Road Trip: Vinyl Fever

My first official act of 2018: made a store run with a vinyl tablecloth frozen to the roof of my car.

I'm betting none of you can say that.

Why? The car's sunroof leaks. I've been using a canvas tarp to cover it when it rains...BUT...if it rains hard or long enough, the canvas gets saturated with water and basically lets it through--and the sunroof leaks anyway.

So I got the vinyl to lay under the tarp. It's got a fleece lining so the vinyl doesn't slip. When I covered the car yesterday, it had already been drizzling. Wet roof, now close to freezing, and now there's a plastic tablecloth frozen to the car.

Stupid thing stayed there all the way to the store and back. I had to pry it loose from the windshield and fold that one little section back, but other than having it flapping like an idiot flag all the way there and back, the tablecloth didn't budge. No way I'm going to try peeling it off. With my luck, it'd take the paint with it.

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Addendum:
Looks like the thing's staying frozen until at least tomorrow. It barely broke 33, is already 32 again just at dusk.

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Jan. 2: Still there. At least now it's 41F. But at least my interior stayed dry.

Road Trip: "If You Want It Done Right Tour" ends...

...and it only took me 6-1/2 months.

Ever since I took to the highways of Florida, Alabama, and Georgia to get my own damn engine thanks to a less-than-helpful...acquaintance, I've had that engine tied down in the back of the Tracker.

It's been entertaining. The tail-dragging Tracker was skittish and threatened to bottom out on every bump.

The original plan was to get the engine out the morning after I got back from Atlanta. Medical stuff and too-cold March weather became medical stuff and too-wet April weather, then I went to San Francisco for a week. All the airport walking kicked my ass...and then it was too hot outside.

It was too hot outside yesterday morning, too, when I finally had enough and dragged myself out to finish the job.

The most difficult part: my new, unused engine hoist was still in pieces, still boxed up, and still in the cellar from the morning I bought it in mid-2011. No way I was going to be able to haul the thing myself, but I'm a pretty smart guy--and modest. Used the Tracker and a tow strap to pull it up.

It might have taken a half-hour without all the medical stuff. Took 2 hours to get this far, with frequent rest breaks. As soon as it was on the ground, I quit and sat in front of a fan for a few hours.

It only took 30 minutes to put the crane together and just a few to spot the Tracker into position.

Picked it up and drove the Tracker out from under it. Finally!

I'll need to get that blue beast on a stand and safe from the weather in the next day or so. From there I'll be able to start figuring out just what engine I've got.

I'm just glad that road trip's over.

San Francisco: Morrison Planetarium at the California Academy of Sciences

We hit the California Academy of Sciences (CAoS) on the afternoon of Wednesday, May 1. After a morning at Alcatraz, I didn't have any business walking around, but I'm too stubborn for my own good. I really hate to let all the medical crap I've been through in the last three years get in the way.

So I explored. Slowly. If there was a bench nearby I explored it as well.

The ground floor is where most of the action is. There are a pair of enormous globes: one for the Rainforests of the World exhibit, the other for the IMAX Morrison Planetarium.

We'd come specifically to see the planetarium, billed as "the world's largest all-digital" in the CAoS brochure.

I didn't wander very far, but we had an hour to kill before the next show. I took in the Puerto Rico reef aquarium and watched the Foucalt Pendulum display:



Explored several benches. They were of good quality and reasonably comfortable, but the main bench exhibit (a small group of them, supposedly shown in their natural environment) was kind of boring.

No benches at the planetarium entrance. We only stood for maybe 15 minutes, but it was starting to seem like forever by the time the doors opened and we were ushered into...the next waiting area (a darkened room, where our eyes could adapt). My legs and back were having fits, but I just kept standing.

Another 10 minutes in this darkened room, then (FINALLY!) we were led into the main theater, a 90-foot dome. Some pretty evil stairs, and damned if my host didn't want to go alllll the freaking way to the top. Man, what a hike. I felt like I'd fall backwards if I didn't hold on to the railing. Practically fell into my seat. Sighed in several kinds of relief.

Several minutes of introduction from the staff. The theater was more brightly lit than that darkened room had been (so much for adapting to the dimmer light...). The lights went down and the show got under way.

I wish I could describe the show. It looked amazing on that 90-foot IMAX dome, as if we were floating above the building's Living Roof. We pulled back, back, back: the campus, San Francisco and its peninsula, the West Coast, the Earth--

I blinked. I'd swear that's all it was, a blink, and overhead we were zooming back toward the Earth. Credits rolled, lights came back up, and my cellphone claimed that 20 or so minutes had passed.

Seriously. I'd managed to sleep through the one thing I'd come here to see.

Pic of the Day: Alligator Gar Overhead!

Shot in the basement of the California Academy of Sciences (CAOS! heheheh). An alligator gar prowls above the ceiling of the "Amazon Flooded Forest" tunnel. Above is the "Rainforests of the World" sphere.

The entire basement level is a series of aquaria, some of which are also visible from the ground floor. Mostly natural daylight coming down through the building's skylights. Makes for some spectacular shooting, especially if you can find a place without a crowd of people in the way.

Road Trip: San Francisco! Part 3a--Restaurants (some followup)

I should have put this as the close of the restaurants post. Oh, well.

In the three days I spent in the SF area, I ranged as far north as Sausalito (on a run up to see Muir Woods) and as far south as San Mateo.

I was struck by how few out-in-the-open fast food joints there were. These were mostly in San Bruno and Millbrae (the In-N-Out Burger we went to was in Millbrae). I saw one stand-alone McDonald's with its familiar architecture. The handful of McDonald's joints farther north were blended into their neighborhoods or in strip malls. No drive-through, nothing more than a recognizable but modest double-arches sign to let you know they were there.

I saw a combined KFC and Taco Bell in an otherwise nondescript building. A combined KFC or Taco Bell and A&W in another spot.

Not a Waffle House sign (or restaurant) anywhere. Those things grow like kudzu near highway offramps in the Southeast.

I liked it. I liked the fact that there was a dress code in the area and that even these corporate giants had to conform.

Billboards. There weren't a lot of them cluttering up the view. Business signs, either.

Walmart? bwahahaha. Nope. The Great Retail Satan can be found across the bay or down near Palo Alto, though there are a couple of corporate offices of some sort near San Bruno.

Nice.

[Edit: Don't know why it didn't occur to me that the "dress code" could also be about using established buildings that are up to local earthquake-preparedness codes. The San Andreas fault cuts right up the center of the SF peninsula--interactive map at the link.]

[Nother Edit: I really should have trolled the locals, asking them where the Rice-A-Roni Factory Outlet store was. Dammit!]

Road Trip: San Francisco! Pt. 3--The Bites!

Yeah, this is me being lame, trying to rhyme with Part 2--The Flights! Maybe I should go back to Part 1--The Airports and rename it "The Plights" or "The Smites."

Nah. Too trite.

There weren't any complimentary peanuts or crackers on any of the flights, just soft drinks. A canned Coke is a canned Coke, even at 33,000 feet. No food here, and that'll save some reviewing time.

4/28/2013 Sunday:
First place I dined was Tommy's Joynt at the corner of Van Ness Avenue and Geary. We had to park up near the end of the block on Geary (nice downhill slope for me to deal with). I didn't even notice the eye-catching livery on the building's north side (late evening and worn out from all the airport stuff). As you enter from the corner (didn't see the door on Geary, either), you've got a long cafeteria-style serving area on the right. The bar dominates the left wall. Plenty of warm, dark wood. Beer signs all over the place. Small without feeling crowded. As a bonus for Monty Python fans, there's a little "Watney's Red Barrel" display hanging just next to the bar.

I wish I'd been able to stay in SF longer so I could explore the Joynt's menu. I had the BBQ brisket dinner platter (mashed potatoes, hard roll and a salad). Good portions for the price (about 10 bucks, plus a Coke). Very tasty! It was served with what looks like a thin brown gravy but has a tangy BBQ sauce flavor. I'd definitely eat here again and again.

4/29/2013 Monday:
We ran some errands early in the day and didn't do breakfast until maybe 10:30 am. Thanks to the Lex and Terry morning radio show, I've been hearing praises of In-N-Out Burger for years. We stopped at the one near Millbrae Avenue and Rollins Rd in Millbrae.

