We dined on Scallops Provençale complimented with Columbia Valley “Domaine Ste. Michelle”, a sparkling Chardonnay at the luxurious “Inn at Port Ludlow.” The next day, after staying in one of their comfy suites with Jacuzzi tub, we left for our Olympic Peninsula day trip.

If you appreciate food grown and prepared by locals, this is the culinary tour for you. Our first stop was at Chimacum Corners Farmstand, where Rob hosted a farm breakfast including local eggs, goat cheese, bread, salsa, and jams. From a fruit stand six years ago, it has evolved into a gathering place for locals and travelers alike who appreciate home grown food.

 At “Finnriver Farm and Cider,” Crystie (photo) offered ciders fermented old world style. The ciders on this family run 33 acre organic farm are delightfully crisp and so delicious.

In Port Townsend we visited the “Mt. Townsend Creamery.” Dillon, the head cheese maker educated us in the art of making cheese using milk from local dairy herds. Seastack cheese is rolled in pine ash which was originally used to preserve it.

Lunch in Sequim at the “Alder Wood Bistro” with their wood fired oven was a delectable feast. My husband Dave enjoyed Crispy True Cod Bahn with Neah Bay cod. I indulged in Moules Frites, wood fired Kamilche mussels and  home cut fries. Appie’s introduced us to goose-neck barnacles from Neah Bay.  It truly was a luscious meal fit for a seafood lover. Our tour capped off at “Olympic Cellars” with the “working girls.” The winery has a large gift shop and tasting room.

The journey up the peninsula was just a teaser leaving us wanting more. You can easily make these as day trips from Port Townsend, but the scenery and food is so outstanding you’ll want to return for a longer visit. When you’re ready for more, contact Olympic Peninsula Visitor Bureau.

About the author:
Barb Rees, travel writer, author, and speaker, with husband Dave has taken four working holidays from coast to coast to northern coast of Canada. She is passionate about finding human interest stories. It’s reflected in her books. They include: “RV Canada On A Dime And A Dream,” “RV Canada With Boo The Menopausal Van,” and the latest “RV Canada and the Polar Bear Dream: Adventures in Western Canada.” The fourth in the series will be on tour to Newfoundland in 2013. Owner of LoveToGo Writing she can be reached in Powell River, BC at www.write2dream.com

For the last few days, I have been following a trail blazed by Northern Arizona’s pioneers and settlers, and as my journey draws to a close, I hit a road that is more than just a small diversion into Arizona’s past. It is a portion of America’s fabled Route 66.

“The Route” has woven through America’s consciousness in books, in film and in song: it was the road traveled by hobos, hitch-hikers and drifters during the Dust Bowl years of the Great Depression and Beat Generation writer Jack Kerouac celebrated it in his best known work, On The Road.

Steinbeck called it “the mother road” in Grapes of Wrath, and folk musician, Woody Guthrie immortalized it in his ditty, Highway 66 Blues. Today’s slick Interstate highways although efficient, lack the nostalgia evoked by this legendary 2448 mile long “Main Street of America”.

Small wonder that, even living half a world away in India, Route 66 was the stuff of my teenage imagination, and now here it is…an unpretentious little stretch of road flanked by motels, strip malls and gas stations, as it runs through the downtown area of Winslow. But to me it is special.

It’s dusk, and I pull off onto the shoulder of the road, and capture a shot of the Route with the San Francisco Peaks of Flagstaff glimmering palely on the distant western horizon, and warble, “Get your kicks on Roohoot Sixty-Six…” as I get back behind the driving wheel.

A little later that evening, I am tempted to hum the lyrics of Johnny Mercer’s hit, “The Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe” a-la Judy Garland in the movie, The Harvey Girls. In the film, Judy was one of a select band of specially trained waitress, in one of the Harvey Houses, a chain established by Frank Harvey back in the 1930s. The Harvey Girls served hot meals to passengers at stations all along the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe route, and became icons of pop culture of those times.

La Posada, to my delight, is a relic of that bygone era. It is a historic Harvey House, originally designed by Mary Elizabeth Jane Coulter as a flamboyant Spanish hacienda–the kind that might well have been the residence of a Hispanic nobleman or a timber baron.

Today its main entrance is off Route 66, but its original front door once faced ATSF railroad station, affording disembarking passengers a view of a sprawling colonial style building, with arched arcades, flowering bushes and shady lawns.

La Posada opened just after the stock market crash of 1929, and endured for 27 years. But dwindling rail traffic led to its inevitable closure in 1959. The years rolled on and eventually the Burlington Northern Santa Fe Railroad announced plans to move out and demolish the building in 1994.

Enter Allan Affeldt, an art connoisseur and business entrepreneur who was determined to preserve La Posada as a tribute to the men and women whose dreams and toil shaped its history, its architecture and its memories. He acquired the property in 1997 with the intention of restoring it to its former magnificence.

As I make my way to my room, I notice that the doors along the corridor, carry the names of celebrities who have stayed at La Posada–Amelia Earhart, Howard Hughes and Shirley Temple, to mention a few. As for me?

I’m about to bed down with the ghost of a crusty U.S. Senator. I’m in Barry Goldwater’s suite, and a very fine room it is too, with its antique furniture and colourful Mexican wall hangings. I luxuriate in the Jacuzzi, after which I snuggle under the covers in Barry’s king-sized bed.

La Posada is more than a hotel. It is also a fine arts museum and I spend several hours exploring Affeldt’s superb collection of objets d’art—antique furniture, stained glass panels, gilt lamps, rare wood carvings, an exquisite New Mexican tin-work Madonna, and a gallery of unusually arresting paintings.

These consist of a series of portraits of former presidents and their consorts, and my curiosity is piqued by an odd little whimsy: each picture includes a different playing card, inserted into its composition.

Bill Clinton’s card is the seven of diamonds, and he appears as a rabbit being pulled out of a hat—a wry commentary on his magical ability to extricate himself from dubious situations! Hilary’s card rests in a fishbowl and she, too, is a seven of diamonds.

