Go RVing Blog - CLOSE ENCOUNTERS

A TOWN NAMED TRIUMPH

Brad Herzog — Mon, 30 Aug 2010 03:58:00 -0400

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.

GOOD EATS

Brad Herzog — Thu, 19 Aug 2010 22:09:00 -0400

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:

PICTURED ROCKS

Brad Herzog — Mon, 02 Aug 2010 13:32:00 -0400

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.

ROAD ROYALTY #12

Brad Herzog — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 00:29:00 -0400

My 11 installments of “Road Royalty” over the past couple of years have been symbolic in nature – photos of the RV in king-for-a-day surroundings. I was speaking figuratively, of course. But this one – a stop we made today in Versailles, Kentucky – is about as literal as I can get when talking about kingly surroundings.

It’s Castle Post, a structure built on a hill overlooking Highway 60 in the early 1970s and now essentially a high-end B&B in the Bluegrass. That’s right, a palace in Versailles.

Only they pronounce it “Ver-sales.”

BUTLER DID IT

Brad Herzog — Wed, 14 Jul 2010 17:15:00 -0400

Yesterday, we spent the day in Butler, Pennsylvania. This little city of 15,000 people, once an industrial center and now one of many such places striving to stay modern and relevant, may not mean much to you. But I owe my life to it. My grandfather raised a family, including my mother, in Butler. Thus this dot on the map about 35 miles north of Pittsburgh is my ancestral home.

So, yes. If ever a town – far from my native Chicago and the California town where I laid down new roots – could be cited as the reason I exist, the seed that bloomed into the setting for my life, you could say that Butler did it.

These RV trips are great for reconnecting with family. Already, we have hooked up with cousins in Ithaca (NY) and Framingham (MA) and D.C. In Bethesda, we dined with Amy’s sister and brother-in-law, Amy’s first cousin and her husband, and my first cousin and his family. All at the same table.

But these trips occasionally offer a profound opportunity to reconnect with ancestral places, too. Like Butler. So we made it a point to detour north from Pittsburgh to the place that launched the maternal side of my family.

There’s a radio station there called WISR. It is named after my great-grandfather Isaac Samuel Rosenblum, the iconic immigrant patriarch of my family, a man who arrived in America with 20 rubles in his pocket and roamed the dusty roads of western Pennsylvania, literally peddling the wares that he carried on his back.

So how cool was it that, preceding an author event that I set up at the Butler Public Library, I was interviewed on WISR? And there’s a whole chapter in my new book about my great-grandfather – and about my grandfather who is buried next to my grandmother in a Butler cemetery.

But it gets better. You see, yesterday also happened to be my father’s 70th birthday. And he and my mom decided they wanted to spend it with us.

As they drove eastward from Chicago, through Indiana and Ohio, I’m sure my dad envisioned a low-key affair, many miles from the hullabaloo that might have accompanied this momentous birthday had they stayed home. But Mom decided to surprise Dad. My sister, brother, cousin, aunt and uncle, even a couple of my father’s oldest and dearest friends – they all decided to converge here on July 13.

In Butler, Pennsylvania, of all places.

So it became a family reunion, and a visit to my mother’s childhood home, and a touching few moments at my grandparents’ gravesites, and a celebration of seven decades of Bud Herzog in the world. And it all began with a little detour.

AMBER WAVES OF GRAIN

Brad Herzog — Mon, 12 Jul 2010 14:10:00 -0400

I don’t think I ever truly appreciated the words to the song until yesterday, when I drove past this stretch of farmland along U.S. 30, just west of Schellsburg, Pennsylvania.

GOING AND COMING

Brad Herzog — Sat, 10 Jul 2010 13:04:00 -0400

I’m a big fan of Norman Rockwell. Yes, much in the same way that I love the simplicity of small American towns. The same way I love “It’s A Wonderful Life” and Cannery Row and “Northern Exposure.”

I can’t help it. I’m a sap. Give me “Forrest Gump” over “Pulp Fiction” any day. Give me the Eagles over AC/DC. Give me Ron Howard over Howard Stern. Give me a map and a motorized home, and I’m eminently satisfied.

