Go RVing Blog - GEOGRAPHICALLY SPEAKING

EVERY TOWN COUNTS

Brad Herzog — Wed, 25 Aug 2010 13:50:00 -0400

Here’s a number for you: 42. That’s how old I am as of today. But I’m not alone. Happy birthday to Sean Connery and Gene Simmons and Elvis Costello and my old pal Regis Philbin. Quite a motley crew.

Remarkably, today also happens to be my fraternal twin brother’s birthday. His name is Brian. He was born a whole 12 minutes before me. My brother became a certified public accountant and is now the co-owner and chief financial guru of a corrugated box manufacturing company in Chicago.

So he became a number-cruncher.

Me? Well, math and I don’t get along too well. We used to have a comfortable relationship, back when I was about seven years old. In fact, when I was in second grade I was accomplished enough that I was using a math textbook designed for fifth graders. Alas, by the time I was in fourth grade I was in… a fourth-grade math book. And that well describes the evolution of my mathematical abilities.

So I became a writer.

And, if you’ve been reading this blog for a while – or if you’ve read any of my books – you know that I have a soft spot for writing about geographical quirks. In fact, I’ve chronicled towns named after writers – like Poe (West Virginia), Thoreau (New Mexico) and Dickens (Iowa). And towns named after Shakespeare characters – like Othello (Washington) and Desdemona (Texas).

But now I’d like to get back to math. In fact, I’m going to take a deep breath and write about numerically lyrical towns. For instance…

If you’re driving through the Southwest, you can plan a stop at the California town of Twentynine Palms (near Joshua Tree National Park) or the Arizona hamlet of Two Guns, an abandoned ghost town about 30 miles east of Flagstaff. Interestingly, the latter town was named after a guy named “Two Gun Miller”… whose real name was Henry Miller… which is also the name of a famous writer, of course… who once wrote a travel narrative about a cross-country journey.

But Henry Miller – the writer – was a cynic of the highest order. He called his book The Air-Conditioned Nightmare. And Henry Miller – the Two Gun guy – was apparently an eccentric hermit who lived in a cave and was hostile to visitors. So let’s get back to happier geography:

A bit further east of Arizona, you can point yourself toward Texas and the town of Seven Sisters. Located south of San Antonio, it was likely named for the seven daughters of an important local landowner. Then again, there’s also a town named Three Brothers – in Arkansas, deep in the Ozarks.

There is also Two Egg, Florida. And Three Notch, Alabama. And Four Forks, Louisiana. And Five Points, North Carolina. And Six, West Virginia. And Seven Trees, California. And Section Eight, Ohio. And Nine Points, Pennsylvania.

And then there are the more numerically ambitious hamlets – places with names like Sixteen (Montana), Forty-one (Oklahoma), Seventy Six (Kentucky), Eighty Four (Pennsylvania), Ninety Six (South Carolina)… and, of course, Thousand Oaks (California).

I can’t say I’ve been to any of these places – yet. But I have visited one little hiccup on the map that sort of belongs on this list. I was heading to an Arizona town named Bagdad, and I took a brief detour into absurdity when I realized that Bagdad is 22 miles from Nothing.

Literally. It’s called Nothing, Arizona.

It was nothing more than a turnoff (from Highway 97) featuring a ramshackle service station surrounded by several rotting vehicles. When I visited (eight years ago), the population was 4. I heard recently, from a woman at a book signing who randomly brought up the story of that very same town, that Nothing no longer exists. But I saw it while it did.

“Nothing Towing” said the sign. Nearby, there was a scrawled proclamation of sorts, something along the lines of a nihilistic pledge of allegiance: “Town of Nothing, AZ… Founded 1977… The staunch citizens of Nothing are full of hope, faith and believe in the work ethic. Thru the years these dedicated people had faith in Nothing, hoped for Nothing, worked at Nothing, for Nothing…”

Here’s a photo from there, starring the self-proclaimed sheriff of Nothing (and he showed me the badge to prove it) – a survivalist who called himself “Jim Outback.”

“Why do you call yourself that?” I asked him.

He pointed deep into the sagebrush. “Because I live out back.”

ROAD SCHOLAR

Brad Herzog — Sat, 14 Aug 2010 17:58:00 -0400

As we passed through Connecticut last June, Interstate 91 through Hartford offered a relatively uneventful drive past the city. But I was certainly intrigued by the names of the road. The first sign that we glimpsed, as we headed south from the city center, told us we were cruising along the “Governor’s Foot Guard Memorial Highway.” I have no idea what that means. Can anyone out there clue me in?

Then, just a few miles south, we were suddenly informed that it was now the Christopher Columbus Highway. I would describe that as a road-tripper’s non-sequitur.

A much more appropriate transition occurs in Kentucky. As you drive north on I-65 into Louisville, you find yourself on the Abraham Lincoln Expressway. As you reach the city limits, the interstate gets a different name – the Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Expressway. I love that.