Jacqueline Kennedy wears the pink outfit she wore on that fateful day in Dallas, and holds in her gloved hand, the King of Hearts, i.e. Jack Kennedy, his card splintered by a speeding bullet.

The irises of Nancy Reagan’s eyes consist of tiny pictures of her husband, and it is romantically titled “Eyes Only For You”. Lyndon Johnson carries the four of spades on his Stetson hat, and Ulysses Grant flaunts the seven of clubs.

The artist is Affeldt’s wife, Tina Mion, and she smiles when I ask her about the portraits. It turns out that they are the result of a scheme whereby several artists decided to create a painting a week for a year.

So…fifty-two weeks, fifty-two playing cards in a deck, fifty-two First Ladies or Presidents, voila—fifty-two potential paintings in the series, “Ladies First” and “Presidential Portraits.”

As the evening shadows grow long across the lawns of La Posada on my last evening in Arizona, I sit on a wooden rocker on their verandah, Margarita in hand, and listen to the long whistle of a freight train as it clatters past.

There is no more nostalgic sound than this, and it evokes a lost world of leisurely travel, of prim young Harvey Girls with their black dresses and white aprons, of Model T-Fords, of John Wayne and Clark Gable.

And perhaps even a crusty old Senator.

About the author:

Margaret Deefholts is a Canadian author, and much travelled freelance travel writer/photgrapher. Visit her website at www.margaretdeefholts.com

Photos by Margaret Deefholts:
1: A close up view of the La Posada Hotel.
2: A small visitor strolls along the arched walkway.
3: Jaqueline Kennedy, one of the many paintings lining the walls. Note: “Jaqueline Kennedy: Stop Action Reaction” by Tina Mion. “Ladies First” collection-all artwork copyright of Tina Mion.
4: “Standin’ on the Corner” monument on a Winslow, Arizona street corner is homage to the Eagles’ song “Take it Easy.”

Getting There:

Air Canada, United Airlines and America West operate daily direct flights between Vancouver and Phoenix. Alaska Airlines/ Horizon Air offer daily flights via Seattle or Portland. Schedules and fare information is available on airline websites.

Arizona Outback Adventures, a company that prides itself on providing private and/or customized trips through Arizona, is based in Scottsdale. View their website at: www.aoa-adventures.com Or phone (toll free): 1-866-455-1601; e-mail: info@aoa-adventures.com

Best Time To Visit:
April to September
Northern and Central Arizona has temperate summers, and chilly winters with snow at higher elevations. Average maximum temperatures from April to September range from the high 70s to the low 80s which makes for comfortable sightseeing. Rainfall is minimal.

Places of Interest:
Even if you don’t choose to stay there, La Posada is well worth visiting for its collection of unusual objets d’art and paintings. If you are willing to pay a premium for dining in Spanish grandee style, the Turquoise Room offers a varied selection of items on its menu.

Contact information is as follows.
La Posada
303 E. Second Street (Route 66)
Winslow, AZ 86047
Ph: (928) 289-4366
e-mail: info@laposada.org info@laposada.org
Website: www.laposada.org
Contact: Allan Affeldt

A lush rolling fairway is fringed with fluttering palm trees and backed by snow-capped mountains. As you pass one golf course after another, this is the quintessential view in the desert valley stretching from Palm Springs to La Quinta in southern California.

Golf is the definitive activity for many visitors here. What to do, though, when golf, tennis, golf, shopping, golf, eating, and more golf aren’t calling your name? My advice: get outta town!

You won’t have far to go for a choice of outdoor explorations that don’t have a manicured green in sight. Within a radius of less than ninety minutes driving are desert oases, fan palm tree packed canyons, and a National Park full of the spikiest trees you will ever see.

For an easy foray out of town, start with a short drive north. Once the watered lushness of the desert cities disappears from your rear view mirror, you realize how harsh, barren, and empty this landscape is.

Ahead on the dusty brown hills, veiled in a shimmer of heat, is a lonely patch of green, the Thousand Palms Oasis. Imagine how welcome that sight would have been to the early travelers braving the desert en route to the west coast.

Growing tall and close together, the California fan palms look like furry exiles from hobbit land. Palm fronds, as they die, hang down around the trunk and make for it a shaggy coat.

Wend your way into the shadowed midst of a palm huddle and there is a hushed, peaceful silence. Leave the shelter of that bunch of palms behind and walk across the creosote bush covered flat to the Macallum Grove. Wander through the many palms surrounding a spring fed pond and listen as they rustle in the desert wind.

A good supply of water supports the largest fan palm oasis in the world in Indian Canyons, on the southwest outskirts of Palm Springs.

The Aqua Caliente Cahuilla Indians made their homes among the stands of palms in these canyons. Hiking in any one will take you along and across gurgling streams; stepping stones in the creeks test your balance as you hop from one to the next and hope you don’t fall in.

The layered dark brown rocks of the canyon walls form a textured backdrop to the green fronds. The reward at the end of Murray Canyon is the set of small waterfalls and pools of the Seven Sisters. Many trails network through these canyons and one local told us he has hiked here for twenty years but hasn’t done them all. Hiking here is as far removed from a golf course as you can get.

One of the best day trips from the desert valley entails heading northeast to Joshua Tree National Park. Entering from the south, one of the first must-sees is the Cholla Cactus garden.

At first glance, the cacti are bushy and cute like teddy bears but looks deceive. Go too close and you’ll be combing sharp spines out of your hand or jacket. The massive rock formations around the Natural Arch are a festival of shapes and textures.

Narrow channels lead to the Arch and a good scramble loops you up and through it. Smooth curves of golden granite are a delight of shapes and sizes.

Further north in the Park is a flat plain speckled with the iconic Joshua trees. They are actually giant yuccas, with long spiky leaves, twisted gnarly branches, and bare trunks; tough trees ideally surviving in a harsh environment. Some are more than eight meters tall. Each stands as a lonely sentinel on its own patch of barren desert.