Norman Rockwell was a terrific artist, an observer of American nuance, a man who understood that small moments can tell large tales. Indeed, most of all, he was a storyteller. A Rockwell masterpiece was a back story, a character study, and the artist told the tale with a single image frozen in time, much the way a good movie director can reveal much in a single frame. The devil – and Rockwell had a devilish streak, despite his throwback sensibilities – is in the details.

So we all thoroughly enjoyed an exhibit at the Smithsonian American Art Museum in Washington, D.C., a few days ago. The museum also includes the National Portrait Gallery – likenesses of everyone from Ben Franklin to John C. Calhoun to James Garfield to… LL Cool J. But the real America (for my tastes, at least) was evident in the Rockwell exhibit. It was, in fact, called “Telling Stories: Norman Rockwell from the Collections of George Lucas and Steven Spielberg.

I often describe my view through the RV windshield as a movie of America playing before me – a film that allows me to stop the reel and enter the picture. Rockwell does that, too. Just look at a list of titles of some of his masterpieces in the collection, and the mind conjures an iconic image of time and place without even having to see the painting:

First Trip to the Beauty Shop
Boy in Veterinarian’s Office
Little Girl Observing Lovers on a Train
Window Washer
Boy Reading Adventure Stories
Grandpa and Me: Raking Leaves
The Gossips
Boy on High Dive
Girl Missing Tooth

Two of my favorites involve the artist himself. One is called “Triple Self-Portrait.” It depicts Rockwell looking at himself in a mirror, while painting a self-portrait that shows a much younger man. Clipped to the side of his canvas-on-a-canvas (as inspiration, one supposes) are small self-portraits of the likes of Picasso and Van Gogh. Rockwell seems to be admitting that his paintings are an idealized version of what he sees.

My favorite of all is one called “The Connoisseur,” which is essentially another self-portrait. It shows an older man – I think Rockwell did this one in the early ‘60s – with his hands clasped behind his back, staring up at a Jackson Pollock painting hanging from a gallery wall. It was Rockwell’s way of acknowledging the evolution of American art. Spielberg has compared it to the notion of Alfred Hitchcock watching “Easy Rider.” But wow, Rockwell can do a helluva Pollock imitation. I doubt Pollock could have done an equally impressive Rockwell.

As I walked around the exhibit, I couldn’t help but think of our current RV journey, which allows us to string together portraits of Americana. In fact, I’m beginning to store the memories from this summer’s trip – the fleeting moments that linger like snapshots – into snippets with Rockwellian titles:

First Trip to Niagara Falls
Father and Son: Skipping Stones
Moose Horns 4 Sale
Boy Ponders Painting
Dipping a Toe into the Pool
Back to the Alma Mater
The Ice Cream Factory
Watching the Glassblower
Campsite by the Sea
Patient Fly Fisherman
Boy Watching Fireworks
Meet the Cousins
Pitching Horseshoes
Little Boy and Cotton Candy
A Hike Through the Gorge
Chipmunk and Child
S’mores at Dusk
Dad Behind the Wheel

Meanwhile, the Rockwell painting shown below, another one of my favorites called “Going and Coming,” is a good example of why I always try to head back home along a not-yet-explored route:

ROAD ROYALTY #11

Brad Herzog — Wed, 23 Jun 2010 01:00:00 -0400

Periodically in this travel journal, I post a photo that falls under the category of Road Royalty – a magisterial locale, a sublime place to park an RV. I’d say tonight’s spot belongs near the top of the list.

We’re on Mt. Desert Island in Maine, home to Acadia National Park, which we’ll be touring tomorrow. Our campground is in Bar Harbor, as far east as I’ve ever been in this country, and our campsite is about 50 feet from the lapping waters of Western Bay.

We arrived mid-afternoon, strolled along the rock-strewn coastline, picking up seashells, peeking into tide pools. Jesse and I walked along the shore and skipped stones as if we were Andy and Opie come to life. Then we set up four lawn chairs and each read a few chapters, our feet resting on seaside rocks, our faces to the sun.

When dinner time rolled around, Amy brought out veggie burgers and corn on the cob, which we ate beside a fire I had built (with the help of two not-so-helpful boys). Then we made banana boats – banana, marshmallows and chocolate wrapped in tinfoil and melted by the coals.

Throughout it all, we watched as high tide engulfed the seashore and the bay swallowed the sun. Yes, Maine isn’t all about the sunrise. You can watch a sunset, too.

It’s all about being at the right place at the right time.