I went with a straight-up #2 combo (double cheeseburger, fries, Coke). I'd put them in the same league with Wendy's, Steak 'N' Shake, or Whataburger as far as flavor and quality--basically mid-range as far as burgers, but high as far as fast food joints go (for comparison, Burger King, McDonald's, and Krystal are on the bottom tier; Tops and SteakOut are on top). Huge portions. Good fries. It wasn't an earth-shaking experience, but I'd go occasionally if there were one in Pensacola.

We spent the rest of the day driving all over SF proper. Had a Slurpee at the only 7-11 I've seen since 1999 (there are none in Northwest Florida; they were taken over by Circle K).

Dinner was from Sorabol, a food court restaurant at the Tanforan mall in San Bruno. Korean. Pretty typical Asian-style menu (rice, vegetables, bite-size cuts of beef, pork or chicken). Lots of food for a decent price. The bourbon chicken was very good.

There was a Jollibee next door to Sorabol. I later learned that it's supposed to be Filipino--but from reviews around the Interwebs, actual Filipinos eat elsewhere. The only reason I even remembered this place was #3 on their menu: a plate of spaghetti with sauce...and a fried chicken drumstick.

We'd intended to see the "Evil Dead" remake in the nearby theater, but neither of us thought we'd make it through without falling asleep. Back to the apartment.

4/30/2013 Tuesday:
My host had to go to work. He spent a good 6 hours on that. I sat around (glad to not be walking or climbing in and out of my host's Miata) and munched on my leftover dinner. Bleah. No microwave or cookware. The rice had hardened and the noodles had taken on a rubbery consistency. Bleah, again.

We lunched at the Broadway Grill a few miles from the apartment at Broadway & Capuchino. What?! Not fast food?! Nope. Not a formal place, but tony enough that prices are noted discreetly on the menu next to the entrees ("21" without the distracting dollar sign; don't be fooled by the Web version). The room is big, two stories high, with an open and roomy feel to it.

I had the Steak Frites (the classy name for "steak and fries"). And a Coke (no classy name). Moderate portions. Good steak. A bit pricey, perhaps, for a low-budget kind of guy (that's a classy way of saying "broke").

More running around, this time in Haight-Ashbury.

Dinner was a medium pizza from Village Host, a couple of blocks east of the Broadway Grill (Broadway & Laguna). Casual sports-bar vibe, but without TV's covering every wall. Wood-warmed and comfortable, maybe louder on a big game night but plenty quiet for conversation. There's an arcade room at the back with a vintage Ms. Pac Man/Galaga sit-down game. The only interesting stand-up had a dozen or so classics such as Joust, Defender, and Vanguard.

Rating the usual pizza joints, I'd put Domino's dead last, then CiCi's, Little Caesar's, Hungry Howie's, Pizza Hut, and Papa John's. Village Host would come in around Howie's or the Hut.


5/1/13 Wednesday:
Alcatraz day! We did breakfast in the little cafe/gift shop near the ferry landing. Some kind of turkey & ham wrap, and too pricey. I ate half of it and stored the rest away for later.

Alcatraz ate the morning; the California Academy of Sciences (CAOS! heh.) ate the afternoon. We infiltrated a Popeye's for a late lunch.

We went back to the Broadway Grill to see their Dean Martin impersonator *ahem* Tribute Artist. Once he wrapped up, we went up the street to Village Host again and demolished a large.

5/2/13 Thursday:
Back to the airport for my long-ass ride back to Pensacola. With the flights (Frisco to Charlotte, then to Pensacola) and the layover in Charlotte I was looking at 10 hours. I had the other half of that wrap from the Alcatraz pier cafe for breakfast. That was it until I hit Charlotte, found out my flight had been canceled, and that I was being put up in a hotel for the night.

The Hilton's Omaha Steakhouse is simply made of awesome. Granted, my rosy outlook thereupon is a likely side effect of low blood sugar. Don't care. I was seated in the lounge. There was just enough light to read, the booth seat was terribly comfortable, and service was fast. I ordered a burger, since a steak would be more work than I wanted. If that wasn't the best damn burger I've ever had, it had to be close. On that short list of burger places, Omaha is at the top, above SteakOut, which is my go-to for damn good burgers.

It tasted like steak.

I don't know what McDonald's does to their patties, but they do not taste like steak. Maybe it's their seasoning (he said, being diplomatic), or the cooking method (he added diplomatically).

Whatever it was, there was just enough burger in all the right places and the price was very reasonable ($13 plus tax) for a steakhouse. No bacon. Why, why, WHY would I pollute a good burger with bacon?

Pic of the Day: Columbus Tower, San Francisco

I snagged a shot of San Francisco's Columbus Tower without realizing that I was a half-block from a "Star Trek IV" filming location, near the intersection of Kearny, Columbus and Pacific.

Dig that JJ Abrams lens flare in the Google Earth shot! That makes it more Trekkie! (Trekish? Treklike? Trekalicious? Trekadelic?)


Right here:



Man, that music sucks.

The building's got an interesting history. It was home to Caesar's, the restaurant credited with creating the Caesar salad. Francis Ford Coppola bought the place in the 1970s and made it home to his American Zoetrope production company.

Road Trip: San Francisco! Pt. 2--The Flights!

If I were designing an airliner, one thing I'd add would be High-Def panoramic cameras that feed to each passenger's seat-back screen, with an assortment of controls to let people look all around the plane, zoom in on points of interest, and label locations so you know where you are and what you're seeing. Pop an SD card in and get stills or video. Like Google Earth, but in realtime.

There would need to be a "virtual" mode for cloud cover.

When we took to the air on June 28th, it was pretty clear; I could see the lower half of Santa Rosa County as we circled eastward from the north runway, then south, then west. Santa Rosa Island, Pensacola Beach, and Fort Pickens scrolled by beneath us.

It didn't take long before Fort Morgan and Mobile Bay were below us--and then a thin haze gradually thickened into a mat of opaque clouds that stayed with us all the way to Houston. I did get glimpses of the Gulf and the Louisiana peninsula. At some point either someone broke wind...or we were over Mississippi (love y'all, mean it! Keep bangin' them rocks together...).

Part of the fun of flying is in getting pics of places you've never been to, then trying to find them in Google Earth:

The FoodMart at Richey and Imperial Valley, just west of the Houston Bush Airport. Took a while to find it in Google Earth (I was looking in all the wrong places).

Once we turned northward from the Gulf toward Houston and started losing altitude, my ears felt like  they'd been hammered into my throat. Now I could only hear the hissing of the air vent over my seat and other high frequencies. My right ear cleared after about 30 minutes on the ground, somewhere in the airport. My left stayed blocked up all the time I was in San Francisco.

Once we left Houston, it was clouds all the way--and my seat was right over the wing. Looking forward, I could see the engine, clouds all the way to the horizon, and the occasional airliner crossing our path below. Looking sideways, there was The Wing. I had a sliver of landscape behind and below, with mountains (snow-capped? Hard to tell) and rugged terrain:

In-flight entertainment was a bunch of ABC programs--something with Matthew Perry (I was thinking this was just United Airlines-produced  happy-happy propaganda until I saw the "ABC" logo), some other show with one of the Wayans brothers, some really bad-looking swords & sorcery thing with Jennifer "Dr. Cameron" Morrison that looked like an all-female Dungeons and Dragons game with nothing but pretty people, and some reality show called "Shark Attack" or somesuch where people act out or demonstrate business proposals for a board of money people, hoping to get financial backing. I glanced at this stuff occasionally to rest my neck from being cranked hard-right so I could watch the mountains and such behind my wing.


By the time we were on final approach to San Fransisco, the sun was glaring me in the face, but I could see the bay, Treasure Island, and the hills to the north:

On this leg, every place past New Orleans was the furthest west I'd ever gone, so now I can say I've been within 37,000 feet of New Mexico and Arizona and actually planted feet in Texas and California.


The trip from San Francisco to Charlotte a few days later was more like riding in a car at night. Lots of nothing to see. There was an occasional sighting of mountains, irrigation circles, a large lake (we were too far south for it to be the Great Salt Lake; might have been Strawberry Reservoir in Utah--something with small islands), and a wide, meandering stretch of river (Mississippi?). Really could have used that Google Earth interface.