Finish the day’s tour with a hike in Hidden Valley. A narrow set of stone stairs leads up to the entrance and a loop trail meanders through the box canyon, sheltered by steep rock walls. Cattle rustlers used to hide here, amongst the boulders and trees.

As sunset approaches, it’s time to rustle your way down the highway. A forest of wind turbines lines the approach to Palm Springs and all those golf courses.

Tomorrow, golf or another excursion out of town?

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes freelance travel writer and photographer Karoline Cullen who lives in Tsawwassen, a suburb of Vancouver, B.C.

Photos by Cullen Photos:
1: Typically Palm Springs with snow-capped mountains and palm trees…
2: Dramatic rocks background Joshua Trees and Spanish Bayonet cactus.
3: Gary Cullen relaxes on a palm-lined walkway.

For more information go to:
www.giveintothedesert.com
www.theindiancanyons.com
www.nps.gov/jotr

Arriving in legendary Key West just before the crimson sun slips into blue seas, we join celebrating sunset revelers at Mallory Square and all along the waterfront. While artisans peddle unique handicrafts, jugglers, zany acrobats, cats walking tightropes and fire-eaters draw gasps and applause from swirling crowds. Later, like us, many munch succulent seafood in outdoor bistros, toasting passersby with frosty drinks…

Still savoring our grilled Wahoo dinners, my hubby and I escape to the quiet comfort of our B&B. Complete with gingerbread trim and veranda, Rose Lane typifies the many white-painted heritage houses in the heart of old town. Following deluxe breakfasts served in its lush gardens next morning, we stroll lively Duval Street, commonly known for nightly bar crawls.

Here, taverns, restaurants, galleries and souvenir shops mingle with historic landmarks, including Key West’s oldest house built in 1829. Relics salvaged from the shipwrecks that made Key West the USA’s richest city still fill this home…I’m fascinated by the detached cookhouse standing out back in perfectly manicured gardens.

Nearby, a three-story mansion bears John James Audubon’s name. Ushering us along its wide veranda, guide Sophie explains, “A celebrated naturalist, Audubon was a frequent guest of master salvager John Geiger, one of Key West’s wealthiest citizens. Inside, she smiles, “These glorious antiques reveal the elegance then commonplace in prosperous homes.”

Viewing some of Audubon’s original drawings upstairs Sophie comments, “Visiting the Keys and Dry Tortugas in 1832, he sighted 18 new species for his milestone Birds of America folio.” And along garden pathways we view the cascading orchids and spiny bromeliads he’d once used in backgrounds; his white-crowned pigeon painting illustrates the same gigantic Geiger tree dominating the front yard today.

Heritage House Museum also brims with original furnishings and rare artifacts. Preservationist Jesse Porter once hosted celebrities in this Caribbean-Colonial home and Poet Laureate Robert Frost wintered in its secluded garden cottage, now named for him. Amid these luxuriant gardens we listen to his poetry, almost as if Frost himself is reading…

Curry Mansion stands out among historic houses lining Caroline Street. From a rocking chair on the veranda, the elderly concierge explains, “Starting as a penniless immigrant, William Curry soon became Florida’s first millionaire, building this magnificent home in 1855 and furnishing it from his wrecking hauls.

” Nowadays an antique-filled Inn, we explore this Queen Anne-style mansion’s 15 lavish rooms before scrambling up a steep attic ladder to the roof where we achieve spectacular panoramas from its widow’s walk.

At Shipwreck Historeum, actors portray feisty movers and shakers of the day recreating those glory days when wrecked offshore ships produced so many fortunes. Inside, recovered artifacts glitter in an ambience alive with sea-shanty music. From the 65-foot observatory, we scan the reef for wrecks, calling out “Wreck ashore!” over-and-over like captains of old.

Around the corner, we hop on the Old Town Trolley and step off at the Little White House, Florida’s only presidential museum. A guide there explains, “Officer’s quarters on the naval base were converted into Truman’s residence when he first came here in 1946 for rest and relaxation.”

During that time, Harry wrote wife Bess, “I’ve a notion to move the capital to Key West and just stay…” Truman’s family quarters, poker porch, living and dining rooms reflect their lifestyle in their beloved tropical retreat…

The trolley next drops us off in the old Bahamian neighborhood where we join fellow literary pilgrims at Ernest Hemingway’s two-story home. Guide Bob regales us with details of Papa’s audacious life in this Spanish-Colonial mansion, where he wrote prolifically for over ten years.

“While living in Key West, Hemingway was in his 30’s…the prime of his life,” grins Bob, “and here you’ll experience his personal flare: European antiques; artifacts from African safaris; first editions of his books, even boots and saddlebags from hunting expeditions out West.”

Upstairs, an enormous ginger cat stretches out in the middle of Papa’s bed. “This tomcat descends from Papa’s first six-toed gypsy cat, a gift from a salvage captain,” says Bob. “Polydactyl cats look like they’re wearing mittens…that extra toe y’know…”

About fifty ‘Hemingway cats’ roam throughout lush grounds. Along a brick walkway, paw-prints embellish the patio; miniature kitty cottages dot the yard; pussycats snooze everywhere.

And for the departed, a feline cemetery sits in shaded gardens. Nearby, Bob identifies an unusual artifact. “Papa had this drinking fountain built for his beloved cats. On top, a Spanish olive jar from Cuba; the base, a converted urinal trough from friend Sloppy Joe’s Bar…Papa said he’d used it so often, it should be his anyway!”

Papa’s second-story studio remains intact over the old carriage house. I visualize him early each morning, slipping from his bedroom along the old catwalk above the garden.

Surrounded by his favorite mementos…still in their places…he’d be seated on his Cuban cigar-maker’s chair, pounding away on his portable Royal typewriter finishing A Farewell To Arms, a popular war story published in 1929. Here, he also wrote For Whom The Bell Tolls, among others, going on to win the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction and Nobel Prize for Literature.

