Had you asked me before our trip which was the most visited national park in the country, I would have stalled with “that’s a really good question,” and then mentally shuffled through about a half dozen parks, trying to figure out which one would be the most popular and why.  Yellowstone and Yosemite would be in there, probably the Grand Canyon too.  And eventually I would’ve given the wrong answer, because I hadn’t even considered the actual most visited park, which is Great Smoky Mountains, spanning the border of eastern North Carolina and western Tennessee.

And here I thought I was pretty good with geography and stuff.

I can tell you that this surprised me, for several reasons, most of which I’ll hopefully flesh out in this post.  It also created some high and likely unfair expectations for our visit.  Having grown up with Yosemite, Sequoia, and the Grand Canyon, and having recently visited Yellowstone, Grand Teton, and Zion, I guess I subconsciously expected that sort of grandeur out of a park that was “number one” above those others.  When in truth I now suspect that its number one status has much more to do with ratio of people to national parks in that part of the country, combined with accessibility.

To be clear, it is a beautiful place.  The Appalachians in that region reach 6,000’-plus, and combined with the lushness of that area of the county, you get an incredible variety of biomes within a very small area, with the attendant diversity of flora and fauna.  Crystal clear streams are abundant, and seeing black bear wandering through the trees and lazily gnawing on berries is almost a certainty.  We saw and greatly appreciated all these things.  And yet after a few days, we decided that we’d seen much of what the park had to offer, and rejiggered our schedule to leave a day early for Atlanta.

First, though, the drive.  The Blue Ridge Parkway’s southern terminus is in the park, and it passes just south of Asheville, about two miles from where we camped.  We could easily have simply taken the Blue Ridge all the way from Asheville to GSM, and I was tempted to, just to say we had.  Fortunately I resisted that temptation though, as it would have at least doubled the driving time, and “easy” is not the proper adjective for driving a fully loaded motorhome towing a car though narrow, winding mountain roads for four hours.  I think the novelty would’ve worn off after about 45 minutes, and I’d have been left with four carsick family members and some shot nerves from all the precarious curves, drop-offs, and tunnels.  We took the highway instead, followed by a secondary road that brought us to the town of Cherokee, at the park’s southern border. 

While Cherokee is reservation land and has the bilingual signage to prove it (side note: have you ever seen written Cherokee??

It’s somehow more confusing than Chinese or Arabic or Hindi because at first glance it looks just close enough to something familiar to make you believe that you can, or should, be able to understand it.  But you can’t.  You definitely can’t.), the vast majority of the Cherokee people were driven out of the area in the early to mid 1800s.  The story of the Trail of Tears, which I had heretofore only had a vague knowledge of, was both heartbreaking and fascinating.  I was encouraged by Firebolt sharing both my view and my interest in the subject.  She has become an even more voracious reader on this trip, and one of her favorite stories of late tells about a fictional Native American girl who is separated from her friends and family but is able to, over many years, make her way back to them.  So reading tidbits of some actual stories really struck home with her.

I had tried to make reservations at the Smokemont campground, which is the main campground within the park on the North Carolina side.  Surprised to find that sites were not reservable until the week after we would be there, I steeled myself to scrap over the first-come-first-served sites with the throngs of visitors.  Wrong once again – as it turns out, there really is a significant off season in GSM and even with mid-May’s perfect weather, we had the campground more or less to ourselves.  We chose a site right across from the gurgling stream, in hopes that we’d be able to leave some of the windows open and have its sound lull us to sleep. 

The stream bed also made for a perfect wandering area, with the best skipping rocks I had ever seen.

The girls were less happy about the millipedes, but I thought they were cool.

We opted to drive up to the top of the park on our first full day, figuring we could do some hiking and see a bit more of what’s around.  It was my first real exposure to Appalachian terminology for some of the mountain features I had thought I was already familiar with.  “Balds” for instance.  There are quite a few “balds” on the tops of the mountains in GSM.  What I assumed they were were areas above the tree line.  Not so – they are treeless areas covered in grass, but they’re not technically too high to support tree growth.  I’ve read that there’s actually no consensus on why trees grow on some Appalachian peaks and not others, which is interesting.  I’d have thought that question would have a pretty straightforward answer.  “Domes” are another.  When we heard that we should visit Clingmans Dome, which is the highest point in the park, I pictured Yosemite’s granite behemoths.  At 6,643’ it’s pretty impressive, elevation-wise, at least for the eastern half of the country, but there was no granite to be seen up there, and not much to distinguish it from the other peaks in the area, other than a vaguely Jetsons-looking concrete observation tower at the top.

