travel Archives - From a Rocky Hillside

September 25, 2025September 26, 2025

Nevada 375 and Rachel, Nevada

Title slide with photo of dry rain along Nevada 375

One house we worked on was located near here, where the road is still washed out.

I’ve been away this week, working on a Helene rebuild mission out of Burnsville, North Carolina, so I don’t have time to write anything new. I wrote this piece many years ago and some of you may have read it in another blog. I tried to update and clean up the language a bit before reposting it. Recently, I learned another friend had spent time working around Tonopah, Rachel, Caliente, Nevada on a government contract. He, too, was surprised that not only did I know of these places but had been there many times. Thinking of him, I thought I’d republish it.

The last time I was in Rachel was in 2010, as I drove across Central Nevada, heading from Death Valley to my old stomping ground in Cedar City, Utah.

Rachel, NV during daylight. Photo from the internet

I see the lights of Rachel a good ten miles away, soon after crossing Queen City Summit. “The bar will be open,” I say to myself, “I’ll grab a cup of coffee and stretch my legs and take in some of the night air.”

It’s after ten, early September 1995. I still have two hundred miles to drive to get home, having spent the past two weeks backpacking along the John Muir Trail in the Sierras. When I got off the trail, I learned my parents were driving in the next day, which meant an all-night drive. In the hundred miles since Tonopah, I’ve only passed a couple of vehicles. I roll my windows down and stick my head outside, trying to stay awake and alert. I pop cassette tapes in and out, playing them loudly and trying to find something to keep me awake. Nothing comes in on the radio, except some distant AM talk station from Los Angeles.

I try to stay awake for nobody’s likely to see if you run off the road in this country. Making it more dangerous, this is open range. I share the road with cows. They’re hard to see at night and often seek the blacktop for warmth. If I run into one of these beasts and die, my estate will get to pay for the cow.

“Thank God for Rachel,” I mumble, thinking about how this is one of two stops in the next two hundred miles where I can get coffee. I topped off my tank in Tonopah. Experience taught me the few gas stations along this stretch will close before I drive through.

Entering town, I pull off at the “Little A”le’Inn,” the center of Rachel’s night life. I’m shocked to see so many cars and people mulling around. Normally, there might be a car and a pickup or two out front. Tonight, I must search to find a parking place. The line to the bar starts at the front door.

What’s going on?” I ask the guy in front of me.

“It’s Labor Day weekend,” he says, “people come from all over on Labor Day and Memorial Day weekends to check out the UFOs.” I’d noticed just outside the front door, mounted on a tripod, a parabolic listening device. These people are serious. Many of them have cameras and binoculars dangling from their necks. At the booth closest to me a guy cleans the lens for their cameras I consider telling him not to bother, as I’ve yet to see picture of a UFO taken through a clean lens. But I hold my tongue.

“Do you think they’re really UFOs out here?” I ask the guy in front of me.

“I’m not sure, but you see some strange things,” he says, adding that he mostly comes up from Vegas to enjoy the party.

I look around at the eclectic crowd. There are dudes with pencil protectors in their shirt pockets talking to guys with tie-died t-shirts. Some look college-aged. Others probably have great-grandchildren. Many appear to have been strung out on drugs since the 60s. A few may have come straight from a desk job at IBM. It looks like a lot of fun, and I imagine myself as a reporter for the Rolling Stones, getting to know these people and writing about their shindig. Unfortunately, I must get back home.

It takes me a while to get up to the bar and then I must wait for the bartender to make another pot of coffee. Then he fills my Maverick^[1] insulated cup. I head outside, climb into the car and drive eastward into the darkness, over Coyote Summit and across Tikaboo Valley. It’s sad to leave the lights behind, for even if they don’t see a UFO, they’ll going to have a good time.

In my travels between California and Utah, I stopped at Rachel a dozen or more times. In the late 90s and early 2000s, there were only two businesses in town. The gas station sat on the east end. It includes a store which would make a 7-11 appear to be a supermarket. I’ve never seen it open after dark and their hours seemed to be irregular, another reason why I topped off my tank before heading this direction.

The Little A’Le’Inn sat on the west end of town. A combo restaurant, bar, casino, and motel, it reminds me of a scaled down version of Bruno’s Country Club in Gerlack, Nevada. The Inn seemed thrown together and wouldn’t make the Triple A Guidebook. But people come here because Rachel is the closest town to the supersecret Area 51, where some believe our government holds intergalactic aliens as POWs. Others think the government made a secret pack with some space race to dominate the world. I don’t believe it, but there are strange things seen in the skies along this highway.

Driving along this stretch of highway, I’ve been scared out of my pants when a jet, flying what seemed to be 50 feet above my car came up behind me. I first noticed the. shadow. Because of his speed, I didn’t hear him until he’s gone.

Once, while checking out the mining sites in the Timpahute Range northeast of Rachel with Ralph, we watched several jets in apparent dogfight. I’ve never seen such aerial maneuvers, as they turned and swirled back and forth. One jet climbed almost straight up like a rocket, only to turn and come back to earth at supersonic speeds. When the jet disappeared behind the mountain, we looked for a fireball. We assumed it crashed. Then, to our surprise, the plane pulled back up and climb again as two jets made the same maneuver. Neither of us could believe that a plane could perform like that.

Sun setting amongst Joshua Trees in Central Nevada

This is barren country. The government controls all the land land south of Rachel. This is a training ground and bombing range for Nellis Air Force Base. They tested stealth fighters and bombers here. The vast area also contains the Nevada Test Site, where nuclear weapons used to be regularly tested.

Rachel is a relatively new town. In the 1860s, the town of Tempiute grew up around a vein of silver to the northeast. That petered out. Later, a tungsten deposit was discovered. Until the 1980s, Union Carbide ran a mine there. Most of the miners lived in Rachel. A few ranches dot the countryside along 375, but it takes a lot of this poor arid soil to produce enough grass to feed a cow.

Every time I stopped at the “Little A’Le’Inn” I meet interesting people. Once there was a family from Germany who came to see UFOs. Another time there were several young adults from the Netherlands. One evening, there was a couple at the bar who had driven up from Las Vegas. They were nearly out of gas. The gas station had already closed for the day (and the owners had headed to Vegas for dinner), so the couple rented a room at the motel and made the best of the evening by drinking heavily. They probably saw some good sights that night as well as some bugs on the wall in the morning.

The bartender is always willing to offer advice as to the best places to supposedly see UFOs. And the walls of the place have pictures and clippings about UFOs and even a signed photograph of Spock from Star Trek. In the mid-1990s, Nevada 375 became known as the “The Extraterrestrial Highway,” a move which helped draw in the curious to support Rachel’s businesses.

I’m sure most people who drive across Nevada 375 think it’s the worst road to travel, but I find comfort in the desolation. US 50 crosses Nevada way to the north. In the 1960s, Life Magazine dubbed US 50 the loneliness road in America. Compared to Nevada 375, Highway 50 is a crowded freeway.

Each end of Nevada 375 is located at a hot spring. The road begins at the site of Warm Springs along US 6. A gas station with a swimming pool sat at the junction, but by the 90s had closed. You can still stop and soak your feet in the warm sulfur smelling water as it runs through a ditch. Crystal Springs is at the other end of the 98-mile highway, at the junction with US 93, which leads south to Vegas and north to Ely. The springs are huge, with deep pools of warm water creating a large wetland and bird sanctuary which never freezes.

For those interested, there are other hot springs in the area. Just south on US 93 are the communities of Ash and Alamo, both of which have hot springs. Further to the east is Caliente, another town with hot springs located in cement pools at one of the towns 1950ish hotels.

If you travel this road, be prepared. It’s a long way to help. Limited services can be found in Tonopah (108 miles west of Rachel) and Caliente (98 miles to the east of Rachel). The nearest city is Las Vegas, 140 miles south of Rachel, on the other side of the government’s testing area which is closed off to the public.

^[1] Maverik is the name of a chain of gas stations and convenient stores.

Other Nevada Adventures:

Great Basin Mining Adventure

Reno to Pittsburgh (April 1989)

Sunday drive to Gerlach

Driving West in ’88

Matt, Virginia City 1988

Doug and Elvira: A Pastoral Tale

Christmas Eve 1988

Easter Sunrise Services (a part of this article recalls Easter Sunrise Service in Virginia City in 1989)

The Revivals of A. B. Earle (an academic paper published inAmerican Baptist Historical Society Quarterly, part of these revivals were in Virginia City in 1867)

Eddie Larson, a good shepherd (he ran his sheep on BLM land in Eastern Nevada during the winter).

Riding in the cab of a steam locomotive

September 9, 2025September 13, 2025

August Book Reviews and James Taylor in Concert

I’ve taken this week off to officiate at a funeral in Georgia, which is why there were no sermon posted on Sunday. I’ll be back next Sunday.

James Taylor Concert

James Taylor and band with the multimedia presentation behind them

In addition to the trip to Georgia, we made another trip with friends to Raleigh, North Carolina last Thursday night, September 4, to attend a James Taylor concert. Although the singer has aged, he’s 77, he put on a good show. And whenever he sings, Carolina in My Mind,” in North Carolina, the crowd erupts as they did this past Thursday. Before the concert, a friend warned there would be no standing ovations as no one in the crowd would have the knees to get on their feet more than once. But that was not the case. He brought the crowd onto their (our) feet repeatedly. I loved all his songs about the road and travel. I appreciated his humor and political insights. When speaking about Carole King, he paused, looked to the crowd and said something like, “Oh, by the way, NO KINGS.” It was a good night.

Most of the summer we have been attending concerts at the Blue Ridge Music Center, which is mostly bluegrass, so it’s good to get back to a bit of rock-n-roll and the music of my youth.

The group of us waiting for James Taylor

Derick Lugo, The Unlikely Thru-Hiker: An Appalachian Trail Journey,

narrated by Derick Lugo, (2021), 7 hours and 12 minutes

I picked this book up on a two-for-one sale from Audible. It sounded interesting and humorous. While it doesn’t quite reach the humor of Bill Bryson’s, A Walk in the Woods, I enjoyed reading about his hike and recalling my own hike on the trail nearly 40 years ago.

Lugo is an African American, which makes him unique on the trail. While I met a few African Americans while hiking, most were only out for a day. The exception was Felipe, a reporter for Springfield Massachusetts, who hiked through his state to write an article about the 50^th anniversary of the trail. While he seemed to get on the nerves of other hikers, I got along with him. When done, he sent me a copy of his articles along with a wonderful black and white photo of me resting against my pack as I wrote a letter.

Photo of me from 1987, writing a letter while on the Appalachian Trail — 1987, on the AT

Lugo was a city dweller. He had spent little time outdoors, which makes him an unlikely hiker. But he is open to learn from others. Furthermore, hiking the trail these days are different in that there are a lot more people on the trail. This allows him to learn from others the skills necessary for such a hike. Furthermore, he appears to be a genuinely nice guy. He strove never to use bad language and respected other hikers. His attitude paid off and he had a wonder trip, telling his readers about this journey and the people he met along the way.

If interested in the Appalachian Trail, I recommend Lugo’s book. An excellent storyteller, the book is a delight.

Gary D. Schmidt, Okay for Now

(New York: Clarion Books, 2011), 360 pages with chapter illustrations.