In fact, I came across a bunch of interesting highway names during my RV expedition this summer. Here follows my Top 12:

1. Jackie Mayer Miss America Highway (Hwy 2 into Sandusky, OH)

2. Governor’s Foot Guard Memorial Highway (I-91 in Hartford, CT)

3. Underground Railroad Memorial Highway (Hwy 131 in Michigan)

4. Senator Ralph Quattrociocchi Memorial Highway (I-490E toward Rochester, NY)

5. Purple Heart Trail (Hwy 4 in New Hampshire)

6. Ex-Prisoner of War Memorial Highway (I-395 in Connecticut)

7. Ragged Mountain Highway (Hwy 104 through New Hampshire)

8. Victory Highway (Hwy 102 through Rhode Island)

9. Yankee Expressway (I-84 through Hartford, CT)

10. Christopher Columbus Highway (I-91 in Hartford, CT)

11. Benjamin Franklin Highway (Hwy 422 in western Pennsylvania)

12. Presidential Highway (Hwy 2 from New Hampshire to Maine)

Even better were the names of the less-traveled roadways, those boulevards and lanes and drives and dirt roads that are fed by the above-mentioned highways. In fact, I can come up with my 25 favorite road names from our trip through 18 states this summer:

1. Flutie Pass (Natick, MA)

2. Cat Mousam Road (Kennebunk, ME)

3. Notta Road (Carthage, ME)

4. Lois Lane (Katonah, NY)

5. Boulevard of the Allies (Pittsburgh, NY)

6. What a Vu Way (Jay, NY)

7. Bellsqueeze Road (Clinton, ME)

8. Ampersand Avenue (Saranac Lake, NY)

9. Muhammad Ali Boulevard (Louisville, KY)

10. Man O’ War Boulevard (Lexington, KY)

11. Poverty Lane (Lebanon, NH)

12. Robinhood Drive (Hermon, ME)

13. Tee-O-Wanna Road (near Old Forge, NY)

14. Cozy Retreat Road (Schellsburg, PA)

15. Rushing Wind Lane (Lexington, KY)

16. Tippecanoe Street (Wolf Lake, IN)

17. Train Wreck Point Road (near Inlet, NY)

18. Crooks Road (Green Bay, WI)

19. Crooked Road (Bar Harbor, ME)

20. Purgatory Road (Sutton, MA)

21. Chagrin Boulevard (Beachwood, OH)

22. Hot Metal Street (Pittsburgh, PA)

23. Happytown Road (E. Orland, ME)

24. XY Avenue (Moore Park, MI)

25. Lombardi Avenue (Green Bay, WI)

BIG HEAPS

Brad Herzog — Fri, 30 Jul 2010 01:22:00 -0400

I can’t seem to see a sand dune without thinking of a philosophy class that I struggled through in college. We explored something called the Continuum Fallacy, which is basically this: If you have a heap of sand – say a million grains of sand – and you remove one grain, is it still a heap? Sure, right? But then where does it suddenly cease existence as a heap? It was synapse-snappers like that one that led me right into the only C-minus of my life.

Yet, I still love sand dunes. In fact, thinking back on the sand dunes we’ve seen along our RV travels, I can come up with some criteria for what I consider great dunes:

1. Enormity. Great Sand Dunes National Park in southern Colorado fits the bill. It’s mind-bogglingly big. The heap of all heaps. They say it takes a healthy person an hour and a half to reach the top. We didn’t even make it one-tenth of the way.

2. Scenery. About two weeks into our very first RV excursion 15 years ago, Amy and I and a couple of close friends made our way into (and up) the sand dunes in Death Valley. There’s a stranded-in-the-Sahara sort of vibe, but the view from the top was spectacular – a struggle to the peak of the highest one, yet still you find yourself below sea level.

3. Climbability. Yes, I’ve made up a word. I’m thinking, for instance, of Bruneau Dunes State Park in Idaho. There are a couple of massive dunes there, but you can climb to the top (from any side), and you feel like you’ve scaled the Great Pyramid.

4. Uniqueness. How about the White Sands of New Mexico. Dozens of square miles of white gypsum sand, unlike anything I’ve seen anywhere else. It’s like wading into a stark white ocean – and if you’re not careful, you lose your bearings. We left some markers along the way, so that we could make our way back to our RV.

All of which is another way of me explaining why I’m crazy about Sleeping Bear Dunes in northwestern Michigan. We visited there on Tuesday, having long wanted to return after experiencing it the first time around a decade-and-a-half ago. It didn’t disappoint.

Sure, I love the fact that I now write children’s books for a wonderful Michigan-based publisher called Sleeping Bear Press. But that’s only part of why I’m a fan of Sleeping Bear Dunes. Mostly, it’s because it offers all the elements of classic dunes:

Scenery: We drove along the Pierce Stocking Scenic Drive, though forests that would open up into overlooks offering dunes backed by vistas of Glen Lake.

Uniqueness: The dunes rise almost vertically from the shores of one of the Great Lakes – a view of a seemingly endless sea from atop a heap of sand. Looking down from the viewpoint at one of the overlooks, we could see tiny people wading in the blue-green waters.

Enormity: That particular dune rose 450 feet above Lake Michigan. The brave folks who tried to climb it could be seen clawing and crawling at various points, like ants making their way up a ginormous anthill. Which brings me to…

Climbability: We drove another few miles to the Dunes Climb, and made our way a couple hundred feet up, where we sat for a while and enjoyed a breathtaking view. But the best part was the sprint down…

GEOGRAPHIC IRONY

Brad Herzog — Thu, 13 May 2010 13:18:00 -0400

One of my favorite books of all-time is John Steinbeck’s Cannery Row. I live about a mile from Cannery Row on California’s Monterey Peninsula. But some of Steinbeck’s best work depicted life in the agriculturally-rich Salinas Valley, about a half hour east of here. In fact, it sowed the seeds of some of America’s finest literature.