The view was nice, if not breathtaking, [Late edit: I just re-read Tacco’s post and saw that she did indeed call the view “breathtaking.”  I guess some breath was taken away, just not mine] with the interpretive signs describing what you’re seeing also devoting significant verbiage to air pollution and the likelihood that you wouldn’t be able to see things too far away because of it. 

We did, however, see a few black bears during the hike up and on the drive down.  Not quite as imposing (and traffic-clogging) as Yellowstone’s bison, but cool to see.

As the Appalachian Trail follows the spine of the mountains in GSM, which is incidentally also the Tennessee / North Carolina border, we figured we would hike a bit of it in search of a suitable picnic lunch area, just to say we did.  Again, not the most impressive trail we had seen.  It just sort of meandered through the trees a bit, with the occasional view of the other mountains.  It was a nice picnic though, and off we went back to our site.

The following day was also Mother’s Day, so Tacco had her choice of activities after the kiddos presented her with the gifts they had bought / made for her.

The weather took a turn toward summer heat as well, which is tricky when you’re dry camping (i.e. no hookups), since you need the generator running to fire up the air conditioner, and national parks in particular are quite strict on their generator policies.  Having just written that it strikes me as sounding ridiculously soft – “The horror!  We’re camping and we can’t run our a/c!” – but I have to remind you, and we often need to remind ourselves, that this is our home, not a weekend campsite, so we tend to cut ourselves a little slack when it comes to wanting some creature comforts.  Where I was going with that, though, is that with the hot and sticky creeping up, we decided to try to get into a river at some point during the day.

That translated to a waterfall hike just outside of nearby Bryson City (which is a very cool little town, incidentally), followed hopefully by a float down the Tuckasegee or Oconaluftee river.  Love those names.

The hike was short but sweet, other than Woodsprite’s getting stung by a bee.  Lots of flowers.  Tacco mentioned the wild boar stampede, that was an eye-opener, and a new experience for all of us.  We also got to see Juney Whank falls.  Juney Whank??  Hm.  OK.

Our floating plans began to morph as the hours of remaining daylight shrank and the now-familiar logistical challenges of river floating with only one small car reared their heads again.  We just weren’t familiar enough with the area to choose a good put-in and take-out, and I didn’t trust myself to hitchhike again.  Renting tubes and floating the creek below the waterfalls we had hiked to was another option, with several takers from among the locals… it appeared to be quite the popular weekend activity.  But once again the logistics proved daunting, at very best.  No good way to get 5 innertubes from a rental site to a creek put-in with only a fully loaded Subaru and no pump.  What we could use is a pickup truck.  Ah well.  So we settled for dipping our heads in the cool water and watching the tubers enjoy themselves instead, followed by some playtime in the stream just across from our campsite upon our return.

So yes, mixed feelings about Great Smoky Mountains NP, likely colored by high expectations brought on by the discovery of its extreme popularity.  We had a thoroughly pleasant visit.  And I bet it would be stunning in the Fall.  But it wasn’t enough to bring us back, I don’t think.  The kids seemed to agree.  It struck me as an excellent, and quite easy, long-weekend getaway for the millions and millions of folks in the South and on the Eastern Seaboard, but not the kind of place you would necessarily travel across the country to visit.

Unless, of course, you were living in a motorhome, in which case game on.

I had never been this deep into Appalachia before, nor had I ever seen The Great Smoky Mountains.  In fact, I had never even contemplated why these gentle (gentile?) mountains have this name. It turns out “Smoky” has nothing to do with the ever-vigilant bear who encourages us to prevent forest fires (that particular cub lived in New Mexico) as only the uninitiated might assume. Instead, the name comes from ubiquitous blue vapor that continuously escapes the thick layer of lush vegetation on these mountains.  Before the native Cherokee were forced to relocate to Oklahoma along the devastating Trail of Tears, they called this range “Shaconage” or “place of blue smoke.”

As we were driving about the countryside, I became very aware of the heavy influence of the Cherokee Nation along the North Carolina boundary of Great Smoky Mountain National Park. I have traveled far and wide through North Africa, Europe, the Caribbean, and Southeast Asia, and nowhere have I been so intrigued by a written language.  At first glance, I could not even establish a rhythm to the language and it was no surprise to learn that in WWI the Cherokee were enlisted to serve as our nations first “Code Talkers,” just as the Navajo had done so successfully in WWII.

Although it may seem entirely out of place, I think it’s important to give a quick homeschool update before I can get to a more extensive summary of that enterprise. While the girls have been ardently earning Junior Ranger Badges at all the National Park Service (NPS) sites we have visited, these exercises were well beneath Keeper’s attention and interest level.  To help him get the most out of our visits, I delved into the extensive curricula offerings on the NPS website that has by location and subject matter a wide array of options for “Teaching With Historic Places.”

