Rollin’ on the river

We’ve hauled some barges in our day
filled with lumber, coal and hay,
And we know every inch of the way
from Albany to Buffalo
        -- William S. Allen, circa 1880

Long before the invention of the wheel, man discovered a means of transportation that remains unmatched, in certain regards, to this day.

I take you back to a time not long after fire became an important part of daily life. Along with food, water, and shelter, fire was one of the critical elements for survival back in the day.

Our hero, let’s call him Oog, is one of those classic pre-historic types whose village is located alongside a river. One of Oog’s jobs for the good of the village is to gather wood and to tend to the all-important community fire.

Well, Oog has learned that bigger logs burn longer and ensure that the fire won’t go out if left untended for a few hours. So, he males it his practice to gather several large chunks of timber each day.

Oog has also learned that dragging wood downhill is a lot easier than hauling it up. Fortunately, the river is in a valley (duh!), so the lumber tends to reside uphill.

In the process of transporting fuel, Oog might well have invented the wheel. Had he been able to find unbent lengths of wood, he could have rolled them downhill and one thing might have led to the other; but that’s another story for another caveman.

Anyway, one day Oog spotted a nice chunk of pine along the bank of the river. He put two and two together and realized that this prize had arrived on his front porch by simply drifting downstream. He began watching for such gifts from the water gods and became adept at snagging floaters.

The qualities of water make transporting heavy objects much more manageable. For one thing, the water supports all of the weight of any buoyant cargo or container – this virtually eliminates the impact of gravity.

And water offers very little resistance. “Dragging” objects through water requires far less energy than sliding them overland. And when the destination is downstream, no energy is needed at all – thanks to gravity, it’s a free ride.

Meanwhile, back in Oog’s village: The supply of driftwood was not adequate to meet the village’s needs. So, one sunny morning, Oog wandered upstream and pushed a nice chunk of fallen timber down the bank and into the river.

It first plunged beneath the surface, but quickly bobbed back into sight and then, wonderfully, began moving toward Oog’s village – requiring no effort at all on Oog’s part.

That historic piece of future firewood became the first bit of cargo ever transported deliberately from point A to point B via a waterway. Oog instantly became the world’s first shipping magnate.

Inevitably, Oog – or one of his descendants – must have hopped aboard one of the logs and taken a ride home. This was the first cruise line and Oog or Oog II was the first river pilot.

For hundreds of years before settlers came to America, natives used rivers and streams to transport people and cargo. The abundance of natural waterways created countless navigable trails all over the east and Midwest. Fewer, but no less significant waterways existed in the far west and other regions.

This concept, floating objects downstream, no doubt occurs to most people when they’re children. Toss something into a stream and it will travel. It’s fun to watch and provides free entertainment for days on end.

But those of us who grew up in locales where rivers and streams are scarce may be a little dense when it comes to grasping these ideas.

I do remember floating miniature watercraft down the gutter when a neighbor’s lawn sprinklers were left on too long and a quarter-inch of water flowed a few hundred feet to the storm drain. But water adventures of greater magnitude were the stuff of fiction – in stories about Tom Sawyer or Mike Fink.

Walking alongside a canal in eastern Illinois this week, I finally got a sense of the important impacts waterways have had – not only on this continent and in modern times, but going back through ancient history (remember the Roman aqueducts?) and into pre-history.

Like fire, water has a hypnotic effect on people; and, in addition to being essential for life, it’s a powerful tool.

I can outrun, outshoot, throw down, drag out and lick any man in the country.
        -- Mike Fink, Keelboat Pilot

                     Disneyland

Impeccable taste? It’s all in the eye of the beholder

Are you warm, are you real, Mona Lisa?
Or just a cold and lonely, lovely work of art?
        - - Ray Evans, 1950

Some wanderers eagerly travel long distances at great expense to see “the original.” After a bit of chasing such dreams, I’ve concluded that, for the most part, such enterprise is folly.

My mind was finally made up in Eau Claire, Wisconsin when I discovered a reproduction of Michelangelo’s Mona Lisa painted on a brick wall a couple of stories above a rubble-littered dirt lot. The masterpiece was partially obscured by power poles and wires; and it struggled, alone, to overcome the tired, drab exterior of the building and surrounding environs.

On the other hand, it represents an amazing commitment to art.

Someone, for some reason, accepted a daunting challenge: simply painting a mural twenty feet above ground presents some difficulty; dealing with a substrate comprised of old, chalky, largely oxidized and no-doubt filthy paint must have required extensive surface preparation, perhaps sand-blasting or other methods of abrading the aging surface; finally, the artist creating this reproduction had to overcome what he or she must have known would be a common reaction, namely, “Why put that classy painting in this crummy part of town?”

My epiphany began as I contemplated this scene and maneuvered for a suitable angle to take a photo. I found myself torn between a shot that played up the artistry and one that highlighted the context.

Back in my room, I examined my results. The photos did seem to support my thesis: the clutter creates a sort of “aesthetic noise” that diminishes the impact of the art. This led to stage two of my ephiphany.

It occurred to me that the quality of the reproduction was probably enhanced by the fact that it was enlarged and then viewed from a distance. The many cracks and scratches that normally stand out when the 400-hundred-year-old painting is seen up close are invisible from 100 feet away. From afar, the image appears to be flawless.

