may sound like I thoroughly disliked the commercialized atmosphere of St. Augustine's Old Town, where authenticity was a scarce commodity.  Even Floridians, like Nevadans on the Las Vegas strip were hard to find. The fact is, I saw happy people enjoying the sun, families relaxed and on vacation. I watched visitors with guide books, cameras, strollers, and colorful bags containing trinkets to preserve fond memories, wander through a honey-colored version of earlier times. There was even a fellow who whizzed by on roller blades. Oddly enough not one policeman was anywhere to be found. There were clean bathrooms, drinking fountains, and benches. It hadn't always been like this.16th and 17th Century St. Augustine had been no picnic. It had had its share of decrepit buildings. It had neither electricity nor running water, had been mired in poor sanitation, and was wracked with disease and racial and class oppression. I knew that my journey would continue to challenge me to have a balanced  perspective between  former times and the present. There is a tendency to cover the blemished past with romantic dust. With that, I clutched my camera tightly and retraced my steps to the car to resume my travel through time and space.

Forging on in Florida

On Saturday I picked up my rental car at the Fort Meyers airport and headed out on the second phase of my adventure, namely to drive north through the South at a leisurely pace at or below the speed limit, and avoid interstate highways and other main roads. I would have10 days to make the trek to my drop-off and end point, Washington Dulles International Airport, a distance of over 1100 miles when using direct routes.  My hope by traveling the backroads was to see a more aesthetic, natural environment  and and to develop a clear impression of life here in Dixie. Also I had specific places and people I intended to visit. Therefore I felt exhilirated when I spread open my map on the passenger seat, turned on the GPS and belted myself in behind the wheel of an oddly rust-colored, strangely truncated, 2012 Suzuki 4x4, which had been called by the clerk "a wonderful upgrade" and began my journey in earnest on U.S 41.

My inclination was to look for vestiges of the South I had marveled at as a child over 50 years ago, but I knew almost immediately that such a goal would bring me only disappointment. Craning my neck left and right, as expected, I saw a neon stream of signs denoting chain stores and strip malls, gaudy new and used car lots, and huge billboards, bearing giant pictures of lawyers in power clothing hawking their skills through catchy phrases such as "Would you want to fight with this woman!" or "Believe me, we'll get you your money."

In order to avoid the big cities of Sarasota and Tampa I veered east onto a more rural route which directed me towards the entrance of Myaka State Park, a renowned Florida wildlife refuge noted for its large lake which I had visited a number of years before. In a matter of moments after leaving the ticket booth, the park lane serpentined under canopies of lucious cypress and pine and coursed through marshes dotted with yellow wildflowers and scraggly reeds among which quiet ibises fed. A bridge crossing a tributary provided my first glimpse of alligators. Several tourists, leaning over the rail, gesturing enthusiatically and snapping pictures, speculated as to the reptiles' lengths. Standing not far from these visitors was a  local fella fishing. For a moment he reminded me of an extra from an old Hollywood  movie. He wore a faded ballcap, a colorful but stained Hawaiian shirt, dirty jeans and  had a container of nightcrawlers at his feet. He was casting a bobber and hook to what I later learned were tilapia. Needless to say I couldn't resist hearing his voice and story.  In a peculiar drawl, one which I had not heard yet when I had been on Sanibel Island, he pointed downward and told me them gators were nothing. I should have seen the large rogue ones of years past which he admitted, grinning mischeviously, ended up in his freezer after they that had come too near the porch of his trailer house.

Later, in the sultry afternoon, I continued to bisect the state, now crossing lonely, barren landscape, heavily degraded by logging and fire and interspersed  by modest mobile homes and frequent eclectically-named evangelical churches. There were no clapboard quaint general stores nor homestyle diners, no handscrawled signs advertising the sale of worms or bait nor architecturally-tasteful barns or farm houses. An occasional gas station and 7-11 type country market seemed to harmonize with this drab, and depressing American dream, which was clearly "God's country" for the locals. I was not from these parts, "passing through", as they say, and was just another hungry, tired traveler. My vision of the countryside became blurry. My ability to observe keenly began to be impacted by ill-temper. Therefore I concluded it was time to pick up my spirits. I would drive only a bit further to spend the night and explore eagerly the next day the oldest city of our continent, St. Augustine.

