On this day, the 5th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina, I’d like to tell you about a town named Triumph.

This Louisiana hamlet is one of the last inhabitable communities along the Mississippi River, more than 2,500 miles from the waterway’s origins. It is located in Plaquemines Parish, a thin peninsula straddling the river for its final hundred-mile stretch. Over the years, the mud carried by the river has gradually extended the delta. Thus, the land surrounding the Mississippi here was in fact created by it. It is the amalgam of a great force binding a nation together.

But Triumph was born as the nation seemed to be falling apart. In 1862, it was the site of one of the most important confrontations of the Civil War, when the Union fleet fought its way past two supposedly impenetrable forts and gained control of the mouth of the Mississippi. So here, in the deepest of the Deep South, northern soldiers gave the community its name.

Over the next century, Triumph’s culture was all but inseparable from the river itself. But the Mississippi, creator of the fertile delta, has also been its destroyer. You see, this precarious strip of land is a hurricane magnet.

The storm of all storms arrived on September 9, 1965. It was given the name Hurricane Betsy, and it broke all Louisiana records, packing wind gusts up to 160 miles per hour. Betsy entered the delta against the current, and the river’s waters combined with the storm surge to form a massive tide of calamity.

Century-old oak trees were shredded. Homes were tossed into crumpled heaps. Boats were thrown inland; buildings were washed out to sea. Hundreds of dead cattle were entangled among snapped electrical poles and coffins that had floated out of cemeteries. Only nine of the 81 deaths blamed on the hurricane were Plaquemines Parish residents, but nearly 95 percent of the parish was flooded. It was no longer easy to distinguish between the gulf, the river and the land.

An estimated 4,600 homes, 700 trailers, 500 boats, 270 business establishments and 140 farm buildings were either damaged or destroyed. Total damage reached $1.2 billion, making Betsy the first-ever billion-dollar storm. And yet, soon after, a local newspaper editorial concluded, “Plaquemines will rise again.” And it did. Within three weeks, most of the water was pumped out. A few weeks later, schools reopened. By mid-November, 75 percent of the parish’s residents had returned.

And then it happened again. Just 47 months later, on August 17, 1969, Hurricane Camille came barreling up the river. Remember the sickening shock you felt when the second World Trade tower crumbled? For parish residents, the emotion was much the same. Oh, lord. Not twice.

Hurricanes are ranked on a scale from 1 (minimal) to 5 (catastrophic). Betsy had been a Category 3 hurricane. Camille was a Category 5, its top recorded wind velocity exceeding 200 miles per hour. The tidal surge left a 138-foot barge blocking the main highway. A trailer was found wrapped around a tree, crushed to a height of one yard. A church steeple was discovered half a mile away. A pay telephone was found, but not the building to which it had once been attached.

Though only seven parish residents died, hundreds of people across the South lost their lives to Camille and the floods that followed. The damage to Plaquemines alone was estimated at $500 million. Most of what had been rebuilt after the first hurricane was annihilated by the second. But once again, the people prevailed. Within four months, 85 percent of the parish’s residents returned, more than 1,100 building permits were issued, and 7,500 students were back in school.

I visited the hamlet of Triumph about 14 years ago, and I found a town changed by disaster – the homes that weren’t mobile were built on stilts, and the residents were experts at evacuation. But the town was still there – defiant and resolved – along with a local church marquee declaring, “Sometimes God breaks us so he can remake us.”

Then five years ago, Katrina arrived. You can guess what happened to Triumph. But I’m confident that we’ll be seeing the town on the map as long as we keep making maps. Jack Kerouac once compared the Mississippi River to a torrent of broken souls. But I don’t think so. Not this part of the river. Bent, perhaps, but not broken.

I think this may be my final post dissecting and debriefing about my family’s recently-completed cross-country trek (I’ll be moving on to myriad other insights about the open road). So I’m in the mood for a last meal.

Yes, it’s time for me to reflect on the best culinary experiences of our summer RV journey – lunches and dinners that stayed with us for days (in a good way) and proved to be unexpected treats.

Let’s get one thing straight: We don’t hit every eclectic eatery on our journeys. Some we pass by wistfully. I recall a restaurant along Highway 1 in Maine – Nana’s Kitchen. “Where memories are made,” said the marquee, “and everyone is spoiled.” I would have liked to have eaten there.

And not every meal in a random restaurant is a gastronomical wonder. That’s why we love to travel by RV – you don’t have to hemorrhage money at three restaurants each day. Because sometimes – too often, in fact – you walk away muttering to yourself that a homemade (house-on-wheels-made) sandwich would have been a better idea.