Millions have traveled to Paris to view the masterpiece in the Louvre and millions more came to look when it was on display in Washington, New York, Tokyo and Moscow last century.

But, it occurred to me, the all of these observers have been forced to deal with at least as much aesthetic noise as surrounds the replica in Eau Claire.

Michelangelo did not create the thousands of cracks and scratches that blemish the surface of the painting. These flaws do not reflect his talent – in fact, they are a terrible distraction, the painting has been defaced by time.

If the artist saw the painting as it appears today, would he not be disgusted by the condition of a work he spent five years creating?

Skilled art “restorers” have removed foreign substances from the surface of the painting; but none have dared to fill the cracks and scratches.

So, I did it.

I downloaded a good copy and “PhotoShopped” it to remove the flaws. I brightened the colors just a bit – mostly reducing what I thought was a yellowing that had taken place over time.





Now I have a version of the painting that I believe more closely resembles the original. I’m no longer distracted by the flaws. Say, Mona was a looker, wasn’t she? And a good deal younger than I had thought. She cleans up nicely.

A few million dollars of redevelopment money might remove the piles of rubble, power poles and wires that rob perfection from the Eau Claire version; a minute or two of digital photo manipulation transformed the old gal into a fetching young beauty.

At least that’s the way I see it…

Gene, Gene, helping machine

Gene Williams could have come from Minnesota or Wisconsin. He’s one of those genuinely nice people I’ve been lucky to meet in my life. He projected kind of quiet, unassuming confidence that was empowering for a 25-year-old in his first management job.

Gene was the extension agent for Conejos County – a rural, low-income area in the south end of Colorado’s San Luis Valley. He obtained funding for a summer youth recreation program and recruited students from nearby Adams State College.

I was fortunate to be a graduate student there and was happy to take a short-term job coordinating Gene’s summer program while seeking permanent employment.

He gave me a free hand; I gained practical experience planning, organizing, staffing, coordinating, budgeting, promoting and evaluating a first-year operation. I learned a lot from the experience and am certain that it made the difference when I was later hired as director of a year-around program in western Colorado.

I was kept busy attending to my duties – in addition to spending more than 40 hours each week in Conejos County, I also worked six nights at Radio Station KGIW in Alamosa – so I didn’t have much opportunity to observe Gene at work. But, it was obvious that he was in one of those nearly impossible “all things to all people” kinds of jobs.

An extension agent serves as a resource to farmers and ranchers in his or her region. That means any question related to agriculture and the business of agriculture was in Gene’s purview. One moment he could be tackling a question about nutrition for lambs and the next a query about maintenance and repair of windmills.

I carried a lunch to work with me, and when I was in the office during a meal break, I read some of the hundreds of brochures and booklets Gene kept on hand. These represented only the tip of the iceberg, of course, and the agent was always ordering more reference materials from the Department of Agriculture or various Land Grant Universities.

Fortunately, the world is full of folks like Gene Williams, people who calmly, quietly and efficiently help others for fair, but unspectacular pay and far too little recognition.

Today, communications technology makes it possible to get help from sources far from home and 24 hours a day. But there will always be a need for friendly, patient, responsive and dedicated local experts who are not only willing to go the extra mile, but are trained to realize when it’s necessary to do so.

As I’ve traveled through rural areas, memories of those weeks in The Valley have returned to me. Those memories include the image of Gene, planning 4-H Club activities, preparing mailings, taking calls and spending most of his time out of the office, collecting soil or water samples, counseling farmers and speaking to community groups.

I’ve had the opportunity to meet and observe a range of public officials, including many politicians. I believe most of these individuals truly want to make a difference.

They could learn a lot from people like Gene Williams. He showed me that a good public servant is really little more than a good neighbor who has the time and ability to perform good deeds all day, every day.

A rainy day and Monday

Rain is falling straight down outside my third-floor room. The scene is just wonderful: a wide three-panel window revealing a small back yard with a very narrow inclined slope of brush leading into dense forest.

Now the wind has kicked up and the rain cooperatively shifted from vertical to a slight diagonal. Just as suddenly, the downpour settles into a serious drizzle, at an angle somewhere between the very strident right-to-left and the waterfall-like 90 degrees.

I’ve opened the window so I can take in sounds along with the sights . As I did so, I noticed the streetlights come on across the way – it’s dark enough for the light-sensitive switch to activate.

The not-so-distant sound thousands of raindrops striking thousands of leaves as water cascades down through the branches becomes stronger as their size and number increases.

Thunder interrupts the steady patter. It’s less likely that I’ll see lightening with all of the trees blocking my view. I’m hearing three forms of thunder: the sharp, bowling-alley shockers; the rolling, growling variety; and the someone’s moving furniture upstairs type.

I’m in the Midwest and can expect summer rain off and on for the next weeks – perhaps all the way into fall.

I don’t mind. The timing is sometimes better than other times. Today’s precipitation party is very well timed indeed. Not only did it wait until after weekend activities, which included a little barbecue action to celebrate Father’s Day, but it also waited until afternoon – allowing me to complete an outing before lunch.

