I knew it was only a matter of time, but is this really my last Adventure?

You kids are killing me.

Or, at least my ability to hold my reading material in my aged, hairy-knuckled, wrinkled fingers.

 

Yes, I admit it.

I am one of the old dinosaurs who still reads a printed daily newspaper (actually, two of them) and subscribes to more travel magazines than I care to admit to.

I still have not gone to doing much of my reading online.

 

Among other reasons, I just get too distracted with, what, yet another Breaking News item that has one more Tiger Woods mistress coming out of the woodwork.

What are we up to, nine?

 

But, the changing world of travel writing has not really hit home…until today.

 

Via Don George’s Adventure Blog I discovered that,

“Last week National Geographic announced that it was ceasing the publication of National Geographic Adventure magazine with the current issue.”

Of all the printed travel magazines I read, this was my second favorite travel publication—after National Geographic Traveler.

(No word as of press time whether Traveler would take the same path as Adventure.)

 

The story went on to say,

“National Geographic is transitioning its Adventure brand from traditional print to a multi-platform model that will include newsstand editions, books, e-magazines, mobile applications and a robust Web site.”

 

“Include newsstand editions?” Wait, isn’t that what I pay them to mail to me every month?

Are they just boycotting the U.S. Postal Service?

 

And what exactly is a “robust web site” and how do I know if I have one?

 

Maybe “robust” has something to do with the pictures of a woman running along the beach in a skimpy bikini that they included in one story this month.

 

              

 

Their stated reason for this change is no big surprise,

“Given the current advertising environment and the opportunities we see in emerging digital platforms, we think the time is right to transition the Adventure brand.”

Money.

I guess unless the government is going to hand them over a few billion dollars of TARP funds as a bailout, who can blame them?

 

I have twice met fellow travel writer Don George—him being a legitimate professional one. Nice guy.

 

A few years ago, I took a travel writing class from him in San Francisco and then later, he served as conference chairperson at the well respected annual travel writers conference held at Book Passage in Marin County, which I attended.

One of my primary reasons to attend the conference was to meet and learn from the acclaimed and brilliant travel writer extraordinaire Tim Cahill (yes, I swoon at the very sight of his written word).

From his early days at Outside Magazine, Tim (which is what I would call him if he would allow it) has been an influential inspiration to me, not only to experience adventure travel, but also to write about it.

 

Ironically, Cahill is listed as one of the contributing editors of Nat. Geo. Adventure.

“Hey, Tim. If you need another writing gig give me a call and I’ll make a space for you over here at my robust Sand Dollar Adventures emerging digital multi-platform web site (as soon as I figure out what all that means).”

 

Also, probably lost in this transitional business period is the $17.97 I paid for my current subscription well into next year.

 

But you know what we are really losing as we see our printed media go the way of the VCR player and music CD’s?

 

Just wait until you are stuck someplace without toilet paper.

Good luck wiping yourself with your iPhone.

Sand Dollar Adventures.com STILL FREE! Google news sites, maybe not so much.

It had to happen.

We have pretty much dumped many of our magazine and newspaper subscriptions in favor of garnering our news and entertainment via the wonderful World Wide Web.

Of course we did…it was FREE, and aren’t we all really into the whole free thing?

But was free may be the key concept nowadays.

 

 

If you have kept even a sideways glance towards the online news and entertainment biz, especially those that used to make a profit from paid subscriptions from paper versions, you know that they are suffering financially.

 

 

And they have been less than happy with our viewing habits, especially those as facilitated by the global gleaner of the grapevine, Google.

They, meaning Rupert Murdoch, of the evil empire, the colossal News Corp.

Well, Dr. Evil may be getting his way with news of the so-called “First Click Free,” which may lead to the end of unlimited free information on the web, as reported at The Huffington Post.

 

“In a move that could help improve relations between Google Inc. and the media industry, the Internet search company is offering publishers a way to build more solid "pay walls" around their online stories while still appearing in search results.”

