Three-fer Friday: It Happened In A National Park

Pretty soon everyone is going to be talking about our national parks; Ken Burns’ latest project is a six-parter called The National Parks: America’s Best Idea and will debut on PBS on September 27.

We’ll be watching, for sure, but in the meantime we decided to get a jump on the chatter with our own national parks memories—three little moments that left a lasting impact.

Photo by Jenna Schnuer

The first day of a photography workshop in Yellowstone National Park served up bubbling mudpots, hot springs with colors that would shame the brightest wildflowers, and plenty of elk. Old Faithful was ahead but, in my mind, it was the stuff of kitsch and cartoons. I wasn’t excited. With my camera set on the spot, I waited for the geyser to blow. Ho hum. Whatever. And then she did. Thousands of gallons of boiling water shot more than 100 feet into the air. Instantly, the earth owned her again. She was released from kitsch and cartoons. She was beautiful. —Jenna

Mid-July 2003 in Alaska’s Glacier Bay National Park. It’s 4 a.m., but the sky is bright. I’m alone in a kayak near the Beardslee Islands, floating, when a juvenile male humpback surfaces ten feet from my starboard bow. Beneath the water’s surface, his basketball-sized eye looks straight up at me as if to say, “Yo.” Then, the blow: putrid, soggy air from the animal’s lungs bursts from the blowhole, soaking me in an instant. We float together, side-by-side, for what seems like an eternity. Then, without warning, he arches his back, salutes with his flukes and sinks to the depths.–Matt

Photo NPS/Eric Leonard

I’m doing a little solo day-hiking in Texas’ Big Bend National Park among the fragrant pines high in the Chisos Mountains. I find a outcropping with a view and sit to contemplate life for a few minutes when a hawk—I’m not bird-savvy enough to know what kind, the park is home to several—flies by just overhead. I’ve never been this close to a hawk in flight and the stately swoosh … swoosh of the powerful wings moving against the air is startling, stirring, and unforgettable.–Sophia

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It Happened In A National Park

Pretty soon everyone is going to be talking about our national parks; Ken Burns’ latest project is a six-parter called The National Parks: America’s Best Idea and will debut on PBS on September 27.

We’ll be watching, for sure, but in the meantime we decided to get a jump on the chatter with our own national parks memories—three little moments that left a lasting impact.

Photo by Jenna Schnuer

The first day of a photography workshop in Yellowstone National Park served up bubbling mudpots, hot springs with colors that would shame the brightest wildflowers, and plenty of elk. Old Faithful was ahead but, in my mind, it was the stuff of kitsch and cartoons. I wasn’t excited. With my camera set on the spot, I waited for the geyser to blow. Ho hum. Whatever. And then she did. Thousands of gallons of boiling water shot more than 100 feet into the air. Instantly, the earth owned her again. She was released from kitsch and cartoons. She was beautiful. —Jenna

Mid-July 2003 in Alaska’s Glacier Bay National Park. It’s 4 a.m., but the sky is bright. I’m alone in a kayak near the Beardslee Islands, floating, when a juvenile male humpback surfaces ten feet from my starboard bow. Beneath the water’s surface, his basketball-sized eye looks straight up at me as if to say, “Yo.” Then, the blow: putrid, soggy air from the animal’s lungs bursts from the blowhole, soaking me in an instant. We float together, side-by-side, for what seems like an eternity. Then, without warning, he arches his back, salutes with his flukes and sinks to the depths.–Matt

Photo NPS/Eric Leonard

I’m doing a little solo day-hiking in Texas’ Big Bend National Park among the fragrant pines high in the Chisos Mountains. I find a outcropping with a view and sit to contemplate life for a few minutes when a hawk—I’m not bird-savvy enough to know what kind, the park is home to several—flies by just overhead. I’ve never been this close to a hawk in flight and the stately swoosh … swoosh of the powerful wings moving against the air is startling, stirring, and unforgettable.–Sophia

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An All-American Meal for the Twenty-First Century

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My husband Tom’s from Chicago, I’m from New York City, we live in Texas and haven’t been to the supermarket this week. We’re running out of everything, including tortillas. So last night’s dinner turned into a metaphor–a little bit of this and a little bit of that for a quintessentially American cultural crossover: Leftover brisket MATCHOZ! It’s a small world after all. (There, get that song out of your head now.)

Matzo + nachos=MATCHOZ! A trans-American treat.

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Giving the Snow Globe a Boot

Life in Miles City, Montana, revolves around horses. Head from I-90 into town and you’ll likely pass a cowboy running some errands by horse. On the near side of Main Street, east of the old train trestle, you can still spot some old businesses with hitching posts out front. The town’s annual and rollicking Bucking Horse Sale draws thousands of visitors from all over the Big Sky State and around the world.

