Reno: Odds makers and Weather Forecasters

This brief foray into Nevada - - included in my itinerary almost as an afterthought - - may be memorable to some degree as a bit of a gamble.

Weather reports from a week ago indicated that I would be taking a chance by attempting to cross the Donner Pass without snow tires or chains. And, as it turned out, I was fortunate to make my way over between snowstorms.

Snow has been the dominant topic of discussion and concern ever since. Yesterday, an increasing and steady snowfall continued into the night, blanketing everything under two or three inches of the white stuff.

But the morning brought blue skies; and the melting process has revealed large patches of brown linked by black streets and white sidewalks.

Two questions remain: What’s happening in the mountains between here and Redding? What does Mother Nature have in store for me during the next 48 hours?

Regardless of the outcome, I believe I’ve already beaten the odds and am in a win-win situation. There are few sights that compare with fresh snow on a clear, brisk morning and today I had the chance to drink in such a sight.

Today before breakfast, I enjoyed the crunch of snow and thin ice under foot and the wonderful contrast between a clear blue sky and snow that not only coats horizontal surfaces but clings to the branches of trees and becomes lodged in every conceivable nook and cranny created by nature or humans.

For some reason, I feel more alive on a day like today. I’m not sure what that means; but it’s a sensation I first identified in those terms in the winter of 1967 when I lived in San Luis, Colorado.

That year, I walked to the post office each morning and never tired of stepping into depressions that had been puddles the day before but were now crowned by thin layers of ice that shattered pleasantly beneath my boots.

Most mornings were much cooler than today; one didn’t dare breathe deeply because the frigid air caused pain when forced too far into the lungs.

But nothing can improve upon that wonderful combination of clear, blue (unpolluted) skies and fresh, clean, whiter-than-white snow. It must have been on a morning like this that someone decided that the ultimate in pristine-ness could be summed up as being “pure as the freshly driven snow.”

I’ve been kept away from the historical and cultural wonders of Northern Nevada this week by the natural wonders created by the angle of the earth and by the luck of the meterological draw.

A few days ago I wondered whether I might have left Merced a month too soon. But then I might have missed this glorious day – and the excitement I’ll enjoy wondering what the odds are that I’ll find clear and open roads for my journey back into California.

More than 2,000 years ago, Julius Caesar stood with his legions on the banks of the Rubicon. He turned to his soldiers and announced, “the die is cast.”

My little foray back over the Sierra Mountains is insignificant by comparison. But my fate on Thursday - - just like on every other day - - depends, in a large part, on luck.

I’ll see you in Redding.

Is this ride worth an "E" ticket?