I’m perfectly happy to be “trapped” in this grand building. I have many options ranging from staying alone in my room, to sitting by the fire downstairs, to joining other storm-lovers in an enclosed or open porch, to reading in the library with a view much like the one I’m enjoying now.

I know what my temporary neighbors will say when I join them: “It’s really coming down; but we sure do need it.”

Comings and goings

After the ball is over
After the break of morn
After the dancers' leaving
After the stars are gone
Many a heart is aching
If you could read them all
Many the hopes that have vanished
After the ball
        -- Charles K. Harris, 1892

I drove down to Carson Park early this morning and watched as the carneys came to life after a long, hot weekend.

It’s no wonder that so many were sleeping in. Most of the work that had to be done in preparation for moving on was undertaken as soon as the last customers left – in the cool hours after midnight and before dawn.

These travelers live in a rather elaborate camp – almost a village -- on the perimeter of the carnival grounds. Many stay in large campers or trailers and obviously enjoy most of the comforts of home; others are crammed into sleeping units, two people in each of a half-dozen tiny rooms jammed together in an 18-wheeler-sized rolling apartment house that offers only enough room to sleep and get dressed.

I wanted to engage some of these early risers in conversation, but they weren’t very responsive. At first, I thought they were suspicious of my motives, then I thought they were just naturally secretive or aloof; but I finally realized that these folks were simply dog-tired. They had worked long hours all weekend in high heat and humidity and then stayed up most of the night packing and loading.

Had I known that the dismantling of rides and other activity relating to packing and preparing to move on was underway, I might have ventured down to Half Moon Lake here in Eau Claire, Wisconsin late last night…to watch.

Most major events require a lot of planning. Those who come to participate or watch are unaware of the many details to which organizers must attend – unaware, that is, unless those details are NOT attended to.

Not having enough porta-potties, not having enough amps or watts for power, not ensuring that there’s adequate parking, not preparing for the size crowd that shows up, and not planning for emergencies can all lead to disaster.

One of the biggest event-disasters of the 20th century was the Woodstock music festival. Planners missed by a mile on virtually every estimate they made. 60s-era folks remember the event with fondness; but it was a planning disaster.

Even when events come off just as if planned by the A-Team (who “love it when a plan comes together”), it’s fun to watch the set-up and tear-down – well, maybe not fun for everyone, but fun for Wandering Dave.

Though there’s typically little talk, and workers seem to be moving about at random, the work gets done – and quickly.

Maybe it’s the here-today-gone-tomorrow nature of events that appeals to me. I like things with finite beginnings and endings.

By now, most of those carneys are probably en route to their next destination. Singing “On the Road Again,” they’re hoping for cooler temps and lower humidity when they drive in stakes and begin the age-old cycle once again.

Under other circumstances, I might be feeling a twinge of envy; but I’m a vagabond, too. Maybe I’ll see them in Middleton next weekend.

A bit of Fathers Day philosophy

I can't for the life of me
Remember a sadder day
I know they say let it be
But it just don't work out that way
And the course of a lifetime runs
Over and over again
        -- Paul Simon, 1972

From Sophocles (Oedipus) to Shakespeare (Hamlet) to D.H. Lawrence (Sons and Lovers) to Paul Simon (“Mother and Child Reunion”), literature is fill of references to the parent/child relationship.

The “sadder day” came for me not really as parent or child, but rather as observer at an attempted mother and child reunion that took place during the days following my wife’s death in 1999. I watched as two members of my family, who had been estranged for years, came together to mourn and – it seemed – nearly set aside their grievances and embraced the potential benefits that come with reconciliation.

The parent-child connection is obviously our first relationship and arguably the most important. And it’s also incredibly complicated and fraught with danger. Few, if any, parents can claim to have not made significant mistakes while rearing their offspring; and few, if any, of us can honestly assert that we have been perfect children.

According to my informal -- but rather extensive -- research, the most common reason for retired people to sell their homes and relocate is to move closer to one or more of their children.

I’ve observed dozens of children as they interact with aging parents and have seen a range of conduct that spans the gamut from heart-warming to heart breaking.

Some of the best of these observations have been of relations between fathers and sons. When there is affection, respect, a long history of shared experience and tolerance, the resulting interaction reminds me more of friendship than anything else.

I never had a friendship with my own father. In Hollywood terms, he sort of played a minor role in my life story. He was more of a character actor with few lines who occasionally advanced the plot but, in the end, who proved to be neither antagonist nor protagonist.

I hope to play a supporting role in my son’s life. Seven or eight years ago, I made an observation that I believe improved and advanced my relationship with Jesse: I realized that he is a good deal more intelligent than I and, in many ways, more capable. He has proved to be a real friend to me in times of need and I have learned to depend on him – and to enjoy doing so.

The two of us are as different as were my own father and me – but I’m hopeful that our friendship and bond of love will grow as the years go by.

Trusting my son – including trusting his judgment and ability to make the critical decisions in his own life – frees me to offer advice without being overly “parental.” I hope that I achieve that goal more often than I fail.

I believe that most of us fathers share the same wish on this day: that our children find joy in their lives; and that we are able to bask in the wonderful glow of that joy.