 

Of course, Google is not asleep at the wheel, as can be read in yet another story I found on the internet by way of a Google search, whereas Google proclaims,

“we do not steal content from newspapers.”

 

Is the issue limited to just the news you might happen to be looking for over the web?

 

Well, the short answer is “nope.”

 

You, like myself and millions of others, have gone to the internet to view TV shows that you missed viewing while it was shown on the television—assuming you are somewhere near a TV…or even still own one.

 

Millions, as in 40 million a month, go to Hulu.com to watch shows, like the latest Daily Show or Colbert Report.

In October, Hulu hit one billion minutes of viewed television and video clips. That’s billion with a “B.” And every minute has been for free.

 

 

But, this viewing method is also under attack by people who are tired of your—I mean, our—freeloading manners, by…yes, you guessed it Rupert Murdoch and the News Corp, among others.

How do I know all this?

 

Yup, another Google search and another linked news story, in this case, to the New York Times.

“With millions now watching TV on their computers, can the media companies put the Hulu genie back in the bottle?

The scramble by TV companies to preserve its ad model while giving consumers choice — what Comcast’s chief executive called in interviews Thursday “anytime, anywhere media” — mirrors the efforts of newspapers, magazines and radio companies to wring more money from digital media. But all are facing some entrenched habits.

“If you disrupt the consumer experience, you’re in trouble,” warns Mike Kelley, a partner at PricewaterhouseCoopers.”

 

Is there any good news out there in the world for formally free forms of enlightenment from our beloved WWW?

Hmmm. Well, I got one of an auditory nature.

 

I enjoy many hours a day of the most amazing, commercial-free music over the internet.

Radio Paradise is beyond description as to musical genre due to its broad, eclectic nature. World music is in the ballpark, but too limited of a characterization. You can listen to it on your computer and even over your iPhone or Blackberry. I happen to listen to it most of the time over a sound bridge, which connects my internet stream to my stereo system.

How does Radio Paradise exist? By voluntary NON-tax deductable contributions from listeners like me. They gratefully accept how little or how much you can afford and wish to donate to the cause. Note of caution: the “sub-genre” they play shifts fluidly from one song-set to another, so don’t judge it based on only a couple of songs.  Anyway – the free plug is over. Listen and decide for yourself.

 

 

Back to our viewing habits, that same New York Times piece went on to conclude that,

“On-demand viewing is about to get much more complicated.”

I don’t think anyone can reasonably argue against that point. For people who spend much time away from home, whether on business, a vacation, or as a permanent vagabond, this issue will affect how we stay connected and informed to the world around us.

In other words, you will probably get plenty of use out of your PayPal account.

 

 

But, maybe not to the level attributed to this by Stephen Burke, the CEO of Comcast , who recently called

“streaming the biggest social movement I’ve ever seen.”

Really, Mr. Burke? Watching stuff for free on our computers is the biggest social movement, ever?

 

More than Glenn Beck and Sarah Palin becoming national icons?

I think not.

The latest trend in outdoor activities: Is bad the new good?

Back in the day, you might hear a friend say,

“Dude” (I did say, it was Back in the Day) “You should have been here yesterday!”

 

Then, your buddy would proceed to regale you with tales of [insert as appropriate: perfect powder for skiing or boarding/ a limit of fish or game/ epic wind for kite boarding or windsurfing/ etc.]

The point was that the conditions and results were as good as it gets.

After all, isn’t that what we all would like to experience given our limited time and money to enjoy our recreational pursuits?

Well, apparently maybe not.

By way of a Columbia Sportswear advertisement in the October National Geographic Traveler magazine, I learned that I am lagging behind the social trends, yet again.

For those of you who suffer the mistaken idea that “good” is good, I am hear to tell you that there is a trend whereas you brag to your friends as to how bad the conditions were while you were out enjoying the great outdoors.

Case in point.

I had never heard of the term Junkboarding, but the concept is simple, if not of questionable self-preservation value.