I have enjoyed many of Schmidt’s young adult books (Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy, The Wednesday Wars, Orbiting Jupiter , and Trouble). His books deal with serious issues facing adolescence boys and the larger society. He reminds me of a male version of C. Lee McKenzie, who also takes on such topics with adolescent boys and girls. Lizzie Bright deals with racial issues in early 20^th Century, Maine. The Wednesday Wars are played out against the backdrop of the Vietnam War. Orbiting Jupiter deals with teenage parents. And all the books deal with boys coming of age. I met Schmidt a couple of times when I was in West Michigan as he taught in the English Department at Calvin University. I had not heard of this book, but learned about it from Kelly’s blog and immediately picked up a copy at my local library.

Doug Swieteck is a young teenager who adores the New York Yankees, especially Joe Pepitone. The middle brother steals a hat of his that was a gift from Pepitone. It’s the 1960s. His oldest brother serves in Vietnam. While things don’t look good for him, it gets worse. He moves with his parents and older brother from Long Island to a town in Upstate New York when his father accepted a job in a paper mill. He doesn’t want to move and his first impression with his new town are not good.

In time Swieteck makes a friend, Lil Spicer. He takes a job with her father delivering groceries on Saturdays. The people in the town seem weird to him, but he gradually warms up to them. He also becomes enamored with the paintings of John James Audubon and with the guidance of a man who works at the library, learns how to paint.

Swieteck has much to overcome. His father steals from him, taking the salary from his Saturday job (even though he hides the tips he receives). His father’s friend, who got him the job at the meal, is a jerk and seems to egg his father on. The young Swieteck becomes a friend with the manager at his father’s mill at a company picnic. He introduces him to horseshoes, which Swieteck excels.

For a kid who seem to feel the entire town hated him, Swieteck has amazing experiences. Though one of the clients whom he delivers groceries to, he finds himself on Broadway in her play makes its debut (and Joe Pepitone is in the audience). Also, by the end of the book, things with his family seem to have improved, despite the fact his oldest brother has returned from Vietnam without his legs. But things are not all well, as his friend Lil suffers for an illness that threatens her life.

This is an easy read. Growing up is seldom easy as Schmidt shows. But a few helpful adults, hard work, and the right attitude can make a difference.

Joseph Heller, Catch 22

(New York: Simon Schuster, 1961), 443 pages, Audible edition (2017), 19 hours and 58 minutes.

I don’t know why I never read this book. I’ve seen the movie several times, but it’s been 15 or 20 years since I watched it last. The book, I think, funnier than the movie, which is hilarious. As this is a novel about war, it’s dark humor.

Yossarian (I love that name) is a bombardier on an island in the Mediterranean. The commander of his unit keeps raising the numbers of flights required before they can return to the states. Feeling he’ll die in combat, and that he has already flown more missions than others in the operation theater, he tries everything to avoid making more flights. His fear is heightened by the death of Snowden, a tail gunner on his plane. Yossarian comforts him and bandages up his leg, telling him he’ll be fine, only to discover a mortal wound under his flight jacket. The incident haunts Yossarian. Yet, when Yossarian is offered a deal to go back to the states, he can’t accept. The deal would be dishonest and not be fair to his fellow airmen.

This book has a legion of characters such as Major Major (named by his father as a joke) who becomes a major. One can imagine the confusion. Doc Daneeka, the flight surgeon, hates flying and bargains to be added to the flight rooster without flying. This allows him to receive his flight pay. His gig works well until the plane he’s supposedly on is shot down. The army declares him dead. His wife is notified and finds herself the recipient of all kinds of life insurance and burial benefits. She and the kids move without leaving a forwarding address while the doctor is stuck on a war theater without pay.

And then there is the dead man’s stuff in Yossarian’s tent who took off on a flight without having been officially received in the unit. His flight crashed and no one can touch his things since he wasn’t in the unit. And then there is Milo and ex-PFC Wintergreen, who run black market operations who trade with anyone, including the enemy. While they are making a profit (and everyone has a share in Milo’s operations), there are also missteps as when Milo buys all the Egyptian cotton one year and then is unable to unload it.

There’s plenty of sex in the story. The whores in Rome, cause some of the airmen to fall in love. One, Nately, dies in a plane crash. Yossarian has the unpleasant task of telling “Nately’s whore” of his demise. She, in turn, tries to kill Yossarian, and continues to try to kill him to the end of the book.

There are also relationships between airmen and nurses. The wives of their superiors are also tempting, especially the ignored young wife of training officer back in the states who insisted on drilling the cadets every Sunday afternoon. Violence and sex go together in the book. One officer rapes a maid, then throws her out of a window to her death. Yossarian confronts him as the sirens wail in the distance. Expecting him to be arrested for murder, the MPs march by the dead woman on the sidewalk and up the stairs. They arrest Yossarian for being in Rome without a proper pass. The book is filled with such surprising twists. of events.

The book, obviously reflecting on the anti-communist sentiment of the McCarthy era, has intelligent officers trying to trap everyone into confessions, from the airmen to the chaplain. Milo, with his syndicate, displays a weird loyalty to capitalism. He will do anything for a profit, including lifting morphine from the plane’s first aid kits. And why he tries to create his own monopoly, even buying and selling products among his own businesses, he doesn’t want to deal with other monopolies as that wouldn’t be capitalistic.

The incompetent rises to the top, such as the special services officer, who oversees entertainment and such pushing out the general over aviation to claim the spot. Absurdity wins. The classic “Catch 22” holds that you can’t fly if you’re crazy, but if you claim to be crazy, you can’t be crazy because only a crazy person would fly over enemy territory. Of course, in the book, everyone is crazy which drives Yossarian crazier. The book ends with Orr, who everyone thought had died when his plane crashed, is found washed up in Sweden, a neutral county. Of course, no one knows how Orr make it from the Mediterranean to northern Europe, but it’s enough to give Yossarian hope that he too can make it.

This is a classic book which I had a used copy for decades. I have no idea why it took me so long to get around to read and listen. I recommend it with a warning. The contains dark humor. Adult situations are numerous and there’s plenty of violence within the pages. The later should come as no surprise as the book is about war. The writing is amazing. Heller can twist a sentence and a delight to witness.

August 12, 2025August 12, 2025

Michigan Ramblings (June 16-July 3)

Title slide with photos from northern Michigan

I spent the last half of June mostly in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. While I have already written about my solo kayak trip around Drummond Island, I thought I’d share some of my other adventures.

I arrived in Michigan on June the 18^th, staying with my friends Bruce and Katie on Jordan Lake. We enjoyed dinner and sitting out by the lake, along with a late evening boat ride around the lake. The next morning, I headed early into Hastings to have breakfast with my friend Jim, at Richies Koffee Shop, a place I often ate breakfast when I lived in Hastings. As I drove up, Dave and John were at the table by the front window. They wondered who pulled up with a sea kayak on top of their car. When I got out, John said to Dave, “Oh, it figures, it’s Jeff.” I talked with them along with Sandy, my favorite waitress, until Jim arrived. Then I moved over to a booth and caught up with my old canoeing partner.

I left Hastings a little before 9 so I could make it to the Upper Peninsula (UP) by 2 PM. It rained most of the way, but I made good time.

At 2, I had lunch with Gary and Ron. Gary and I were in the fire department on Skidaway Island and paddled together several times in the Okefenokee Swamp. I hadn’t met Ron before, but he also lives on Skidaway during the winter and on an island outside of Cedarville, Michigan in the summer. Gary and his wife were traveling through, visiting friends in Michigan before going on into Canada. We met at Snow’s Bar and Grill in Cedarville, a great place for white fish and walleye. It enjoyed catching up with Gary, who grew up in Michigan. We said goodbyes at 4:00 PM. I stopped by Cedarville’s grocery store and arrived in Detour Village a little after 5 PM.

On Thursday, I rested and checked out my gear for my trip around Drummond. I realized I had forgotten to bring a battery pack to recharge my cell phone. On Friday, I paddled around Detour Point early in the morning. Then I headed to Sault St. Marie for Walmart, where I picked up a battery pack and the rest of what I needed for my trip. Afterwards, I decided to travel over to Point Iroquois Lighthouse.

I’d been here once before but forgotten the reason why it was named after a native American tribe found much further east. In the 17^th Century, facing pressure from European settlers, the Iroquois tried to extend their territories further west. Here, on the east end of Lake Superior, the Chippewa, the native tribe of the Great Lakes Region, stopped the Iroquois advancement after a bloody battle. Then, in honor of their dead foe, the Chippewa named this point along the lake, Iroquois. With all the talk about changing or not changing names to make it more “American,” I had to salute the Chippewa graciousness. The next week, I would learn that Drummond Island was named for the British General in charge of northern Michigan. At the end of the War of 1812, he was ordered to move his garrison back into Canada.

On my way back that Friday, I stopped for dinner at Cozy Corners in Barbeau. I’d eaten at this place before, but never on a Friday night. The place was packed. I sat at the bar, talking to my neighbors, watching the Detroit Tigers play on TV, while also catching glimpses of two southbound freighters. I ate fish tacos made with walleye.

On Sunday, in exchange for staying at the church’s manse, I preached at the Union Presbyterian Church, using a sermon I had preached a few weeks early at home. On Monday morning, I headed over on an early ferry run for my paddle around Drummond.

If you didn’t read about my Drummond Island circumnavigation, you can catch up here: Days 1 & 2, and Days 3 & 4

I came back to Detour from Drummond Island around 2 PM on Thursday. I laid out my gear in the garage and the sunporch to dry, showered, and took a nap. Around 5:30 PM, I got up and drove over to St. Ignace to pick up Bob, a friend of mine from Hastings. He took a bus up to the UP from Grand Rapids. He was scheduled to arrive at 10:10 PM, so I decided to go over early and eat dinner.

Of all the times I have been across the Mackinaw Bridge, which crosses at St. Ignace, I have never been into the town. I exited I-75 at Castle Rock and drove through the town and realized soon it was a mistake. The place was packed. I found myself at the end of a parade of old cars, not knowing that this was the first night of a four-day car rally. All the restaurants were packed.

I stopped at a grocery store to pick up a few supplies, then decided to try the St. Ignace Truck Stop. It, too, was busy, but by 9 PM had slowed down as patrons left. I sat at the bar and ordered walleye. I was finishing my meal at 9:45 PM, when Bob called. The bus arrived early. Thankfully, he was only a couple of blocks away. I picked him up and we headed back to Detour Village.

Friday was wet and foggy. I spent the morning reading while Bob, who’s an editor, worked on a project. Occasionally, Bob shared his frustration at the book he was editing. He felt he had to rework too much of the author’s words. But he had been hired by the publisher to get the book ready for print, so he kept at it. Around 2 PM, we took a break and headed over to the Detour Village Inn for one of their great hamburgers.

The Village Inn is a baseball themed park. Tim Grisdale (Grizz) started the inn after he hung up his glove having played minor league baseball in the Detroit Tigers organization. In addition to running a bar and grill, he was a big supporter of baseball and softball in the town. He died in 2018, before I started coming up to Detour Village, but his memory lives on. There’s the Grizz burgers and lots of photos and newspaper clippings posted on the walls.