“Remember, Hemingway’s Key West was unlike anywhere he’d been,” Bob reminds us. “Filled with interesting people from the very well-heeled to down-on-their-luck fishermen and wreckers, he based his fictional characters on them in To Have and Have Not, the acclaimed novel about depression-era Key West.”

And though Key West welcomed many writers over the years, none left as lasting a presence as Ernest Hemingway did…and it takes us only a few days to develop our own appreciation for Key West’s alluring past.

Prized for her colorful heritage, marvelous 19-century mansions and exotic ambience, Key West attracts lively crowds just as in days of old.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes the travel writer team of Rick and Chris Millikan who live in North Delta, a suburb of Vancouver, B.C.

Photos by Rick Millikan:
1: Overview of Old Key West.
2: Mallory Square hosts a variety of performers.
3: A descendent of one of Ernest Hemingway’s cats relaxes on his bed.

If you plan to go, check out:

Key West www.keywestattractions.org
Old Town Manor/Rose Lane Villas www.oldtownmanor.com
Audubon House www.audubonhouse.com
Shipwreck Historeum www.shipwreckhistoreum.com
Ernest Hemingway Home and Museum www.hemingwayhome.com

It’s one of those grey, rainy spring days-cold enough to feel like we’re about to regress back into winter. We’ve driven into the small town of Le Roy, New York in search of bright, jewel-toned colours and happy memories of childhood.

Word has it that the Jell-O Gallery is just the ticket. Our guide, Ruth, a diminutive woman with a twinkle in her eye, leads us into the foyer of the museum.

Jell-O was created, she tells us, when Pearle Wait, a carpenter, came up with a fruit-flavoured version of ‘setting’ gelatin. His wife, May, named it Jell-O, but the pair lacked the experience and know-how to market the product.

Ruth gestures at a photo of an earnest-looking man with brilliantine slicked-down hair. “That’s where Orator F. Woodward came in. He bought the recipe for $450 but after taking his own crack at selling the product, he had reached his wits’ end. In a low mood, he offered to sell the recipe to a friend for $35! The friend refused! Sad, isn’t it?”

Ruth gives us a tragic look, but the gleam in her eye hints at further reversals of fortune to come. “All seemed lost, but then, thanks to the distribution of the first-ever free samples, which placed recipes and packets of Jell-O in the hands of housewives across the country, the product soon caught on. The recipe that Orator couldn’t sell for $35 was soon worth millions.”

Ruth guides us through an accelerated history of Jell-O, pointing out that they were one of the first companies to use eye catching, full-colour advertisements in magazines. She indicates a series of oil paintings, depicting Norman Rockwell-esque scenes of early Americana-eager, bright-faced children clustered around elaborately molded Jell-O sculptures in glowing oranges, reds and yellows.

It seemed that no-one could resist Jell-O. “You see,” adds Ruth, “before that, jelly required almost two days to make-only the rich could afford it-and even then, it was very bland. But now, between the attractive molds, the lovely colours and the fruit flavours, it became the dessert of choice.”

Ruth leans towards us, her expression earnest. “Now, I don’t want to alarm you, but I do have a question: what does Jell-O have in common with the human brain?”

We shake our heads, stumped.

She grins. “They both emit the same radio wave frequencies!”

I am thunderstruck. “What?”

Her grin widens. “Well, all right, yes, that’s not quite true. However, a few years back, a doctor who wanted to make the point that all the electrical interference in hospitals was skewing the results of the EEG machine. So he hooked one up to a bowl of Jell-O-and sure enough, the results were strikingly similar to the ones that registered from a human brain.”

Ruth wraps up the tour soon afterwards, leaving us to browse through the displays. A tribute to Bill Cosby* includes a television, showing some of the many commercials he made when he was the Jell-O spokesman. I can’t resist a chuckle-they take me right back to when I was the same age as the giggling kids in the ads.

Downstairs, we find a non-Jell-O related display of fascinating memorabilia: locally-manufactured snake-oil remedies, vintage bicycles, buggies and automobiles.

As I wander by the posters and various bits of Jell-O themed paraphernalia-moulds, toys, even books-I begin to see that the story of Jell-O also demonstrates the belief that entrepreneurs who are determined enough to work through challenges, will ultimately achieve world-wide success.

The Jell-O Gallery in all its playful kitschy glory is a show piece for that all-American dream!

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes Susan Deefholts, a freelance travel writer who lives in Ontario.

Photos by Susan Deefholts:
1: The Jell-O Gallery in Le Roy, New York.
2: A “Surrey With A Fringe On Top” at the Museum.
3: Snake-oil remedies manufactured in Le Roy, New York.

If you go:
For further information: www.jellogallery.org
Bill Cosby and Jell-O clip on YouTube: www.youtube.com/watch?v=OpUybAMfa-0

*EDITOR’S NOTE: This article was originally published in 2012, about six years before Bill Cosby was convicted of sexual assault.

“There could be a cataclysmic event tomorrow,” Ed says cheerfully as he welcomes us to the Inn. I look at him in alarm and ask, “What’s going to happen?” His eyes twinkle as he drawls, “Well, we may get a millimeter of rain!” We are at the Furnace Creek Inn in California’s Death Valley National Park. It is the largest national park outside of Alaska and one of the hottest, driest places on earth. Rain is counted by the drop and when some falls, it is indeed an event.

Deciding we can safely begin our exploration of this land of extremes without umbrellas, we head for the salt flats on the valley floor.

At 85.5 meters (282 feet), below sea level, Badwater Basin is the lowest point in the Western Hemisphere. After an ancient lake evaporated the basin that stretches for miles is covered in residual white salt.

As we walk across its empty expanse, salt crystals cling to our shoes in big clumps. To the west, mountains rise abruptly from the valley floor to heights where snow falls. Looking back to the roadside, we spot a sign high up on the cliffs. It marks where sea level is.