You start with a junked snowboard, or in some cases a piece of scrap plywood, a table saw, some hardware, slap them together and then go out and look for slopes covered in just about anything—that is except wonderful, deep, fluffy, dry powder.

You are looking for ground cover such as dirt, grass, rocks, gravel, bushes, and other obstacles that I personally tend to avoid while I careen down a steep slope at a high rate of speed. I’m funny like that.

     

Even people who partake of this apparently risky recreational activity recognize,

“Most people just think it’s frickin’ dangerous”

Gee, where would they get that silly idea?

That comment from one practitioner from Vermont, named Dave. But he goes on to admit he has,

“ taken his fair share of spills, tearing pants and returning home muddy, but he stresses that he and his friends don’t go fast enough to get badly injured”

 

Ah…Dave, could you please provide your definition of “badly injured?”

Are we talking broken bones, but something less than a compound fracture, with pieces of your femur poking out of your Columbia Sportswear Junkboarding pants? (Lest we forget, this whole topic started with a clothing ad.)

As to the trend of seeking less than ideal conditions for various recreational avocations, then showcasing and even glorifying those outings, it is not limited to attempting to remove large patches of skin while shredding the slopes.

No, truly adventurous fishermen have eschewed pristine, high-mountain streams of clear, cold, waters while seeking out semi-polluted, discarded-furniture laden, suburban ditches in search of hardy fish species that should advisably be handled only with multi-layered, Kevlar-reinforced, hazmat gloves—let alone considered for consumption.

Known as Brownlining, this form of fishing is practiced with zeal by hardy outdoorsmen who risk spent hypodermic needles, rusted automobile bodies, and other items dumped into drainages by people too lazy and cheap to drive to the dump.

Arguably the master and mentor of this merriment can be found at Singlebarbed.com.

Caution, this is not an activity for the faint-of-heart or anyone not having an up-to-date tetanus vaccination.

This got me to wonder. Is this just the tip of the iceberg (the part that hasn’t yet melted)?

Is there a new, improved (?) version of kayaking that involves really rocky streams with low water?

Call it Creek Crashing or maybe Stream Bashing.

Or, how about scuba diving in really cold water with really poor visibility?

Call it Shiver Scuba or maybe Scuba Hobby In Totally Terrible Yuk diving.

The opportunities to do things under lousy conditions abound.

There is always bike riding on puncture vine strewn trails along inter-city, gang infested back streets.

That one might be best classified as a one-time, one-way adventure.

So many good times to be had, so little time to seek crappy conditions.

How can you recognize an aficionado of these alternative venue activities?

Well, for example, a typical big city downhill skier might be wearing shimmering, one-piece outfits and the latest technology in boots and skis, while the Junkboarder probably has clothing held together with copious amounts of duct tape.

A big city fly fisherman might look like he just came off the cover of an Orvis catalog, while holding $1,000+ worth of gear.

The Brownliner will be sporting brown-stained waders, a cheap cigar, with a gas station hotdog in his pocket.

You get the idea.

As to Junkboarding: call me when it snows another few feet.

Me…I’m going back to bed.

I’m tired of these (expletive deleted) stinks on this (expletive deleted) plane.

Moses said it all a few years ago, “Let my people go!”

Once again, the subject of being kept captive while crammed into the crummy coach seats on a grounded airliner is in the news.

                   

And I thought the airlines, the FAA, and the TSA, had this worked out for them earlier this year when,

“It has finally happened. In a unanimous vote, the Senate Commerce Committee last week approved legislation — the so-called “Airline Passenger Bill of Rights” — giving passengers the option of leaving a plane that has been stuck on the tarmac for more than three hours. The bill provides that pilots can extend that deadline by 30 minutes if they feel that departure is imminent.” 

Unfortunately, the damn bill is still bouncing around the halls of Congress awaiting final action. 

Gee, how long might that take?!?

In the news today was the story of yet another stranding, if you can call it that, given the fact that they are only a thrown luggage toss away from the relative comfort—and flush toilets—of the terminal boarding area.