After lunch, we headed to a preserve off Prettiss Bay, where we stayed exploring till almost sunset. Plants seen included wood lilies, thimbleberry, yellow coreopsis, yellow lady slippers, shrubby cinquefoil, red osier dogwood, along with irises, columbines, and shinleaf. Then we drove over to Cedarville and I had a whitefish sandwich for dinner at Snows Bar and Grill.

You might think that Snows gets its name from the extreme winters of the UP, but that’s not the case. There is a “Snows Cut,” which runs between the islands, just south of the joint. I have always found this interesting since I grew up just north of “Snows Cut,” where the Intracoastal Waterway cuts from Myrtle Grove Sound to the Cape Fear River, just north of Carolina Beach. That cut was named after the engineer who directed digging this part of the waterway in the 1930s.

On Saturday, after a morning of reading and editing, we took the ferry over to Drummond Island and met Dave and Sandy, who took us to a potluck dinner hosted by Lighthouse Church. The dinner was outside. Bob, who is an excellent saxophonist, did a short concert.

On Sunday, I again preached at the Union Presbyterian Church and Bob supplied special music. He had come up with me in April 2024, so folks on the island knew him and enjoyed his music. Afterwards, we were invited to join a group at the Mainsail Restaurant for Brunch.

In the afternoon, after a nap, we explored the fins along Lake Huron, just east of Albany Creek. A fin is a wet boggy area. In this case, it’s separated from the lake by a series of dunes. This place is rich of wildflowers, especially carnivorous plants. While Bob has worked much of his life in the publishing business, he is the best botanists I know. Not only does he know the names of all the plants, but he also knows most of their Latin names.

Albany Fin

Plants seen: Northern Pitcher Plant, Butterwort (rare), round leaf sundew, linear leaf sundew (rare), horned bladderwort, rose pogonia (orchid), and pitcher thistle (rare).

After exploring the Albany fin, we came home and fixed steak for dinner. Monday, we lounged around reading and editing. On Tuesday, we packed up and headed over to the Detour Village Inn for lunch before driving south. On our way south, we stopped at Wilderness State Park to look for some rare plants which Bob had seen there years earlier. He found the plants, but it was after they’d bloomed. I stayed at Bob’s Tuesday night.

Wednesday morning, before leaving Hastings, I had breakfast with “Doc,” my former associate at First Presbyterian Church. Now confined to a walker, “Doc” or Jim, cares for his wife who struggles with dementia. But Doc still gets around some and remains in good spirits. Then I started the long drive home.

I decided to spend one more night out in the woods, so I headed to Ohio’s Hocking Hills. I’ve heard about this place before and wish I could have spent more time there. The hills are beautiful with some interesting rock formations around the creeks. I slept in my hammock and enjoyed dinner at the lodge as I watched the sun set. I arrived home on Thursday afternoon, after racking up almost 3,000 miles over 16 days.

On the way back, I discovered Southern Ohio is filled with Covered Bridges. I’ll have to explore these some other time.

July 31, 2025July 31, 2025

Riding Coach from South Bend to D.C.

Title slide with photos of the train in South Bend and Savannah

I planned to finish up my tales from my Michigan trip, but the week has been too busy, so I bushed and edited a piece I wrote back in 2017. On the trip, I was coming home (to Skidaway Island) from a conference at Calvin College (now University) in Grand Rapids, Michigan. The route from Pittsburgh to Cumberland paralleled the bicycle trip I took in May with my brother. Click here to read about that trip.

I wake up, realizing the guy in the seat next to me is gathering his stuff. Looking out the window, I see we’re running alongside a river. It must be the Ohio. I pull out my iPhone to check the time. It’s 4:45 AM, we’re approaching Pittsburgh.

“Getting off in Pittsburgh?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he answered. He was asleep last night when I boarded the train in South Bend. I was tired myself and had quickly fallen asleep. I vaguely remember train stopping at Elkhart, and totally missed Waterloo, along with longer stops in Toledo and Cleveland and several quick stops in smaller towns. We pass the Emsworth Lock and Dam. I’ve been here many times before. I’m surprised to see the barges are still running on the first of February, but then it’s been a warm winter.

“Live in the ‘burgh?” I ask.

“No, Philly.”

“But you’re getting off here?” I resisted the temptation to make a disparaging remark about the Phillies and Eagles.

“Yeah, I gotta catch another train. I have a two-hour layover. You from here?”

“Nah, but I lived here for three years when I was in school back in the ‘80s. It’s a great city.”

We talk for a few minutes. The train slows down and then pulls away from the river. I learn he’s a long-haul truck driver. They found a beer in his truck when it was being serviced. He said it was left over from New Years, but it’s a violation and they terminated him. But it’s okay, he says, as he’s already has another job lined up with another trucking company.

As he talks the train swings to the right and soon, we on a bridge across the Allegheny River.

“The Three Sisters,” I say, pointing out the identical yellow bridges below us. The train slows, stopping at the Pittsburgh Station underneath the massive building which used to house offices for the Pennsylvania Railroad. The conductors and engineer change crews here, providing a fifteen-minute break. After all the passengers depart, I get off and walk for a few minutes along the tracks enjoying the fresh air. Most passengers remain asleep, but a few shuffle around on the platform enjoying an infrequent smoking break. It’s odd to be outdoors in the predawn hours on the first of February without a coat. When the conductor shouts, “All Aboard,” I step back onboard and take my seat. Soon, I’m back asleep.

I’d boarded the train the evening before in South Bend, Indiana. I’d taken the train up from Savannah the week before to attend a conference at Calvin University. While I could have taken the train into Grand Rapids, it would have required an extra day each direction with a long wait in Chicago. Instead, I got off in South Bend and rented a car from Enterprise. They picked me up early in the morning on my arrival.

The evening before, I had to turn the car by 6 PM, to get a shuttle back to the station. The train was scheduled to arrive a bit after nine. I had brought a sandwich for dinner and ate it in the station while I waited. It wasn’t a very fancy meal, but sufficient. I would have preferred to eat in the dining car on the train, but suspected it would be closed by the time I boarded.

Taking up a seat along the back wall, I pull out my book, Robert Harris’ Pompeii. This is the original train station and the seats are heavy, old, curved oak benches. While they look like church pews, they more comfortable. Every few minutes when the crossing gates just outside the station would begin to ring in announcement of another train. The ringing was followed by the horn of a train coming closer until it whisked by, followed by the waning sound of the horn and the clacking of the wheels. This was the main line serving trains heading from Chicago east to New York, Pittsburgh and Philadelphia. The station was never very busy and only a half dozen of us who board in South Bend when my train, the Capitol Limited, arrived.

I wake up a little after seven and in the dark can make out a river that parallels the tracks. According to the timetable, we must have already stopped in Connellsville and are beginning the long slow climb over the Alleghenies. The river appears deep and slow, with just a few rocks, but I know that’ll change as we gain altitude. Snow dusts the ground. The trees are barren. Occasionally I’ll spot a pine or cedar, frosted with snow, but the trees are mostly hardwoods of some variety. In the dark, it’s hard to tell the specie. I take my book and notebook up to the snack car for breakfast, ordering a breakfast burrito and coffee. Sitting at a table, I eat, while watching the scenery change. As we gain elevation, cedars appear, and the water runs faster between eh rocks. Snow covers the ground with more falling.

The train slowly winds its way up the tracks, its wheels at time squeaking against the rails. We reach the village of Confluence. The morning is gray, foggy, and wet. Only a few cars are on the roads. As we gain more elevation, the river becomes smaller and swifter. We run through the first tunnel. On the top of the hills are many windmills. Mountain laurel covers the hillsides.

We enter another tunnel, a longer one, and when we come out, I notice that the river has changed directions. We’re heading downhill, but the engineer holds the train back, going as slowly downhill as we did uphill. The sun attempts to burn off the fog. Its golden reflections reflect from the ripples of the creek below. As we lose altitude, there is less snow on the ground. The train picks up speed. By the time we reach Cumberland, the snow is gone. We’re a bit early, so I step off the train and enjoy the fresh air. It feels more like spring than deep winter.

On my bicycle trip on the GAP, I saw these same windmills.

After Cumberland, I head back to my seat. The train runs quickly along the Potomac River. I continue reading Pompeii, picking up where I left off last night. A little over an hour later, we make a short stop in Martinsville, West Virginia, a neat looking old town. An old, abandoned roundhouse sits on the north side of the tracks. The business district runs along the south side.

Our next stop is in Harpers Ferry, West Virginia. I look for the old hotel where I stayed when I was here while hiking the Appalachian Trail. The stop is short and soon we’re crossing the river and heading into a tunnel.

Below Harper’s Ferry, the train parallels the C&O canal. The canal seems to be filled with stagnant water covered in a green slime. The train makes its last stop in Rockville, before pulling into Union Station fifteen minutes early. I head for the food court for a quick lunch, before heading out to the National Gallery for the afternoon. I’ll be back at the station in time to board the train to Savannah. I’ll have better accommodations for this leg as I’ve booked a sleeper.

July 24, 2025July 24, 2025

Completing my trip around Drummond Island

title slide with photos around Drummond Island

Wednesday, June 25, 2025

To read part 1, click here.

The fossil ledges which are found on the north and northeastern side of the island.

After the windy evening, the morning turned out calm. The calm mornings are normally the pattern, with the exception being on Thursday. But on Wednesday, I woke early, fixed coffee and oatmeal, read and wrote in my journal before beginning my paddle along the north shore of Drummond. Much of the paddling this morning was along the fossil ledges, where the alvar limestone meets the lakeshore.

For the first few miles, there was no one else in sight, but a couple of miles from Chippewa Point, I began to run into boats fishing just offshore. Chatting with two of the boats, I learned that no one had caught any fished. One said this was the worse for fishing that he recalled. Normally there were a couple of inland lakes along the north side which one could explore, but the lake was so low that wasn’t possible. I also saw two bald eagles during the morning.

I stopped for lunch on a rock bar between Chippewa Point. The wind was blowing out of the east, just strong enough to keep the bugs from bothering me. After lunch, I headed due south, across the wide waters of Potagannissing Bay. The bay is filled with islands. I kept my sights on Bald and Grape Island, setting a course between the two which would land me back on the mainland approximately where Pine Street met the water. I wasn’t exactly sure where I was heading as an address doesn’t do much good on the water, but I knew it was just east of H&H Boat Launch.

After three days of paddling, my arms were tired. I had considered exploring Harbor Island, which has a large inside lake which creates a safe harbor, but since I had been to the island a few years earlier when a member of the DeTour Union Church took me out on his boat, I decided against it. I paddled on, between islands and could make out the marina.

After about an hour of paddling, I found myself just east of the marina. There was a woman out with a toddler. I asked her if she knew the Ledy’s. “You must be Jeff,” she said and introduced herself as Irma. The toddler was her granddaughter. I pulled my kayak up on their sandy beach and spend the next couple of hours talking to her and her husband Clayt, while enjoying a tall Long Island Iced Tea. Clayt, a contractor, had spent time building mission projects in Ethiopia. His stories were fascinating.

That night, I joined them, along with Dave and Sandy for dinner. Dave and Sandy had brought the meal which included tender pork chops which were a lot better than anything I could have fixed. While their cabin was full, they invited me to camp on their porch. I decided my hammock strung between trees would be more comfortable and I could get up earlier in the morning and be on my way.