Also below sea level is the Devil’s Golf Course. Its surface is nowhere near as flat as Badwater Basin’s and walking over the lumpy, salt-crusted terrain is difficult and treacherous. The name correctly implies no one but the Devil would play here and we decide to hike somewhere smoother.

We couldn’t ask for smoother than the water-polished walls of Mosaic Canyon. The trail twists and turns through narrow channels of curving travertine marble. Streaked white, tan and gray, the rounded surfaces are cool to the touch. The whole canyon is a testament to the power of the water that sculpted it eons ago.

When borax was mined here in the late 1800’s, water was scarce. Mule trains hauling ore out of the Valley also pulled their own water for their journey. In a feat of strength and tenacity, twenty mules pulled three wagons weighing almost 40 tons over 275 kilometers of hot, barren desert in a month long round trip. Although the industry was short-lived, the mule train became a Valley icon and some of that history is preserved at the Borax Museum in Furnace Creek.

Mule trains crossed a monochromatic desert landscape but in the canyons, we discover ample colour. A drive through steep ravines and past chiseled rock formations leads to the Artist’s Palette lookout.

Glowing in the afternoon sun are multi-hued rocks – yellow, red, blue, green, pink – like a giant’s selection of water colours. In Golden Canyon, the towering walls of yellow rock are accented with the occasional green and a flowing canyon of golden brown leads to a vista of red rock cliffs sitting like a crown on a base of white boulders. From Zabriskie Point, we look over eroded badlands of golden tan, dark brown, red, and cream.

With sunset approaching, we trade the coloured rocks of the canyons for the undulating curves of the sand dunes at Mesquite Flats. Surrounded by purple mountains, the tall dunes have elegant forms and rippled surfaces that glow like gold.

Feeling a bit like actors in Lawrence of Arabia, we traipse over one dune after another. They have endless variations in pattern and texture, which give them their own stark beauty.

After dark, we head out into the blackness of the desert. With so little light pollution, the sky is a tapestry of stars. There are so many visible, it is hard to pick out the constellations and even without binoculars we can spot Andromeda, earth’s closest galactic neighbour.

In contrast to the chill of a desert night, daytime summer temperatures soar to well over 40 degrees Celsius. I thought the valley would be deserted but apparently, summer is a busy time.
Many European and Asian visitors come; hoping the day they are here is the hottest of the year.

I ask Ed how he handles the extreme heat of summer. It’s somewhat like weathering a blizzard, he explains. You crank up the air conditioning instead of the heat, read, watch movies.

And wait for a cataclysmic event – that precious drop or two of rain.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes freelance travel writer and photographer Karoline Cullen who lives in Delta, a suburb of Vancouver B.C.

Photos by CullenPhotos:
1: Overview of Furnace Creek Inn.
2: Near Stovepipe Wells.
3: Rhyolite Nevada, a ghost town on the way to Death Valley.

If you go:

Death Valley National Park’s three million acres of desert wilderness is about a two hour drive from Las Vegas. www.nps.gov/deva/

You can access many areas in the Park with a regular car but getting to more remote sites requires a four-wheel drive vehicle. Prepare appropriately for extreme heat if you are making a summer visit.

The Furnace Creek Inn is open October to mid-May; the Furnace Creek Ranch is open year round. www.furnacecreekresort.com

How do time-deprived couples manage to stay blissfully connected these days? While juggling jobs, kids and homestead, who has the energy to keep love alive and sparks flying? Desperate for a pulse-quickening gift, and one that’s far from daily demands, I quickly Google ‘romantic places.’ In a jiffy my electronic genie comes to the rescue! San Francisco, a short flight from Vancouver, is listed as one of the top spots to smooch.

It’s also the place where crooning singer, Tony Bennett, once left his heart. Surely during a three day stint of Valentining, we’ll be able to unite ours!

I refine the search to discover that this peninsular enclave, that’s rimmed on three sides by shimmering waves, is bursting with tantalizing opportunities.
We could mosey around tourist haunts like Fisherman’s Wharf where we’d dine on Dungeness crab, then stroll Ghirardelli Square to sample my favorite aphrodisiac –chocolate.
Cuddling on a cable car, sauntering along a stretch of sand and caressing on a harbour cruise –they’re all ‘amoré must dos.’ Many of the popular tourist icons are included in the City Pass, a coupon book that’ll give us a great bang for our buck. By supplementing it with a few of these other intimate ideas, I’ll surely spoil my sweetheart!

Flying high

We get a real lift while flight-seeing, heli-style. San Francisco Helicopters have been offering whirly bird tours since 1976 and as well as sweeping us off our feet they’ll give us a panoramic city view in just thirty minutes!

We’ll peer down at Alcatraz, the infamous island prison where mobsters like Al Capone did time, fly above (and under!) the Golden Gate Bridge that spans the glistening bay, and glide above skyscrapers that frame this dreamy city.

We get some real live action

As well as offering more than twenty museums to appease our cultural desires there’s one particular live performance that would even tweak Aphrodite’s interest. Beach Blanket Babylon, the longest running musical revue in theatre history, is a wild and wacky parody on American pop culture.

It features outrageous entertainers who are decked out in flamboyant costumes, massive hats and big hair. Some mimic famous actors and not so popular politicians, others try to help Snow White find her true love. All four hundred seats in the cabaret style, Club Fugazio, offer a good view, but I’ll need to book early as most shows sell out.

Hand holding hills

There’ll be lots of palm to palm and heavy breathing going on when we tackle a few of San Francisco’s slopes!

From Russian Hill, we can traipse down Lombard, a hairpin street that’s rated as one of the most crooked in the world. A plod up Nob Hill will take us past elite apartment buildings and luxury condos where the wealthy hang out. And on Telegraph Hill we can take in the sunset from the Coit Tower.