Best wishes, fellow fathers.

I don't give a hang what he does
As long as he does what he likes!
He can sit on his tail
Or work on a rail
With a hammer, hammering spikes!
He can ferry a boat on a river
Or peddle a pack on his back
Or work up and down
The streets of a town
With a whip and a horse and a hack.

He can haul a scow along a canal
Run a cow around a corral
Or maybe bark for a carousel
Of course it takes talent to do that well.

Aha-ha-ha-ha!
He might be a champ of the heavyweights,
Or a feller that sells you glue,
Or President of the United States,
That'd be all right, too
His mother would like that
But he wouldn't be President if he didn't wanna be!
        --“Carousel,” 1945

Peoples is peoples

Big city, hmm? Live. Work, huh? But. Only peoples. Peoples is peoples. No is buildings. Is tomatoes, huh? Is peoples, is dancing, is music, is potatoes. So, peoples is peoples. Okay?
        -- Pete, Muppets take Manhattan, 1984

“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation,” declares Henry David Thoreau in Walden. I admire that early-19th century environmentalist and philosopher, but I’m not sure I agree with this generalization.

Thoreau just as famously said, “If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.”

Must we not, in fairness, apply this logic to conformists just as to non-conformists? Are so-called “ordinary people” necessarily “desperate” -- or even “ordinary,” for that matter?

I’m meeting a lot of people on this trip; most of them certainly appear ordinary on first glance. Some of the many dozens whom I’ve met during 122 days on the road have been documented here; a few appear in the Wandering Dave photo gallery or as part of audio recordings in the Podcast channel.

But, I’m only sharing a fraction of what I experience and I’m realizing more and more that I am actually getting to know only a few things about a few people – I’ll see thousands of individuals during my trip, but will only get to spend a few minutes with a few hundred of them.

During nearly a year on the road, I will spend well over 1000 hours eating meals with others. I’ve already dined with three or four hundred souls and have heard some really great stories.

I’m making a point of engaging people in conversation and may end up conducting a lot more hours of interviews this year than Larry King will.

In other words, the most significant aspect of this trip has become contact with people.

After four months on the road I can safely say that even if I did nothing else, this trip will prove worthwhile because of these conversations.

I am uplifted by the people I meet. They restore my faith in humanity. They remind me that human nature is far more good than evil; and, given the opportunity, most folks will do the right thing.

Oh, I’m not expecting to find ultimate wisdom; that may well be an unrealistic hope in any circumstances. But I am gaining insight; and it is refreshing to hear voices from locales other than Wall Street, Washington and Hollywood.

We see way too much of people who don’t represent the mainstream: entertainers, politicians, crooks and others who seem determined to call attention to themselves.

I am finding comfort in the smiles and kind words of strangers. I am gaining enlightenment from personal stories, told without bragging.

Perhaps this quiet eloquence that describes what has given meaning to others’ lives will help me find meaning in my own.

What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculties! In form and moving, how express and admirable! In action how like an angel! In apprehension, how like a god! The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals!
      -- Wm Shakespeare, Hamlet

A man, a plan a canal: Minnesota

Show me a state with more than 10,000 lakes and I’ll show you a state with poor drainage.

One advantage wanderers have over stuck-in-the-mud types is that we see the big picture.

OK, I’m being whimsical, but consider three facts: (1) there’s a surplus of water in some parts of the country; (2) there’s a shortage of water in other parts of the country; and (3) since Jefferson sent Lewis and Clark out to find it, we’ve dreamed of a waterway from the east coast to the west

Doesn’t that suggest something to you?

Of course it does! We simply dig canals to connect navigable bodies of water all the way from Minnesota to southern California. Move that extra water where it’s needed and – as a bonus – move cargo along with it.

Better yet, a new industry may emerge: cross-continental canal cruising! Wanderers will be able to see America without leaving the comfort of their luxury liner cabins. Imagine looking at golden waves of grain from a deck chair aboard the Prairie Princess!

Now, don’t start talking about the details – such as digging canals through the Rocky and Sierra Mountains; that kind of negativism didn’t keep Teddy Roosevelt from moving forward with that “impossible” Panama project a hundred years ago.

Think big, do big things.

C’mon, folks, grab a shovel!

Too far to go?

It was a golden autumn day, the town as traffic-troubled, as neon-plastered, as cluttered and milling with activity as any other up-and-coming town … I drove through the town as usual, seeing little but the truck ahead of me and the Thunderbird in my rearview mirror. It’s bad to have one’s myth shaken up like that.

This is how John Steinbeck described his passage through Fargo, North Dakota. Since childhood, he had considered the town to be a romantic location – a frontier town that enjoyed an extreme climate, “kin to those magically remote sports mentioned by Herodotus and Marco Polo.”

My experience, earlier this week, was quite similar – if shorter in duration. I scooted past the city on a four-lane bypass at 60 or 70 miles per hour. I hoped to make a brief stop at North Dakota State to thumb my nose at the Bison (whom my San Diego State Aztecs defeated in football back in 1966 and replaced them in the small-college rankings); but before I knew it I had passed the last exit without having seen a signpost directing traffic to the campus.