Once we crossed over Colorado, it was clouds, clouds, and clouds (aside from that big river) all the way to Charlotte--and even as we were on final to the airport itself. Didn't help that for this flight I had an aisle seat. All I got was glimpses when there weren't clouds; the guy who had the window freaking WASTED it by sleeping.

Sleeping.

I can see where doing enough flying might inure one to the wonders of being in a thin, fragile tube of aluminum and plastic, sailing 37,000 feet above the ground, so high up that one can't see trees, cars, houses, or even cities as anything more than a general "place" (trees make a place green, a road's a gray strip).

But you're freaking FLYING.

Never fails to amaze me, living a few miles from Pensacola's "International" (bwahahahaha!!) Airport and seeing planes big and small floating along on their approach to the north-south runway. Even knowing some of the physics behind it doesn't take away the magic, knowing that the jet thundering overhead is moving close to 200 miles per hour (looks like it's creeping along).

Even more amazing being in one, being pushed back into your seat as the engines spool up to full power and the plane starts rolling like a dragster, waddling as its nosewheel turns just slightly left or right, every crack in the runway kicking you in your seat...then the nose comes up...then the main wheels, and you're suddenly moving in all three dimensions at once.

You're freaking FLYING.

And this guy's taking a nap.

So yeah...clouds. And glare. Man, was it bright outside. But now I could say that I'd been within 37,000 feet of central Nevada, Utah, Colorado, Kansas, Missouri, Kentucky, a little sliver of northeast Tennessee, and South Carolina. Missed Oklahoma and Arkansas, but now I've at least been close to most of the southern half of the country. Could have mooned the ones who deserved it, if I'd have been able to twist around to present the salute. Those cabins are tiny even if you're not Mr. Chunky.

What he said. Did I mention that for this one flight (San Fran to Charlotte), I had to ask for an extension seatbelt? Yeah. The existing one was 1/4" shy of touching. Forget about buckling it. My ears repeated their "hammered into my throat" trick. Couldn't hear the screeching toddler creature in the row ahead of mine, so there's that. Then both ears adjusted a little--and ALL I could hear was the screeching toddler. Nice.


The flight from Charlotte to Pensacola was canceled. "Aircraft maintenance." I learned from several other people that their flights had been canceled for "aircraft maintenance," too. We all speculated that it was from the airline being unable to maintain enough dollars bodies in the seats to bother flying the aircraft (I snarked that if it was really a maintenance thing, they could do what all us drivers do: put some black tape over the warning light and keep driving). I didn't complain, though. Unless I wanted to try bouncing from Charlotte to Tallahassee to who-knows-where to Pensacola (more airports? Screw that!), better to look at it as an adventure instead of an asswhipped and thoroughly exhausted traveler who just wants to be done with this crap already. Got to keep my blood pressure down.

Hell, maybe we were sequestered out of our flights. But I can kick a Republican anytime.

The hotel was pretty damn nice. The Hilton Embassy Suites maybe 10 minutes from the airport. At first, when the shuttle dropped me off and I'd checked in, all I wanted was to crawl to my room and collapse on a horizontal surface. I'd have settled for the elevator floor, but those tend to be kind of busy. As I was wobbling toward the elevators, though, I caught sight of The Restaurant. Can't even remember the name, but survival instincts kicked in. I hadn't had solid food for two thousand miles and I was feeling that way. So I made my way to the lounge, collapsed into a very comfortable seat, destroyed a Coke, and then destroyed the best hamburger I've ever had.

That's not exaggeration. This was one of those restaurants that asks how you want your burger cooked instead of making it assembly-line style. This burger tasted like steak.

My room was impressive, for someone being shuffled to a hotel for the night. Bedroom, living room, a little kitchen-like spot in the hall (fridge, microwave, coffee maker), and a generous bathroom with a walk-in shower, a Shower Massage head and plenty of awesome hot water. I have GOT to get one of those.

The only thing to mar my night was some jerk downstairs who kept throwing what sounded like metal and glass into the Dumpster outside the kitchens--and right below my bedroom windows. Sounded like a Pottery Barn being invaded by a cookware store.

The flight to Pensacola was another cloudy "nothing to see here" ride. At least my seat belt fit. :)

I've never been so happy to see ground. I was almost giddy with relief when I walked out of this final airport. Had to sit and rest, of course, but then I laid eyes on a line of cabs waiting for fares, told my goddamn legs to get stuffed, and power-marched the first 20 feet...lost steam and went back to hobbling, wishing I had more than the one speed. Had to rest again once I got to the cabs, but now I was a few car lengths away from not having to walk. Cabbie told me it was $11 minimum. I didn't care. Guided him on the shortest route, gave him $20, got into the house, and utterly failed to fall asleep for several more hours.

That left ear still hasn't cleared.

I'm still amazed at how a simple backpack with 4 T-shirts, underwear, 1 pair of shorts, a washcloth, a polo shirt, a pair of khakis and a hoodie could weigh so damn much.

It was fascinating, mostly fun...but I'm not going near a freakin' airport for the next few years.

Road Trip: San Francisco! (April 28-May 3, 2013)--Pt. 1, The Airports

There I was--surrounded by hoooooomasexshuls!

...and I couldn't spot 'em.

To hear the wingnuts & other haters tell it, San Francisco is World Homo Headquarters, every street corner populated by mincing, very nicely dressed, expensive cheese-eating, twinkletoed incubi indulging in every one of the Kama Sutra positions, sometimes alone, sometimes in pairs, but mostly in massive, sweaty, leather-chaps-and-rainbow-flag-draped orgies of sin that would embarrass Satanists and shock the ancient Greeks, who are well-known to have indulged in lustful Baccanalic displays themselves.

The strangest thing I saw was one old man wearing a backpack and using ski poles to cross-country hobble through a crosswalk. Nothing kinky about that: maybe his back hurt. After three days of airports and three of walking and climbing the sights (and sites) of San Fran, I could have used a pair of those poles, myself.

Instead of "Great Babylon is come up before me" (as a scandalized Rachel Jackson said of New Orleans as she and husband Andrew made their way to accept receipt of Florida from Spain in 1821), San Francisco was cleverly disguised as an ordinary town with ordinary people doing ordinary things such as shopping, driving, and working.

Not so much as a Gay Pride Child Recruitment Center!

I left Pensacola Sunday afternoon, had 90 minutes in Houston, and on to SF. I'd be returning Thursday by flying cross-country to Charlotte, NC, 4-hour layover, then 90 minutes to Pensacola.

Maybe it's because Pensacola's airport is so small, but the security line was ridiculous! The line was pretty long and there was just one checkpoint (there's only one terminal). Took close to 45 minutes to get from right next to the check-in counters to the other side of the checkpoint. Man, were my legs tired. Fortunately the terminal is small. Getting to my gate didn't take long even with a couple of rest breaks.

I was hoping that all the standing and walking would help with the leg problems I've been having since Aorta Day. Nope.

Houston airport could have used more benches (something I noticed about every place I went). Most of my 90-minute layover was spent in me hobbling toward the next terminal, finding a train, then hobbling to the departure gate. I saw some passenger carts toting people around, but figured they were pay-to-ride, so I just kept going. I was too tired to smirk at the the place being named after George Bush (the wimpy, ineffectual entitled prat, not the war criminal). Airports should be named for heroes like astronaut Rick Husband, not zeroes. Check out all of Husband's accomplishments. Imagine landing at Houston's Rick the Astronaut Airport. I made it about 10 minutes before boarding started.

I really liked San Fran airport. The terminals are arranged like spokes on a wheel. Get off your plane, head toward the hub and get out. Minimal hiking, no pain-in-the-ass navigation. Still a long walk. Man, were my legs tired.

At the other end of the trip, I got to San Fran airport around 7 Thursday morning. Check-in was fast. The security line only took a few minutes. My legs and back still got sore from the standing, but I was expecting that and flagged down one of those people-carts (finally realized they're free--but considering all the luggage carts for rent, the quick cellphone chargers-for-pay, and stuff like that, my earlier assumption is understandable). I rode like a tired-legged prince to my departure gate and relaxed.