OVERNIGHT OPTIONS

Brad Herzog — Tue, 20 Apr 2010 16:47:00 -0400

I’m in the midst of dotting the I’s and crossing the T’s in the planning of our two-month summer RV journey, which is scheduled to launch at the beginning of June. As I’m looking over our itinerary I’m noticing the variety of campgrounds at which we’ll be staying – from the Wisconsin state fairgrounds in Milwaukee… to an RV park alongside an amusement park near Buffalo… to a gorgeous state park outside of Syracuse, New York… to a campground in Acadia National Park.

Of course, the variety doesn’t surprise me. There are some 16,000 RV campgrounds in the U.S. – and quite a bit more, if you count the creative ways some people camp for the night. I’ve spent the night in RV parks overlooking the Pacific Ocean and underneath towering redwoods, along the Salmon River in Idaho and beside the shores of North Carolina’s Outer Banks. I’ve camped amid both the neon of the Las Vegas Strip and the red rock formations of Nevada’s Valley of Fire State Park. I’ve stayed in a luxury RV resort in Foxboro, Massachusetts, where we were the last of scores of RVers to check in for the night… and a lonely stopover in Lordsburg, New Mexico, where we were the only ones there.

Always, we prefer campgrounds, particularly the ones with lots of family-friendly activities – be it mini golf or banana bikes or a heated pool or a Saturday pancake breakfast. We’ve stayed at places with big jumping pillows and oversized chess boards and water slides and hay rides and movie nights and evening concerts. Of course, sometimes we prefer a more natural environment, the kind of place where we can appreciate a hike and a view.

On occasion, though, in a pinch, we haven’t camped in a campground at all. Last year in Chicago, for instance, we stayed in what was actually a truck marshaling lot at McCormick Place. For $22, we had a place to park the RV for the night (no hook-ups), a roaming security guard and a view of the skyline. On Georgia’s St. Simon’s Island we stayed in my late great uncle’s second wife’s driveway. In Eau Claire, Wisconsin, we spent the night in the lot of a local TV station, preparing for an early morning interview. That’s the beauty of a house on wheels, of course. You’ve got it all with you (including the TV).

However, when I go out alone in an RV, during one of my book research journeys, I get a little more adventurous. I still usually stay at campgrounds, just because there’s a comfort factor – and because I occasionally encounter an old-school arcade. But I’ve also been known to stop at a few Wal-Marts (although not all of them accommodate overnight RVers) and a handful of casino parking lots (which are usually secure and free… if you don’t count being separated from your money at the slots). Those places usually have security personnel roaming around. So while I’ve heard that people occasionally park the RV for the night at highway rest areas, I personally wouldn’t.

Of course, there was this one time – in a tiny and distant hamlet called Siberia, Maine – when I stayed somewhere without any official security at all. There is a lovely woman there – Donna Chase is her name – about whom I wrote a whole chapter in Small World (“Siberian Blues”). She lives alone in what was supposed to be the cellar of a big house (the house was never built), and she raises Maine Coon cats, Siberian Blues roosters and horses.

Donna offered to let me park in her hayfield. So I did. In the shadow of Mount Katahdin and hundreds of miles from any real urban center, the night was ink black. I could hear wolves howling in the distance. But I wasn’t alone. I had Donna’s horses to keep me company…

ROAD ROYALTY #9

Brad Herzog — Thu, 08 Apr 2010 14:41:00 -0400

A Road Royalty photo from Chicago (even a 36-foot RV feels small in comparison to the nation’s tallest building):

I SPY

Brad Herzog — Sat, 20 Feb 2010 13:20:00 -0400

It is a rule of thumb during a road trip that if you want to travel at a good pace, climb aboard a multi-lane interstate highway. If you want good scenery, take the roads less traveled. Of course, that’s not entirely true. There are portions of some interstates that are truly breathtaking. I-70 through Colorado, for instance. And I-87 through New York. And I-24 through Tennessee. But yes, in general, the drive along the so-called blue highways tends to be more interesting.

Which isn’t to say that my family and I don’t traverse a good many superhighways. In fact, sometimes you don’t have much of a choice. That being the case, I’ll take this opportunity to celebrate the U.S. interstate system. I offer ten fascinating facts:

One hundred years ago, there were less than 200 miles of paved roads in America. Today, there are roughly 43,000 miles of interstates alone.