Steinbeck complained throughout his trip about heavy traffic in cities. I share his limited sense of direction and am increasingly grateful for my handy GPS system. Despite frequent missed exits, I no longer get lost; the machine simply re-calculates my route and I always reach my destination.

But even the GPS can’t completely remove the sense of stress I feel in city traffic. Everyone else seems to know where he or she is going – and they all want to get there in a bit hurry. I feel like some sort of obstacle and find it hard to relax and enjoy the scenery.

Just before knifing through Fargo, Steinbeck dropped in on Sauk (pronounced “sock” Center, Minnesota. Heading in the opposite direction, I hit the two towns in the reverse order.


I believe the famed writer was very much affected by thoughts of his own mortality when he pulled into the birthplace of a former colleague, Sinclair Lewis. Lewis was older and had become famous earlier. Steinbeck obviously had great respect for the Sauk Center native; and this visit provided some foreshadowing for a later stopover in Steinbeck’s own hometown on the West Coast.

Steinbeck chose to recall rather sad memories of Lewis, including their last meeting when the older man said, “I seem to be always cold. I’m going to Italy.”

Italy is where Sinclair Lewis died – apparently alone, as Steinbeck reports with obvious sorrow.

Noting that Sauk Center enjoyed a steady stream of tourists since Lewis’ death, Steinbeck noted, “The only good writer is a dead writer.”

Setting aside this rather morose outlook, I enjoyed my short visit to Sauk Center. The visitor’s center included a very informative display of memorabilia and information; and a very appropriate and professionally produced video provided a clear exposition.

I drove a couple of miles farther away from my route to visit Lewis’ boyhood home. I drove down Main Street (the title for his first book) and took a look at the lake. Walking on the lawn and into the back yard (where a detached garage that the writer converted to his literary purposes still stands) I got a little of that feeling one sometimes experiences knowing that something amazing grew in that spot.

Across the alley from the garage/workshop, neighbors have painted a mural over an entire wall of their house. They were sitting in the shade on a large concrete slab that comprised their back yard, all in plain view of visitors like myself who might wander behind Lewis’ house to see the shed.

I took a step toward these neighbors, who seemed by virtue of the huge mural to be inviting attention. But I noticed that they had only two folding lawn chairs set out – one for each of them. That seemed rather inconsiderate to me, for some reason, and so I refused to set foot into whatever snare they may have laid for readers and wanderers.

Thoughts about fame and fortune, about life and death and hospitality and exploitation filled my head as I returned to the interstate and made my way to the Twin Cities. With a pair of writers who occupy a category to which I don’t even aspire along for the ride, the miles sped by and I completed my longest drive of the trip with ease.

Living in the past

One of the best ways to learn history is to relive it.

Usually, this requires a combination of knowledge and a good imagination.

It definitely helps to visit the scene. Even hundreds of years later, the topography is usually the same and, in lucky circumstances, buildings and other artifacts either remain in place, have been recreated or can be examined in photos or artwork.

Historical novels are wonderful tools for gaining insight. Even when some major characters and minor events are fictionalized, most writers attempt to remain true to history; some even provide notes to help readers separate truth from invention.

Kenneth Roberts, of “Northwest Passage” fame, won me over when I was a teen. I gobbled his books. I first learned from Roberts that there are gray areas in history. For example, before he was a traitor, Benedict Arnold was a Revolutionary War hero. We didn’t lose the war because of his treachery; but we might have lost had he not served valiantly before becoming our most famous turncoat.

Movies, including the 1940 film version of “Northwest Passage” starring Spencer Tracy and Robert Young, made history more palatable; but movies can’t include the kind of detail novels are known.

In many ways, it’s hard to top a live performance by a talented thespian who is playing the part of an historical figure. Such events benefit from carefully crafted designed to maximize dramatic appeal while presenting a factual and meaningful account of past events.

The first on-stage impersonator I became aware of was Hal Holbrook, who began playing Mark Twain more than 50 years ago, when he still needed makeup for the part.

I’ve been educated and entertained by a number of professionals. They helped me understand (and like) Walt Whitman, Thomas Jefferson, Harry Truman, John Muir, Teddy Roosevelt and others.

But my favorite form of visiting the past is reenactments. I’ve been in both British and Rebel camps during the Revolutionary War; I’ve visited with southern and northern soldiers during the Civil War; I’ve been to western round-ups; and to gold rush boomtowns.

Saturday, I visited Lower Fort Garry – a recreated outpost of Hudson’s Bay Company on the Red River north of Winnipeg, Manitoba. There, a few dozen college students, and others, portray characters from the mid-nineteenth century.

Sharing the fort with only a few busloads of elementary school students, I had the opportunity to speak with several re-enactors one-on-one. Usually remaining in character, they displayed an impressive command of knowledge and were able to extrapolate from the facts to help me gain insight into both historical and modern day Canada.

Though I was never confused about what century I was in and didn’t “feel” like a pioneer or an employee of the HBC, walking among the buildings and picking the brains of those who are spending the summer immersed in history made for a day I’ll long remember.

Find out more about the fort by visiting http://www.pc.gc.ca/garry. And take a look at the excellent Wikipedia entry: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lower_Fort_Garry

Am I talking to myself here?