The Nobel prize-winning author used Salinas as the setting for several of his classic novels, including East of Eden. The town didn’t take too kindly to his disarmingly truthful portrayal, considering him a persona non grata for many years, but it has since warmed to him considerably. The proof is in the Yellow Pages. Nearly everywhere you turn there is a museum or plaza or historic home honoring John Steinbeck.

Which is funny because Steinbeck probably would have preferred a simple beer tap in his name.

Today, Salinas is home to the National Steinbeck Center, Steinbeck Realty, even the Steinbeck Electrolysis Center. But here’s what gets me: Considering the fame of Travels with Charley, a narrative in which Steinbeck went nowhere in this grand land without his beloved poodle, isn’t it a bit odd that you can leave your dog at something called the Steinbeckland Kennels?

I wish I could report that this is the only bit of irony arising from the commercialization of a literary classic, the only instance in which a town clinging to the fame of a native son has let go of common sense in the process. But it isn’t.

In 1876, Mark Twain published The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, in which he introduced “the juvenile pariah of the village, Huckleberry Finn.” The boy was dressed in rags, essentially homeless and penniless – which makes it all the more disconcerting that in Hannibal, Missouri (the author’s childhood home and the setting for many of the boys’ adventures) you can visit the Huck Finn Shopping Center.

We are a nation of head-scratching place names. Some are the result of historical myopia. Others can be blamed on inadvertent irony. But they are there, and they don’t seem to going anywhere.

Which reminds me of a murky swamp of congealed oil that entombed thousands of prehistoric animals over 40,000 years, a Los Angeles locale known as the La Brea tar pits. “La brea” actually means “the tar” in Spanish, so most people are calling it “the the tar tar pits.” And you know what? It isn’t tar at all. It’s asphalt.

The neighborhood surrounding it in L.A. has become known as La Brea, and despite the fact that the tar pits are known for three things in particular – gooey grime, immobility and death – you can drop your clothes at La Brea Plaza Dry Cleaners, shop at La Brea Avenue Motors and visit La Brea Gardens.

I can’t say these kinds of discoveries actually bother me. They elicit more of a snicker than honest-to-goodness annoyance. But I feel it’s my duty to point them out, if only to prevent the creation someday of the Joan Crawford Day Care Center.

Clearly, we’re hardly averse to forgetting a little “then” in order to create a little “now.” Sure, it’s ironic that in Montgomery, Alabama, the first capital of the Confederacy, you can rely on the Union Federal Savings Bank, or that in St. Louis, where the Gateway Arch was constructed at a cost of $11 million, there is a business called the Arch Wrecking Co. But these could simply be innocent byproducts of creative naming. Perhaps they’re even manifestations of the American dream.

Like Love, Virginia, which straddles two counties alongside the Blue Ridge Parkway. Augusta County – which honors Augusta of Saxe-Gotha, mother of King George III – was formed in 1738. That same year, a man named Thomas Nelson Jr. was born in Virginia. He became an outspoken revolutionary, a signer of the Declaration of Independence and the third governor of the state. Nelson County, formed in 1807, was named after him. So one county was named after King George’s mother and the other, adjacent to it, was named after King George’s enemy. They share Love. If only it were that simple.

Then again, in some cases, there may be more truth than we realize. In northern Iowa, the town of Manly is only about 15 miles from Fertile, a fact that once inspired this classic local headline: MANLY MAN MARRIES FERTILE WOMAN.

But maybe that had nothing to do with geography at all.

HIGHWAY 20 VISION

Brad Herzog — Tue, 13 Apr 2010 16:38:00 -0400

A few years ago, I read a remarkable travel narrative called Highway 61: A Father-and-Son Journey Through Middle America. Written by William McKeen, a journalism professor at the University of Florida, it is more than a book about a drive along a single highway. It is a study of relationships (McKeen travels with his college-aged son, Graham), and the commonalities that foster such bonds – in this case, a celebration of classic American music (Highway 61, from Minnesota to Louisiana, is aptly described as the “legendary road of the blues”).

So I loved the book. But I also love the notion. I am enamored with the idea of traveling cross-county on a single road – traversing a highway and discovering the commonalities and quirks, the icons and oddities along the way. McKeen went from top to bottom. Someday, I’d like to do it from coast to coast.

I’m not talking driving along the interstates. They serve their purpose, but not this particular purpose. No, I’m talking about a highway brimming with potential – say, U.S. Route 20, for instance. It’s the longest road in the United States – 3,365 miles from Kenmore Square in Boston to its intersection with U.S. 101 in Oregon (one mile from the Pacific Ocean).

Imagine the stories along the way. As a writer and a traveler, I’m giddy just thinking about it.

Let’s say I started on the West Coast and pointed myself eastward. I would travel through a dozen states (Oregon, Idaho, Wyoming, Nebraska, Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, New York, Massachusetts – and all of ten miles through Montana). By the time I got to Boston, I would have passed through a bunch of classic American cities – Bend, Boise, Idaho Falls, Casper, Sioux City, Rockford, Chicago, South Bend, Toledo, Cleveland, Erie, Buffalo, Albany and Springfield, Mass. (where I could celebrate basketball’s origins, as well as Dr. Seuss’s).

Consider the diversity of landscape that I’d encounter along the way: the Willamette Valley, the Cascade Mountains, Craters of the Moon National Monument, Yellowstone National Park, Wind River Canyon, Hell’s Half Acre (a Wyoming landscape so alien that it was used in the movie Starship Troopers), Nebraska’s Sand Hills, the Mississippi River, the Indiana Dunes, Lake Erie, the Finger Lakes, the Berkshires.

