1986, the whole nine yards

September 17, 1987 Finished 7/12/1988 Hi

Richard requested the whole nine yards, so here goes. My apology for asphyxiating all of you who waited for this with baited breath. I am not very well disciplined about writing.

I do intend to make a novel out of this with other episodes from my earlier travels. Don't hold your breath waiting for the novel either. I still haven't found a plot.

I'm looking for a wife. One cousin, Lynette, says she might be able to indulge in a little matchmaking. Please do. I really hope to meet nice women through introductions by friends and relatives. I've written an appendix of requirements and preferences to aid prospective matchmakers. (Should I send it to the Readers' Digest humor department?) If you know anyone who wants to raise a family of six or eight kids way back in the hills somewhere, let me know. If the right person has two or three children already, that's ok.

My most recent trip was a real dilly. The motorcycle and I traveled 10,000 miles between August 4 and December 31, 1986. Did I have some fun! [It was the most recent trip when I started writing this.]

Near the end of July it became apparent that our computer contract with the US Post Office was going to end in August. I vaguely remembered that my brother and sister-in-law, Dale and Carolyn, had invited me to join them on their summer vacation. Any exact memory of dates and places was long gone, so I called. They had not yet taken the vacation. Yes indeed, I was still invited. We could meet in Glacier National Park on August 12.

I had diligently worked 80 hours per week all spring, so when we delivered the goods to the Post Office on August 4th, I had no qualms about immediately leaving to meet Dale and Carolyn in Montana. That part of the trip took eight days. I traveled 1100 miles one of those days!

As usual, I started late, about 2am on August 4th, after trying to organize all my affairs. I had been to Key West a couple of days earlier to bid a fond farewell to the Baskin Robbins ice cream parlor there. So I can say that the trip started at the southernmost point in the USA. The weather was great at 2 in the morning, warm and pleasant. I wore only my swimming trunks and boots for the first hundred miles. However, when I reached the mainland, it turned chilly. I had to stop to put on clothes! Weather in the Keys is very different because the islands are surrounded by all that water. The Gulf Stream flows north a couple of miles offshore, just outside the reef.

I cruised into Naples about 7am and stopped to visit Karen and Ashley on my way to Sarasota. It amazes me that a woman who needs a can opener to get her pretty green eyes open at 7am can become a raving beauty in less than an hour. After seeing them off to work, I continued in the growing heat to Sarasota.

My brother, Dean, was painting inside his new house. I stayed there a day to help paint an entry and the living room. As usual, his kids, Benjamin who is 7 and Sarah, 5, "helped". It is so nice to have kids who want to help. Thanks kids. After painting, when we were intolerably hot and sticky, we walked out into his lanai and plunged directly into the swimming pool. That is one of the better spellings of RELIEF. I begin to understand why a person can accept the expense and maintenance of a personal swimming pool.

Since August is such a hot month, I left at 1 A.M. in order to be cool on the trip. I froze. It is amazing how well a constant 60 mile an hour wind chills. By staying on the interstate highways, I accomplished my desire to be in the mountains of Tennessee by noon. The summertime heat was still unbearable. It is equally amazing how well a 60 mph wind cooks. For most of the afternoon I considered checking into a motel to wait out the heat. I kept on considering it until the heat eased up after sunset. At 10pm, I arrived at my Mom's in Belleville, Illinois. That is the longest day's ride I have ever made. Everything hurt. My hands hurt. My feet hurt. My eyes, head, arms and legs hurt. My back hurt. My hands and legs and feet hurt some more.

The next morning I woke up about 8am surprisingly well rested and raring to go. I left Mom's about noon to visit my sister, Carol, and her new husband, Bob, in Mt. Olive, Illinois. Bob let me weld the ramps for his T-bucket (a race car) and talked me into staying an extra day to spend Sunday at THE drags at Peveley, Missouri. It was fun and interesting, but, as Bob says, drag racing is not a spectator sport. As soon as he lost his heat, we left.

Again, I left around midnight to escape the heat. Again, I froze all the way across Missouri on US highway 36. Somewhere in the middle of the night, somewhere in Missouri, it dawned on me that Mankato, Kansas might be on route 36. At the next gas station I consulted my road map and was delighted to find Mankato, dead ahead on route 36. My great-great grandparents, Edmund and Jamima Mechem, are buried there. Of course I then pushed on to reach Mankato. Unfortunately, my clutch stopped working 30 miles east of Mankato, so I rode on without stopping or shifting gears. I was very happy to not encounter any traffic or police at the few stop signs en route. I was also very happy to stop and escape the sweltering mid day heat of central Kansas. Close inspection of the clutch linkage revealed the problem to be merely a loose pin which was easily reseated. I was able to spend the afternoon researching at the court house and the library. There was precious little to find in Mankato about my ancestors. Incidentally, my road map shows the whole USA in limited detail. I used it the whole trip.

When Mankato rolled up the sidewalks at 5pm, I rode away, tired and happy and significantly cooler, across the rest of Kansas. I neglected to get gasoline at the last station in Kansas. Why is it that men seem intent upon driving until the gas gauge reads EMPTY? As I rode into Eastern Colorado on route 36, things began to seem familiar ... and memory registered a long desolate stretch to Denver ... and I needed gas. The next little town of Idalia was shut up tight at 9pm. I had 20 miles worth of gas. Denver was 80 miles away. Huge thunderstorms were threatening and it didn't seem to be a good idea to camp out. The proprietor of a new little convenience store at the far edge of town was just closing as I pulled into his parking lot. No, there were no gas stations open between here and Denver. That wonderful man sold me about two gallons of gasoline he had bought that afternoon for his lawn mower. He charged about what the gas cost him at the gas station. Incidents like this convince me that the average guy in America remains helpful. Very few are interested in scalping the tourists.

I drove on towards Denver looking for a good place to sleep. A pronghorn antelope flashed by on the shoulder of that two lane road. Fortunately he didn't move. The longer I drove, the worse the thunderstorms looked. They were truly impressive. The lightning to the left kept showering massive six and eight pronged strikes to the ground. The lightning to the right looked like an atomic bomb. It lighted a huge cylindrical shaft through a great opaque mushroom cloud. Ahead of me, the night sky grew steadily darker and more ominous. Mother Nature can certainly display exhilarating power. It is sobering to be entirely exposed to all that power and fury on a motorcycle. Worse, I could run out of gas at any time, perhaps in the middle of it all.

In the tiny town of Anton there is a Shell station which has a protective overhanging roof. There was very little traffic through town, so I stopped to avoid the imminent threat of rain. This was one of those times I was happy to be carrying a black cover for the motorcycle. It transforms the motorcycle from a shiny, reflective object which attracts attention into a dark lump which is easily overlooked. I slept between the motorcycle and the building, protected somewhat from the elements and from observation. Next morning at the crack of dawn, I was still dry! How could that tremendous storm miss me? Sometimes I am still inspired to sing Amazing Grace.

The gas lasted all the way to the outskirts of Denver. I bypassed Denver to the east on interstate I-25. Before noon I started getting drowsy. There were still storms around, but I had to sleep. Somewhere in southern Wyoming there is a nice little overpass under which I slept for an hour or two in broad daylight. When I went to sleep, the skies looked OK. When I woke up, rain threatened. I rode only a few miles before the rain made good its threat. The wind nearly blew me over! Wind that strong is frightening on a motorcycle. I pulled off the road at the next overpass to sit it out under "shelter".

Another biker, the rider of an old Harley, had prior possession. We conversed pleasantly for half an hour. He had been to the big rally at Sturgis, Nebraska. Rally attendees consistently seem to be enthusiastic advocates of their favorite rallies. Perhaps I should consider attending some of the better rallies. The Sturgis rally is a national event that draws motorcyclists from all over the country. When the rain slackened, I left. He stayed. The next heavy downpour was not accompanied by the terrific winds, so I pushed on through to the other side. Just when I was feeling so mucho macho for this accomplishment, I was passed by another Harley rider with female passenger. I had a fairing (and windshield). He did not. Mucho Macho! I accelerated to keep up as I frequently do. They turned a different direction in the next large town. That night I slept under clear skies alongside US highway 87 in southern Montana.

It was a relief to be on smaller US highways 87 and 89. The interstate highways are great for driving from place A to place B in a hurry. The smaller roads are much less crowded and much more scenic. I rode into Glacier National Park a day behind schedule. Dale and I had agreed to meet at the Sprague campground because we are descendants of Deborah Sprague. When I didn't find Dale and Carolyn, I asked two lovely Park Rangers if there was a reservation system whereby I might locate my brother. They asked if I was Ron. I was astounded! How could they know my name? They showed me the note Dale had left. Sprague campground was full when he arrived, so he and Carolyn were at the next campground.

Glacier Park is beautiful. The pinnacle of the park is the Going to the Sun highway. The road follows the south shore of lake Katharine. At the end of the lake, it climbs along a rugged mountain stream until it passes the glacier. Then it winds down along the cliff face and through a couple of tunnels to another lake on the other side of the park. Dale filled me in on the itinerary. This was to be a two week car camping trip covering the four Canadian National parks in the Rockies. We stayed a couple of days at Glacier before driving up into Canada.

We exited the park at Kalispell and took highway 93 north. As soon as we crossed the Canadian border, the countryside seemed less populated and more scenic. Radium Hot Springs has only one bank. Banks give the best exchange rate for changing your American dollars to Canadian. It also has a Husky gas station and restaurant which serves the largest ice cream cones in town. In an festive mood, I tried tiger flavor ice cream. Did you know that tigers taste like licorice? [A flash bulletin from 1987: they no longer serve ice cream. The restaurant food is not nearly as good as the ice cream.]