“The passengers of Flight 2816 were kept waiting nearly six hours inside the cramped regional airliner amid wailing babies and a smelly toilet even though they were only 50 yards from a terminal.”

But in the latest case, it appears that justice—the kind that costs money—has prevailed with the news that,

“The government is imposing fines for the first time against airlines for stranding passengers on an airport tarmac, the Transportation Department said Tuesday.

The department said it has levied a precedent-setting $175,000 in fines against three airlines for their roles in the stranding of passengers overnight in a plane at Rochester, Minn.”

So, will someone please help me make sense of this; why does this keep coming up?

The passengers went through a TSA screening to get to the boarding gate. 

No shampoo, no toothpaste, no drinking water. I feel better; we are all safe.

The plane is stuck on the ground, mere feet away from said boarding gate, which—stay with me on this—is still beyond the same TSA screening area that was there a few minutes prior, when the passengers got on the damn plane.

Still, no dangerous body creams. We are still safe.

So as long as the passengers stay within the terminal and boarding gate on the inside of the TSA screening area, why is it such an insurmountable problem to drive the damn plane back to the un-boarding gate to let the passengers deplane and let them stretch out, go sit on a human-sized toilet in a stall that is not pitching to-and-fro (unless they had a few too many pre-flight cocktails) and maybe even purchase a cup of that great Starbucks corporate coffee?

How is it that they are somehow no longer safe to themselves? Hopefully, not with something from the plane they are sitting on and preparing to soar to 30,000 feet.

I just don’t get it.

But, if you ever find yourself in such a predicament, don’t succumb to the stress and risk formal action by over-reacting to the stinky situation.

And for the sake of preventing a permanent smirch on your legal records, say, should you someday decide to run for political office (or Miss USA), I will present The Top Ten Things NOT To Do in order to get let out of the plane after sitting six hours in the stench, stuck on the tarmac.

1. Do not jump up and down and scream. They will just think you are reacting to yet another fee being tacked onto the price of your airline ticket.

2. Do not pound on the door of the cockpit. The pilots now pack guns and might be inclined to use them, assuming they have not lost track of which airport they are sitting at while discussing airline scheduling or distracted while using their laptops.

3. Do not threaten to drink the airplane water in order to elicit violent chest heaves and loss of all bodily functions. Remember, the toilets on the plane are already overly full.

4. Do not threaten to grab and scarf down all remaining in-flight meals just because you are starving. See reason on previous items.

5. Do not try to sneak a smoke in the airplane bathroom. Again, see reason on Item “3”—ever see what happens with excess methane around a spark?

6. Do not relieve yourself in the aisle, hoping the flight crew will think you are crazy and then get back to the boarding gate. If it doesn’t work, your fellow passengers will likely beat the crap out of you, at least whatever you did not leave on the carpeting.

7. Do not mention the “B-word” (as in the thing that goes badda-boom, big badda-boom). You will suddenly find yourself with way more attention than you ever wished. And the cell you will end up in will present more problems than your overcrowded airplane.

8. Don’t fake a sudden life-threatening ailment, such as a heart attack. That might result in a shocking experience when they apply the portable electric defibrillator.

9. Do not deploy the emergency exit evacuation slide. The fresh air might be a nice relief but chances are the airlines, the FAA, and TSA will frown on you ever flying again. (Which will not be a problem, as you will likely be behind bars for the next few years, in any case.)

10. Your turn. What would you be tempted to do (but probably shouldn’t)—admit it, you’ve thought about this before—should you find yourself stuck in a plane for six or seven hours, parked right next to the terminal, with no food, no water, overflowing stinky toilets, screaming babies (and other passengers), and a fifty-something, hirsute, pudgy wannabe travel writer snoring loudly into your ear (yes, that would be me)? 

Something to think about as you are on your way to the airport, heading to grandma’s for Thanksgiving dinner.

I hope your plane makes it off the tarmac.