Life Flight?

I have started the first leg of my trip to the East Coast and am writing today from Sanibel Island, Florida where my friend Stephen lives. We met years ago in the 1980s in Astoria and over the subsequent years have occasionally fished together and, of course, stayed current about seminal personal events. Our conversation has  been overloaded, as expected, with tales of nostalgia about exotic places we visited when we were younger, past mutual acquaintances and various key moments of joy, pain and bravado. Yesterday as we crossed the causeway from the mainland to the island, I said finally what we both knew, namely that most likely we would never see one another again after I depart on Saturday. This circumstance required no explanation since his lack of mobility makes travel almost impossible and my intense desire to visit other places before the sand runs out of the hourglass is overwhelming.

While Stephen is at the doctor, I look out on the street and paths in front of the coffee shop I am sitting, I watch flocks of the residual "snowbirds" and vacationers from the Northeast passing by, who will soon fly north as the heat and quantity of insects begin to intensify. I see many permanent residents, too, tan-skinned and grey-haired, who have now chosen to stay and "tough it out" in the sunshine. They have added up their accumulated wealth and the many days of their lives and deposited their booty here in waterfront homes, boats and golf course memberships. When I am in Bend sitting at the tea shop, which is a hangout for smarter high school kids and college students, there is a hopeful, idealistic and infectious energy. I know clearly I am a ripened apple among these budding flowers, but it rarely matters to me. It may be self-deception, but I sense  my once-bright skin and firm shape and prefer to keep them that way in my imagination.

In contrast, here in Sanibel where the word "senior" pervades the air like the vapors from a skywriter, it is harder for me to forget. Many of these folks appear as a distorted mirror of myself. They bicycle, play tennis, eat right, take their pills and tell yarns of the past. I'm sure they see all the palm trees, tropical plants, azure water and golden yellow warmth as their Eden before the end. I know my friend does. I don't begrudge submission to accept this type of heaven on earth. Yet, I am reminded of animals in a zoo, well- fed, safe, good medical treatment and self-contained in a gated community of others of their species. Maybe I am of a different breed.

I'm not ready to come in out of the cold, am a restless sort and hope to continue seeking adventure for quite some time.  I am crystal clear about the old adage,  "No matter how much you try, no one comes out of life alive." Someday I'll be in my endgame. Years ago I was spellbound by the famous Ingmar Bergman film, The Seventh Seal, in which Death plays the character of a mischievous  but excellent chess player, I, like the knight who survives the Crusades only to be confronted by the ever-present master and is rewarded with life as long as he stays ahead, consider myself also a formidable opponent to the Reaper. I know some secret moves and I'll share one of them with you today. Vitality can be found on the road. So soon, I'll be outa here.

Posting My Thoughts?

I began collecting stamps when I was a child and remember becoming fascinated by the various colors and sizes of these strange perforated shapes. Before me lay the world in pictures which challenged me to learn the names of many obscure historical people and of far-away places with magical names like Azerbaijan or Tanganyika. Sometimes with a magnifying glass I squinted at depictions of monochromed giraffes, turbaned desert people, and important buildings often encircled by odd lettering or numbers. Perhaps best of all, it was a hobby which met positively with my father's authoritarian judgment of what was considered productive activity. For hours, looking like I was sitting amidst a pile of confetti, slowly and methodically, I would attach stamps in my album. When working on them I was safe and hidden in my own private world and able to tune out the almost constant tension which permeated my family's dynamics.  Certain stamps became special friends and I would look at them proudly and, with excitement find them companions that belonged in the same series or on the same page.  