The Charlotte airport was a nightmare of long stretches without benches. Hell of a place. Three and a half hour layover. I started off the right way by going the wrong way in my arrival terminal. When I figured out that the gate numbers were going the wrong way, I sagged, turned around, and moved with what little purpose I could muster. My destination, Terminal E, was at the furthest point possible from me. Man, were my legs...well, you know. Started looking for one of those handicap buggies. Didn't find one for the entire length of Terminal B, or into the mall along the main building. Finally flagged one down only to be dropped off at the top of an escalator. Down that, try to find another cart, end up walking...and damned if I wasn't overtaken by a cart a few minutes later. Finally grabbed another one after more walking and a few rest stops. This one got me to the proper gate, allll the way at the end of Terminal E.

Did I mention that my legs were tired?

Sat there, pondering trudging back up the terminal to one of the restaurants. My phone rang. Flight's canceled, call us to reschedule, thanks for trying to fly us, g'bye. Automated message. I called and learned that I'd be staying in Charlotte for the night ("aircraft maintenance")--in a hotel. Guy told me to find the closest Customer Service desk. Said it was several terminals away. Nice.

Again with the cart-hunting. Not one in sight the entire length of the terminal, until the end, but this one was unattended. I sat, anyway, and waited. Got passed by a couple of active ones. Finally gave up and hiked until I found one, flagged him down. Turns out I passed a Customer Service desk in Terminal E--but my driver took me to the now-closest one and dropped me there. A little shuffling...new ticket for the next morning's flight, voucher for the hotel.

Next morning, check-in went fast, security took maybe 20 minutes (including the line). Now that I was savvy to the handicap carts, getting to the terminal didn't take long.

Pensacola's airport really needs to get their game together and work on decongesting the security line, even if it means putting some more people on the payroll to open up a second line. The single checkpoint worked as well as it could, but took 2-3 times as long as it needed to.

Road Trip: The Little Citation That Could

Tallahassee damn near dried out in 1998. We had several months without significant rain; most of the spring and early summer went by without relief.

Tallahassee's surrounded by woodlands. Lots of kindling in the undergrowth. There were quite a few controlled burns, places where you'd be driving along and start smelling smoke, come around a curve and find a patch of ground the size of a house still smoldering.

There was at least one uncontrolled burn, a big forest fire between Tallahassee and Crawfordville. I could smell that one from my apartment 11 miles to the north.

We needed relief pretty badly and when the rains came they made up for lost time with a vengeance. We were getting some light sprinkles around mid-morning. I covered the Citation with a tarp: the area around the top of the windshield was pretty badly rusted out. If it rained hard enough I'd be driving home with a soaked seat and pools in the footwells.

Light sprinkles turned to heavy rains like gray curtains. Not bucket-loads, but tanker loads. Windshield wipers struggled in vain, giving only inches' more visibility. Falling water smote car roofs like a thousand Neil Peart drum solos.

The great thing about the delivery driver job I had at the time was that on a typical run you could be gone for an hour or more, depending on whether certain shops had ordered something. Our customers were scattered widely around town and in Quincy, Crawfordville, and Monticello, which are 15 to 25 miles out. Plenty of time between shops for thinking and recording writing ideas on a little tape recorder.

Not so great if you're struggling to see past the nose of your car, hoping the guy in front of you can see the guy in front of him (a common hope in rainless Tallahassee, a forlorn one in any other weather). Within hours people's yards on the southeast side of town were lakes, flooded from front door to pavement by insufficient drainage and massive runoff from Doak Campbell Stadium's lovely parking lot a few blocks north. There was an insane amount of water running in the shallow ditches and not much place for it to go. Most of my shortcuts were under water by noon. Lake Bradford Road had a lake where it went under a railroad bridge.

It rained all day, hard. We stayed busy. And wet. By quitting time it was back to sprinkling.

The Citation had stayed reasonably snug and dry, but the real test still lay ahead. Just about every road I could take had a problem; Lake Bradford was flooded, Orange Avenue westbound wasn't much better off, and eastbound would lead me to Monroe Street, which would be clogged with cars and construction instead of water.

I took Lake Bradford. That lake under the railroad bridge hadn't subsided much, but where it had been too deep for my delivery car (a Geo Metro), the Citation nosed through without any fuss. I passed a few abandoned cars on the higher ground just past the bridge. I knew not to try taking my usual shortcut that would get me to Ocala (Pepper, Lipona, and Belleview to Ocala, for the locals), so I went around the stadium's east side (Varsity to Pensacola). Varsity was flooded, too. Damn stadium. More abandoned cars on the roadside, some of them with their rear ends floating in nearly 3 feet of water.

The Citation rolled on, kicking up an impressive bow wave even at low speed. I took it slow. Pensacola Street took me past the north side of the stadium. At least now I was out of the worst of the flooding, but now I joined the lines of cars seeking higher ground and passage out of town. I don't know why I didn't just hit Ocala and head north like I normally would. Probably the traffic was too heavy that way. Can't remember. For whatever reason, I ended up on Mission, I think. All I remember about this bit is that I was cruising north on whatever road, came over the top of a hill, and had to panic stop so hard that all four wheels locked up. A line of cars stretched more than a mile to where this road--I'm pretty sure it's Mission; it's the only one that makes sense--dead-ended into Fred George Road. Stop sign. Very long wait.

From the shop to my apartment took at least an hour, probably 90 minutes, instead of fifteen. The Citation never sprang a leak, even when the water was halfway up the doors--though the next morning I discovered that my door and one taillight had become water tanks. Plenty of other people weren't as lucky. The Tallahassee Democrat ran a photo of one FSU parking area that was under six feet of water. A few inches of roof was all that showed of some guy's vintage '50s Chevy pickup. Some antennas poked up in other areas. Shortly after the July 13th Rain from Hell, Tallahassee or the County or someone decided that the southeast side's drainage problem should be addressed. Now there's a big drainage pond or two. I haven't seen the neighborhood since I moved to Pensacola in 1999, but it's got to be better for them these days.

Road Trip: You Turn Me Right 'Round, Baby...

Not really a road trip, so much as a test drive that went sour.

I had this monster '76 Impala wagon 20 years ago. It was the first car I owned that I actually drove anywhere. Mine was as white as Eric Estrada's teeth. There were some dents and dings, one spot above the left taillight where the previous owner backed into a garbage truck, and all the floorboards were rusted out, but for the most part it was straight and rust-free.

Huge car. Twenty feet long, with three rows of seating. The back row opened backwards so the occupants could look out the back window and make faces at other motorists [remembering that wrong--the seat flipped up facing forward, but there was still room behind the third row for small, unsecured, face-making brats].

Coolest feature on this beast was the "clamshell" rear door and window. Turn your door key partway and the rear window would retract into the ceiling. Turn it all the way and the tailgate would retract under the floor.

That was about the only "extra" other than power steering and brakes. Everything else was manual.

The Impala and I had a rivalry the entire time I owned it. I had it in my head that this car was going to run, and run well.

The Impala had other plans. Very passive aggressive. I'd have it running (again), run out and hop in to head to work, and...nothing doing. I'd curse it up and down, grab my 10-speed out of the back (got in the habit of always toting a bike as backup), and go to work.

I'd been fighting the Impala for about a year, rebuilding the carb, adjusting things, tricking it into being more reliable. Took it for a little proficiency run to see whether I could get my gas mileage into double digits, since 9mpg really freaking sucks. It wasn't even a big engine, just a run-of-the-mill 350 with a 2-barrel. I never got around to hot-rodding it.

Headed east down Creighton Road toward the bay...and damned if I didn't get trapped in a line of cars behind a big yellow road grader. I could hear its engine howling, maxed out, but only giving the thing 20 mph. When it turned south onto Old Spanish Trail, I fed gas to the Impala and headed for Scenic Highway, where I'd be able to open the throttle at least a little. South on Scenic, down to Langley, west. There's a long, high hill from Scenic up Langley. As I crested the hill...damned if I didn't see a line of cars ahead, and that farking road grader crawling along like a rolling roadblock.