Heck, even children’s author Roald Dahl paints an equine picture of the big MC—in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Miles City native Violet Beauregarde has a fast-talking father who sells cars and rides a big ol’ horse.

Naturally, then, when I visited years ago on an assignment about the Bucking Horse Sale, I had to buy the quintessential souvenir: cowboy boots from the Miles City Saddlery.

Exotic Western, Exotic Rancher, Non-Exotic Dress Wellington—you name the style of boot, I tried ‘em all on. Taciturn owner Jack Diebel put up with my City Slicking tendencies masterfully, giving me his opinion on just about every boot I tried.

MJV's Noconas

After about an hour, I ended up with leather Noconas, black with red and white trim. They made me feel tough, manly, like I could have wandered in from the street and said “Howdy, Pardner” to everyone in the store. The price tag? Let’s just say they cost more than a few pairs of my spendy running shoes.

I wear my Miles City boots from time to time nowadays, and, though my wife teases me about them relentlessly, they transport me back to the sensations of that afternoon in the saddle shop.

I can still smell the leather wafting over from the saddle room, still hear the tinny country music playing overhead, and still feel the firm grip of Diebel’s calloused handshake as he bid me farewell and a “come again soon.” When I wear these bad-boys, I feel a little tougher, a little rougher, more inclined to cop to liking Kenny Chesney and slightly less willing to deny the thrills of NASCAR.

Forget the snow globes and t-shirts, people—in my book, this visceral reaction is what a truly stellar souvenir is all about. If your memento doesn’t evoke the touch, smell, taste and feel of your particular journey, I reckon it’s just a piece of junk.

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What a Monday Night Should Be

Photo courtesy of markhillary through Creative Commons.

Monday nights on the road are strange beasts. With most locals eating dinner at home, working late, or watching TV to block out thoughts of all that week left ahead, restaurants and other usually-fun stuff feels blah, lifeless. I always feel most out of step with wherever I am on a Monday night. I don’t like it.

So, to find a place that upends the traditional Monday? That turns it from frumpy to festive? Rare. Special. To be celebrated. That’s why I’m tempted to go down to my local trophy shop (if, indeed, a local trophy shop still exists) and order a retro-cool plaque for the ultra-swank Cafe ZuZu at the Hotel Valley Ho in Scottsdale, Arizona.

Every other Monday night, ZuZu’s executive chef Chuck Wiley turns the entire restaurant into one massive chef’s table. At first, I was disappointed to find out that his chef’s table wasn’t an intimate six- or eight- person affair. I love the flirty back and forth of a tiny chef’s table. Once things got going, the disappointment disappeared completely. It’s part show, part lesson in pairing food with adult beverages, and all exquisite flavors. Chef Wiley and the winemaker of the week introduced each course and its accompanying liquid to the packed room. A room filled with hotel guests and locals, everybody anxious to pretend that the weekend was still in full force. And, thanks to servers who were quick to the pour, locals who were, clearly, willing to show up slightly tired to work on Tuesday morning. Or, in my case, for my morning hike.

Photo credit:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/markhillary/ / CC BY 2.0

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Three-fer Friday: I Want to Go, er, Live There

Boston's Liberty Hotel

With apologies to Tina Fey for, above, bastardizing her character’s now famous line, here, the hotels/B&Bs/other-places-with-beds-that-aren’t-our-homes that we would like to move into permanently.

Jenna’s Picks

Few hotels–if any–merge whimsy, history, and upscale delights like Boston’s Liberty Hotel, which is partially housed in a former jail. I would spend my Saturday mornings doing Yoga in the Yard and my evenings sipping cocktails at Alibi, the drunk tank turned bar.

I’m not sure I’ve ever felt as welcomed in anybody’s home–including my own–as I did at Grand View Bed and Breakfast in Fairbanks, Alaska. Owners Dave and Clodagh Thompson are, quite simply, the warmest kindest B&B owners I’ve ever come across. And the full Irish breakfast? Yes, please.

If I could only choose one breakfast and one place to eat it for the rest of my life, it would be room service oatmeal at Nashville’s Hermitage Hotel. I would vary the routine a bit by, some days, bathing in the super-deep bathtubs before breakfast and, other days, after.

Sophia’s Picks

The Wildcatter Ranch Resort in Graham, Texas

I could easily settle down in one of the suites at the Wildcatter Ranch Resort and Spa in Graham, Texas, where the porches, pool and hot tub share a phenomenally soothing view of rolling Texas hills.

I spent a couple of snowy days curled up by a gas fire in a cottage nestled in the forest at the Inn and Spa at Cedar Falls in Logan, Ohio. The memory remains one of the happy places I go in my head when I need mental escape.

