tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-233206472024-02-19T03:36:38.826-07:00Shauna and Sterling's TravelblogueNo journey carries one far unless, as it extends into the world around us, it goes an equal distance into the world within. ~Lillian SmithBurrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12486081030249537578noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23320647.post-18006322676760092912008-03-13T22:28:00.016-06:002008-08-24T16:25:18.849-06:00“A good traveler has no fixed plans, and is not intent on arriving” ~Lao Tzu (Founder of Taoism), 6th century BC.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMEH0bvrfoa_JTpvjsJuFAd9_5AUDm_C0yys9M1rSUztpeiMHt72ggG4hxeKHmIiGbrDXAmf8fDXmbD-TvKc7Gzu1qQEumNOY0T8S6dpqR8QwL11od-kSgQiphThj1Wc3EWYEF/s1600-h/IMG_7712_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5177455467597984578" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMEH0bvrfoa_JTpvjsJuFAd9_5AUDm_C0yys9M1rSUztpeiMHt72ggG4hxeKHmIiGbrDXAmf8fDXmbD-TvKc7Gzu1qQEumNOY0T8S6dpqR8QwL11od-kSgQiphThj1Wc3EWYEF/s320/IMG_7712_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Dinas Mawddwy<br /><br />Neither of us is big on itineraries…partly because we’re incapable of actually sticking to one, but mostly because they seem to be the surest way to reduce traveling to a strictly utilitarian affair.<br /><br />In which case, why leave home?<br /><br />After all, it’s not what we’ve planned to see, but rather what we’ve seen accidentally that we remember most poignantly. It’s the little surprises between destinations, often far off the beaten track, that make traveling among the most rewarding of all human activities. It’s all the happy little mistakes, the fortuitous wrong turns and dead ends that rigid itineraries simply do not allow for but make traveling sacrosanct.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUrlQxZNugQB35wKViUXY0KP5PkHPnPYIrxXg8EodGjAtP0S1FZ66qgsB5KiQKFC-tcEjPDbcN5F1xzVe8pgwDtMKyCH74juSaoVle2MLu1FtuqqHy1jKpBIoeLKeTZzas8I5K/s1600-h/IMG_7719_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5177454496935375666" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUrlQxZNugQB35wKViUXY0KP5PkHPnPYIrxXg8EodGjAtP0S1FZ66qgsB5KiQKFC-tcEjPDbcN5F1xzVe8pgwDtMKyCH74juSaoVle2MLu1FtuqqHy1jKpBIoeLKeTZzas8I5K/s320/IMG_7719_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Moel Bendinas<br /><br />So we rambled north, drifting down sundry roads, through deep valleys and across long, windswept ridges.<br /><br />Wales was even more beautiful than I’d hoped. Green valleys and brown peaks, flora and stone in perfect counterpoint. An almost paradoxical mixture of rugged and quaint. This apparent contradiction wasn’t manifest in just the landscape, either. It was expressed in everything from the language, to the architecture, to the very Welsh themselves.<br /><br />We passed slowly through mile after mile of ridiculously scenic countryside. Through fantastic backwater villages like Pant Y Dwr, Llandinam and finally Dinas Mawddwy. Welsh villages are, as a species, remarkably picturesque. Dinas Mawddway, however, is freakishly so. Set in a narrow river valley between peaks inside Snowdonia National Park, Dinas Mawddwy is…well…perfect. Perfect on September 25, 2006, anyway.<br /><br />We left the car next to Gwesty’r Llew Coch (The Red Lion Inn) on Main Street and started walking. We followed a narrow lane down into the lower valley and across the Dyfi River. We spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening wandering the larger Dinas Mawddwy area on foot.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbSMv253fvyalNcKURRO-gY4xIAGP8g30HqriRHtDABJOEu9CoKl6ECG-Oh9PrS9KeHpoJw_FCOHs4FFRnzzVpeLCvhNhSkmtlEkT2UB6XTY71Gpwc_0zF4J2uYtH_5I2LiPA-/s1600-h/IMG_7721_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5177453861280215842" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbSMv253fvyalNcKURRO-gY4xIAGP8g30HqriRHtDABJOEu9CoKl6ECG-Oh9PrS9KeHpoJw_FCOHs4FFRnzzVpeLCvhNhSkmtlEkT2UB6XTY71Gpwc_0zF4J2uYtH_5I2LiPA-/s320/IMG_7721_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjykhGJDYzcyxwQ6OggB-UONE8M2jhS0y_T3OTYoQSw02hRPWPKqbYzMGN5IaX8odWD_Mwe61tK7D4zWw3eefxVZkTs3IjmXt6NG2ItuXoKHiSr5OuI1nt2h12wl1M2IsSqWdsj/s1600-h/IMG_7722.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5177453242804925202" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjykhGJDYzcyxwQ6OggB-UONE8M2jhS0y_T3OTYoQSw02hRPWPKqbYzMGN5IaX8odWD_Mwe61tK7D4zWw3eefxVZkTs3IjmXt6NG2ItuXoKHiSr5OuI1nt2h12wl1M2IsSqWdsj/s320/IMG_7722.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ2EuTyPHomcF1Ecy_XtJkKzRH4L0nie7LFFpVJfCSk3Id9AVJJBlNbnlsqiDXb15ZhNATLMmQJg2JM2py2_mgsTeFpf5-VpxmBhrN3vx3qw7wzbYom8ihJwREM4EcodP-pC60/s1600-h/IMG_7731_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5177452731703816962" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ2EuTyPHomcF1Ecy_XtJkKzRH4L0nie7LFFpVJfCSk3Id9AVJJBlNbnlsqiDXb15ZhNATLMmQJg2JM2py2_mgsTeFpf5-VpxmBhrN3vx3qw7wzbYom8ihJwREM4EcodP-pC60/s320/IMG_7731_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI6LU4LZSznMH3pIV3JRMszgVExzhCzshWXc2-RCjqUi88FSiF4fsqRLDK5KACghC1-uf2Zzp8AW9LWNacXcqVcgeUon1FnkfxyZl-PZlqx-BY28-s8klpoqvYQHNqgtJ4dK-I/s1600-h/IMG_7725_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5177452010149311218" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI6LU4LZSznMH3pIV3JRMszgVExzhCzshWXc2-RCjqUi88FSiF4fsqRLDK5KACghC1-uf2Zzp8AW9LWNacXcqVcgeUon1FnkfxyZl-PZlqx-BY28-s8klpoqvYQHNqgtJ4dK-I/s320/IMG_7725_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGqpRFJJE5F00Su_nca5NHJ7TrlAzfEP_2P_XWQ2WmN0UmRrMfMQcQfTMmU3uGyQFkEHXqcO1v2AS88gi8OYYHcFIoSVE1zGRkPr3q1Z8u430ZvhZQlOvIBWjTSZN1y7G6JK-a/s1600-h/IMG_7736_3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5177451232760230626" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGqpRFJJE5F00Su_nca5NHJ7TrlAzfEP_2P_XWQ2WmN0UmRrMfMQcQfTMmU3uGyQFkEHXqcO1v2AS88gi8OYYHcFIoSVE1zGRkPr3q1Z8u430ZvhZQlOvIBWjTSZN1y7G6JK-a/s320/IMG_7736_3.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The sun had already set behind the mountains when it finally occured to us that we hadn't found a place to spend the night yet. In the waning light, we walked back to the Red Lion Inn, hoping to score a room there...strike one. Next, the Buckley Pines Hotel...strike two. Then, the Brigand's Inn...strike three. I had pretty much resigned myself to sleeping in the car next to the woolen mill, but Shauna wanted to try one more place before giving up.<br /><br />The Ty Derw (Oak House) B & B seemed the least likely place in town to have any vacancies. It was far too quaint not to have been booked months, years, decades in advance by The International Jane Austen Fan Club, or the Anne of Green Gables Appreciation Society (Welsh Chapter).<br /><br />I pulled up the drive expecting to be scolded by some unnaturally stiff lady wearing an empire waist dress for having arrived so informally attired ("Will the shades of Pemberly be thus polluted?"). Instead, we were greeted by a cheery, casual English couple and a pair of truly gigantic greyhound dogs. One of them (no, not one of the dogs) asked if it would be just one room for the two of us and Shauna said "Yes!" without so much as looking at me (apparently the idea of sleeping next to the mill wasn't as romantic to her as it was to me).<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikLyd6IFRKQYG1zfWGFh_um35b7WI5MjJJl9vgKsZCj2Qgvnyw4N8MAf1JCZytj4xUJD6QRsBJAKU961P2FrTqWqS9eJhsLSszzfsezPwwWZH35HFJoLM4qpIDJS-ltRT_i2Sc/s1600-h/IMG_7753.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5177450335112065746" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikLyd6IFRKQYG1zfWGFh_um35b7WI5MjJJl9vgKsZCj2Qgvnyw4N8MAf1JCZytj4xUJD6QRsBJAKU961P2FrTqWqS9eJhsLSszzfsezPwwWZH35HFJoLM4qpIDJS-ltRT_i2Sc/s320/IMG_7753.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />Ty Derw<br /><br />I have to admit, our accomodations at the Ty Derw were better than the back seat of a Vauxhall Astra. For like 6o quid we got a spacious, nicely decorated En-suite room and a pair of really, really comfortable twin beds; by far the best lodging value of our trip.<br /><br />Of all the places I've ever been, Dinas Mawddwy, Mid-Wales, is my single favorite. I often imagine myself there, in that deep green valley between rocky peaks, next to the quietly chattering Dyfi River. It's ancient waters whispering the same words it uttered to a thousand generations of my ancestors. I cannot imagine a place more ideallic. If I were to wander the earth from this day to my last, I would not expect to find a place where I felt more instantly at home. <br /><br />I can say very few things with any degree of authority, but, of this I am certain...I will return to Dinas Mawddwy.Burrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12486081030249537578noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23320647.post-81573624384169207982008-02-11T22:28:00.011-07:002008-03-01T19:37:51.186-07:00The fog was still thick outside as we made our way downstairs for breakfast. We took our places at a long maple or cherry wood table expecting to be joined momentarily by a throng of other guests. They never came, but that didn't stop us from eating more food than two people should be allowed to eat in one sitting.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3N-R5QFtTr086uU_AI66ydn6y9ohCdZ38Jsb8fhOWe7BI4NPULtbgKUR_iY7pAkodwPUhU8TxBoHh_fwxIq-8de6BOJMFCsAxm5JFCZWGAQbuDda4GO4KlekqoHHNtfAIreas/s1600-h/IMG_7601.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5165974356078975074" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3N-R5QFtTr086uU_AI66ydn6y9ohCdZ38Jsb8fhOWe7BI4NPULtbgKUR_iY7pAkodwPUhU8TxBoHh_fwxIq-8de6BOJMFCsAxm5JFCZWGAQbuDda4GO4KlekqoHHNtfAIreas/s320/IMG_7601.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I ordered a full breakfast which came served on a plate the size of a man hole cover. There was bacon (fried ham), eggs, two kinds of sausage, potatoes, tomatoes, mushrooms and I’m absolutely sure I’m forgetting something. They also brought out a fruit tray replete with grapes, oranges, bananas, grapefruit, and like three different kinds of melon. I wouldn’t have made myself so completely uncomfortableif it hadn’t been so good. It was hands down the best breakfast I had ever eaten, or eaten since.<br /><br />We were eventually joined at the table by Justin, co-owner of Porthmawr House, and I pounced on the opportunity to pick his brain about the area. His command of regional history was impressive, and I began to suspect that there was more to our new friend than he was letting on. I wasn’t too surprised to learn during the course of our conversation that he was no less than the mayor of Crickhowell. We chatted for the better part of the morning, and he gave us a personal tour of the grounds, including the 15th century gatehouse. In the end I felt like we needed to tip him for having been so generous with his time.<br /><br />Taking one of Justin’s many suggestions, we headed out of Crickhowell, crossing the old bridge and motoring up the far side of the valley towards Llangattock in the car. We were looking for a road that would take us into the hills south of town, but the lingering fog made it tough to get our bearings.<br /><br />We never found Justin’s road, but followed a small lane that meandered through the Usk Valley, instead. The fog lifted about 20 minutes into our drive, revealing a deep emerald landscape set against a bright cerulean sky. Dew clung to every surface, even the backs of little ponies and shire horses, and the whole scene glistened in the morning sun.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxnNbusj2zbAa2ugpv4czzGiE8DOck1w9yBs3Gszt290XmSIisNY4KBC0u6x-8JQjXRhAznsNBP72Ww2CuGJ9U1mZHswj70rNGKJyzXq3Ss76M5rxMnGzCmtlgGMNSB_pHbZhz/s1600-h/IMG_7646_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5165970971644745794" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxnNbusj2zbAa2ugpv4czzGiE8DOck1w9yBs3Gszt290XmSIisNY4KBC0u6x-8JQjXRhAznsNBP72Ww2CuGJ9U1mZHswj70rNGKJyzXq3Ss76M5rxMnGzCmtlgGMNSB_pHbZhz/s320/IMG_7646_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc0WD1zyTFgsCUc5nMAH9hNUygUG0yPZRA9E7Kx95jpkdOkKtb19wN9GOVDNYZG-6uVIYMtcEqeH0R_gOqJLDIysKy7fD_abuQZxqyHohwUiiqvfF_LPf_867YH0uwq4wxt6J3/s1600-h/IMG_7643_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5165969605845145650" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc0WD1zyTFgsCUc5nMAH9hNUygUG0yPZRA9E7Kx95jpkdOkKtb19wN9GOVDNYZG-6uVIYMtcEqeH0R_gOqJLDIysKy7fD_abuQZxqyHohwUiiqvfF_LPf_867YH0uwq4wxt6J3/s320/IMG_7643_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIXrKY6J4pQdLMuUX-5ywT2SnB64Ozm1Ux_vhVS7Nv0MXGKpkPlZf-5Djfo4BDHDzwD-v9b_DvRYGTcpmrYzrQew8tQ0aJcIR3yTkciQ7V0VSqor-ocRH5QIPf3BxM1ck1aeaV/s1600-h/IMG_7647_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5165969000254756898" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIXrKY6J4pQdLMuUX-5ywT2SnB64Ozm1Ux_vhVS7Nv0MXGKpkPlZf-5Djfo4BDHDzwD-v9b_DvRYGTcpmrYzrQew8tQ0aJcIR3yTkciQ7V0VSqor-ocRH5QIPf3BxM1ck1aeaV/s320/IMG_7647_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The little lane eventually brought us back into Crickhowell, and we decided to try another of Justin’s suggestions; a short trail connecting the old bridge to a different (though equally ancient looking) church. I only wish I could remember the church’s name…I can’t find any mention of it online.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEnWJtgY2n10ZPmPZVoiyJe-XLlHlVkT2RAE58VzdcTOzU_tnKJhEeLKSsoqmXrmRxVN4GjgxQoSWDs8nCt2BruxoRTb4kXs1mtAukHcxoHTySOb4z4USH2EmOORtK6HspXtgz/s1600-h/IMG_7659_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5165968145556264978" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEnWJtgY2n10ZPmPZVoiyJe-XLlHlVkT2RAE58VzdcTOzU_tnKJhEeLKSsoqmXrmRxVN4GjgxQoSWDs8nCt2BruxoRTb4kXs1mtAukHcxoHTySOb4z4USH2EmOORtK6HspXtgz/s320/IMG_7659_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-P71V5FPWi9mr5kcBW6xxFA4pzkONntUt6_xvO8gm-a8uYiuvQ4s-nach6GhyphenhyphenSZCUbb93kjwo4MrkJdtUAiNuwBC7KrxMGyyAvOBAOZJFdN2hEs0LbsVS_INaYmVRNPZAZl8g/s1600-h/IMG_7664_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5165967582915549186" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-P71V5FPWi9mr5kcBW6xxFA4pzkONntUt6_xvO8gm-a8uYiuvQ4s-nach6GhyphenhyphenSZCUbb93kjwo4MrkJdtUAiNuwBC7KrxMGyyAvOBAOZJFdN2hEs0LbsVS_INaYmVRNPZAZl8g/s320/IMG_7664_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpmRtfddckRtB_ZYDy-EmNlKc8m1yZKJ7PII-akqcm4O5fm0Al-2OxNqw-n1M2J3VGKrqGEWVGrXL-rjWQ7GKzuE03qqEY0kA5_hhbdfnWTHT76kYFxrDJZEovjb90JSV-dQ9v/s1600-h/IMG_7668_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5165966925785552882" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpmRtfddckRtB_ZYDy-EmNlKc8m1yZKJ7PII-akqcm4O5fm0Al-2OxNqw-n1M2J3VGKrqGEWVGrXL-rjWQ7GKzuE03qqEY0kA5_hhbdfnWTHT76kYFxrDJZEovjb90JSV-dQ9v/s320/IMG_7668_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwZiKgoBhRJbKwVzzHX6C8hxHeo_hJ2gtJ2_mGzVLCn7fDtPR8UXaj3hE86rBBe2EEP2zZ4UyEAOGZo3_KYJIBVhz3aXKltgAUsI-TBcvMiz3rthK6JPm0bax_QZ_fJhssQSem/s1600-h/IMG_7671_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5165966328785098722" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwZiKgoBhRJbKwVzzHX6C8hxHeo_hJ2gtJ2_mGzVLCn7fDtPR8UXaj3hE86rBBe2EEP2zZ4UyEAOGZo3_KYJIBVhz3aXKltgAUsI-TBcvMiz3rthK6JPm0bax_QZ_fJhssQSem/s320/IMG_7671_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The walk was nice, and the church was beautiful, but we were back at the car too quickly. We sat there for a few minutes, debating whether to move on while the day was still young, or attempt the most ambitious of all Justin’s suggestions before quitting the area.<br /><br />One of the Brecon Beacons, Crug Hywel (Howell Rock) is a tall, flat hill that towers above Crickhowell and the Usk River Valley. According to Justin, it was once the sight of a large fortress built by Hywel Dda (Howell the Good), The 9th C King of Wales and author of the original Welsh Common Law. It’s also the feature from which Crickhowell derives its name. Justin assured us that it was well worth the strenuous hike to reach the top, so we pointed the car north on Llanbedr Road and followed the signs to a low field where we started our climb.<br /><br />From the bottom, Crug Hywel looked like a piece of cake. The slope near the base was gentle and we found ourselves practically jogging up the incline. I thought we’d knock it out in twenty, twenty five minutes max. About halfway to the top, though, the gentle slope became a steep bugger. It took us about three times longer to ascend the second half than it had the first. I’m not sure how long it actually took us to get there, but we reached the top pretty winded.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiaw4J7NNQWpkj27i_4nY71JL0adLEpwanepFUH74bZLa97JMpF2HfSRTljoPEk38eqMCeQk_oaOA8csxwJ9W9A97fYSMkkxDXFMvNMImSTRBd56XtFTKqugcQLZbT1ZjLZkGh/s1600-h/IMG_7687_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5165965602935625682" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiaw4J7NNQWpkj27i_4nY71JL0adLEpwanepFUH74bZLa97JMpF2HfSRTljoPEk38eqMCeQk_oaOA8csxwJ9W9A97fYSMkkxDXFMvNMImSTRBd56XtFTKqugcQLZbT1ZjLZkGh/s320/IMG_7687_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The view from the summit was certainly worth the exertion. Crickhowell sparkled below, and the Usk River snaked its way through the valley for as far as we could see into the distance. That there was once a fort there was obvious, too. The mounds and earthworks were still very much discernable despite centuries of erosion.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF_XKdOdJT16sHjP6_4LXlrTlXCwxo_3DzZsACL0b3HNgRhNzDBQktn9PaFZ9bYBQUUPTFWzrc1IcsL6aMugIGCEWn9jbn4R5QdzcQExla5rfZYLP4XYCk8SQ7ggDnpC7s_Wqo/s1600-h/IMG_7692_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5165964662337787842" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF_XKdOdJT16sHjP6_4LXlrTlXCwxo_3DzZsACL0b3HNgRhNzDBQktn9PaFZ9bYBQUUPTFWzrc1IcsL6aMugIGCEWn9jbn4R5QdzcQExla5rfZYLP4XYCk8SQ7ggDnpC7s_Wqo/s320/IMG_7692_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Earthworks near the top of Crug Hywel.<br /><br />The day was perfect and we lay down in the grass to soak up a bit of the early afternoon sun. After about a half hour on our backs making cloud pictures, we stood up and petitioned a fellow climber to take a picture of Shauna and I together.