Today my joy in gathering stamps has not abated. My closet is a veritable postal potpourri of stacked albums with withered bindings, brimming boxes of colorful envelopes, books containing first day covers, plate blocks, full sheets, and of course, pages and pages of ornately decorated and numeraled regular issues, airmails and commemoratives. Having such an extensive collection may sound like an impressive accomplishment but whenever I even mention my philatelic power and prowess to my children, they roll their eyes and express some teasing sentiment indicating that collecting stamps is not particularly cool. They usually lament about what to do with such a mess when I am finally cancelled and all that is left of me is my own dated portrait. Of course they appreciate that some of my stamps are valuable but don't know which ones are. They dread the thought of how to dispose of the lot without being cheated. I can hardly blame them for their nonplussed attitude. I don't know the answer either. I can't expect either one of them to become enthralled in a hobby which is as high-speed and modern as a stamp showing a team of oxen pulling a cart. Also inheriting a collection dampens the sense of accomplishment which is an integral part of the gathering and organizing process. It means fiddling with someone's work rather than experiencing the pleasure of putting one's own "stamp" on a lifelong project.

As I grew older and learned the idea that beauty might be discovered by looking closely at little things like leaves or stones or insects, I discovered my collection was in fact a catalogue of magnificent pictures of landscapes, sculptures, engravings, photos and designs suitable for a Lilliputian art musem. When looked at from this perspective it is easy to see that every stamp expresses someone's creative vision, having had to pass the scrutiny of a jury and then being finely reproduced in a determined quantity and quality by a printing method. I have amassed perhaps thirty thousand of these graphic icons that, like tiny hitchhikers riding along on the envelopes which package the thoughts of others, transmit their own story of human history.

It has been a challenge to select examples to share. Each stamp is a jewel in a giant, fleck-filled kaleidoscope, Nonetheless I have plucked out three special ones for your review.

At the top is U.S. stamp  #1, a portrait honoring Benjamin Franklin who was named our first postmaster by the Continental Congress in 1775. This imperforate stamp was issued in July 1847 by the authority of Congress to standardize postage among the states, making it the only legal stamp that could be affixed to a letter. I chose to display this one for its historical significance and as a subtle hint to my children not to give it away!

The second example comes from France and is found in a series honoring French artists. It shows a painting by Marc Chagall who, although born in Russia, lived most of his life in France. It was issued in July 1987 and commemorates the 100th anniversary of the artist's birthday. I chose this to point out how lovely an envelope might look if this stamp were posted on it and how it might set the right tone for the message inside. In addition Chagall is my sister's favorite artist and I thought she might enjoy seeing this representation.

The third item is an engraved and typographed stamp from Canada printed at Christmas 1898. It displays a map of the British Empire using a Mercator projection. It was the first stamp issued by a colony of the British empire that didn't show a cameo of the English royal family. It provides a wealth of geographical, cultural, and historical information and, most importantly, I find it pleasing to my eye.

Wearing White

 While lying snuggly under the covers this morning, I deftly slipped my arm out and, like in the old days when reaching for a smoke, found and turned on the remote for the TV. Within a moment, my solitude was shattered by the voice of an annoyingly cheerful weather actor on the Today Show. He bantered about how the country was basking in unseasonably warm, beautiful weather, with the exception of the unfortunate Northwest which was still in the throes of relentless Winter. He spoke of the heavy rains, winds, and snow as if they were a validation of punishmnent of those who didn't believe in the inherent superiority of living on the Beltway or New York. I had no one to hear my objections to his bias. Here was someone who must have forgotten the beauty of watching snow coat the beach nor flakes falling softly on pine trees. Perhaps neither he nor his audience would appreciate the energy of breathing cool moist air, the drumming sound of torrents of rain nor the seductive rub of freshets of wind that contribute to making life here exquisite. For some dumb reason the caprice of weather has been divided into categories of good and bad with warm and dry as trump cards over wet and cold. I reflected further on what a glorious season "the bad weather" had been for me. Mt Bachelor Ski Resort has been blasted with cold, fluffy, voluminous powder, conditions which most skiers and snowboarders under the age of thirty refer to as "epic."

 My love for the snow began when I a child in Chicago when my sister and I were given a wooden sled which we used for careening down a slope at the "tot lot." My joy from that time lives on today when, on many a morning, I can be found on a chairlift freezing my butt off, then braving wind and poor visibility to carve my way on fresh untracked snow down the slopes in order to join friends at the bottom to share eagerly exhilarating tales of success. However the transition from sled to skis was not that easy.

