100 Miles And A Couple Centuries

Last of The Mohicans

If Daniel Day Lewis is not in your “Top Five” list, he most certainly will be after watching this film based on James Fenimore Cooper’s classic tale of life on the American frontier.  In Cooper’s time, the frontier stretched all the way into upstate New York and democracy still remained a vision to be scribed, much less lived.  Nonetheless, Lewis’ portrayal aptly created an impression of life in the colonies during the French and Indian War, when the spattering of cities and the frontiersman beyond their reach still aligned with the crown and an actor in leather could make any British daughter (and most any female viewer) swoon.  If anyone ever told me, “Stay alive; I will find you,” with such passion, I would readily obey.  If Daniel Day Lewis instructed me accordingly, I would develop successful cryogenics technology to enable such a possibility.

Nonetheless, the plot of Last of the Mohicans revolved around the idea of doing what is law versus doing what is right.  And as each character chose between each option, the story unfolds in a breathtaking setting, albeit cinematically altered, to give the impression that the uppermost British colonies on the North American continent offered vistas lost to the time of nobility, gentry, gallantry, romance, and heroism.  Those were most assuredly days long gone, in scenery transformed over two and a half centuries, but a click of the DVD player brings them, and brings Lewis fabulously back to my living room.

 

Lake George
 

With a toddler and a first-grader in tow, I cruise upward from Albany into the lush mountains of eastern New York.  We barely set foot inside the expanses of the Adirondacks when we begin our climb up to the hundred-mile view.  Not as imposing as the Bitterroot Mountains (see “The Rivers of Idaho,” December 2011), these peaks stretching down into Saratoga horse country and up just below the border with Quebec characterize much of the contrast between the state’s most renowned escapes and the state’s most renowned city.  The Adirondacks, while a focus of tourism yet without the skyscrapers of the city, still offers views far above the highway, gazing across the lakes and rivers, peering into Vermont on a tranquil, clear autumn afternoon.

 

Son Number One knows the basic highlights of American history at age eight and Son Number Two knows the basics of human communication as he approaches age two, yet they both sit quietly, enjoying the solemnity of the scene.  Below them on the shores of Lake George, more than two hundred years before their birth, a band of state militia fought to defend Fort William Henry from the threats of the French guns.  On where now exists little more than a souvenir stand, the characters from Last of the Mohicans paraded in a formal surrender before the French have the delight of burning the structure to the ground.  Here at this site, two boys sit quietly, sit closely, and sit patiently as their mother enjoys the history of this place, the tranquility of the view, and perhaps a wistful thought to Daniel Day Lewis’s portrayal of the something historically memorable, not to mention visually yummy.

Mount Rainier National Park

Change Of Plans

Vancouver

My first visit to British Columbia’s largest metropolis,  as a stepping-off point to my first Alaskan cruise, offered me the opportunity to taste unique cuisines, stroll through the port’s nearby architecture, and meet west-coast Canadians.  Arriving midday, midsummer, and midway through my marital separation, life in Vancouver offered a glimmering escape, a chance to window shop without children in tow, and  a long stretch of afternoon into evening as the sunlight lingered well into the evening.  Traveling with friends for the first time offered a vastly different view of travel than I had ever experienced.  No family, no car, and no planning on my part marked my second soiree into Canada and the opportunity of a lifetime.

Fifteen years later, when finally returning to the northern nation’s western shore, the early days of autumn may not have offered as late a sunset, but the spectacular city again would be the place where my cruise ship moored.  Despite the detailed planning for ninety-five percent of the vacation, Vancouver remained an open day of strolling and shopping.  Much like San Francisco, the city’s greatest growth straddled between its port and railway connection, so I knew I could find plenty of curious locations to visit in my post-cruise excursion.  At the very least, I did map out the nearest Tim Horton’s location  (see “Brock University,” January 2012) to our hotel.

The Mountain Is Calling And I Am Definitely Going To Go

Socked in by a summer haze of heat and eastern brush and forest fires, Seattle stretches its drought far past the one one-hundredths of an inch of rain received a few days prior.  As I drive south on Interstate 5 towards SeaTac, the effects of the fifty-three-day rainless stretch loom obviously as the horizon disappears into an off-color smog typically reserved for pollution-laden valleys, the industrial core beneath the Great Lakes, and the dense humidity of inland Florida.  In less than a day, I will be on my way to the clear vistas of tranquil and breathtaking Alaska as soon as I drop off this rental car and get back to my hotel for a last night of landlubber sleep.  Suddenly, with a gentle curve to the left, rising above the layer of smoky gunk, Mount Rainier appears like a massive spacecraft hovering and drifting towards Puget Sound. My jaw drops.

I walk from the rental car garage at the Seattle Airport towards the light rail station with an urgency not tapped since my vacation began more than two weeks ago.  From the time I arrive at the station until the train departs for my return trip towards the Space Needle, I busily dial the phone numbers necessary to alter my departure from the Great White North immediately upon stepping off the Norwegian Pearl.  I cancel one hotel night in Vancouver and add another night in Seattle for the following week.  I move my shuttle across the Blaine border crossing to twenty-four hours earlier.  I tap my smart phone for a one-day automobile rental for the following week, all without asking my travel companions.  I fully understand one of John Muir’s most famous quotes, “The mountains are calling and I must go.”