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlrDc4ZR3AcwjdDwWyQGLiewP22BAOKRmyxRlOnYFuV3jpshkV1mYoo_rodoxAenBzMBJ2m48Fp0Aj9X2Kj7TSi8qOK1SpZFaDaMRc0DPvdQmzD2vblCshLoNyHdVPpUxhQxgk/s1600-h/IMG_7688_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5165963631545636786" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlrDc4ZR3AcwjdDwWyQGLiewP22BAOKRmyxRlOnYFuV3jpshkV1mYoo_rodoxAenBzMBJ2m48Fp0Aj9X2Kj7TSi8qOK1SpZFaDaMRc0DPvdQmzD2vblCshLoNyHdVPpUxhQxgk/s320/IMG_7688_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_DHUbCBKQLSg3nV7-U8XZrmc9JtgEZfbl2sOv6xq3vnbVEOnU-r4_VuULQPmBgp5m_ril3lq-NAbS5Sxq6EdeSsMlF8uhuiUQCBKiGMeJm45T22OMJt_Yo7gMTvxQtPS83J-_/s1600-h/IMG_7697.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5165962570688714658" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_DHUbCBKQLSg3nV7-U8XZrmc9JtgEZfbl2sOv6xq3vnbVEOnU-r4_VuULQPmBgp5m_ril3lq-NAbS5Sxq6EdeSsMlF8uhuiUQCBKiGMeJm45T22OMJt_Yo7gMTvxQtPS83J-_/s320/IMG_7697.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We eventually made our way off the mountain and back to the car. It was on our minds to return to Porthmawr House and thank Justin and Simone for everything they had done to make our time there so memorable. I can't imagine Crickhowell without them. By the time we had gassed up and devoured a pair of service station sandwiches and a couple bags of crisps, though, it seemed a little late in the day. In the end we determined that a well worded letter and a little plug in cyberspace would be even better.<br /><br />We left Crickhowell not really knowing where we were headed next. North, was about all we had decided. There were vague and unformed notions about Snowdonia, but little more. We didn't have a route, a timeline, or a reservation. In fact, we didn't have a single thing we had to do for nine days.<br /><br />Nine days to Edinburgh... </div>Burrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12486081030249537578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23320647.post-13672898280367520512008-01-30T19:12:00.000-07:002008-02-03T10:20:53.712-07:00Shauna was up early in Crickhowell, and instead of trying in vain to get back to sleep, or tiptoeing around until I decided to stir, she grabbed the camera and walked into the morning mist.<br /><br />She took a ton of really cool photos of Crickhowell and the grounds around Porthmawr House in the fog. Here are a few of them.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL5U93h4itA9WAF8h-mrGgDkjsz6g3wcrCelVZDQ7LskGN5gVwt5aW5l39ERJrNxIj4DZXe11SLKo-CVLn2wwE7u-GA-YXo8-PFnnfTmX56vu5HljsiToHOWBa_a_d0NJdRX1I/s1600-h/IMG_7602_3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161462342436539250" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL5U93h4itA9WAF8h-mrGgDkjsz6g3wcrCelVZDQ7LskGN5gVwt5aW5l39ERJrNxIj4DZXe11SLKo-CVLn2wwE7u-GA-YXo8-PFnnfTmX56vu5HljsiToHOWBa_a_d0NJdRX1I/s320/IMG_7602_3.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUQzesVUqvGKTGlDS5q1SRxXvh9wUYrA382_JPOVb6ocvr2HSOvaHMJtQSW6YeqjLzm0mZgifWc3vRwqLI8dF1xdSSEBziQ_wh-yJz-akeYjvzP6C7mv4u-nw4br4IYDxm6WaN/s1600-h/IMG_7607.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161461650946804578" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUQzesVUqvGKTGlDS5q1SRxXvh9wUYrA382_JPOVb6ocvr2HSOvaHMJtQSW6YeqjLzm0mZgifWc3vRwqLI8dF1xdSSEBziQ_wh-yJz-akeYjvzP6C7mv4u-nw4br4IYDxm6WaN/s320/IMG_7607.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht8b68JNUGbsDWyLpD39HSqOiRyaN5aabKmu7vfWAyoUC4QnIYqiS4YDDhQacZVGKQlQKBWIL03HxX58V5gdVsICd5HSdRcC93uBaCr3NJAGRkR0Yg4e1oGqB5ysUI7moPPcKD/s1600-h/IMG_7626_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161460989521840978" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht8b68JNUGbsDWyLpD39HSqOiRyaN5aabKmu7vfWAyoUC4QnIYqiS4YDDhQacZVGKQlQKBWIL03HxX58V5gdVsICd5HSdRcC93uBaCr3NJAGRkR0Yg4e1oGqB5ysUI7moPPcKD/s320/IMG_7626_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWoVAK7teEBRFwmDwnr474AAwd1Djly34LP-7BTwh6Em5s0ErKgPAupeJm2z73R4FjY1u3h2rke56k7XolL7oLNELxDRqTiIjBhJSyFxDkso-Gkk5_Gd3YUbyIuGZOi89AF-SZ/s1600-h/IMG_7623_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161460139118316354" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWoVAK7teEBRFwmDwnr474AAwd1Djly34LP-7BTwh6Em5s0ErKgPAupeJm2z73R4FjY1u3h2rke56k7XolL7oLNELxDRqTiIjBhJSyFxDkso-Gkk5_Gd3YUbyIuGZOi89AF-SZ/s320/IMG_7623_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-waNpd4uFUQYSw9W_NHID56570cEaGZbDViUN9pMi5SKffDQwdrwG9Iod-IRCbrRxjMWXr6z5GPez99tfXd-Kq5fZu_4AfujjAVHL10RDBKm-w9Bope2IxH8ptP-vdnjcc-qn/s1600-h/IMG_7612.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161459018131852082" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-waNpd4uFUQYSw9W_NHID56570cEaGZbDViUN9pMi5SKffDQwdrwG9Iod-IRCbrRxjMWXr6z5GPez99tfXd-Kq5fZu_4AfujjAVHL10RDBKm-w9Bope2IxH8ptP-vdnjcc-qn/s320/IMG_7612.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Ot2lvVvnaB6qoA4CfAwE8lXzeC7x1efLVAcXcyVsKzrc3n8WQY0HyxAPqgNgxAJRGkJk07tYzNRdXUxHnr3tcQxOO0jeVjoAkFNdO3H5HiyFP-Cy4qRgZXlnZWL5ziaRX_vE/s1600-h/IMG_7640.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161458494145841954" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Ot2lvVvnaB6qoA4CfAwE8lXzeC7x1efLVAcXcyVsKzrc3n8WQY0HyxAPqgNgxAJRGkJk07tYzNRdXUxHnr3tcQxOO0jeVjoAkFNdO3H5HiyFP-Cy4qRgZXlnZWL5ziaRX_vE/s320/IMG_7640.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div></div></div></div>Burrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12486081030249537578noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23320647.post-87157210057265341512008-01-28T21:22:00.000-07:002008-01-29T19:50:46.715-07:00The landscape changed as we motored west. Slowly, the gently rolling hills and shallow glens of the Cotswold’s gave way to stony mountains and deep river valleys. We didn't need a sign to tell us that we were entering a different country, but, Y Ddriag Goch (The Welsh Dragon) welcomed us at the border nonetheless.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPWmqtd6sdeU1Q0u5kKXWsLGSVkBOQSp3OTywXez2Anxd9Nob2XlbweX22qvtseMWZUP9pE0rSnc_Vra0_mrCxBRhJas644L69B3gh2PoyaYRL1ii31taRfuv6Hu2LgUgzCIVU/s1600-h/wales.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161077908503808786" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPWmqtd6sdeU1Q0u5kKXWsLGSVkBOQSp3OTywXez2Anxd9Nob2XlbweX22qvtseMWZUP9pE0rSnc_Vra0_mrCxBRhJas644L69B3gh2PoyaYRL1ii31taRfuv6Hu2LgUgzCIVU/s320/wales.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I was surprised how much different Wales felt than Southern England. The whole scene was rougher, wilder, more forbidding. While still relatively quaint (and certainly no less beautiful) it seemed welsh rivers were just a little swifter, its forests a bit darker, and its people a touch less domesticated than their counterparts in lower England.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuyv8sO9fmYfdQjwlFaNLqcRGuv6rZx0SlBZ-CZLgLDSwNsEJBjavQX4HdNfgib2TgwUccAoJZaSW9EhcEH3T6bpNjgDRHYWa-kHJDE6swwMqB-VGGsw5dt4TNLPJrlT8XHdsv/s1600-h/IMG_7689_.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161077629330934530" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuyv8sO9fmYfdQjwlFaNLqcRGuv6rZx0SlBZ-CZLgLDSwNsEJBjavQX4HdNfgib2TgwUccAoJZaSW9EhcEH3T6bpNjgDRHYWa-kHJDE6swwMqB-VGGsw5dt4TNLPJrlT8XHdsv/s320/IMG_7689_.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We didn’t have much of a plan for Wales. People who have visited the place are always eager to point out how beautiful it is, but, when pressed about specific locations or favorite activities, they aren’t always so helpful. Our guide books seemed to really like Brecon Beacons National Park, so, we decided to start there.<br /><br />We pulled into a little market town called Crickhowell, just outside the park, about an hour before sunset. Dark clouds were rolling in from the north so we ducked into a B&B called Porthmawr House, praying for a vacancy. Ten minutes later we were watching a storm roll down the face of Crug Hywel from the window of our little room, grateful to be inside.<br /><br />The rain was over quickly, so we stepped outside hoping to spend the last few minutes of daylight taking in what we could of our new environs. We moved pretty quickly through town, making our way past High Street and onto the football green. On the edge of the green stands the ancient ruins of Crickhowell Castle.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzUy6U-pxqvCV7ULXQ2ncANZkqcK9ttnr_yDIwtdSkAPFtdLgEuhZe6P5hxDDxQccUEXuHJ4vruEBhWTtaVMOHkxCg_jn-CvbFwduQIjo0x3B_IXBN4GHl0HtZ4K5gxT_Gp1FP/s1600-h/IMG_7547_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160753720077339314" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzUy6U-pxqvCV7ULXQ2ncANZkqcK9ttnr_yDIwtdSkAPFtdLgEuhZe6P5hxDDxQccUEXuHJ4vruEBhWTtaVMOHkxCg_jn-CvbFwduQIjo0x3B_IXBN4GHl0HtZ4K5gxT_Gp1FP/s320/IMG_7547_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Crickhowell Castle.<br /><br />A ruin as old as Crickhowell Castle would be a state park or a national monument in the US. Yet, there it stood, next to a playground, scarcely a sidenote to a bloody football field. Sites like this litter the Welsh countryside, standing silent testimony to a long and tumultuous past.<br /><br />We left Crickhowell Castle, momentarily losing ourselves among the little roads and alleys off High Street, finally emerging near St. Edmunds Church.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtdUyn39CQjqSJe-l4wrr1Ze9D0yFe3lcxL77GAJ9MuU4prYUKkdYCoJ_eqB515nnmBm_ZMlykyAqQ1xiIecehitpuWvKMkKIUlf9w1OAX4jX87vvL1vBW9aeb-NagmDTSIkRN/s1600-h/IMG_7570_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160752839609043618" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtdUyn39CQjqSJe-l4wrr1Ze9D0yFe3lcxL77GAJ9MuU4prYUKkdYCoJ_eqB515nnmBm_ZMlykyAqQ1xiIecehitpuWvKMkKIUlf9w1OAX4jX87vvL1vBW9aeb-NagmDTSIkRN/s320/IMG_7570_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />St. Edmunds Church was built in the 12th century, and it looks like it. We wandered the yard for a while, snapping photos of gravestones of people with my last name. In truth, our decision to stop in Crickhowell wasn't as random as I make it sound. One of my oldest family lines hails from Powys County, and Crickhowell in particular. These are the graves of my ancestors.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYOZHEfFrnFjVQs3HD_HyHr6mkCu9kqN0elcllo0Ng6UX1E-2_IKGtyhJ6n6i7noO4f-e0EVq6K-_ESO2SoSngOAyoWfch_r4g3Sg-dLNJvnd7MO5PdtfKCZ03UAPQ08e1veX8/s1600-h/IMG_7571_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160751654198069906" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYOZHEfFrnFjVQs3HD_HyHr6mkCu9kqN0elcllo0Ng6UX1E-2_IKGtyhJ6n6i7noO4f-e0EVq6K-_ESO2SoSngOAyoWfch_r4g3Sg-dLNJvnd7MO5PdtfKCZ03UAPQ08e1veX8/s320/IMG_7571_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZhtLOVkTjj8xfNFrJOjdhWgm8p5gzFrM1CeU5zCJTxDjKo_JoKWKBwMhFJOG0EMaEMcmUANDaeRHlIe_L4PTxrDnqH4umT1bA9w30ZrQHJxJS2QfcAFKAveha0jCX18gMRHYd/s1600-h/IMG_7587_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160750567571344002" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZhtLOVkTjj8xfNFrJOjdhWgm8p5gzFrM1CeU5zCJTxDjKo_JoKWKBwMhFJOG0EMaEMcmUANDaeRHlIe_L4PTxrDnqH4umT1bA9w30ZrQHJxJS2QfcAFKAveha0jCX18gMRHYd/s320/IMG_7587_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Uqt87HM_S4xV338cFlFaJVY4A7eJwB3oNaUKKi_lgZbo6xTcay_0JsU_OBEdQi3AAcZd_g9yq3rLUU0aFEbLVyPNGtCz4ewDoCyVdyPVHMJrrBPb516zawItWx2YENgF79TD/s1600-h/IMG_7600_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160749811657099890" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Uqt87HM_S4xV338cFlFaJVY4A7eJwB3oNaUKKi_lgZbo6xTcay_0JsU_OBEdQi3AAcZd_g9yq3rLUU0aFEbLVyPNGtCz4ewDoCyVdyPVHMJrrBPb516zawItWx2YENgF79TD/s320/IMG_7600_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />High Street at dusk.<br /><br />We left St Edmunds for The Bear Hotel at the top of high street. There we enjoyed lamb chops baked in apricot marmalade as the sun set over the black hills. </div></div>Burrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12486081030249537578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23320647.post-45328135770047203052007-10-25T23:13:00.000-06:002008-02-07T22:53:09.988-07:00Let’s see…where were we? Ah, yes…The Saracen’s Head Inn, The Village of Highworth, Wiltshire County, England. Sunday, The 24th of September, 2006. And not an altogether English morning at all, according to the inn keeper.<br /><br />The sky was pale blue and decorated only occasionally with little white clouds. The air was crisp, still, and smelled lightly of fall. The world around us glittered with dew, and a flight of crows made its way north, to points unknown as we lugged our bags out to the car.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaT7PSxQ1cuAsQ2cEqadwqIyOpOAQDCmzKgpW3nsfA9ohBqg22DWfW8ti64c2QBTvNcG5IhmfNbKpqdF4Ux5u-tRrBDiN0Eh18VxjspqmLLYss76JJiEhx_GnX3Ou-NjCSmQQt/s1600-h/IMG_7424.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5125511148953696114" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaT7PSxQ1cuAsQ2cEqadwqIyOpOAQDCmzKgpW3nsfA9ohBqg22DWfW8ti64c2QBTvNcG5IhmfNbKpqdF4Ux5u-tRrBDiN0Eh18VxjspqmLLYss76JJiEhx_GnX3Ou-NjCSmQQt/s320/IMG_7424.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />Highworth<br /><br />It was a fairly late morning, despite having been sound asleep by 9:00 the previous night. I was still a little jet lagged, I think, and there wasn’t a huge English breakfast calling us downstairs early like there had been at St. David’s (I believe we made due with granola bars and bottled water in the car). We’d have been moving much earlier if we’d known what lie in store for us.<br /><br />We’d glimpsed a small portion of the Cotswold’s (at light speed from the train) the day before and thought it might be worth a little detour en route to Southern Wales. We consulted a few guide books that we had dragged across the Atlantic with us and decided to head north via the A361, then drift slowly through the countryside to the village of Bibury.<br /><br />Somewhere near Coln St Aldwyns it became clear that we hadn’t budgeted enough time for this place. Each little village was as charming as the next and the soft green hills that surrounded them begged us to get out of the car and have a good long stroll. In the end it was too much to resist. We pulled into Bibury around noon, parked the car about a block off the main street and headed in the direction of a church tower we could see in the distance.<br /><br />From the honey-stone cottages that lined the way, to the crystal waters of the River Coln, the entire place looked as though it had been torn from the pages of an English folk tale. The most incredibly picturesque town I have ever visited.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMYvtBz_xItDVWwT6gLlJFmVMg0Z7e4cw6H17HcuCHTvlIGkJ8DkKvtr7WHk9Z9PSt4Z6dBD5Y_-H2Tx-fpm16CDKOh2SezS2G2FRbDuRr7BxvX3rGHi1ix8KfTiE9HfxSpQHh/s1600-h/IMG_7437_3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5125518879894829042" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMYvtBz_xItDVWwT6gLlJFmVMg0Z7e4cw6H17HcuCHTvlIGkJ8DkKvtr7WHk9Z9PSt4Z6dBD5Y_-H2Tx-fpm16CDKOh2SezS2G2FRbDuRr7BxvX3rGHi1ix8KfTiE9HfxSpQHh/s320/IMG_7437_3.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Saint Mary's Church<br /><br />We wandered the church yard for awhile, reading grave stones and snapping photos until a door in the perimeter wall snagged our attention. It was small, weather beaten, ancient looking. It was like something out of a dream we had both had. Or, maybe one of those creepy Tim Burton-esque children’s books people read to their kids these days. It was archetypal, irresistible. The idea that opening it and stepping through to the other side might amount to trespassing didn’t occur to us…nor did the thought of not doing so.<br /><br />Beyond was a spectacular garden with roses and apple trees, green paths and climbing flowers in full bloom. The sort of place one could imagine wandering for the rest of one's life. But the garden was scarcely a side note to the massive Ivy covered stone mansion that sprung into view. At any moment I expected to hear someone yell from somewhere inside “Jeeves, release the hounds…there are trespassers on the lawn!”<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEievKg3z1uy0xjcMiiXl7vensEaBf8JfCwKOcdhaZatDdOy_VdHtPizzcUzz0je844v6qmczJOim1HjVPuYDOUXgED2brSpVA4ivnwg-FEIjvFwNmbMJhZD4MjrQqB9fd5AzO6r/s1600-h/IMG_7447_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5125518068146010082" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEievKg3z1uy0xjcMiiXl7vensEaBf8JfCwKOcdhaZatDdOy_VdHtPizzcUzz0je844v6qmczJOim1HjVPuYDOUXgED2brSpVA4ivnwg-FEIjvFwNmbMJhZD4MjrQqB9fd5AzO6r/s320/IMG_7447_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We stayed for as long as we dared (maybe 15 or 20 minutes) before sneaking back through the little hole in the wall. It turns out we could have stayed as long as we liked. A local later informed us that the big house was actually a hotel called The Bibury Court. The grounds are apparently a public right of way.<br /><br />In any event, sneaking through a little hole in the wall of a very haunted looking Saxon churchyard, and wandering through a secret garden in the shadow a 12th century manor house had made the whole scene a little surreal. And it was about to become even weirder.<br /><br />As we rounded the front of the church we bumped into the first people we had seen in nearly an hour, another couple that was filing out the main door. The woman was tall and quite thin, while the guy was short and fairly broad. They were followed by an older woman who was acting as their tour guide. We walked slowly behind them until we arrived at the ornate wooden gate at the front of the yard.<br /><br />At that moment Shauna grabbed the back of my arm and whispered something that I couldn’t quite make out.<br /><br />“It’s…*insert inaudible whispering*" she issued discretely.<br /><br />“What?”<br /><br />“It’s...*insert more inaudible whispering* ” she hissed a little louder, but still too softly to understand.<br /><br />“What?”<br /><br />“It’s Nicole Kidman!” she said just loudly enough for me (and I suspect everyone else) to hear.<br /><br />“Oh…”<br /><br />I looked at the tall, thin woman standing a couple feet in front of us and there could be no mistake…it <em>was</em> Nicole Kidman. Apparently the diminutive fellow next to her was Keith Urban.<br /><br />There was a short, uncomfortable pause as they looked at us, and then at the camera around my neck. They were clearly expecting us to ask for a picture with them, or to start clicking away without their permission. All at once I felt sorry for them. I could tell Shauna did too. They were, after all, just two people trying to have a quiet day in the Cotswold’s together like we were (I can’t imagine what it must be like to be recognized and approached every time I went out). Moreover, there were suddenly enough people on the street that a couple pictures might have turned into a bit of a scene.