Kootenay National Park is a pretty park. The road through the gorge of Sinclair Creek east of Radium Hot Springs cuts through some very sheer and impressive rock. After ascending Sinclair Pass, the land levels out to some very pleasant meadowlands in the wide valley between the Brisco and Mitchell mountain ranges. We spent the night at the Dolly Varden campground. I remember the overgrown trail along Nixon Creek which I followed until I was able to get lost. Apparently a whole stand of trees had blown down in some tremendous wind years ago. I followed the trail over all the trunks and debris until I could no longer see the trail ahead. When I turned to go back, I could no longer see the trail behind either! After an anxious half hour, I stumbled onto the trail and returned safely.

My favorite park of this whole trip was Yoho National Park. It is quiet, uncrowded and simply gorgeous. The Canadian Pacific Railroad has cut two 360 degree loops inside Mt. Ogden and Cathedral Crags to make the grade above the town of Field. We camped at a walk-in campsite near the magnificent waterfall at Takakkaw Falls. Takakkaw Falls shoots upwards from the cliff before it falls seventy feet to the pools below. Skyline Trail offers superb views from above the falls.

Dale, Carolyn and I walked to the Twin Falls Chalet. Twin Falls was enhanced by the CPR engineers and a little dynamite. The engineers blew away some obstruction to the left side of the watercourse. The result is a beautifully balanced twin waterfall. It was a long hike for Carolyn but we splurged on a butter tart, a chocolate treat and a brownie at the Chalet. I have never tasted better pastries (and I sample pastries often). On the return trip, Dale and I left Carolyn at a fork in the trail. We took the other fork to Yoho Glacier. After a half hour, when the trail became more exposed and rocky, Dale decided that Carolyn had been alone too long and turned back. I continued on over a couple of streams and big boulder fields until I came upon a stream ten feet wide. I could see a good place to cross over, but none to return, so I also turned back. Carolyn had enjoyed her walk at her own pace.

Another day we drove up to Emerald Lake for lunch. This was one of the scenic features of the park accessable by vehicle. Everyone and his brother were there. I discovered a trail to our campsite near Takakkaw Falls. While it seemed a bit long for an afternoon stroll, I consulted with Dale and Carolyn and decided to go for it. It was indeed long. As the trail climbs toward Yoho Pass, the constant growth of Emerald Lake is fascinating. The lake becomes bigger and deeper green at each stop. Then the cabins and developments begin to peek through the trees but they never become unsightly. A couple of little waterfalls can be seen on the face of Michael Peak to the north. In the woods on Yoho Pass I stopped to watch a couple of porcupines chewing up the scenery. On Highline Trail the views of Takakkaw Falls are wonderful. It is possible to see some of the lessor falls leading down to the chute which creates the final spectacular fall. I returned to camp about two hours after dark. Of course, I carried neither provisions nor flashlight. The last hour of walking in the dark was rather exciting.

The Icefields Parkway between Jasper and Banff is the most scenic road I have ever seen. Driving along the Icefields Parkway in the back seat of Dale's car, I wondered how much of the scenery I was missing. Later, driving through on the motorcycle, I decided that I miss 90% of the scenery where there is a lot to see. (You don't miss much if there is nothing to see.) There is a Sunday brunch at the Chateau at Lake Louise. I recommend it highly. The desert table has over a dozen different treats. Dale and I reinforced each other's gluttony. We stayed there eating for two and a half hours. Then Dale laid out full length in the back seat of the car, unable to move. Carolyn and I slowly walked off our excess to a lookout point high over the lake. That is uphill folks. Lovely views. I trailed down to the lake shore on the way back. The lake was filled with canoeists enjoying the weather.

Carolyn had remembered the Weeping Wall from a childhood trip. It must have been wetter that year. This year the wall had only normal trickles. Athabasca Glacier was much more memorable. The road crosses Sunwapta Pass before approaching the glacier. When you first see the ice, you are actually above it descending towards it. The information center is also higher than the foot of the glacier. There are huge ice crawlers to take tour groups out to "experience" glacial environment first hand. We perused everything in the visitor center, but decided not to actually venture out onto the ice. The Columbia Icefield is a huge valley of permanent ice which feeds several glaciers. Glaciers move, icefields just sit there frozen. We did stop for a luncheon picnic at a wide spot where the road passes a pretty little waterfall and crosses a pretty little stream. We turned around there rather than continuing on to Jasper.

There were interesting nature trails at Bow Pass and Bow Lake. Canadian parks put education foremost. We learned to recognize glacial runoff by the whitish green tint to the water. These higher passes at 6500 feet were in alpine tundra. It always amazes me that people will ignore conditions around them to treat all wilderness like a downtown city park. They let their kids and pets run loose to destroy the fragile alpine tundra. Both signs and worn trails testify to the damage earlier generations have done. I often think that mankind's purpose is to litter. The Bible should be modernized to read, "Be fruitful, multiply and spread your excrement to the far corners of the earth."

I do not remember how we talked Carolyn into hiking up to Glacier Lake. Perhaps it was named something else. We were passed by some mountain bicyclists busy ruining their reputation by rushing pell mell down the trail, scaring pedestrians. On a previous trip in Germany, I learned a very appropriate saying. "Junge ist dumm und esst viel." "Young men are dumb and eat a lot." After observing that display of stupidity, I can agree that mountain bikes should be forbidden from hiking trails. The lake was pretty and the air was certainly crisp. We picnicked there, took pictures and had an enjoyable walk out.

When it came time for Dale and Carolyn to return to work in Minneapolis, we drove to breakfast in Banff. The restaurant served a wonderful lunch. Sorry, but I cannot remember the name of the restaurant.

My travel has always been to see scenery rather than to do cultural things. As I said, the Icefields Parkway is the most scenic road I've seen. I drove the 160 miles of it five more times. Crowfoot and Athabaska Glaciers were the most impressive sights.

I returned to Takakkaw Falls to camp overnight in the backcountry at Yoho Pass above the youth hostel. A little pine martin made his living raiding the outhouse at the campsite. He was really quite unafraid of people, so I was able to observe him quite closely. They are amazingly quick and cute little critters. They appear to move in quantum jumps like squirrels. I'm told that they chase and catch chipmunks. Fast, fast, fast little critters! Besides me, only one couple camped there that night.

The next day I hiked part way around Wapta Mountain to Burgess Pass before I broke camp. My recent education accented the trip quite nicely. Emerald Lake was green white which indicates glacial waters. The huge bowl south of the Vice President (Mountain) very clearly exhibited glacial moraines. Of course I enjoyed the two waterfalls visible on the flanks of Michael Peak. That afternoon I resumed hiking along Highline Trail to see the views above Takakkaw Falls again. This time I studied Emerald Glacier above me a bit better. The ice is only visible in a few spots. Skyline and Whaleback Trails were interesting but unexceptional, just like the trail to Burgess Pass. It passes through high alpine meadows, quiet and desolate, very pretty and a good place to get sunstroke.

The bridge across the Yoho River at the end of Whaleback Trail was altogether different. The River rushes beneath the bridge quite swiftly before plunging precipitously over Twin Falls. There is a campground right at the top of the Twin Falls. A small group of college kids allowed me to join them for the night. They were drinking fiercely and telling tales of helicopter skiing and Canadian wilderness. They told me of a trail to the glacier near Emerald Pass.

The next morning all the college students were sleeping late, so I went exploring for the glacier. The hike was a good one, but did not lead me to any ice. The air did become very rare and there were shallow pools of very frigid water standing on the barren rock up so high. The guys told me later that I had stopped just a short distance from the glacier.

The motorcycle travel had become too consistent and tedious, so I decided to hike for a while in Jasper National Park. Unfortunately, the weather decided simultaneously to rain. I waited briefly in the town of Jasper for the rain to stop. To avoid an unpleasant confrontation with Mother Nature, I decided to ride in the rain instead of hiking. Dumb decision ... great results. As I crossed out of Alberta into British Columbia, I stopped at the visitor information center in Mt. Robson Provincial Park. I asked about stores to purchase rope for my accommodations. I had not come prepared to backpack. My plan was to use my poncho for shelter whenever it rained on my forthcoming hike. While I did have a tent with me, I decided that my bedroll would be much lighter if I didn't carry it.

The clerk at the desk, Lorn Pearson, sent me to an outfitter and trail guide resort. To my great surprise, Lorn offered to put me up for the night if I couldn't find what I needed. Despite mild misgivings, I decided to spend the night with him. Lorn is the first of several witnessing Christians I met on my trip. His cabin was really pleasant, tucked in amongst the pines very near to his work. He didn't own a car since nearly all his business could be conducted by bicycle. Occasionally his co-workers drove him to other towns whenever he needed to shop.

It is a good feeling to know that Christianity will always return to its roots in some scattered places.

The countryside was very pretty as I drove further north and west in my attempt to drive through the rainy weather. If I were a fisherman, I would never have left. There were lakes and streams everywhere. The fishing was extolled by one native after another. Eventually I got out from under the weather. By then I had talked to enough people to have changed my itinerary. I now intended to drive through to Prince Rupert. In Prince George I walked into a Computerland store to inquire about laptop computers. There I met a rather expert programmer who introduced me to the little IBM convertible. I never did buy one, but I realized that computer technology had finally advanced to the point where I could carry a satisfactory computer on my motorcycle trips. This book was written on the Toshiba T1100+ that I eventually selected. It is IBM compatible.

I didn't intend to go to Alaska. It just sort of happened that way. Everywhere I went, people told me how lovely the new road to Stewart was, full of gorgeous mountain scenery.

Where did I meet those gold digging waitresses? They really burned me up and left a lasting impression. I stopped to eat at a restaurant and nightclub. The club advertised a rock band from Vancouver. The waitress said that they played lots of good rock and roll including lots of Oldies. So I decided to stay to enjoy.