I Owe Oregon

Just a Number

When I first conceived Project 50 (see “Forty-Nine,” August 2012), my zest to reach the finish line occasionally superseded my desire to see the beauty associated with each number.  So was the case with Oregon.  I knew I did not have enough time to explore thoroughly the middle state on the Pacific shore, so I planned instead for a short jaunt into the northeast corner, just a swift drive from Washington State to add to my final tally.  And according to my beloved atlas, Flora, Oregon lay just across the state line and it would give me a quick terminus at which I would turn around, retrace my tread, and continue on my way through the Bitterroot Mountains before sunset.

Pulling into Flora could be equated to pulling into a driveway.  Only a handful of structures, mostly agricultural, made up the tiny community.  Quite possibly, two families may have resided in the town, to use the term liberally, but such a guess would have been only a hypothesis.  Nothing outwardly confirmed any residents at all, nor did the rural village reflect any apparent dilapidation.  No postcards would be obtained, no credit card purchases, no validation that I had even visited the state besides the simple sign upon leaving Washington not as a welcome to but to distinguish where each state’s work crews ought to end their respective basic services.  So I pulled into a dirt path, put the rental car in reverse and looked in my rear view mirror before proceeding, and framed in the reflective glass I saw the first glimpse of snow-capped mountains on this voyage, beckoning me to keep moving southward.  And so I detoured from my planned course, just barely a dozen hours into my current expedition.  “The mountains are calling and I must go.”

Pulling Me Inward, Onward, Upward

A scenic landscape sucks me in like nature’s vacuum (see “From A Distance,” February 2013) and the peaks ahead of me set my spirit on autopilot and I irresistibly press onward.  At each new vista, around each new bend in the road, at the base of every meadow, the mountains frame themselves and I keep pressing onward.  I justify the delay without realizing that this additional mileage should be added on an equal par with the planned routes and destinations.  Adding a new location more than fills a box on a list, it ought to leave its mark on me.  Yet I thoughtlessly commit fully to the lofty vision that guides me deeper into the Beaver State.  I finally stop in Enterprise to pause and regroup.  This drive pays off in spades, all for the good fortune of looking in my rear-view mirror.

I regret neglecting Oregon.  I knew it would be beautiful.  Of course it would be beautiful.  A century and a half ago tens of thousands of people journeyed across the rugged mountain to its east for the sole purpose of reaching the coast.  A trail named for this end of a spectacular journey pulled these early settlers westward, and now it pulls me into the state’s beauty, even with just the smallest glimpse.  I owe Oregon another visit. I owe this scenery a moment all its own.  I should return and crisscross its width and breadth and value it for the spectacular morning it offers me.  And just two years later, I would return to see even more of the sights that blew me away the first time.  It’s just a shame that my second visit happened to be on a whim, a lark, and spontaneous impulse.  Really, Oregon, I will do it right.  I will.  I promise.  You are too damn tempting to resist.

The Rivers of Idaho

There’s a Snake in My Boot

It’s summer.  It’s warm.  It’s sunny.  The river is shallow along its bank, so why not pull over, roll up my pant legs, shed my shoes and dip my toes in the water I have been paralleling most of the morning?  Jet skis zoom and inner tubes float in the middle of the water where the depth and flow may be more ideal for a fun and active afternoon, but I plan to drive for several hours, so just a quick toe in the water douses my appetite to wet my feet.  River access from a roadside park will do, so I walk barefoot over the smooth, uneven rocks to the water’s edge, and cautiously stroll into the Snake River, far upstream from its emptying point into the ocean to the west.  And as I stare at my feet in the water, this one small step doesn’t represent any of the highlights of this vacation; nonetheless I want to remember the moment.  But even more I want to get back into the car and on my way.

Through the clear water, the gently worn stones and the undisturbed sand of the river bed allow me to see my feet, but the wind’s slight rippling on the surface makes them appear even larger than their already considerable length.  These big boots at the end of my legs make me giggle when I realize the clever quote from my favorite rootin’-tootin’ cowboy.  I pull my camera out of my pocket and capture my over-sized feet and the bright reflection off the water’s surface from the midday sun and post a picture on the web with the remark, “My boots are in the Snake.”

Following the Water

Where the Snake accepts the Clearwater River’s water, the summer flow, probably more tame than the springtime snowmelt rush, marks a turning point in the geography and a turning point of the road.  From here, I spend hours following the river inward and upstream, and along each stretch, I see weekend enthusiasts splashing and sunning.  I worry that my short stint in the water does not do the climate and the scenery justice.  I stop frequently to capture the tranquil images of the flowing waterway, but I keep my feet cozily inside my footwear.  I choose to enjoy the water aesthetically.

The water merges from the Lochsa River and I follow it through the Bitterroot Mountains awing at the beauty in both the sunlight and the shadows, squinting against the sun’s blinding reflection off the water and marveling in the deep, cool colors its absence creates in the narrow valleys between the rising mountain faces.  With each bend in the rivers and my continued driving upstream, the population playing in the summer sun and warm waters thins, but the depth and breadth to which the images along these three rivers snaking through the mountains deepen their impression upon me magnifies. Even with only a few small steps in the water, I drench myself in the rivers of Idaho.