Thursday morning, June 26

The rain came at 4 AM. Not expecting it, I crawled out of my hammock and pitched out my fly to keep the water from seeping in. I checked the weather. Off and on showers through the morning, but winds only 6-8 mph. It’d be a good day to paddle. Soon, I was back asleep.

At 6:30 I woke. It’d been light for nearly an hour, but the dark low hanging clouds made it seem earlier. I wanted to get a good start to the day, as I was going to complete my circumnavigation around Drummond Island. I needed to be back on the mainland in time to clean up before driving over to St. Ignace to pick up my friend, Bob.

Quickly packing my stuff., most of the gear I stored in a shed where, the night before Clayt, said I could I could store anything I didn’t want to carry. Since I wasn’t camping, I dropped most of my gear in the shed, taking only what I needed for the morning paddle. Then I ate a couple granola bars but decided to forgo coffee to get out earlier on the water.

A little after 7 AM, I was ready to push off. I noticed that the wind seemed to be blowing a lot more than forecasted, but it didn’t seem too bad. Heading out a way into the water, I turned due west. The wind blew out of the northeast, helping me make good time. Quickly passing Sandstone Point, I set my sights on Sims Point, some three miles away.

This course took me across the mouth of Sturgeon Bay. I noticed the water looked choppier than expected. As I moved further from the islands that I’d paddled through the day before, the wind picked up. About a 1/3 of the way across the mouth, I found myself in gale force winds. The waves built and the wind kept pushing me southeast, into Sturgeon Bay, I had to fight to stay on course, dropping my skeg (a small keel) and surfing at a 45-degree angle across 2- and 3-foot swells. The water foamed from the whitecaps.

Paddling with my life jacket zipped up (After crossing the lee of the island)

There were no boats out this morning. I wore my life vest over my rain jacket. Most of this trip, I only snapped the jacket at the bottom, but now I quickly zipped it up tight. In my jacket was a marine radio, in case I got into real trouble, along with snacks and bug spray. The later wasn’t needed this morning. Whatever happened to those 6-8 mile per hour breezes? Paddling became exhausting, but my boat handled the waves well. About a quarter mile from Sim’s point, I slipped behind an unnamed and uninhabited island for a break.

I rested for a good half hour. At least, I thought, I was done with the open water piece. From now on, I’d be along the shoreline, with roads and cabins if I got into trouble. I set back out paddling, with a half mile more to go till I would be on the lee side of Drummond. The waves grew taller as the wind pushed around the islands. A few waves appeared to be nearly 4 feet tall. Several times, I would miss a stroke as I crested a wave, with the water too far below the paddle.

Shelter on the lee side of an island. It’s hard to see the white caps in the photo.

Once, a wave caught me sideways and I almost rolled the kayak. At the last second, using a high brace, I pulled myself back upright and over the swell. This was scary. While continuing to paddle hard, I prayed for God to protect me and give me strength. Then, after another hundred yards, I passed Dix Point and turned my boat south, paralleling the island. The water calmed. I watched an ore freighter make its way north toward the Soo in the St. Mary’s River The current pushed me south. I relaxed.

waiting for the ferry to clear the dock before passing the terminal.

For the next hour, I paddled south along the west side of Drummond. The only obstacle was the ferry, which I decided to wait for it to leave instead of trying to race across it’s bow as it made its way back and forth from DeTour Village. Since there were no ships loading at the limestone quarry dock, I was able to see the operation up close as crush limestone falls into piles based on its size and use. Some of the rock is used in the steel making process, other is used in construction and agricultural.

Soon, I was at the southwestern end of the island. I thought I could skirt through the gap between Barbed Point and Crab Island but found that because of the low water in the Great Lakes, the channel was closed. Across the rocky bridge, waves were beating on the other side. I realized my challenge wasn’t quite over. I paddled around Crab Island and headed northwest, with the wind in my face. For a few minutes I was able to rest behind Arnold Island, but as I headed back northeast the wind howled. There was nothing to do but to keep paddling as I was taken back out into open water. But paddling into the wind is just tiring, not as dangerous as when the wind is coming across the boat. After about two miles I was finally in the tributary where Fort Drummond Marina was located. Once there, the last mile was a little easier as the shoreline blocked the wind.

Fort Drummond was named for the British General during the War of 1812 who controlled British troops in Southern Canada. At the time, the British held Mackinac Island. After the war, they gave it up. At first, Drummond moved his solders to the island that now bears his name. Later, they would move back into Canada, which was just north or east of the island.

Thursday morning, back where I started on Monday

I arrived at the marina a little before noon. After loading my boat on the top of the car, talked to the guy at the marina, then drove over to the Ledy’s to pick up my gear. I had to wait a few minutes for the ferry, but by 1 PM, I was back on the mainland, setting out my gear to dry in the garage. I had lunch, took a nap, and late in the afternoon set out for St. Ignace to pick up Bob.

July 9, 2025July 24, 2025

A Solo Paddle Around Drummond Island, Days 1 & 2

title slide with photos of Drummond Island

Tuesday afternoon and evening, June 24, 2025

Rounding Raynolds Point, the northeastern corner of the island, the situation changed. I was no longer on the lee side of the island. The wind was in my face and much stronger. Swells suddenly appeared, breaking over my bow and attempting to push me onto the rocky ledges around the shore. Dark clouds gathered. I headed out away from the ledges and paddled harder. Having already covered approximately 19 miles, I was tired. As rain pelted me, I decided to head into Raynolds Bay. The wind helped this decision. I was not sure what’s public and private land, but there were no signs of human activity. The bay provided enough protection for me to safely come ashore. After thirty minutes of excitement, I was exhausted. This was the first bit of difficulty on my trip, but it would not be the last.

I walked along the cobblestoned beach that’s sprinkled with fossils. There is also evidence of beaver activity, but wonder what they might attempt to dam up here. A dam on these waters would be beyond the Army Corp of Engineers ability. Finding a nice place where I could pitch my hammock and with a good view of the shore, I move my kayak.

Again, as the previous night, I found a rock out near the water where I set up my kitchen. After dinner, I gathered wood for a fire along the beach. The skies cleared. As the daylight fades, I read and write by the water. Then I build a fire and fix a pot of tea. I hope to see the northern lights., but don’t see them. As darkness falls, I see distant lights of navigation markers and Canadian radio towers. I also pick out cabins by their lanterns on islands on the Canadian side of the water. Twilight seemed to last forever. I crawled in my hammock at 11 PM, after making sure the fire was extinguished. The stars had just begun to appear.

Sunset from Raynolds Bay. The waves are now much calmer than when I came ashore.

Monday, June 23, 2025

My trip started on the previous morning. I take the 7:50 AM ferry from Detour Village to Drummond Island. Arriving at the Fort Drummond Marina at 8:15 AM, shortly after they opened, I unloaded my boat from the top of the car and stowed my gear into the hatches. While I plan for a three-night, four-day trip, I bring extra food in case the weather deteriorates. After loading my boat and moving my car to where it’ll be out of the way. I then leave a float plan with the operator.

I’m on the water at 9 AM, paddling south out of the tributary where the marina is located. At first I paddle rather slowly as I finish my thermos mug of coffee. Then paddle much faster as I reach Whitney Bay and set my course between Bird and Garden Island. Once I clear Garden, I’m in the upper ends of Lake Huron. From here, I can watch freighters coming up from the south. I turn east and round Anderson Point, then aim between Bootjack and Espanore Island. Next, I head southeast toward Cream City Point. At 11 AM, I pull up on the backside of Gravel Island in Huron Bay for a rest and lunch. I’ve covered 8 miles in two hours of paddling.

Today’s lunch is fancy. I have a left-over steak over from Saturday night dinner. Placing the steak inside a hoagie bun, I eat it while watching another freighter make its way from below the horizon towards the Soo. I then take care of a few messages I received on my phone. One is from my brother and I snap and send him a photo of my kayak resting on the cobblestones. Another is from Dave, a friend on Drummond, who invites me to dinner at a friend’s place on the third night. He asks if I can make it. I think I can. This will be the last reliable cell service until I have paddled around most of the island. For the rest of the day, I leave my phone on airplane mode to save battery.

After lunch, I paddle around the north side of Gravel Island, and set my course for the distant Traverse Point, 2 ½ miles away. My course takes me further from land. Having paddled by several points, I realize I must give these points wide berth to avoid the rocks which often sit at or just below surface.

After Traverse Point, I head due east toward Scammon Point. This route takes me far from the shore as I pass Canoe Point and Scammon Cover. There are also fewer cabins along this isolated part of the shore. Most of this land is managed as a Michigan State Forest. Leaving Scammon Point, I am tempted to head into Big Shoal Cove, where there is a sandy beach. Having been there before, several years ago, I decide against it. I head southeast toward Long Point, the third of four points I can see (the last is an island).

I arrived at Long Point around 4 PM and paddle around both sides of the point. After looking around, I decided to camp on the west side, a 100 or so yards inside a small bay. The beaches were covered with cobble stones. As I had done at lunch, I paddled close to the water’s edge and get out of the boat while it’s still in about a foot of water. I lift the boat up, to avoid most of the rocks. After unloading and my boat was lighter, I carry the boat up onto dry land.

Before setting up camp, I take a brief swim. The water in the shallow bay was cool, but not cold. Then I put on long pants, socks, a clean long sleeve shirt.

I find two cedar trees at the edge of the woods, where I hang my hammock. Around it, I felt I am in a garden with purple irises, buttercups, Indian paintbrush, and other flowers. On a large rock about 75 feet away, I place my stove and pot along with my folding chair. After everything is up, I update my journal before preparing dinner. This consists of a beef stew which just had to be heated along with two tortillas and some apple sauce in a squeeze container. Paddling allows for heavier food than backpacking.

After dinner, I hang my food between two trees and explore the shoreline. Afterwards, I fixed a cup of tea. Sitting down, I sip my tea as I watch the sun set and a thunderstorm build south of me. For the next half hour, I observe the storms moving east, just south of me. Huge lightning bolts strike the water a mile or two to my south. These are followed with delayed rolls of thunder. As darkness falls I am treated with a display of synchronous fireflies. Each of these bugs, along the woods, emits four or five quick blinks of light. This is followed by 10 seconds or so of darkness before another set of blinks. To the west, I caught glimpses of the new moon hang between the clouds, low in the west.

I fell asleep to the waning sound of thunder. About 3 AM, I wake and crawled out from my hammock to take care of business. The skies have cleared and to the south I see the pincher stars of Scorpio above the horizon. Moments later, I snuggle back in my hammock home and fall back asleep.

Tuesday, June 24, Morning to Midafternoon

When I wake again, a mosquito buzzes just outside my netting. The sun rays are lighting the trees on the other side of the bay. I get up and fixed breakfast. This consists of oatmeal and perked coffee. Then I packed up everything, and spend some time reading and writing in my journal.

By 9 AM, I am again on the water. I paddle east, crossing to the outside of Shelter Island and the points on each side of Bass Cove. Afterwards, I turn northeast as I reached the eastern side of the island. Unlike the day before, where the island consisted of many points of land the eastern side is smoother. There are only a few jagged points extending into the water. Around Bass Cove, I pass many cabins, As I paddle north, I see fewer cabins. Most of this land is owned by the state. With Drummond Island just a hundred yards to my left, Canada is less than a mile to my right.

