Thursday, August 23, 2007
Fishermen Tell No Lies
Trying to Reconcile with Pennsylvania
- Cheesesteak
- The Steelers
- Eat'n Park
- Trout Waters
- Daniel Boone
- Rachel Carson
- Bill Cosby
- Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey
- Gene Kelly
- Tara Lipinski (nah, just kidding)
- Margaret Mead and Tom Mix (salute!)
- Man Ray
- Andrew Wyeth
- Jimmy Stewart
Of course, I should also point out the whole thing about the Constitution being written there blah blah blah as well as the Declaration of Independence blah blah blah and Lincoln delivering his address at Gettysburg blah blah blah. But these three things had little to do with Pennsylvania (well, ok, Lincoln's Danbury Address would have lacked some oomph). Really, Jefferson could have written his stuff in Schenectady and we'd all still be free, happy Americans.
But let's all raise a cheer for Pennsylvania's State Fish, the Brook Trout. Hip hip hooray! And it has two whole counties without traffic lights (because no one stops at intersections?). On the downside, the state has 50 lakes and 2,500 man-made lakes. What's up with that?
And for you gourmands, please note that Pennsylvania leads the United States in scrapple production. Mmmmm mmmmmm (barf). Yes, I know. Spam. I love Spam. But Spam is not scrapple. I'll spample Spam, but I refuse to sample scrapple. Again I say, "Barf."
Residents of Idaho take note: Pennsylvania claims to lead the country in Potato Chip production. When the chips are made of scrapple, watch out, America.
I'll wrap up here with one more shining example of the greatness which can flourish in the cesspool that is Pennsylvania, proving that the most beautiful flowers are born in the stinkiest gardens: Fred Rogers. Sainthood cannot come too soon for the late Mr. Rogers, tireless educator of people (not just children) and tireless proponent of Public Television and this country's need for it.
The following excerpt from Wikipedia tells all:
In 1969, Rogers appeared before the United States Senate Subcommittee on Communications. His goal was to support funding for PBS and the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, in response to significant proposed cuts. In about five minutes of testimony, Rogers spoke of the need for social and emotional education that public television provided. He passionately argued that alternative television programming like his Neighborhood helped encourage children to become happy and productive citizens, sometimes opposing less positive messages in media and in popular culture. He even recited the lyrics to one of his songs.
The chairman of the subcommittee,
John O. Pastore, was not previously familiar with Rogers' work, and was sometimes described as gruff and impatient. However, he reported that the testimony had given him goosebumps, and declared, "Looks like you just earned the $20 million." The subsequent congressional appropriation, for 1971, increased PBS funding from $9 million to $22 million.Thank you, Pennsylvania, for Fred Rogers. Looks like I owe you at least a small apology.
Now let's talk about Rocky Balboa. (barf)
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Some Bears Have All The Luck
Corny, of course.
Watch It, Pal
The Spam Museum is a must-see. From your first spample of Spam to your last dollar spent on Spam merchandise, this place is another example of what America is all about.
Lies and deceit. Because Spam is not ham. Heck, Spam is barely even a food. Yet we love it. Oh, how we love it so! And the people who work there? They are such Spam devotees (and company people to boot) they resist any attempt to wink or nod at the joke that is Spam. Go to England and try to get one of those guards in the silly fuzzy hats outside Buckingham Palace to smile or crack up. They don't. Neither do the employees of the Spam Museum admit that, hey, maybe Spam is kinda silly. And a whole museum dedicated to it? Sillier.
Oh well. Go when you get a chance. For now, go eat your Spamburger and leave me alone.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
The End is Just the Beginning
Saturday, August 18, 2007
All Good Things
At long last, we escaped Montana on Friday morning. Waking at 4 a.m. and on the road before 4:45, we rolled southward on Route 93 to Missoula in the predawn darkness, blanketed by the smoke of half a dozen forest fires. The transmission worked seamlessly, and the boys slept in their car seats. At Missoula, we slipped onto I-90 East and - gulp - what was that? Check Engine light? A vague hesitation in the transmission? Turn the car around! Get back to Missoula before getting stuck in the middle of nowhere, halfway to Butte.
We spent about 90 minutes at Mountain Imports in Missoula, where a certified Volvo technician with over 30 years' experience gave our car the once-over, hooked her up to the computer, diagnosed the hesitation and drip from under the car and . . . and . . . and . . . pronounced us healthy. Phew! Sure, we have two misfiring speed sensors (cause for the hesitation) and a non-functioning catalytic converter, but everything else seemed okay.