Entirely applicable to our visit to the Great Smoky Mountains, Keeper spent a week doing readings and answering questions about the Trail of Tears.  In putting together this assignment, I learned that most but not all the Cherokee were forced to relocate west of the Mississippi.  The vibrant community in this neck of North Carolina is made up of either the descendants of those forced out to Oklahoma who then walked back to their homeland or those who were able to hang onto their property despite the land grab of the early 1800s.  I would have liked to spend more time exploring the nearby town of Cherokee, but our short stay didn’t allow for such an excursion. Next time.

The only real time I have spent along the Appalachian Trail was about a week over 20 years ago and I was entirely distracted by other goings on.  I had the privilege of attending SERE School in Brunswick, Maine, before reporting to my squadron in Whidbey Island, Washington.  Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape training teaches you to do exactly that.  After a few days of all-day lectures, you spend your first stretch of training learning how to live off the land.  Next you practice evading capture in hostile territory.  Then, even if you were able to stealthily avoid capture, they call “Ollie Ollie Oxen Free” (actually they ring a bell) and you have to report for capture.  Finally comes the trickiest part – learning how to resist interrogation as a prisoner of war (POW), all the while trying to plan an effective escape.

I had the privilege of doing SERE School in February.  Have you been to Maine?  It is absolutely beautiful.  Have you been to Maine in February?  It is still absolutely beautiful in February – it looks like an Ansel Adams winter wonderland – but the weather is very unforgiving.

It was 22^obelow zero our first night on the mountain and I remember crawling into my little self-made snow cave and praying that I might still be alive in the morning.  SERE School was, by far, the most valuable training I have ever had, I just pray I never have to use it.

While in the classroom portion of SERE School, we were instructed how to harvest berries, none of which would be in season until June (if memory serves, most of the red ones and all of the white ones will kill you), and to not eat snow, yellow or otherwise (you need to heat it up and turn it into water first or it will kill you). During training breaks we also heard some pretty entertaining stories of previous classes’ shenanigans and learned that, on occasion, hikers either finishing up or starting their long trek along the Appalachian Trail will stumble into the mock-up POW camp.  Having been deeply entrenched in that military experience, I cannot imagine what a rude awakening that might be for the average hiker.

It was these reminiscent thoughts that were keeping me entertained as we crisscrossed the Appalachian Trail during our first hike to Clingmans Dome and back.

On our trek to the observation tower we saw a sleuth of bears (betcha didn’t know that’s what more than one is called – I had to look it up), which you have to take my word for their presence in the brush.

The walk to the top of the observation tower was crowded (note to self, avoid the weekend crowds in the future…), but led to some breathtaking views.

I was surprised to see Cold Mountain listed among the peaks, a location made famous by a heart-wrenching movie made based on Charles Frazier’s historical novel.

After the 360^oview offered at the top of the tower, we ducked into the forest proper to follow the Appalachian Trail for a very modest distance to find a picnic spot.

As we meandered through the woods, I realized we were on a “Clingmans Dome Bypass” for folks who are hiking the Appalachian Trail in earnest and don’t want to be bothered by the throng of tourists.  We ran into a few such hikers looking none the worse for their travels and I thought of my cousin who has hiked both the Appalachian and the Pacific Crest Trails in their entirety, leaving only the Continental Divide to go before she earns the coveted Triple Crown title.  !!!  After a short stretch, we were happy to come across this beautiful setting for our lunch.

We returned to the car and were rewarded with another sleuth sighting when we wound our way down the mountain.

One last stop before returning to Davista was to check out Mingus Mill, a historic and still active grist mill.  Instead of using a water wheel to do the work, Mingus Mill uses a water-powered turbine that had diverted the flow of the river to harness its energy to grind grains.  At first glance, I had originally thought this was a rather inefficient planter outside, but quickly realized it was one of the original millstones.  !!!

With two of the major sites seen, we settled into Davista to enjoy dinner by the river.

The next morning dawned on Mother’s Day.  My family made a wonderful breakfast and we set out to explore another of the local hikes, and possibly float the falls’ source, Deep Creek.

Although we had our share of inertia getting away from Davista, the kids settled into the hike after minimal grumbling (it was Mother’s Day, after all) and we hit a potential snag in our plans.  WoodSprite was bitten by a nasty bug that left a ghastly welt in its wake.

As we loaded up the backpack departing the car, I had heard the Angel’s recommendation to be sure to bring our stash of lavender oil, which, shamefully, I disregarded.  Lavender oil is our go to for any bug bites as it immediately takes the sting away.   All I had on hand was Band-Aids and homemade lip balm.  After convincing a tear-stained WoodSprite that lip balm was merely peppermint salve for the lips, I was able to apply it to the sting site and, much to everyone’s relief, it mitigated the pain shortly thereafter.