I visited the local museum to while away the afternoon. The lady there responded to my questions with refreshing candor. She said that one lives there to enjoy the outdoors and that you don't live there unless you enjoy winter. She teaches school and says that they have never called off school because of snow in her 10 years of teaching. She was the first native to introduce me to the refrain I heard many times in Canada, "Well, it does get down to -40 degrees for a week or two here, but it is not nearly as bad as the town on the other side of the mountain. It gets down to -50 there and stays that cold for a month or more!"

Around 8pm I returned to the bar for rock and roll. The barmaid was gorgeous and well built. I fell into immediate lust. I have been teetotaling since New Year's day, 1986. As is my custom, I ordered a glass of water. Since I was out of Canadian money and had only 100 dollar traveler's checks, I gave her all my American change. This amounted to probably a $3 tip for one glass of water. She said, "O Thanks" in a way that sounded like a burden to get so much lousy change. Then she entirely ignored me for the rest of the evening.

The band was excellent and did play quite a bit of good old rock & roll. After a while I finished my water and got thirsty again. I could not get the barmaid's attention and she never came by my table again. The band was so good that I decided to break one of my traveler's checks to buy a round of drinks for them. I did manage to flag down the other waitress and convey that order. The bar has a policy of not exchanging American money, so I took a $30 loss on the currency exchange. Half an hour later, the waitress suggested that I had really missed the mark and should buy the band "shooters", the specialty drink of the evening. Yessiree, gold diggers.

The road up to Stewart was delightfully well paved and scenic. It was exactly as people had told me. At this time, Alaska was on my mind. Most people said that the Alaskan Highway was paved all the way ... except for perhaps a couple of hundred miles. I was careful to observe the condition of campers and other vehicles going the other way on the road. Most were extremely dusty and muddy. I decided that the Alaskan Highway was not yet for me. Several times I passed through road construction or sealcoating. That was bad enough to convince me to wait a few years for better conditions.

As I neared Stewart, a timber wolf crossed the road so close in front of me that I had to hit the brakes hard to avoid him. He wasn't the least bit frightened of the motorcycle. He didn't hurry to avoid it, but neither did he seem interested in it. Thank goodness. He was long-legged, lean and mean.

I had not brought particularly warm clothes, but the cold was no problem for me. My friend David says that I am a chronic hypothermic. The aspen were already losing their leaves in late August. It is sobering to think that Fall starts in August in Alaska. The mountains grew very tall in the last few miles as the road wound back into them. At several points, the canyon narrowed and the cliffs became quite sheer. I was astounded to see icebergs floating in Bear Lake near the end of August.

Stewart seems almost like an Ocean port. The river is tremendously wide and slow flowing, the town rustic and clean. Then one crosses the border into Hyder, Alaska for a real contrast. Hyder is a squalid shantytown. Most "houses" are mere shacks and the road is fully paved in potholes and mud. It was a real thought provoking "Welcome to the USA". I did not stay long nor go much farther. Dirt roads are not my favorite. There was a newly built, rough-hewn eating establishment on the main drag. (There are practically no side roads.) Here I indulged in a "restaurant" meal, a salmon burger. Truly Alaskan fare not to be resisted. The local bar advertized Hyderizing, apparently a very potent alcoholic concoction. While I was curious, I felt more compelled to continue abstinence. Hyder is a truly tiny town containing two bars, two restaurants, a gift shop or two and a combination library/post office. Add a few houses, many shacks and a couple of tree houses to give the complete description.

I talked outside the bar with a teetotaling treeplanter from Ottawa. It was fascinating to hear of the technology used to replant the forests. First a helicopter is used to harvest ripe pine cones from the treetops. A double jawed open bucket is lowered over the treetop. The jaws are released to close around the trunk. The helicopter lifts the closed bucket to strip the cones (and branches and perhaps the top of the tree too). Cones are separated from the debris. Seeds are picked out of the cones by hand and planted in nurseries. When planting time arrives, the seedlings and a pointed spade are carried by treeplanters. The spade is used to gouge a hole, the seedling is stuffed in and the hole quickly closed. Three steps uphill and the process is repeated. Often women and short men are the quickest. Workers are paid by the number of seedlings planted.

I also talked with the owner of the gift shop. She commutes to Florida every winter to extol the virtues of Alaska. The snowbirds at the RV parks in Florida usually travel north in the summer. I imagined that she must enjoy getting away from the winter but she emphatically denied that. They drive down in January and back north a month later. She hates the crowds and pollution of Florida. She enjoys snowshoeing in winter.

I left Hyder within the hour and passed a black bear walking in a streambed below the roadway. I slowed down and crossed over to the left hand shoulder of the road for a better view. However, he saw me and charged up a rather steep hill into the brush. That night, I slept at the edge of a huge clearing beside the road.

The next day, a few miles from my "campsite", I saw another black bear cross the road a considerable distance in front of me. He loped across the road with an easy and graceful stride. By the time I arrived where he had crossed, he was long gone. Witnessing these two bears has given me a new respect for their abilities. They are surprisingly fast and agile.

As I get better at touch typing, I will be able to type in the dark on this marvelous little computer of mine.

How can one describe the beauty and magisty of a mountain like Mt. Robson, highest in the Canadian Rockies at 12,972 feet? It doesn't creep up as you approach it. Instead you round a curve in the road and it is suddenly THERE, dead ahead, massive and remote, gorgeous with a permanent glacier and snowcap, white ridges highlighted up the whole massive face. Lorn was gone to town, so I merely left him a thankyou note and proceeded onward to Jasper.

I had not originally planned to do any backpacking on this trip so I carried no backpack. After talking with the park rangers I decided to opt for several days of solitude on the North Boundary Trail. First I bought some 1" nylon strapping to sling my bedroll onto my back. I prepared for peanut butter and honey sandwiches and granola fixing (nuts and seeds as brother Dean calls it). I packed as light as possible - no tent, no pants, no longsleeved shirt. I did take one pair of shorts, a teeshirt, my old decrepit down coat, a poncho and nylon cord. In packing so extremely light I did make several mistakes. For one, I left the mosquito repellent, thinking it was too cold for mosquitoes. Wrong, wrong, VERY wrong thinking. When it rained four consecutive days, long pants and a wool shirt would have been nice.

The north boundary trail is a horse trail across the northern boundary of the national park. I hiked 120 miles in 11 days. It is a HORSE trail. Those of you who have ever made the mistake of hiking a horse trail need no further explanation. For others, I should explain that a horse trail is made for horses. Horses don't mind when their feet get wet. Stream crossings are through the stream, crossing a bog is easier than skirting it, mud is not worth avoiding, etc. For people, these things are unpleasant, wet and sometimes difficult. I nearly lost my boots in the muck.

August 29. As usual I got started late. As usual there were Important things to do first, like changing the oil in the motorcycle. The road to the trailhead at Princess Lake is a one way gravel road, twenty miles of one way. Every two hours traffic is allowed to go the other direction. Well, I was late and a motorcycle is very narrow, so I decided to ignore the one way restriction. This could have been a bad mistake. There were places where the cliffs were sheer and the road narrow and the turns blind. Fortunately I did not meet any opposing traffic there. There were only a couple of vehicles going the other way. I got to the deserted parking lot near dark and decided to sleep there for the night. That night the elk were bugling. It was my first experience of their peculiar, high pitched cry. It is an eerie sound in the wild and it is difficult to imagine that it is made by such a large animal.

August 30. The next morning I started promptly at dawn after packing my damp bedroll. Everything seemed pretty good. The bedroll was not very heavy and the weather was cool and fair. It is amazing how many changes Mother Nature can provide. Before long the bedroll straps began to cut into my shoulders. Soon I realized that the woods were rather unspectacular and the mosquitoes were unbearable. I wished that I had started at Rock Lake, the other entry to the trail. However, relief came in an unusual fashion. Some park wardens drove up from behind in a jeep and offered me a ride for several miles. They pointed out a couple of mule deer and dropped me off at the trail to Snake Indian Falls. The trail down to the waterfall was pleasant and the waterfall was exceptional. The Snake River sends an impressive amount of water goes over the 40' falls. I spread out my sleeping bag on a tree trunk to dry in the sunshine. Soon another warden appeared to take pictures of the falls. I volunteered to take a picture of him with the falls in the background. I kept telling him to back up, but he didn't fall for it.

The first night I stayed at Horseshoe Meadows/ Willow Creek campground, a huge, nearly uninhabited campground where the Rock Creek trail merges. There I met a couple of other guys out for the weekend. They took sympathy on my plague of mosquitoes and offered me some Cutters repellent. Lifesavers. Thanks guys.

August 31. The next day I again hiked through remarkably unspectacular scenery most all day and arrived at the Blue Creek campsite. Here I found a "bridge" of two 8" logs and a handrail across an 8' wide, 3' deep, small, swift stream. This I crossed to see what the horse campgrounds on the other side were like. I met Ernie Muldoon and a group of horse packers. They were drinking and cooking and having a fine old time and invited me to join them. I brought my bedroll over and, following Earnie's example, slept under one of the bigger pine trees. Ernie and his snoring had been exiled from the tent. Now Ernie did convince me that I was silly to walk around in the woods carrying so much junk. It makes far more sense to let a horse carry me and my junk. However I am still not a horse owner. Next trip to the wilds of British Columbia, I intend to find Ernie's Hinton Haulers in Hinton, Alberta.

September 1. Ernie's crew was surprisingly businesslike while packing and leaving early the next morning. They had convinced me to take a day hike to see a hole in the Ancient Wall. I left my things under the tree and started walking. Soon it started to drizzle. Since my things were presumeably safe and dry under the tree and I was dry under my poncho, I enjoyed a pleasant hike. The Ancient Wall is a magnificent high granite wall beside the beautiful meadows that grow along Blue Creek. There are two swinging bridges crossing Blue Creek where it is swift and wide. Despite rapidly hiking all day, I didn't see the hole. Eventually I turned around for fear that it would get dark before I got back to camp. I crossed the two swinging bridges at dusk and after dark respectively.