This beacon not only commemorates San Francisco’s volunteer fire department but also dubs as a romantic lookout, whatever time of day.

Cozy Nooks and Neighborhood

San Francisco is dotted with uniquely flavored neighborhoods and each one sports its own personality and allure.

Chinatown, clad in festive colours, offers everything from decorative dragons to delicious dim sum. A short stroll away is the square mile of North Beach where tantalizing Italian coffeehouses, bars and bakeries dish up delicacies, Bohemian style, and if shopping turns us on, Union Square is the place to roam.

We can check out an award-winning film in the Castro area, head to Alamo Square where the city backdrop and rows of pink ladies (Victorian homes) will provide a great photo memento, and most definitely meander through the famous Haight-Ashbury district.

After all it is the original home to flower power, ‘be-ins’ and free love.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes the freelance travel writer/photographer team of Jane and Brent Cassie, who live in South Surrey, a suburb of Vancouver B.C..

Photos by Brent Cassie:
1: Enjoying a cuddle aboard one of the city’s cable cars.
2: Jane and Brent on one of the city’s hand-holding hills.
3: Chinatown is alive with festive colour.

Where to stay:
Hyatt Regency San Francisco
5 Embarcadero Center,
San Francisco, California, USA 94111
Tel: +1 415 788 1234 Fax: +1 415 398 2567

www.sanfranciscoregency.hyatt.com

What to do:
City Pass: www.gosanfranciscocard.com/
Beach Blanket Babylon: www.beachblanketbabylon.com/
San Francisco Helicopter Tours: www.sfhelicoptertours.com/

The history of Nashville, Tennessee is liberally sprinkled with women who didn’t know “their place”. So if you’ve been feeling like you have to keep on your toes to survive in “a man’s world”. Music City is a great place to visit. There is much more to see and do in Nashville than country music.

To start with, there is Athena, Nashville’s own resident goddess. She is a pretty muscular gal and it’s pretty hard to imagine even Zeus attempting to harass her. Her home is among the sun dappled trees of Centennial Park It stands both a memoriam to times gone by and a beacon to the future ages.

The Nashville Parthenon is a work of art in its own right. It is an accurate, full-scale restoration, built for the 1896 Centennial Fair. To make it even more appealing to woman travelers, one of the major sculptors was a woman. Belle Kinney Scholtz and her husband, Phidias, carved the pediments. Belle is also known for her sculpture,

Women of the Confederacy Monument and statues of Andrew Jackson and John Siever that stand in the Statuary Hall in the Capital Building in Washington, D.C. This Parthenon is a fitting abode for this ivory and gold statue of the Goddess Athena, arrayed in all her armor and balancing Nike in her right hand.

(No, Nike isn’t the patron of tennis shoes. She is the Goddess of Victory.). Eight years in the making, Nashville sculptor Alan LeQuire’s Athena is 42 foot tall making her the largest indoor statue in the Western world.

Even thought she is pretty hard to top, some of the flesh and blood women have left a larger than life legacy. Take the nineteen-year-old Selene Harding of Belle Meade Plantation. She was the ultimate cheerleader.

Belle Meade was the headquarters of Confederate Gen. James R. Chalmers of Nathan Bedford Forrest’s cavalry. In December of 1864, the Union army attacked the mansion and fierce fighting ensued in the front yard of the plantation.

Despite the bullets flying around her, Selena remained on the porch waving her handkerchief to cheer on the Confederates. When you visit, be sure to look for the bullet holes. They can still be seen in the porch columns. Belle Meade Plantation is known as the “Queen of Tennessee Plantations” but is not the only one with a strong female figure.

For a real life Scarlet O’Hara, visit Belmont Mansion. It was built in 1850 by Adelicia Acklen.
She was a wealthy young widow during the Civil War.

She only married husbands number two and three after they agreed to sign pre-nuptial agreements leaving her in charge of her own wealth. She must have been pretty good at convincing people to see things her way.

As the battles raged in the South, she traveled to Louisiana and managed to smuggle her cotton crop out by convincing both sides she was going to turn over the profits to them. With one side guarding her by land and the other on the high seas, she transported it to Europe where she received almost a million dollars for the crop.

Of course, she never got around to sharing the profits with either side. She managed to become one of the richest women in America at a time when women were supposed to be just pretty playthings. When you visit Belmont, you will appreciate the scope of her talents. Of course, we can never forget Rachael Jackson who was a pipe-smoking divorcee when “nice women didn’t”.

The Hermitage has been extensively restored to its 1830s splendor and reflects the taste of a president who was “a man of the people.” But more than Jackson’s presence is preserved in the Hermitage. His controversial wife, Rachael, chooses the spot and made it a home.

During Jackson’s presidential campaign, deemed the dirtiest in history, Rachael’s reputation was tattered due to her marriage to Jackson before her divorce was finalized. Although they remarried afterwards, this was a major issue in the campaign. One Jackson felt caused the death of his beloved Rachael shortly before his inauguration.

When he left the White House, he never failed to spend time each evening in Rachael’s garden where she was buried. At his death he was buried besides her. You can still see traces of the flowers and herbs Rachael planted..

A tour of the capital building shows women, although unable to vote, still made their influence felt in Tennessee when the nineteenth amendment came up for the vote. Tennessee was the state that cast the deciding vote.

Nashville is filled with stories of courageous women who helped bring us to the place we are today. One of Nashville’s newest attractions, The Fox Trot Carousel, is a combination of historical tribute, fine arts and just plain fun.

The carousel, located downtown in Riverfront Park, includes many of Nashville’s most memorable women.

Charlotte Robinson, wife of one of the city founders, saved Fort Nashborough from an Indian raid. She later founded the first school in the area.

Anne Dallas Dudley led the fight for women’s rights and became the first woman delegate at large to the Democratic Convention. Modern women are represented there as well.