Keyah Grande, an eight-room mansion retreat on 4,000 spectacular acres in Colorado’s San Juan Mountains, is pleasantly over-the-top (each room is decorated in the theme of a different country); it’s like visiting a filthy-rich relative’s summer cottage. The flying deck gives me vertigo, but the pool view is perfect.

Matt’s Picks

Solage Calistoga

Situated along the route of the old Pony Express, The Lodge at Red River Ranch outside of Teasdale, Utah, blends rustic and regal perfectly. My heaven: curling up with a book in front of the crackling fire in the three-story Great Room.

Every year my wife and I spend time at Solage Calistoga, a klatch of individual (and uber-modern) cottages nestled on the outskirts of Calistoga, California. We ride the complimentary bikes all over town. Then we luxuriate in the spa.

Even if it weren’t one of the most eco-friendly resorts on Earth, The Lodge at Sun Ranch in Cameron, Montana, would still be among my faves for its great fishing, sustainable cuisine, and the best bird-watching outside of Alaska.

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I Want to Go, er, Live There

Flyover America has moved! Please join us at www.ReadFlyoverAmerica.com.

Boston's Liberty Hotel

With apologies to Tina Fey for, above, bastardizing her character’s now famous line, here, the hotels/B&Bs/other-places-with-beds-that-aren’t-our-homes that we would like to move into permanently.

Jenna’s Picks

Few hotels–if any–merge whimsy, history, and upscale delights like Boston’s Liberty Hotel, which is partially housed in a former jail. I would spend my Saturday mornings doing Yoga in the Yard and my evenings sipping cocktails at Alibi, the drunk tank turned bar.

I’m not sure I’ve ever felt as welcomed in anybody’s home–including my own–as I did at Grand View Bed and Breakfast in Fairbanks, Alaska. Owners Dave and Clodagh Thompson are, quite simply, the warmest kindest B&B owners I’ve ever come across. And the full Irish breakfast? Yes, please.

If I could only choose one breakfast and one place to eat it for the rest of my life, it would be room service oatmeal at Nashville’s Hermitage Hotel. I would vary the routine a bit by, some days, bathing in the super-deep bathtubs before breakfast and, other days, after.

Sophia’s Picks

The Wildcatter Ranch Resort in Graham, Texas

I could easily settle down in one of the suites at the Wildcatter Ranch Resort and Spa in Graham, Texas, where the porches, pool and hot tub share a phenomenally soothing view of rolling Texas hills.

I spent a couple of snowy days curled up by a gas fire in a cottage nestled in the forest at the Inn and Spa at Cedar Falls in Logan, Ohio. The memory remains one of the happy places I go in my head when I need mental escape.

Keyah Grande, an eight-room mansion retreat on 4,000 spectacular acres in Colorado’s San Juan Mountains, is pleasantly over-the-top (each room is decorated in the theme of a different country); it’s like visiting a filthy-rich relative’s summer cottage. The flying deck gives me vertigo, but the pool view is perfect.

Matt’s Picks

Solage Calistoga

Situated along the route of the old Pony Express, The Lodge at Red River Ranch outside of Teasdale, Utah, blends rustic and regal perfectly. My heaven: curling up with a book in front of the crackling fire in the three-story Great Room.

Every year my wife and I spend time at Solage Calistoga, a klatch of individual (and uber-modern) cottages nestled on the outskirts of Calistoga, California. We ride the complimentary bikes all over town. Then we luxuriate in the spa.

Even if it weren’t one of the most eco-friendly resorts on Earth, The Lodge at Sun Ranch in Cameron, Montana, would still be among my faves for its great fishing, sustainable cuisine, and the best bird-watching outside of Alaska.

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Sizing Down

Flying out of big airports these days can be so impersonal—the ticketing kiosks, those different boarding groups, and the newsstand cashiers that hardly speak English. With the same Cinnabons and Starbucks, the big boys also look and feel the same.

Perhaps this is why I love departing and arriving at the Charles M. Schulz Sonoma County Airport in Santa Rosa, California, near my home.

Never mind that the airport itself (Code: STS) is named after the guy who invented Peanuts. The place is so tiny that both security and the boarding area reside in a double-wide trailer, and said trailer doesn’t even open until 45 minutes before the scheduled departure time.

I was reminded of how small my local airport is recently, when, on a ho-hum puddle-jumper flight to Los Angeles, the lone TSA guard stopped me in my tracks.

“Mr. Villano, we haven’t seen you in a few weeks,” he said. “Did your wife have the baby yet?”

“Um, not yet,” I replied, dumbfounded that he a) remembered me, b) remembered my wife and c) remembered that my wife was pregnant. “And it’s good to see you, too.”

This fellow and I proceeded to hold up the security line and cook the kasha (that’s “chitchat,” for you gentiles) for the next two minutes, covering subjects ranging from the weather (of course) to the on-field struggles of Barry Zito, a pitcher for the San Francisco Giants.