While I was carrying and soothing a crying WoodSprite along the waterfall path, Flight told us all to stop and back up.  I had heard nothing but the shedding of tears, but when we paused heard several somethings stumbling through the nearby brush.  With yesterday’s sleuth sightings in mind, I had expected Papa, Mama, and Baby Bear to come lumbering into view.  Instead we were favored with a drove of wild boar dashing across the trail no more than ten yards ahead of us, including three wee piglets.

Distracted by the cute factor of wild piglets and the sting’s hold fading by the moment, WoodSprite was happy to walk on her own power.  Big brother, Keeper, took WoodSprite by the hand and helped her navigate the way ahead.  Almost as sweet as seeing wild squealing piglets dashing through the woods…

At last we found what Flight had been seeking throughout our waterfall hike, a suitable place from which he could dunk his head in the stream.

I don’t get it, but Keeper and WoodSprite do, as they usually join in…

Following our hike, we reposed for a moment by Deep Creek and weighed the options for the afternoon’s water activities.  We first contemplated renting some tubes at one of the many nearby shops to float, but, even after witnessing some very creative logistics of other tubing enthusiasts, we couldn’t envision a safe configuration that might allow us to get five tubes (and us) from shop to parking lot in the Subaru and then on foot to the put in place. Instead, we opted to return to the campground and play in the river.

Keeper was stoked to engage in varsity waterplay with his sisters and Dad and I stayed outside the spray radius to document it all.

Another delightful day nestled in the Great Smoky Mountains came to a satisfying conclusion with s’mores around the campfire.

Before we left the next morning, WoodSprite and I went for a short hike along a nearby nature trail. Throughout our travels, Flight and I have made it a point to carve out one-on-one time with each of the kids and I was delighted to have the opportunity to hike with WoodSprite, just the two of us.  We had to cross three modified planks to get started and found a wee turtle on our way around the loop.

The last activity before we scooted on to Atlanta was returning to the Oconaluftee (that’s pretty fun to say) Visitor Center so our newest Junior Rangers could be sworn in.

Sadly, we didn’t make it around back to see the living farm museum, but we were okay with that omission. Having seen many of the spectacular National Parks out West, I was surprised to learn that the Great Smoky Mountains is the most visited NP in the nation, boasting over 10 million visitors annually, but then discovered that it’s within a day and half’s drive for over half the American population.  I also realized that these gentile mountain slopes are far more accommodating for people who may not be avid outdoor enthusiasts.  After hearing all the rave reviews of this particular National Park, I was very glad we made the opportunity to check it out.  Although it was lovely to see, and I can certainly see its appeal, my heart yearns to return to the west to view the newer crags and sharper peaks of the Cascades.  They are calling me home.

Asheville, NC, holds a dear place in my heart for many reasons.  First and foremost, it was one our first “destinations” after we acquired Davista in Cincinnati last April and will always serve as the backdrop for my fond memories of getting to know our rig as we started this crazy adventure. Prior to visiting Asheville, everyone I knew thought my crunchy self would be right at home there and told me I probably wouldn’t want to leave.  Apparently I exude granola.

Actually, early in our marriage, I tentatively confided to Flight (after doing a clearing turn to see who might be listening), “I think I might be a little crunchy.”  With an incredulous look, he laughed and simply said, “You’ve been in granola denial for a very long time – you just need to embrace it.”  “Really?!” “Yes, really.”

And so I have.

Strangely, despite embracing this latent aspect of being, I did not readily find my peeps during our first visit to Asheville. Instead it seemed I found my granola limit, which I didn’t even know I had.  Now, I am all about living a life being mindful about the rest of my fellow creatures on this planet and our collective home.  In fact, that philosophy informs many of our family’s decisions, be they existential or mundane.  What I’m not particularly fond of is those who use something akin to this mindfulness as an excuse to abstain from being contributing members of society. “I can’t get a job because it will interfere with my ability to commune with….” That mentality makes me crazy and Asheville seemed thick with it.  Flight was surprised at my reaction to Asheville and thought I might start yelling, “Hippie, take a bath!” at the many such folks I saw loitering while we were out and about. Interesting.  I couldn’t help but wonder – am I getting old?!

Nope.  Not happening.  I refuse.  Crotchety, maybe.  Old? Never. Actually, that reminds me of another pretty funny conversation Flight and I had, this one while still living in Maryland.  While I was still teaching at the Naval Academy, Flight would patiently listen to any of my rants about the current episode of “Midshipmen Behaving Badly” I was witnessing at work,  and wait until I was done before grinning and saying, “And while you’re at it, GET OFF OF MY LAWN!”  I enjoy returning the favor when he relates any reality show-worthy shenanigans from 36,000’.  After one such particular venting, I impishly observed, “You know, I think we’re both getting a little crotchety, but in different ways.”  Not missing a beat, Flight fired back, “Yeah, we are, but that’s because we have different crotches.”