Unlike the day before in which, after leaving Whitney Bay, I saw no boats (except for distant freighters), I passed a large sailboat heading east. The boats sails are furled, and it motored on. I later see a few boats come down through the False Detour Passage that links the Northern Passage to Lake Huron.

I planned to make my first stop at Marble Head, a rough outcrop of limestone at the eastern most point of Drummond Island. Who knows why they named this place Marblehead. Drummond, as far as I know, has no marble. It is mostly limestone and the mine on the island produces shiploads of limestone every week, which is used in steelmaking, cement, and agriculture. I suppose the name had a nautical sound. I crossed by Marblehead and pulled ashore on the north side. Stepping out of the boat, the biting flies started. I grabbed snacks for lunch and bug spray. I sprayed my bear legs, where the flies seemed drawn (I wore a long sleeve sun shirt which seemed to provide some protection from the flies. But the spray didn’t deter these buggers, and I spent lunch swatting them away.

I had planned to hike up to Marblehead, but the bugs seemed just as nasty inside the forested canopy, so I returned to my boat and slowly continued to work my way north toward Stigraves Bay. I’d also planned to paddle into Pilot Harbor, which has a narrow entry that opens into an inland lake, but decided against it. I paddled north around Glen Point and into Glen Cove. It was only 1:30 PM.

Most people who paddle around Drummond Island spend their second night at Glen Cove, but since it was too early to stop, I decided to continue north. In the distance, I see a rock that looks like a giant bald eagle sitting. Getting closer I see the white part is from bird poop. But, as I pass this rock, I do see a bald eagle soaring above.

The weather was delightful with a breeze out of the northwest, keeping me cool when I stayed offshore. When I came in close, to explore the limestone ledges which began appearing north of Marblehead, the shore blocked the wind and the bugs would attack. I assumed once I crossed Raynolds Point, 6 or 7 miles ahead, the wind would blow the bugs away.

My decision to continue also was influence by the invitation to have dinner with Dave, Sandy, and their friends on Wednesday night. Except for the bugs, I find the northeast side of Drummond delightful. Much of the shoreline consisted of flat ledges, table-like limestone, a few feet above the waterline. The “tables” appeared properly set with wildflowers growing in cracks. In most places, a second ledge extended out six or 12 inches below the water line.

Getting ashore isn’t difficult, as I exit the boat in six inches of water and climb upon the ledge. It would have been more difficult to have camped along the shoreline north of Glenn Cove, as one would have to load and pack the boat in the water and then lift the boat up onto the higher shelf to keep it safe at night. I decided to camp west of Raynolds Bay. Furthermore, most of this land is privately owned. However, only a few cabins dot the shoreline.

To continue, click here.

Map of Drummond Island. See https://www.visitdrummondisland.com/di-heritage-water-trail.html — Map from the website of the Drummond Island Tourist Association. Click on the map to be taken to their webpage about paddling around the island.

May 29, 2025May 31, 2025

Pittsburgh to Washington DC, Part 2

Title slide with a photo of the author and his brother

For Part 1, click here.

My brother becomes a hero

Lock and lock house — Lock and a lock house. Some of the lock houses can be rented for those traveling on the C&O.

A couple of miles from the Paw Paw tunnel, we came around a bend and noticed bicycles thrown on the ground and several people kneeling over one of them. I peddled faster, thinking someone was hurt. When we pulled up, we saw Max and three women cyclists. No one was hurt, but one of the bikes had been taken apart. She’d had a flat. Max, seeing the stuff on the ground from the bike, said he threw up his hands and said, “there’s some engineers just behind me who can help.” At dinner the evening before, Max and Warren discussed various metals used in bicycles. From the discussion he learned my brother was a mechanical engineer. For some reason, he thought I was one, too. The women greeted us like saviors. When I shook my head at not being an engineer and pointed to my brother, they dropped interest in me and lauded praise on his arrival.

Warren to the rescue

We spent the next 30 minutes trying to get the bike back together. They had removed the entire back sockets and de-railer. While Warren and the woman with the broken bike worked finding what goes where, Max and I talked to the other women. They were all serious cyclists. When asked what they do when there’s a problem, they pointed to the woman whose bike was torn apart. “We call her husband. He’s a serious racer and knows everything about bikes and can walk us through what needs to happen.” Sadly, for them, we were in an area without cell service.

Once the bike was back together, we had the owner get on it and ride it a ways, making sure everything worked. It did. We ran into them again, late in the afternoon at the bicycle shop in Hancock. This was after 30 some miles of riding. One of the employees went through the bike and confirmed everything was back as it should be. The only issue was the tire pressure was a little low, but that’s to be expected with those emergency pumps which go on bicycles.

As they rode away, my brother joked about telling his wife how he had satisfied three women this morning.

Saturday, Cumberland to Hancock (61 miles of which we rode roughly 40)

Potomac River — Potomac RiPonver, having fallen but still well out of its banks

This was to be the big day, 61 miles. The only problem was knowing there was a section of trail washed away in the floods about ten miles away. The National Park Service said there was no acceptable detour. We also learned from the bike shop that the road around this section was narrow, curvy, and unsafe to ride because of tractor trailers. So that morning, we arranged a shuttle for us and for Max, whom we’d talked to at breakfast. We had them drop us off at Paw Paw, cutting out about 25 miles of trail and the section that had been washed out.

Paw Paw Tunnel

The highlight of the day was the Paw Paw tunnel, an engineering marvel for the early 19^th Century. We entered the tunnel just a mile or two from where the shuttle dropped us off. Bricks lined the walls of the tunnel. Bicycles (and mules in the day) travel on a wooden walkway that was so unleveled and bumpy we quickly heeded the warning to walk and not ride our bikes. Besides, the railing was only three foot tall, making it easy to tumble over if your bike fell. I attached the light to my handlebars and began the dark cool journey through the 3118-foot tunnel.

Author's brother pulling his bike over a tree — Warren pulling his bike over a tree

Little Orleans

The trail appeared better than we expected. While there were places with mud and many trees had fallen, requiring us to dismount and lift our bikes over them, it wasn’t as bad as some of the other places we’d heard of. We ate lunch at the Devil’s Alley Campground. When we came to Little Orleans, we left the trail and headed to Billy’s Place for ice cream. The place was a bar that served food. They advertised in large letters, “Beer, Boats, Bait.” In smaller letters the sign mentioned food, groceries, and shuttles. While we’d just had lunch, the burgers they’d fixed for a man and his wife we met outside of the establishment were enticing.

It didn’t take long this day before my left foot became sore. Over the past couple of days, the soreness would manifest itself late in the afternoon. The evening before I realized the area around the Achilles tendon had swelled. This slowed my pace and made me want to take more frequent stops, sometimes even walking my bicycle.

Western Maryland RR bike trail — Western Maryland Railroad bike trail.

The Western Maryland Trail begins at Little Orleans. While this path parallels the C&O canal, it’s high above the river and is paved. This old rail bed, which we’d ridden on from Connellsville on the GAP, was a welcome relief to the mud of the C&O. It was nice to bel able to ride on pavement, even though we still had trees to pull over. We rode it all the way to Hancock, except for one detour for about a mile onto the C&O as there is a tunnel that hasn’t yet opened. About three miles outside of Hancock, we came upon a group of trail workers from the Maryland Parks clearing trees which had fallen during the recent storms.

Arriving back in Hancock

We arrived at Hancock at 5 PM, riding to the Presbyterian Church where I had left my car on Tuesday. We loaded our bikes and drove to Motel 8, where I had made reservations. On Monday night, I had stayed at the Potomac River Hotel, which looked like a bedbug haven. While it seemed to be free of bugs, the hotel had the ambiance of the 1940s. About half the lights were missing bulbs and the bathroom was small and the tub dirty. After discussing it, we decided to try the only other hotel in town. At least the bathroom was clean and larger, but the floors between the bed were soft and I wondered if one of us would fall through.

After cleaning up, we met Max at the Potomac River Grill, across from the hotel of the same name. The food was excellent, and the place crowed. It appears to be owned by the same folks at the hotel. At least they’re doing something right. I had a wonderful burger with a salad and a Stella beer.

After we got back to the hotel, Warren called his daughter, a physical therapist. She had me do a few moves and said she didn’t think my tendon was torn, but thought my tendon and muscles were angry and I may be suffering from Achilles tendinitis. She also recommended taking it easy, icing my ankle after walking or biking, taking ibuprofen for the swelling, and stretching in the morning. While riding, she suggested that while riding not to use toe-caps and to move my foot forward on the peddle so that I weight would be more on the arch of the foot.

Sunday morning, May 18

curvy lines on a straight road — Not an illusion

As Super 8s don’t provide breakfast, we drove to the IHOP on the east side of town, near the interstate. Coming back, I noticed some of the most creative line painting on a highway I’ve ever seen. Obviously, the Maryland line painters believe in drinking on the job!

Then we worshipped with the good people at Hancock Presbyterian Church. I met Pastor Terry on Tuesday, when I left my car in the church’s parking lot. The 1845 sanctuary reminded me of the church where I was ordained as a Presbyterian minister, the United Church of Ellicottville in New York. Both brick sanctuaries featured high ceilings and a square design with cathedral style windows. While the United Church (formerly First Presbyterian) served as a stop on the Underground Railroad, the Hancock Church suffered damage during the Civil War when Stonewall Jackson’s men shelled the town.

This morning the service honored the church’s graduates and featured a musical trio (soloist, keyboard, and bass) from Fredrick called “Solid Ground.” They lead the congregation in singing and sang several songs themselves. Afterwards, the congregation had a wonderful potluck lunch which they do once a month. If you’re ever in Hancock on the potluck Sunday, don’t miss it!

Fort Frederick

Taking my niece’s advice, I decided not to ride on Sunday, which had been scheduled for our shortest day on the C&O, only 27 miles. Instead, I drove to Fort Frederick. The British governor had the rock-walled fort built during the French and Indian Wars to protect the frontier. In the American Revolutionary War, the fort housed British POWs. It never experienced the tragedy of a battle. Overtime, much of the fort had fell into disrepair, but the CCCs rebuilt it in the 1930s. Today, it’s a Maryland State Park. I toured the fort and reconnected with Warren as the C&O passes by the site of the fort. Then I moved on to Williamsport waterfront, where I waited to pick up Warren later in the afternoon. Williamsport features an aqueduct, where the canal (and its water) crossed a local creek, which was amazing to see.

That night, we stayed at a Hampton Inn in Hagerstown. For dinner, I had a pecan chicken salad and sausage chili at Bob Evans, which was across the street from the hotel.

Monday, May 19. A free day of touring the area

The First Washington Monument — First Washington Monument

We had planned a day off, since I had a car in the area and was wanting to see the Antietam battlefield. Leaving early, we first drove to the nation’s first Washington Monument along South Mountain. This monument was built in 1827 by the people of Boonsboro, Maryland. In 1862, the people living in the valley used the site to watch the battle of South Mountain and Antietam. I first visited the monument in 1987, while hiking the Appalachian Trail. In our few minutes at the site, I met several section hikers on the trail.