Every time Lucy offers to hold the football for a placekick, Charlie Brown is suspicious, but he invariably decides to trust her.
And every time, as he plants his left foot in anticipation of a perfect attempt, Lucy pulls the ball up over her shoulder and denies him the pleasure derived from sending the ball skyward.
Poor Charlie always ends up heels over head, sprawled in a disappointed and disillusioned heap on the turf.
Why does he subject himself to this repeated disappointment and indignity?
"Hope springs eternal," one might argue. Charlie Brown is a classic optimist, always hoping for the best and recognizing that it is possible that this time Lucy will poise her index finger atop the pigskin and allow him to experience that satisfying THUMP as the ball sails aloft in a classic trajectory.
"He'll never learn," another might counter. Only a fool repeats the same behavior again and again, each time expecting a different outcome.
Sales people love finding well-intentioned, good-natured, trusting people like Charlie Brown -- flim-flam artists love them most of all. They often refer to such folks as "suckers" and they celebrate P.T. Barnum's observation that there's another born every minute.
But it seems to me that "suckers" like Charlie Brown are often more generous and helpful than the more cautious types. They are quick to lend a hand; more interested, perhaps in doing than in deciding.
When I heard that Santa Rosa, California is the home of the Charles M. Schultz Museum and Research Center, my ears perked up (like Snoopy's?).
I suppose I identify a little with Charlie Brown -- I was shaped rather like him as a child (still am, unfortunately), and I was equally inept when it came to sports and romance.
But, as I noted earlier, Charlie is a bit of a sucker. And I was raised to not be taken in by the flim-flammers.
So, when I learned that admission to the museum was $8, I balked.
I was reminded of a visit to Disneyland back in 1968 with a now-former brother in law. We were discussing our itinerary when Lester looked up from his packet of ride coupons and asked, "Is that ride really worth an "E" ticket?"
Now, I knew from several previous visits to the Magic Kingdom that we would receive a ticket book with finite numbers of "A" through "E" tickets. The number of rides that corresponded with each ticket was greater than the number of tickets provided. So, choices had to be made.
It was permissible to use a higher-level ticket for lower-value rides, but not vice-versa. And Lester was noting that an "E" ticket was good for any ride in the park and should be considered the most rare and valuable ducat in the pack.
During the succeeding three or four decades, I've adapted variations of Les' question to situations like the Schultz Museum. Is, I wondered, admission to a museum dedicated to a comic strip really "worth" eight of my hard-earned dollars?
Now, I can afford the price of admission. Since I travel alone, my costs in such instances are literally a fraction of those facing others. A family of five, for example, must pony up not eight, but 31 bucks for a stroll through the facility. My decision is as much a matter of principle as of principal.
I delayed my final decision regarding the museum and strolled across the street to the gallery and gift shop which were located next to the ice arena (Schultz was a big hocky fan and built his own rink).
Looking at the price list as I passed by, I noted that the same family of five would be dinged another $56 if they decided to add a couple of hours of skating to their outing (paying $12 for the adults and teenager and $10 each for the two younger children).
After viewing dozens of items in the gallery and checking out hundreds more of rather pricey souvenirs (stuffed Snoopy dogs are clearly the big draw this year), I decided to check out the snack bar.
Well, the (you guessed it) Snoopyburger went for $7.50 and soda was another $2.50.
Suddenly, a family that may not have even known there was a Charles M. Schultz Museum and Research Center in Santa Rosa could find itself $137 lighter in the wallet -- more if they purchased memorabilia or fries with those burgers.
Now, I suspect that Charlie Brown wouldn't have balked at the cost, that he'd have gone into debt before disappointing Mrs. Brown and the little Brownie kids. And it's hard to argue with the assertion that "you only go around once and must grab opportunities as they present themselves...
But, an "E" ticket for the Charlie Brown museum?
Good Grief.

Stormy Weather

Snow continues to fall and uncertainty about weather conditions is making me leery of going siteseeing -- even into downtown Reno's casino region. Much of the time, medium-to-large-sized flakes of snow drift toward the ground. When they hit rock or asphalt they tend to melt quickly; but they are sticking to grass, plants, parked vehicles and rooftops.

I've enjoyed conversation with residents of the Sky Peaks facility and have been given permission to print a version of a column created by the editor of a building newsletter. But my general sense of well-being has been disrupted a bit today.

First, I would have liked to get out of the building and am feeling a bit cowardly for not venturing forth in what is really a very mild storm.

Second, I've now failed to convert some raw audio data into a radio clip for the second time. I am discovering that creating a minute of produced programming takes about an hour. Unfortunately, it also takes an hour to FAIL to produce a minute of useable product. I'm six or seven hours into part two of a series of pieces involving Paull McCoy of Santa Rosa, but find myself pretty much at ground zero.

It's all pilot error, I fear. I'm just not getting better with the software and hardware. I've made mistakes that have resulted in lost data and chopped up results.

I'm attempting to be philosophical about the time spent -- realizing that it's likely that I'll get better at this and wil one day look back with some kind of nostalgia at this time of fumbling with the dials and switches.

Meanwhile, I'm closing the studio for the afternoon and concluding that today is not a good day for radio clip production.

