Blue Ridge Parkway Misadventures

It turns out we have a frustrating few days ahead of us as our plans keep being thwarted. Good job we have the bourbon.

First we were to visit the Raiford Gallery in Roswell, GA, but couldn't since Judy was about to leave for a show, and the mileage was too great to get there in time.

So we headed for the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. But news of a terrible storm approaching with tornadic winds and golfball sized hail had us on the run past the Park to Asheville.

In Asheville we wanted to visit the Highlands Craft Guild, and the Grovewood Gallery but we soon discovered the Obama family were visiting for the weekend, and marshall law was in effect. Our persistence paid off though, and after many secret service security sweeps of our van, we were allowed through into the inner security zone - even though we weren't on 'the list'. The Obama's were staying in the hotel next to the Gallery and the men in long raincoats and sunglasses kept an stern eye on us rough types.  

Then we went up to the Blue Ridge Parkway, which turned out to be shut for 50 miles due to previous storm damage, and completely swathed in thick fog. So we had to stop and wait it out. The next day we made 40 miles, never knowing what was beyond the 20 foot visibility around us. The fog rolls around us as if we are in a giant steambath. Occasionally we glimpse tantalising vistas of endless rolling hills. 

Today we made about 90 miles and finally broke out into beautiful sunshine, but the campground we made it to has not yet opened for the season. 

The white dogwoods are in full bloom, the rhododendrons and azaleas not far behind. We're really enjoying hearing people talk to us - the accents here are so soft and gentle. Even the police in Asheville telling us where to go sound like they are singing us a lullaby.

Tomorrow we were going to try and make it to Karen's elderly aunt Eleanor and cousin Linda, but she's going into hospital for knee surgery. And so it goes on.

So instead I think we will just head for a super highway and get some miles on the clock towards Boston.

But it's all good and what scenery we have seen is beautiful and we are laughing about it.

We are very excited about a local program that installs big paintings of heritage quilts on barns. They have a touring guide so you can drive around and see them. It's very popular. Couldn't we do that on Fogo Island?

Quilters paradise

Now onwards to Paducah, and quilting madness. Friends Victoria and Michael Terra (http://www.terracottage.biz/) moved to Paducah about two (or was it three?) years ago, also as part of an artist relocation program. Now I don't want to give you the impression that we have lots of friends who need to be relocated to protect their identities or for their own safety. Not at all. These artist relocation programs are efforts by cities to reinvigorate their economies through the arts. Typically, the real estate is inexpensive and low interest loans are available to assist with renovations. Here's a link to the Paducah program - 

http://www.paducaharts.com/about_the_program.php

We have timed our arrival in Paducah to coincide with the American Quilters Society annual conference and quilt show. Paducah is also home to the National Quilt museum (http://www.quiltmuseum.org/). The whole town is jammed with quilters from around the world, although the Eyjafjallajokull volcano has disrupted some travelers from Europe. There are some 400 quilts entered in the competition, with $120,000 in prize monies. The quilts are breathtaking and we spend many hours marveling at them. Victoria and Michaels' daughter Xan, a docent at the museum, gives us the low down on the politics of quilting.

One exhibit -  Imagine Hope - features quilts by Hollis Chatelain that are really extraordinary and we are lucky enough to be able to talk with her for some time in the Museum. Later that evening we crash a society dinner posing as chef's assistants  - Michael Terra was asked to create the dinner menu - where she is surprised to see us again, and intrigued with the initiatives on Fogo Island.

Check out: http://imaginehopeworldwide.org/index.php and http://www.hollisart.com/index.php

On our way out of town we pause to purchase some Kentucky bourbon, then it's onwards to Georgia. Not exactly in a straight line to Newfoundland, but that's how we like to travel.

It turns out we have a frustrating few days ahead of us as our plans keep being thwarted. Good job we have the bourbon.

Quilting in paducah

Onwards into Kansas today. The mountains are behind us  - evidenced by the observation that highway rest-stops now have air-conditioning instead of heaters.

Elevations continue to fall and the land flattens out around us. In one dusty town we stop to snap a picture of a building built of fossilized wood in 1933, some 150 million years old. But we have no time to stop to see the world's largest hand-dug well, the Agricultural Hall of Fame, or the Kansas Barbed Wire museum.

The vast open-range cattle ranches of the high desert have given way to feed lots and agriculture. 

Stern signs at the entrance to highways proclaim: No animals - led, ridden or driven.

Long central-pivot sprinkler systems slowly irrigate the radius of giant circular fields for big agribusiness. 

Small towns are regularly spaced about every ten miles, visible in advance by their tall grain silos and water storage towers.

