Trailer People!

Murphys, Ca. -- This summer we traveled almost 3,000 miles in a giant loop from home in the mountains to the coast, to Eastern Washington state, and back home again via the coast. We dodged fire, smoke and heat along the way. More important we saw beloved family and friends, plus enough scenic grandeur to satisfy John Muir. We had a wonderful trip with no big problems or challenges and lots of serindipity. Only regret is that we did not have enough time or energy to see everybody, or stay longer. First, some data: Our route took us from Murphys, Ca., to Fort Bragg and Patricks Point on the norther Redwood coast of California to Bandon, Oregon, Scapoose, Oregon, and the Columbia River pathway to Spokane, Washington. The trip home followed a similar route to avoid smoke and fire and heat. We stayed in campgrounds for three weeks every night but three, and our traveling home was our almost-new NuCamp Tab 320, a small trailer that we could pull behind Pat's Subaru and had all the essentials: comfortable bed, a refrigerator, and a toilet.

We made the trip easier by taking our time-- no ten hour driving days and usually stopping for several nights so we were rested and had time for exploring. The first stop was about six hours to the coast near Fort Bragg, as MacKerrichner State Park, where we had stayed before. I hiked over the dune to the beach for a look before sunset.

And then we got up early the next morning and drove out to the point where we whipped out the Coleman stove, a made fresh coffee to go with sunrise on the beach.

Then we drove an easy trip through the redwoods up to Sue-Meg State Park, formerly known as Patricks Point. We gather here every summer with family, a tradition started years ago by son-in-law Brian Gray's family. We've been here for more than 15 year and it never gets old. We are outnumbered by Grays but they have always made us welcome. The sunset photo at the top of this post is from the trail near the campground, where we gather almost every evening to watch and see if the sun will really set. Our camp site, located across from Ruth and Brian and next door to the rest of the Gray family, was like a scene from a Disney movie. First the birds come, and then the chipmunks, and then the rabbits. Every day.

I had never seen a rabbit or a Stellars Jay lie down on the ground to soak up sun, or a rabbit ignore me five feet away while it munches on a green leaf.

We had a great relaxing time with family, and our Calaveras friends Mark and Pat McCormick stopped by on their way to visit family. We always enjoy the Gray family and have been close for over 35 years. After a week we traveled north to Bullard Beach State Park in Oregon, near Bandon. As we have found elsewhere, the Oregon campground is well designed, offering privacy, maintained well with clean rest rooms and staffed by friendly people. A highlight was a campfire program by the Old Time Fiddlers group, a bunch of traditional musicians almost as old as I am. I sang along with every tune.

A short drive brought us into Brandon and good seafood and a visit to the lighthouse and a unique art gallery.

Aftyer three days in and around Brandon, we moved north to a quick visit with our Sacramento/Mexico,Sailing friends Michael and Sylvia. They live in a floating home on a tributary of the Columbia river and have the waterfront views and toys to go with the lifestyle.

Here is a shot of Pat trying out Sylvia's new water cycle. Now she wants one.

The next two days were traveling, mostly along the Columbia River, to get to our furthermost goal -- Spokane -- and our son, granddaughter and our two great-grandchildren. That will come in Part Two!

Happy Fourth of July - maybe

I would like to celebrate the Fourth of July with joy, the way we usually do. But instead I celebrate this year with a sort of sadness that we have come to this: a nation divided into tribes, each suspicious of the other, hoping for better days. We still get along with our neighbors, even though we can't talk politics honestly with each other for fear of the responses we might get.

We have become immune to a President who lies daily, puffing himself up to the third of the nation who either fear their neighbors who happen to be liberals or Democrats, while two-third of the nation knows he is a failure but fear the system will not survive the damage he has done. I have voted for more than 60 years, for the candidates I felt would do the best job regardless of party affiliation, and accepted when it did not turn out the way I hoped, because there is always a better day ahead. Today I am less sure. I volunteered to serve in the military, as did most men of my generation, but would not suggest any beloved family member serve when the commander in chief is a coward who dodged service, and the Secretary of Defense is a would-be warrior with a Patton complex. Despite all this, I will still celebrate with family, beer in hand, around backyard pool with friends and family and grandchildren splashing around. Silently praying for no more wars. My hope for America's future rests with the young. If they fail the way the current generation has, the nation is indeed in peril.

Minnesota Shall Overcome -- It happened before

Murphys, Ca.— Take heart Minneapolis, honest caring folk will prevail in your community. I know, because I have watched the positive tide of history flow against evil in my hometown, and overwhelm the bad guys. You will eventually overcome, just as MLK promised so long ago. I have witnessed the slow march of justice. In 1962 I was a newspaper police reporter in Atlanta. One day my assignment was to cover street demonstrations conducted by young college students, frequently accompanied by pastors, as they attempted to sit in at various restaurants that refused to allow black people to be served. Many places closed and locked their doors to avoid breaking the law. They weren’t discriminating, they said, they were just closed.

These protestors were not “outside agitators” as the politicians liked to call Freedom Riders, but local students from the historically black colleges located in Atlanta. I did not know any of them personally. As a product of the region’s segregated schools, I had never attended a class with any black people. (We had Chinese students at my university, but no one was apparently aware they might be a minority.) The target of the demonstration where I observed the street action was a well-known downtown eating place called Charlie Loeb’s, owned by a prominent and popular businessman. He blocked the door, and pleaded with the crowd of protesters to leave him alone. My memory is he said something like, “I know what discrimination is and have lived with it all my life, but you are going to destroy my business!” He was literally wringing his hands, almost in tears. Other images from that day stick in my mind. The protestors were more bemused by Charlie than sympathetic. They were all well-dressed and clean cut young people (younger than me by two or three years, and better dressed), politely demanding entrance and singing songs of about freedom. They were determined. Across the street were the Ku Klux Klan folks, dressed in street clothes because masks were prohibited, but easily identifiable by the muttered curses and threatening stares. But the most obvious symbol of their group status were the pickax handles they brought to the street, slapping them in a threatening manner against their pants legs while they watched. Those pickaxes had become a symbol of Southern white resistance, promoted by a racist politician named Lester Maddox. (Unfortunately for Georgia, he later became governor.) It came at a time when Atlanta’s political leaders, all white males, had decided defying the law was bad for business and they did not want to do anything to hurt the carefully cultivated image of Atlanta as part of the “New South.” As a result of the business influence, and maybe a result of good training, the police were out in strength and made it clear to everyone that no violence, or foolishness of any kind of that matter, would be tolerated. Their shoes were polished, and the night sticks were ready. They were determined that Atlanta would never be “another Birmingham,” where Klansmen, racist politicians and police had beaten protestors bloody, and for good measure beat up a couple of journalist who were filming the events (including a college classmate who had his cameras destroyed and his face bloodied.) Other than singing and handwringing and muttering nothing much really happened on that particular day. But I am glad all these years later to know the tides can turn, for the better, and the old bad ways will pass. It took some time, but the Atlanta cafes and dime store counters and Charlie Loeb’s place eventually opened their doors to all comers, Atlanta moved ahead to become a better place, and folks went back to their homes. It was not an overnight thing. But law and order prevailed, free speech was defended and even saluted, and the city became something of a beacon for lots of people. Business thrived.

My view is that it took a combination of young people standing on the moral high ground who demanded their rights, along with political leadership not afraid to uphold the law and hold everyone accountable. It turned out that the old hymn was right: “We shall overcome, some day.” The fight for truth and justice is never over, but the tide will not be stopped. Minnesota will go back to being a normal place where people get along, talk funny, smile a lot, and justice will (eventually) prevail. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was right.