I should have turned on Spanish Trail, which is right at the top of the hill. But no, I kept rolling along, planning to turn instead on Leesway, which runs between Langley and Creighton, to escape the grader. It took forever to get to Leesway. Some jackass in a black Lincoln tailgated me once I made the turn. I glanced at him in my rear view mirror--and there was a sudden flash of red ahead of me. I had an impression of something car-sized right in front of me, felt the Impala jounce, heard a loud CRUMP! and screeching tires.

The Impala barely slowed. I'd only been doing 35, but a 5,000 pound wagon has a bunch of inertia.

I was still trying to put things together as I hit the brakes and guided the car over to the curb. People were pouring out of houses, there was a red Chevy Cavalier in the yard to my left, and the Lincoln had vanished. I sat there shaking for several days in a few eyeblinks.

Turns out that this 18-year-old girl had been trying to get around a road grader that was holding up traffic a few blocks away and was so intent on looking for it that she ran the stop sign just as I rolled into the intersection.

The Impala rammed her right on the driver's side rear wheel, bashing sheetmetal from door to back bumper. Her car described 3/4 of a circle and ended up in someone's yard, two tires off their rims, rear axle bent, a sculpture dedicated to physics. The other driver was shaking harder than me. Maybe some bruises, possible whiplash.

The police ticketed her for failure to yield and figured the had about $2,000 damage to her car. He looked at mine and guessed maybe $500. The front bumper was compressed and swiped a few inches sideways. The grille had shattered and the nose panel above it was flattened. Both corner caps above the headlights were damaged--but the radiator was fine.

Her car was loaded onto a flatbed. I drove mine home.

A week or so later, her insurance company sent a guy out. He looked it over, pronounced it "totaled," and offered me a $400 bank draft--minus an imaginary $75 "towing fee" because I was keeping the car.


$325. Assholes.

Road Trip: The "If You Want It Done Right..." Tour

Back in November, I got a line on an X-11 engine just northeast of Atlanta. The guy only wanted $200. I thought about it for a few days, trying to figure out how to get it to Pensacola.

I could take a bus up, rent a U-Haul or something, and drive back.

I could risk driving the X-11, but with the clutch making scary noises on the last road trip, I didn't see that happening.

I could try making the run in the Tracker, which has been sitting more than driving in the last few years. I've been running around in it the last month while I try to find an electrical problem in the X. I couldn't see the little critter making it close to 800 miles, even after it's been from New Orleans to Jacksonville over several runs. The engine needs a complete rebuild and some machine work, the brakes have been locking up (note to self: don't drive in salt water anymore), and it needed tires.

I finally bought the engine in late January and emailed a sort-of acquaintance to see if he'd be willing to make the 180-mile round trip from his place and hold the thing for me. I emphasized that it needed to be picked up "yesterday," time was a factor, gotta be done soon. I'd pay for his gas and time. He agreed, saying he'd try the "beginning of next month."

The beginning of February came and went, with no word from him. Once the middle arrived, he wrote saying he'd be headed up "beginning of next week." This was three weeks ago. There's been another "beginning."

The guy I bought the engine from wrote me March 4, wondering when the pickup was going to happen. Neither of us had heard from Mr. Pickup. I decided that I was going to have to do it myself--the seller needed the engine out of the way and had it hanging on a borrowed chain hoist.

Dammit. "If you want it done right, you gotta do it yourself."

The X-11 is still offline; I haven't found the electrical problem, the clutch is dodgy, and she needs a couple of tires out back. Fast and fun, but that clutch could strand me and I can't walk to Atlanta.

That left the Tracker. The engine's more dodgy than the X-11's clutch. I did a partial rebuild in 2007, but the thing needs a new crankshaft, main bearings, con rod bearings, maybe an oil pump, water pump...the cylinders are only a few thousandths of an inch from needing to be bored out--and then it'll need new pistons and rings. The only thing that doesn't really need work is the head, which I rebuilt in '07. There must have been a pound of carbon crusted on the pistons and valves.

Still, he pulls strong, doesn't burn much oil, and gets 35 mph on the highway when he's in a good mood. Starts right up on its 6-1/2 year old battery even after sitting (ignored by an X-11 driving bastard) for months.

Two used tires...top up coolant, add Stop Leak...load up...wire up a cheap stereo...head out at 10 am. I screamed along with Chris Cornell in Audioslave and Soundgarden...top up coolant...took 4 hours to get to Montgomery (no need to rush)...top up coolant...another 90 minutes and I'm in Georgia...top up coolant...do I smell Republicans, or is that just cow pastures?...several pauses along the way, buy more coolant, top up, look for leak and hope I can outrun it...finally hit Atlanta sometime after dark...spend half an hour with several hundred other cars using I-85 as a parking lot...wonder about coolant level...it's around 8 pm by the time I get to Roswell and the Atlanta Hotel. Ten freaking hours.

Compared to the Ashtray Hilton, this place was palatial! A small fridge and microwave, a stove and sink. King-sized bed. Clean, and not even a whiff of ashtray. I only saw one roach the entire night.

Of course it was on the third floor, but there was an elevator, so my messed-up legs and back were saved a lot of walking. I grabbed a luggage cart and emptied the Tracker of anything of value, anything that could be stolen, right down to the jack handle. Took the coil wire so it couldn't be started. Left it unlocked and the rear window unzipped.

Plopped into the most comfortable chair, watched "House" reruns, and crawled into bed by midnight, but my farking cellphone woke me up at 2:30 to let me know it was now 3:30 (Daylight Savings)--and tired as I was I couldn't get back to sleep until 7. I wanted to be up at 8. Watched the last hour of "The Invasion" (Nicole Kidman, Daniel Craig) and an old "Law & Order," read a car magazine, and failed at sleep.

Dammit, again. Up at 8 (man, did my legs ache), go looking for the luggage cart (almost right where I'd left it a few hours before)...load the Tracker...top up coolant...let's get this over with! Find the seller's house, load the engine, hang out with they guy and his father...don't wanna drive. I stall. Finally left at noon, their time.

The way it's squatting makes me look fatter.

Holy crap, was the Tracker skittish with 400 pounds of iron engine out back. I could feel the back end waddling every time I made a turn or hit a bump. I-285 South was a minefield of potholes and sunken pavement that had me imagining the Tracker's back end bottoming out, breaking a spring, and flipping that engine over the back seat and into my lap. The random 24 mph gusts coming from the south didn't help. All the way to Montgomery, those gusts whacked the Tracker's nose and nudged it toward the emergency lane. Once I got past Montgomery, I was headed more southward, so the gusts were hitting from the right and pushing me toward passing semis. I stopped every few hours, topped up the coolant, dumped the rest of the Stop Leak into the radiator, and kept hoping I could outrun the leak. I didn't bother with the radio the entire way back South.

If the coolant problem was the drama on the way to Atlanta (every road trip needs drama, whether it's an ashtray-scented motel or a kid's plastic playhouse that self-destructs right in front of you at 65 mph), my idiot body's refusal to go back to sleep was the drama for the ride south. I was running on maybe 3 hours' sleep by mid-afternoon, and of course I couldn't sleep anytime I hit a rest area or parking lot, just while I was roaring along at 65 mph, holding onto the wheel with both hands to keep the damn Tracker from whipping sideways, and just blinking only to find the Tracker headed for the emergency lane. It only got worse once I hit Highway 29 South, the final leg of the trip, the last 40 miles, all in the dark. It was 9ish when I finally peeled myself out of the Tracker for the last time. Man, did my legs ache.

Ten hours up, ten back, little sleep, $90 or so in gas, $32 for the hotel, $24 for the two gallons of coolant, $100 for the tires, a quart and a half of oil, cramped hands from gripping the steering wheel...if the engine had been a plain-Jane "X" engine instead of a high-output "Z" I'd never have bought it, let alone made a run to get it. The only difference is a somewhat hotter cam, domed pistons, and bigger valves. It's only good for 20 horsepower over the stock 115, and I've already got one in the X-11, but I can freshen the "new" one up and have it ready to drop in when the "old" one is ready for a rest. Or I could drop it into the Tracker (the front end, this time) to almost double its horsepower and halve its gas mileage!

I've also got a 4-barrel carb and matching intake for it. All I have to do is make an 822 mile round trip to Inverness, FL, and back....

No. Effing. Way.