The total interstate miles represent just one percent of the nation’s highway miles, but superhighways carry nearly one-fourth of America’s traffic.
For every route mile on the interstates, there are some 60,000 daily person miles.
Since its inception more than 50 years ago, more than 20 trillion person miles have been traveled over the interstate system, enough to send one-fourth of the U.S. population to the moon.
At the 1939 New York World’s Fair, a popular “Futurama” exhibit fantasized about 14-lane superhighways from coast to coast, with vehicles moving at more than 100 mph and the space between cars regulated by radio beams.

When Congress green-lighted construction of the interstate system in 1956, it was perhaps the largest public works program in history.

The interstates were created almost as much for defense as for transportation, designed to accommodate the speedy movement of military equipment and personnel during the peak of the Cold War.

The official name: The Dwight D. Eisenhower System of Interstate and Defense Highways.

It was said to be Eisenhower’s favorite domestic program, according to his biographer, because “more than any single action by the government since the end of the war, this one would change the face of America.”

A 1996 report by public policy consultants to the American Highway Users Alliance contended that the interstates have saved nearly 200,000 lives over the years by being by far the safest component of the nation’s highway system.

Of course, it may be relatively safe. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t occasionally check to see what’s coming up fast behind you:

ROAD ROYALTY #8

Brad Herzog — Sat, 06 Feb 2010 18:34:00 -0400

For my eighth installment of Road Royalty, I offer a shot of the RV at Florida’s Pass-a-Grille Beach:

OH, THE PEOPLE YOU MEET

Brad Herzog — Sat, 09 Jan 2010 17:33:00 -0400

About ten days ago, I listed some of the quirky American places I’d still like to see. But during my cross-country journeys, I’ve met a whole bunch of quirky people, too. And frankly, memories of these folks resonate with me just as much as a view of Delicate Arch or a hike through Bryce Canyon.

Here are a few people I won’t soon forget:

Treehouse Mary: In the summer of 2008, we took our boys to see an attraction known simply as “The Big Treehouse” in Marshalltown, Iowa. I’ve described it before as Johnny Appleseed meets Donald Trump. There are twelve levels attached to a 50-year-old maple tree, each section given a name. Treetop Walk. Bird’s Eye View. The Loft. Stargazer Point. There are 140 wires running everything from lights and ceiling fans to a television and telephone. But the quirkiest part may have been Mary, our octogenarian tour guide who turned what could have been a 15-minute experience into a one-hour tour. She was particularly proud of the faux outhouse that opens up to reveal an animatronic peacock.

Outhouse Brenda: Speaking of outhouses, while researching my second American travel memoir (Small World, 2004), I found myself on the outskirts of Bozeman, Montana, staring at a collection of outdoor privies. They belonged to a part-Czech, part-Cherokee woman named Brenda Clements. She collects them – and decorates them. As an artist, she told me, “I use anything as a canvas, except a canvas.” So strewn around her yard were a half-dozen outhouses – from forest service commodes to fancy two-seaters –adorned in stars and stripes and flags and ribbons and patriotic prose like “I LOVE THE USA.” I suppose it was a statement about form and function, but at least it wasn’t performance art.

Chicken Owen: Amy and I met him during our initial RV experience, a magical 314-day journey chronicled in States of Mind (1999), during a stop in the blink-and-it’s-gone hamlet of Pride, Alabama. William “Chicken Owen” Foster was a 6-foot-8, 340-pound, 75-year-old good ol’ boy. Put some baggy overalls on the Chrysler Building, and you have Chicken Owen, who got his name from his illegal hobby – raising cockfighting roosters. As he chewed on a mangled hand-rolled cigar like it was a Tootsie Roll, he took us on a two-hour tour of Pride’s dirt roads. The three of us sat in the front seat of his dilapidated pickup, while his one-eyed dog – named “Dog” – rode in the cab. Among the lessons he tried to impart, some of them astonishing and unrepeatable: Rattlesnake meat tastes best if you cut if off below the rectum. He was a proud man, for better or worse.