Basque’ing in sunny Spain. The story always seems to get down to wine and women.

Little did I know that my first sighting of Basque people would be of naked women.

And sheep.  

(Note: while the sheep were also naked, I cannot, in all certainty, say if they were also of Basque origin.)

Those visions of yore came back to mind during our exploration of the Basque region during our 2009 Spain Adventure—which by coincidence did include sightings of a few (mostly) naked women and an occasional sheep.

 

I spent much of my early professional career in the mountainous regions of Northern California and that is also where Basque sheepherders had tended their flocks with great care and loving attention; you know, where—stop me if you’ve heard this before—the men were men…and the sheep were nervous.

This was especially true in the northeast portion of the state where massive, pure stands of beautiful, quaking aspens grow above the high desert with brilliant green leaves and almost pure white bark. Ecologically, this area is considered as the western fringe of the great basin rangeland, with scenic qualities more typical of the Rockies than of California.

I remember marveling at the intricate designs carved into the tree trunks: even after many years of tree growth, you could not help but notice that many of the carvings were what might be considered “R” rated, with a few garnering a definite “X” rating; not to mention a few that PETA or the SPCA might have some heartburn over, if you get my drift.

Hey, it got pretty boring after months of desolation while herding sheep around in those remote mountains.

I am reasonably sure that the reason those aspens really did quake was less out of fear of those early sheepherders with their sharp knives but more so as a result of the effect of the wind blowing on the flat-stemmed wide leaves.

Whether the sheep were quaking is a different matter.

Clearly, with their great appreciation of domestic farm animals and interest in outdoor artistic endeavors, the Basque people are worthy of closer study.

Until our recent excursion, I really had no idea that if it weren’t for the early Basques, the history of the New World could have been written much differently. I learned that it was many a Basque navigator that sailed on voyages from Spain that lead to discoveries well beyond the European shores.

Yet, even though the Basques—with a culture 50,000 years old—are said to inhabit Europe’s oldest nation, they do so without ever having been a county with its own borders. Their mother tongue of Euskera—the oldest European living language—is so unique its source is unknown.

The University of Nevada, Reno, has a Center for  Basque Studies, should you wish to delve further into the topic.

A sample of the tree carvings can be found on their site (the link is in the upper right-hand corner): the fourth page of their photo catalog lists the following warning, but keep in mind, these were done before airbrushing had been invented.

“The following page contains images of a sexual nature that some people may find offensive.”

While I did marry a beautiful and feisty woman of Basque descent, I knew little of these fiercely proud people themselves, save for an occasional headline of another bombing in northern Spain.

                         

As we prepared for our recent 2009 Great Spain Adventure, I did take particular interest in a news item about the apparent resurgence of the separatist group, ETA, “celebrating” their 50th anniversary with yet more bombs, but, luckily, nothing exploded during our three-week visit.

An indication of the personal pride the Basques have in their cultural identity is the local practice of painting over the Spanish names for local landmarks and road names, leaving only the Basque version and spelling.

                        

The Basque area of northern Spain arguably has some of the best wines this side of the more well-known wine regions of France. What I was not prepared for was the locally produced cider. We happened to stumble into a huge cider festival one evening in the small town of Eibar, between Bilbao and San Sebastian.

I assume the stuff must be an “acquired taste.” I’ll stick to stumbling out of the wine bars, thank you very much.

                          

The Basques essentially have their own national bike racing team, which you would have seen in the Tour de France under the name of Euskaltel Euskadi, with their bright orange team colors.

Good luck with their official website, that is, unless you can read Basque.

Here is a picture of the team standing above the same beach that reportedly has topless sunbathers (“reportedly” as in reported on this very website).

                      

Still need convincing how cool these Basque people are?

I’ll bota a wager that nobody gets better use of goatskin and latex than these people.

What country shall we go out to for lunch today?

As a new public service for my vast viewing public, beginning today, I will occasionally provide you a direct link to a story that appears on pages beyond the original quality material you have come to expect to not find on this site.