So there ya go.

With all that said, I was a little apprehensive about what hippy factions we might encounter on our return to Asheville, not so much for their fanciful existence but for the potential of my crotchety reaction thereto.  Fortunately (?), I was distracted by the repercussions of our crew’s inability to follow checklists, which made our time in Asheville proper virtually nonexistent.

Despite being limited by self-induced mechanical failures and the consequent repairs, we did manage to return to two highlights from our first visit.   Sliding Rock was one of our family’s favorite activities last year.  River water has sculpted the smooth rock into a long slide that has become a local draw for generations.  Since we were there again early in the season, pre-season if you will, the public restrooms were closed and the water was rather, um, brisk.  Content with my memories from last year, I abstained from the sliding activities but caught some decent shots of the family.

 

 

From Sliding Rock we then went to the Sierra Nevada Brewery to spend an early evening enjoying some “Corn in the Hole” (WoodSprite’s title for the game) and walking the extensive garden before we dined within.

 

It was a lovely day.

Just before we collected the car from the miracle mechanic, we drove out to Black Mountain to see what that not-so-booming metropolis was all about. I was curious about this particular town as it was the setting for two very different series of books that I have thoroughly enjoyed.  The first of these is Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander series, which is now a series on Starz.  The last part of the fourth book (The Drums of Autumn) and the first part of the fifth book (The Fiery Cross), which I happened to be rereading now, is a Scottish clan gathering set in Black Mountain.

The other series is a trilogy by William Forstchen that explores what might happen in the event a nuclear device (or several) is detonated in space specifically to generate a massive electromagnetic pulse (EMP) to fry electronics across a sizable footprint.  For those of you not associated with the Space Cadre, this is actually a big deal. The ramifications of detonating such a device are not what you (and Stephen Colbert) might think (radiation fall out, scorched earth, etc.).  Instead of nuclear holocaust unfolding on Earth, everything dependent on 1s and 0s would cease to function, becoming only conversation pieces and paperweights, to include the satellite network that informs most of the developed world’s communications and defense networks.  In a word, YIKES.  The series is set in Black Mountain and is a solid contemplation on how all might unfold should such an event occur.   After finishing Forstchen’s books, I again gave thanks that I know how to grow my own food and have at least one skill I can barter.

As excited as I was to leisurely stroll about Black Mountain and reconstruct scenes from these books in my mind’s eye, I was also acutely aware that additional time in the Subaru never serves our flight well.  We opted to dine at Louise’s Kitchen (which is well known for its enormous breakfast dishes) before seeking out Montreat College (which, sadly, we only caught a glimpse of), do a 180^oand head back to Davista.  We made it in plenty of time to get a serious fire going, and followed up with S’Mores.

Safety Standdown complete and no hippy sightings, I was eager to get to our next destination (with the Subaru parking brake appropriately released) and explore the Great Smoky Mountains.  I have never seen this neck of the Appalachians and can’t wait to see what they’re all about…

I first heard that term from a salty Flight Engineer in my first squadron, in response to “where are you from?”  He was (is) deeply Southern and sharp as a tack, with a thick accent that tended to belie, or at least distract you from, his depth of knowledge and skill.  I’m pretty sure he did it on purpose; he liked to keep people off guard.

“South Cackalacky” sounded to me like a deliberate play on the redneck thing.  Owning it and throwing it back at you with pride.  Or something like that.  It wasn’t his invention of course, I’ve heard it used by many people in various contexts.  On the other hand, it’s not that old a term either, probably no older than the ‘70s/’80s.  A brief internet search on the term didn’t net much, other than the fact than older North/South Carolinans aren’t familiar with it, and no one’s sure where it came from, but there’s at least one hip hop reference from the late ‘80s/early ‘90s, and a hot sauce named “Cackalacky,” whose owner said something to the effect of “there’s no single word that conveys the nature of the South better.”

Does it though?  I’m not sure.

In my mid-twenties and largely ignorant of the South other than my relatively brief stint in Florida, I didn’t know exactly how to take it at the time.  Brimming with my own West Coast quirks, northwest Florida (which is really southern Alabama) was essentially foreign to me.  Frankly I’m still not sure I have a handle on the South as a region, but I can tell you that the impression I refined on this trip is heavily positive.  Both Carolinas, especially, strike me as places I’d like to spend more time exploring, and that most everyone would find a way to fall in love with if they visited with an open mind and didn’t mind a bit of humidity.  Unfortunately we DO mind a bit of humidity, so other than an hour or so we spent entertaining the prospect of setting up shop in Asheville or Raleigh, this part of the county is off the where-do-we-settle list.