Hobo Dan: I met him while traveling through northern Montana to research my upcoming travel memoir (Turn Left at the Trojan Horse, May 2010). Dan and I sat down to chat at a landing along the Missouri River, a place where Lewis and Clark had camped almost exactly 200 years earlier. To get there, I had to travel 44 miles along a gravel road. Dan may be the closest thing to a modern-day hobo. Home was where he was at the moment (in this case, paddling alone along the Missouri). He’s been in and out of jail a couple-dozen times, usually for public intoxication. Among his various odd jobs, he used to sell gopher’s-feet earrings (seriously, I saw them). His life has been one long road trip. Dan invited me to paddle the Missouri with him, and I couldn’t resist. I envisioned us as Lewis and Clark. Turns out we were more like Martin and Lewis.

I could go on, but the point is this: If you can figure out a way to go off the beaten path, you find some pretty offbeat folks there.

ROAD ROYALTY #6

Brad Herzog — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 02:38:00 -0400

Sometimes a Road Royalty photo doesn’t require a brilliant sunset or towering trees or a perch above the Pacific. Sometimes all you need is a whole bunch of corn and a lot of sky.

HORSEPLAY

Brad Herzog — Sat, 01 Aug 2009 21:12:00 -0400

I’m not sure there is anything more adorable than a miniature horse. Today, we saw 79 of them.

These summer RV journeys are very much a working vacation, thanks to the wonders of cell phones and Blackberries and email and wireless Internet. Yes, the emphasis is on vacation. But this house on wheels also functions as an office on wheels throughout the summer – for both Amy and me.

Amy does freelance public relations for a great product invented by a couple of her girlfriends – stylish anti-nausea wristbands known as Psi Bands (as in breathe a “psi” of relief). We also do a bunch of TV and newspaper interviews in the cities that we pass through (this year, reporters have been interested in the concept of a hybrid RV). In addition, I write this travel journal, keep in communication with editors about my various book projects, squeeze in any book writing that I can, and talk to elementary school administrators about visiting their schools as a guest children’s author.

Also, on occasion, I’ll take advantage of our travels by meeting up with people about whom I’m going to write magazine articles. That’s how the mini horses happened.

Although I’ve weaned myself from much of my magazine writing, one of the publications to which I still contribute frequently is my alma mater’s alumni magazine – Cornell Alumni Magazine. I’ve written so many stories for those guys over the years that they gave me a title: Contributing Editor. Which is the freelance equivalent of throwing me a bone. But I do love the work because there are remarkable stories to be told about alumni everywhere.

So I’ve written about TV stars (Jimmy Smits), quirky pop culture icons (Dr. Joyce Brothers), medical pioneers (Dr. Henry Heimlich), civil rights martyrs, character actors, football players, sportscasters, a Hollywood production designer, a manatee expert, a mountain climber, the CEO of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, you name it.

And each spring, I sit down with my list of story ideas in one hand and my scheduled RV trip itinerary in the other. And I try to match the geography with the biography.

So a few days ago, in Chevy Chase, Maryland, I spent a couple of hours with a woman who will be a candidate for state delegate in 2010. Her name is Dana Beyer, but for the first 50 years of her life she was known as Wayne. She is vying to become the first-ever transgender state representative in America. Like I said, fascinating.

Today was a bit more whimsical. A fellow named Gordon Harris picked us up at our campground on the outskirts of Dayton, Ohio, and drove us a couple of miles to Iona Miniature Horse Farm. I supposed it is best described as six acres of cute.

Currently, Gordon and his wife Bonnie have 79 mini horses on the farm. They breed them. They sell them on occasion. They show them (Iona-bred horses have won five world championships in the jumping category, including three by a horse we met named Excalibur – sort of a mini, maned Michael Phelps).

A mini is any horse that doesn’t exceed 34 inches in height. That’s 34 inches. Less than three feet. They act more like dogs, really, than horses. Gordon even says so. He says it costs more for him to feed his cocker spaniel. So strolling through a field containing a dozen or so of them felt a bit like walking through a pre-school playground. So. Darn. Cute.

But then Gordon took us into the pasture that served as a maternity ward of sorts. He opened a gate, and out came a bunch of mares with their newborns galloping at their heels. So I was wrong. There are, indeed, two things more adorable than miniature horses – mini fillies and mini colts.

So there you have it. By matching an idea with an itinerary, I was able to give my sons an unexpected but memorable experience. As I watched my miniature offspring cavort with Gordon’s, I was thankful that my job calls for an exploration of the fascinating subcultures that abound in this country – and that my RV journeys do the same.