Traveling through Virginia

April 30, 2005
We usually watch the local news wherever we are, and – no surprise – we’ve found that it has become so homogenized across the U.S. that it’s difficult to tell what part of the country you’re in, based on the content of the news or the regional accents. Typically, every local newscast has a story about a missing or murdered child or young woman – if not a current story, an update from a previous story. There’s usually also some “ consumer watch” on identity theft, computer spam or someone who got ripped off by a local car dealer, and often a piece on a local soldier in (or recently home from) Iraq. The anchors all have the same look (although interestingly, in the South, the male weather and sports casters seem to be allowed to age and grow a paunch) and have sanitized their speech so there’s no trace of an accent. If you removed the names of the cities or states, you would be hard pressed to identify the source of the broadcast.

We are driving north on Interstate 81 through Virginia. We had planned to take the Blue Ridge Parkway, a scenic two-lane road with breathtaking views of mountains and valleys from Maine to Tennessee. Unfortunately, when we take the turnoff (20 miles out of our way) to the parkway, we discover that vehicles over 8 tons are not allowed. At 23,000 GVW, our motorhome falls into the prohibited category. So we turn around and head back to the freeway. The good thing is that the panorama from the freeway is equally spectacular – with rolling hills straight out of a picture book landscaped in every shade of green – bright, dark, kelly, forest, lime, loden, sage, fluorescent, - and dotted with cows grazing, old wood barns and neat clapboard houses. Sunshine yellow and lacy white wildflowers splash color across the expanse of green, and along the crest of the hills, trees not yet dense with foliage create a lacy fretwork against the sky.

We see old wooden barns everywhere in North Carolina, Tennessee and Virginia. They’re often in tumble-down condition, the grizzled gray beams and boards sagging with age and lack of attention. Sometimes, despite the decrepit state of the building, the barn is still in use for storage of equipment or occasionally hay rolls. Seldom do I see a barn that has been well maintained with paint and other needed upkeep. No matter how sad the ruins, it seems the owners are loathe to tear down this reminder of the past, preferring to let time and nature gradually wear down the structure.

Carl Sandburg's Home - Flat Rock, NC 

Steve at the Wheels through Time Museum 

Horseback riding in Waynesville, NC 

Steve's in heaven! 

Scenes from the Great Smoky Mountains 

April 11-27, Savannah, Charleston, the Blue Ridge Mtns.

April 11
Why didn’t we stay longer at Hanna Park? I loved it there – lush green dense foliage, huge trees, the constant call of birds of every variety. We had no compelling reason to leave. Foolish foolish, foolish!
In Florida – less so in Jacksonville – the vegetation is lush and tropicalj. The plants and trees that grow wild – Norfolk Island Pine, creeping charley, bromeliads, air plants, leather and maidenhair fern, spider plant, orchids, rubber plant, fig – are the same ones I carefully nurtured as house plants in Arizona – usually to a sad ending. Here, they grow as trees! Wildly, lushly, with vegetative abandon. I am in awe.
April 12
I run today from our RV in Hanna Park to the beach. That is, I run/walk. I run until the pain in my knee demands that I walk, then I run again, then walk. The sun is hidden behind a thin film of clouds so it is cool if humid. After breakfast, Steve and I go for a long bike ride through the park. This is a perfect bike-riding, hiking, running park.
But we are leaving today. We travel to Skidaway State Park in Georgia, 5 miles south of Savannah. This park is green and forested – not as dense as Hanna Park, but beautiful nonetheless, with large open sites for each RV. Tomorrow we will go to historic Savannah, walk around and see the city. There’s a lot to see here, and as we look at a map and guidebook for Georgia, a lot to see in the state. We may spend more time here than we had planned.
April 13
We drive through the streets of Savannah through a tunnel of trees. They are dressed to kill with Spanish moss draped from every branch, swaying like grey feather boas. The city has paid attention to its landscaping and architecture: new buildings must look old, with clapboard or “Savannah grey” brick (which is really red) in the Southern architectural style. The homes and buildings have a warmth and charm that invites “come on in,” with wraparound porches, curving staircases, contrasting wood shutters and lacy wrought iron around windows and doors and as boundary fencing in the front.
Interestingly, despite Savannah’s important role in the Civil War, there is little mention of this period in its history. On a city tour today we pass the Colonial Cemetary where the greats from Savannah’s history are buried. It is also the place where Sherman’s Union army camped during his march through Georgia. During their stay in the cemetery, the soldiers defaced gravestone and even pulled some grave markers out of the ground and tossed them about. Not knowing where these headstones belonged, they were lined up on the back wall of the cemetery, where thgey remain as a reminder of how war can bring out the worst – as well as the best – in its participants. But any descriptive material about Savannah or the cemetery does not mention Sherman or his troops’ destructive acts here.
We walk through the graveyard, reading the headstones where we can; many are illegible, the inscriptions blurred by time and weather. But those that are readable tell an important story about the past. Most of the occupants of these grassy acres died young – 5, 25, 30 years old. The average age at death seems to be about 32; the 50 or 60 year old is a rarity.
April 16
Charleston, SC
We are staying at a campground in St. George, SC, home of the World Grits Festival this weekend. It has received media attention from the Wall St. Journal and the New York Times. We decide we can’t stay in the international grits capital without attending the annual grits festival. We go, eat grits, and leave. There’s not much there to attract anyone’s attention, not even a historical grits exhibit. But 50,000 people, we’re told, will attend over the 3 days of the festival.
We are driving to Charleston. . . azaleas are in bloom everywhere, a splurge of color along the roadway – fuschia, coral, palest blush pink, white. The woods lining the highway hint of the dense forest that greeted the original colonists. And swamps or marshland – wetlands are everywhere in the South, from the moment we entered Louisiana.
April 17-26
Asheville and Waynesville, NC
Winter is transitioning to spring. Some trees still cling to their burnished leaves, leftover from autumn. Others are pretty in pink, white or rose blooms, or hesitantly showing their new green leaves, creating splashes of color against the hills.