Is anybody there? Does anybody care?
Does anybody see what I see?
I see fireworks! I see the pageant and
Pomp and parade
I hear the bells ringing out
I hear the cannons roar
I see Americans - all Americans
Free forever more
        -- Sherman Edwards, 1776, 1969

Hello!

Hello, out there…

… it’s me, in here.

I know you’re there; but you never SAY anything.

Will somebody please say something?

Hello!

For years I’ve been telling everyone I can that the Internet is the biggest and best thing to happen to communications since language. That’s right, LANGUAGE -- not the printing press or television or even the alphabet.

Advances like those other contenders made the mass media possible. But the traditional mass media had a significant flaw: it was a one-to-many proposition. The only people who could reach the mass audiences were those rich enough to afford a press or broadcast studio.

But the internet changed all of that. Suddenly, the communication became one-to-many-AND-many-to-many. Every Tom, Dick and Harriet is now able to compete with those rich folks for the attention of mass audiences.

Here’s how it works…

Somebody composes a message and puts it out in a format similar to this blog entry. By using the Internet – which is effectively free – this first communicator’s output is immediately available to any of the hundreds of millions of folks able to get to a connected terminal.

But these recipients can now click on the word “comments” at the bottom of the original message and, PRESTO, their reply is now available to the same audience.

That’s right, when somebody thinks an internet writer is full of baloney, they can tell her so – and tell all of the other readers at the same time.

Now, what could be more democratic than that?

And yet… And yet…

Though the database indicates that people are coming by this Wandering Dave site – and one would think some of you must be actually reading what I’m laying out here – very few of you are clicking on “comment” and letting me (and the rest of the audience) know what your 2 cents worth is.

It’s lonely out here on the road, my friends. So, how about letting me know just how far off base I am with some of the crazy ideas I share with you all? All you need do is click on the word “comments” and you’re in control of the message.

That’s right – it’s just below this paragraph. Do you see it? Now, CLICK it!!

A rainy day in Winnipeg

Talkin' to myself and feelin' old
Sometimes I'd like to quit
Nothing ever seems to fit
Hangin' around
Nothing to do but frown
Rainy Days and Mondays always get me down.

What I've got they used to call the blues
Nothin' is really wrong
Feelin' like I don't belong
Walkin' around
Some kind of lonely clown
Rainy Days and Mondays always get me down.
        -- Paul Williams and Roger Nichols, 1970

I don’t have an umbrella, poncho, raincoat or even a decent hat with me on this trip. Preparing for inclement weather, in my opinion, empowers it. The weather isn’t taking charge of MY trip of a lifetime.

As anyone who has explored this web site knows, I’m not a great photographer. But I do know a few things about the art form; and rule number one for shooting events is to grab an image as early as possible.

A news photographer who gets out of his car and sees towering flames a few hundred yards away may race toward the inferno only to find that, in the seconds taken to get closer, firefighters had knocked the fire down and only wet, smoldering ashes fill the viewfinder.

“Grab a snapshot,” new Photogs are cautioned. “Sometimes you only get one chance; so don’t wait to find the perfect angle. Film is cheap.”

Of course, we use digital imagery today and, with rechargeable batteries, it’s hard assess any costs at all – beyond equipment. My camera’s memory card holds hundreds of photos; I have an itchy trigger finger.

The best thing about stormy weather is the wonderful contrast one enjoys when looking out the window. Sitting in a warm, dry room; nestled in a soft, comfortable couch or easy chair; ideally, perching near a blazing fire with a steaming cup of hot chocolate; listening to the beat of raindrops on the roof; and watching trees dance in strong wind. Ah! Life just doesn’t get much better than this.

A deal is a deal

Workers were busy setting up for a children’s festival at “The Forks” near downtown Winnipeg this morning. A few kids were on the scene; one busload of single-digiters paraded into the Children’s Museum.

The Forks is actually a single fork – the Red and Assiniboine Rivers meet here, making the Manitoba capital city a vital geographic location.

A huge suspension bridge loomed in the distance and I set course for a vantage point from which I might take photos.

While in pursuit of that goal, I spotted a crowd. Drawing closer, I saw they were in a line, snaking along for 75 yards or so and disappearing around a corner.

My first impression was that these were prospective workers lined up to apply for jobs related to the festival. My characteristically weak observation skills failed to alert me to the fact that nearly all of those queued up were Native Canadians.

I asked a bystander what was going on.

“They’re here for their five dollars,” he replied.

I pressed for details and learned that a 125-plus-year-old treaty provided tribe members with a five dollar “annuity” in addition to other items. Most of the goodies, including land, tools, animals and other things useful for farming, were provided just once; but the five bucks had no expiration date.

As a light drizzle began to fall, I wondered why these folks bothered to stand in line for a couple of hours, or more, for a measly half-sawbuck. I spoke to several people, but really didn’t get a satisfying answer.

Replies ranged from, “I have nothing better to do.” to “It’s a way to get together with friends.”

It occurs to me that the real value of hundreds or thousands of descendents showing up every year for hat was promised is notice that “a deal is a deal.” After all, their ancestors gave up huge tracts of land – basically most of what lies between the Great Lakes and the Rocky Mountains – in return for what many might say was a pittance. Benefits continue to accrue to those who gained ownership; why should they not continue to flow in the other direction?