Result? I am writing from Rapid City, South Dakota. We put over 800 miles between us and Kalispell yesterday. We said our goodbyes to Montana, its smoke, its car woes, and its serene beauty. We included a stop at the Little Bighorn National Memorial, too, but mostly spent the day making those tracks we had so desperately sought to make for days. H. bought Wyoming postcards and a Sturgis, SD t-shirt to celebrate our ultimate release from the bonds of Montana. We were all smiles watching the antelope of Wyoming out the car windows
The gang is asleep now. And I should be too. We rolled into Rapid City about 9 p.m. and hit the indoor pool/water park, followed by a late dinner in our room. In the morning, not too early, we'll slip down to Mount Rushmore, then onto Wall Drug, the Badlands, and Mitchell, for the Corn Palace.
The car is running well. We are all overcome with a desire to get home.
And now, without much fanfare, and as the S.S. Titanic slips once more under the icy Atlantic waves, I bid you a warm goodnight. More to come tomorrow.
Friday, August 17, 2007
I Am Here to Entertain You
The Good Times Do, In Fact, Roll
People Say We Monkey Around. . .
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Yawn.
He Got the Joke
New Friends
Welcome Back to Kalispell
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
What did you miss?
It has been said, facetiously, that a lot can happen in a year. I’d tell you that a lot more can happen in even just a few days. For it has indeed been more than a few days since my last entry here and quite a bit has occurred.
First, we must remember the unforgettable lines stamped on each copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy: Don’t Panic. Digest those words, make them your credo, yes, even consider having them tattooed in fluorescent ink inside your eyelids.
We arrived in Columbia Falls, Montana, on Sunday afternoon, August 5th, around 2 p.m. After a warm greeting from Paul and Melissa, and meeting their daughter Zadie for the first time, we set to work on pressing matters. Which were? Extracting the fly fishing gear from the car and then lifting the car over our heads and shaking all the bags, toys, and assorted detritus of the road trip loose from every nook and cranny a Volvo offers. The dirt driveway soon resembled the garbage cans you find at one of those do-it-yourself car washes, the garbage cans right next to the industrial strength vacuums. Disgusting. Stuart was soon out on Spoon Lake with “Uncle” Paul in one of the canoes here at the cabin, while Elliot and Toby rejoiced in being set free from the bondage of their car seats.
Monday morning brought our foray into Columbia Falls to buy fishing licenses and to get a feel for what the local waters might hold for the avid fly fisherman. Sprinkled in among the many profanities at Arends Fly Shop was a chuck wagon full of information about the boulders and fast water of the Flathead River. Bull Trout and Westslope Cutthroat Trout run in these water, as well as rainbows deep in fast runs. But there was a clear warning that proved very accurate about the Flathead, particularly the North Fork where we are doing much of our river fishing: The water is “gin clear” and a helluva lot deeper than it looks. That spot where you think you might find yourself thigh-deep is actually going to put you in over your head. The water is that clear.
And what beautiful water. Paul and I were out on the main stretch of the Flathead by afternoon, and though we landed no fish, I did have about a dozen hits from trout of varying size. This was Paul’s first serious effort at fly-fishing and he did well. Since Monday, we’ve spent much of our fishing time, for a number of reasons, out on Spoon Lake casting flies for cutthroat trout, which are in abundance in the water here, as well as the dreaded Yellow Perch.
In other, more breathtaking news, we are suffering the effects of at least two of the five major wildfires raging here around Glacier National Park. Due west, beyond Whitefish, MT, a huge fire roars skyward, sending a steady plume of smoke our way. Pretty sad to see, and it does a fair job of wrecking the views within “super scenic” Glacier National Park itself.
Tuesday we went into the park via the North Fork Road, a washboard dirt road 15 miles long – it took 45 minutes. Much of the drive found the trout-laden North Fork of the Flathead on our right and scorched forest on our left (scorched by wildfires four and five years ago. The vistas were stark and gut-wrenching. The ride was butt-busting. But we eventually made it into Glacier and down to MacDonald Lake, where we ate a picnic lunch before the afternoon was washed out by an enormous thunderstorm. No rain fell on the fires (not that it was enough to help anyway), but it was enough to ruin our planned hike.