I got back to the campground in total darkness. There were another couple of guys camping before the stream crossing. One apologized for breaking the bridge. He came with me to shine a flashlight on the one remaining log while I crossed it. He had broken one log and the handrail. The dim light from his flashlight only served to emphasize the rushing water under the log. I wimped out and scooted across on my rear. It was just too scary to cross that swift stream on one little log at night in poor light.

September 2. I woke up early and dry under my tree. I again wimped out and again crossed that single log bridge on my butt. Had I known that cold, wet water was going to fall from the skies for the next three days, I probably would have reversed direction. Instead I kept going deeper into the "wilds" through a steady drizzle. I saw a German couple early that morning. They had bigger packs than mine and looked exhausted. I should have inferred more from their appearance. That day's hike took me through increasingly beautiful terrain. The Oatmeal campground near Three Slides has a tremendous view. The snow capped mountain in the distance was framed perfectly between a couple of nearer, lower, dark mountains and across a pretty golden meadow. I really would enjoy a picture of that view. The campground was a small one and the trail to it was easily lost. No one else was there.

September 3. Today I woke up in a light drizzle. The sleeping arrangements are working well. The bag is a little damp, but not wet. This was another uphill day. The path took me up over Snake Indian Pass at 6500 feet. It was exhilarating to be so high, but the frigid winds and drizzle on the pass soon robbed that joy. The trail crossed some boggy areas where I sunk in over my boots twice. Then I came across bear prints. Big, fresh bear prints which were crystal clear in the drizzle. Usually I hike quietly. This once I began talking to the unseen bears. Apparently bears will avoid people whom they hear, but become very mad if anyone enters "their" territory. Grizzlies consider their territory to be anything within sight.

This was the day I discovered the need for much more food. I had to eat every few hours to keep my energy level up. Otherwise my walk would slow to a crawl and I would become exhausted. Is this condition the border of hypothermia? However, one quick peanut butter and honey sandwich would cure that for another few hours. This is the first time in my life that I have experienced this condition. Now I understand better those people who tire easily if they don't eat regularly.

Twintree Lake is a huge, long lake below the pass. I imagined that the scenery would be spectacular if only the clouds would lift high enough to see the mountains on the other side of the lake. The wardens have a rowboat moored there. I briefly considered that sleeping under the rowboat would provide shelter from the rain.

I would like to share my meditations about working for the park service. The wardens (Canadian park rangers) are paid by the taxpayers to work amid beautiful scenery. They are provided transportation into remote areas by Jeep, horse, boat or whatever. They are provided cabins in choice locations next to lakes and mountain streams. They are provided food by whatever means necessary. They are allowed to go places forbidden to the general public. They make two sets of rules, a stringent set for everyone else and a relaxed set for themselves. There are drawbacks. One drawback is that they are working while everyone around them is on vacation. Another is that they have to cope with all the idiots, myself included.

I intended to sleep in a campground which I never found. The map showed it at the end of the lake beyond a bog and meadow. I found the bog but not the meadow nor the campground. This is one of those places where horse trail is a curse word. The accursed trail merely disappeared into the bog. After approaching the area twice and not finding the campground, I decided to push on to the next one. I arrived at Donnelson Creek at dusk and was forced to set up camp after dark. The results of setting up camp after dark were appalling. By morning my sleeping bag had gotten wet. I learned that all ropes must be taut when camping under a poncho.

September 4. Early this morning I met a park warden at one of the cabins mentioned above. Two horses were tethered outside, sharing the rain with me. He met me at the door but did not invite me in. I was thankful for the shelter of his porch while we talked. Who knows what he thought of this hiker in poncho and shorts carrying a small bedroll. He was pleasant and friendly and answered my several questions. Someone had reported Grizzlies on the pass which I crossed yesterday.

He provides a salt lick at his cabin. A bull moose decided the salt lick is his and chases away everything including the warden's horses. This warden was the only human I saw for four rainy days. Since I was cold and wet and concerned about finishing this hike as soon as humanly possible, I hiked another 20 mile day.

Rainy weather does provide spectacular streams. Some of the stream crossings were thrilling. As I've mentioned before, this is a horse trail. Stream crossings at high water sometimes require a considerable detour. Sometimes the bridge was a single wet, planed log with no handrails. A lot of the high water sits in the trails. Some of it flows down them. I arrived at camp near the warden's cabin after a long hard hike. Even better, I figured that I could hike out in only one more miserable day.

September 5. The next day dawned dry and warm. Oh what a relief it is! I spent the whole day drying things out and mending gear in the beautiful sunshine. It was such a very pleasant contrast to the previous days. This is the kind of day after that inspires poetry. Early in the morning I saw a cow moose at the salt lick near the ranger's cabin.

September 6. I packed my gear and left it at the campground while I went for another side trip up to Snowbird Pass. It is quite an adventure to hike over the boulders alongside Robson Glacier. It is a also a puzzle to figure out how a glacier can carry anything anywhere. The hike up to Snowberg Pass was really pretty. Mount Robson dominated the scenery every time I turned around to see my path behind me. There were many marmots among the rocks and the tundra and they were very entertaining. Some of them would wait until they were in danger of being stepped on before they would scurry off into their burrows. I eventually caught up to the couple hiking ahead of me and we all arrived at the great boulderfield where the "trail" vanishes. I took the high road and arrived at the pass first. It is breathtaking. The overlook of the Reef Icefields and Coleman Glacier is staggering. I got out the binoculars and studied the ice to realize that the are huge crevasses and rocks and fissures out there. It is immense. There is one thing consistent about high passes. They always possess a chill wind. The couple I had passed arrived, so I took a picture of the two of them with the ice fields in the background and another with Mt. Robson in the background. Then a helicopter dropped in to disgorge several passengers who oohed and ahhed and climbed back aboard to fly off again. Dilettantes.

September 7. This day was another lazy day. Frank and Sue, the couple from the icefields yesterday, had convinced me to spend a day basking in the sunshine beside Berg Lake at the foot of Mt. Robson. It was a very good day. Icebergs continually break off the glacier and roar down into the lake. There is a beautiful spacious cabin at the campground for shelter and group activities. It was another lovely sunny day and Mt. Robson was splendidly well defined against the deep blue sky. The mountain was creased and ridged with new snow from the past few days rain. We all got ambitious later in the afternoon and hiked to the top of Toboggan Falls. The water cascades down a sloping cliff through whorls and pools and falls for a thousand feet or so. Partway back down I decided to take a shower. The water was cold but refreshing and the cleaning was much needed. As I drip dried in the sunshine, it was a bit brisk. Good thing I had not waited til later. We shared our provisions in a picnic. I had carried a loaf of bread tied to the shoulder straps. The bread was undamaged, a feat which amazed Frank and Sue. They invited me to join them at their campsite since is good for four people. I hiked back to fetch my things and slept the night in the cabin.

September 8. I started after breakfast to hike out. The trail back down to "civilization" was steep and long. The sun was again glorious in the heavens. This made the hike rather hot. I pitied those people I saw loaded down on their way up. They trail passed impressive views of holes and chutes which the Robson River has cut in its rush downwards. Emperor Falls was perhaps the most spectacular of these. Later, there were memorable views over the meadows and marsh surrounding Kinney Lake. Streams and a small waterfall on the opposite side of the valley enhanced the view. The map calls this area the Valley of a Thousand Falls. This end of the trail was much better developed than other parts. There was another lovely swinging bridge over the Robson River. Even at the trailhead, the view of Mt. Robson was beautiful. My plans were to hitchhike to town, spend the night there and return to the motorcycle the next morning. Unfortunately, that is not what happened. I walked down to the main road and got a ride from another old horse packer who knew Ernie. He enlightened me to some of the old-timers tricks of hunting the wildlife I had seen. He bypassed town and dropped me off at a junction nearer the motorcycle. I walked for a while before getting another ride from an evangelizing Christian to the access road to Princess Lake. As I walked along that road to the trailhead, two bicyclists caught up to me. I regaled them with a complete description of my adventures and warned them of the difficulties associated with horse trails. They listened and enjoyed my tales but still continued with their silly plans to bike the trail. By they time they sped away, clouds had invaded the sky and the wind promised rain.

This time I ignored the one-way road signs again. Darkness was approaching and I was quite tired. Rain also threatened again and the road had been recently graded. I over reacted. I had cleaned the bike before camping and wanted to polish it. If I rode it over a wet dirt road, I would spend another couple of days cleaning it. So I trudged on and on through the night. The few road signs were difficult to read. My feet became weary and sore. The road surface deteriorated. I walked on well past the point of exhaustion. Eventually I passed the road grader and soon after stumbled into the trailhead parking lot. By then the sky had cleared and the stars were bright. I again slept quite soundly in the deserted parking lot. That day was my longest and most exhausting of the whole trip.

September 9. I rode to Jasper to register with the park service so they wouldn't send a search party after me. Then I headed straight for the ice cream parlor and pigged out. I spent the day doing laundry and cleaning the motorcycle. The rain did begin.

September 10 was an eventful day, despite the rain. I cleaned and polished the motorcycle, bought a Canadian Outdoors magazine subscription from a cute young thing, talked with Wayne Williams, a CN engineer who shares my taste for old Rock & Roll music, and become a regular at the two local ice cream parlors.

Breakfast at Lake Louise was calling again. The memory of the first Sunday brunch with Dale and Carolyn was still fresh and motivating. I returned to the scene of our crimes against diet and moderation. The Icefields Parkway was again superb. This time, lacking Dale's support and encouragement, I was unable to eat as much as before.

Canadian highway 1 leaves Banff and travels westward through rugged mountain scenery all the way to the coast, some five hundred miles away. The road winds through Glacier National Park and Revelstoke Provincial Park. There are several tunnels through the mountains and even more for snow slides. That stretch of road has been extremely cold every time I've had the pleasure to drive it. It has also been very scary because of the tunnels and exposure.