My grandmother worked part-time for the YWCA in Canton, Ohio. By the time she left, she had qualified for a small pension. The association offered a multiple of the monthly allowance to buy out the pension; but Grandma refused. She happily collected that pension for twenty or thirty years. A deal is a deal.

It’s hard for an American to express criticism toward the British and Canadians for their treatment of the “aboriginals;” after all, our record is far worse – including a period when many Americans accepted the slogan: “The only good Indian is a dead Indian.”

Contrasts between the histories of Canada and the U.S. are striking. Our great civil war, the conquest of Mexico in pursuit of land in the southwest and adventures near the beginning of the 20th century that appear to be pretty imperialistic in retrospect.

Despite the weather and the long line, those waiting for their annual payment seemed to be in good spirits. There was plenty of conversation, including frequent laughter. A number of children were present.

I’m deciding that this celebration of the past, present and future is a good thing for everyone – including visitors from other lands who may gain insight from seeing promises kept in a context that hasn’t always been consistent in that regard.

Good for those who braved the elements and gave up half a day to make that point. May they and their children’s children continue to appear each year for as long as the grass grows and the nearby Red River flows.

Drive and go seek

Captain Flint and his cut-throat crew,
Had a great big pile of treasure on board!
Paid for with the blood of innocent men!
These buccaneers of the very first class,
Had made a massive mighty hoard!
They murdered once, they murdered twice, they murdered again!

What to do with this booty,
To keep it safe and sound?
Stuff it under the mattress?
\Or keep it in the ground?
It’s safer in the ground! Yo!
        -- Fifteen Men


Here I sit, alone and far from home (N 37° 19’53.61” W 120° 28’38.69”).

It’s impossible to become “lost” anymore – as long as your GPS device is in working order, that is. Between Navigator™, Google Earth™ and Mapquest™, there’s little excuse for not knowing where I am and where I’m going – in very specific terms.

is the longitude and latitude of the building I’m occupying right now. Yesterday I hopped over to N 49° 51’11.69” W 099° 58’28.48” to meet with a group of geocasters who were gathered in a Brandon park to celebrate their hobby.

Variations of Hide and Go Seek have been popular since the start of time. The thrill of finding something is one of life’s great joys. No doubt a hungry cave dweller invented the game while trying to keep a neighbor from absconding with some tool or morsel of food.

21st century treasure maps used in GeoCaching are little more than a set of coordinates plus a clue or two. And the treasure is often just a trinket of no real value plus the chance to add your name to a list of those who have managed to find a hidden container, or cache.

Armed with one of many available models of GPS devices, cachers venture forth in search of one or more of hundreds of thousands of hideaways. Locations vary from easy-access roadside sites to challenging nooks and crannys in settings way off the beaten path.

Veteran hobbiests boast having uncovered dozens, even hundreds of jars, cans, refrigerator boxes and other containers.

Rules exist, varying a bit between organizations or events. One need only search for “geocaching” on the net to find an opportunity to get involved. But don’t try this without a GPS device – without help from outer space, searching is impractical.

I learned about this hobby before leaving California and felt the appeal of leaving a trail of Wandering Dave business cards in my wake as I travel from state to province to state.

With the challenges involved in maintaining a multi-channel web site, I decided to pass on caching. But yesterday’s assembly nearly changed my mind.

Like most people who are drawn together by shared interests, the folks I encountered near Brandon’s Assiniboine River were friendly and eager to share tips and tricks of the geocache game.

There were plenty of children and animals in attendance. This is clearly a great family activity, involving outings into natural settings. The kids probably don’t see the irony in the fact that their parents are excited about playing high-tech hide-and-go-seek, but they certainly come in handy combing the area surrounding coordinates and finding the hidden treasure.

I met travelers like myself who combine road trips with caching; and others who focus mostly on locations near home.

Despite the appeal, Wandering Dave is going to avoid getting too excited about this hobby. I have trouble finding my keys when they’re in my pocket; I’ve already “lost” my PDA four or five times – fortunately only temporarily, so far.

I may seek some roadside sites along my path for the next few weeks, just to test the waters; but if my previous efforts are any indication, I’m not going to be very good at this game. And I tend to get frustrated when I can’t find something that is apparently right under my nose.

Geocaching notwithstanding, I’m completely sold on GPS technology for navigation. And I’m always interested when someone invents a new game that exploits new technology, particularly when combining it with activities that have already survived the test of time.

. . . 98, 99, 100. Ready or not, here I come!

Luck trumps talent in warfare

“We need to get into the multipurpose room.”

I looked up at an intense fellow who seemed out of place at the community recreation center. He reminded me of an attendee at a Star Trek convention – sort of like a nerd on steroids.

I glanced at the schedule and discovered that the room was, indeed, reserved for the morning by a group cryptically identified as “War Games.”

“Don’t worry, we have the room reserved all right. We have it every Sunday.”

The fellow’s tone seemed a bit combative, as if he was ready to go a few rounds with me to fight for access to this public facility.

“Right,” I assured him. “I see you here. ‘War Games,’ isn’t it?”