<br /><br />I think I said something very clever like “uh...hey guys" as we pushed past them, and then down the lane. I don’t think they said anything in reply. And so ended our perfectly awkward Cotswold’s celebrity encounter.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNoWIMvNh2woYnu1GwRD-iibfACRp0l4xDmKOBczwVMsRaAie70tNJm0i-5NXPNOe3iwsbLKEi_5R7P-pzH1GKFyYvA8zzYOG55V7lFCBfThqCN6LvY5h0RvbnUkwZSQikcLWX/s1600-h/IMG_7455_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5125517290756929474" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNoWIMvNh2woYnu1GwRD-iibfACRp0l4xDmKOBczwVMsRaAie70tNJm0i-5NXPNOe3iwsbLKEi_5R7P-pzH1GKFyYvA8zzYOG55V7lFCBfThqCN6LvY5h0RvbnUkwZSQikcLWX/s320/IMG_7455_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Yeah, people used to be much smaller...<br /><br />From the church we found our way back to the center of town and strolled up Arlington Row, the single most photographed scene in the Cotswold’s. Maybe all of Britain (outside of London and Stonehenge).<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3e_OCzTy5vLx-6g-WPSfDUzXQF2kvzCU310YUlN6EzXH09nz3z6BD-vBYdqupp1ki02iUr05qXgykvQB07XMsjCzwH9C5dXG5H6X3wncID4-ww2HOwpcV0akzPFO9HpBnjXs7/s1600-h/IMG_7467_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5125516113935890354" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3e_OCzTy5vLx-6g-WPSfDUzXQF2kvzCU310YUlN6EzXH09nz3z6BD-vBYdqupp1ki02iUr05qXgykvQB07XMsjCzwH9C5dXG5H6X3wncID4-ww2HOwpcV0akzPFO9HpBnjXs7/s320/IMG_7467_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Arlington Row<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2cJdlM1F9VBZmDYt_ZUkJuwThB1z0UgzyVLTpvPgsnIkGqjOqOmpxqSF3gamLnstq0QVBzKmI86zjpq69ZVmIHuIbNjZjtclcoXP7amL1YOBql0LB4g3drSHVjehQE_NvKKeg/s1600-h/IMG_7462_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5125514834035636130" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2cJdlM1F9VBZmDYt_ZUkJuwThB1z0UgzyVLTpvPgsnIkGqjOqOmpxqSF3gamLnstq0QVBzKmI86zjpq69ZVmIHuIbNjZjtclcoXP7amL1YOBql0LB4g3drSHVjehQE_NvKKeg/s320/IMG_7462_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Arlington row was built sometime in the 1380’s as a place to store wool, but converted into weavers cottages sometime in the 1700’s.<br /><br />I find it very difficult to explain to people how perfect, how idyllic these little towns and villages are. Every angle of every dwelling seems to be expressly designed for maximum aesthetic value. Truly, every fallen leaf and every blade of grass appears to have been individually placed by god, or elves, or disney imagaineers.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjavsbGEmsMeP_Emj4vUOCo_p2L8yFxc1xmVqjysI0o50edjvmW4hhKyRObEczrUeZZJ86okctqDbTEjw1_kAHd6Woo6C8ZKfUZJYtrS8vNOwHXnf3N8ej1Y8klyDCuXgBZmrtn/s1600-h/IMG_7502.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5125512708026824594" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjavsbGEmsMeP_Emj4vUOCo_p2L8yFxc1xmVqjysI0o50edjvmW4hhKyRObEczrUeZZJ86okctqDbTEjw1_kAHd6Woo6C8ZKfUZJYtrS8vNOwHXnf3N8ej1Y8klyDCuXgBZmrtn/s320/IMG_7502.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1ixjaUI0yI832Ni6-E7SkHdLpn1AEkW5S523wxBRYqH9X76CqP68Kx4b0UnnN9AtbC9ZHdoIoF_kK7te9DZmL7RBBKu2kvViW_paPFdtLGW1Apwi3ip4BWjhtRbmGyBBMOVZt/s1600-h/IMG_7488_3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5125511947817613186" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1ixjaUI0yI832Ni6-E7SkHdLpn1AEkW5S523wxBRYqH9X76CqP68Kx4b0UnnN9AtbC9ZHdoIoF_kK7te9DZmL7RBBKu2kvViW_paPFdtLGW1Apwi3ip4BWjhtRbmGyBBMOVZt/s320/IMG_7488_3.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We wandered the paths and trails that surround Bibury for another hour or so, finally taking a late lunch at a little diner next to the trout farm. Hoping to avoid the events of the previous night, we hopped back in the car and made for The Brecon Beacons, Southern Wales while the sun was still fairly high above the western horizon. We left Bibury wishing we had a week or more to spend there. Our next trip to the UK will likely be a self guided walking tour of the Cotswolds. I find myself eagerly counting the days.</div>Burrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12486081030249537578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23320647.post-15898881179078930162007-07-27T18:04:00.000-06:002007-07-29T16:48:35.713-06:00Shauna was feeling really ambitious today and created a new blog dedicated just to Lucy. She moved all the baby related stuff that had been posted here to <a href="http://babygirllucy.blogspot.com/">http://babygirllucy.blogspot.com/</a><br /><br />I think she posted a bunch of new stuff as well.<br /><br />Feel free to head over that way...<br /><a href="http://babygirllucy.blogspot.com/"></a>Burrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12486081030249537578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23320647.post-57424114641524983792007-05-19T19:31:00.000-06:002008-01-29T20:44:30.406-07:00Stonehenge isn’t the only cool historical landmark in southern England. A quick glance of our AA road atlas revealed dozens of historic houses, churches, castles, roman antiquities and prehistoric sites in Wiltshire and Oxfordshire alone. Places like Woodhenge and Old Sarum, Silbury Hill and Chisbury Chapel. Layer after layer of human history stacked one on top of the other. We didn’t have time to see even a fraction of what was around us. We had to content ourselves with hitting a few noteworthy highlights before moving on.<br /><br />From Stonehenge we made our way north, towards Marlborough and Swindon. Perfect little English towns like Manningford Bruce, West Stowell and Bishopstone flashed by as we drove. Then, finally, we arrived at the vale of the White Horse.<br /><br />The White Horse is a huge, highly stylized figure cut into the side of a chalk hill near the village of Uffington, Oxfordshire. Evidence suggests that it was carved sometime between 1400 and 600 BC, during the height of Britain’s Bronze Age. Who commissioned it, and why, remains largely a mystery.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjitfpQxZGBtTQbwJtssYgAVqVVtcvSAwv-VpIZToTe4sroNbSiYV8l27HQPBUtFLp2DElnlKH522WWaXLeIwPDXvYy3vxn3fxgplj1FSfVUzczspG3xbXChfkbbXwAy9J82aCy/s1600-h/IMG_7417_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5066450294467943346" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjitfpQxZGBtTQbwJtssYgAVqVVtcvSAwv-VpIZToTe4sroNbSiYV8l27HQPBUtFLp2DElnlKH522WWaXLeIwPDXvYy3vxn3fxgplj1FSfVUzczspG3xbXChfkbbXwAy9J82aCy/s320/IMG_7417_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />The white Horse of Uffington...Click the image if you want to actually see it.<br /><br />Though not as photogenic as Stonehenge, the white horse was impressive. There were fewer people there, and the whole scene was rather more tranquil than Stonehenge had been. To say nothing of the fabulous views to the north. We would have stayed longer, probably hiked to the top of the hill, but the sun suddenly seemed very low on the western horizon and shadows were growing long across the fields below. As the setting sun turned the landscape gold around us, a sinking feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. We had hotel reservations in Stroud, some 30 miles to the northwest…we’d never make it before nightfall.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcj9WnoyKJYIwxKSq0ypvJjTa-gagT-woCW55Ogq-wY3f5CIpZQPvfSXuAO7KOBTPp6aH7j6KQ_fVv5T14v-gQMk3FYiZ_kay7Zv5DkOlZ2_W685GtjAXI4Jae1Bt9i3sNioL6/s1600-h/IMG_7415_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5066450805569051586" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcj9WnoyKJYIwxKSq0ypvJjTa-gagT-woCW55Ogq-wY3f5CIpZQPvfSXuAO7KOBTPp6aH7j6KQ_fVv5T14v-gQMk3FYiZ_kay7Zv5DkOlZ2_W685GtjAXI4Jae1Bt9i3sNioL6/s320/IMG_7415_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Back home, a 30 mile night drive through the country would have been little more than an excuse to roll the windows down, turn the radio up, and ease the seat back just a tad. Not in England! The thought of navigating those tiny, twisty rock and tree lined bike paths for roads in the pitch black scared the hell out of me. It was tricky in broad daylight!<br /><br />We pulled into a little market town called Highworth, just as the last red and purple rays of day were falling on the old stone buildings of Lechlade Road. Instead of pushing ahead into the darkness, we checked into a little inn and pub called the Saracen’s Head Hotel.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwJJwYkGGTHnskRhDJNURzmBLAFEUiOMEMLxBIFjMfmvSEHkTjyvbiZpzMB79ktLATcHI1e5Oa8cOXqaDfA6LVvgyEwnb18yjNciq0EQ9EXCz_BtdNvPzIg1cZe8XfRJO8COYp/s1600-h/saracen"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5066451200706042834" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwJJwYkGGTHnskRhDJNURzmBLAFEUiOMEMLxBIFjMfmvSEHkTjyvbiZpzMB79ktLATcHI1e5Oa8cOXqaDfA6LVvgyEwnb18yjNciq0EQ9EXCz_BtdNvPzIg1cZe8XfRJO8COYp/s320/saracen's+head.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />The Saracen's Head.<br /><br />We tried to cancel our reservation in Stroud, but no luck. We ended up paying 200 quid (about 400 dollars) for a bed we never slept in!<br /><br />We eventually wandered down to the pub, where I savored one of the finest steaks I’ve ever eaten. If ever you find yourself in Highworth, Wiltshire County, England at dinner time...you won't regret checking out The Saracen’s Head Pub!Burrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12486081030249537578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23320647.post-18233772779471787562007-03-28T18:19:00.000-06:002007-05-17T20:05:52.390-06:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNo-L9gJF58HX0P0XPHD1mr8fqv7hwZdA4qdiRpoNZ_nh476q-MCXHfkMj9q9UuMi_rC8GqxZa_mj5sLx6NOdVCH94pgoay5VxDbKruLb-HGdYlkVyHBLq7VwdUB-BqEYRT7Mm/s1600-h/IMG_7413_3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5047135700092901426" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNo-L9gJF58HX0P0XPHD1mr8fqv7hwZdA4qdiRpoNZ_nh476q-MCXHfkMj9q9UuMi_rC8GqxZa_mj5sLx6NOdVCH94pgoay5VxDbKruLb-HGdYlkVyHBLq7VwdUB-BqEYRT7Mm/s320/IMG_7413_3.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Stonehenge looked like a 15 to 20 mile blast up the A303 from Stourhead on our map, so we hopped in our little street racer and made for it before the afternoon slipped into evening.<br /><br />We’ve all seen pictures of Stonehenge. They universally depict a huge megalithic ruin standing completely alone on the wide, green Salisbury Plain of Southern Wiltshire. I had always assumed that it was in the middle of nowhere, that we’d have to drive for miles down unpaved country lanes, crossing streams and pastures, dodging lines of druids along the way. Then, finally, it would appear almost magically before us. It would be massive, full of mystery, beckoning us nearer with its ancient spiritual authority.<br /><br />My first glimpse of Stonehenge wasn’t so dreamy. We were flying down the A303, looking for a road sign, anything that might tell us where the hell we were. Finally, I spotted a strange assemblage of stones a few hundred yards off the road, sandwiched between the A303 and another large “A” road. I was sure it was something else. One of the lesser stone circles that dot the English countryside, perhaps.<br /><br />Even as we approached the ruin I didn’t recognize it as Stonehenge. The scale and color was all wrong. It shone a stunning greenish blue in the sun, and it wasn’t nearly as big as I had imagined (only about twice my own height).<br /><br />I speak heresy, I’m sure, when I say that I wasn’t particularly impressed with Stonehenge…at first. We strolled around it a couple times, taking the obligatory photos, sure that the images would be as underwhelming as the place itself seemed.<br /><br />Perhaps it was because of the trucks motoring loudly down the big roads on either side of us, or maybe it was because of the crowd, but, I had a hard a time feeling even a tinge of the spiritual potency that people so often attribute to the place. I have to admit to leaving a little disappointed.<br /><br />It wasn’t until we had gotten home and started picking through the hundreds of images we had captured of our trip that I began to understand the magic of Stonehenge. The place is incredibly photogenic…the world seems to shrink around it in pictures. And I noticed something else…the flat gray color of the rocks in our photos (in every photo I’ve ever seen of the place) is nothing like what I saw in person. Somehow our 1,500 dollar camera had utterly failed to pick up the brilliant bluish-green hue that I had seen so clearly. That I had thought so strange when I first laid eyes on it.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVVoJndfWVA9fGWLwpzW6dI9rfVq9moEW2mNeS75DkzQp6YaVEDPhrSRVk83qPWzDIDMeJOp34Z9P92QGi5Ck5n2qJf4HiF5zWzyFUzY10H4eSRj01U0LcXMrdyimwQZ6qexTR/s1600-h/IMG_7414_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5047135214761596962" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVVoJndfWVA9fGWLwpzW6dI9rfVq9moEW2mNeS75DkzQp6YaVEDPhrSRVk83qPWzDIDMeJOp34Z9P92QGi5Ck5n2qJf4HiF5zWzyFUzY10H4eSRj01U0LcXMrdyimwQZ6qexTR/s320/IMG_7414_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I think Stonehenge has imprinted on my subconscious. It’s crept into my dreams with increasing frequency since our return. The dream is always the same, too. I find myself wading through tall grass, across open fields until I see it glowing in that unnatural bluish-green color in the distance. I walk towards it in great anticipation, knowing that when I get there I’ll learn some great secret about my future…about the future in general. I never reach it, though. Instead, I just wake up with a terrible sense of foreboding.<br /><br />I don’t know, maybe there’s something to Stonehenge after all…Burrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12486081030249537578noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23320647.post-72784492238019842892007-03-12T22:17:00.000-06:002007-07-31T21:29:53.688-06:00There’s a reason you don’t often hear about American tourists renting cars and driving the entire length and breadth of the main British Island…lots of reasons. But that’s precisely what we were planning to do.<br /><br />I had always assumed that the hardest part about learning to drive in the UK would be remembering to stay on the left side of the road. Not so much...I was surprised how quickly that became second nature. It was probably the easiest part about learning to navigate the British Road System. There were a host of other, more difficult things to master.<br /><br />For instance, there’s the peculiar fact that English roads are positively lillipution compared to their American counterparts. Every oncoming car feels like a head-on collision, and trynig to scoot by an on-rushing laurie (semi-truck) is very much a religious experience (my confessions were fast and silent). Cars and trucks are forced to pass each other at breakneck speeds, separated by mere inches. There’s zero margin for error.<br /><br />Roads that would be 45 MPH in the states are 60 MPH in the UK. Their “A” roads resemble narrow, undivided rural routes, but they treat them like friggin’ interstates. I’m a fast driver by American standards (I’ve got the points on my license to prove it) but I never felt truly comfortable driving the speed limit there.<br /><br />Then there’s those infernal roundabouts! And we’re not talking about the little ones you see in America. These things have two, three, even four lanes, and they’re not afraid to stack them one after another so that you have to negotiate the entire series of them to get anyplace. It’s absolute madness! Driving quickly became a chore, and we looked for opportunities to ditch the car.<br /><br />It was all made OK by the fact that we were there, motoring through one of the most beautifully pastoral landscapes in the world, though. The very place that my ancestors had called home for a thousand generations. It was somewhere between Midsomer Norton and Shepton Mallet that I realized this wasn’t just a vacation for me. It was a homecoming of sorts. A pilgrimage.<br /><br />We drove through sparkling little towns and villages with names like Little Keyford and Maiden Bradley, to a British National Trust sight called Stourhead.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAvhL3fDe-QuZ1YdwQW5Oh6m1PJyRSFRfxMRSXMzdKJj4YB4SpGWLypOtz1cuWXs9xsVOljPNRjCW3oXbTTC1jFvJ9GrbpXuaaJ19ilUMEJSWHYRkOLrmM_zA1G6danvKIuznV/s1600-h/IMG_7369_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5041260358387755346" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAvhL3fDe-QuZ1YdwQW5Oh6m1PJyRSFRfxMRSXMzdKJj4YB4SpGWLypOtz1cuWXs9xsVOljPNRjCW3oXbTTC1jFvJ9GrbpXuaaJ19ilUMEJSWHYRkOLrmM_zA1G6danvKIuznV/s320/IMG_7369_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Stourhouse<br /><br />Shauna had spent a day there during her semester abroad and it was at the top of her list of places she wanted to see again, And for good reason. Stourhead is widely thought to be the most beautiful landscape garden in all of England. It sprawls over an early 18th century estate originally owned by the Hoare family, founders of the Hoare Company (the only privately held bank in Britain). It’s a tree lover’s paradise, home to an unsurpassed collection of domestic and exotic lumber. There were Redwoods, Sequoias, Sitka Spruces and Western Red Cedars right next to Common Oaks and English Maples.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRQQL_sboXySQDRTYuvMDrTXx49mx5nrD8k8meJ3Lhdr3m303458Txd99saxCbUU16GLeg4K7vuQXwhkYFZ6nalSLjuo4lGJlimWtKSivZwfnw3I5rpCtnhaY-uO0zkRbmPCWJ/s1600-h/IMG_7388_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5041259971840698690" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRQQL_sboXySQDRTYuvMDrTXx49mx5nrD8k8meJ3Lhdr3m303458Txd99saxCbUU16GLeg4K7vuQXwhkYFZ6nalSLjuo4lGJlimWtKSivZwfnw3I5rpCtnhaY-uO0zkRbmPCWJ/s320/IMG_7388_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The whole place is littered with ancient looking structures. There’s a medieval church, a Palladian House, and a pair of Greco-Roman Temples rumored to have been used for wild, week long royal orgies. Alright, I made that last bit up…but they could have been used for something like that!