And the variety of cultural opportunities: There’s the Burns Paiute Indian Colony in Oregon and the Buffalo Bill Historical Center in Wyoming and Shaker Village in Massachussetts. There’s the Wyoming Dinosaur Center and the Casper Planetarium and Zoo Nebraska and the College Football Hall of Fame. There’s the Stagecoach Museum in Wyoming, the Museum of the Fur Trade in Nebraska, the National Farm Toy Museum in Iowa, and the Railway Museum in Illinois. I could also take a tour of Oregon State University, Boise State University, the University of Northern Iowa, the University of Notre Dame, Oberlin College, and Hobart and William Smith Colleges. Not to mention a handful in Boston.

I could visit the town of Arco, Idaho, and marvel at Number Hill, which is…well, a hill with numbers painted all over it. I could stop in Dyersville, Iowa, and visit the Field of Dreams. I could roam the charming avenues of Galena, Illinois (site of Ulysses S. Grant’s home). I could watch the buggies clop past in Shipshewana, Indiana, a largely Amish community. I could pay homage to the “Birthplace of Women’s Rights” – Seneca Falls, New York. And I could rest in Sudbury, Mass., at Longfellow’s Wayside Inn (America’s oldest continuously operated inn).

Not bad for one road, huh?

Of course, being an aficionado of quirky town names, I should also note that I’d pass through places called Sweet Home and Mountain Home, Sisters and Brothers, Manville and Correctionville, Upper Soda and Early, Picabo, Plato and Pioneer.

And there’s this: I’d pass through a Nebraska hamlet called Winnebago. And the city of Elkhart, Indiana (home of the RV Hall of Fame and Museum). Oh, and I’d go right through Elgin, Illinois, which happens to be where I purchased my first house on wheels 15 years ago.

I’m not sure which came first – my desire for travel or my affection for the RV as a means of getting there. Regardless, U.S. 20 would be a nice place to continue the love affair.

AN APPRECIATION OF NOWHERE

Brad Herzog — Tue, 23 Mar 2010 15:39:00 -0400

Several years ago, I came across a pretty clever cartoon in The New Yorker magazine. It was a drawing of a car speeding along a lonely highway, very much in the so-called Middle of Nowhere. On the side of the road was a sign offering this piece of whimsy:

YOUR OWN TEDIOUS THOUGHTS NEXT 200 MILES

Funny? Yes. It made me chuckle. But here’s what bothers me about it: the word “tedious.”

I happen to love it when I’m surrounded by vast expanses of space – and believe me, in my cross-country RV treks I’ve experienced a good many lonely expanses. I can’t count the number of times where I’ve mused about how I must be miles away from any other vehicle, surrounded only by Montana mesas or Kansas cornfields or South Dakota sunflowers. These are usually my favorite parts of the journey.

When you can see forever, your thoughts expand to fill the surroundings. So for me, at least, there’s nothing tedious about it. In fact, I often feel very much alive in the moment, as if all of the clutter and traffic and obstructions of the crowded world have fallen away, leaving only revelations and epiphanies.

My next book includes a few chapters about my journey through Montana (which, in my humble opinion, is the state where the expanses are most inspiring). To get to a town called Jordan, I spent a morning driving through the Big Lonely – a stark stretch of sagebrush and shortgrass surrounding Highway 200 as it slices the state into northern and southern halves. The handful of settlements along the way – Grassrange, Winnett, Mosby – were mere hiccups. I saw nary a sign of human life for the 130 miles into Jordan. Hence the various names of the region, scarcely populated even by Montana standards: Big Dry Country. The Big Open. The Big Empty. The Breaks.

Jordan is still the American frontier. It is the only surviving town in Garfield County, a region nearly as big as Connecticut yet home to fewer than 1,300 people. Seventy-five years ago, there was approximately one person per square mile in the county; today there is roughly one person for every four square miles. Jordan is so remote and serves such an enormous area that for many years the high school actually made use of a dormitory.

Although I do occasionally find myself using it, I generally have disdain for the phrase “Middle of Nowhere.” It’s all relative, of course. But I’ve never really heard “Middle of Nowhere” used in a positive sense. Usually, it seems to be a city dweller’s implication that anything without a string of Starbucks and sushi bars is somehow unworthy of exploration. However, I’ve made a living (sort of) out of finding the fascinating nuggets hidden in the tiny hamlets smack-dab in the Middle of Nowhere. And I’ll never run out of tales to tell.

By the way, after lunch in Jordan, I traveled along even more remote highways – 80 miles of glorious emptiness – toward an interview with a woman who lived on a ranch not too far from Miles City, Montana. After exiting that lonely highway, I traversed 18 miles of pavement, then three miles of gravel, then a one-late dirt road that led to a sign: haughian ranch – 6.1 miles.

I rumbled past a parched creek, a thicket of forlorn trees, a junkyard of rusted implements and automobiles, a cluster of free-ranging cattle, and a mosaic of rocky outcroppings and sandstone formations. Finally, I arrived at the place depicted in the photo you see below. There were still eight miles to go.

SAINTS ALIVE

Brad Herzog — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 23:58:00 -0400

I thought it would be fun, in honor of St. Patrick’s Day, to celebrate the American places named for saints. You know, like St. Louis. But then I realized that any list would include the Spanish version of “saint” – like Santa Fe and Santa Barbara and San Diego. That’s just too much to wade through.