"D" Dutchmen's Dairy in Sicamous sells forty wonderful flavors of ice cream. Since the lady serving said they don't sell hand packed quarts, I had four cones of three scoops each and finished off the last little niche with a single scoop. She said they would make an exception for me next time. I doubt that any of you have ever eaten thirteen scoops of ice cream after riding a motorcycle through forty degree weather. You should first be aware that riding a motorcycle for hours in cool weather will chill you to the bone. After the first scoop of ice cream started lowering my internal temperature, I started shivering. As I continued ordering and eating more ice cream, the shivering became uncontrollable. Experiences like this have convinced me that I am an ice-cream-aholic.

The worst bridge in the world is at Savona. To four wheeled vehicles, it is an ordinary open-grating steel deck bridge. Motorcycles weave across it like no other. Steel grating bridges are very disconcerting because the motorcycle "floats" across the surface as if there were no friction. In the best of circumstances I dislike those bridges. The worst ones are food for nightmares. Savona is the worst I have ever experienced. The bike seemed out of control as it skated across. For those of you interested, it is worse than the bridge at Keokuk which crosses the Mississippi. The Keokuk bridge is a mile long, has S-curves at both ends and a toll booth. No motorcyclist can forget that bridge.

At Cache Creek, highway 12 winds back into the desert mountains towards Lillooet. It is a beautiful little mountain road, chock full of the "twisties" beside sheer drops. I decided to visit Bob, the brother of a former roommate. I had no definite plans, I merely wanted to surprise him. I did. However I had to find him first. Bill had said to ask in town because it is so small that everyone will know him. Wrong. After I asked several people, the people running the taxi sent me to a house high up on the mountain overlooking town. The view was beautiful, but no one was home. The yard was full of a variety of mechanical contraptions in all stages of disassembly. The climate there is so very dry that nothing rusts. That seemed ideal for your normal mechanic who starts more projects than he can finish. The house was partially completed. It sure looked like the right place to me, so I camped for the night. Next morning the house sitter arrived and told me that I had the wrong place. He thought that Bob perhaps lived 20 miles from town past the old hippy community.

I didn't expect Bob to recognize me even after I removed the motorcycle helmet and ski mask. He didn't. Then he surprised me by extending a very gracious hospitality for days and days. Mostly I sat around enjoying the solitude and scenery and doing my mending. One of my peculiarities is that I enjoy helping others despite having little self motivation. Bob put me to work for a couple of hours every day. When someone does that I feel like I'm contributing and earning my keep. Then I stay longer and longer. This stay came to an end when Bob left for Vancouver.

Bob's wife, Susie, was finishing her college degree at Simon Frazier University. British Columbia changed the law to require all teachers to have a college degree. Susie had been substitute teachering for years but the law still applied. To continue teaching, she had to get a degree. She and the kids lived in student housing on the top floor of the Louis Real building. Theirs was the top floor of the highest building on the top of the hill. The view over the city was unbelievable.

Their two children are named Al Bear and Tee Bow. For several days I thought these were nicknames. Then I saw Albert's name spelled. Susie is French Canadian. In French Albert is pronounced Al Bear. She explained to me that Tibeau is originally an English name, Thymbault. Later she pronounced Albert Einstein in English exactly as I would. I took each of the kids for a ride around the block on the motorcycle. Why are so many little boys fascinated by motorcycles? Often two and three year olds find them irresistible.

It is amazing all the ways that kids can get into trouble. Tibeau and his friend Steffan didn't like day school, so they hitchhiked home one morning after the bus ride to school. Then they told their parents that they had walked home. In the middle of this family "crisis", I began to feel intrusive. We made plans to go to EXPO together that weekend and I left to see the Icefields Parkway one more time.

This time the road was even prettier than the others. One of the decided differences was the fall foliage and the snow at Pass. That is right folks, in mid September there was snow falling on the roadway and winter was setting in.

Saturday evening at dusk I was hustling down route 3 across the southern border of British Columbia. My biggest concern was to get back to Vancouver early Sunday morning in order to go to EXPO with the Mathews. Of course I was enjoying the scenery, a hazy view over a large valley and the town of Castlegar. I was speeding downhill at 65 mph when I heard a tremendous "crack" and the motorcycle bucked once. I immediately began to slow down with good control. Around 20 mph the control left and a tremendous wobble developed. Briefly I thought I might lose it. As I came to a complete stop, still upright thank God, a piece of the front rim a foot long and an inch wide fell to the roadway with a tinkle, tinkle.

I sighed a breath of relief and got off to look at the damage. The front tire was flat. The rim was broken and badly dented. Riding slowly would do no further damage. I rode back uphill to the scenic overlook where I hit the rock. The bike handled ok for that fifty yards. I was happy to be off that rather narrow and steep highway. The front wheel was demolished. Out on the roadway I looked for the cause of my misfortunes. The culprit was a large rock with a black, rubbery scuff across its middle. It was about the half the size of a cinder block and much heavier.

There were some local teenagers at the overlook who told me that vandalism was unlikely and offered me a marijuana "joint". I thanked them but refused. It seemed wise to keep a clear head to deal with my problems. After the initial confusions and emotions cleared, I decided to hitchhike to town to see about finding a way to transport and fix the bike. Within twenty yards I changed my mind. The traffic was traveling much too fast. The road twisted too much for anyone to safely stop. By the time I walked to town, it would be past dark and past closing time. I returned to the bike and rode it down the hill. My top speed was 20 mph because the shakes resumed there. Three times I had to stop to rest since fighting the wobble wore out my arms. I headed for the nearest house to request help. Yes, the landlord said I could leave the bike there while I went to get a new rim and tire. Yes, he had a crescent wrench to remove the broken wheel.

A motorcycle wheel is heavy. I decided to carry only the wheel while hitchhiking to Vancouver to get it repaired. A local man gave me a ride to the Greyhound bus station but I had already missed the last bus to Vancouver. Of course I started hitchhiking. There were two other people hitchhiking. None of us had any luck. About 11 pm I gave up for the evening. Instead I tried to sleep in a dumpster behind an office products store. I awoke about three and walked to an all night convenience store to get junk food and warmth. About 4:30 I returned to hitchhiking. Just when I was ready to quit and wait for the 7 O'clock bus, I got a ride from a disappointed hunter.

His luck hunting had been miserable. He had had a good visit with family in the area and was now speeding back to Victoria. His goal was to make the 3pm ferry to avoid the crowds later in the evening. So we traveled rather fast. As he got to know me, he said that his mother-in-law had sent him home with buckets of homemade butter tarts. He was dieting and offered them to me. His mother in law is a great cook. I stuffed myself full all trip. He was also part owner of an small airplane and offered me a scenic tour of Vancouver Island if I paid for gas. Unfortunately I never made it to the island. He dropped me off at the bus stop en route to the ferry. The bus was quite full with traffic for EXPO. One little lady surprised us all by climbing up into the overhead racks. She certainly was a spry little old lady. Eventually the driver noticed her and pleasantly informed her that he appreciated her efforts, but that she would have to climb down for safety's sake.

Monday I took the wheel on the bus to Vancouver Auto. They were closed. As I said earlier, the wheel is heavy and the bus trip to the shop was not a pleasant picnic, so I inquired at the neighboring petrol station if I could leave the wheel with them for a day. The attendant told me that the motorcycle shop was probably open. In fact he knew one of the mechanics who was at work today. So I walked around to the back door and, sure enough, they took care of my problem in the next couple of hours while I exchanged money at a bank and assuaged hunger at the ice cream parlor.

I kept telling myself $1000 later that it was an inexpensive accident. I didn't drop the bike or damage my frail little body.

Tuesday Bob was returning to Lillooet. He agreed to provide me with mechanical supervision while I did the maintenance on my motorcycle. He gave me a ride to Hope to start my return trip to Castlegar. There I hitchhiked in vain until time to catch the bus. As the bus driver walked through the station, he remarked to me, "I see we have a BMW rider today." He also owns and rides a similar BMW. However he doesn't get in a lot of miles since he doesn't often feel like driving on his days off. For the first leg of the journey, I tried unsuccessfully to sleep. The second leg was much more interesting. The little lady across the isle from me was also not sleeping, so we struck up a delightfully pleasant conversation. She had raised five children and I am interested in a large family too, so I asked her all kinds of questions and proposed my theories while she countered with her experiences and advice. Neither of us slept a wink all night. When her stop showed up at 4am at the top of a pass, there was a light freezing rain falling. This is a development which always causes concern to motorcyclists.

Four of the lady's children were quite good, well behaved and industrious. They married and blessed her with several grandchildren. However her one son had been a real loser. He couldn't hold a job and was entirely unmotivated. He lived at home for years until she finally despaired of any good future for him. Finally she told him one day that she had given up hope for him at last. She was resigned to the fact that he would never amount to anything. She told him that he was worthless. Not long after that he reformed. He got and held a steady job, married and is raising a family. She admonished me that the children will grow up to be themselves regardless of their upbringing. If you have lots of children, you can expect some failures.

The bus dropped me at Castlegar just after daylight and just before the drizzle started. I returned to the motorcycle and mounted the front wheel in the rain. As I was finishing, the owner came out and tried to effectively witness to me about Christ. His heart was good, but his approach missed, perhaps because his original language is Russian. Besides he had already given me help in my time of need. That was the effective witnessing. His mother also lived there with him. She was a tiny shriveled woman bundled in great masses of dark clothes.