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7OSx03DvKVajMZsdACOhU_wP9S-1FGJrTP4gpgOB5X_QphZNzdTqY6IPlFGY56T95SK-fbz9Gzz0E9YPVAG6hqQLflBrbOzYY8kJxsY2CyaCPa3_7dHqNczBZCGx2WQNIL_zc/s1600-h/IMG_7402_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5041259499394296114" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7OSx03DvKVajMZsdACOhU_wP9S-1FGJrTP4gpgOB5X_QphZNzdTqY6IPlFGY56T95SK-fbz9Gzz0E9YPVAG6hqQLflBrbOzYY8kJxsY2CyaCPa3_7dHqNczBZCGx2WQNIL_zc/s320/IMG_7402_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />The lake at Stourhead<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDZ1lwZ_FVQu-FFRIzWe0NrOAGi2uVZsVi2gh426dDUjc278YmVhh4eAqO_GbECWWEK82UWHvuzdtmx4MuWWia_B8McQDCqAlFTKlxuY2saiycr1DQtgCJIdEwQUI1d-mllI79/s1600-h/IMG_7407_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5041259099962337570" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDZ1lwZ_FVQu-FFRIzWe0NrOAGi2uVZsVi2gh426dDUjc278YmVhh4eAqO_GbECWWEK82UWHvuzdtmx4MuWWia_B8McQDCqAlFTKlxuY2saiycr1DQtgCJIdEwQUI1d-mllI79/s320/IMG_7407_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We walked around the grounds for a couple hours, snapping photos and generally taking it all in. It was every bit as amazing as Shauna had boasted. To my knowledge, no garden in the states even comes close. But, in the end I was just putting off the inevitable. We couldn’t stay there forever…I’d have to eventually cowboy up and learn to drive like a Brit!Burrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12486081030249537578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23320647.post-10151706601097847462007-03-07T22:23:00.001-07:002008-03-02T21:52:10.329-07:00I expected to wake to the sound of rain tapping against our hotel window. Or, to the sight of fog drifting through the streets below. We were, after all, in London. I hadn’t even entertained the possibility of bright blue skies and temps in the mid to upper perfect range. But I’d take it.<br /><br />We were at Paddington Station early, but only after a traditional English breakfast at St. David’s. Eggs sunny side up, English bacon, sausage, the whole nine yards…all with a spot of tea.<br /><br />The train pulled out of London and we were soon speeding through southern portions of the Cotswolds, the most ridiculously charming piece of countryside in England…maybe anywhere. I struggle to describe just how quaint, how picturesque this place is. Deep green pastures divided by ancient hedgerows roll gently from one horizon to the other. Happy little sheep and ponies graze next to ageless rock walls and medieval stone cottages. It really is the prototypical storybook backdrop.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyTUMsIcaTUcE_U_MUr0SAgC_7Di3cOsNVJEDwdwDEr81LHMZihCR4_l8PCOqlQgs9RoohqfOg57wAZFy6L9faihppt56XV5Qp4zOpFtXazaGUOcI9ZrEJzDENnp5A9gwFWj6_/s1600-h/IMG_7488_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5039421495842596338" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyTUMsIcaTUcE_U_MUr0SAgC_7Di3cOsNVJEDwdwDEr81LHMZihCR4_l8PCOqlQgs9RoohqfOg57wAZFy6L9faihppt56XV5Qp4zOpFtXazaGUOcI9ZrEJzDENnp5A9gwFWj6_/s320/IMG_7488_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />The Cotswolds<br /><br />We de-trained in Bath, and dragged our luggage off the platform and up Manvers Street towards the bus depot. We had been told that we could rent a locker there, and I was looking forward to dumping our stuff for awhile and having a look around while the day was still young.<br /><br />The place was chaos, though. Tourists of every persuasion crowded the sidewalks and spilled onto the streets. It was impossible to walk more than a few steps without being jostled or bumped. Shauna had her bags knocked out of her hands a couple times before finally reaching the bus terminal. I was starting to get a little testy for her.<br /><br />We waited in line for nearly a half hour only to learn that they didn’t really rent lockers. We were told to try the youth hostel about a half mile up the street. It was then that we elected to take the road less traveled by…and it made all the difference.<br /><br />Instead of marching uphill to the hostel through a sea of humanity, with all our things in tow, where they may or may not even rent lockers, we hauled ourselves and our bags back to the train station, hopped in a cab, and got the hell out of Dodge. I was a little bummed to leave without exploring the place, but, we didn’t cross the bloody Atlantic to spend what little time we had there fighting the weekend hordes. We had places to go, things to see, people to bug with our ugly Americanism.<br /><br />The driver dropped us off at the Eurocar office in Marksbury, a little town about 10 minutes southwest of Bath. We had a reservation, but we were early, and our car wasn’t ready yet. I passed the time by franticly trying to cram the entire contents of a little book about driving in the UK into my memory. All the good it did!<br /><br />We reserved an economy class car, so I was expecting a Geo Metro, or a Ford Festiva, or some European variant thereof.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgozOwIjk5IwhEuqYamBqgB8ld0vR4VKJxNrXPUIZUCteJJWdV2VqjMTKeqbm-N-nTJfNyWuqljPUV8aodsqxdf5T4Rs38pdBckl264LzFHuN4GoPYRN2e3ZvcOvssMO3FavGn8/s1600-h/IMG_7522.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5039420623964235218" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgozOwIjk5IwhEuqYamBqgB8ld0vR4VKJxNrXPUIZUCteJJWdV2VqjMTKeqbm-N-nTJfNyWuqljPUV8aodsqxdf5T4Rs38pdBckl264LzFHuN4GoPYRN2e3ZvcOvssMO3FavGn8/s320/IMG_7522.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Needless to say I was jazzed when they pulled this little number out of the garage…a Vauxhall Astra, complete with a turbocharged 1.8 liter 4-banger and race tuned suspension.<br /><br />“HOT DAMN” was all I could say as I gassed it onto the A39 out of town. As they say in the biz…that little car hauled ass!Burrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12486081030249537578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23320647.post-88822249666436244252007-03-03T22:17:00.000-07:002007-04-09T22:14:13.929-06:00We saw Ireland First. It rose like Valinor from the gray waters of the north Atlantic as we approached. Tall cliffs and narrow strands of beach marked the meeting of land and sea, while a vast green countryside rolled out before us. Even from 32,000 feet it was obvious that this place had been blessed with uncommon charm. Ancient rock walls dissected the landscape, and pretty little villages dotted the terrain like bright stars against an emerald backcloth.<br /><br />Then, the ocean again, and a wall of thick white clouds. I strained for a glimpse of the land as we drew near the Cornish coast, but no luck. It wasn’t until our final approach to Gatwick that I saw it through a driving rain…The Big Island…The Old Country…England.<br /><br />Gatwick was a mess but we battled through customs and baggage claim without a single “bugger off”, and snagged a couple seats on the Hogwart’s…err…Gatwick Express for London before it filled up. The train sped through a gray, green world that seemed at once strange and familiar. It was raining hard, and the symptoms of jetlag had started to kick my ass, but the excitement of being there made the beating almost tolerable.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKXw4_rHURq6nOFvF7ytObxpXmWHnUwsVaEBmlD0D4PNDbzryUe8dgfI27O4dFWibiK-mzHqwTIOeP8tbnS1ztPWOAvzyrKIPGsqKU5OiplP9YD3anzf-kRAQfhQ-LzpT8V5Wo/s1600-h/IMG_8122.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037935815403756258" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKXw4_rHURq6nOFvF7ytObxpXmWHnUwsVaEBmlD0D4PNDbzryUe8dgfI27O4dFWibiK-mzHqwTIOeP8tbnS1ztPWOAvzyrKIPGsqKU5OiplP9YD3anzf-kRAQfhQ-LzpT8V5Wo/s320/IMG_8122.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />The Gatwick Express.<br /><br />Shauna’s eyes brightened as we pulled into Victoria Station. London is her favorite city on earth. She spent an entire semester there during her junior year in college, and had been aching to get back ever since.<br /><br />It was soon very clear that she was in her element, and I was not. I’m really no good at big cities, and London is about as big, and as noisy as they get. The cab ride to our hotel was one part culture shock, one part sensory overload, and two parts scrape with death. The rules of the road were either non-existent or completely inscrutable as our driver picked his route through the maze of main streets and back ways to Norfolk Square and St. David’s Hotel. Shauna was unphased.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVYkFI0bE9_C7WqSYXdzDOiM4mWzDSiJh1j77trPYxoKHdKnmq2u7Dc4PMhiisYcLdsPcb3gOs6k3sNhoGqIeIDXGSvocHws7oL_InCoH0ChRNLIi6Z0hZefsfhWhECWTOVHbO/s1600-h/IMG_7362.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037935415971797714" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVYkFI0bE9_C7WqSYXdzDOiM4mWzDSiJh1j77trPYxoKHdKnmq2u7Dc4PMhiisYcLdsPcb3gOs6k3sNhoGqIeIDXGSvocHws7oL_InCoH0ChRNLIi6Z0hZefsfhWhECWTOVHbO/s320/IMG_7362.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />Norfolk Square.<br /><br />Our room wasn’t quite ready for us when we arrived, so we dropped our bags off at the front desk and stepped out into the rain. Norfolk Square is nearly ideally situated. It’s within a stone’s throw of Paddington Station and a short walk from Hyde Park. Most importantly it’s less than a block from Garfunkels restaurant, and a desert of legendary status (Shauna had talked about it for as long as I had known her); a large Belgian waffle topped with unnaturally rich vanilla ice cream, maple syrup, and a sprinkling of toffee bits. It would have probably been worth the jetlag by itself.<br /><br />From Garfunkels, we wandered down Praed Street and Leinster Terrace to Hyde Park. We’d planned on taking a stroll across the green, but a raucous Islamic Jihad Rally being held there persuaded us to keep moving down Bayswater Road. We turned up a side street and loitered for a moment in front of the building where Shauna had lived during her semester abroad.<br /><br />It was about then that I decided I’d had enough. Neither of us had slept in better than 24 hours, and walking around in the rain, jet lagged out of my mind just wasn’t doing it for me anymore. I was all about going back to the hotel and sleeping it off, but Shauna wasn’t down with it. She insisted that day 2 would suck just as badly if we didn’t allow our circadian rhythms to reset for London Time. She forbade me from going to sleep before 9:00 PM.<br /><br />I pissed and moaned all the way down Moscow Road and then Queensway, knowing Shauna was probably right. This was her third trip to the UK. She’d backpacked through Europe for an entire summer, toured the Soviet Union, partied in Australia… I had to acknowledge that she might know more about jetlag than I did (seeing as I’d never left North America before).<br /><br />We thought momentarily about hopping on the tube and seeing the sites in Westminster (Parliament, Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, Trafalgar Square, etc.), but I wanted to actually be awake for those things. Instead we walked into Whiteleys Shopping Center (London’s main indoor mall) to get out of the rain, and to kill a little time. At some point we spotted a cinema and decided it would be a brilliant way to knock out a couple hours.<br /><br />We purchased two tickets to a British film called “Children of Men”. It was a dark, unnecessarily violent piece with an agenda. I didn’t get it; perhaps because I don’t completely understand the subtleties of British politics. It was quietly anti-American, and endlessly slow moving. The plot just seemed to collapse on itself. Shauna hated it even worse than I did. Imagine our surprise when Children of Men made damn near every American critic’s top ten films of the year list. I guess there’s no accounting for taste. In any event, it had served it's purpose.<br /><br />The rain had stopped while we we in the theater, so we spent the rest of the afternoon wandering aimlessly down little streets and alleyways, stumbling into cool little shops and bakeries. We bought some sandwiches at a delicatessen around the corner from our hotel, and took them back to our room after finally checking in.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjytsaSHZx5DF-PNKDwx3EdelypOUfr8PEsqb9uFnLtKvvS5jmh5-KEui5lz_U_OSKdAFFnCIynQHQiZtdIG017qkvBIKaPhCiaZi6bu6Fk5tbdfX78724if9M8ax4RndKx-lO/s1600-h/IMG_7355.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037934574158207666" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjytsaSHZx5DF-PNKDwx3EdelypOUfr8PEsqb9uFnLtKvvS5jmh5-KEui5lz_U_OSKdAFFnCIynQHQiZtdIG017qkvBIKaPhCiaZi6bu6Fk5tbdfX78724if9M8ax4RndKx-lO/s320/IMG_7355.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />Barbed wire on the fire escape?<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpP8KBTbt3KIYCEXCtjhErNvnaozHmgH3WWibrwgdLTNOTrfbwbvPKSzrVoLWtQjPcpnuqwDDZJbqgq5bUhhanErOdj_EjkeYwWQYla58ad_VmVuDTswTbMKdAsTUWWi-hxsr2/s1600-h/IMG_7354.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5037934891985787586" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpP8KBTbt3KIYCEXCtjhErNvnaozHmgH3WWibrwgdLTNOTrfbwbvPKSzrVoLWtQjPcpnuqwDDZJbqgq5bUhhanErOdj_EjkeYwWQYla58ad_VmVuDTswTbMKdAsTUWWi-hxsr2/s320/IMG_7354.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />London from our window.<br /><br />We watched the sun set over London from our window as we ate. We were asleep about ten minutes later.Burrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12486081030249537578noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23320647.post-35260194320926850732007-02-20T22:01:00.000-07:002007-02-20T22:16:39.919-07:00Yellowstone Day 3 (Continued)…<br /><br />I had never seen a sky like that before. It was as close to black as blue can possibly get, and a wall of hail was rolling up the flank of Mount Washburn towards us like a giant white breaker. Lighting railed from one horizon to the other, and a nearly continuous clap of thunder resounded across the landscape like a cannonade. <br /><br />I scarcely had time to pull off the road and negotiate a spot under a generously endowed Douglas Fir before quarter sized balls of ice started falling like mortar shells on our position. Fortunately the hail was short lived, but the rain and the lightning kept us pinned down for nearly a half hour.<br /><br />Finally, and with the deluge nearly over, we broke cover for the Antelope Creek drainage in hopes of spotting a wolf or two. The storm was pulling out in earnest as we arrived, and a scene of singular beauty was revealed in its wake. <br /><br />Suddenly the world was unnaturally green, alive, and an incredibly bright double rainbow appeared as the sun grudgingly started to do its thing again.<br /> <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQs6EcPxxV4xkQ-IOJkZRFp_Dp7bkn9Hlvcvw8JxmbEnhk2Tks5wBC78tq-NY8oPDIXPj3pxgGOqLnsKwh9EIeFGixzz2t7M_amVXINDJ52Hizzouzs1UGiLtq8dr3I5UrzjVt/s1600-h/IMG_6858.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5033849789668256578" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQs6EcPxxV4xkQ-IOJkZRFp_Dp7bkn9Hlvcvw8JxmbEnhk2Tks5wBC78tq-NY8oPDIXPj3pxgGOqLnsKwh9EIeFGixzz2t7M_amVXINDJ52Hizzouzs1UGiLtq8dr3I5UrzjVt/s320/IMG_6858.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />A double Rainbow<br /><br />The storm had an effect on the animals as well. They seemed to emerge from the very cracks of the earth to celebrate the end of the onslaught. Through the binoculars we watched deer, elk and bison pour out of the trees and into the meadows below. The place was literally crawling with large animals. <br /><br />Then, something I had never seen before…three furry gray balls rolling through the grass at the very edge of my binoculars effective range. I didn’t dare to believe it at first, but, over the course of several minutes it became clear that I was indeed watching three wolf pups playing in front of their den. It was a very, very cool moment. Sadly, they were so well camouflaged, and so far out of the range of our 300 millimeter telephoto lens we didn’t get anything even resembling a wolf pup on film. <br /><br />We watched the little guys beat the hell out of each other for about an hour, when our luck got even better. From our hilltop vantage we watched a gigantic black adult wolf emerge from the timber and jog down the bottom of the valley towards the pups. There was much wagging of tails, and high pitched howls of greeting followed by better than an hour of relentless pestering of the adult by the pups.<br /><br />Though it was still out of range for a real picture, the adult wolf’s dark coloring allowed us to at least see it though the camera.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBGdKwXCAuIoo4qL32wMFUrK6AvAyasEWKm3bEI8_xMxmv0bKYTyYCCrIaBDWE2TvPKSTOdMtM3r3hb2-P6lol-OP7S460otClTPV8C71s7DbO5-iVrAOfo4XVZc1O4ltUgven/s1600-h/IMG_6860_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5033849789668256594" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBGdKwXCAuIoo4qL32wMFUrK6AvAyasEWKm3bEI8_xMxmv0bKYTyYCCrIaBDWE2TvPKSTOdMtM3r3hb2-P6lol-OP7S460otClTPV8C71s7DbO5-iVrAOfo4XVZc1O4ltUgven/s320/IMG_6860_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />The Black wolf<br /><br />Then, as quickly as they had appeared, they were gone. The adult wolf stood up and made his way back into the timber and the pups scurried into the den. <br /><br />Content in the knowledge that we had finally seen wolves in their natural setting, we said goodbye to the Antelope Creek Drainage, and the Agate Creek pups. It was early evening and the sky was already showing signs of sunset. The colors slowly changed from florescent reds and oranges to pastel blues and purples as we made our across the park.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYedHwMvn96jJTZbshId9vnmDT97N-oigigiop7UOi-WGuVsEIhQ7GJFO_QxGPDOMebqwwFvPGCM1WaqYtBHkOf5d9gOC8U_Q1H94B9j34lcfJf36JXR-s1FKvVH6BEt0JxycS/s1600-h/IMG_6863.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5033849798258191202" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYedHwMvn96jJTZbshId9vnmDT97N-oigigiop7UOi-WGuVsEIhQ7GJFO_QxGPDOMebqwwFvPGCM1WaqYtBHkOf5d9gOC8U_Q1H94B9j34lcfJf36JXR-s1FKvVH6BEt0JxycS/s320/IMG_6863.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />A bison at sunset<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAxwRyDJuuf9qD3dj2FEf4NUSGZxbIpNZl3mmjUk_zLoZN5HIaOKLn74AZR_MwT5vObJkPktkEScoTPyQA1Qp-YgLVTtcxATJxCWgzCqfYn74SMuwEa0hBC5l28Uy1dUJytguo/s1600-h/IMG_6876.