Anyway, the Carolinas didn’t seem very “Cackalacky” to me.  But I’m from Southern California and spent most of my adult life in the Pacific Northwest, so I’m not to be trusted.

Here’s an image you may have seen before.  Maybe not.  I can tell you that it was new to me, but I happened to see it on a pilot colleague’s luggage about 2 weeks before we entered South Carolina.

When I saw it, I asked him what it meant, because it looked somewhat mystical.  Like a secret society type of thing.  “uhhh, the South Carolina flag?” he answered, with more than a little befuddlement.

Of course it is.  And we saw it EVERYWHERE once we entered South Carolina.  There are states (most of them) whose flags aren’t particularly distinctive, and whose residents likely don’t have much knowledge of it.  Growing up in California, I knew vaguely that there was a bear somewhere on it, and I’m pretty sure the background is white.  Living in Washington I had no clue what my state flag looked like.  In fact I still don’t.  And then there are a few states who go absolutely nuts with their flags.  In my very limited experience (i.e. this trip), here they are, in decreasing order of hysteria:

•    Maryland.  (No kidding, the Maryland flag is everywhere there, and people wear Maryland flag socks, shorts, shirts, etc. and don’t seem to know that this is outlier behavior)

•    Texas.  (This is probably unsurprising.)

•    Colorado.  (This did surprise me. Coloradans, much like Canadians, seem very much to want others to know where they’re from.)

• South Carolina (see above)

There may be more.  I’m just saying that these four have stood out heavily.  I could also speculate that these states’ residents don’t realize that all the other states’ residents aren’t particularly state-flag-centric.  Coloradans might.  Actually, Texans might too, but don’t care.

Our drive up to Charleston from Savannah was pleasant, and not too long.  We ended up at a state park just outside downtown that was exceptionally well appointed, though the on-site water park was either not open yet, or just not open.  The kids loved it though, as did we.

We didn’t have much time there, so opted for a distilled schedule.   On night one we headed into town for a Ghost Tour, which seems to be a common draw for tourists, though the quality thereof, we’ve discovered, varies pretty widely by both city and tour guide.

First impressions:  Charleston is gorgeous.  Wow.  They call it “the Holy City” due to the concentration of impressive churches there, but that’s only a very small part of the story.  Most of the downtown is lit by gaslamps, and has an almost European feel to it.  It’s hard to come up with a comparison because I’m not sure I’ve ever been somewhere similar.  It’s entirely unique.  Great food scene too.

The Ghost Tour was not the best.  In fact it might have been the Ghost Tour that stops us from doing any more Ghost Tours.  But we did get to stroll through downtown at night and see some interesting sights; it’s a great way to see a downtown, if nothing else.

On the next day, after a slow morning, we headed to town in order to catch a ferry out to Fort Sumter in order to continue our Civil War education.  I hadn’t known much about it, frankly, before our visit, and the stories about how the Civil War began are enthralling.

Fort Sumter is actually quite a distance from Charleston, protecting the bay entrance from a small island between the long barrier islands on either side.  It’s tenuously connected to the barrier island to the south at low tide, which was another strategic stronghold, but it’s otherwise isolated.  It was commanded at the time of the Civil War’s start by a Major, which blew my mind a little, particularly when I read about the negotiations that went on before and during the active fighting.  While I certainly had some great responsibilities when I held the Navy’s equivalent of his rank, they pale in comparison to what he had to deal with on his tiny island in the Bay.  Interestingly, no one in the fort was killed during the 34 hour shelling.

What was most fascinating for me was to read about the extent of the tensions at the time, while trying to relate it to the present day.  It’s one thing to live in a time of dramatic political divisiveness, and (hopefully) quite another to live in a time when those divisions erupt easily into violence and outright warfare.  It’s difficult to imagine what would drive you to that, but I can certainly understand the “slowly boiling frog” aspect to it, where each step leads pretty naturally to the next and only very rarely does anyone step back to look at the big picture and ask the tough questions.

The girls powered through the Junior Ranger program, with a bit of help from one of the on-site Rangers.  Keeper, on the other hand, took notes for his History course, which Tacco recently discovered as part of the National Park Systems’ websites.

We also took a little detour to check out the dead horseshoe crabs on the sand bar.  I’ve only ever seen those on East Coast beaches – they’re downright prehistoric looking things and I wouldn’t want to have one crawl up my leg.