So, now I had the bike fixed and it was raining. I hadn't slept all night and there was likely freezing conditions on the passes. I did the most reasonable thing. I rode over the two passes. Well, it does make sense of a sort. I didn't want to become trapped in Castlegar. The condition of the passes wasn't going to get any better as the storm progressed. Sure enough, the passes were slick, but had not yet become icy. Believe it or not, the biggest problem crossing the passes was in keeping my eyes open. Only those people who push themselves to the limits can imagine having extreme difficulties keeping their eyes open in freezing weather on a motorcycle. I would lift my face up into the direct cold blast of air above the fairing to shock myself awake. Within 30 seconds I would be nodding again. After the second, higher pass, I pulled over to rent a motel room for the "night". I stayed there and it continued raining until 11 am the next morning. Then I checked out and rode off into the rain.

I got lucky. The rain stopped. I turned north at Rock Creek onto highway 33, a tiny, pretty rural road. I anticipated no civilization for miles. A few miles later the rear tire went flat. I hadn't passed a house in some time and there were none in sight. After contemplating my predicument, I flagged down the first car and asked to borrow a wrench to remove my rear tire. The lady driving said I should ask at the mill around the corner. Sure enough, just out of sight around the bend was a house and a friendly old coot, Pheris Johnson. Pheris is a real gem. He lent me a crescent wrench. I took the wheel off and and returned the wrench. He said to come on in, that he would help patch the flat. He professed to be an expert at fixing flats since there had been water in one of his tractor tires last winter. He figured to have fixed a hundred tiny holes that Spring.

Once we had fixed the flat and mounted the tire, I gave him ten dollars and rode off again. Everything was right with the world and the sun was shining ... for a little while. Then it started to rain again. At dark I was entering the little town of Vernon. I was fatigued. I don't like riding in the rain, nor do I like riding in the dark, but riding after dark in the rain is intolerable. Since Bob was expecting me, I decided to call him to let him know I was delayed. When I told him I was planning to stay in Vernon, he asked, "Do you want a place to stay." I immediately said, "Certainly."

He gave me a phone number for Dave. Dave said that he lived up the mountain and that it would be tough to give directions. Instead he suggested that I go to Partly Dave's Neighborhood Garage to follow his neighbor, David, up the hill to his house.

That inauspicious prologue was the beginning of a truly enriching month. At the garage David turned out to be a BMW motorcycle enthusiast and a professional mechanic. Michael Bingly was overhauling his motorcycle under David's supervision. After an hour of observation, I asked David to supervise me too. He accepted and a beautiful friendship began.

We got home too late to intrude upon Dave, so I stayed with David instead. David put me up for the whole month of October while I worked on my motorcycle at his shop. I learned a lot of respect and admiration for professional mechanics from the whole crowd at Partly Dave's. All the guys are thin and wiry. I'm guessing that is from the continual effort required to beat contrary mechanical contraptions into submission.

Eric directly supervised my mechanical fumbling and did most of the things I chickened out on. He is nearly always cheerful and personable. Doug, from Boston, is dark and reserved and quiet as in stereotypes of New Englanders. He wears glasses and is meticulous in work and ironic in humor. He has a bright, pixie smile which lights up quite suddenly and enigmatically. Glen gave me his old set of coveralls, well worn and 88 shades of oil darker than original. Tall and strong, dark craggy face and Dave brother. These guys are great! Michael Bingly and David took me to three parties where people danced to old rock and roll. I felt right at home. I intend to return to look for a wife there. I may have already met her. The day I was leaving, Linda said she would miss my smile. I am going back to see if we might be compatible. She is an excellent vegetarian cook and thinks that six kids is a good number.

[This is now 1988. I did return to see Linda. She had moved to Mexico with another man. Oh well. Life is long and there are other fish in the sea.]

David and I rode our motorcycles to EXPO. He knew that we could take a couple of back roads to get onto the new Okajallah highway. It got dark and we got lost. Fortunately we didn't get too lost.

In Vancouver we stayed with David's friends, Adrian and Joanie.

Expo was fun but the lines were rediculously long. The GM building had a three hour wait for a five minute movie. It was quite apparent that many people had decided to wait until the last days of EXPO to avoid the huge summertime crowds. It didn't work. The last days attracted record-breaking crowds. Everyone was expecting long lines, so people were quite well behaved and very friendly. We whiled away the hours chatting with all and sundry near us in line. Since the lines snaked back and forth accordian style, conversations could be held briefly with a new group of people every time the line moved. After the long wait to get into the GM pavilion, we thoroughly enjoyed the brief movie. When the exit doors opened, a group of twenty people were ushered onto the stage before the audience was instructed to leave. We remained seated as the crowd filed out. When the building was partially cleared, those VIPs on stage were escorted to the best seats in the center of the theator. We quickly sized up the situation and hustled down to sit directly behind them. Consequently we got to see the movie a second time from prime seating. That was one of the highlights of EXPO for me.

David and I looked at and discussed the Scream Machine several times. At first David simply said that he didn't care for roller coasters. Our final discussion provided intellectual disagreements which could only be resolved by a ride. He contended that the two big loops were not inertial. (On an inertial ride, gravity holds you in the seat. If the ride is not inertial, you hope that the seat belts keep you in.) He felt that the corkscrew would be OK and that the fast final loop would leave you wanting to accelerate upon exit. I disagreed, contending that the first two vertical loops were just barely fast enough to keep you seated and that the final horizontal loop would take the breath away. We agreed that the corkscrew turns looked relatively mild. We were both right and both wrong. I was correct about the vertical loops were fast enough to keep us from falling. Dave was correct about wanting to accelerate coming out of the horizontal loop. The corkscrew surprised us both. I became entirely disoriented immediately as we entered it and only the seat belts restrained us from being thrown far from the ride.

The BC pavilion was among the best of the show. There was a stage show of animated shipping crates talking about their contributions to the B.C. economy. This was coordinated with movie footage of industry and tourism in 3D on a 360 degree screen. One little girl was kidnapped by a truant alien who wanted a guide for seeing B.C. If you want a good tour, go for the flying saucers.

The Yukon pavilion was a real eye opener. Its most interesting exhibit contained artifacts from natives and explorers with quotations interspersed. The quotes were from all segments of society past and present. They revealed that life in those extreme conditions produces a unique and hardy people. One explorer contended that any expedition must take along several native women since they do all the cooking and cleaning besides carrying heavy loads all day. He contended that they are worth any three men.

The most exciting exhibit was not at EXPO. David and I test rode two new BMW K-bikes. They are the German answer to Japanese road rockets. We rode conservatively but fast. We took the expressway out of town at 100 mph then turned onto the mountain roads for David's favorite sport, twisting through twisties. Of course he pulled away from me in every turn. I looked at the speedometer when exiting from a turn marked 25 kph and observed that my slowpoke speed was 85 kph through that turn. This behavior felt perfectly under control and comfortable. If I were again to live in a city where one feels the need for a rocketship, I would like one of these. However my trusty R100RT satisfies my needs for touring comfort.

David and I drove north along the coast to Squamish. There we took the dirt road over the mountains to Lillooet in the dark. The dirt road was really quite good but David and I had to work out an understanding. Whenever he led, I trailed behind far enough to let the dust settle. After he didn't see me for a while, he would stop to wait. This meant I waited again for his dust to settle. After a while, I decided to lead the way instead. That worked out a lot better. I guess his tolerance for dust in the air is higher than mine. The road that night was truly beautiful. Sometimes when I looked back for David, I would see the moonlight shimmering off the stream beside the road.

After visiting again with Bob, we took the Trans-Canada highway back to Vernon. We again crossed that damn bridge with open steel grating at Savona.

In late October I finally left Vernon somewhat worried about the advent of winter. David led me on a smaller road on the west side of Okanagan Lake to Kelowna. There we stopped for a farewell ice cream. I headed straight south on highway 97 which is a pleasant highway. The first 100 miles winds along the shore of Okanagan Lake which is very pretty. At the first gas stop after crossing the US border, I found that I could exchange my remaining Canadian currency to buy gasoline. I promptly dug out my last Canadian twenty to purchase gas. It was starting to rain and getting dark so I gassed up in a hurry. I slept that night in back of the highway maintenance building outside of town. The overhang of the roof kept the intermittent light rain off me.

As I drove through Omak, I saw the signs pointing east to the Grand Coulee Dam. I had to go. Highway 155 is scenic and remote as it winds through the desert. It is hard to imagine water anywhere out there. The dam itself is truly interesting. I drove along the lake shore for a while before crossing the dam. It was too early for the information center, so I was content to look and marvel at the works of men.

Three gas stops later I was in Biggs, Oregon. I had exhausted the change from the Canadian twenty and looked for my US currency and traveler's cheques. After a thorough search, I decided that I had left them at that gas station near Canada. Now I was broke and had a tank full of gas which I couldn't pay for. One of the dimwits at the gas station thought that American Express could somehow magically provide me with replacement cash in minutes when I reported cheques lost. Of course that was false and started the whole hassle of reporting the checks lost. I could not remember the name of the town where I had gotten the gas although I did call the police in the town I guessed best. Wrong town. The manager wanted me to leave something for collateral. I didn't have anything worth leaving that I could do without. I was not returning through Biggs. I planned to return to the town up north to see if my wallet was still there. After hassling through the whole affair, the manager let me go on a promise to pay him the $5. I sent him a check for $10 later.

Highway 14 along the north shore of the Columbia is a beautiful road. There are lots of twisties and the scenery along the bluffs is wonderful. Unfortunately it started to drizzle while I was driving to Portland. In Portland, I visited my high school buddy, Larry. It was a real shock to see that his two lovely daughters had grown into teenagers. Last time one girl sat on each foot while I walked them all around the house. Time certainly does fly. Modern households seem to be run for the convenience of the kids. With softball for Heather and ballet and flute for Shantel, there was little time for visiting. I guess I'll have to stop in again after the kids are in college. Larry is another of my friends who has resurrected a childhood interest. He goes to the high school football games even though his own kids aren't in high school yet.

I shopped around to see the laptop computers. I was very interested to buy one. I knew that I wanted two disk drives and that the appearance of the screen and the feel of the keyboard were the two most important considerations.