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5033849802553158514" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAxwRyDJuuf9qD3dj2FEf4NUSGZxbIpNZl3mmjUk_zLoZN5HIaOKLn74AZR_MwT5vObJkPktkEScoTPyQA1Qp-YgLVTtcxATJxCWgzCqfYn74SMuwEa0hBC5l28Uy1dUJytguo/s320/IMG_6876.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />Geyser Basin<br /><br />A picturesque end to the best day of our little vacation.Burrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12486081030249537578noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23320647.post-75335691252475893032007-02-19T21:38:00.000-07:002007-02-25T13:57:56.308-07:00Yellowstone Day 3…<br /><br />Day three started a little later than days 1 and 2. We rolled out of bed around nine, grabbed some breakfast in West Yellowstone, and found our way past the west entrance by about ten. We didn’t have much of an itinerary; just a vague mental list of things we hadn’t seen yet.<br /><br />We pointed the car in the general direction of Yellowstone’s Grand Canyon and began making our way lazily across the park once again. Somewhere along the Grand Loop Road past Madison, something caught my eye. It was slinking through the tall grass about 50 feet off the road, and I brought the car to a quick stop. It wasn’t bulky enough to be a bear, and the coloring was all wrong for either a bobcat or a mountain lion. All I could see clearly was two triangular ears floating above the tall grass, and for just a moment I thought I was going to get my first glimpse of a wild wolf.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh51i_VnfoPScxLbdmMeZiAteBioYAujOpQfzj2vYK_nJlAKuuk6EbbU_JyPrPk8OEarezDxv34SKablsy_MsijOADzjOx04UFhJKeWQ8f2vsPc1PWU-0FqmcoHauT9xeXxpgkx/s1600-h/IMG_6796_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5033473211230710530" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh51i_VnfoPScxLbdmMeZiAteBioYAujOpQfzj2vYK_nJlAKuuk6EbbU_JyPrPk8OEarezDxv34SKablsy_MsijOADzjOx04UFhJKeWQ8f2vsPc1PWU-0FqmcoHauT9xeXxpgkx/s320/IMG_6796_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Instead, this coyote emerged from the brush. It saw us, paused momentarily, and began a bee-line straight for us. We’ll never know how close it would have gotten, since a Ford Excursion packed with a small tribe chose this precise moment to round the bend behind us. Within seconds the scene exploded with kids and excited shouting, and our canine friend disappeared back into the grass faster than you can say “Mormon Fundamentalists”!<br /><br />A little bugged, we jumped back in the truck and moved on. We hadn’t gone more than a couple miles, though, when Shauna thought she had seen something in the trees. We turned around and spotted a truly massive bull elk lying in the grass scarcely thirty feet off the road.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5DObnP3zynbnsX4zxKZ5b-BeThXkVbZhYONDC33BZuOGCJSGMRE0HSk5iT4cbs_BGm1oTSGNVh2QZhtMZhSEUQe3faG50e9dXi7cWtrAkjnunn1M73-7JDdqo3uAlu9wPmoI3/s1600-h/IMG_6807_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5033473219820645138" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5DObnP3zynbnsX4zxKZ5b-BeThXkVbZhYONDC33BZuOGCJSGMRE0HSk5iT4cbs_BGm1oTSGNVh2QZhtMZhSEUQe3faG50e9dXi7cWtrAkjnunn1M73-7JDdqo3uAlu9wPmoI3/s320/IMG_6807_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />We had just enough time to snap a couple photos before the hordes descended. A car pulled up behind us, followed soon thereafter by another, and another. Within minutes the place was a circus complete with clowns and fools. People were getting way, way too close and the elk finally decided that it had had enough. It stood up, threw its head back, and crashed through the deadwood at a run. More people are hurt in Yellowstone each year by elk than by bears and mountain lions combined.<br /><br />Finally we pulled into The Grand Canyon, at inspiration point. We hiked around a little bit, snapped obligatory photos at the overlook, and made for Yellowstone Falls where we did pretty much the same thing.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTbcxKv046nEIdoFO-JSmlfK-Yli5DCCnwcVJHKMT4LR9qT5KvWe6juVAtwq5BVmjNm0MOednKuH7xhNk9syAOgyxuG7eR-2Yze67C798S7PvW-zQMSLDyncDEhChb90wMxech/s1600-h/IMG_6821_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5033474869088086818" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTbcxKv046nEIdoFO-JSmlfK-Yli5DCCnwcVJHKMT4LR9qT5KvWe6juVAtwq5BVmjNm0MOednKuH7xhNk9syAOgyxuG7eR-2Yze67C798S7PvW-zQMSLDyncDEhChb90wMxech/s320/IMG_6821_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Inspiration Point...notice the storm clouds gathering.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf1JWx9UwK0ndLdNs9tdAbC2eHPlryx4FsMGIowMwvkRkpDQ1esDA51MYq2gLwdchzlB4S7ltP4JSa9ytY2mZ2ntPD5QtX-OkEedk-DmmBW29ezGfgcmlq1uFCalmNkpFPDwca/s1600-h/IMG_6828_2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5033474877678021426" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf1JWx9UwK0ndLdNs9tdAbC2eHPlryx4FsMGIowMwvkRkpDQ1esDA51MYq2gLwdchzlB4S7ltP4JSa9ytY2mZ2ntPD5QtX-OkEedk-DmmBW29ezGfgcmlq1uFCalmNkpFPDwca/s320/IMG_6828_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Yellowstone Falls<br /><br />It was all completely stunning, but, the mob seemed to diminish it somehow. It was hard to feel inspired when someone's sticky, Ice Cream plastered 6 year old was stumbling over me to get a closer look.<br /><br />As we left the madness of Canyon behind for Mt. Washburn and Antelope Creek, the sky was beginning to grow dark. By the time we hit Dunraven pass it felt like dusk, and the temperature began to drop like George Bush's approval ratings. As we reached the summit, and as views of the horizon unfolded, I tuned to Shauna and said something like "This is gonna' get ugly"...<br /><br />More to come.Burrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12486081030249537578noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23320647.post-1170304584383155532007-01-31T20:38:00.000-07:002007-02-19T22:39:06.682-07:00<div align="left">Yellowstone, Day 2...<br /><br />I’ve never been particularly keen on horses. I’ve seen way too many clips of riders being tossed like rag dolls from the backs of their equine pals to ever feel truly comfortable on one.<br /><br />Needless to say I was a little nervous about our impending expedition. It seemed cool in the abstract…Shauna and I riding cowboy style through the world’s first national park…the reality of it suddenly didn’t seem like so much fun as we sat through our pre-ride safety meeting, though.<br /><br />If I was nervous before, I was positively concerned when one of our guides introduced me to what had to be the single biggest saddle horse on this or any other planet. It was twice as wide, and several hands taller than any of the other horses in our group. I was told that this monstrous thing was some sort of “half draft” (half Belgian draft horse, half quarter horse), and that his name was “Ugg”. I was assured that despite his freakish size, he was the tamest horse of the lot, and that if we ran into a grizzly he’d be the horse I wanted to be riding (apparently he never spooked, and bears would often turn tail and run at the very sight of him).<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/5820/2386/1600/119607/IMG_6687_3%20copy.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/5820/2386/320/159688/IMG_6687_3%20copy.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/5820/2386/1600/400114/IMG_6728_2.jpg"></a></p><p><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/5820/2386/1600/119607/IMG_6687_3%20copy.jpg"></a></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/5820/2386/1600/458493/IMG_6761.jpg"></a></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>It was another perfect morning, and soon we were making our way through some of the most pristine country in the park. It took a few minutes to get used to the idea of being there, astride a behemoth, but the scenery seemed to take the edge off. We rode across lush meadows, and through impressive stands of Douglas fir. There’s no doubt we’d have seen all kinds of wildlife if it hadn’t been for one of our guides…this girl let her mouth run the entire 2 hours we were on the trail. She went on and on about horses and dogs and bears and her boyfriend and her girlfriends and her hometown…good hell! I felt like I had to feign interest to avoid being rude, but I was probably only encouraging her. I should have just told her to shut it.<br /></p><p>That was my only complaint, though. Ugg was brilliant (what a big, gentle, flatulent animal) and the scenery around Tower and Roosevelt was classic. I’ll never visit the Yellowstone area again without doing something like this. It’s the best way for a lot of people to leave the crowds and the traffic behind…actually get into the back country. A google search brings up links to guide services both inside and outside of the park. We plan on taking a multi-day tour next time.</p><p>From Roosevelt we headed south, for Yellowstone Lake. The road climbed gently along Antelope Creek, then followed a long ridge across the western flank of Mt. Washburn. Views of the Antelope Creek drainage opened up, and people were parked along the road with binoculars and spotting scopes, peering into the valley below.<br /><br />We stopped and asked one gentleman what they were all looking at. “Nothing,” he replied. “Nothing right now, anyway”. He explained that he and his friends had been there since before dawn, watching members of the Agate Creek Wolf Pack come and go from a den site somewhere below.<br /><br />My interest was piqued. Wolves had always been among my favorite animals, but they were probably the only large North American mammal I’d never seen in the wild. We decided to hang out and glass the valley for awhile...see what we could see. I’d never done this in a place like Yellowstone before, and neither of us could believe what we had been missing. In 20 minutes we saw more large game animals than the entire rest of the trip to that point…Bison, Elk, Mule Deer, Coyote…amazing. I’d never seen that kind of wildlife density before. I had no idea there were so many animals around.<br /><br />No wolves, though. The diehards said we probably wouldn’t see them again until dusk, or even the following morning when the pack set off to hunt. So, we hopped back into the truck and started south again.<br /></p><p>Shauna thumbed through one of our trail books as we drove and decided the short hike along Pelican Creek to Yellowstone Lake sounded cool. Pelican Creek is said to be prime grizzly habitat, so we made a mess of our gear looking for our bear spray. Finally, and with two giant cans of liquid fire in hand, we hit the trail. It was only a few hundred yards along the creek, through thick stands of lodge pole pine to the shore.</p><p></p><p><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/5820/2386/1600/769622/IMG_6694_2.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/5820/2386/320/794433/IMG_6694_2.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p></p><p></p><p><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/5820/2386/1600/119607/IMG_6687_3%20copy.jpg"></a></p><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/5820/2386/1600/458493/IMG_6761.jpg"></a><p><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/5820/2386/1600/458493/IMG_6761.jpg"></a></p><p></p><p></p><p><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/5820/2386/1600/463784/IMG_6742.jpg"></a></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>The breeze coming off the water was ideal, and we hung out for awhile on the beach. A few minutes later we were back in the truck, wishing the loop had been a little longer.</p><p>Suddenly, we were feeling recovered, ambitious again...and Shauna reminded me how cool Shoshone Lake sounded.<br /><br />According to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, Shoshone is the largest back country lake in the lower 48. Our guide book described the scenery along its northern approach, via the DeLacy Creek Trail, as being “what many of the park’s forests looked like prior to the dramatic changes brought about by the 1988 fires”. These are the oldest stands of lodge pole pine in the park…400+ years old. Best of all it was only six miles roundtrip.<br /><br />Sounded good to me…<br /><br />From West Thumb we took the Old Faithful-West Thumb road to the Delacy Creek trailhead. We threw on our day packs, tossed a couple granola bars in the pockets and made south.<br /><br />It felt good to be out of the car, and we covered a lot of ground in a really short time. The path wandered through a dark, cool old growth pine forest for the first mile and a half or so. Then it burst into some of the greenest, widest alpine meadows I’ve ever seen. Butterflies and wildflowers were thick across floor, and I expected some sort of huge ungulate to wander through momentarily.</p><p></p><p><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/5820/2386/1600/458493/IMG_6761.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/5820/2386/320/378084/IMG_6761.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p></p><p></p><p><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/5820/2386/1600/463784/IMG_6742.jpg"></a></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>A mother duck and her brood...</p><p>The meadows turned marshy, and the air felt tangibly cooler as we approached Shoshone. Then, all at once we were there, on the shores of a huge sapphire gem of a lake surrounded on all sides by dark timber. We were completely alone, and for just a moment I understood what those early explorers of the Yellowstone Country must have felt as they gazed across this ancient landscape for the first time.</p><p><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/5820/2386/1600/463784/IMG_6742.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/5820/2386/320/296974/IMG_6742.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Shoshone Lake...</p><p></p><p>We wandered down the beach for awhile, snapping photos as we went, hoping the camera would capture even a poor facsimile of what we were seeing. Finally, we found a nice piece of shade and stretched out for a moment to gather our strength for the looming hike out. Two hours later we awoke to the sound of something big crashing through the forest behind us. A massive bull elk threw his head back as he sprinted away through the trees. The cool breeze coming off the lake had acted like chloroform, knocking us out for what was left of the afternoon. The shadows were getting long across the lake, and the temperature had dropped several degrees. I knew sunset couldn’t be more than a couple hours away. It would be a race to get back to the truck before dark.<br /><br />I wasn’t particularly comfortable with our present circumstances. I usually try to avoid hiking in places like Yellowstone during the early morning, and at dusk; the chances of bumping into something big and nasty on the trail increases exponentially during these hours. And suddenly the park seemed alive with sounds...a rustling of bushes next to the trail caused me to draw my can of whoop-ass from its holster, but it was just a grouse. Feeling very vulnerable as dark approached, we jogged the rest of the 3 miles back to the trailhead, arriving only minutes before nightfall.<br /></p><p>Pulling into West Yellowstone we could scarcely believe that it was the same day that we had woken up pre-dawn do go horseback riding. It would be tough to top Day 2, but day 3 would prove every bit as cool. </p><p></p><p></p>Burrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12486081030249537578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23320647.post-1167007315693636552006-12-24T17:41:00.000-07:002006-12-24T23:08:39.580-07:00Yellowstone, Day 1...<br /><br />The idea of spending four days hiking Yellowstone's back-country sounded like pure Hell to both of us. Yet, there we were at the west entrance, scarcely four days after stumbling out of the High Uintas.<br /><br />We felt like we were living one of those gimmicky trip reports in backpacker magazine. You know, the ones with titles like "7 National Parks in 7 days", or "One Week, 12 Peaks". Really, what we were planning was crazy. Crazy for a couple out of shape 30 something's, anyway.<br /><br />The original plot involved hiking the entire 12 mile length of the Pebble Creek Trail on day one, slogging another12 miles to Shoshone Lake via the Lewis Channel trail on day two, completing the 9 mile round trip to the Beaver Ponds near Mammoth on day three, and finally climbing 6 miles to the top of Mt. Washburn from Dunraven Pass before leaving on the fourth and final day...all this after having just endured an 18 mile puke-fest in the Utah high country.<br /><br />No more than five minutes inside the west gate we hit our first wildlife jam. People were abandoning their vehicles on the highway, making for the Madison River below, and traffic was completely snarled in both directions. Knowing we wouldn't be going anywhere anytime soon, we followed the crowd into the trees to see what had created all the fuss. I was expecting a grizzly sow with cubs, maybe even a pack of wolves for all the commotion. Naah...just a small group of cow elk trying to cross the river. We laughed, snapped a few pictures of the old girls in the water and moved on as soon as the mob began to break up.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_6606.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_6606.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Elk Cows...<br /><br />The morning air was the perfect temperature, and the windows down cruise across the park, and into the Lamar Valley seemed to steal what little resolve I had to battle the rugged Yellowstone back country for the rest of the day. Pulling up to the trailhead at Pebble Creek I was still willing to give it a go for Shauna, but when she sat there motionless and glassy eyed instead of rifling through the cab for her gear, I knew it wasn't going to happen. The next few minutes went something like this:<br /><br />Sterling: Are we gonna' do this?<br /><br />Shauna: That's why we came, isn't it?<br /><br />Sterling: Yip...let's do it!<br /><br />Shauna: Let's do it!<br /><br /><br />Five Minutes later...<br /><br />Sterling: Do we really want to do this?<br /><br />Shauna: Sure...(yawn...stretch...).<br /><br />Sterling: Alright...let's hit it!<br /><br /><br />Five minutes after that...<br /><br />Sterling: We could do a shorter hike today if you wanted...see how we feel tomorrow...<br /><br />Shauna: Good idea!