“That’s us,” he replied. “We need to get in right now.”

“Sure.”

I was a substitute, my usual post was at one of over a hundred elementary-school playgrounds operated by the City of San Diego’s community recreation program. My usual clientele was school-aged children; but I occasionally picked up a few extra bucks working at rec centers on Sundays or other times the ‘grounds were closed.

I was well aware that leisure activity spans a huge range of interests, including all kinds of hobbies. This war gamer was an example from a category I refer to as “fanatics.”

The term isn’t perjorative. Most of us are fans of one thing or another and when we display our enthusiasm, we may appear foolish to the uninitiated. Sports fans are famous for outrageous clothing – sometimes including make-up – and conduct that is excessive, to say the least.

I gained some insight in to the mind of a war gamer that morning when I fumbled with a large ring of keys, trying to find one that would unlock the multipurpose room.

A second fellow appeared on the scene and the two war mong – er, I mean war gamers – began discussing the kind of weapons that could blast a hole in the door blocking their access to the building.

Motivated by their graphic descriptions of “loosing hell,” I renewed efforts to get them inside. They both had suitcases with unknown contents and I wasn’t interested in becoming a part of the “collateral damage” that might result from their application of military force to my door-opening challenge. The term “weapons of mass destruction” had not yet come into popular useage; but I the general idea was coming clear to me.

Finally inside, I watched as more club members arrived with their own suitcases and the group began unpacking model tanks and other combat equipment along with little trees and buildings. They laid out these items in a configuration intended to recreate a famous World War II tank battle somewhere in Europe.

Rows of golf tees were created, oriented point-side-up, to represent smoke screens, lines of infantry and other items that went into the mix.

The idea was to recreate the conditions that existed at the beginning of a battle and then give the players freedom to utilize alternate strategies to determine whether different outcomes were feasible.

After more than an hour of setup punctuated with arguments over the specific makeup and capabilities of various units, the group finally retired to the edge of the room where they opened books of probability tables and prepared for battle.

Despite all of the history, science and application of military tactics involved in laying out the playing field, a winner still couldn’t be determined solely by applying formulae. In the final analysis, the war gamers had to take unexpected factors that can’t be easily quantified into account. In war, it seems, the final outcome is often a matter of chance.

These unknown and unknowable variables were brought into the process after everyone agreed which side had more firepower, a better topographical position, better leadership and a superior battle plan.

The odds favoring success improved with greater numbers, more firepower and superior placement, as along ridges or under cover; but better odds don’t guarantee victory – as any gambler can attest.

After an hour or two of careful recreation of the battle scene, the combatants reached into their suitcases one more time and brought luck into the mix.

They rolled a pair of dice to see which side would prevail.

Wander-envy

I wave my hat to all I meet,
And they wave back to me,
And blackbirds call so loud and sweet
From ev'ry green wood tree.

High overhead, the skylarks wing,
They never rest at home
But just like me, they love to sing,
As o'er the world we roam.

Oh, may I go a-wandering
Until the day I die!
Oh, may I always laugh and sing,
Beneath God's clear blue sky!
        -- Henri Rene, 1954

“I spent about 45 minutes looking at your web site last night.”

The words were spoken softly; the man seemed almost shy. But his eyes sought mine with an intensity that’s becoming familiar to me; it was a look of longing.

An aura of freedom and adventure seems to surround me in the eyes some of those I encounter on the road. They envy my life without roots and responsibilities. I am accountable to no one and burdened by none of the daily chores and other routines that characterize life lived in place.

More people than we may suspect have the vagabond spirit, the desire to be somewhere other than here. Eyes search the horizon, seeking, perhaps, a point of exit – the pathway to alternatives with unknown outcomes.

Eighty- and Ninety-Somethings have smilingly suggested that they’d like to come along with me. Their smiles reveal that they are not serious; their eyes say they wish they could be.

As the person who is actually living the life others are idealizing, I’m reminded a bit of the underpaid fellow seen scooping up elephant droppings at the end of the circus parade. Asked why he didn’t quit this demeaning job, he replied, “What, and give up show business?”

Of course, the reality of my adventures is a lot more interesting and pleasant than shoveling elephant dung; but it’s not as inviting as the idea of being on the road. This road trip fantasy, often glamorized in books and movies, is a powerful magnet; but reality rarely lives up to fictionalized accounts.

In literature, travel often serves both as a context and as a metaphor for life. Life, of course, is also marked by a beginning, uncertain encounters and an even more uncertain and mysterious ending.

As I wander, my focus seems to be divided between the constantly changing landscape and population that I encounter on the road and the ideas that are being awakened and enhanced by the travel experience.

I’m bombarded by new places and faces and, other than my few possessions and the links provided by technology, I am the only constant.

Many of my fondest memories relate to travel. Time on the road with loved ones leads to enhanced intimacy: relationships are isolated in the context of being away from familiar landscapes and routines.

Perhaps “getting away” presents the best opportunity to get in touch with oneself and with travel partners.

My life on the road – which is still in the early stages, provides a lot of stimulation; but it also provides time and opportunity for reflection.

Maybe this thing called “wanderlust” is really all about the desire to find oneself. Not knowing exactly where we are, it only makes sense to venture forth.