Adventures Suck While You're Having Them (Sweetwater Creek, 9/16/2006)

The title is something Neil Peart says a few times in his travel book "Roadshow." Man, is that ever true.

The worst kayak ride I've ever had was one of those sucky adventures.

I found a guidebook to Northwest Florida rivers a few years ago. It's pretty out of date as far as roads and landmarks, but still usable, since the rivers are still there.

I wanted to try a different run from the usual one I took with the Movie Freak; this would be the first time one of his trumpet students came along, so we wanted a short ride.

According to the guidebook, the ride along Sweetwater Creek would be about 2 miles, with plenty of shade. We dropped Movie Freak's car at the take-out spot, piled all our stuff into my Tracker, and headed up to the Highway 4 put-in, a bridge over the creek. It was about 11 a.m.

I parked behind the southwest guard rail and we made our way down a kind of steep slope to the creek. Plenty of trees around, so the water was almost icy cold even in mid-September.

We had played up the whole tubing/kayaking experience for the kid, and all three of us were looking forward to it.

We hit a snag within 100 feet of the bridge, but didn't think anything of it. There had been plenty of hurricanes in the previous couple of years and deadfall was common even on Juniper and Coldwater Creeks (our usual). The kid and Freak had it easier; they were riding inner tubes and could just crouch down and float under it.

I had to maneuver the boat to a shallow spot, lever my fat ass up out of the seat (even 6 years ago, my legs were starting to give me trouble), and drag the boat around the snag. Saw some raccoon tracks on the bank, a first.

Back in the boat...and within a couple of minutes the way was blocked again. We voted to keep going, hoping that it'd be better.

It didn't.

There was a Lowe's worth of lumber downstream, and we had to go over, under or around it all. We really should have turned back, but that didn't happen. Each snag was a sucky adventure in itself; one was bad enough that I left the boat, climbed the west bank, and found myself looking across someone's pasture. I went a few yards downstream past the snag, climbed back down, and retrieved the boat, long since having given up on riding it. I pulled it along like an unwilling burro.

We hit another one like that a few hours later, the worst of all--a high, thick wall near what looked like a picnic area on the east bank. We scaled the bank and stopped for lunch, joking that this was a little more fun than we usually had. There really was no going back at this point; we had no idea how far we'd come (not far at all, as it turned out) and just wanted to keep moving forward.

From the picnic spot and a little trail running south, we could see that we could get around three sizable snags...and as soon as we were in the water again, we had to deal with another one.

We killed six hours doing this. By 5 p.m., the three of us were worn out. My shins burned from where I'd banged them on underwater branches. We wearily passed by a picnic area on the west bank, this one with a table and benches.

I don't think there was any discussion of stopping there; we kept going through/over/around several more snags before coming up against another wall of trees and branches. It looked like the creek stopped right there--and for us, it did. We turned around and hiked for that last picnic stop, rested a few minutes, and followed the nearby trail north away from the creek. The trail became a loose dirt road bordering that same pasture I'd seen from the other side, then finally led to a paved road.

At the second house on the right, we stopped to ask for a ride back to the Tracker. Big family, really nice folks. They explained that the creek had been left uncleared by whatever State or County office, and that it had been like that since Hurricane Opel in 1995.

Nice.

We were loaded into the family truck and off we went, maybe a quarter mile to Highway 4. The Tracker was parked barely 300 feet away.

After more than 6 hours, we'd gone maybe 3/4 mile down the creek (the middle push-pin in the picture).

"Idiots" tag is for us, for not turning back.

Road Trip: Jacksonville, Pt. 3 (May, 2008)--Part 3: Fort Clinch, then homeward

"Park campgrounds are full on Memorial Day."

Well, crap. I hadn't thought of that during my planning; I never go anywhere.

It's nearly night and I've got camping gear all ready to set up--and nowhere to set it up.

I backtracked through Fernandina Beach and stopped for dinner before calling a few campsites on the list I'd been given at Fort Clinch Park. No, sorry. No, we're full. No vacancy. You might try so-and-so, just up the road from you.

Back on the road toward Yulee. By now it was pitch black and drizzling. The campsite was easy to find. I pulled up in front of the office; there must have been a sign sending customers around back (I don't remember), so I swung around behind the building. The rain was falling harder as I squished over to the open back door.

"Sorry, we're full-up--and we only allow RV's and trailers--no tents."

That's not a campground. That's a PARKING LOT.

Hell with this.

I asked about motels; there was one in Yulee at the next light, turn right.

Squished back to the Tracker and found my way to the dinky motel's office. Thirty-five bucks, don't care whether it's smoking or non-smoking. Park and open the door to my room.

Imagine every loaded ashtray you've ever seen, and the ghosts of every ashtray you've never seen, all trapped in a dinky motel room. They all greeted me at the door, then flowed around me and enveloped me. If I hadn't been worn down to the dregs, I'd have gone to ask for another room, but I could barely even think straight. It was after 10 and I'd been up and running since at least 6 am.

I unloaded the Tracker, found the air conditioner in the back corner of the room, cranked it all the way up.

The place was reasonably clean, painted a shade of Institutional Green. To the right of the door there was a dent in the drywall that looked like the imprint of a fist and forearm. A single table lamp with no shade, TV, microwave, mini-fridge, wobbly table with two chairs. The bathroom was clean enough, but water trickled out of the faucets like someone had a tourniquet on the pipes somewhere.

All those ashtrays curled up around me on the bed and relaxed with me.

Tired as I was, sleep didn't come easily. The ashtray stink permeated the bedding; the only escape would be out in the rain, which didn't let up all night. I heard what might have been a fight outside around 3am, yelling and slamming doors.

By 4 am I was feeling nauseous. I could taste the ashtrays. The next hour lasted a week, and it was puffing on menthols the entire time.

I gave up on sleep and took a trickle (can't call it a "shower"--I'm not that generous), loaded the Tracker, and bailed out of the Ashtray Hilton, headed for Fernandina Beach.

The fort wouldn't open for several more hours, so I drove through town, past the park and its lucky campers to the end of Atlantic Avenue and parked to watch the sunrise over the Atlantic. There were plenty of clouds, some rain to the north, a single dolphin and a handful of surf-casters. Very peaceful, even the waves subdued, just the fresh smell of salt air.

I headed back through town past the first "Dog Bakery and Boutique" I'd ever seen and took my time on breakfast at a Huddle House.

The park opened before the fort, so I drove along a narrow winding road bordered by thick woods. The parking lot was nearly empty. I hiked a short woodland trail round the fort's western flank, stopping to look at a garden spider weaving her web before making my way to the shore of the St. Marys River and the border with Georgia. Not a soul in sight, the sky much clearer than even an hour before.

Another trail led past the fort's westmost bastion, along the south wall, past the latrine well, and looped around the south bastion, bringing me to the long southwest wall. The top half of this wall (and the upper parts of the bastion I'd just passed) is built of dark red brick. I didn't think much of it at the time, but it turns out that while the fort was under construction before the Civil War, the crews were supplied with buff-colored southern bricks. Once hostilities began, the Feds were stuck with two completed bastions and two walls; they lost the partly-built fort until 1862 (the Rebs abandoned it). They couldn't get southern bricks to finish the job, so dark-red northern bricks were brought in.



This little fort is a must-see--especially if you've visited Fort Gaines, its twin on Dauphin Island, Alabama. Its five walls form a clipped hexagon with a bastion at each corner. The longest wall--the gorge--has the only entrance, protected by a drawbridge.

Where most Third-System forts had guns protected by casemates built into thick solid-brick walls, Forts Clinch and Gaines had relatively thin walls, no casemates (except for storage along a single wall), and an earthen embankment ringing the parade ground. The forts' main armament would be mounted atop these embankments and on top of the bastions.

For all their similarities, Clinch and Gaines aren't identical twins; Clinch has that two-tone brickwork; some pretty hurried-looking masonry (wider mortar joints, less precision in placement); brick laid down where stone should have been; and a functional drawbridge.

It's also much closer to original condition than Gaines, which received a pair of large concrete gun emplacements in the late 1890s. Clinch only got a single (much less extensive) emplacement behind its northeast wall.