After the Washington Monument, we headed to Point of the Rocks, to look at the C&O trail. We had seen Facebook posts of riders who became bogged in mud between Brunswick and Point of the Rocks and, talking with a bike shop owner, learned several had busted their de-railers by trying to ride through the muck. Then we drove along roads which parallel the trail, across from Harper’s Ferry and then across the Potomac to Shepherdstown, the oldest community in West Virginia. We had lunch in this quaint town at Marie’s Taqueria, where I had three delicious fish tacos.

Antietam

After lunch, we headed to the Antietam battlefield, first stopping at the visitor’s center to watch a movie introducing us to the battle and exploring the museum. September 17, 1862 is the bloodiest day in American history. While more died at Gettysburg, that battle lasted three full days. Lee had assembled his troops between the town of Sharpsburg (some still refer to the battle as Sharpsburg) and Antietam Creek. Fighting began that early that morning in a cornfield north of town. It continued in several different locations over the next twelve hours, before coming to an end. Strategically, the north won the battle. They forced the South to retreat into Virginia. But the price was heavy on both armies. The significantly larger northern army lost more soldiers than the south. Dinner for the evening was picked up at a grocery store that had a hot food and a large salad bar.

Tuesday, May 20 (36 miles)

With the reports of muddy and nearly impossible sections of the trail, we decided a new plan. We would start where we planned in Williamsport and ride as far east as possible before the mud became too deep. Leaving Williamsport, we peddled east. The two days’ rest made my ankle and Achilles feel better. I also stopped wearing my toe clips and moved my foot further up on my pedals. I wouldn’t have problems with my ankle until later in the afternoon.

As I was leaving Williamsport, I came up on a man walking his dog. “On your left,” I yelled, to warn him of my passing. He jumped, looked around at me, and started cussing me out. Here, I had tried to be polite and not scare him and instead, I both scared and upset him.

Lock, lock house, and train — Competing modes of transportation: Lock, lock houses and train

At first, our only challenge was stopping every little bit to pull our bikes over trees. This area is filled with history as we passed where Lee and his army were held up by a flooded Potomac as they retreated from Gettysburg, a year after Antietam. After about 7 miles, the path started to become muddier. After another half mile, we decided to turn around and head back to my car. On our way, just after we passed a huge down tree, in which we’d each be on a different side of the tree and hand bikes over, we met a park service crew cutting fallen trees. The last half of the ride back to my car was much easier.

Afternoon ride

Then we headed to Brunswick. We had hoped to peddle here today, but knowing there were sections of the trail out, we set out and road east to Point of the Rocks, stopping for lunch on the trail about halfway to our destination. Our thoughts were that this would give us only 48 miles to Washington on Wednesday. I appreciated seeing this site in the afternoon. The day before, still early in the morning, had the sun behind the unique train station.

Point of Rocks

The original Baltimore and Ohio (B&O) tracks tracks ended at Point of Rocks, Maryland . Here, the railroad and the canal locked in legal wrangling over right away. It was eventually settled, with the railroad building a tunnel, which allowed them to move the lines westward. The railroad also began building a line eastward, to serve Washington DC. In the 1870s, where the two tracks converged, forming a wye, they built a station. Today, the station closed and owned and used by railroad. The Maryland commuter rail that runs into DC boards just west of the old station.

I waited to catch a photo of the station with a train that was slowly approaching. The train was going slow and I could have easily jumped aboard as a hobo, but then I noticed that this unit train on open containers marked with the symbol of Republic Trash Service. Dirty water poured from the containers and a rotten smell filled the air. The stench encouraged me not to take up hoboing.

Harpers Ferry

After riding back to Brunswick, we continued west on the trail to Harpers Ferry. This also washed out but was temporarily patched with gravel. In 1987, the afternoon before visiting the Washington Monument, I had hiked along part of this section who also serves as the Appalachian Trail. Across from Harper’s Ferry, we locked our bikes up and walked across a pedestrian bridge. My Achilles ached and I mostly hobbled along. We explored a little of the Lower part of Harpers Ferry. Then we rode back to my car, loaded up our bikes and headed to our hotel, where I could ice my ankle. With only two hotel options in Brunswick and no B&B available, Warren had booked us in the closest hotel to the trail, a Travelodge, 1.7 miles away from the C&O. To reach this hotel on bicycles required a hard climb (as did the other hotel which was further away).

Hotel in Brunswick

We feared the hotel might be a repeat of the Super 8 night, but it was quite nice. It seemed odd to have a hotel like this off a major road or interstate, but we quickly surmised the hotel primarily customer to be the railroad. They even had a lounge only for CSX employees and featured a 1950s style dinner that was open 24 hours a day. A local taxi company shuttled train crews back and forth to the railroad.

A great ending dinner

That evening, we decided to forgo the diner and try the Potomac Street Grill near the railroad tracks. They advertised both American and Middle Eastern dishes. It was a good decision. I had a delicious combo shawarma platter, with both chicken and lamb, a wonderful mediterranean salad, and a local beer for $24.

Wednesday, May 21, 2025 zero miles on bike/350 in the car

The night before, we watched the news and weather channels for what the next day would bring. Everyone was saying 100% chance of rain, with rains heavy in the morning and again later in the afternoon. It poured as we walked over to the diner for breakfast. We decided to quit. Having already had gaps in our travels along the C&O, we could come back and do the C&O again. Besides, my Achilles hurt.

Our plan had been to ride into DC, stay with my brother’s sister and brother-in-law, then the next day, Warren would bring me back to my car and we’d head home. Now, we’d both be home a day early.

Great Falls on the Potomac, just outside Washington DC

We left Brunswick at nine, in the pouring rain, hoping to miss the worse of the traffic. As we approached DC, the rain slowed to a drizzle. We stopped at Great Falls to witness the power of the Potomac at high water levels. Amazing rapids! A few minutes after leaving the rapids, we arrived at Hitch’s home, where we transferred my brother’s bike to his car. A few minutes later, we took off on our separate paths. For me, it rained most of the way home.

Ankle Update

I was checked out on Tuesday. While I didn’t tear any tendons, I have angered a few. The recommendation is that I not do any bike riding or long walks for a few weeks while it heals. In addition, I will do a few weeks of physical therapy to strengthen the muscles in my ankles.

May 22, 2025July 31, 2025

Pittsburgh to Washington Bicycle Ride, Part 1

Photo of author on Hot Steel Bridge, Pittsburgh and a map of the trail

“I was asleep. I had been told to wear ear plugs to block the train noise,” he said. “At 4 AM, I woke up to my tent shaking and people yelling. At first, I couldn’t make it out, but then realized they were saying the water rising and I must get to get out.” This was the experience of another bicyclist along the Great Allegheny Passage. He had camped on the banks of the Youghiogheny River, just outside West Newton. He got up just in time to pull his tent and gear to higher ground. Then he joined in the effort to help others with the rising water.

I didn’t get his name. My guess is he was in his 40s and from York, Pennsylvania. We met him on Friday morning, at Meyersdale. He was heading out on his last day on the trail. He would complete the “GAP”, (the Great Allegheny Passage) that afternoon after a 24-mile downhill run. Later that day, as we ate lunch at an overlook just outside the Big Savage Tunnel, my brother recalled his positive attitude. Such an attitude pays off when confronted with challenges.

Day 1: Getting to Pittsburgh

Warren and I began our journey on Tuesday afternoon, when his brother-in-law Hitch dropped us off a block from “The Point” in Pittsburgh. This is the confluence of the Allegheny and Monongahela Rivers, where they form the Ohio River.

Flight 93 Memorial showing the flight path taken on Sept. 11, 2001

It had rain heavily for two days. On Monday, after planting the tomatoes I’d grown from seed in my garden, I’d drove in rain to Hancock, Maryland. The next morning, Warren and Hitch picked me up. I left my car at the Hancock Presbyterian Church. In the rain, we loaded my gear in my brother’s car and placed my bike next to his on this rack. We took the backroad, US 30, which had been the Lincoln Highway before the interstates, so that we could stop at the Flight 93 Memorial near Shanksville. The museum was sobering, but it rain too hard to do anything outside. Then, in Irwin, I introduced the two of them to a Western Pennsylvania stable, an Eat-n-Park Restaurant.

Author and his brother at the Point in Pittsburgh — At Three Rivers

Thankfully, as we approached the city, the downpour weakened to a drizzle. Warren pulled the car over a block from Point State Park. We got our bikes off and loaded. Hitch took the keys to drive the car back to his home in Washington. Warren and I headed out to the Point. Looking over the city I called home for three years; I pointed out several landmarks to my brother. Of course, in the nearly 40 years since I moved to the Steel City, many things had changed. Three River Stadium was gone. Replacing it along the north side of the river was two new venues, one a football stadium for the Steelers and PNC Park, where the Pirates play.

Day 1: The Point to Homestead, 8 miles

Downtown Pittsburgh from Hot Metal Bridge — Pittsburgh downtown from the Hot Metal Bridge

The GAP runs along the east side of the Monongahela through downtown, until it crosses over to the west side of the river on the “Hot Metal Bridge.” When steel was still being made on the Southside and at the J&L plant just outside of Oakland (home of the University of Pittsburgh), this bridge was still in use. When I lived in Pittsburgh, the Southside had been converted to an upscale shopping district known as Station Square. J&L was still running but would close before I left the city. We continued along the river, stopping at a hotel in Homestead. We only rode 8 miles in a hour which included a lot of stops along the way.

Homestead

Homestead had been completely remade since I lived in Pittsburgh. While there, they began to tear down the huge US Steel plant, which ran for four miles along the river. The first book about the city I read after moving there was Thomas Bell’s Out of this Furnace. The novel, published in 1941, told the story of three generations of eastern Europeans who worked at the mills in Homestead and across the river in Braddock. I found myself making several trips to Homestead, especially after they started tearing down the mill. Today, where the mill once sat is a community of apartments, condos, hotels, restaurants, parks, and shopping. After arriving at the hotel, we explored the community on foot.

Day 2: Homestead to Connellsville, 51 miles

We left the hotel in Homestead at 7:45 AM. The remnants of steel mills were all around us with only one mill appearing to operate. Before McKeesport, we had a long detour as they resurfaced the trail. At McKeesport, we crossed over the Monongahela and began our climb alongside the Youghiogheny River. As we were leaving McKeesport, having traveled along some streets, my back tire went flat. Stopping, I discovered an inch and a half finishing nail through the tire and the tube. I replaced it with a fresh tube and after about 15 minutes we were again riding.

The trail along this section consisted of former industrial sites and some forest. With the river to our left, we occasionally would have a waterfall to our right. Often, these falls carried toxic waste from coal mines and left an orange sludge on the rocks.

Lunch in West Newton

At West Newton, we stopped at a bike shop where I picked up a new tube. I kept the old tube to repair so that I would have two tubes available. We’d been told of a good restaurant along the river, just behind the bike shop, but it was closed. The shop suggested we try Gary’s Chuckwagon, where for $15, I had a huge slab of a beer-battered fried cod (fish) on a homemade hoagie bun.