The Legend of Snowshoe Thompson

by Mick Mikkelson
Reno, Nevada

Flat land didn't interest John Thompson. So, when the U.S. government needed someone to deliver mail in the Sierra foothills, he eagerly applied for the job.
Thompson had emigrated from Norway at age 10. He tried farming, but he couldn't stop gazing at the mountains. He was under their spell and had to find a way to create a life high above the valley floor.
He gave gold mining a try but was still looking for his destiny in 1856 when, before his 29th birthday, he noticed an ad in the newspaper seeking applicants for a mountain mail carrier.
He was determined that he could fill the position and to demonstrate his unique talents, he chopped down an oak tree and carved out two skis - - each weighing over 12 pounds. He referred to the skis as snowshoes.
Thompson also cut a 10-foot pole for balance, direction and braking; he then mapped a route between the towns of Genoa, Nevada and Placerville, California - - a distance of some 90 miles.
When Thompson applied for the job, the postmaster was skeptical.
"Even men with mule trains fail to make the trip over the Sierra in the dead of winter," he told the would-be mail carrier. "We found some frozen to death."
But no one else applied for the position and the postmaster had little choice. The man forever after known as "Snowshoe" Thompson assumed responsibility for covering 25 to 40 miles each day, skiing through all kinds of weather and conditions.
The heavy mail sack made the job more difficult and Thompson's skis were cumbersome; so he traveled light, carrying only crackers, bread and dried meat for sustenance.
Blankets and coats would have been too bulky, so he depended on his exertion to keep warm.
Though he had carefully plotted his route, Thompson carried neither a map nor compass.
Nothing could stop this rugged mountain man. No blizzard was severe enough nor temperature low enough to make him call it quits, and the legend of Snowshoe Thompson lives on.
He is believed to have been the first person to ski in California and Nevada; and he was the only man to carry the mail between foothill mining towns in the winter months between 1856 and 1876, the year of his death.
A magnificent statue stands in the grounds of the Mormon Station State Park in Genoa commemorating the accomplishments of this Norwegian immigrant who yearned for life in the Sierra Nevada.

Snow Day!

White roofs, a sugary dusting of plants and ground and tiny specks of white lazily drifting earthward greeted me a few minutes ago when I raised the blinds from my cozy third-floor room.

I'm overlooking a sort of inclined courtyard whose major feature is a rocky riverbed. Water isn't flowing at present, not because of freezing, but it's obviously intended for erosion control during heavy rains and this tiny amount of snowfall will most likely either soak into the earth or evaporate in place.

Crossing Donner Pass yesterday, I saw lots more of the white stuff -- trees were laden with it and occasionally let go of clumps that landed with "plops' I could almost hear from inside my noisy Saturnl. Drifts were deep and tightly packed banks of snow sometimes towered over me featuring Grand Canyon-like strata indicating "geologic eras" representing the successive passage of snow plows over past weeks.

My own little layer will likely be gone later today -- current forecasts indicate that daytime temperatures will be too high for this fragile layer of 32-degree H2O.

Not enough for a snowman -- it would even be hard to scrape up a decent snowball. "But this is my first snow in a number of years and that makes it significant.

To those readers who will see no snow in their flatlanders' towns and cities I say -- "too bad for you."

Reno is lovely under a sheet veil of white lace.

I'm having a great time; wish you were here.

Home again in a strange new town

While sitting in the lobby following a delicious dinner (featuring baked salmon, rice, salad, vegetables, dessert and both hot and cold beverages), it occurred to me that I may have discovered the very best possible method of travel.

Because I reside in a facility owned by a huge corporation, I have travel privileges that allow me to stay free at other company-owned facilities throughout the U.S. and Canada.

Oh, and meals like the healthy and hearty one I’m now digesting are included at no charge.

Many of these facilities were built according to variations on a single theme. That means when I drive into the parking lot, I already know where to enter and how to locate the managers to get my room key. I don’t need a guide to find my room, or the dining room or other amenities including library, game room, computer lab and activity room.

I have been greeted with friendly enthusiasm at each of the seven facilities I’ve visited to date (just two, of course, on the current trip), and have felt immediately at home and at ease.

In fact, since I suffer a bit from back pain while on the road or while sleeping in a strange bed, I’ve actually left my room a few times in pre-dawn hours still dressed in my bed clothes and have sat quietly in an easy chair or at the end of a comfortable couch while the pain eased a bit.

When I moved into my home facility ten months ago, I was told about the company philosophy. “This is your home,” said my guides.

As we toured the facility, I jokingly asked, “Is this my big-screen television? And “Is this my computer lab?”

In both cases, I was assured that I had full access to all of the technology and other amenities. That I could have family and friends visit and only needed to notify the managers if I needed special accommodations.

Hot coffee is available 24 hours a day as are cold drinks and fruit. The facility is filled and surrounded by comfortable furniture. Residents are allowed, even encouraged to keep pets and are often seen walking them around the lovely grounds.