I’m thinking, for instance, of the time we first arrived in Maine in late June, visions of seafood delicacies dancing in our heads. We pulled into a campground outside of Bangor, and the friendly woman who checked us in pointed to a restaurant 50 yards away and handed us a 10 percent off coupon. “All homemade,” she gushed. “Scallops and clams…”

We were sold. We strolled from our campsite to the restaurant and promptly had one of the worst meals of our lives. Luke was handed a plate that included a completely uncooked scallop, pink as a newborn baby. The young waitress merely shrugged and said, “Yeah, that’s weird.” Amy’s haddock soup tasted like milk and fish. We asked about vegetable side options, and the young waitress said the choices were coleslaw, squash or peas & carrots. The rest of the conversation went like this:

“What kind of squash is it?”
“Oh, did I say squash? I meant pickled beets.”
“Oh, that’s great. I love pickled beets.”
“Wait, actually it’s waxed beans.”
“Oh.”

So not every meal is perfect. But we had five on this last RV trip that were darn close.

EAT ‘N MEET GRILL (SARANAC LAKE, NY)

It’s essentially a hole-in-the-wall takeout joint in a charming town deep in the Adirondacks. Not necessarily the place where you expect to find exotic culinary offerings. But consider the following from the eclectic menu:

*Humble pie with chicken livers, duck gizzards, apples and raisins
*Pork rillets and duck foie gras torchon with rhubarb butter
*Jamaican jerk pork with plantain dumplings
*Portuguese sardines dusted in masa flour
*Southern fried frog legs
*Potato and onion perogies

And how about a black raspberry jam crepe for dessert.

LEUNIG’S BISTRO & CAFÉ (BURLINGTON, VT)

“The Panache of Paris,” says the tagline on the restaurant’s website, “and the value of Vermont.” Located along Burlington’s adorable Church Street Marketplace, a pedestrian walkway in the heart of the city, it really is sort of a New England version of a Parisian café. The place offers live jazz every Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday night. We merely came across it while seeking out lunch. But it was a medley of tasty offerings.

I splurged and opted for the oyster trio (I’m a BIG fan of oysters). This one offered six fried oysters with sweet chili aioli, 4 oysters Rockefeller with fennel, shallots, tomatoes, baby spinach and cream sauce topped with bread crumbs, and four raw oysters with champagne mignonette. So good… Amy enjoyed a salad nicoise. Luke loved his duck tacos. Even Jesse, who usually opts for a hamburger from a kids’ menu, thoroughly enjoyed his grilled flatbread with sautéed mushrooms, white truffle, artichoke hearts, baby spinach, roasted tomatoes and ricotta.

UPTOWN KITCHEN (GRANGER, IN)

Okay, I’m not entirely objective about this one. The restaurant is owned by a guy I know from summer camp three decades ago. But this was a great lunch – in Granger (on the outskirts of South Bend) or anywhere else, for that matter. “Eat well. Be happy.” That’s what the menu says. And we did and, and we were.

Amy ordered the 303 salad, which includes seared steak, roasted red potatoes, snap peas and edamame. Luke had the crab omelet with spinach and cream cheese. I wolfed down a sundried tomato, pesto and goat cheese quiche. The menu offered everything from chicken sausage hash to roasted garlic tofu to lemon ricotta pancakes. Not to mention a smoothie called The Elvis (banana, peanut butter, milk and honey). There’s also a mouth-watering dinner menu at Uptown Kitchen – liver pate, whitefish picatta, molasses seared venison… Eat well. Be happy.

MANGIAMO’S (GRAND RAPIDS, MI)

Once again, I’m a bit biased because I had the pleasure of sharing this meal with my cousin, my uncle and his new wife. But the atmosphere went beyond the company. The magnificent building in which it resides is an 18,000-square-foot mansion dating back to the earliest days of Grand Rapids, built by a silver-miner-turned-lumber-baron in 1873. It’s on the National Register of Historic Places.

Mangiamo is Italian for “Let’s eat!” And we ate well. A whole artichoke baked in tallegio cheese and rosemary. Baked Sicilian swordfish with fingerling potatoes. Seafood linguine. Cheese ravioli. Even the kids’ menu went beyond the usual – you know what I mean: How many times have you been forced to choose between chicken fingers, a burger and mac & cheese? This one offered options like wood grilled salmon and peanut butter and jelly sushi. 