Kitty Wells, first woman to be elected to the Grand Ole Opry and Lula Naff who managed the Ryman Auditorium for fifty years and is credited with collecting the autographed photos, playbills and programs of those who preformed there over the years.

Speaking of the Ryman, no trip to Nashville is complete without a visit to this legendary music shrine. Be sure to see the life-size bronze sculpture of one woman who carved an unforgettable niche in what had been a male dominated field without relying on her looks or build. Minny Pearl shares the entry way with her longtime friend, Roy Acuff.

Almost anywhere you go in Nashville, you will find traces of the women who made this city great. It’s a place that’s not afraid to show its feminine side.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes publisher, author and freelance travel writer Kathleen Walls who lives in St.Augustine, Florida.

Photos by Kathleen Walls:
1: Athena, the world’s largest indoor sculpture
2: The Belle Meade Mansion
3: Sculpture of Roy Acuff and Minny Pearl

More Information:

The Parthenon www.parthenon.com 615-863-8431
The Hermitage www.thehermitage.com 615-889-2941
Belle Meade Plantation www.bellemeadeplantation.com 800-270-3991
Belmont Mansion www.belmont.edu/about/mansion.cfm 615-460-5459
Foxtrot Carousel 615-254-7020
Ryman Auditorium www.ryman.com 615-889-3060
Capital Building 615-741-2692

Adventurous curiosity attracts my wife Chris and I back to Lana’i, a small Hawaiian Island renowned for its longtime production of Dole pineapples. Only twenty acres of this luscious golden fruit remain…so one could say Lana’i’s off the Dole and fully into tourism! A comfortable catamaran ferry whisks us from Lahaina’s wharf to Manele Bay; a bus shuttles us upward through Lana’i City’s pastel buildings. Plantation-style grocery stores, venerable hotel, theatre, small home galleries and bistros surround Dole Park.

On the grassy hillside, the former Dole administration building encloses Lana’i’s Cultural Center. Students walk and cycle from school into bordering neighborhoods of small homes festooned with vibrant tropical flowers.

Along the sidewalks, elderly matrons harvest seeds from its many emerald evergreens.
One lady confides, “I get a dollar a pound for these.” Once planted to gather moisture on this dry island, these towering Cook Island Pines embellish Lana’i, shading its central park, lining both the main road and distant ridges.

While Chris chats with locals, I enter “Dis and Dat,” a notable shop and experience thunderous gongs, a hundred plus wind chimes melodiously tinkling, perfumed incense and Buddha statuary. Wow!

Many overnight at Four Seasons Resort at Manele Bay, catering to water sports…or its Lodge at Ko’ele serving upcountry endeavors. Fortunately, we luxuriate at both. Our lodge balcony overlooks a putting green and extensive manicured gardens. We watch wild turkeys roam beneath us and discover later our feathered neighbors roost nightly in nearby 300-hundred-year-old guava trees.

With only 30 paved miles, many visitors seek unique off-road adventures. Arranging for a jeep the next day, a raven-haired wahine asks my name for the necessary forms. I grin, “Indiana Jones…” Luana grimaces, but helps me initial my responsibilities on the rental agreement.

Then I wink, “Where can I wrestle down a tusked boar or tasty wild goat for dinner?” Smiling, she reports, “These animals overgrazed our native plants, so were eliminated. Now hunters stalk the later introduced mouflon sheep, axis deer, pheasants, quail and wild turkeys. Good luck!”

Such hunters may drive, as we do, through a grove of ironwood trees to Lana’i Pine Sporting Clays to hone their prowess. After initial lessons on laser-guided pellet rifles, we’re plinking targets. Next knocking fleches and drawing bowstrings, we plunk arrows around bulls-eyes.

And after being instructed to safely carry, point and squeeze a shotgun trigger, I aim at wily clay disks, which quiver like quails, race like rabbits, dart like ducks and turn tail like ptarmigans. On fourteen platforms, I’m blasting these saucers into biodegradable sauce.

Driving onward, we descend onto a barren, windswept slope dotted with silvery grasses and low-lying shrubs. Sighting bright orange vines coiled atop drab foliage, we stop to examine a kauna’oa. Its small pearly blossoms are official island flowers. Further along we spot a rusted World War II tanker stranded on the northern reef far below…

Parking atop a plateau, we examine an otherworldly setting of rusty reds, sulphurous yellows, metallic blues and purples. Garden of the Gods recalls a local legend. In the fifteenth century, a Maui Chief banished his troublesome son to this island. After several weeks, the prince vanquished Lana’i’s infamous man-eating ghosts using his magical spear. We imagine the Garden’s eerie squat boulders are petrified spirits.

Out of Manele Bay the following morning, our Trilogy rafting group is photo-shooting spinner dolphins. Like everyone else, I’m trying to capture the essence of these amiable creatures with my camera. This local pod contains over a hundred frolickers.

Rugged black lava walls extend along Lana’i’s northern coastline. Cave-like lava tubes appear at the waterline of these sheer cliffs. Thirsty brown grass covers the desolate slopes above.

Noting three weathered shacks, our rafter captain explains, “Fishermen lived there to be near a perfect spot for catching marlin, mahi-mahi, tuna and barracuda! Hawaii’s first king, Kamehameha often left Lahaina, Hawaii’s old capital to fish here!”

Snorkeling in a pristine cove near Shark Fin Rock, a mottled turtle swims above arrays of colorful fish and coral. Due to conservation efforts, sociable green sea turtles are often observed.

When a crew member dives down to snag a small octopus, he offers an encounter with this very elusive creature. He places the tentacled beauty on the shoulders of two snorkelers, a primo photo op. And before returning him homeward, he allows me to cuddle the eight-armed charmer!

Early the next day we hike along Hulopo’e beach and up a well-worn trail through jagged black lava to visit Sweetheart Rock. Romantic souls had placed a beautiful floral tribute at a cliffside spot overlooking this legendary sea stack topped with a rock tomb.