Water from an old mine — water from a mine (thankfully, you don’t have to smell the sulfur)

Coming out of West Newton, I spotted a possum. It appeared to have badly matted hair. When I got closer, I realized the matted mess of hair were younger possums getting a ride on mom. These weren’t small possums. They looked to be about half grown. I would have thought the mother would have told them it was time to start walking by themselves.

About eight miles from Connellsville, our evening destination, the skies opened. We took shelter for a while under an overpass with two other riders. When the rain subsided, we began to ride again, only to have another downpour. By the time we reached the hotel in Connellsville, we were both soaked, and our bikes were dirty from the mud. Thankfully, the Comfort Inn where we were staying had a wash station for bikes, which we used. They also had a room, which was locked at night, where we could store our bikes. That evening we ate at the River’s Edge Restaurant. I wasn’t overly hunger, so I had a bowl of crab bisque and a salad.

Day 3, Connellsville to Rockwood, 45 miles

We left again at 8:15 in the morning. This was my favorite section as we left behind old industry and mostly peddled through woodlands with lovely stops at Ohiopyle, an old resort town that features some of America’s best whitewater. However, due to the high water levels, no one was kayak or rafting. We stopped at ate lunch in the park at Confluence. Warren had brought a couple of Underwood Chicken Salad cans and was wanting to rid himself of the extra weight. I grabbed an extra bagel at breakfast and used it to make a sandwich.

Waterfall beside the GAP around Ohiopyle

The trail became noticeable steeper, especially after Confluence, as we broke away from the Youghiogheny River and followed the Casselman River. But the bed was wider, probably because of requiring double tracks on this steep section. It was easy to ride double through much of this section. For some reason, my left Achilles tendon began to bother me the more I rode. As for animals, I saw several deer and a few garner snakes.

We were the only people staying at the Rockwood Trail House, a bed and breakfast in which the hosts lived elsewhere. Max, whom we’d met the day before, stayed by himself in another B&B. The old home had been magnificently restored. It was also well stocked with healthy breakfast makings including yogurt, multiple kinds of granola, fruits, boiled eggs, and breads. For dinner, we walked into town (about a half mile) and ate at the Rock City Bar and Café. It was your typical Western Pennsylvanian bar with cheap bottle beer ($2.50 each) and great burgers. I had a Rocket Burger, which included sautéed mushroom, peppers, onions with cheese sticks. Including the beer, my tab was $13.65.

Day 4, Rockwood to Cumberland, 43 miles

I woke up after a weird dream mixed with people from the church I served in Michigan with the church in which I grew up in North Carolina. The morning was humid. After eating fruit, granola, and yogurt for breakfast, we headed out. It felt like rain. We still had 19 miles of climbing, but the grade was less than it had been the day before. After an hour, we were in Meyersdale. Thankfully, the trail runs high above the town where there was a nice museum in the old depot. I purchased a GAP/C&O Canal shirt. The town had experienced bad flooding earlier in the week. The trail also became more rutted from the water that eroded the bed. It was at the museum that we met the guy who had been flooded out of his tent site earlier in the week.

trail washout near the Eastern Continental Divide — Washout near Meyersville

After Meyersville, we had another six miles of climbing as we made our way to the Eastern Continental Divide. Shortly afterwards, we passed through the Big Savage Tunnel. While I had a light for my handlebars, I didn’t need it as we discovered the 3,294 feet tunnel had lights. Coming out of the tunnel on the south end, we were treated to a magnificent view of the mountains to our east. As we took photos of the tunnel, we spoke to a biker heading to Pittsburgh. He was riding a commuter bike with a metal basket on the front. He’d come from Washington and told of the flooding and long detours and carrying his bicycle through knee-depth water along the C&O. He hoped for our sake; things would be drying out. It wouldn’t.

Downhill from the Savage Tunnel

Author at the Mason Dixon line — at the Mason Dixon line

After the tunnel, we stopped for lunch. Eating tuna salad sandwiches, we could hear the wisp of windmills generating electricity from the ridge above the tunnel. While we still had a little over 20 miles to go, we felt as if we had completed the trail as it was downhill from here. A mile or less after the tunnel, we paused at the monument for the Mason Dixon line, which separates Pennsylvania from Maryland. Crossing over, we were officially back in the South!

Tourist train beside the GAP, between Frostburg and Cumberland — Western Maryland tourist train between Frostburg andCumberland

The GAP passes underneath the town of Frostburg. We talked of ice cream, but it required a climb to get into the town. Frostburg is a college town and on both sides of the town, we passed college students walking and running along the trail. About a mile south of Frost burg, I had another flat on my back tire. This time, I couldn’t find the cause. But the tube had a ¼ inch hole not far from the valve stem. One set of tracks of the Western Maryland still operate through this section and moments after having sat on the raised ballast to change my tube, a tourist train came down the tracks.

Looking out of the Brush Tunnel in the rain — Taking refuge in the Brush Tunnel during a Thunderstorm

As the trail became steeper going down the hill, it also became more washed out. Instead of flying downhill, we had to control our speed on a roadbed that felt like a washboard. At places, the trail was so rough we walked the bikes. Clouds began to build, and thunder could be heard. We entered the 914-foot Brush Tunnel as the skies opened and waited out the storm inside. Another biker, who had ridden much of which had walked, joined us. The rocky and jarring path had caused him to lose both his light and his water bottles.

In Cumberland, at the end of the GAP

As the rain slowed, we again ventured out and rode all the way into Cumberland, arriving a little after 4 PM. We had hope to get there before the National Park Service office for the C&O Canal closed, but learned they work only till 4 PM. The rain and lightning had slowed us down and we just missed them. A maintenance employee for the park service came out and talked to us, confirming our fears. Parts of the trail were completely washed out and closed. We then went to a bike shop where we learned that the bypass to the C&O wasn’t a good option as it was a narrow windy road with semis traveling on it. We tentatively made plans for a shuttle in the morning.

Next, we headed to the Ramada Inn, where they had a room for bikes. After cleaning up, we headed out for dinner. Checking in as we were leaving was another biker who had passed us. He had continued along the C&O but came to place where he couldn’t go any further and didn’t want to ride the roadway. He came back to Cumberland and was planning to take the next day’s train to Pittsburgh.

We ate dinner at City Lights, a place that sounded a lot like a North Beach bookstore in San Francisco (and there’s another one in Iowa City). I had a Greek Salad with grilled chicken, which was delicious. After dinner, we walked around town, crossing a creek to see the Cumberland First Presbyterian Church, where I had once preached during my second year of seminary. We headed to bed early, not knowing what the next day would hold. At least, we’d completed the GAP.

Hopefully, I’ll write about the C&O experience next week.

For the second half of the trip, click here.

For a train ride along the same route, click here.

Where the GAP ends and the C&O begins — A toast (with coffee) at the end of GAP and the beginning of the C&O

April 24, 2025April 24, 2025

A Week on Iona

To read about my journey from Edinburgh to Iona, click here. The trip involved two trains and two ferries!

Iona Abbey from the water — The abbey from the ferry (on the day we left)

Grasping the rail to hold steady, I stand on the starboard catwalk looking out across the waters. I pull up the hood on my rain jacket. I could go below, but I want to face the angry sea. The engines roar and black smoke puffs from the stack as the ferry pulls away from the Flonnphort’s dock. Moments later, we are in open water. The north wind whistles through the channel separating Mull from Iona. The pilot steers the boat into the wind, but the waves and tide push us southward. He increases speed as I spread my legs apart in order to remain upright. The boat rolls back and forth in the waves.

North end of Iona looking toward Mull — North end of Iona, looking toward Mull

In a few minutes, we’re well out into the channel. The Abbey is clearly visible, standing tall in the shadow of Dun I, the high point on the island. We’re just the latest travelers, joining a hoard of pilgrims reaching back to the sixth century. I have no idea what the week will bring, but the roughness of the channel reminds me of the island’s isolation. The ferry pushes harder as we approach the landing. The pilot steers the boat up into the wind then lands on the ramp. There is no natural harbor in Iona. The pilot keeps the engines engaged, keeping the boat in position as the crew lowers the bow ramp. The two cars onboard are allowed to drive off first, then the two dozen or so of us passengers follow. The first off the boat get wet when a wave breaks and crashes over the ramp. The rest of us learn to time our departure, waiting till a lull to move out on the ramp and to quickly make our way to shore. We’re on Iona.

The Abbey on Iona with a large Celtic cross

On Pentecost, 563, an Irish abbot named Columba and a group of twelve disciples landed on a pebble covered cove on the south end of Iona. They found on this small island what they were looking for and established a religious community. At this time, sea travel was easier than traveling overland on non-existent roads. The small island became a center of faith and learning that extended throughout the mainland of Britain and Ireland and surrounding islands. Some scholars believe the Book of Kells was originally produced here. Others think the large standing Celtic crosses, so common in Scotland and Ireland, were first carved on this island.

looking toward Mull — Looking across toward Mull

The religious community thrived on Iona for the next couple hundred years. People would travel by sea, making a pilgrimage to the island of the saint known as Columba. Scottish Kings sought out the island for burial. Legend has it that even MacBeth, of Shakespeare’s fame, is buried here.

Around the tenth century, hostile visitors from the north, the Vikings, arrived. With their art and wealth, churches and monasteries were attractive targets. After several raids and the deaths of scores of monks, Iona was abandoned as a center of learning. Most of the monks moved back to Ireland.

By the twelfth century, the Viking threat had faded. The Benedictine Order reestablished the monastery on Iona, building the current Abbey. They were joined by an Augustine nunnery, whose ruins are just south of the Abbey. These two continued to thrive till the Scottish Reformation in 1560. Afterwards, the site began to crumble. But pilgrims and visitors continued to come.

In 1829, Felix Mendelssohn visited and although the seas were rough and he suffered from sea sickness, he was inspired to compose the Hebridean Overture on the nearby island of Staffa. A “Who’s Who” of British authors also made the trip including John Keats, Robert Lewis Stevenson, naturalist Joseph Banks, Dr. Samuel Johnson, James Boswell, Sir Walter Scott and William Wordsworth

After the abandonment of the monastery, the property came under the control of the Duke of Argyll. Over time, with the harsh wet climate of Iona, the trusses rotted and the roof caved in. In the 19^th Century, George Douglas Campbell, the eighth Duke of Argyll, began restoring the Abbey. Although a devout member of the Church of Scotland (Presbyterian), he allowed a number of different denominations (Presbyterians, Scottish Episcopal and Roman Catholic) to use the site for worship. Before his death, he deeded the grounds to the Iona Trust which has responsibility today for maintaining the site. The site is open to all denominations. Since the 1930s, the site has been operated by the Iona Community which uses it to hold ecumenical worship and to train people to work with the poor around the world.

Those who wish to participate with the community today are expected to spend a minimum of a week on the island. Guests live as a part of the community, staying in dormitory rooms (six or eight people of the same sex per room). The guests help with the cooking and the cleaning, and participating in morning worship and evening prayers. The community strives to bring people together from all over the world as a way to foster a better understanding of one another. Groups meet together for Bible Study as well as to discuss other topics, with plenty of free time to explore the island or to take boat trips around the island or to other islands. Staffa, a small island with unique geology, known for puffins that nest there in the summer and “Fingal’s Cave” is a popular destination.