My point? Well, the feeling of being at home seems to be very transportable. I have no concerns about security or safety and have discovered that residents are curious about me and my trip and make me feel very welcome and comfortable.

I can spend as much time as I wish in conversation with others; conversely, I can stay in my room – they will even bring meals to me if I’m feeling a bit under the weather.

Imagine. Room service! And tipping is strictly forbidden.

Staying five days in each facility is beginning to seem like too little time. I’m meeting dozens of new people each week and would enjoy getting to know them better – but time flies and I must be on my way.

It’s nice to know that I’ll be back home again on Saturday. This time back home in Reno.

Where in the world is Antioch?

"Ante, Ock!"
The black-clad riverboat gambler snarled at a native American who faced him across the poker table. "Throw in some chips or I'm gonna deal you out."
A few seconds earlier, a passenger standing at the nearby railing, had gazed at the shore and asked her husband, "Where are we, dear?"
A third passenger was sketching a rough map of the area and entered what he mistakenly believed was the response to the woman's query: "Antioch."
And that, I was told, is how this riverfront community got its name. "Ock," according to my source, was the chief of a local tribe who was known for his slow play at the poker table...
Antioch, CA -- As a journalist, I consider it my professional duty to apply a healthy dose of skepticism to just about any statement. But it doesn't take much of a skeptic to recognize that the "Ante, Ock!" explanation for the naming of this burgeoning delta community just doesn't ring true.
Fortunately, local residents -- most notably, members of the Antioch Historical Society -- have done their homework and created an alternate account that seems better able to bear scrutiny.
Predictably, the shoreline that now marks the northern border of both the City of Antioch and Contra Costa County created a natural and logical path for native Americans, including more than one tribe of Miwoks (but probably no Ocks) who were enroute to and from the Bay.
Fish were plentiful in waters that reversed course each day with the tides and there's little doubt that nets were cast from shores that are now part of the city. Then, as now, the area is dotted with wetlands; a huge range of wildlife certainly occupied territory now filled with malls, schools, roads and housing tracts.
The first non-natives to arrive were Spanish explorers who conducted expeditions through the delta nearly 250 years ago. But early settlements leapfrogged from the Bay Area into the Central Valley and the Sierra beyond; and the process of "in-filling" didn't begin until the mid-19th century; it continues today.
Having dispensed with the legend of a poker-playing chief named Ock as the town's namesake, we are next offered a tale involving the Smith brothers.
WOO-OOOH-WOO-OOOH!
The skeptic's alarm sounds again as visions of cough drops and bearded brothers dance in our heads.
But then we're told that these were two OTHER brothers who came with their wives to seek their fortune during the gold rush and ended up applying their skills at tailoring and homebuilding to create an infrastructure that soon led to the first stages of the aforementioned in-filling.
In addition to being tradesmen, both brothers were ordained ministers and when the time came to name the settlement they founded, "Antioch" seemed to be a good choice.
Considered by many to be the birthplace of Christianity, the Syrian Antioch was where the apostle Paul reportedly began his work.
Once named, it took about 20 years for the settlement to grow to a population of 1,000 and another half-century to surpass 10,000. But when land closer to the Bay filled up with increasingly expensive housing, property that had formerly been agricultural began giving way to neighborhoods and the number of souls in Antioch doubled about every 20 years.
Today, with over 100,000 residents, the city is alternately referred to as the "Gateway to the Delta," RiverTown," the "Heart of Contra Costa County," "A-Town" and even "A-O" by some high schoolers. It's a blend of riverfront, historic western town and bedroom community and seems destined to continue growing even as traffic and other impacts begin to threaten the quality of life.
The city is bristling with new opportunities; and newcomers provide funding for schools and other civic facilities. But there is an underlying concern that growth may not be good just for its own sake and that more density may lead to new problems, including a higher crime rate.
Like many, perhaps all, 21st century cities, Antioch is discovering that these are the best of times and the worst of times.
Like most, perhaps all communities, Antioch is lucky to have a large majority of friendly, caring, hard-working and concerned citizens.
Most travelers never pass through Antioch and the world pays little attention to the goings-on here along the San Joaquin River. But this is the whole world for children growing up in one small corner of California and those who live here are challenged to make this the best Antioch it can be.
"Now, shut-up and deal."