This site memorializes Hawaii’s Romeo and Juliet tale. It is said that stricken with a Maui princess’s beauty, a Lanai warrior brought her to live with him in a nearby sea cave. When she tragically drowned, he buried her atop this 80-foot rock; then heartbroken, leapt to his death.

Before returning to our plush ocean view suite to pack, I snorkel in Hulopo’e Bay Marine Preserve.

I swim with kaleidoscopes of dazzling fish, including black durgons, tangs, unicorn, puffer and butterfly fish. Exotic yellow, black and white Moorish idols parade among purple and pink coral. Red squirrelfish peek out of rock cavities. Whiskered yellowfin goatfish scavenge and stir the sandy bottom.

All good things don’t end. Our Lana’i adventures will remain as treasured memories.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes freelance travel writer Rick Millikan who lives in Delta, a suburb of Vancouver B.C.

Photos by Chris Millikan
1: A local matron gathers pine seeds from the sidewalk.
2: The author, and wife Chris, on the archery range.
3: Lana’i’s famous Sweetheart Rock.

Breathtaking. Spectacular. Awe-inspiring. It’s no wonder the Grand Canyon is one of the world’s most visited spots. But another Arizona landmark, 235 miles to the east, had an equal yet different capacity to steal my breath away and inspire quiet reverence. It’s the Canyon de Chelly (pronounced “de-shay”) near Chinle in the Navajo Indian Reservation. Canyon de Chelly National Monument is actually a series of canyons tucked away in the eastern edge of Arizona.

Driving there, it’s easy to draw a parallel between the bleak and treeless landscape and the apparent poverty of the Navajo people.

But looking closer, the desert is teeming with life on an unexpected plane. Canyon de Chelly, with its prehistoric pictographs, Anasazi ruins and current-day Navajo residents, offers a glimpse back in time at an endangered culture.

It’s also a vacation stop relatively uncluttered by cheap gift shops, oversized tour buses and hordes of tourists.

We arrived late in the day, and drove to the overlook for the largest and most accessible canyon, Canyon de Chelly.

The canyon walls are sheer and sculpted from a subtle palette of sandstone, ranging from a dramatic red to a pale beige with a rosy tint. The scale of the canyon tricks the eye.

A childlike figure is just visible, bent over a row of plants at the canyon floor. Far away on the northern wall of the canyon is a gap in the stone, gradually widening.

Only with the help of binoculars do the ancient stone dwellings tucked inside the wall become apparent. They look like toys, or even painted false fronts, hardly likely to have sheltered up to 80 people.

Next morning, the dawn breaks over a perfectly clear sky, a little breeze kissing at our heels as we begin to descend into the canyon. The trail is wide and easy, a gentle grade switching back and forth as it lazily winds down some eight hundred feet to the canyon floor.

Only an hour after sunrise the sun begins to bear down, and it is with relief that we reach the shady canyon floor.

The National Park Service manages the area in cooperation with the Navajo Nation. Because of the cultural and spiritual significance of the ruins and the fact that Navajo families live and make a living within the canyons, unescorted visitors are limited to a single moderately easy hike within the main canyon to the periphery of the White House ruins.

To explore the park in more depth, visitors have to apply for a permit and hire a guide.

Now our path is level, cutting past an orchard of gnarled old trees, over rock outcroppings and even through a short tunnel cut through the rock. We come out through the trees to a plain dotted with trees and stretching a few thousand feet to the sheer rock face.

Enclosed within a wire fence are a few crumbling walls, suggesting a sizable three-story building whose roof and floors are long collapsed.

The dwellings were built about a thousand years ago, before the Navajo came, and abandoned inexplicably three hundred years later. The more recent Navajo residents call the original builders “Anasazi” or “ancient ones.”

Beyond these ruins, seventy five feet or more above the canyon floor, a cluster of adobe buildings is tucked into a deep crevice. Barely visible beyond the first row of dwellings is a nondescript rectangular whitewashed structure with deep religious significance.

A Navajo healing ceremony, nine days long, mentions the “white house” where the thunderbird god lives, a “place between.”

These ruins, like others in the park, are facing south to take advantage of the sun in the long winter months. The park holds many other sights, including famed Spider Rock, the Canyon del Muerto (Canyon of Death), Antelope House ruins and Massacre Cave.

But the Arizona sun promises to be pitiless, and we straggle back up the trail and retreat to air-conditioned comfort.

When afternoon shadows stretch long across the canyon, we return on horseback with a native guide. Edwina is eighteen and not very talkative. She points out a handful of petroglyphs, graphic, evocative stick figures of people and animal scratched deep into the wall.

Our six-year-old son gets more pleasure from seeing animal shapes in distant rock formations at the top of the canyon: a turtle, a rabbit.

The horses are swaybacked, pestered by flies. We ride for an hour and return to the stables. They are shabby, with a broken down couch shoved haphazardly onto the porch of an adjoining house. A band of small children peer around the corner and a baby wails inside. Outward signs speak of hardship.

But perhaps this is deceptive, like the view of the canyon floor seen from the rim.

This is a culture that has inhabited this particular corner of the world for three hundred years, following the Anasazi who were here for thousands of years before. They are a people with a different rhythm, different values, a different perspective.

While it is tempting to dismiss the experience with a flicker of pity and a dash of charity, we can’t.

Instead we climb into our car and point ourselves east, back to our own civilization, wondering if relics of our own culture will hold as much meaning in a thousand years, or even survive at all.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tails welcomes freelance travel writer Karyn Zweifel an author and writer living in Birmingham, Alabama. Visit her website at www.karynzweifel.com and learn more.

About the photos:
1: The trail on the canyon floor is canopied by trees bent by wind and time. Kathryn Z.
Turner
2: Layers of ancient stone lie like mud puddles at the base of this cliff. Kathryn Z. Turner
photo.
3: Abandoned by the Anasazi a thousand years ago, the White House Ruins at the base of
this cliff seem insignificant. Karyn Zweifel photo.