<br /><br />Sterling: Trout Lake is only one mile round trip.<br /><br />Shauna: Trout Lake it is!<br /><br />Yeah, we're diehards!<br /><br />The path to Trout Lake ascends a steep ridge through some impressive stands of Douglas Fir. One tree in particular rivaled even some of the Coastal Doug Firs we had seen in the Pacific Northwest for sheer girth. It was a beast.<br /><br />The short climb was over as quickly as it had begun. The lake was pretty, and true to its name there were big, thick trout lurking just beneath its crystal surface. We circled the lake, taking pictures as we went.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_6628_2.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_6628_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Trout Lake...<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_6634_2.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_6634_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />A frog...<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_6640_2.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_6640_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Shauna and a big Douglas Fir...<br /><br />It was lunchtime when we finally got back to the truck, so we decided to make for Tower Falls and see what sort of grub could be found there (our peanut butter and granola sandwiches we had made for the hike didn't sound nearly as appealing as one might think), and plan the rest of the afternoon.<br /><br />Near Roosevelt, a group of about ten riders crossed the highway on horseback, and Shauna casually mentioned that it looked like a lot of fun. About a mile further down the road we spotted a stable next to a corral, and a big sign advertising horseback tours. We pulled in, checked it out and made reservations for the next morning. So Much for Shoshone Lake and the Lewis Channel Trail, I guess.<br /><br />Over hotdogs and large cokes, we began to realize that our itinerary resembled a death march...not a vacation. And while we weren't about to let ourselves become two more Yellowstone tourists whose only chance of seeing wildlife was by bumping into it on the road, we weren't going to let our little getaway become drudgery, either.<br /><br />We decided that we'd play the rest of our time by ear...go wherever we felt like going, do whatever we felt like doing.<br /><br />We left Tower Falls and headed north through Roosevelt, then east, for Mammoth, visiting a few of the thermal features in the area.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_6660.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_6660.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Mudpots South of Mammoth...<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_6666_2.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_6666_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Hot springs...<br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_6660.0.jpg"></a><br />A few miles south of Mammoth we ran into another, even bigger wildlife Jam. This time it was obvious what was creating the chaos. A big bull elk was making its way across an open glade a couple hundred feet off the road, bugling and scratching itself as it went. A few lame tourists got too close, though, and a park ranger made everyone clear out.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_6679_2.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_6679_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Instead of continuing south, we turned north again, through Mammoth, and out the north gate. We followed highway 89, along the foothills of the Absaroka range, into Lewiston, Montana. I’d never even heard of the Absarokas before this little diversion. They’re one of the most spectacular ranges in the western United States…one part Sawtooths, one part Tetons. I suspect they’re a local secret, like the Uintas, or the Wind Rivers. We hope to check them out next summer.<br /><br />From Lewiston we hopped on the 90 towards Bozeman. From Bozeman we took the 191 south, back into the park. It was getting dark, so we rolled into west Yellowstone for the night.<br /><br />Stay tuned...we're just getting warmed up!Burrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12486081030249537578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23320647.post-1162788548370584362006-11-05T21:49:00.000-07:002006-12-26T17:21:07.550-07:00In Utah, the Wasatch Mountains get all the love...and why not? These peaks stand above the populated Valleys of Northern Utah like giant sentinels, forming a nearly impenetrable wall to the east, protecting its inhabitants from secular influences and invading ideologies for generations. They're ever present, timeless, a symbol of strength and persistence to those who live in their shadows. I imagine when most native Utahns think "mountain" they envision one of the many rugged peaks of the Wasatch Range.<br /><br />For all its grandeur, though, the Wasatch is but a pretender to the throne of the Utah high country. The real kings of the mountains are the High Uintas. Bigger, taller, better looking than the Wasatch, they're home to a much more diversified plant and animal community than any other Utah mountain range. Best of all; they're still relatively undiscovered, thousands of square miles lie untouched, unexplored by the masses. Carved by glaciers, its high valleys are dotted by literally thousands of clear, frigid lakes; the last refuge of the Bonneville Cutthroat Trout.<br /><br />I spent a lot of time in the Uintas as a boy scout; hiking, camping, fishing, blowing stuff up, lighting things on fire...you know. Despite having grown up in Utah, though, my wife had never been properly introduced to the place. Every summer we would plan a High Uintas adventure, and every year something would derail us. Finally, fates conspired last July, and we found ourselves motoring down the Mirror Lake Highway towards the North Slope, and Alsop Lake.<br /><br />I'd never been to Alsop Lake, so neither of us really knew what to expect. We'd been told that it was a moderate 9 mile hike (one way) through a lush alpine forest, to one of the most spectacular glacial lakes on the planet. We planned on hitting the trail about 10:00am, hiking through the afternoon, and arriving in time to set up camp and catch our dinner in the lake before sunset.<br /><br />Pulling up to the Trailhead we very nearly turned around without even stopping. Our sources had failed to inform us that a fire had rolled though fairly recently, and that the place had been burnt to a crisp. Though the low vegetation was starting to rebound, and wildflowers were exploding across the whole scene, I wasn't even remotely interested in hiking 9 miles each way through a stick forest.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_6424_2.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_6424_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Charred trees near the trailhead...<br /><br />We couldn't see far enough down the narrow valley to gauge the true extent of the burned area so we threw on our packs and agreed to hike in about a mile or so. If the scenery didn't improve in that distance we'd turn back and make for home before the day was completely shot.<br /><br />Another Uintas trip foiled?<br /><br />Fortunately, we reached the edge of the main burn area about 3/4 of a mile down the path and we followed it through large stands of lodgepole pine and across verdant meadows overrun with butterflies and wildflowers. It was flat, easy hiking along the East Fork of the Bear River and we stopped a couple times to splash our faces with the icy, clear water.<br /><br />The trail took us past some cool abandoned homesteads, and fantastic views of Beulah Peak opened up as we started to gain a little altitude. We made great time along the valley floor, arriving at the 4 mile marker much earlier than we'd anticipated. We'd barely spent an hour and a half on the trail and we were already almost halfway to the lake. Seeing as we had time to spare, we took off our packs and rested for awhile before hitting the trail again.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_6498_2.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_6498_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Beulah Peak...<br /><br />From the four mile marker the trail to Alsop Lake forks left, off the main path, and immediately begins ascending a series of moderately steep switchbacks to a waterfall nearly a mile above. A few hundred yards into it we began to realize we'd packed way, way too heavy for any sort of extended climb. We were loaded down with stuff we simply didn't need; extra clothes, a heavy four season tent, our three season sleeping bags (god knows we weren't going to trust in Slumberjack again!), thick ground cover pads, fishing poles, a bunch of tackle, a six pack of Spaghettio's (my favorite camping food)...holy crap!<br /><br />We were both feeling it when we arrived at the waterfall. Not only were our packs heavier than lead, the air suddenly seemed much thinner here. I was starting to feel a little weak, a little nauseous, and Shauna thought I might be dealing with a little altitude sickness. I chalked it up to exertion and continued climbing.<br /><br />About a mile past the waterfall the scenery got completely ridiculous. I've hung out in just about every national park in the west, but none of them have anything on this place (I don't know why its not a national park, or at least a state park yet). 13,000 foot peaks tower above you on both sides, and the trail climbs gradually through unbelievable alpine meadows and forests. Amazing...except that I couldn't stop puking my guts out!<br /><br />I was hammered. I suddenly had a splitting headache and my legs felt like jello. I'd never had so much as a touch of altitude sickness before, and I had a hard time believing that's what it was. Especially since Shauna wasn't showing any tangible effects.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_6522_2.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_6522_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Shauna...<br /><br />Needless to say, the rest of the hike was an exercise in misery. It took us nearly four hours to get from the waterfall to the lake, and another eternity to set up camp. I expected to start feeling better once I'd relaxed for a minute lakeside, and after I'd gotten myself re-hydrated. Wishful thinking. If anything I was feeling worse. My only consolation was that Alsop Lake was every bit as beautiful as we had been told it was; clear, cold, and we could see monster cutthroats cruising the shallows for flies.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_6529_2.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_6529_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />I mustered enough strength to lay by the shore and fish for awhile, but only Shauna caught anything.<br /><br />After that I laid down in the tent and didn't stir till morning.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_6555.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_6555.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Alsop Lake at twilight...<br /><br />Shauna awoke before dawn, apparently roused by a large animal in camp. Unable to go back to sleep she packed up most of our crap and took a few pictures in the half-light.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_6579.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_6579.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_6572_2.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_6572_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />The wildflowers were everywhere...<br /><br />We'd planned on spending the morning hiking, taking some photos of the lake from above, but I was no better off than I had been the night before. My head was still pounding and the thought of breakfast made me want to spew. I was starting to buy into Shauna's altitude sickness theory. We were, after all, about 11,000 feet above sea level. I'd heard of people getting sick at lower elevations. We decided it would be best to just make our way off the mountain.<br /><br />I wish I had been feeling better because the morning was perfect. The sun was shining and the mountains gleamed as we passed.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_6609_2.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_6609_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />The Cathedral...<br /><br />We made it to the waterfall a lot faster than it had taken us to hike the same stretch the day before, and my headache seemed to subside as we dropped down the switchbacks into the lower valley. When we finally made it back to the car I was beat, but no worse for the wear. My weakness and nausea had passed, and my headache was mostly a memory.<br /><br />In the end, all the puking and all the pain is mostly forgotten. All that remains is the memory of this fantastic place, and our short time there. Fortunately the Uintas and Lake Alsop are practically in our back yard...we'll be back again, and again.Burrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12486081030249537578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23320647.post-1162175538273916992006-10-29T19:32:00.000-07:002006-11-01T20:27:20.156-07:00Wow...better than six months to finish a single trip report...pathetic!<br /><br />Pathetic, that is, until one considers what we've been doing (or, more correctly, where we've been going) instead of updating our blog. From Moab to the Uintas, the Tushars to the Sawtooths, Yellowstone to Great Basin National Park, and finally England, Scotland and Wales...we've had an epic 2006. We've seen and done more cool things this spring, summer and fall than any other time of comparable length in our lives.<br /><br />We're hopelessly backlogged here, but, winter is coming (and with it perhaps a little time to catch up). I look forward to it...<br /><br />SterlingBurrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12486081030249537578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23320647.post-1161574598452435902006-10-22T21:36:00.001-06:002009-04-10T11:03:16.305-06:00The last day and a half of our trip was a blur. From Sweet Home we raced along Highways 20 and 22 to Detroit, Oregon. We'd planned on taking NF-46 north from Detroit (through the high cascades) but a local insisted that the road was impassable.<br /><br />Determined not to repeat our adventures on NF-11, we continued west on the 22 into the Willamette Valley and the little town of Sublimity. From Sublimity we headed north, to Silverton, through some of the most beautifully pastoral countryside we'd ever seen...rolling hills and green fields stretching from one horizon to the other.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5920_2.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5920_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />The Willamette Valley...<br /><br />Silverton was a sparkling little town, and Shauna fell in love with it as we sped down main street(it bums me out that we had to blow through so quickly). She still fantasizes about buying a house and living there someday. Not a bad daydream...we plan on taking a trip to check out the area next spring.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5919_2.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5919_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />The Willamette Valley outside of Silverton...<br /><br />From Silverton, we took a circuitous route north, through the Willamette Valley and up the western flank of Mt. Hood. The Sky had turned gray, and the summit was shrouded in clouds as we ascended. The sky cleared for just long enough near the top to snap a couple photos of the snow covered peak before moving on.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5928.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5928.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Mt. Hood...<br /><br />We spent the last night of our trip in Hood River; an ultra-quaint little Victorian town on the banks of the Columbia River. The scenery from our room was completely ridiculous with views of the Columbia River Gorge and Mt. Adams out one window, and panoramas of Mt Hood out another.<br /><br />The next morning we a raced down the Gorge, stopping only briefly at Multnomah Falls en route to Portland International. The falls and The Gorge were both amazing, and we would have taken a lot more photos if we hadn't been trying to catch a plane. We had seen so many spectacular places in so few days that we might have started to become desensitized to it all.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_0030_2.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_0030_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Multnomah Falls...<br /><br />I'll admit to being a bit sad as I handed the keys to the Escape off to the parking attendant at the airport. We'd practically lived in the thing for 11 days. It had gotten us safely through some fairly hairy spots, and it had held up to everything that the road could throw at it. Hats off to ya' little Ford.<br /><br />After checking our bags and wading through airport security, we had a few moments to finally decompress, reflect on what we'd seen and done before boarding. The Pacific Northwest had exceeded our expectations so thoroughly. From the Hood Canal, to Sekiu, to the Hoh rainforest and Kalaloch. From Astoria and Ecola State Park, to Cape Mears and The Willamette Valley. It was all so damn cool! And despite having seen so much I felt like we had barely scratched the surface. Though we were tired, ready for our own beds, we were busy planning our return trip before we had ever even left.Burrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12486081030249537578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23320647.post-1161143569405017642006-10-17T21:52:00.000-06:002006-10-25T21:40:20.326-06:00After visiting the Tillamook Air Museum (a post dedicated to just the museum is forthcoming), we began to realize just how much territory we had to cover in the short time remaining. The map below shows how desperate we had let our situation get. The Yellow represents how far we had gone in 8 1/2 days while the dark pink illustratess how far we wanted to go in about barely 2 1/2 days.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/Trip%20map_2.