In other words, the words of others.

(Or, in other words, I don’t have time to write something original by my ownself.)

For foodies seeking a culinary experience with a world view, yet lacking the resources to venture far beyond the bounds of the Sacramento, here is an illuminating article to lead you on your quest.

“The 2-mile stretch of Broadway between I-5 and Hwy. 99 bordering downtown Sacramento boasts dozens of restaurants serving food from around the world. It’s a culinary and cultural microcosm of America’s most diverse and integrated city.”

culinary color

Bon Appétit!

What’s a good road trip without wine, women, guns, and donuts?

A couple of days ago, I gave you just a hint of our recent road trip in our quest to squeeze out the last pleasures of these fine fall, halcyon days in Northern California, as winter approaches.

It is coming, isn’t it?

It’s the first week of November and I am still running around in shorts and a t-shirt, and we really, really need the water.

 

If you’ll stick with me a few moments, I will get to The Saga of Poor Joe and his run-in with wily creatures of the woods.

 

But first, what would a good travel trek be without a foodie feature?

 

While tooling around Lake Almanor, we stopped in at the rustic Cedar Chalet Bakery, a couple miles south of Chester.

When I say rustic, I mean, if you did not know what sugar-laced delights awaited you within, you would drive by and think,

“What a sad, old, dilapidated place. I wonder how long it has been abandoned.”

                

 

But, best not to tell a book by its cover, nor an old bakery building by its faded, rusted sign.

 

               

 

 

Not only were the sweet treats worth a stop, but I am pretty sure the old guy telling tall tales at the counter may have been the uncle of The Stranger (Sam Elliott) from The Big Lebowski.

 

               

 

After a few miles of hiking along the scenic, wooded Lake Almanor Recreation Trail, it was time for some serious boating on the lake, and by serious, I mean once we three guys got out maybe 100 feet from shore, we killed the engine—which at one point we were pretty sure was on fire—and quaffed a good number of beers.

This was followed shortly thereafter back on terra firma, once we rejoined the good women in our group, and we went on to imbibe a number of bottles of good wine.

 

So, yes, you could say a good time was had by all—once we ascertained that the boat was NOT really on fire.

 

The next day had us, and by us I mean me, making a serous tactical navigation error of a gargantuan degree, when I decided to return back to Sacramento via Yuba City.

I certainly could have been suffering a dulled sense of sound judgment—which I am sure had everything to do with the liquids consumed the previous day and evening—since I had heard of a great gathering that was taking place in Yuba City, yet chose that path home, anyway.

 

While I did hear something on the news about some gathering of the Sikh’s (an entho-religious group, if you are unfamiliar), I am pretty sure I did not know that would be 75,000 of them gathering.

I can’t say that all 75,000 of them were heading south with me on Highway 99, but let’s just say, this was not the place to be for anyone with any anxiety around headscarves.  Based on the occupants of the nearby cars—the many, many nearby cars, all traveling at maybe 5 miles per hour, or less—this was clearly a fine family event for all ages.

 

We finally got home and decided that the weather was just too nice to unload the kayaks, so it was up to Lake Natoma—after a slight detour up to Apple Hill for yet more sugar-laced bakery goodies.

 

         

 

 

This brings us back to The Saga of Poor Joe.

 

Joe was with us on The Great Lake Almanor Boat Adventure, which consisted primarily of a few moments of concern as we ascertained the source of the smoke billowing out of the engine compartment of Steve’s ski boat, which was followed by a great deal more time spent on congratulating ourselves for the alert action that was taken (opening the engine cover) and subsequent swift and well planned emergency response (turning off the engine).

And what would self-congratulations be without the consumption of alcoholic beverages.

 

During all this self-congratulating time, Joe regaled us with an encounter he had earlier that day, which left Poor Joe in a somewhat debilitated physical state.

 

Now, you have to understand that Joe is truly a Man’s Man. That was clear the moment he drove up in his massive four-wheel drive Ford pick-up with a burly, knobby-tired dirt bike motorcycle lashed in the truck bed.