We opted for a Low Country dinner that evening, at a restaurant on the water.  Wow was it dense.  One staple is “She Crab Soup,” which takes its name from the fact that crab roe is mixed into the soup, which has a cream/sherry base to which crabmeat is added.  It was delicious.  No doubt.  We all agreed.  But it’s hard to imagine eating more than a “cup” of it.  In fact none of us was inclined to have more than a few spoons full.  That’s how rich it was.  Kinda like [spoon 1] “That’s GREAT!”  [spoon 2] “hm, still good, but man that’s heavy.”  [spoon 3] “uhhh…  I like that still, but I’m done.”

We enjoyed the dinner greatly, but it was one of the only times when not one of us suggested looking at the dessert menu, and we hadn’t even finished the food on our plates.  That’s telling.  If you’re going to live in the Low Country you probably need to ensure you’ve got a solid exercise program.

After another short stroll through Charleston’s quaint downtown in order to shake off some of our dinner-induced lethargy, we headed back to our campsite for our last evening.

Charleston, as it turns out, is another inflection point for us.  Though it’s not our furthest east point (that honor is reserved for our starting point in Annapolis), it is the point at which we turn west for the last time, which is somewhat poignant.  For so long this adventure has seemed more or less endless given how much more travel time we had ahead of us, but suddenly we have an indication that we’re approaching something resembling a final stretch.

Our next stop is Asheville, NC, which is only the second destination we will have found impressive enough to visit twice.  Technically our first visit was part of our “shakedown” trip and not the actual year’s journey, but it left quite an impression.  Tacco’s was different than the rest of ours (and is fascinating in its own right) but we all left Asheville the first time with a desire to return.

First, though, we stopped at Congaree National Park, southeast of Columbia, SC.  Never heard of it?  Neither had we.  This was another target of opportunity foisted upon me somewhat last-minute-ish by Tacco.  Remembering what I had resolved after our last minute agenda changes in Florida, I did my best to suppress my “BUT OUR PLAN WAS TO KEEP DRIVING…” instincts and assented to the stop.  And I’m glad I did.

Though it wasn’t the most impressive National Park we’ve seen (I get the impression it’s most effectively explored via canoe), we took a thoroughly pleasant hike on a raised, wooden path through the tidelands.  Amusingly, there is a “mosquito meter” at the trailhead which gives you an idea what to expect from blood-sucking pests along the way. 

Fortunately we hit it at the right time – the dial had been set to “Mild” for our hike.  I’m not sure we’d have gone through with it had it been higher.

It was an excellent way to break up our drive and spend an early afternoon, and we learned about skinks (one of whom is pictured below), crawfish chimneys, and cypress knees.  Entirely worth it.

Another factor is creeping into our travel decision-making, however, and it’s not a welcome one.

I suffered from a bout of sciatica a few years back that quickly turned me from feeling 100% fit and healthy to staring down the barrel of partial disability.  It was disconcerting, to say the least.  I began to notice a pain in the back of my leg that was exacerbated by getting into certain positions that I wasn’t always able to reproduce.  That wasn’t overly concerning, but it devolved relatively quickly into a searing pain down my leg and up into my lower back, which sitting for long periods (i.e. flying, driving) made significantly worse.  I was able to function, but I couldn’t really exercise, and once it got to the point where part of my foot began to get numb and a sneeze or a cough would just about bring me to my knees in agony, I took action.  My primary care doctor’s first response was “well ok, let’s get you on pain killers then.”  Um, what?!? That was not what I expected.  I wanted to fix it, not mask it, and I certainly wasn’t ready to be the old guy with the bad back yet.  I appreciated her desire to help me feel better, but no, that didn’t jibe with my plans.  An MRI revealed my L5-S1 disc bulging out to the right side (which was likely the cause of my pain, but not certainly), as well as considerable asymmetrical core muscle atrophy tied to the car accident that had nearly taken our (Tacco and my) lives back in 1999.  So I saw a different doctor, a D.O. this time, and opted to attack it from multiple angles, including diet, hydration, physical therapy, acupuncture, and rolfing.

And it worked!  I was only out of work for about 6 weeks, and the improvement came pretty quickly.  I was never certain whether one of the angles worked better than the others, but was thrilled with the results.  Never got the pain killers.

It did rear its head again once more about a year after the first time, but not nearly as severely, and with a few visits to the rolfer and some renewed attention to my posture and gait, it disappeared quite quickly.

Well, it’s back.  The good news is that it’s not as severe as the first time, and is only in my leg (not my back), so exercise and activity are still very much on the table.  In fact being active seems to be the thing that makes it feel the best.  The bad news is that sitting for long periods seems to be what’s bringing it back and making it worse, and this lifestyle doesn’t really provide me any way around that.  About 5 or 6 hours driving is all I’m beginning to be able to manage without undue agony.  Flying is better, as I’m able to adjust my position often and don’t need to use my feet except when on the ground or takeoff/landing.  But driving hurts.  Plus I can’t just make an appointment with my rolfer this time unless I want to fly back to Maryland.  I do have Tacco and her acupuncture needles and healing skill, however, which is a blessing.