The Great Smoky Mountains are breathtaking. I try to find words to describe the view that surrounds us, but fail. Go. Look. Drink it in. Secondhand descriptions or photos are worthless.
After 7 days in Waynesville, a small community in the Smokies, we move on . . . to Lebanan, Tenn. From there, we drive the Jeep to Bowling Green, Ky so that Steve can visit the National Corvette Museum. He is in heaven. When we arrive at the museum, we are told most people spend a little over an hour there. I know better – Steve can (and does) spend the day there, with a 1.5 hour break to tour the Corvette factory nearby. On our way back, we take a detour to visit Springfield, TN, where I lived for a year when I was 6. I try to find the house where we lived, but my mother doesn’t remember the name of the street and while I find a house that looks like it could be the one, who knows?

Florida

March 28
We leave Madison and its cold, drizzly overcast skies, heading for warmer weather, we hope. Sure enough, by the time we reach Montgomery the sun is shining and the temperature has risen 30 degrees. But there’s a strong cross wind throughout the day. When Steve asks me to take over the driving for awhile, I have to grip the steering wheel tightly to maintain control of the RV. I drive for 2 hours; when Steve offers to take over again I am happy to relinquish the driver’s seat.

Tuesday, March 29
We depart Fountain, FL at 10 a.m. and drive to Port St. Joe’s, from there to St. Joseph’s peninsula, to Cape San Blas, where there’s a state park. We park the RV and go for a walk on the beach with Princess, where I notice the dearth of any other dogs. When we leave the beach, we pass a sign explaining why: No Pets on Beach. Oh well. The sand here is so white and fine, it is like plaster of paris. The waves on the beach are small and muddy, having been stirred up by recent storms. We decide to have our picnic lunch on the bay side, where there’s a narrow shell and sand beach and the water is warm, shallow and still. We hear the waves gently hitting the shore on the other side of the road, past the high dunes. We listen to the gulls raucously announce their food finds to each other and feel the warm sun on our backs. It’s a good day.

Wednesday, March 30
Our goal today is Clearwater or St. Petersburg or that general area – halfway down the west coast of Florida. It’s about 200 miles – we may go further depending on whether we make any stops along the way.
On our journey, I expected to spend my passenger time reading, doing needlework, studying Spanish – in general, accomplishing more than I actually have. I read at night, but during the day, it’s difficult to do needlework – the continual motion of the RV won’t allow it. And while I read occasionally on the road, I find I’m more interested in watching the scenery go by. Drifts of wildflowers on the side of the road – blue, lavender, yellow; thick forests of trees along the road and in the median; glimpses of the ever-present water in this part of the country. . . .