Moving right along...

        Tomorrow, after a leisurely breakfast, I will steer the Saturn toward the rising sun, passing the scene of the accident that got things off to such a positive start, and then turn north once again onto Highway 99. I’ll be enroute to my second destination: Auburn, CA.
        I’ve enjoyed my time here, but am eager to move on. Auburn is the county seat of Placer and its history is tied to the gold rush. The word “placer” may come from Spanish, meaning “sand bank.” Thus, a “placer mine” is located in the bends of rivers, in hollows, in sand dunes and in other locations where sand is deposited by water.
        I’m expecting opportunities for photos of old buildings; but I’m also hoping for the unexpected – deposits of the kind of gold I’m seeking that will inform me about the people and culture in ways most tourists don’t see.
        I’ll be keeping my eyes open and hope to have plenty to report as I continue this adventure.
        Tomorrow is Day Six!
        So far, so good.

‘Wanderer’ crosses paths with Lodi teen

Just ten minutes after I arrived in town, it appeared possible that my friends’ predictions about Lodi might be right.

“Why stop in Lodi?” they had asked. “Why start a trip of 15 thousand miles with an insignificant 70-mile hop?

“And what in the world do you plan to do for five whole days in that God-forsaken outpost?”

Well, for me, stopping in Lodi seems the perfect way to start my 12-month trek through the U.S. and Canada. This trip isn’t about landmarks and famous attractions; it’s about lifestyles and ordinary people. I’m expecting a rich and rewarding experience even though I’ll pass within a few hundred miles of several major tourist attractions without paying them a visit.

As I see things, it’s perfectly logical to fly in the face of common sense and to voluntarily become stuck in Lodi for the better part of a week. What better way to make my point? I figured120 hours in Lodi will prove that anywhere is a likely location for discovery and adventure.

That logic had me eastbound on Kettleman Lane, just a mile short of my first night’s destination, where I bumped into Logan Stelmacher, 18, who was at the wheel of a pickup truck riding high on four huge wheels.

The tires on that truck are so massive, in fact, that they protrude beyond the body, forming rubber buffers along the sides.

Now my 1995 Saturn creates a far less imposing profile. It’s a rather nondescript vehicle with wheels that look like toys next to Logan’s big donuts. But the Saturn does have one redeeming characteristic, flexible doors and fenders.

Allow me to reconstruct the Kettleman Lane Incident.

With me in his blind spot, Logan eased into the right lane. His mighty right front tire encountered the pliable outer shell of my front door - yes, just inches from my frail body.

Huge treads grabbed at my side mirror, hoping, perhaps, to gain purchase so the truck could complete a transit across my windshield and hood. But the mirror snapped off and the tire never left the ground.

The force of impact compressed the outer wall of my door. Just as suddenly as the two vehicles had come together, the inevitable equal-and-opposite-reaction followed and we sort of bounced apart. In retrospect, it wasn’t an altogether unpleasant sensation, the two vehicles sort of brushed against each other, little harm done.

Two years ago, I was involved in another collision. This one occurred in Ontario – in the heart of the “Inland Empire.” I was stopped at an intersection when a young fellow ran into me head-on. I’ll never forget the look on his face before he shifted into reverse and took off in a classic hit-and-run maneuver.

But Logan, as I was to learn over the succeeding half day, is a different sort of young man. He continued driving only until he reached a clearing where, rather than accelerating, he slowed to a stop and jumped down from his cab.

Seeing this lanky young fellow coming toward me in the early evening with a big tattoo on his shoulder gave me pause. Frankly, I expected a bit of a confrontation – most of us tend to react with anger when we make a mistake; we tend to search for a way to blame someone else for our error.

But Logan’s first concern was for my well being.

“Are you O.K. sir?”

I looked into his clear eyes and believed instantly that he was truly concerned. He quickly admitted that he had been at fault, “I just never saw you,” he said.

He carefully – and quite legibly - - wrote his name, address, phone, insurance company and policy number on a slip of paper and waited politely for me to gain my wits.

This act of deference meant a lot to me. I’d only just met this young man but I had a good feeling about him. So, I suggested that he might prefer that we not involve the police or even our insurance companies.