We skipped the mouth-watering dessert options – everything from chocolate amaretto cheesecake to pistachio, chocolate and fruit canolis. Instead, we hopped on over to East Grand Rapids and a longtime ice cream icon – Jersey Junction. It was about a buck seventy-five for a big ol’ scoop. The line went out the door on a pleasant Sunday evening. Who doesn’t want cheap mint chocolate chip and priceless tradition?

FIREFLY CAFÉ (TRAVERSE CITY, MI)

It was nice that we had an outdoor table next to a languid river on a pleasant evening. It was kind of neat that the Traverse City Film Festival was launching, and there was music throughout the city, and we could hear a bagpipe wailing in the distance. But the best thing was this: It was Tuesday night. And Tuesday nights are half-off sushi nights at Firefly café.

This was no ordinary sushi. We tried the Fusion (pineapple, cucumber, pickled ginger and pickled carrot), the Empire (blue crab, tempura, asparagus and sweet soy reduction), and the Spider (tempura soft shell crab, cucumber and garlic aioli). But hands down, the most delectable roll was called El Gordo: six-ounce pan-seared tuna stuffed with bleu cheese, jalapeno cream cheese and red bell peppers. My mouth is watering as I write this…

I’ll end this lengthy account (longer than some of our meals) by offering a list of the most interesting restaurant names that we encountered. We didn’t eat at any of these, but we smiled as we passed by:

  Awful Awful Shoppe (Greenville, RI)
  Joe’s Package Store and Deli (Brimfield, MA)
  Dog Eat Dog World (Waldoboro, ME)
  Town Fryer (Constantine, MI)
  Mary’s Pop-In Pizzeria (Wiscasset, ME)
  Uncle Kranky’s Café (Jewett City, CT)
  Fat Daddy’s Place (Ligonier, PA)
  Wiffletree Restaurant (Butler, OH)
  Okey Dokey’s Family Restaurant (Floyd, NY)
  D’s Doghouse Tavern (Hancock, VT)
  Tail o’ the Pup (Saranac Lake, NY)
  Shepard’s Pie (Quechee, VT)
  Dishin’ It Out (Canaan, NH)
  Rooster’s Roadhouse (Bethel, ME)
  Smokin’ Good BBQ (Bethel, ME)
  Happy Hog Café (Traverse City, MI)
  Wasp’s Snack Bar & Diner (Woodstock, VT)

Best name for a bagel shop:

  Hole in the Wall Bagels (Rockland, ME)
  Finagle a Bagel (Wayland, MA)

Most literary restaurant name:

  Shakespeare’s Table (Carroll, NH)
  Hemingway’s Restaurant (Killington, VT)

Of course, our best taste experience may have come here:

During my childhood summers, when I was an eight-week resident of Camp Nebagamon for Boys in Lake Nebagamon, Wisconsin, I would gather the courage to take one wilderness trip each year. They always took me to some pretty spectacular places like the Boundary Waters Canoe Area in Minnesota and the Porcupine Mountains of Michigan. But the experience that most resonated with me was my excursion to Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore as a 12-year-old.

But even awe-inspiring images fade with time. So it was with me and Pictured Rocks. Until Saturday, when I returned there with me wife and my two sons, who are only a few years younger than I was back on that backpacking trip in 1981.

On Friday, we crossed the remarkable, 5-mile-long Mackinac Bridge, with Lake Michigan on one side of us and Lake Huron on the other. On Saturday, we made our way across Michigan’s Upper Peninsula to the shores of Lake Superior. We parked the RV and climbed onto a boat for a three-hour tour of Pictured Rocks.

Yes, insert the “Gilligan’s Island” joke here. We certainly did. But I’m telling you, I wouldn’t even trade the view of those breathtaking cliffs for an eternity with Mary Ann.

I’m not sure I can properly itemize the wonders. I can’t really decide which was most breathtaking. Was it the masterpieces of many colors painted by minerals on cliffs hundreds of feet high – the blues and greens of copper, the reds of iron, the blacks of manganese? Was it the rock formations like a massive lakeside sculpture garden – Miner’s Castle, Battleship Row, Indian Head? Was it the caves and arches carved into the underside of the cliffs – places like Rainbow Cave and Lover’s Leap? Was it the waterfalls cascading down into the coldest and deepest of the Great Lakes?

Or maybe it a simple tree, the one in the right side of the picture below. There it sits – on a rocky outcropping that has become a sculpted island of its own. But if you look closely, you can see that the tree draws its sustenance from roots that stretch over to the mainland. It’s remarkable. I’ve never seen anything like that.

And maybe there’s a metaphor in there for me and Pictured Rocks. Time and the elements may result in a certain distance from one’s formative experiences. But strong roots hold firm.