So I’ll keep it to the St. Pauls and St. Petersburgs and such. Much easier that way, even though there are still more than 100 towns to choose from. Ever hear of St. Nazianz, Wisconsin? Or St. Jo, Texas? How about St. Regis, Montana?

Leaving out the really big cities (Louis, Paul, Petersburg) I offer a list of a dozen saintly cities and towns, along with fascinating factoids for each:

St. Albans, Vermont: On the shores of Lake Champlain (the lake monster “Champ” was supposedly photographed there), it is home to the Vermont Maple Festival every April.

St. Anthony, Idaho: Fifty miles north of Idaho Falls, the St. Anthony Sand Dunes – 10,600 acres of white quartz sand – are home to one of the nation’s largest herds of wintering elk.

St. Augusta, Minnesota: Incorporated in 2000 in order to avoid annexation by the city of St. Cloud, its residents originally called the place Ventura – in honor of then-governor Jesse Ventura.

St. Augustine, Florida: The seat of St. Johns County, it is – deep breath – the “oldest continuously operated European-established city in the continental U.S.” It was founded in 1565.

St. Charles, Illinois: An hour west of Chicago along the Fox River (the official city slogan is “Pride of the Fox”), many of its homes were “stations” along the Underground Railroad.

St. George, Utah: The gorgeous gateway to Zion National Park, from 1990-2000 it outpaced Las Vegas as the fastest-growing metropolitan area in the United States.

St. Ignace, Michigan: Gateway to the Upper Peninsula. Every Labor Day, thousands of people participate in the five-mile Mackinac Bridge Walk, the only day pedestrians are allowed on it.

St. James, New York: Long Island home of St. James General Store. Located within Deepwells Farm Historic Park, it is said to be the nation’s oldest continuously operated general store.

St. Joseph, Missouri: The largest city in Northwest Missouri, it was an endpoint of the Pony Express and is where the notorious Jesse James was killed on April 3, 1882.

St. Martinville, Louisiana: The third-oldest town in the state, it’s has been called Petit Paris (Little Paris) and is considered to be the birthplace of Cajun culture and traditions.

St. Matthews, Kentucky: A suburb of Louisville, it is home to the second-largest mall in the state of Kentucky. The fifth-largest mall? That’s in St. Matthews, too.

St. Michaels, Maryland: It has been called “the town that fooled the British,” a result of the town's ruse of hanging lanterns in the trees beyond the town during the War of 1812.

Oh, and by the way, there doesn’t seem to be a single town in the U.S. named St. Patrick. But there is a Shamrock, Texas…

Anyone have any other favorite saint-cities? Here’s a photo we snapped last July during a stop at Georgia’s beautiful St. Simon’s Island:

OUT-OF-THIS-WORLD PLACES

Brad Herzog — Fri, 12 Mar 2010 13:05:00 -0400

In my last post, I included a snapshot of Kennedy Space Center. The photo you see below is of the National Radio Astronomy Observatory’s Very Large Array – a remarkable piece of technology in… well… the middle of nowhere.

It is essentially one massive radio telescope. More accurately, it consists of 27 separate satellite dishes connected electronically to act as one. Each dish is huge – about the size of a baseball diamond and weighing some 230 tons. And each moves along a set of tracks, so that the examination of incoming radio waves can be as concentrated as necessary. Way cool stuff along New Mexico’s Highway 60.

Whenever I can, insist on stopping in astronomical places like this. I find it rather exhilarating to stud explorers while exploring in an RV – whether than means Lewis and Clark or Armstrong and Aldrin or some unknown astronomers pondering the final frontier.

So along with the Kennedy Space Center and the Very Large Array, we’ve visited everything from a planetarium in South Florida and Meteor Crater in Arizona to the U.S. Space & Rocket Center in Alabama and Space Center Houston.

But here are 20 places – in 20 states – that I haven’t yet explored:

Moon, Kentucky

Halfmoon, New York

Mercury, Nevada

Venus, Florida

Earth, Texas

Mars, Pennsylvania

Saturn, Indiana

Jupiter, North Carolina

Neptune, New Jersey

Sun, Louisiana

Star, Idaho

Bright Star, Arkansas

North Star, Michigan

Polaris, Montana

Orion, Mississippi

Constellation, Arizona

Nova, Ohio

Cosmos, Minnesota

Meteor, Wisconsin

Vulcan, Missouri

Come to think of it, I haven’t been to Roswell, New Mexico, either…

BEEN THERE, HAVEN'T DONE THAT

Brad Herzog — Thu, 25 Feb 2010 15:07:00 -0400

I turned 41 ½ today. What? You think I’m too old to count half-birthdays? I’ll be the judge of that. My grandmother used to say she was 39 years old – and she kept saying it until she was in her late 80s. She figured 39 was a nice pleasant age. Besides, age is a state of mind.

Regarding states, though, I’ve actually been stuck at 49 for quite some time. I’ve visited each of the Lower 48 at least two or three times, some of them much more often. And I spent a memorable spring break week in Hawaii half a lifetime ago. So, of course, that leaves Alaska, which is tops on my to-do list. An RV journey there is supposed to be spectacular. I just have to find the time.

Still, 49 states… most of them several times. That’s not too shabby. You would think I’d seen just about all there is to see. But I haven’t even come close. The stuff I haven’t seen still far outnumbers the stuff I have.