 I started skiing at age 46 and remember how my children bullied me into giving into my fear of crashing. Like so many people imagine themselves, I was convinced that I would be an embarrrassing failure who, within a short time, would see friends signing clever greetings on my cast. My learning curve was slow and painful. I fell so often I was actually becoming comfortable with self-loathing. Within moments, I would find myself hopelessly out of control and then suddenly down and covered in snow sprawled out, with skis and poles scattered about. Often I would lie there on the white carpet before dusting off and picture myself as an incongruous twig in some cosmic game of pickup sticks. In spite of my predictable lack of coordination, my son especially continued to encourage me to keep pushing myself and urged me to stop being a wuss when I looked over a steep edge at the run and began to whine about an impending catastrophe.

 Fortunately I have advanced, but still fall and suffer from the jitters and hurt pride. Although the fact is not particularly relevant, I have always been anxiety-prone. The source of this affliction may be a result of inheriting physical and mental instability genes from both of my parents. Neither of them would have ever ventured beyond a lodge, let alone shown any interest in the snow other than commenting on the danger of driving in such crappy weather. They could have never believed that I now quantify my life by the number of days I go up to the mountain, how many runs I may have taken, and whether I rode up on the first chairs.

 Then again, as I sit here in front of my laptop, extolling the white and wonderful, I am suddenly beset with fantasies of lying on a deckchair in some tropical clime, looking at palm trees and listening to soft gentle breezes. Even a pina colada might beat hot-buttered rum right now. Perhaps my passion for the cold has started to melt. Is it too late for me to take up water skiing? I know you all would wish me well. Doesn't the the expression go something like "Break a Leg"! 

 The above photos are from good weather days. I generally avoid bringing a camera when I ski for fear I will plant the darn thing and myself in a snowbank. The first picture was taken by my son of me on a bluebird day near the Northwest Chairlift before we dropped off the wall of a "black diamond" run. The second photo shows an easy groomed "blue" run. It appears flat in the foreground but the topography suddenly steepens in the background. The last picture shows the 9000-foot summit of the Mt. Bachelor. There is a lift that runs to the top and, with a slight traverse, people ski down to the spot at mid-mountain from where this shot was taken at 7300 feet or continue on to the base at 6300 feet.

A Pot of Gold at Sutter's Mill

On my return trip from the San Francisco Bay Area last week, feeling saddened after the memorial for my best friend Tom Barrett, I decided I would take a circuitous route back to Bend. By heading east, I realized I had the opportunity of visiting Sutter's Log Mill at Coloma near Placerville, Ca. At this spot along the American River below the old mill site during an icy morning on January 24th, 1848, amongst the waterwheel's tailrace, James Marshall, John Sutter's partner, found flecks of gold. Within a year the news of this discovery had spread across the world and had triggered perhaps the most remarkable human migration ever recorded. Over 300,000 people flocked to California from all over America, Europe, Australia, Mexico, Latin America and the Orient. Many arrived by ship to California from the East Coast after a 16,000 mile five to eight month passage around South America or sailing first to Panama, trekking through mosquito-infested jungle to meet another sailing ship to take them the rest of the way. Others traveled by wagon along the Oregon and California Trail enduring unimaginable hardship from weather, disease, lack of provisions, and Indian attack. This extraordinary event also precipitated the forming of hundreds of new settlements along the land route and inspired thousands of Europeans dispossessed by the Revolution of 1848 to cross the Atlantic to seek fortune throughout America.

With much anticipation, I walked the path along the river to look for the exact spot which marked the American Holy Grail. I expected to see a glorious monument standing at the site like one might expect at Plymouth Rock or Jamestown, but all I found was a worn out, almost unreadable sign board which proclaimed that the discovery took place at a side channel 20 feet beyond and below. I followed a small muddy trail which had been etched out by previous seekers and ended my pilgrimage by kneeling at the edge of an exceptionally peaceful and overgrown rivulet. Almost instinctively, my eyes traveled over the sand and gravel which lay at my feet looking for anything protruding that was yellow and shiny. However, like so many before me, I turned away empty-handed. The gold was gone and yet I felt so enriched. I had explored the backroads of time and discovered a trove of glittering dust containing carats of American history.

The first photo shows the actual site of the original Sutter's Mill. The second picture is a shot downstream on the American River with a man on the far bank panning for gold. The third is the spot where gold was first found.