He was obviously very pleased - - I’d say joyful- -and thanked me profusely.

“Now,” I began, “how do you think we can best get my car back in service?”

We agreed to meet for lunch the next day and he promised to do some legwork in the meantime. He called me an hour later to announce that he’d made some progress and was confident that we could effect all necessary repairs in short order.

The next day, during lunch, I learned that Logan is a bit of a daredevil. He enjoys risk-taking and will, in just a few months, take that trait to the limit as he begins training that will lead to his becoming a Navy Seal.

As I watched and listened to this young man describe his life and his plans for the future, I realized that my decision to choose the path less taken was already proved valid. Lodi will be a highlight of my trip not because of its history or natural beauty, but because it introduced me to Logan and a couple of his buddies who spent the afternoon “buffing out” some rubber tire marks from my door and replacing my mirror.

It was a minor incident in Logan’s life, just a few hours spent with an old guy and his little car and about ten bucks for a Pep Boys mirror. But for me, it was a chance to connect with one of the millions who will look out for me in my old age. They’ll keep me on the road, keep me fed and clothed, entertain me and - - in the case of Logan and hundreds of thousands of others who hear the call to duty - - keep me safe in a dangerous world.

Thanks, Logan.

And, Hey! Lodi! I’m glad I met you!

Crashing in Lodi --- Really! CRASHING!!

        He didn’t exactly come out of nowhere – it was a four-lane street and he simply sideswiped me. I felt, more than saw, the huge vehicle slide into mine and knew immediately that this was not a serious accident.
        My little Saturn seemed almost to bounce off of the big four-wheel-drive pickup. The truck was high off the ground, atop giant wheels.
        In fact, those enormous rubber doughnuts, combined with the plastic body of my car were the reason I had that bounce perception.
        Upon inspection, it was apparent that nothing but rubber had contacted the Saturn. The truck literally “ran over” my driver’s side mirror, pretty much demolishing it; and it left treadmarks on the door as it attempted to climb onto the roof.
        Fortunately, my young attacker had good reflexes and brought his monster truck under control before it could pancake the Saturn and all of its cargo - - including me!
        A late start combined with a stopover south of Stockton for a soda and stretch, put me on Kettleman Lane just after dark. My GPS-powered PDA told me I had just over a mile to go and all seemed well with the world.
        I was prepared for adversity. Over the past weeks, dozens of people have reminded me that travel cross-country is frought with danger.
        I’ve given their input a good deal of thought and a stock answer emerged; “I’m ready to take things as they come.”
        Weather, road construction and detours, problems with reservations, mechanical failure and even traffic accidents are all part of the deal for travelers and I believe I was and remain ready for any that don’t’ prove fatal to me or the Saturn. In fact, if the Saturn dies, I may get a replacement and continue the trip.
        As mentioned above, I was certain seconds after tonight’s collision that it was not a trip-killer. And I knew that I had five days in Lodi to get the car ready for the drive to Auburn.
        So I wasn’t a bit angry or even much concerned as I climbed out of my car and greeted the young fellow who had been driving the truck. I noted his “wife beater” shirt and broad tattoos, but something in his manner put me at ease and we never exchanged an unpleasant word.
        In fact, I was quite impressed by the way he conducted himself – he deferred to me in the initial stages of our interaction and then assumed a leadership role when I encouraged him to become the problem solver.
        We agreed that the only real damage was to the mirror and he offered to get that fixed. Moreover, he said he had access to tools and supplies that could erase the black rubber marks from my door. I’m a bit ambivalent about that as they could serve as a significant artifact of the trip; I’ll have to see them in the daylight to determine whether, for me, the historical and artistic value merit keeping them as a sort of symbol of my surviving the perils of Kettleman Lane in Lodi.
        I’m certain that my new young friend would have much preferred that my little car hadn’t ventured into his blind spot at such an inopportune moment; but I must confess that, pending any unforeseen hitches in tomorrow’s efforts to replace the mirror, I’m rather happy about the whole thing.
        When you get your motor running and head out on the highway looking for adventure in whatever may come your way, you better be ready to take a few lumps along the way.
        I’m off to a great start!
       