We plunge back onto Interstate 70 and speed towards Hannibal, Missouri - home of Mark Twain, and our friends Mike and Melissa (colesnaps.com) who moved here about four years ago as part of an artist relocation program. They are restoring a large church (originally a Knights of Pithias lodge) for studio space, and living in the house next door. We even catch a glimpse of Mark Twain officiating at a civic ceremony of some kind. 

We soon eagerly exit Interstate 70 again for Hwy 50, our highway of choice to cross the Rockies, and the Continental Divide. The climb follows the Gunnison river upstream through a narrow ravine, which occasionally  widens into fertile, hidden flats where the red dogwood and yellow willow appear to set the river on fire. Long and narrow working ranches with weathered but elegant ranch houses are set into clefts in the valley sides.

The summit is at 10,149 feet and then we slowly wind our way down to the Great Sand Dunes National Park at 8500' elevation.

This unusual Park features the product of the winds blowing relentlessly against a fold in the Rockies, and the power of water to concentrate the sand back at the foot of them. The giant sand dunes are the tallest in America at 830 feet tall. They ripple along the mountain's base for thirty miles, distinct against the snow capped peaks above, the shades and shadows constantly shifting as the light changes. 

It reminds us of our adventure crossing the Sahara desert in 1989.

Our campsite faces the mountains, and in late afternoon a series of thunderstorms roll over us. We sit in the front seats with cocktails, watching the dunes briefly turn white with hail. Lightning repeatedly strikes the dunes. On the crests of the dunes wind whips up the sand, like the spray flung off a giant wave. As the storms pass, a herd of deer graze their way across the cactus scrub in front of us and vanish into the Pinon pine forest.

Unusually for us, we take an early morning hike, frost still outlining the footsteps of deer on the trail, up to a dune overlook. Then down onto the dunes, to the strange river that flows over the sand, continually returning sand back to them from the mountains, before itself sinking and vanishing into the sand. 

Here's a few more pics - crossing the Continental Divide, Ellie map-reading, a trailer being a storm-magnet, and our Sand Dunes campsite.

We turn onto Hwy 50 - the lonliest highway in America - straight down to the middle of Nevada through the Toiyabe Mountain Range. Tonight we are camped in a wildlife viewing area in the foothills, snow-capped mountains rise abruptly on either side of the valley. Curry and cocktails are followed by watching 'Big Love' in preparation for Utah. 

The days are hot and dry, the shimmering horizon seems impossibly far away, and the nights cool down fast.

We exit into Utah through the Snake Range at 7000 feet elevation, into the land of white mirages and dry salt lakes of the Sevier Desert.

In the afternoon we are astonished as we pass through the San Rafael Swell, a vast seabed 160 million years ago, but now thrust upwards by plate tectonics, it's strata exposed and weathered into other-wordly appearance.

The followers of Mormon, who settled in this region, must have thought they were approaching hell itself. 

We haven't spotted any polygamists yet, despite our Big Love primer.

Tonight we are aiming for Fruita, just over the Colorado border, where I chanced upon great BBQ pork last time we passed this way. Not many great dinner choices for Karen, but I leave with sticky fingers and a big smile.

A False Start

Well it's been a while since my last post so thanks for coming back to check the blog again.

It's now April 2010 and we are driving back to Fogo Island, Newfoundland again.

I'll be there through mid October, and Karen will be returning home to work on our switch cover business from early June to late August.

Our plan is to arrive on Fogo Island in early May, and we have allowed ourselves about three weeks for the trip.

We start by driving due south but pull up short in Eugene, Oregon for our first (and hopefully last on this trip) visit to a Sprinter dealer to remedy a persistent squeak . This time the entire drive line needs replacing.

If we had a rubber stamp from every dealer we've visited our passbook would be full by now.

Perhaps it's just a thoughtful and caring Daimler/Chrysler customer satisfaction plan to assure that by the time the warranty runs out, all major vehicle components will have already been replaced.

On this trip we have only two canines with us - Ruby has stayed with Carole, Perry and Micah in Portland since she has such a stressful time on the roads. Ellie is enjoying her undisputed seniority, and Bill is just happy to be along for the ride. We miss Ruby a lot, but have to admit it's a more pleasant ride for us too without the constant panting and anxious glances at every bump in the road.

At Medford we cut east across the bottom of Oregon on Hwy 140 through the high desert towards Nevada. Our first night is on a high plateau, concealed from the road by a giant brush pile. It doesn't sound very special but we love it. Snow capped mountains in the distance, open range all around us. The silence is wonderful, punctuated only by the howl of coyotes in the distance. Only three cars pass our turn off all night.

In the morning we slowly pass through herds of cattle being driven down the highway by real cowboys with big hats and fancy saddles.