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/Trip%20map_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Clearly, if we wanted to see what we had planned on seeing, we'd have to fly. And fly we did!<br /><br />We made record time from Tillamook to Newport, then from Newport to Corvalis. A few thoughts from the road:<br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/Trip%20map_2.1.jpg"></a><br />1) The Oregon coast is a scenic wonder. It pained me to speed down it without snooping around a bit...without taking little hikes down to the surf, through the rainforest...without taking a few pictures.<br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/Trip%20map_2.2.jpg"></a><br />2) The coast range is beautiful....reminded me a little bit of the Scottish Moorlands. Huge trees everywhere.<br /><br />3) The Ford Escape V6 is a remarkably capable compact SUV. It felt solid even at very high speed.<br /><br />From Corvalis we screamed across the Southern Willamette Valley and into the western foothills of the Cascade Mountains. The sun was setting as we rolled into Sweet Home, where we decided to stop for the night.<br /><br />Sweet Home was an acid trip from the minute we arrived to the moment we finally escaped its dark, swirling vortex. Our first misadventure was simply trying to find a room. It seemed every motel in town was inhabited by semi-permanent residents, and without vacancy. One place was especially creepy...a small religious cult had settled in for the long haul, or so it would seem. There were clothes drying on lines in front of each of the rooms, and grubby children were running naked from door to door. There also appeared to be a disproportionate number of women to men...I saw several chicks, but only a couple guys. The whole setup gave me a very Charles Manson type vibe. They actually had a room if we'd wanted it, but we thought we'd look elsewhere. We finally found a place at the western end of main street, across from the A&W.<br /><br />The next morning we glanced over our maps and decided to try a scenic route that also promised to cut significant miles and minutes off the day's drive. Instead of taking Highway 20 east to Highway 22 like normal (sane?) people, we elected to take Quartzville Drive, past Green Peter Lake, then take NF-11 to Highway 22. A fine plan indeed.<br /><br />The scenery along Quartzville Drive was drop dead gorgeous, but it quickly became apparent that we weren't saving any time at all. The road was winding, and the lanes became narrower and narrower as we went. Soon, the route was little more than a single paved track, only one vehicle wide, with short pullouts every few hundred yards. We climbed steeply into the Cascades where we started having to ram tall snow banks that blocked our path. About 5 short miles from highway 22, the road came to an abrupt end where an avalanche had piled trees, rocks, and snow so high that nothing could pass. We tried getting around it in 4 wheel drive, but only succeeded in getting ourselves momentarily stuck. In the end we had to turn around and retrace our path some 35 miles back to Sweet Home.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5916_2.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5916_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Our only consolation was that we saw a whole lot of this...<br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5916_2.0.jpg"></a><br />Needless to say, I was pissed, and used up most of my yearly allowance of swear words on the drive back into town. There had been no signs warning that the road was impassible, and no indication on any of our maps that NF-11 was little more than a glorified game trail.<br /><br />Sumbitches!<br /><br />It was lunch time when we pulled into town and we grabbed a quick bite at McDonalds. The rental was covered in mud, so, we wolfed down a couple quarter pounders with cheese and made for a carwash I'd seen earlier.<br /><br />Naturally, the change machine was out of order (we were quickly learning that very little worked as it should in this place). Undaunted, though, I walked to the A&W next door. I handed the guy at the counter a five spot and asked for as many quarters as he could spare. To my request he replied, and without further explanation "We don't give change on Sunday". Suffice it to say, I spent what little remained of my annual cuss word allowance right there.<br /><br />We went from one end of that ruddy back woods hole to the other looking for enough change to run the wash. Finally, a strangely lucid gas station attendant (with a full compliment of teeth t'boot) dug a few dollars worth of quarters out of his own pocket, and out of his car for us. We are forever in his debt.<br /><br />We finally managed to get the Escape looking a little more presentable, and we blew out of Dodge one last time. That is, until noticing that the gas light was on some ten miles down the road! Knowing we'd never make it to Detroit (Oregon) on fumes we turned around, yet again, for Sweet Home.<br /><br /><br />At this point we were starting to feel like the universe, or at least the black hole that is Sweet Home, was conspiring against us. Sucking us in. Fortunately the fill up was uneventful and we put Sweet Home in the rear view mirror faster than you can say "Deliverance."Burrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12486081030249537578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23320647.post-1161121814560802262006-10-17T15:50:00.000-06:002006-10-22T22:21:05.786-06:00<div align="left">We were even later stirring in Astoria than we had been at Kalaloch. The sky was gray, ominous for the first time since Portland, and the overcast made it a little tough to motivate. We'd been going pretty hard for a week and we were starting to feel it.<br /><br />We had a quick brunch at the restaurant next to the Holiday Inn before hitting the 101 southbound. The overcast was starting to burn off a little, and the sun started poking holes through the clouds as we drove. </div><div align="left"><br />Tired of driving, we only got about 20 miles down the coast before deciding we'd had enough of the car. We pulled into a beach town called Seaside, parked the rental, and checked into the Rip Tide Hotel right on the sand.<br /><br />We spent the remainder of the morning wandering through eclectic little shops on Seaside's main drag, and the afternoon beachcombing near the hotel. Finally, we watched the sunset over the Pacific, and then the fog roll up the beach from the shore. Not an altogether terrible way to spend a day.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5802_2.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5802_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5808_2.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5808_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Sunset at Seaside beach...<br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5813.jpg"></a><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5813.jpg"></a><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5813.jpg"></a><br />We got a much earlier start from Seaside than we had gotten at either Kalaloch or Astoria, and we headed South for Cannon Beach while it was still early. From Cannon, we drove up to a view point inside Ecola State Park (note: there's a small fee to enter the park). Apparently, much of The Goonies was filmed there, most notably the sequence where Mike discovers that the shoreline terrain matches the holes in the medallion they stole from the attic.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_0079_2.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_0079_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />"Guys...I think I have a match...I'M SURE OF IT!"<br /><br />From the parking lot we followed a steep trail through some fantastic old growth, down to Crescent beach. The place was beautiful, deserted, and littered with completely intact sand dollars and sea urchins. I guess the short hike is enough to deter most would be beachcombers, and the oceans bounty was everywhere.<br /><br />Eventually, we hiked back up to the view point, and drove to Indian Beach, scarcely a mile further into the park. Indian was significantly more crowded than Crescent had been (and needless to say, completely picked over), but just as beautiful. We had a good time scrambling over the basalt boulders at the southern end of the beach, and the tide pools between the rocks harbored some pretty interesting sea life (not quite as cool as Sekiu, or Ruby Beach, but cool nonetheless).<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5827.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5827.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Indian Beach...<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5835_2.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5835_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />A light house just off Indian Beach...<br /><br />From Indian Beach, we found our way back to the 101, and followed it down the coast to Tillamook. The drive was beautiful, amazing, and we took our time. Savoring every bend in the road, and each new scene as it unfolded.<br /><br />From Tillamook, we took the Cape Mears loop road through Netarts, stopping in Oceanside for lunch. As you might have guessed from previous entries, I'm not typically a big fan of cities or towns. I prefer countryside and wilderness to streets and shops. Oceanside, however, is the rare exception. Perched delicately on a hillside above a pristine little cove, Oceanside's houses gleam like a hundred multicolored gemstones against the gray sky. If we could live in any of the little towns that we saw along Oregon's coast, we agreed it would be Oceanside.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_0096_2.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_0096_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Oceanside...<br /><br />After lunch we continued on the loop road, visiting the Cape Mears lighthouse and the famous Octopus Tree (a Sitka Spruce with six huge skyward pointing reiterations instead of one main trunk) along the way.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_0089.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_0089.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />The Cape Mears Lighthouse...<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_0083_2.0.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_0083_2.0.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />The Octopus Tree...<br /><br />We also made a quick diversion to another very big Sitka Spruce, the Cape Mears Giant, before completing the loop in Tillamook.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5841.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5841.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Shauna and The Cape Mears Giant...<br /><br />We left the Cape very impressed. There are a lot of cool things concentrated in a very small geographical area. Many of which we had to skip (we still had a long way to go, and only three more days to get there). This is another place we shall visit again.</div>Burrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12486081030249537578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23320647.post-1156815807518509042006-08-28T19:43:00.000-06:002006-08-28T20:00:12.973-06:00After six days on The Olympic Peninsula I was beginning to believe there wasn't a single ugly thing to be found on the whole of it. I wondered, as we continued south along the 101 towards Grays Harbor, how the good people had managed to keep their communities so clean, so apparently free of crime and decay. That is, until rolling through Hoquiam and Aberdeen. I guess everyone and everything has an armpit and an asshole (I'd probably call Aberdeen the armpit, and Hoquiam...poor Hoquiam). I shouldn't have expected the Olympic Peninsula to be any different.<br /><br />These were the ugliest, dirtiest places we visited on our tour of the Pacific Northwest. A little word of advice...lock your car doors as you roll into town and blow through as quickly as possible. Nearly every building had bars on its doors and windows, and all the car lots featured 10 foot fences capped with razor wire. Main Street seemed dead. Only the liquor stores and the tattoo parlors appeared to be thriving. And there were plenty of these. Not surprisingly, nearly everyone we saw was covered in body art, and carried a 40 ounce malt liquor. Colt 45, baby!<br /><br />The scenery improved significantly once south of Aberdeen. We passed through nice little towns like Raymond, South Bend, and Chinook along the 101 before crossing the 2 mile long bridge spanning the mouth of the Columbia River into Astoria, Oregon.<br /><br />Astoria is apparently the oldest continuously inhabited settlement west of the Mississippi River. Its history and architecture are very cool, but, I was only interested in one thing...The Goonies House! We had gotten directions to the place online, and we spent the rest of the afternoon looking for it. Finally, and just before giving up, we spotted it. We'd driven by it about ten times, but hadn't recognized it (it's much nicer than I remembered from the movie). It sat at the end of a private drive, perched proudly above the surrounding neighborhood.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5799.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5799.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I was speechless. All I could think of while sitting there, staring at this monument to my youth was:<br /><br />"Chunk...Do the truffle shuffle...Do it..Do It!"<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/goonies%20truffle%20shuffle.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/goonies%20truffle%20shuffle.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />The Truffle Shuffle!<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_0075.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_0075.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We got a room at the Holiday Inn (right under the bridge) in Astoria, popped popcorn and watched The Goonies on pay-per-view all night. Tell me this isn't the best vacation ever!Burrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12486081030249537578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23320647.post-1155699073779685562006-08-15T21:31:00.001-06:002009-04-10T09:44:44.600-06:00No sleeping pill works better than the sound of rolling surf, and nothing induces deep slumber quite like a cool coastal breeze blowing gently through open windows. Our king-sized bed was perfect, and we slept like logs. I doubt I moved an inch until mid-morning, and only then because somebody fired up a leaf blower right outside our front door.<br /><br />We took our time getting moving...we barely made it to the front desk before check out at 11:00 AM.<br /><br />After a quick breakfast at the lodge we back tracked a few miles up the 101, to Ruby Beach. The weather was perfect, sunny and warm, yet again. We'd seen scarcely a cloud since Shelton, and I began to feel a tiny bit cheated. Who spends six days on the Olympic Peninsula without getting soaked a couple times?<br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_0052_2.jpg"></a><br />Ruby Beach was so named for the bright red gemstones found there by early explorers of the Olympic Coast. These stones weren't really rubies at all, though, but garnets worth only a fraction of what true rubies would have fetched.<br /><br />We didn't find any garnets, but, we did find some pretty cool tide pools. Large colonies of orange and purple sea stars decorated the rocks near the water, while neon pink and green anemones populated the spots in between.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_0055_2.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_0055_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5744_2.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5744_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />While these anenomes look high and dry, they were in fact several inches underwater. We couldn't believe how clear these little pools were.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5741_2.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5741_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />A friend told me these little pink things pack a wallop. Call me a coward, but, I never tested them. They looked a little too toxic to muck with.<br /><br />We took a few pics as we scrambled over the rocks at low tide.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5729.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5729.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5730.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5730.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_0052_2.0.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_0052_2.0.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Good times.<br /><br />We finally left Ruby beach to indulge my nerdy fascination with big trees. The first stop on this tour-de-wood was the famous (who am I kidding...only a handful of tree geeks even know this thing exists) Duncan Cedar. It was thought be the largest Red Cedar in the world for much of the 1970's and 80's, but two larger trees were discovered in the 1990's, dethroning this former champion.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/Duncan%20Cedar.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/Duncan%20Cedar.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />A tiny crown of living branches and leaves are all that suggest this monumental old cedar is even alive. This tree is perhaps a thousand years old, but it might not live out the decade.<br /><br />Next, we visited another big Red Cedar, just off the 101 near the Kalaloch beaches. I expected the Kalaloch tree to be a bit of a let down, having just seen the mighty Duncan Cedar. I was wrong. It was was crazy. The single oldest looking thing I've ever seen. It was massive, knobby and sinuous, with misshapen faces popping out through its ancient bark. The wildest looking caricature of a Western Red Cedar imaginable.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5704.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5704.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Shauna and the Kalaloch Cedar...<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5707.