Since I needed to return nearly to the Canadian border to attempt to retrieve my "wallet", I decided to take the scenic tour of the Olympic Peninsula en route. I left Portland on U.S. highway 30 to Astoria. The bridge across the mouth of the Columbia at Astoria is high. The scenery is fascinating. Ocean going vessels are anchored in the bay and the view over the ocean from the bridge is worthwhile. Highway 101 along the coast is quite pretty. I slept behind the visitor's center in North Cove. Since I was curious to see the rain forests, I took a hike on the western side of the park. However the vegetation didn't match my expectations of a rain forest. The tour around the peninsula was scenic and fun. On the northern edge I drove up a little mountain road to Hurricane Ridge. The views there of the Olympic mountains and of Puget Sound were really worthwhile.

I discovered that I could take a ferry across Puget Sound at Port Townsend to avoid all the Seattle traffic. I slept on the fairgrounds there and caught the ferry first thing in the morning. It started raining soon thereafter, but I kept on riding on highway 20 through the mountains. There was slush forming on the roadway on the passes. I was petrified by the slush.

The gas station where I left my wallet is in Tonasket, at the junction of highways 20 and 97. The same guy was there when I rolled into town. When I asked if I had left my wallet, he asked me to describe it. Brown notebook, checkbook, $1200 traveller's checks, $200 cash. He said that he had it but he wanted $6. He had tried to call me using the out-of-date information on my checkbook. He still had my wallet! He had thought about sending it somewhere but decided to hang onto it a few more days.

Highway 20 is a pleasant mountain road, so I decided to continue on it. It was still raining lightly and the next couple of passes had snow on the road. I kept on hoping that I would pass the bad weather and come out into clear skies again. It was a vain hope. By nightfall the rain was steady and camping looked grim, so I used the BMW anonymous book to try to find a dry place to sleep near Deer Park. Pat and Carol are lovely people who gave me a bed in their trailer overnight. Pat told me of many interesting roads in Eastern Washington. This was another occasion where I should have had a tape recorder.

The next morning revealed some frost, but I decided to get on the road anyway. The roads were OK...But driving was a big mistake. On interstate 90 every pass had more snow than the previous one. The first ones had snow on the road and fresh snow falling. The pass at Butte was packed snow and ice across the whole road starting at the truck chain up area. I downshifted to first gear and crept over it at twenty mph for those few miles. The pass at Bozeman was truly atrocious. I had been on packed snow and ice for a couple of miles when I saw the signs announcing the truck chain up area. These are usually a couple of miles below the summit, so I was disheartened to think that I still had a couple of miles to go up and several more scary miles down before the road would likely clear.

As I approached the chain up area, a trucker had parked and was outside his truck waving at me with expansive hand signals to "come on". I briefly wondered what this fool trucker was doing out in the weather and wondered again what made him think I might not "come on". I slowed and stopped beside him. He said, "Come on, I'll give you a ride. We can throw the bike in the truck." I informed him that the bike weighed 500 pounds without luggage. He responded that there was a exit just at the end of the chain up area and that he would see if he could find a farmer with a ramp. He left and I followed in utter disbelief. It was a pleasant thought to get out of that terrible weather. The secondary road at the bottom of the exit was even slicker than the interstate! When I let out the clutch, the rear wheel simply started to slide sideways without any forward motion. I eventually got going by paddling with my feet to start inching along before I let the clutch out. Then I got stuck in foot deep snow coming up the farmer's driveway. The trucker and the farmer came to push me up the drive. They steadied a snowmobile ramp and I drove up into the truck. RELIEF!!

The trucker, Dale Cook, asked what I was doing out in such a blizzard. Well, first of all I didn't realize that it was a blizzard. After all, I could still see where I was going. I thought it was just a little snow at the top of the pass like usual. Dale used to be a semi-pro football player. Perhaps he had thought we could lift the bike up into the truck. His reason for picking me up was merely that he knew I needed help, whether I knew it or not. He had been a "bad ass kid" but some Christians had accepted him and loved him without strings attached. After a while he saw the light and converted. Dale said the truckers had been yakking about me on the CB and that I was probably notorious in Florida by now. In fact, when we had been at the farmers ranch, a woman had driven up to watch us load the bike into his truck. She had heard of us over the CB and had recognized the trucking company and just had to stop to see this one for herself.

Well, The longer we drove together, the more grateful I was for the ride. If I had made it up over the pass, I would have been in a world of hurt. The snow and ice continued all the way to Gillette, some sixty miles. "a motorcycle in a Montana winter" should be a synonym for "a fish out of water." Dale drove down the road at sixty mph. I was petrified. My reflexes and gut reactions are those of a motorcyclist. Ice and snow are lethal! Dale explained that the truck was loaded with worn out truck brake shoes (to be re-lined). Consequently it was quite heavy and had excellent traction. Besides, he had grown up in this country and his father drives snowplows to keep Bozeman Pass open. Once the pass becomes snow-covered in winter, it seldom clears before spring. We made it to Gillette safely although I nearly messed my pants.

In Billings, Dale dropped me off at a halfway house for juvenile delinquents. He helped out there as part of his Christian mission. I was welcome to stay as long as I wanted if I helped with the remodeling. Several of the household helped us lift the motorcycle bodily off the truck. It is easy with six big guys.

Next morning I called the highway patrol for road conditions. The recording said that roads were wet east of Billings. I got all encouraged. Wet I can handle. After picking my way carefully through the snow-packed city streets, I discovered a new Western definition of the word "wet". In Western parlance, "wet" merely means that the ice and snow doesn't completely cover the roadway. I skated along just like the day before. By evening, I had made it to Gillette, Wyoming, 224 miles. And I was exhausted. I rented a motel room, the second of the trip. Ice was caked solidly to the underside of the front fender so that the wheel and brake disks had only thousandths of an inch of clearance. Huge chunks of ice like footballs covered the brake calipers. I ate at the diner next door and retired early.

Next morning I was more skeptical than before. This time I walked to the interstate to see the road conditions with my own two eyes. It looked as bad as yesterday. I decided to leave the bike while I hitchhiked to brother Dale's in Minneapolis. If I hadn't promised to visit him in the Fall, I wouldn't be in this mess. While walking back to the motel, a guy in a pickup rolled down his window and asked if I wanted a lift. I responded that I was only going a couple of blocks and he rejoined that it beat walking in this. I agreed and got in. After thanking him for the ride, I continued to say that what I really needed was a place to leave my motorcycle until the roads cleared. "If they do clear." was his response. Immediately he offered to let me park my motorcycle in his garage next to his motorcycle. He had the good sense to have already stopped riding this year.

The first problem was to get the front wheel to turn. It had frozen to the fender overnight! I had to chip ice from the brake calipers and from the fender before the bike would move. After leaving the bike and getting Kevin's address and phone number, I started hitchhiking to Minneapolis. The first ride was from a lady and her teenage son to Sundance, Wyoming. The sun came out and the roads were drying out and there was no ice to be seen. I began to believe that I had made a mistake. At Sundance, I asked a traveler at the service station what the roads were like further east. He said he had spent the night in Rapid City but the roads were clear all the way across South Dakota. Rapid City was the worst spot, but it was similar to Sundance. So I asked him for a ride back to Gillette. He was driving a Jeep, pulling a trailer and installs commercial ovens. I didn't envy him with his trailer in the slick spots.

By the time I got back to Gillette, retrieved the motorcycle and hit on the road again, it was mid-afternoon. The sun had gone behind clouds. The water streaming across the road had turned back into ice and was even more slippery than before! I really suffered. Worse yet, I dropped the bike once. I was crossing from the right lane which was icing over to the left lane which was still clear. I crossed the dividing line at twenty five mph instead of the twenty-two that had worked so well for so long. As I hit the rough ice on the line, the rear wheel just came around ahead of the "front" wheel and the bike leaned over and started sliding. Since it happened at low speed and on ice, there was no damage. However, the bike was pointing the wrong way on the interstate and was fully loaded so that I could not pick it up. I hurried to remove the luggage and stack it alongside the road. Then I stood on the ice and prayed not to slip while I lifted the bike upright. I rolled it off the road about a minute before the first semi thundered by.

At Sundance, I again rented a motel room. This evening I inquired at other motels in town for better rates and a reliable weather report. The road conditions were deplorable. One family had come to a funeral and reported that the roads everywhere in South Dakota were nearly impassible. The motel had a hot tub. I soaked and slept. The next day I asked permission to leave the bike at the motel until the roads cleared. As usual the response was, "if they clear."

On that encouraging note, I left to hitchhike to Minneapolis. I did have good luck getting rides. People are most helpful when the weather is lousy. The interstate was icy fully halfway across South Dakota. The icy was full of potholes and ridges and driving was very nasty. Everyone I rode with was accustomed to those driving conditions. A couple of women from Iowa picked me up. As we were blasting along at 60 mph, the car slid entirely sideways for a hundred yards. The driver kept control and slowed down until she could get straightened out. Then she resumed 60 mph again, only slightly ruffled. Since more bad weather was following me, I kept on hitchhiking after dark. The last ride of the day (a hunter returning from South Dakota) took me into Minneapolis. That was a very successful one day hitchhike.

I spent the next week with my brother and sister-in-law. We had lots of fun while I kept track of weather and road conditions in Wyoming. A week later, it seemed that there might be a big enough break in the weather for me to retrieve the motorcycle. So off I went hitchhiking again. The break in the weather looked likely to vanish at any time, so I again hitchhiked all night trying to get there. My luck seemed to disappear that night. I was let off at ??, South Dakota. The entrance ramp was excellent, wide and well lighted. There was enough traffic, but not too much. No one picked me up. After an hour or so, I was too cold to stand still any longer, so I walked along the interstate to the next ramp, about two miles away. Often the next exit will solve the problem of being stuck. Not this time. That ramp was dark and deserted. I walked back. Then I went inside the truck stop to ask people heading West for a ride. I was desperate. Nobody could take me. I was about to give up to sleep for the night when I heard a trucker on the phone say that he'd try to make it to Rapid City that night. I waited for his phone conversation to end. Immediately after hanging up he said, "I hear someone is looking for a ride to Rapid City." I promptly said yes and he offered to take me.