On the road with new media

"Ugh!"
We've come a long way since a sound like that was uttered by one cave dweller in an attempt to communicate with another.
With one word in their vocabulary, prehistoric conversationalists had no need for dictionaries.
"Ugh!" was an all-purpose term -- used as verb, noun or article and serving equally well as an indicator of past, present or future events.
Of course then, as now, humans made use of multiple communication channels.
The word "Ugh!" by itself was ambiguous; but, employing it while ripping a chunk of roasted wooly mastodon out of someone's hands probably meant, "Pardon me, but this is my portion. May I suggest that you get your own?"
Then again, a more demur "Ugh!" crooned softly by a caveman into the ear of that special cavewoman might have signified, "Oh, baby! Oh, baby!"
Inevitably, some innovative homo sapien took up a stick or piece of charcoal and made his point with images, crudely sketched in the dirt, or on a wall.
Later, inks and dyes made it possible to create messages that stood the test of the elements and of time.
Creating that first crude record marked the end of PRE-historic times.
The first image imprinted on a cave wall that survived until modern times constitutes the beginning of history.
Before long, pictures led to pictographs which led to the alphabet and, voila! Writing was born. OK, it wasn't really "before long;" early developments took centuries and there were plenty of setbacks along the way.
But, eventually, we made it to Gutenberg and his printing press; and finally, with the industrial revolution, the modern mass media began to affect our culture in rather amazing ways.
Photography, broadcasting and the recording industry further transformed us. But it took the Internet to finally empower the average person.
Today, with an Internet connection, just about anybody can transmit a message to huge, diverse and widely scattered audiences. And information travels nearly at the speed of light. It truly is amazing.
New media channels have opened in the Internet Age and audience members who are on the cutting edge of communication are drawing from both traditional and new media.
An exciting aspect of this new era of information transmission is that it includes amazing opportunities for two-way communication.
Consumers are no longer relegated to the role of information receivers; it is now possible for great numbers of people to join the discussion -- and, in some cases, to command huge audiences of their own.
As a student of communication, I learned that before the Internet explosion freedom of the press was enjoyed mostly by those rich enough to own a press. Just like books, newspapers and magazines, radio, television and the recording industry also presented high financial barriers to newcomers.
But today it is possible to find free Internet connections -- at libraries, for example -- and to create messages that are accessible by millions of individuals in a worldwide audience.
Now a retired college professor, I have decided to spend most of my time traveling. It occurred to me that an audience might exist for weekly newspaper columns describing my adventures.
It's hard to achieve success with a self-syndicated newspaper column. But I realized that other opportunities exist for me to share messages -- and that I don't need to convince an editor or publisher to provide the channel.
Before long, my decision to travel and do a little writing changed to operating a mobile media extravaganza featuring the use of no fewer than seven channels.
The "magnificent seven" include: this newspaper column; a blog; a photo gallery; podcasts; a map room; a discussion board; and weekly radio spots.
My Wandering Dave web site provides access to all of these outlets; it can be found online at WanderingDave.com.
Of course few people will spend time on all seven channels. But that is actually the point of this venture. In today's media context, senders are likely to miss part of their target if they rely only on one or two channels.
Modern media moguls need not be wealthy or powerful; but if they want to reach mass audiences, they should consider doing so in bite-sized chunks accessible through a combination of channels.
Armed with a laptop computer connected wirelessly to the 'net, an inexpensive digital snapshot camera and a plastic, battery-driven audio recorder, I'm going to be on the road for over a year in the U.S. and Canada. I'm calling myself a "mobile media mogul."
It's a brave new world where the media, once again, is the message. Ride with me.