Then, I was off.

I’ve experienced similar small-town charm in other small-town airports. Years ago, for instance, at the Gustavus Airport (Code: GST) in Gustavus, Alaska, the same woman who helped unload baggage from my Alaska Airlines flight kindly drove me to the Glacier Bay Lodge, saving me the 7-mile hike in the rain.

Last year, at the Helena Regional Airport (Code: HLN) in Helena, Montana, the bartender at Captain Jack’s Bistro & Bar bought me a drink while I waited for a buddy to come pick me up.

Elsewhere in this great nation, I’ve turned a rental car attendant into a hiking partner at Canyonlands Field (Code: CNY) in Moab, Utah, and been hugged by a pilot at Owensboro, Daviess County Regional Airport (Code: OWB) in Owensboro, Kentucky. (Don’t ask about the hug; it involved a nail-biter of a UK game.)

The bottom line is that while the spiraling economy and a trend toward homogeneity has sucked all the character and romance out of the international airport experience, I am happy to report that eccentricity and joie de vivre remains alive and well at small airports across the country.

I’ll now pay extra to avoid the big-boys. Call me crazy, but that little extra panache goes a long, long way.

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The Great Scent Escape

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Stonington, Maine. Photo by Jenna Schnuer.

It was best to stand with your heels hanging off the edge of the concrete, your toes just touching the metal of the vent. We pushed our faces forward a bit to catch the stream of air escaping the vent behind the library at Boston University. It smelled of books. It was the condensed version of the library’s extensive collection of volumes on African history, of the complete works of Shakespeare, of the texts on contract law, broadcast journalism, and biographies of key members of the Dada art movement. They had all joined together and moved to the vent. It was their great scent escape.

It’s been years since I thought about that vent. It was behind the library, on a grassy strip that most students favored for daytime bikini bathing but that my friends and I took for our own at night. It grabbed hold of me yesterday, the place and scent so right there, when a friend posted a link to “in the library,” a perfume by Christopher Brosius.

Though scent frequently pops to mind when I think about the steamed lobsters, cinnamon rolls, or warm biscuits I’ve devoured while on the road, I rarely think of the scents connected to places. So, yesterday, I closed my eyes and just tried to open myself up to the aromas–good and bad–attached to past trips. While I didn’t set a rule for myself that I could only waft away to U.S. locations, I noticed that those were the scent memories that filtered in first and strongest. There was a brief thought of the migraine-inducing bus exhaust fumes from a trip into the mountains of Ecuador but it felt distant. The scent of used goods along the route of the Highway 127 Sale. The brininess of the waterfront in Stonington, Maine, just after the sun had slipped out of sight. The slight muskiness of the pilot who took me up in an ultralight plane just outside Fairbanks, Alaksa. Those poured in and, along with them, a quick mental video show of each trip.

Smell is one of the greatest memory triggers around yet it rarely plays a role when people tell each other about their travels. We can show each other photos. We can play back the sounds of a place. But to really get a person to understand the scents of a place, they have to go there on their own or buy a high-end scented candles. So, perhaps, scent is a secret key back to places we love. It lets us keep part of the trip just for us. Moving forward, I’ll be sure to take more notice of it.

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The Mean Streets of Kalamazoo?

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Little Ronnie Howard must have been singing about a different Gary, Indiana in The Music Man.

A-B-C-D-E-F-G-H-I got a gal, in Kalamazoo.

Don’t know that song? Do yourself a favor and burn eight minutes on the video clip below. Delicious. (And if you bail before the Nicholas Brothers go into their dance, we can’t be friends anymore.)

How could any place with a whimsical, singable name like Kalamazoo be mean? But according to the National Law Center on Homelessness and Poverty, and the National Coalition for the Homeless, it’s the sixth meanest city in the United States when it comes to arresting instead of helping homeless people.

Lots of moral and socioeconomic implications to this list, of course, but if you don’t mind, I’m going to swim in the shallow end here.

Kalamazoo, really? Some town and city names sound so steeped in Norman Rockwell, so pickled in Mayberry, that I get my feelings hurt a little when they show themselves to be only human, as it were.

To be fair, the NPR article linked above points out that a Kalamazoo has been highlighted for good reasons in other places–This Old House magazine likes Kalamazoo’s old houses, for example. That’s nice.

But still…

Though it was more than 30 years ago, I remember vividly my disappointment driving through Gary, Indiana. This grim, industrial burg is what little Ronnie Howard lisped about so fetchingly in The Music Man? No, surely there must be another Gary, Indiana somewhere, one that doesn’t have the scent of industrial waste hanging over it. My heart broke a little bit that day.

Well, I guess that’s what travel is about–laying waste to stereotypes … for better or worse.

But that girl in Kalamazoo really should stop being so mean.

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