 

Joe’s a physically fit, good looking guy with medium-length, light-brown hair that falls nicely above his masculine-featured face, someone that you might expect in an ad for some adventurous outdoor activity, which in Joe’s case, would not be a reach.

 

Joe is into numerous extreme outdoor sports, including kiteboarding and skydiving. 

(Beware the kiteboarding models on that link—Tab 3…not that I looked at them.)

 

And apparently, Joe also likes guns. And that is where his story got interesting.

 

Joe had gone out to the woods with a woman that morning, who, like Joe, gets a kick out of things that go bang.

These things are typically identified by a descriptive number, rather than by name, so when you mention 12 gauge, 30-06 (read as thirty-odd-six), or 9 mm to someone who is into recreational shooting, there is no confusion.

 

(For full disclosure, I should mention that I was not present at the morning’s outing, so I did not exactly witness what transpired or how the vicious, diabolical creatures of the deep, dark forest conspired against Poor Joe, but the information contained herein are the absolute facts—at least based on my over-active and vivid imagination.)

 

As Joe was fondling his gun—in this case, a 9 mm pistol—a wild animal running by caught Joe’s attention.

 

An animal that is feared throughout the untamed, sometimes dangerous wild forest.

 

Feared, but only if you happen to be an acorn, that is.

 

The animal was one of those tiny, cute-as-a-button chipmunks.

 

Doing what any manly-man with his weapon in hand and in the company of a woman in the woods would do, Joe took off running, hell-bent, after the beast, all-the-while running and gunning, spraying and praying.

 

    

 

Here was Joe, rapidly clamoring through the forest, fleetly navigating the hazard-strewn woods, jumping over down logs with great aplomb, dropping empty clips and reloading while at a full-on-run, all with perfect poise.

 

Just until the he was taken down in one fell swoop by the wild.

 

And it was just that, he fell under the excruciating pain of a severe foot-owie. 

(No, it was not by self-inflicted gunplay.)

 

While the cute little critter was last seen trotting off into the woods, huffing and puffing, grateful to be still breathing at all, Joe was left to crawl back to his manly-man, super-sized, four-wheel drive Ford pickup truck, collecting his empty clips and spent cartridges, and trying to dream up a manly-man story of survival against nature’s wrath that left him barely being able to return with his life—if not his ego—still in tact.

 

After chronicling his near-death experience at the hands (tiny little claws?) of the wild forest inhabitant, Joe must have noticed that Steve and I were only able to quell a guffaw by quaffing yet another cold brew, to which Joe exclaimed with great bravado,

“Hey, it was a really big chipmunk!”

 

And apparently, a really fast one, too.

My weekend overflow’ith with fair weather and good tidings.

Time change or not, with the wonderful weekend weather we were treated to, how could anyone not find something enjoyable to do outside?

We loaded the kayaks, a fine bottle of 2005 Bogle Phantom red wine, my favorite 12 year old Balvenie Doublewood Single Malt Scotch Whiskey, plus a few beers, and clothes for weather that would range from frosty at night to almost 80 degrees in the afternoon, and headed for the hills.

Yes, our provisions were heavy to the adult beverage category, but if I learned nothing else from spending my formative years in the Boy Scouts, it is “Be Prepared.”

The liquid refreshments serve multiple duties of: relaxation enhancement (until you become so relaxed it puts you to sleep), pain reduction (after those hours of kayaking), warming agent (should the layers of clothing prove insufficient), and in a pinch, a fire starter (but, please…not the Scotch).

               

                        Clear, cold water along the shore of Lake Almanor, Plumas County

Hopefully, by tomorrow I will have put the toys away, unpacked the dirty laundry, hauled out the empties and put a few more words to paper.

Until then, the pictures herein will have to suffice.

The picture above serves as the requisite beautiful nature scene and the one below just hints of a tall tale just around the corner of a new acquaintance, who apparently makes the women swoon, the men jealous, and the tiny forest creatures nervous.