To illustrate what I mean, I’ll pick a single state as an example. Let’s consider Texas:

I’ve explored Space Center Houston. I’ve toured the Alamo and strolled along the Riverwalk in San Antonio. I’ve visited the infamous Texas School Book Depository in Dallas (now sight of the Sixth Floor Museum, dedicated to the life and death of JFK). I’ve seen the Ballpark in Arlington. I’ve explored the Texas Hill Country. I’ve cruised through Austin, Amarillo and Abilene. I’ve been to Odessa and El Paso and Waco. I’ve stopped in towns named Fort Stockton and Kerrville and Comfort.

But here’s what I haven’t done:

I haven’t explored Wichita Falls or Lubbock or Galveston or Corpus Christi. I haven’t been to Paris, Texas. I haven’t seen Big Bend National Park or Guadalupe Mountains National Park or Galveston Bay or South Padre Island or Odessa Meteor Crater or the Caverns of Sonora.

I haven’t visited the Cadillac Ranch outside of Amarillo or Texas Motor Speedway outside of Fort Worth or the Cotton Bowl in Dallas. In Waco, I didn’t get to the Texas Ranger Hall of Fame. In San Antonio, I didn’t make it to SeaWorld . I haven’t explored the Buffalo Soldiers National Museum in Houston or the El Paso Holocaust Museum or the Museum of the Gulf Coast in Port Arthur.

My point is this: You never run out of places to visit – ever, anywhere in America. I could easily have made the same claim by focusing on Oregon or Virginia or South Dakota. So while I may have literally reached the place that you see in the photo below (in southern California), I’ll never really get there.

WELCOME TO BRAD

Brad Herzog — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 21:03:00 -0400

A few months ago, I wrote about the dozen or so people out there roaming around with the exact same first and last name as mine. I related it to towns that share a name and discussed how places that sound similar can offer completely distinct experiences.

Certainly, you can’t judge something by name alone. Again, to return to my narcissistic tendencies, consider my first name. Maybe it’s just my paranoia, but it seems like every time I turn on some B movie, the unlikeable character (i.e. the jerk bully or ex-boyfriend) is always named Brad. Seriously, it’s uncanny.

I don’t want some B-movie buffoon named after me. I want a town.

I know what you’re thinking. What arrogance! Who does he think he is? But that’s just it. There are a great many American communities named after relative nobodies. In fact, if you’re too well-known, you’re probably out of luck.

As far as I know, there isn’t a single town named after, say, John Quincy Adams or Alexander Graham Bell. But William Epperson Justice? Yep. I’ve been to Justice, West Virginia (it happens to be populated primarily by direct descendants of the infamous Hatfields and McCoys). What did ol’ Epp Justice do? Well, he simply cleared out some land in an Appalachian hollow.

All you really have to do to lend your name to a town is be in the right place at the right time.

The Texas community of Ben Arnold was named after a three-year-old who traveled on the first train to arrive in town. Another community in Houston County (Abe, Texas) was named after an early postmaster. In California, there is town called Lee Vining. It turns out that Lee was a rather unlucky fellow who bled to death in Nevada when he accidentally shot himself in the groin. Really, I’m not making that up.

I mean, if that’s all it takes, my name could grace a bunch of places. How about that curve along Georgia’s Chattahoochee River where I tipped my canoe moments after shoving off. Or how about that section of rural New York where my misplaced wallet eventually fell off the top of my car. Or maybe that stretch of country road in Oregon where I accidentally started driving with the RV’s slideout extended.

Brad, Oregon. I like the sound of it.

There are hundreds of similar examples out there – from Arnold (Minnesota) to Zachary (Louisiana). Okay, sure. It’s not easy to get your name on a town these days – what with the demise of the American frontier and all. But think of the lasting glory. How many hundreds of millions of Americans have existed? And the names of only a tiny percentage grace the most basic element of U.S. civilization. So think about that the next time you snicker through Ralph, Arkansas.

Meanwhile, I continue to be flummoxed by pop culture’s disdain for my name. Now, even my mother-in-law is in on it. Each December, she gives us a themed calendar to hang in our kitchen. A couple of years ago, the theme was The Hobbit. Last year, it was a calendar about the world’s magnificent castles.

This year? Modern art. And here’s what I found in April:

A REDRAWN U.S. MAP

Brad Herzog — Fri, 15 Jan 2010 21:38:00 -0400

We are the United States of Media Markets.

One of the things I enjoy while RVing across America is the opportunity to enjoy the local news. Watching a local newscast can provide insight into the interests, scope and sensibility of an area, but it also reveals something even more basic – like the name of the area itself. Travel enough (and watch enough TV along the way), and you discover that America can be divided into dozens of regional designations.

I’m not talking about the Rust Belt or the Bible Belt or New England or the Rockies or the Heartland. I’m talking about mini-regions, each trumpeted by TV news promos in an effort to reckon their viewing market:

“Your choice for news in the Borderlands!”

Or… “Kentuckiana’s number one news team!”

Kentuckiana is a good example of the combo method of self-designation. Louisville, right on the border of Indiana, is the major market there. But there are plenty more like that. Shreveport, for example, is situated close to where Arkansas, Louisiana and Texas meet, so they refer to the region as Ark-La-Tex. Where the sparsely-populated corners of Idaho, Oregon and Nevada come together, it’s I.O.N. Country. That slice of land dangling into the Atlantic Ocean, just below Delaware is the Delmarva (Delaware-Maryland-Virginia) Peninsula. Sometimes there are too many states involved, making the combo method impossible. For instance, the corners of Missouri, Oklahoma, Kansas and Arkansas comprise the Four States area (which is not to be confused with the meeting of Utah, Colorado, Arizona and New Mexico – the Four Corners area).