Friday, April 1
The Everglades.
The Anhinga Trail at twilight is a magical place. Birds of every type calling, cooing, twittering, chittering to each other. The anhinga – a wading bird sometimes called the snake bird, swimming under water, only the white tips of its wing feathers visible below the surface as it sleekly seeks fish for dinner. Its head and long neck pokes out of the water, peers around then disappears underwater again. Alligators floating below the surface, only eyes, ominous and sleepy, visible. Sudden thrashing sound – gator has found food and disappears underwater to digest it.
Anhinga in a tree with fish speared on its pointed bill, gently slaps fish on the tree branch, again and again, first one side, then the other, to loosen it from its bottom bill so it can eat it. Continues slapping, lightly, steadily, never showing signs of frustration (as I would!) for 10 minutes. Finally success – it gulps the fish down.
Slash pine with undergrowth of stunted palm trees (called coonties). Mahogany Hammock – largest stand in the U.S. . . . strange tree: the strangler fig, it wraps itself around an unwary host tree, then slowly, steadily undermines the root system until there's no host left, only the fig tree. Realization – how interdependent nature is, in life and in death; how unaware, uncaring humans are of this interdependence. We slash, dam, dig and develop with abandon. 90% of Florida slash pine forest is gone; these tall thin trees once covered the state. Alligators were near extinction in the mid-60s, now have recovered, but crocodile is still threatened along with many other species of birds. Everglades river no longer flows freely, but on human timetable and where we determine it should flow – based on human needs, not whether it’s what plants and wildlife need. Less than 10% of wading bird population remains in Everglades National Park, which comprises only 25-30% of the Everglades wilderness. The unprotected wild is disappearing quickly. On Anhinga Trail especially, and less frequently on other trails, we see a variety of birds – egrets, anhinga, heron, morehens, snowy egret, barred owl, hawk . . . but we hear visitors commenting on subsequent visits on how few birds there are compared to their previous visits..

April 4
We are staying in Naranja, Florida, at a park where all the signs are in English and French – bizarre in this highly Hispanic/Cuban part of the U.S. Most of the park residents speak French, not English, when we overhear their conversations. Turns out they are from Quebec, spending 6 months there, 6 months here. We decide not to take the RV to Key West, our next stop, but to drive down in the Jeep and stay in a motel there.
The Keys are linked by 42 bridges, including the aptly named 7-mile bridge (old and new) and U.S. 1 – the intercoastal highway. From both sides of the highway you can see the clear aquamarine water of Florida Bay and the Atlantic Ocean. The water is beautiful, but the keys – with the exception of Key West – are not. They are lined with shops hawking tours, bate and tackle, dive excursions, seafood and shells – touristy come-ons. The storefronts are not attractive, cute or quaint – only cluttered and commercial.

But: I love Key West. Surprising – I really thought this would be a primo tourist destination, and nothing more. It is that – but it’s also a lifestyle, an environment, a way to live and work. People are not transferred here by their companies – they choose to live here. I love the houses – small clapboard units with intricately carved porch railings and white picket fences encircling a 2-foot front yard. Key West is land-challenged, so even these tiny dollhouses go for $400,000 or more, with the freshly-painted and landscaped units hitting $600,000 and up. We find a small hotel, The Palms, in a residential neighborhood. The building is a historical landmark, with the sloping wood floors, rickety porches and thick, multi-layer paint job that comes with age. But the proprieter, who is French, is warm and friendly, and most importantly, they allow pets. We note that many of the guests are European – I think the pet policy has something to do with this.
We decide to go snorkeling today (that is, I decide to go snorkeling, and Steve agrees to come along) on the Great Barrier Reef, a 200-mile long coral reef. The reef in endangered by human encroachment so we are given strict instructions by the company that takes us out in a tour boat to sections of the reef. We are out on the water for 3 hours; while it is sunny and warm, the wind is up and the water is choppy with big swells. We discover that beautiful azure water doesn’t necessarily mean lots of fish on the reef. We see very little variety and the colors are not as bright and fluorescent as I had expected from previous snorkeling expeditions in Grand Cayman and Cozumel. Our second stop is more of the same kind of fish, hardly worth jumping in the water for – especially when the water becomes noticeably chilly after about 15 minutes in it. I’m glad I didn’t buy one of the disposable underwater cameras the tour company was sellng for $18 – it would have been a waste of money.
When we get back at 4:00, Steve and I discuss where to go for dinner. We didn’t have lunch today, and we skipped dinner the previous night, so we want to splurge tonight. Our 2 main choices: Nicola’s, on the waterfront at the Hyatt (a beautiful setting, but a hotel restaurant) or Café Solé, a little French restaurant around the corner from the Palms, where we are staying. It’s rated “the best in Key West” by locals. We finally settle on Solé, and it proves to be a winner from start (conch carpaccio, caprese salad) to finish (dessert trio of Key Lime pie, crème brulé and berries in Grand Marnier). We leave satiated in body and spirit and come back to our hotel to take Princess for an after-dark walk through the neighborhood.

April 7, 2005
Port St. Lucie, FL
We don’t leave Naranja, FL until nearly 2 p.m. – Steve has to wait for some prescriptions at Wal-Mart. We pull into Port St. Lucie, halfway between Ft. Lauderdale and Jacksonville, at 5:30 p.m., get hooked up, go to Barnes & Noble and CeCi’s for pizza, then come back to watch our junk TV addiction, The Apprentice. Around 10 p.m., it starts raining. As we’re watching Primetime Live on TV, a news crawl appears on the bottom of the screen – there’s a tornado warning for Port St. Lucie. If a tornado occurs, the warning says, go to the lowest level of the home, stay away from windows, and stay in an interior room or the bathroom. I joke with Steve, “Guess we’d better go to the bathroom if a tornado hits!” Looking out the window, I see that the trees are blowing but the wind doesn’t seem strong. Still, a slight fear runs through me. I’ve never been in a tornado but I know a motorhome is not the best place to be if one hits. Fortunately, when the local news comes on at 11 p.m., the first news item is that the tornado warning has been cancelled. We may be washed away by rain but at least we won’t be blown away.