                   

If you neither read nor write a blog, then there is nothing to see here. Move along.

 

How do they do it?

 

Blog daily, that is.

 

And some even manage to do it with considerable wit, humor, and technical expertise (if you are into fly-fishing) plus a plethora of warped imaginative, unique custom design graphics.

(Although, the picture at left happens to be the result of my warped imaginative efforts.)

 

Many of you will appreciate the devotion to post daily as a true labor of love with little opportunity or expectation of riches commensurate with the hours devoted to the task.

 

All I know, I would like to become more regular.

(And please, no suggestions to consume a plethora of prunes.)

 

My reader has requested as much and I would like to oblige.

 

 

 

“Dammit Jim, I’m a Wannabe Travel Writer, not a real one.”

 

I have many, many (trust me, you don’t want to know how many) pictures of our 2009 Spain Adventure, with not quite as many, but an adequate number of, sensational stories and tall tales with which I hope to regale my reader.

 

    

 

 

After traveling over the course of a number of trips to many of the iconic capital cities of Europe, I have done more than my share of obligatory museum tours.

 

Dozens of them.

Viewing hundreds of pieces of art—including many originals of some of the most famous and priceless paintings in the world.

And walking at least a marathon’s worth of miles.

 

               

 

Of course, the old adage, “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” is never truer than trudging through countless display rooms and sometimes confusing interconnecting mazes of hallways.

 

“Haven’t we already seen this room…twice…???”

 

Truth be told, I really am not a person of culture.

More often than not, I would rather be doing my other Wannabe Travelwriter activities, such as SCUBA diving, ocean sailing, downhill skiing (soon…soon), pretending to fly-fish, lake kayaking, mountain biking, windsurfing, desert camping…you get the idea.

 

But, my much, much better half likes company on her museum tours…and after 30 years of marriage, well, I mostly get it. 

So, it’s off to tour we go.

 

                 

 

But, while I may appropriately be accused of often being dumb, I am not completely stupid.

 

I did sneak one museum tour on to my wife’s list that, before she knew it, got me closer to my beloved vat of vino, the wonderful wholesome wine, the gleaning of the grape.

 

 

              

 

Truth be told, if there is a promise of good eats and alcohol I will even do the March of the Multiple Museums.

(What sacrifices I make for the sake of marital bliss.)

How did a good travel adventure road show get so lost?

Over the past few months, I have succumbed to the wiles of Ingrid, over at the Travel Channel, with a willingness to post weekly updates on Bourdain’s No Reservations travel food and drink escapades across the globe.

 

While I have been tapas-crawling my way across Spain, I have to admit that sometimes I have been imagining myself as a shorter, hairier, less good looking, much less rich version of Anthony Bourdain.

 

After numerous glasses of the local alcoholic beverage and a willingness to try food items definitely not on the menu back home, I attempt to wax poetic about my sense of place, and wonder what happened to my film crew.

 

     

 

So, I was somewhat crestfallen when I got an email that Ingrid has left me—and before we were ever really together—and someone named Wendy sends me the latest Bourdain offering. Crestfallen not only because I already miss my pretend virtually affair with Ingrid, but because the latest Bourdain creation is just that…a comic creation, as in not real.

 

Somehow Bourdain, or the Travel Channel Brain Trust got the brilliant idea that a cartoon of outlandish proportion would be entertaining to those of us who enjoy watching Tony travel the world to exotic places.

 

Now, the email appears to be legitimate, and I am pretty sure it is too early for an April Fools joke, but unless this is something specially presented just for Halloween this weekend, well, I am not sure what in the hell they were thinking.

 

 

 

Hopefully, Bourdain will find his way back on the road again soon. Otherwise, I wonder what Andrew Zimmerman is eating nowadays.

(Hmmm. Looking at the picture, apparently the same thing I am eating over in Segovia, Spain, just outside of Madrid.)