Often, these media market designations are simply informational. The Albany-Schenectady area is the Capital Region. El Paso is the focus of the Borderlands. San Francisco dominates the Bay Area. But I like the ones that have a bit of a metaphorical tint to them. For instance, although my section of seaside California is known simply as the Central Coast, Florida’s central coast is called the Treasure Coast. The twenty-two-county area around Abilene, Texas, is Big Country. San Jose is the epicenter of California’s Silicon Valley. South Dakota consists of Kota Territory (west) and the Sioux Empire (east). Norfolk, Newport and Virginia Beach constitute Hampton Roads.

So I’m tempted to print and sell a map dividing the country into these media markets – entities like the Hill Country (Texas), the Bluegrass (Kentucky), the Ozarks (Missouri-Arkansas), and the North Woods (northern Minnesota and Wisconsin). Then again, folks have enough trouble remembering the 50 states…

Here’s a photo of me waiting to do a TV interview in Casper, Wyoming, which (best I can tell) is part of an area known as… Wyoming:

EIGHT MORE MIRACLES

Brad Herzog — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 17:32:00 -0400

Tonight is the first night of Hanukah, the Jewish Festival of Lights commemorating the rededication of the Second Temple of Jerusalem more than 2,000 years ago. It is celebrated for eight days because at the time of the rededication there was only enough consecrated olive oil to fuel the eternal flame in the Temple for one day. Miraculously, the oil burned for eight days, just enough time to prepare and consecrate fresh oil.

What can I say? Some miracles are more dramatic than others.

Which brings me to my RV travels. I’ve seen some natural wonders that would seem to fall under the category of “miraculous.” Here (in honor of the eight days of Hanukah) are my top eight:

1. Grand Canyon (Arizona)

2. General Sherman Tree (Sequoia National Park, California)

3. Delicate Arch (Arches National Park, Utah)

4. Old Faithful (Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming)

5. The Big Room at Carlsbad Caverns (New Mexico)

6. Crater Lake (Oregon)

7. Bryce Canyon (Utah)

8. Sleeping Bear Dunes (Michigan)

So what do we have here? A massive gorge 277 miles long and as much as 18 miles wide. A bright orange tree consisting of more than 52,000 cubic feet of wood. A 52-foot-tall freestanding sandstone arch that frames the La Sal Mountains in the distance. A geyser that spews a stream of water more than 100 feet into the Wyoming sky on a regular basis. An underground chamber 25 stories high and a third of a mile wide. A bluest-of-blue lake nearly 2,000 feet deep and created by a collapsed volcano. An otherworldly collection of red, orange and white hoodoos and spires. And a sand dune rising hundreds of feet above Lake Michigan. That’s miraculous stuff.

The fact that Amy and I have been able to see all of these things during our RV journeys? That’s not a miracle. That’s just a road trip.

Anybody have any American wonders that they think belong on the list?

BORDER TOWNS

Brad Herzog — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 18:54:00 -0400

I learned a new word today – portmanteau. That’s what you get when you merge the sounds and meanings of two different words. For example, when you combine chuckle and snort to make chortle. How did I come across this? Because I was looking into the phenomenon of state line towns.

You know the kind I’m talking about – the hamlets that straddle state borders. Often, they’re actually called State Line (Mississippi) or Stateline (Nevada). It’s not too clever, but at least it’s explanatory. But isn’t it a bit impractical to have more than one State Line in a state? There is one on the New York-Massachusetts border, another on the New York-Pennsylvania border and a third on the Pennsylvania-Maryland border.

Still, that’s not nearly as befuddling as the MUCH more common state line strategies – the towns that combine letters and syllables from adjoining states. They are geographic example of portmanteaus.

I was all prepared to sift through an atlas in an effort to locate this, but somebody did it for me. A fellow who has an Internet presence as Mapguy compiled a list of 83 portmanteau towns, although some are admittedly tiny, unincorporated hiccups. Still, eighty-three? That’s pretty remarkable.

I’ve taken it upon myself to summarize what he found:

TRIPLETS: He discovered six towns that combine more than two state names. One of them is unique in that it’s three separate words – Cal Nev Ari, Nevada. The other five are Kenova (Kentucky, Ohio, West Virginia), Kentenia (Kentucky, Tennessee, Virginia), Okeana (Ohio, Kentucky, Indiana), Penowa (Pennsylvania, Ohio, West Virginia) and Texarkana (Texas, Arkansas, Louisiana). The funny thing about the latter one is this: It’s about 30 miles from the Louisiana border. Oops.

MIRROR IMAGES: Along the Delaware-Maryland line, there’s both a Delmar and a Marydel. Along Alabama and Florida, there’s a Alaflora and a Florala. Along Arkansas and Missouri, we have Arkmo and Moark. Colorado-Kansas has both Cokan and Kanco. Along Texas-Louisiana, there’s a Texla and – get this – a Latex. Oh, and along the border to Mexico, there’s both a Calexico and a Mexicali.

THE PROLIFIC: The most portmanteau-prolific states – with six in each – are California (no surprise, it has a big border) and Arkansas (impressive, but then again Arkansas has a history of fanciful place names). A tip of the cap to Maryland, which has five, as well as the Delmarva Peninsula (Delaware-Maryland-Virginia).