Another thing Clinch offers is a view. Climb on top and look around, and all you see is nature in any direction. Fernandina Beach is very close by, but thanks to the dense forest of the park you'd never know it. To the north is the river; to the east, the Atlantic. Gaines has plenty of water and trees around it, but there must be a dozen gas rigs near the mouth of Mobile Bay and out in the Gulf of Mexico.

I spent most of the morning exploring, taking pictures, shooting video. The wrap-up was a big group of WW2 reenactors demonstrating period firearms.

I didn't want to leave, but knew it was time. After a few minutes in the tiny bookstore (more of a camp store) and a dip in the Atlantic (and watching a surf-fisher bring in a 5-foot hammerhead shark), I headed south. Man, I could have used a nap, especially after the Ashtray Hilton the night before.

All the same things as on the ride to Jacksonville a few days earlier: long stretches of roadway that all looks the same bordered by trees that all look the same, passed by the same cars and trucks, passing the same exits in reverse.

The only excitement was a yellowfly biting me while I was trying to take a nap at a rest area (holy CRAP did it hurt). The little shit followed me out of my car and almost all the way to the restrooms. Maybe it found someone more tasty while I was in there; I never saw it again.

I usually stop in Tallahassee on any trip headed that way, but by the time I got to the Monroe Street exit, all I wanted to do was get the trip over with so I could sleep for a few weeks.

I made it to the house well after dark and abandoned the Tracker.

Never even got to use my damn tent.

Road Trip: Jacksonville, Pt. 2 (May, 2008)--St. Augustine & Fernandina Beach

As I rolled down US-1 toward St. Augustine, the clouds rolled in. By the time I made it to the parking lot in front of the Castillo de San Marcos, things were looking ugly to the west.

I didn't care about rain; I was more concerned about someone dropping the Tracker's plastic rear window and stealing my stuff. Didn't let that stop me from going into the fort.

Gorgeous place, well-preserved by the National Park Service. It's right on the waterfront of Matanzas Bay, bordered on the south and west by US-A1A. Across the bay is Anastasia Island, where the coquina stone for the fort was quarried. If you squint just right to the east you can see a sliver of the Atlantic.

It's not a big fort, but there's plenty to see. The entrance is protected by a ticket booth (I imagine British invaders shelling out five bucks a head to get in) and a pair of drawbridges joined by a ravelin in the moat before the south wall.

Once you're inside, you'll find a modest gift shop, plenty of centuries-old Spanish-style guns and architecture, and lots of room on top to wander around and enjoy the view. I spent most of an hour exploring the towers topping each corner and the arch-ceilinged rooms, snapping photo after photo [lost all but 4 in a computer crash a few months later]. Those clouds kept rolling in from the west, ever darker, and the winds rose. Thunder grumbled louder and louder.

By the time I got back to the Tracker, fat, cold drops of rain were falling; I had to pause, though, for one of the best pics I've ever taken--the Castillo behind its hill, crowned by clouds.



Then the bottom fell out of those clouds; I retreated to the car.

Time to head back north, to Fort Clinch near Fernandina Beach. The rain cleared as I got closer to Jacksonville. I knew better than to try getting onto I-95; it was close to rush hour and I didn't feel like playing "parking lot" with the other commuters. I'd planned ahead (once I found a store that sold freaking MAPS a few days earlier) and swung onto 9A north. I almost had the Dames Point Bridge to myself. The worst of the rain had blown past, but the skies were still gray.

I traded 9A for 17B, 2 lanes passing small communities and big marshes and places like Reni's Redneck Yacht Club. I barely noticed Yulee on the way through. All I wanted now was to get to Fort Clinch State Park, set up camp, and get some sleep before seeing the fort bright and early the next morning. My mind's eye imagining brick walls and graceful arches, I turned east on to FL A1A. It seemed like a long drive from there; but the road finally became 8th Street, took a hard left, and took me to Atlantic Avenue.

Almost there!

I got stuck behind someone who seemed to be sneaking up on her destination. Why, yes, there was oncoming traffic, so I couldn't go around her--how'd you guess?

When you're going slow enough for a Tracker to tailgate you in 3rd gear, you're going too slow. Just saying.

Then she stopped almost in the middle of the lane to let her kid out near a ballpark. I swear the kid was running faster than she'd been driving.

The folks in the westbound lane finally left enough of a gap for me to get past her.

Almost there! Over a causeway...past a stand of trees a few blocks long, on my left...missed the damn park entrance!

Got myself sorted out...and in short order, I was talking to the guy at the park entrance.

Remember that I'd planned to camp somewhere in the park--and remember that I mentioned a slight snag?

"I'm sorry, sir, all the campsites are full because of the Memorial Day weekend. But here's a list of other places that might have openings."

Road Trip: Jacksonville, Pt. 1 (May, 2008)

When I got picked to be on a store setup team in May of 2008, I was all over it. Not because I'd been dying to see Jacksonville--and not because I wanted to drive almost 400 miles to the other end of I-10. There are several forts close by--the Castillo de San Marcos in St. Augustine, and Fort clinch up in Fernandina Beach.

The store setup would take a week; I had to be in Jacksonville Sunday to check into the hotel, make it through to Friday, and then the weekend was mine!

I planned out the trip, made note of several campsites, and waited for Departure Day, May 18th.

Yeah, there was a slight snag to that plan. There always is, but I won't spoil it just now.

The 18th brought clear skies and plenty of heat. I was driving the Tracker with all the windows open and all my crap packed in back. The trip was a big test for the little truck; I'd rebuilt the engine the year before, bringing it from "ready for the scrap pile" to "slightly less ready for the scrap pile." For all the stuff I'd been able to fix, there were some more expensive things wrong with the engine.

For its part, though, there were no problems. I pulled 35 miles to the gallon the entire trip--and gas was around four bucks. Forty-four bucks to fill up a Tracker.

So anyway, I howled along I-10 (at 55 mph--the howling was the Tracker's engine and gears; it's a truck), made it to Tallahassee in late afternoon, stopped for dinner, took a short tour around my former home town, and got back to it. Nothing but miles of the same scene: gray concrete road, trees clear-cut way off to the sides, and clear blue sky. No radio, either. Man, that engine only seemed to get louder and louder until it was the only sound in the world.

It was close to 10 at night by the time I made Jacksonville, found the hotel, and got checked in. I was numb from hours in the seat and hours of engine noise. Waffle House first (across the parking lot; I walked), then bed.

May 19th was another bright, clear day. When I found the new store (several miles from the hotel in rush-hour traffic), it was already a beehive of activity, with boxes and shelving stacked everywhere, guys from the phone company trying to finish up their wiring, pallet-loads of car parts staged in the parking lot, and several big trash containers.

We had five days: the store would open for business on Saturday the 24th.

Most of the work is tedious; once the shelves had been set up, we started stocking them. Clutch kits, brake pads, brake hardware kits (holy crap, there was a lot of that), brake shoes, batteries, tune-up parts, air filters, oil filters, transmission filters, anything that's kept behind the counter. By Wednesday, we had knocked out almost all of that and started filtering out onto the sales floor to help the other crew. Cleaning products, air fresheners, light bulbs, more air filters, more oil filters, more batteries, jacks, tire repair, tools, signs, and floor displays. By late Thursday, the guys handling the boss end of things were acting nervous--holy crap, we're not going to be done in time!

If the days were hectic, the time after work was quiet. I spent some time in the pool, or just watching TV, too tired to explore Jacksonville or go very far afield for dinner. I had a room all to myself (my roommate never showed).

Friday morning brought some clouds and the threat of rain, but we only cared about pushing to get everything done. Nearly everything had been stocked, but there were little details, things that hadn't been accounted for, things that hadn't been stocked properly. We went up and down the aisles several times apiece, occasionally having to fix something, sometimes having to reset an entire 4-foot section because some numbskull had screwed it up. I pushed a broom around, then a dustmop, hoping it would finally be over soon.

They let us go a little after noon. We had filled the store (and several trash containers) and had emptied several loaded semi-trailers of parts and fixtures each day, dulled our knives on shrink-wrap, inhaled several pounds of warehouse dust, and somehow had the place ready to go.

Now I was ready to go. I'd loaded up the Tracker and checked out of the hotel, so I found my way over to US-1 and ran south to St. Augustine.

Fort Pike: closed on weekends.