This trucker was yet another Christian. By now I was thankful that the Lord had so many working Christians along my route. Perhaps there is a message there for me.

That ride to Rapid City was some trip. The trucker bragged about his truck having a big engine that made his life so much easier. He only had to downshift on a couple of the biggest grades. He also said that traction was excellent since he had ten tons of weight on each of the steering wheels and thirty tons on the driving wheels. The temperature was near freezing and it was raining. He slowed down significantly when we came over a hill and saw a number of other trucks in the ditch. Later we got out to see just how slick the road was. As I put my feet on the ground, they started sliding. It was very difficult to merely stand still without falling. He slowed down to 40 mph after that. We saw one truck that had turned over in such a way that the cab was pointing straight up into the sky as if the driver intended to go to the moon. After a couple of stops for the driver to rest and relieve his eyestrain and one for breakfast, we passed Rapid City. He let me off at the junction of US highway 212, his shortcut west. By now it was after sunrise and it was snowing lightly. The road was still clear, so I kept hitchhiking and eventually got to the motel and motorcycle.

As I started riding, I did experience several uncertainties. Snow and ice were two. It was still snowing near Rapid City, but it still hadn't accumulated on the road. I was very anxious about the icy road farther east. However as I kept riding no ice appeared. What did happen was that I began to fall asleep in the early afternoon! Even lifting my bare face into the frigid airstream didn't help.

I will eat No Doze to stay awake while riding in some situations. However I will not do it whenever I feel that my bodily reserves are low. So I stopped at a motel. According to my odometer, this was right in the middle of the sixty miles of icy road that the trucker and I had traveled earlier. I really did want to get past that stretch of road, but the danger of falling asleep and dying was very real and very immediate.

I woke up greatly refreshed before sunrise and decided to get an early start. Off I rode into the early morning air. Soon I began to wonder when sunrise would come. I was anxious for daylight since every little reflection and every bridge frightened me. The memory of that ice was still fresh and it was below freezing. The longer I rode the more anxious I became. Eventually I began to realize that it was indeed very early in the morning. I must have hit the road at 3am. Fortunately I hit no ice although I did stop to feel one of the shiny patches beside the road. It wasn't ice although other shiny patches were ice.

Once daylight arrived, I resolved to keep on going until I arrived in Minneapolis. I had dry roads all the way. It started snowing in Minneapolis the next day. I stayed with Dale and Carolyn for a couple of weeks until Thanksgiving. I learned to shovel snow there. It seems that one must throw the snow far into the yard. If it is piled next to the sidewalk, the tunnel grows too tall later in the winter.

A month ago I was in Minneapolis shoveling snow for my brother, Dale. Then I drove to Big Pine Key, Florida in four days. The difference in temperature was astounding and unbelievable. The Minneapolis high was 40 degrees. The Florida low was 70. In Wyoming I had nearly frozen amid all that ice and snow. In Minneapolis, the temperatures had hovered around freezing for a month and even dropped below zero for a few days. I rode from north to south through near freezing weather. Then I left Atlanta and kept peeling clothes off until I arrived in Sarasota where the temperature stood at a balmy 83 degrees. That warmth was incomprehensible. My intellect knows it happened. My body and I have not been able to comprehend it.

In Florida we moved out of the office. I looked over the corporate books and tended to my neglected financial affairs and did lots of mechanical work to my Buick convertible. Just when I was ready to leave for Christmas in Illinois, a lifter stuck. I rode the motorcycle into frigidity once again. Sigh.

I stopped to see brother Dean in Sarasota on the way back home for Christmas. He said that Mom was coming to Sarasota right after Christmas and he would be free to visit me in the Keys. This was great news except that I wasn't planning to be there myself. I had moved out of the office and there was not a stick of furniture in the place. So I changed my plans to return immediately after spending Christmas with Mom.

There was an interesting fringe benefit while returning to Florida. I saw some lovely ice sculptures alongside the road in Tennessee.

Appendix of Requirements and Preferences (Silly Bachelors Ideal)

As I said earlier, I'm looking for a wife who wants to raise a large family out in the boonies somewhere. Introductions are the best way to meet, so if you know someone appropriate for me, please let me know.

I have only two requirements.

1) I need someone who is basically cheerful and consistently happy.

2) She has to be intelligent.

I cannot honestly compromise those two requirements. The following preferences are my "wish list". I do not expect or even hope to find someone satisfying all of them. I may marry someone who possesses none of the following attributes. If you think of someone who has some of these characteristics, I will likely be interested in her.

These are my strongest preferences in order.

She must be willing and able to commit to the marriage.

It would be nice if she desires large family ... 6 or 8 kids.

I want to live in the hills ignoring the material world and TV.

I prefer a slim woman who is committed to stay slim.

I value honesty.

I enjoy someone who is very direct in communication.

Spending money is one of my least favorite things to do.

It would be nice to find someone who is physically active.

It warms my heart to share physical affection (cuddles).

I enjoy linguistic abnormality.

It would help if she can tolerate my idiosyncracies.

It would also help if our sense of humor is similar.

Appendix of Requirements and Preferances (Silly Bachelors Ideal)

As I said earlier, I'm looking for a wife who wants to raise a large family out in the boonies somewhere. Introductions are the best way to meet, so if you know someone appropriate for me, please let me know. Of course, since I spend so much time traveling, perhaps the best course would be to correspond at first. I'll happily write the first letter. PLEASE, fix me up.

I have only two requirements.

1) I need someone who is basically cheerful and consistently happy. It is depressing to be around unhappy people. I have finally decided that I don't need depression. This of course leads to my biggest concern. To wit: How do I tell the difference between someone who is happy to be with me from those who have a basic, happy outlook? Do I need to know the difference?

2) She has to be intelligent. Read that as at least reasonably smart. This is following the recommendation (and experience) of my high school friend, Dean Haselhorst. From a practical point of view, I would hate to have a bunch of dumb kids.

I cannot honestly compromise those two requirements. The following preferences are my "wish list". I do not expect or even hope to find someone satisfying all of them. It is possible that I may marry someone who possesses none of the following attributes. If you think of someone who has some of these characteristics, I will likely be interested in her. Successful marriages require compromises of all kinds. The compromises start here.

These are my strongest preferences in order.

She must be willing and able to commit to the marriage. None of the "let's try it, we can always get a divorce". Living the rest of your life with someone else requires commitment, not luck or compatibility. If there is sufficient commitment solutions can be found to problems and incompatibilities.

I desire for large family ... 6 or 8 kids. Yes, it sounds crazy, but there are several good reasons.

For one, my brothers and sisters are my closest "friends" now. When they start dying off, I will miss them very much. The more you have, the more are left longer as you get older.

Two, I know people who have invested their whole lives in one or two children. If these kids die young, those people are crushed beyond grief.

Three, I know too many spoiled children in small families. Face the facts, the kids are the focus of most families. I would rather raise a democracy than a self-centered dictator or two.

Four, no one will starve.

Five, grandchildren are the reward of raising children. My parents raised four kids but have only three grandchildren.

Six, the parents I know never outgrow responsibility for their children. If I'm going to be burdened with that anyway, why not go for a bunch of kids?

Seven, teenagers are often intolerable. Youngsters are often adorable. Why not have some youngsters to enjoy when the teenagers become unbearable? Besides, youngsters and teenagers learn from each other.

Eight, I've heard that more kids are easier because they always have someone else to play with (yes, and fight with, and squabble with, and get into trouble with, etc.). It frees up the adults from the constant demand to "play with me".

I want to live in the hills ignoring the material world and TV. I don't care for the rush, rush, big city rush nor do I care to have the whole town supervising my life. I'd rather have some privacy in the country. I hate TV.

I prefer a slim woman who is committed to stay slim. The truth is that I do not get aroused by heavy women. I have known wonderful fat women who I could marry. However, I imagine I would seldom be aroused by a fat wife.

It would be nice to find someone who is physically active. We could share more activities and stay healthy longer. I enjoy physical exertion. The more time the family can spend exercising together, the longer I will stay healthy. I enjoy hiking, camping, running, basketball and tennis.

I value honesty. I am painfully honest. Still, it would often be better to lie when someone asks, "What do you think of my new hairdo?"

I enjoy someone who is very direct in communication. I tend to be logical and direct. I don't respond well to hints. (The truth is that I often miss them.) On the other hand I usually resent being told what to do or when to do it.

It warms my heart to share physical affection (cuddles). Who knows why? I have a talent for massage. One person even told me, "If you massage her shoulders and feet like that every evening, your wife will have as many kids as you want."

Then too, sexually curiosity is important to me. But then most men are "like that". Friends tell me to resign myself to "getting lucky" once in a blue moon after the wife has a couple of kids to depress her sexual interests. I suspect that is true.

I enjoy linguistic abnormality. You know, like Sears Sawbuck, frobnitzes and rebazat hobisober.

It would help if she can tolerate my idiosyncrasies. I'm sure my friends know what I mean. Don't get me wrong, I'm not malicious, merely unusual ... and how!

well gee, is this too open to send to some of my relatives? I think so. Maybe I'll let them read the draft of my letter before I mail it to their home. (Strange how long it took me to learn the basics of that concept - home.)

Enough of that stuff. It could go on forever if I let it.

Click here to return to Ron Beatty's home page, 

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Rambo family genealogy,  Bankston & Bankson family genealogy,  the Camblin family genealogy,  the Dorsey Overturff family,  cousin Jean's Schenck and Hageman genealogy, and 

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