Taking arms agains a sea of trouble

        Seven men gathered in the computer lab on Tuesday for their monthly meeting. They formed the club back in the 80s and enjoy talking about days gone by . . . you know, ancient history: before the Internet.
        I asked whether my using one of the machines would disturb them and they quickly made me welcome. Their friendly greeting provided an opening for me to pitch the WanderingDave.com website and to invite them to participate.
        When I showed off the map room, one fellow interrupted.
        “You’re gonna need a passport if you want to get back into the United States from Canada,” he warned.
        I smiled. This was a classic moment – an opportunity to be an advocate of truth and of open-mindedness.
        But the situation also presented a paradox. If I countered this well-intentioned but flawed advice with a dose of facts, I might “lose” this audience; but overlooking the misstatement would make me feel as if I were abandoning of my life-long compulsion to set the record straight.
        “I think you may be wrong about that,” I suggested. I was doing my best to follow Ben Franklin’s advice and “use terms of mild diffidence.”
        “I checked with the local official who issues passports and was told I did not need one.”
        Now, I would have been perfectly happy to let that dog lie – I don’t need to be proved right and I certainly don’t need others to come over to my side of every question.
        All I wanted was for my voice to be heard and for those present to recognize that there are two plausible schools of thought.
        But computer-club-member-number-two then chimed in: “No, he’s right. If you don’t have a passport, they’ll turn you away at the border. It’s a new law that went into effect last month.”
        Several others murmured agreement.
        I smiled again – though I suspect that my lips were thinner and some of the sparkle may have left my eyes.
        “Are you gentlemen not willing to admit to the possibility that you may be wrong about this?”
        I knew I was failing the Franklin test; but, believe me, this was a mild response compared with my historical retorts.
        Several remarks about “ignorant bureaucrats” and “it may depend on which crossing you pick” rambled by. I bit my tongue – vowing not to engage these ignorant wanna-be computer hackers in a battle of wits.
        Ah, some of you readers may deduce by my language that I’d already lost the battle for self-control, that I had developed a bit of an attitude. Perhaps I had.
        But one fellow allowed me to extend my silence by suggesting that we look online for the answer.
        Excellent, I thought. This could work out well after all.
        “Beginning January 23, 2007, All persons, including U.S. citizens…”
        Our online researcher began reading from a State Department website. His voice was filled with confidence and authority – here was the official word from the top dogs in our government…
        “…traveling by air between the United States and Canada..”
        OOPS! I was suddenly in a room filled with seven fellows who were suspended from the ceiling, hoist by their own petards. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but I’ll spare you the details.
        I resisted the temptation to say “I told you so.”
        Well, I kind of resisted.
        OK, I didn’t resist at all. I said, “You guys can all line up over there to apologize to me.”
        They took it well – though they didn’t go so far as to invite me to join them for their after-meeting pie a-la-mode…
        I retired to my room with a sense of accompishment. Perhaps these former miscreants will be less closed-minded in the future. And progress requires an open-minded populace. In a small way, I had championed truth, justice and the American way in the second-floor computer lab.
        I suspect that the club members may have talked about me later between bites of pie; but that doesn’t bother me a bit.
        “He didn’t have to rub it in,” one might have said.
        My favorite part would come next, though, when a thoughtful club member would feel compelled to conclude:
        “Well, he was right, you know.”
        Better to be only right than to be only loved. But better still, I know, to be both right and loved.
        I’m working on it, Ben.

True to mine own self

With less than 200 hours remaining before pointing the Saturn north and beginning my trip of a lifetime, it finally became imperative that a decision be made about Wandering Dave.
Who is Wandering Dave?
Ah, that is the question. Am I Wandering Dave, or do I just play him on the Internet? Is he a real person, or a creation designed for the marketplace?
In other words, when it comes to the Wandering Dave project, are the media the message... or is there another message or purpose that transcends the process of communicating?
It hasn't proved to be a simple question. As I've studied the media and their audiences, I've discovered that the most popular messages tend to be the least substantive and vice-versa.
American Idol (30+ million viewers), Deal or No Deal (17 million), and SpongeBob SquarePants (about 4 million every night Monday through Friday) outdraw news and educational programming and offer empirical evidence to support my theory.
Making Wandering Dave a loveable little fat man who rather awkwardly makes his way from place to place while meeting interesting, but always nice and uncontroversial folks would increase chances of attracting and holding a larger audience.
Making people a bit uncomfortable by challenging tradition and community standards is not the best way to create a large following.
After considerable thought and consultation with people I respect, I've made my choice. I'm saying "farewell" to any chance of capturing a mass audience seeking escape or titillation.
My public writing career began with four words: "I kind of clash." Wandering Dave, like his creator, will tend to wonder -- aloud -- why things can't be changed for the better.
In seven days, Wandering Dave and I will be on the road; we'll be traveling together in tight quarters for a year. We have finally had a meeting of the minds and I think we'll get along just fine.
And I hope you'll ride along with us at WanderingDave.com.