THE MISSING: Besides Alaska and Hawaii (duh), the only states without portmanteaus are Connecticut, Iowa, Maine, Massachusetts, Nebraska, New Jersey, New York, Rhode Island, South Carolina, Washington and Wisconsin. I’m thinking maybe this is because Connect Island seems paradoxical. And Ionois (Iowa-Illinois) would be pronounced “I annoy.”

CONVERSATION STARTERS

Brad Herzog — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 18:29:00 -0400

Here’s one thing I’m thankful for on this Thanksgiving: A geographic frame of reference.

Let me explain: When you’re sitting around the table, passing around the turkey and the stuffing and the cranberry sauce, you’ll likely be passing around lively conversation as well. That’s because you presumably know each other quite well. There’s no need for small talk.

Personally, I’ve never been comfortable with small talk, however friendly the gesture may be. No, there is nothing inherently offensive about discussing the weather. And yes, awkward silences are worse. But let’s be honest, small talk is default dialogue. It happens when you don’t have something particularly fascinating to chat about. It is interest-free conversation.

But I actually have the ability to turn small talk into something a bit more compelling. And I can pinpoint the reason why in just two letters: RV.

My travels have given me a great many gifts, including an enlightened perspective and a true understanding of quality time. But one of the greatest benefits I’ve received is simply this: Reference material.

I may be at a campground in, say, Kentucky. Maybe I’ll be sitting outside reading a book or walking back from the swimming pool. An RV pulls into the spot next to me, and a smiling husband and wife wave to us before taking a few minutes to set up camp. Then comes that inevitable moment where, in most friendly campgrounds, small talk begins. “Hot enough for ya?”… “How about that traffic on I-65!”…

But then I can counter with this: “Where ya from?” And suddenly, the dialogue becomes something more than just genial banter. It becomes an opportunity to gain insight into their lives by having an understanding of where they’re coming from – quite literally. Maybe they’re from Salem, Virginia…

“Salem? Sure, I know where that is. Right outside of Roanoke. We went to a minor league baseball game there a few years ago. They were the Salem Avalanche then…”

“Ah, they’re the Salem Red Sox now…”

And so it begins. When small talk is replaced by shared experience, it makes the encounter more intimate and more comfortable. In fact, I see this in all parts of my life, not just while I’m on the road. I’ll be in Maryland, where I’ll meet a friend of a friend from Columbus, Indiana, and I’ll stun her by saying, “That’s right along the Ohio border, right?” Or I’ll be at a conference of some sort and notice “Easton, PA” on someone’s nametag, and suddenly our routine encounter is energized by sincere dialogue about the Crayola Crayon Factory.

I only wish such geographical familiarity was the rule, rather than the exception. Most of our sociopolitical divisions in this country can be attributed to ignorance spawned by an insular existence, whether you live in New York or Los Angeles or Nutbush, Tennessee. When your frame of reference goes no further than the Hudson River or Hollywood Boulevard or the local Conoco station, then you miss out on educational dialogue. Life becomes a one-way street.

The folks whom I encounter and I may have very divergent political leanings, be in entirely different stages of life and have little in common besides the fact that we arrived in the same place at the same time. But a simple “Where ya from?” can turn a conversation into a connection.

Here’s a photo from that baseball game in Virginia. I’ve posted it before, but…well… it’s just my favorite all-time photo (I’d just grabbed a foul ball):

BRILLIANT, LUCKY AND COOL

Brad Herzog — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 04:08:00 -0400

In Travels With Charley, one of my favorite road memoirs (and one of the finest books by America’s finest author), John Steinbeck muses about how his mood affected his journey. “What I found,” he wrote, “was closely intermeshed with how I felt at the moment.”

So true.

When you drive an RV around the country, you’re not at the mercy of hotels or airlines or bus schedules. But you are bound by your mood. You could drive into the most delightful town in America, but if you’re in a foul frame of mind nothing might charm you. Granted, you’re not often in a foul frame of mind when you’re cruising down the highway, watching America roll by. Still, our attitudes color our perceptions.

Every American hamlet has its own personality and appearance, and even if you’re cruising past at 60 miles per hour, that glimpse is often enough for a snap-judgment. As I pass through many towns, certain adjectives pop into my head – one-word descriptors of places that obviously deserve more profound consideration. I might think of a town as Dusty or Empty or Quaint or Bustling or Quiet or Proud.

Kind of interesting, isn’t it? We drive along and get a sort of freeze-frame image of a place. Or maybe it’s better described as a blur. We make inferences and recall stereotypes and come up with some sort of evaluation – all without stopping. It is the geographical version of judging a book by its cover. I suppose it’s another reason why I enjoy exploring those tiny dots on the atlas.

Anyway, this all leads to another serving of Quirky Town Names. The following self-described hamlets left nothing to chance. The last one must be tough on the tourism front:

Cool, California

Wise, Virginia

Brilliant, Alabama

Noble, Oklahoma

Humble, Texas

Brave, Pennsylvania

Loyal, Wisconsin

Hopeful, Georgia

Chic, Tennessee

Manly, Iowa

Lucky, Louisiana

Quick, West Virginia

Eclectic, Alabama

Prim, Arkansas

Chunky, Mississippi

Scaly, North Carolina

Oblong, Illinois

Blue, Arizona

Orange, New Jersey

Parallel, Kansas

Plush, Oregon

Fertile, Minnesota

Chilly, Idaho

Rowdy, Kentucky

Fickle, Indiana

Moody, Maine

Peculiar, Missouri

Gross, Nebraska