I spend my week on Iona meeting with a group led by two professors of British Universities. Both are poets. One teaches English while the other teaches in a seminary. As for my chores, I am in the kitchen, mostly chopping vegetables. Although the food is not exclusively vegetarian (we had meat three times during the week), we ate lots of wonderful vegetarian dishes that included roasted root vegetables and thick soups, all prepared from scratch.

With my spare time I hike around the island. Daily, generally around sunset (10:30 PM), I hike to the top of Dun I, the high point of the island. The sunsets are incredible. At night, I can see distant lighthouses. One of the lighthouses was built by Robert Lewis Stevenson’s father in the early nineteenth century to warn boaters of Torran Rocks. This is also the site Stevenson’s chose for the shipwreck in. his book, “Kidnapped.’ I also gaze out on other islands in both the Inner and Outer Hebrides chain. Twilight seems to go on forever and provides some of the most beautiful light on the island and sea.

Friday is my last day and I, along with many other pilgrims, are leaving on the 8:15 AM ferry. Its drizzling rain, but calmer than the day I’d arrived. The Iona staff gather at the dock to wish us a safe trip. Once the ferry lands in Fionnphort, there’s no time to waste. A bus waits. We load up and ride across the Ross of Mull and Glen More, to Craignure, where we meet another ferry. It’s nearly an hour over to the mainland, to Oban, where we board a waiting train.

Most of those whom I’d spent time with on Iona continue on to Glasgow and home. But not me. At Crainlarich, where the Oban branch merges onto the Northwest Highlands mainline, I say my goodbyes to friends and step off the train. Thirty minutes later, I board a northbound train, taking me through Fort Williams and over the Glenfinnan trestle (made famous in the Harry Potter movies), and on to Mallaig where I catch the ferry to the Isle of Skye.

Magazine cover of Skinnie Magazine in which this story first appeared.

This story originally appeared in The Skinnie, a magazine for Skidaway Island, on September 22 , 2017.

April 9, 2025April 10, 2025

The Long Way Home to Nevada, Part 3 of my 1989 transcontinental train trip

title slide with photo of an Amtrak locomotive

I wake up as the train crosses the Potomac, heading into the DC Station. I don’t get up, but continued napping as the diesel locomotives were traded for electric ones. Fifteen or so minutes later, we pull out of Washington and continue northward. Around mid-morning, I step off the train in Philadelphia. Shari stands at the end of the platform waiting. I have a long layover before catching the Pennsylvanian, a train that will take me overnight from Philadelphia through Pittsburgh and on to Chicago. (Today, the Pennsylvanian only runs to Pittsburgh).

Philadelphia

As it was Sunday morning, Shari drove into the city. I toss my bags into the back of her car and we stop at a bakery at the end of Fairmont Park for breakfast and coffee. We catch up on our lives as it had been nearly two years since we met along the Appalachian Trail at Delaware Gap. Having recently finished law school, she is debating two job offers to teach legal writing, one at Catholic University in Washington and another at Western Mass Law School in Springfield.

After breakfast, we walk over to the Philadelphia Art Gallery. We see Robert Adams collection of American Western photos along with several Monet and Van Gogh paintings. I was shocked to learn Shari doesn’t care much for art galleys, so we head across the river and walk around the zoo. Later, we drive across town to the old part of Philadelphia. There, on South Street, Shari insists on treating me with an authentic Philly Cheese Sandwich. This is a real treat, as she’s a vegetarian. She’d asked friends for the best place to buy me a sandwich. We then walk around the old city, stopping to look at the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, and checking out Benjamin Franklin’s pew at Christ Church. As a Jew, she was more than willing to indulge my curiosity inside the church. Then it was time to head back to the Amtrak Station.

On the Chicago

That evening, as the train ran across Pennsylvania, I had dinner with a guy name Tim. He works in the computer import business and has spent a lot of time in Seattle. He provides several suggestions on getting around in the city and what to see. After returning to my seat, I alternate reading my academic advisor’s new book, Beyond Servanthood and Adela Yarbro Collin’s, Crisis and Catharsis: The Power of the Apocalypse before falling asleep.

Chicago and McCormick Theological Seminary

We arrived in Chicago on time, early in the morning. Having been given directions to McCormick Theological Seminary in Hyde Park, I walk a few blocks to the east and take a regional train. At the seminary, I’m met by several students whom I had worked with at the General Assembly in Saint Louis the previous summer. They introduce me to more students. We attend chapel together, then they arrange for me to take a shower in a dorm, before meeting for lunch. Afterwards, Marj, one of the students I knew from St. Louis, insists on driving me back to the Southshore Station, which was about a mile away. She had suggested I call when I arrived there and she would have picked me up, or I should take a cab. But I decided to walk down and surprise them. Undoubtedly, the neighborhood is worse than it looks. I take the Southshore back into the city center city to catch the Empire Builder that afternoon for Seattle.

While walking back to Union Station, I was surprised to be greeted by two kids running up to me. Aaron and Ashley and their mother Karen, whom I’d met on my journey from Pittsburgh to Washington, sit just outiside of the depot, while waiting on their train to Grand Rapids, Michigan. They’d just returned from their trip to the Nation’s Capital. We have enough time to grab an ice cream before I boarded the train to the West Coast.

Chicago to Seattle, Day 1

The Empire Builder, the northern most of the great western railways was built by and named for James J. Hill. He envisioned a railroad across the northern plains, connecting the twin cities of St. Paul and Minneapolis to the Pacific. The line runs just south of the Canadian border. The Amtrak line which goes by the same name, starts along the old Milwaukee Road line from Chicago and then picks up Hill’s Great Northern line at the Twin Cities.

My train leaves Chicago late in the afternoon. I finish reading Sue’s book, Beyond Servanthood, before bed. Sometime early in the morning, we stop in the Twin Cities. I don’t even get up and quickly fall back asleep.

The next time I awake, the train gently rolls through curves, its wheels squeaking as they rub against the rail. I opened the curtains to see a thin strip of pink in the sky. I assume I’m looking out for the first time at North Dakota. A thin blanket of snow lays along the flat prairie, broken by an occasional row of trees or a line of utility poles. At regular intervals, a larger clump of trees indicates a small village. Above the trees stand a church steeple, water tower, and grain elevator. Nothing moves. Empty grain hoppers sit on sidetracks, waiting for the next harvest. A few cows huddle near isolated barns. I make out the silhouette of tractors, waiting for warmer weather. The state seems to be in a late winter nap. Then the train pulls up to the platform and I see the sign for Detroit Lakes. We’re still in Minnesota. I fall back asleep.

church in eastern North Dakota — Church in Eastern North Dakota

Fargo

Our next stop is Fargo. The town hadn’t yet been made famous by the Coen Brother’s black comedy. I step off the train and take a brisk walk up and down the platform. My breath smokes like a steam locomotive in the cold air. But it wakes me up. After a few laps, I hear “All Aboard,” and step back onboard and head to the lounge car for coffee. I sit and watch the prairie as the day awakes. It’s spring but feels like it’s still winter. I can’t imagine the harshness of life up here along the high line, cold winters and hot summers.

I spend much of the morning alternating between looking out of the window and reading. Having tired of theology, I pull out the one book of fiction in my bag, Doris Lessings, The Summer Before the Dark. It wasn’t light reading, so I spend much of the time looking and talking to fellow passengers.

Delay

We’re running behind a bit, but late morning we come to a full stop. We’re informed of a train derailment ahead of us which needs to be clear. We sit, looking at the same barren prairie for two hours. The fences that run alongside the tracks seem mostly to corral tumbleweed. After we resume, I get off at all the towns where there’s a smoke stop, walking a few laps around the platform as the smokers puff down their cigarettes.

The further west we travel, the more familiar the landscape seems. I spot sagebrush and, in my journal, use the term “Sage Covered Hills,” first the first time. For years, it would be the name of my blog. Some of the towns have painted their initials on the hillside above them. This common western feature I first spot on a hill above Glasgow. There are massive powerlines pulling electricity from places like Fort Peck Dam. At the time, I knew nothing about the dam. Later, I’d become more familiar with it through the writings of Ivan Doig, a Montanan author.

Chicago to Seattle, Day 2

As the sun sets, we can make out the distant mountains. Running several hours behind due to the derailment up ahead means we’ll not see the majestic peaks as we cross into the northern Rockies. It’s two hours after dark when we arrive at Glacier Park Station. Instead of a light dusting of snow, as I’d seen in the morning, the mounds of pack snow are head high all around the station. A few passengers get off and others come aboard and soon we’re slowly climbing in the darkness.

I wake up at dawn and we’re in Spokane, having crossed the Rockies in the dark. Here, the train splits with part of the train heading to Portland, while the rest of us will continue to Seattle.

We run through eastern Washington and arrive in Seattle at midday. This is unfamiliar country to me. Years later, when I read David Guterson’s East of the Mountains, I recalled my trip across the state. I wished I had made more journal entries as I traveled reverse of Dr. Ben Givens, the novel’s protagonist.

From the train in Eastern Washington — Scanner

Seattle

In Seattle, I gather my luggage and head to my hotel, two blocks away. I’m too early to get the room. I leave my luggage at the counter and set out to find lunch. Afterwards, I head to the Space Needle for a view of the city. I ride the city’s cable cars and walk along the wharfs and fish markets dotting the water. Later, I find a place to have seafood for dinner. I head back to the hotel before dark, wanting to sleep in a bed without waking up at stops. From the room, I call Carolyn and am surprised when she tells me she’ll meet me in Sacramento in two days. I’m both excited and nervous.

Seattle Skyline — Seattle skyline take from the “Space Needle”

On the Coast Starlight to Sacramento

The next morning, in a misty rain, head back to the train station and checked my bags for home. The sky is hazy as we pull out of the station on the Coast Starlight. I can barely make out the shapes of St. Helens, Ranier, and Hood of the Cascade Range. This overnight train runs almost 1400 miles, connecting Seattle with Los Angeles.

I get off early the next morning in Sacramento. My ticket was for Oakland/San Francisco, where I would transfer to the California Zephyr. But since the Zephyr also stops in Sacramento, this allows me to avoid riding the same track and provides me with most of the day in California’s capital. It’s a beautiful day and the city is just waking up. As I arrive an hour before Carolyn, I hike up to the bus station, maybe a mile away. I stop for coffee and then, thinking it’s about time, walk on over to the station. Her bus is early and she’s leaving the station, when I call to her. We hug and set out to see the city.

Of course, nothing is yet open. We walk around the state capitol. Then we head to the Roman Catholic Cathedral. This had been built by the first Catholic Priest in Virginia City after he was made a bishop. Then, when the California State Railroad Museum opens, we head there. This is one of the premier railroad museums in the world and we spend the rest of the morning exploring. After lunch in the snack bar, we head back to the train station to the ride back to Reno.

The final lap to Reno

The ride across the Sierras is familiar as the tracks mostly parallel Interstate 80. The train twists and sways and often runs through snow sheds, designed to protect the tracks from avalanches such as one in 1954 which stranded a train for a week. We mostly sit in the lounge car, close to each other, our feet propped up on the rail below the window, as we take in the scene. After the stop in Truckee, we head back to our seats and collect our baggage. In Reno, where I started nearly three weeks earlier, we step off the train.