On the same newscast, we learn that gasoline prices are at peak levels, and that Florida has the highest prices in the nation.. No news to us – we are spending a fortune on diesel fuel, which averages $2.35 a gallon – and our motorhome gets 8 miles to the gallon. A few weeks ago, we did some long stretches of driving and spent $250 in 3 days on diesel. The price of fuel as well as a desire to minimize the miles we put on the RV are 2 reasons we decided to drive the Jeep to Key West and stay in a motel.

As we drive from Naranja to our current stop, it’s easy to see the encroachment of development on the Everglades. Along the highway are stands of sawgrass, slash pine and countie palm trees that thrive in the water that overflows from the Okeechobee River further north. These patches of vegetation are the remains of the Everglades in this area – now hemmed in by Chili’s and Applebee’s, shopping malls, apartment complexes and gas stations. Over the years, the Okeechobee River and its tributaries have been dammed and diverted to send water to farmers and more recently to the rapidly expanding thirsty cities and suburbs of Miami and Dade County. The consequence is not readily apparent here in Port St. Lucie or Fort Lauderdale or Miami Beach – but it’s clear in the loss of wildlife, especially water fowl, from the Everglades. And the consequence of human disregard for the impact of hardcore growth is apparent when you learn that only 20 percent of the Everglades is permanently preserved in the national park – the rest of this wilderness (??) is up for grabs by developers, private owners and municipal governments.

People frequently ask Steve and I how we are getting along, being in close proximity to each other 24 hours a day. Hm-m. . . . it’s not something we work at – it seems we don’t have to work at it. Occasionally we get on each other’s nerves, but we got on each other’s nerves when we weren’t together all the time . . . We accommodate to each other, I think; if one of us really wants to do something, go somewhere or see something, the other person will either go along or find something else to do. In Key West, Steve wanted to see the Truman White House – the former president’s version of Camp David. I didn’t really care about it; instead, I went to the Hemingway house to see where the famous author wrote A Farewell to Arms and other works. We often do this – one of us goes one way, another goes somewhere else, and we meet at a predetermined time. When we’re in the motorhome, whether driving to a destination or in the evening, we share the small space but we don’t feel cramped or crowded (usually!). I think more than 30 years of marriage during which we have avoided – or managed to stumble over - the stones in the road along the way – prepared us for this journey. Before leaving, we certainly did not make any special plans or preparations or have any special discussions about how we would manage to get along with each other . . . so I have to assume it’s simply built into our relationship.

Friday, April 8
We arrive in St. Augustine today – the oldest settlement in the U.S. We spend Saturday morning walking around downtown looking at – but not going into – the oldest schoolhouse, oldest house, oldest tavern. We’ve temporarily had our fill of history and have no interest today in visiting any museums and reading displays about antiquities.

Driving back to our RV, I notice that almost every undeveloped piece of land along the road as a “For Sale” or “Sold” sign on it. These plots are thick with slash pine, cypress dripping with Spanish moss, and heavy undergrowth of palm trees, ferns and tropical plants. Soon these little oases will be gone, replaced by (as the signs indicate), a shopping mall, commercial center, apartment or office complex. It is progress, according to developers and city officials, but do local residents see what they are losing?

Sunday, April 10
We are staying at Hanna Park Campground in Jacksonville. There are 293 campsites under a canopy of large moss and fern covered trees and thick shrubbery. It is like staying in the middle of the jungle, with the sound of birds chirping and twittering in the trees and a cool breeze wafting through our open windows. There are hiking and biking trails and a 5-minute walk from the campground is a 2-mile long white sand beach. Yesterday when we arrived I took a walk to the beach, and today I rode my bike all around the campground and through the 450-acre park. The roads are lined with trees; I feel like I’m riding in paradise. As I write this, I am sitting on the beach, the sun on my back and a steady breeze blowing – enough to cool the air but not kick up sand. I hear the surf rolling in and out, the call of sea gulls and the happy screams of children playing tag with the waves. This park ranks at or near the top of all the places we’ve stayed – it is incredibly beautiful and peaceful. We are scheduled to leave tomorrow but have already decided to extend our stay here before moving on to Savannah.

The water really is this color! 

Where Hemingway wrote 

At The Palms - Key West 

Another Key West home 

Key West home 

Hanna Park - Jacksonville