Would have been nice to know this while I was prepping for last weekend's road trip.

The fort's State Parks web page:

Admission to Fort Pike SHS is by appointment only. Please call ... to schedule your visit between the hours of 9 a.m. and 5 p.m.

The reply to my email, 2 days after my trip:

We are usually here Monday through Friday from 0800-1600 and would be
able to accommodate your request at short notice; however, I do not have
staff available on the weekends and it would take advance notice of
several days for me to re-arrange schedules.

Weekends are Big Money for tourism...and the State closes the park on weekends? That's just ass-backwards. Alabama's got two forts in their State Parks system. BOTH of them are open 7 days a week--probably because they know that tourists aren't necessarily going to look for a website while they're out on the road. Last weekend was the Jazz Fest kickoff, too--imagine people driving east into New Orleans via Highway 90 or bumming around in the area. They see the fort but can't get in. The State is losing out.

Yeah, I'm still pissed off about driving all the way out there for nothing. I should have gotten more pictures--and some video--of the fence around the park. Very nice fence. The only thing marring its perfection was the rusty chain and lock on the gate. They couldn't shell out for new stuff? Show some PRIDE.

Maybe if they had spent the money on a little gift shop/ticket counter instead of the fence, they'd have enough money to run the damn park on weekends.

Or maybe they'd at least have a sign somewhere prominent with phone numbers so people like me can call up and tell them that a hundred bucks rolled into and out of that parking lot over an hour and a half.

The X-11 Abides.

After nearly 400 highway miles to Louisiana and back--the first such drive I've done with this car--I'm utterly pleased with the X-11's performance.

She pulled consistently all the way up to 65 mph and delivered 29 miles per gallon, which is impressive for a 30-year-old carbureted car. Having the High Output engine probably helped--bigger valves, higher lift on the cam, better breathing.

The only hiccup was a rattling noise from the transaxle while shifting into 1st and 2nd from a stop after an hour or so of highway driving. After an hour or more of rest, there's no noise, which works for me since I'm not up for a clutch job these days.

Considering the shape the car was in when I took delivery (movie coming soon), her performance is impressive.

Road Trip: The "All The Way There..." Tour

First off, I want to thank the state of Louisiana and their Office of State Parks for making this trip everything that it was.

Second, I'd like the discerning reader to right click on this link and search the resulting page for the word, "fence." This will become important momentarily.

I decided a few days ago to visit Fort Pike. Did some research and found the site linked above, noted the "Admission to Fort Pike SHS is by appointment only." I wrote down the number, dashed an email off to them asking how much lead time they'd need to set up an appointment, and got my stuff together.

The X-11 kicked ass. This is the longest single trip I've made with the car, and it wasn't without some hiccups--a pricey-sounding rattling racket after an hour at highway speeds, maybe the throwout bearing or clutch. I'm not looking forward to that job.

Pensacola to Mobile, past Pascagoula, pull off at a McDonald's somewhere in Mississippi (free Wi-Fi!), check email. No reply from the Fort Pike people.

Back on I-10, pass Biloxi and a thousand billboards urging the reader to gamble, into Louisana. They built a pretty new bridge to replace the narrow old Highway 90 Rigolets bridge. Road's smoother, too. Pulled into the fort's parking lot around 1 pm.

Nice parking lot. Big. Gravel, with a boat ramp. Maybe 200 feet on a side.

It's also the only part of the park that's not fenced in.

It's a nice fence. Well-made. Glints in the sunlight. It's galvanized, so it'll last for years. The three lines of barbed wire along the top is a nice touch. But that's the problem: they don't mention the fence on the park page. In all the searching online that I've done about Pike in the last few weeks, there's no mention of a fence. If you Google "fort pike louisiana fenced in" there's a mention of "fencing" (but not "completely fenced the hell in")...but also this:

Fort Pike is open 9 a.m.-5 p.m. Thursday through Monday (Closed Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s Day). Entrance fee is $2 per person. Free for seniors age 62 and older and children age 12 and younger. Groups are asked to call in advance. For information, contact (888) 662-5703 or (504) 255-9171. Also send e-mail to fortpike@crt.state.la.us.

The Park site says $4, by appointment.

Last time I visited Fort Pike, the fort's doors were closed and locked...but there was no fence. I could at least walk around the outside and get pictures. Now, all you see is the fence and the fort's landward defenses (a big mound of earth that protects the fort from direct fire and tourists).

I called the park's appointment number; they were very sorry to have missed my call and would return it as soon as possible; I left a message and waited in the parking lot for an hour.

About 40 bucks worth of potential park revenue pulled into the lot in that hour. As soon as they saw The Fence and its locked gate, they turned around and left. There's no sign anywhere to tell random visitors who to call if they want to see the fort. No ticket booth. If someone's driving along Highway 90 and sees the fort from the nearby bridge, that's all the view they get.

There were maybe 6 more cars parked near the boat ramp; including kids, at four bucks a head there was easily another $50 in potential park revenue. I've always heard that the weekend is when the money flows at tourist places, and Pike could easily have pulled in a thousand bucks in 8 hours. Maybe more.

But the only message I was getting from the State of Louisiana and their Office of State Parks was "Welcome to Fort Pike. Now Go The Fark Home."

After sitting in the lot, I decided to run down 90 to look at Fort Macomb. That one's fenced in, too, but I knew it would be. I glanced at the site, but didn't bother stopping. I went a few more miles and stopped at the Michoud Assembly Facility, where the shuttles' big tanks were built, and the Saturn V first stages before that. The last Saturn first stage is still on display. And fenced in. Took some pictures.

Headed back to Pike. Still locked up. There were four more cars, that many more missed opportunities.

Got pictures of the fence, the fence, and the fence, and a sign thanking me for my visit (thanks, wiseass, glad to be there). On the way out, I discovered a flaw in the fence: it stops just under the Highway 90 bridge.

You can pretty much walk around the north end of the freaking fence and back up to the fort. Damn shame I can't walk very far right now.

Up on 90, eastbound, headed home with nothing to show other than wear on the car and most of a tank of gas burned.

Given that the State doesn't seem interested in collecting tourist money (they never returned my call, but replied to my email a few days later), I can't really recommend visiting Fort Pike unless you enjoy sitting in a parking lot and looking at fences. I won't be making that trip again in the foreseeable future.

Road Trip: The "Not So Fast" Tour

When I woke up last Sunday after the previous day's photo trip to Fort Pickens, I was ready for a rematch.

I got schooled. Here I was thinking that my legs were getting better after 7 months of every short walk feeling like a sprinting marathon.

On that last trip, I spent 2 hours making my usual circuit around the fort--entrance, take the first left, then wander clockwise around the place. I made it a little more than halfway with a few strategic rest stops.
Today, I tried to pick up where I left off, getting pics along the inside of the western front--the southwest and northwest walls, the west bastion, and the top of that bastion and the northwest wall. This took two hours, as well, but easily half of that was spent sitting on benches or leaning against walls, waiting for my legs to catch up.

Behold my nemesis:


It's only 22 steps to that first landing, then another 5 to the top, and even a year ago I could go right up without falling apart. Today I had to hold onto the railings all the way up, then I had to find a place to sit once I was up there. You never really think about your knees or legs until something happens to weaken them just enough to make simple walking into an ordeal. Stairs suddenly take everything you've got--and you've still got to come back down.

The view was worth seeing, as always; from the top of this bastion you can see all the way to the west end of the island, the gun batteries that were built in the late 1800's and early 1900's, the newly-renovated library/auditorium/museum building, Foster's Bank across the channel, where Ft. McRee used to stand, and to the south the endless stretch of the Gulf of Mexico. The sun was just right, the winds just so, and it felt good to be there. I remember one day a few years ago when I ran up those stairs, camera in hand, and watched the leading edge of a rainstorm coming from the west.

So I'm sitting up there, resting, so of course this is where my body wondered where the restrooms were. Several hundred feet, starting with those damn stairs. A good 15 to 20 minutes, in my present condition. Fark's sake.

By the time I got to the restrooms, I'd decided I'd had enough for the day.

Yeah, I didn't get all the pictures I was hoping for, but the fort will still be there the next time. Fortunately, most of what I want to look at doesn't have stairs.