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5707.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5715.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5715.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />I couldn't decide wether this was a root or a branch.<br /><br />After ogling the Kalaloch Cedar for a few more minutes we made our way South, along the 101, towards Lake Quinault. The Lake Quinault area is arguably the finest remaining patch of temperate rainforest in the continental United States.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_0065.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_0065.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />I tend to think it is...<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_0067.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_0067.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />A car in front of us lends a little scale to some of the Red Cedars we saw while driving along the north shore of Lake Quinault. Six of the ten largest known Red Cedars in the world are found somewhere on the wooded slopes near Lake Quinault. We didn't have time to visit them all, but, we did get to see the biggest of them. The single largest tree in the Pacific Northwest, and perhaps the entire world outside of the state of California (it's no fair comparing anything to the Coast Redwoods and Giant Sequoias).<br /><br />The Quinault Cedar.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5786.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5786.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5779.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5779.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Shauna inside the world's Biggest Cedar...I'm sure you're all wetting yourself with excitement.<br /><br />We left the Quinault area, and ultimately the Olympic Peninsula after completing the loop around the lake. We'd spent far more time on the peninsula than we had planned, and we were hopelessly behind schedule. That said, we'll never regret a single moment we spent there. Though I expected to see some cool things in the days remaining, I had a feeling the best might be behind us.Burrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12486081030249537578noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23320647.post-1152673515869548852006-07-11T21:05:00.001-06:002009-04-10T10:31:07.839-06:00The western side of the Olympic Peninsula gets more rain than just about anywhere else on earth. Seriously...like 12 feet of precipitation annually. This, combined with the moderating effects of the Pacific Ocean on seasonal temperatures, makes for ideal growing conditions for several species of trees. Especially Sitka Spruce, Western Red Cedar and Vine Maple. The west trending valleys of the Bogachiel, Hoh, Queets and Quinault rivers represent the last truly great expanses of virgin old growth temperate rainforest in the Pacific Northwest.<br /><br />We stayed on the 101 through Forks, then onto the Hoh River Road. We stopped at a little place called the Hard Rain Cafe. It's a family operation that serves great burgers and fries, typical diner stuff. We chatted with the owners (a young German/American couple) for a few minutes while we ate, then we moved further down the road.<br /><br />We stopped again at a pullout just inside the Park boundary, looking for a restroom. There weren't any restrooms, but there was an enormous Sitka Spruce. I took a picture of it not knowing that it was the famous Preston Macy tree. The sixth largest Sitka Spruce on the planet.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_0020.1.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_0020.1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Shauna and the Preston Macy Tree...<br /><br />We expected large crowds at the Hoh ranger station, but we found ourselves nearly alone again. Once on the trail, we might as well have been the only people on earth. Early May is a great time to visit the Peninsula!<br /><br />If shady Lane felt ancient, the Hoh seemed positively primordial. Moss hung from literally everything, and the trees (especially the old vine maples) took on massive, gnarled shapes. I snapped a few photos along the way.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/Mossy%20Maple.0.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/Mossy%20Maple.0.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_0025.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_0025.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_0042.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_0042.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />The Hoh...<br /><br />A few miles up the trail we bumped into an entire herd of Roosevelt Elk. It was hard getting pictures of them through the undergrowth without spooking them, but, I think a couple turned out alright.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5647.0.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5647.0.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5650.0.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5650.0.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />After hanging out with the elk for a while, we turned around. It was already early evening and we hadn't made any sleeping arrangements for the night. We decided to head down the coast a few miles and check out the Kalaloch Lodge before it got too dark.<br /><br />We arrived at the lodge at sunset...man it was ugly!<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5684.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5684.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Fortunately, there were some vacancies and we checked into a bungalo overlooking the beach. We had only been there for a few minutes when this little bandit strolled onto our deck.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5701.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5701.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />He came up to the sliding door, begging for food. We fed him a couple slices of bread and a few loose grapes for good measure. We're terrible.<br /><br />In retrospect, this day lasted forever. We woke up freezing in the Sol Duc, hiked the morning away in the woods, burned the early afternoon near Sekiu and Cape Flattery, and spent the evening in the Hoh Rainforest.<br /><br />This was a good day.Burrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12486081030249537578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23320647.post-1151465264454718202006-06-27T21:27:00.000-06:002006-10-22T22:05:43.250-06:00From the Sol Duc we switched into full wander mode. We cruised down the 101 to Sapho, where we strayed onto the 113, North through clear-cut country. A sobering tour, indeed.<br /><br />I'm not a rabid environmentalist, but, I like trees...especially the big ones. And as a geologist I'm not a big fan of clear-cutting (erosion and stream sedimentation are huge problems wherever clear-cutting is practiced). I squirmed every time we passed a bare hillside, and I cringed at the number of gigantic stumps (some better that 15 feet across) that we saw along this short stretch of highway alone. These were once among the largest, oldest trees on the continent (only the Redwoods and Sequoias are bigger), and they are all gone. No living Specimen of Douglas Fir, Sitka Spruce, or Western Red Cedar compare to the ones harvested by the logging companies during the early part of the 20th century. Today's trees are mere table scraps left by the lumber industry as it feasted on the forests of the Pacific Northwest.<br /><br />To protest too much, though, would make me a hypocrite. I live in a house made of wood likely harvested from this region. Most of us in the western U.S. do.<br /><br />Anyway, I'll hop off my soapbox now...<br /><br />From the 113 we rambled onto the 112, towards Clallam Bay and Sekiu. In short, this stretch of coast is what we had expected the Dungeness National Wildlife Refuge to be like...critters everywhere! From the road we watched bald eagles cruise the shallows for fish. It was low tide, so we hopped out of the car west of Sekiu and explored tide pools the likes of which I have never seen. There was more life packed into these little pools than, well...silly metaphors will almost certainly fail me here, so have a look for yourselves.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5558_2.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5558_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />...<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5569_2.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5569_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />...<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5580.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5580.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />...<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5595.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5595.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />How many things can attatch themselves to the bottom of a rock? 4 starfish, a sea urchin,<br />a couple gastropds, and somehing I'd never even seen before in the upper left hand corner...<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5601.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5601.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />...<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5589.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5589.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />A couple Hermit Crabs...<br /><br />Eventually, we hopped back onto the 112 and made for Cape Flattery, the Northwestern most piece of real estate in the Continental United States. We passed through the Makah Indian Reservation, and along a crappy dirt road to a lookout point. In the end the cape was nice...we forgot to take any photos, but, it was cool enough. Nice views of the coast to the South.<br /><br />In truth, we were still buzzing about the tide pools. Neither of us remembers too much about the cape, it seemed like a bit of a let down after such a punishing drive to get there.<br /><br />From the Cape we retraced our route back down the 112 through Sekiu, and the 113 to Sapho. In Sapho we hopped on the 101 for Forks, and the west side of the peninsula.Burrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12486081030249537578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23320647.post-1150691636016563642006-06-18T22:33:00.001-06:002009-04-10T10:53:33.087-06:00I've driven much of the 101, and the twelve mile stretch along the south shore of Lake Crescent, west of Port Angeles, is perhaps my favorite. Steep mountains and prolific old growth surround the lake on all sides, and rise from the water skyward. If there is a more scenic stretch of highway on the planet I have never seen it.<br /><br />Lake Crescent is glacially formed and some 600 feet deep. A fact I tried to forget as we navigated the winding s-curves above its dark waters. I wondered, as we drove, how many people had flown off the pavement staring at the scenery along this bit of road. I endeavored to avoid becoming one of them.<br /><br />We stopped to take care of a little business at the Lake Crescent ranger station, where we spotted the trailhead to Marymere falls. Remembering the nice things our Falcon Trail Guide had said about the short hike and the falls, we threw on our hydration packs and started up the path.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5398.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5398.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Lake Crescent from near the Ranger Station...<br /><br />The trail picked its way through a stand of very big Douglas Fir and Red Cedar until it reached a footbridge spanning Barnes Creek. From the bridge it ascended a series of steep switch backs up to the falls.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5399.0.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5399.0.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />A gigantic fir near Barnes Creek...<br /><br />It was strange. There we were at Marymere Falls, an idealic natural setting, enjoying another perfect afternoon. We were less than three hours from the biggest metro area in the Pacific Northwest, yet we were completely alone. It wasn't as though we had wandered into the wild interior of the park...we were no more than a mile from a major freeway. Still, all we could hear was the roar of the falls and the chatter of little birds in the canopy. Where was everybody? I had wondered the same thing at Shady Lane, Staircase Rapids, Murhut Falls and Jefferson Lake. I'm not complaining, we loved having these places to ourselves. I couldn't understand, though, why these edens were so deserted and Port Townsend had been so overrun by tourists.<br /><br />In any event, Marymere Falls was well worth the diversion. I was amazed that such a beautiful place was also easily accessible. We hung out there for awhile, took a few photos, and moved on.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5416_2.0.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5416_2.0.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Marymere falls...<br /><br />From the ranger station it was only a few miles to a well marked road leading to the Sol Duc falls trailhead. This road was a little longer than we had anticipated (or, perhaps the scenery was a little cooler than we had expected), and we arrived at the trailhead later than we had planned. Instead of rushing the hike we thought we'd try to find a camping spot nearby and hit the trail at first light the following morning.<br /><br />We rolled into the Sol Duc Campground and claimed the first available flat spot on which we could pitch our tent. After a dinner of canned corn beef hash and spaghettios, we discovered we hadn't packed our ground cover pads. Knowing we wouldn't catch a sinlge wink on the rocky soil without a little something, we made for Port Angeles and the Wal-Mart there. We picked up a couple cheap air mattresses and flew back down the 101, past lake Crescent in the dark. <br /><br />Creepy!<br /><br />I was pretty sure we were going to run over bigfoot as we rounded each hairpin along the way. It was nearly 11:00 pm when we finally pulled up to our campsite again, and we wasted little time inflating our Wal-Mart specials and laying out our sleeping bags.<br /><br />We'd bought a lot of new gear for this trip in anticipation of the torrential rain we were sure to encounter on the peninsula. Among these purchases was a pair of super compact 30 degree Slumberjack mummy bags. Naturally, neither of us had actually slept in them before. We believed the 30 degree comfort rating as if it were law, decreed by the camping gods. Big mistake. It was the most uncomfortably cold night I've ever spent anywhere (this coming from the guy who at 12 years old shivered for four days and three nights in a snow cave at 10,000 feet with only his 100% cotton G.I. Joe slumber party bag for warmth). Cold air poured in through the slumberjack's zipper, and countless other places, too. I doubt I'd have been any colder if I had shed the bag entirely. What a worthless piece of crap.<br /><br />I expected the world to be covered with a thick layer of frost when morning finally cracked over the mountain tops...surely it had to have been damn near zero, right? Instead, we arose to find our campground neighbors telling each other how well they had slept, and how refreshing the crisp air had been to sleep in (not a spec of frost anywhere). You've got to be kidding me! These guys had slept under the stars with nothing more than a blowup mattress and a couple quilts thrown on top for good measure. 30 degree comfort rating my back side!<br /><br />Next, A few friends wandered into camp while we were taking down the tent.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5442_2.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5442_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5443.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5443.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />These little sitka black tail deer had no fear of us whatsoever. I guess they've never been shot at inside the park. I couldn't tell if they were looking for a handout, or if they just liked the tender chutes of grass growing alongside the campground road.<br /><br />Anyway, we figured the best way to warm up was to hit the trail. We packed up our crap and drove the half mile or so back to the Sol Duc Falls trailhead.<br /><br />A few hundred yards down the path I began to realize that the entire park, all five trillion square miles of it, must be this spectacular. I tried to stop being amazed by everything I saw, but the old growth here was unreal, and the falls were even better than I had expected.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5447_2.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5447_2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Sol Duc Falls...<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5511.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5511.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />From the falls we followed an unmarked trail along the river for a few miles.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5469.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5469.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/1024/IMG_5486.jpg"><img class="phostImg" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/95/10045/320/IMG_5486.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We strolled through the timber, off the trail for what seemed like hours. Notice the big can of bear spray in my left hand. I had been hearing suspicious sounds all morning and I was feeling a little jumpy.<br /><br />We found our way back to the trail, and the car by mid-morning. The sun was shining again, and we were finally warm (no thanks to slumberjack). I'd like to have spent a few more hours bushwacking near the river, but for the first time on the peninsula the crowds had caught up with us. An entire bus load of pre-teen campers had arrived at the trailhead.<br /><br />We consulted our trusty books and our mega-map and moved on.Burrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12486081030249537578noreply@blogger.com1