In the evening, Paul and I ventured onto Spoon Lake in the canoe, fishing from after dinner (7:30) until sunset (9:45). As the sunlight finally broke from the horizon, we were swarmed by the most insistent squadron of bats I have ever encountered – bats which swooped across the bow of the canoe and swirled between Paul at the bow and myself at the stern. The result? Well, I have never paddled a canoe faster in my life. Bats were still dodging our swinging fly rods as we bolted from the shore for the door of the cabin.
Creepy.
This morning we once more drove into Glacier. This time on a paved road. And Volvo struck again. After leaving the booths where the Park Service collects its fees, two warning lights came on in the dash – the transmission was misbehaving. Badly. We were in two cars and the Savelles tried to soldier on over the insistence of the blinking warning lights. Eventually, the weakened transmission (going in and out of “limp home” mode) forced us to abandon our plans within Glacier once more. In the afternoon, Paul followed me as I drove the Volvo into Kalispell to the nearest capable transmission specialist. Nick at Flathead Transmission Services was unable to diagnose to problem, but sent us on to Celtic Motors, where they specialize in Celtic cars. No. Actually, they specialize in Beamers, VeeDubs, and Volvos. At Celtic, they’re nearly positive, once again, that our problem is a faulty sensore. But we won’t know until THEIR diagnostic computer is back from being repaired, possibly a few days.
Not to worry, folks at home. We have some time to spare, and have plans to rent a car and spend the weekend down at Yellowstone and Grand Tetons. If there are major problems with the car, my “friends” at Volvo can expect a court date. And a car I once loved is now slated for the auction block. Seriously. Enough is enough.
Anyway, we’re in fine spirits and continue to have a great time. The landscape out here is awesome, truly, and Spoon Lake itself is home to dozens of loons, which wake us with their haunting morning call. At the far end of the lake a nearly-mature bald eagle has made its home, and we have seen mule deer just a few yards from the front door. Standing on the deck overlooking the lake in the early morning or anytime between 6 p.m. and sunset, you can see the circular ripples made on the surface of th water by rising trout. And despite car trouble, we’re going back to the park as well as heading out for still more wading/fly fishing on the incredible North Fork of the Flathead. And why not? Today, Paul caught his first fish on a fly. Good for him.
Honestly, don’t let our car trouble worry you. We’re not letting it. It’s simply adding some drama to a saggy blog.
And did you guess there’s no WiFi (or Internet to speak of) at the cabin?
The Wilderness
The Volvo is in Kalispell, awaiting a new transmission, due to arrive today (we have been told and we trust this is true). As soon as Celtic Motors gets the new tranny, they say they'll start putting it in.
Meanwhile, we have spent two days in Yellowstone, a day tooling around Bozeman, and find ourselves in Butte once again, thanks to our rented VW Jetta (now as messy and stinky as the Volvo was).
Anyway, this is a short entry. Internet access was spotty in Livingstone and non-existent in Columbia Falls. I have a lot to tell you when I get time. Maybe tonight, from either Missoula or even Kalispell.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
No Corny Titles Here
The Volvo broke down. Twice. Currently, we're driving a rented VW Jetta for a weekend at Yellowstone before heading back to Columbia Falls/Kalispell to, we hope, get a fixed Volvo early in the week.
Otherwise, though without a car for a better part of the last week, our stay in Columbia Falls was delightful. Westslope Cutthroat Trout are a blast to catch.
Everyone's fine. Details to come.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Wake Up and Smell the Butte
Then it was on to Montana and our stop in Butte. And Butte seems to have gotten the Butte-end of excitement in all of Montana. But this morning we are loading up and getting ready to press on with the last four hours of our travels. Tonight we plan to be resting at Melissa and Paul's place on Spoon Lake.
Internet? We'll see.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
This Is Not A Joke
Everything He Said Was Dead-On
Storms Were Brewing
The Smell of Mitt and Plenty More
Savelles On Parade
Thursday, August 2, 2007
A Quick One While You're Away
Perhaps even a little . . . fly-fishing?
We are 4,668 feet above sea level. And gaining. Oh, and it's Mountain Time, so, as I write this, many of you people are waking to a hot cup of coffee and I'm just about ready to go to bed. And, yes, I find some irony in this being called the "Pittsburgh of the West." Looking at Pueblo, I find it truly plausible that this town was cut from the same cloth as the Steeltown, USA.
P.S. No, we had no intention of taking I-35.