We’re both watching this closely and hoping it’s something we’ll be able to beat back.

Now it’s back to the other Cackalacky, and cheery, beery Asheville in the hills.  Or the mountains, depending on who you’re asking.  We’ll see how Cackalacky they are.  I’m ready!

Think “country” and “living” though.  This post has zero barbecue in it.

One of the many things I envisioned in the daydreaming phase of this trip’s planning, way waaay back when, was discovery.  I was about to write “hidden gems” but that’s not it – there’s nothing hidden about these places, I just had no experience with them.  And then came the actual planning, and I noticed a tendency to want to visit places I had already seen, in order to “show them to the family.”  Granted, my current and former careers have made it such that there really aren’t as many places I hadn’t visited as most folks.  Still though, my default setting when route planning has been a gravitation toward a greatest hits list of places I’d already been.

That thinking would have caused me to miss Savannah, which would have been a horrible shame.

In fact, we still almost missed it anyway.  When we added Tampa to our itinerary we talked about cutting the corner on the rest of the South in order to get back closer to the schedule we had originally envisioned, but wisely decided that it wasn’t that big of a deal to be a week or two behind.  (Behind what?  Exactly.)

It was an OK drive up made a bit more interesting by Tacco’s insistence that we stop at a few of the national historical sites along the way, which in this case happen to be forts.  We’ve now seen a few of those in the South, and are learning much more about the Civil War than I had ever bothered to.  If you sense in my tepid wording some resistance to the stops on my part, you are correct.  At this point in our journey I don’t like to make long drives longer, and I bristle when my hard-planned-for expectations of a day’s travel agenda are violated by a “hey, let’s just do this real quick.”  It’s one thing if it’s been in the plan for a while and quite another when a “real quick” several hour stop is tossed my way two hours into a six hour day, particularly when it involves maneuvering Davista through a crowded city with narrow streets and very little parking.

One byproduct (or maybe consequence?) of traveling in this sort of close quarters with, well with anyone probably, is the discovery of conflict modes, often exacerbated by personal quirks, some heretofore unknown.  This is one that Tacco and I have discovered of late.  My relevant quirk, as described briefly above, is that once I get a short term plan in mind, I develop a completely unreasonable resistance to changing it.  Hers is that she tends to grossly underestimate how long things will take.  Put those together in this scenario, and BOOM!

That said, and I want to make this clear, I’m wrong here.  I need to get over that resistance and go with the flow, especially on a trip like this.  Annoyances over long days and difficulty with parking and traffic fade within days if not hours, but visits to historical sites don’t.  I’m so glad we stopped.  We can and have discussed in the interim how to minimize frustrations inherent in last minute changes of plans, and that was both necessary and productive.   And yes, it’s important that we plan ahead with respect to maneuvering and parking our rig, lest we manage to maneuver ourselves into a position we can’t get out of, or worse.  But at the end of the day this trip is about doing things, not avoiding inconveniences.

Here’s our drive, and we stopped at forts in St. Augustine (Castillo San Marcos) and Fort Matanzas to the south.

The two forts are related, as they were both built by the Spanish to protect an approach via water to St. Augustine, which was of course one of the earliest European settlements on the continent.  St. Augustine’s fort is much larger and protects the mouth of the bay right in town, and Fort Matanzas covers the next inlet to the south, which had been used for sneak attacks previously.

Castillo San Marcos flies the old Spanish flag, and the rangers do an enthralling recreation of a cannon fire into the bay by Spanish soldiers, complete with everything but the cannonball.

I knew vaguely, when living in Pensacola, that many country’s flags had flown over the city over the years (I want to say five?), but I found it fascinating to think anew about Spain, England, and France (and others) squabbling over the land and the various cities that we now take for granted as ours, with the Native Americans of course watching warily and probably wondering how best to navigate the situation.

Whew, that’s a can of worms.  I’ll close that right back up and move on to Savannah.

Despite living in Jacksonville for six months or so for flight training, I never really ventured north into Georgia, and assumed that the coastline up there looked similar to Jacksonville Beach, which I wasn’t particularly a fan of.

Wrong again.

We stayed at a place called Skidaway Island State Park, just south of Savannah among the wetlands, and it was drop dead gorgeous.  Basically it was the stereotypical Low Country scene, with the Spanish moss hanging from the live oaks, cypresses dotting the wetlands and throwing up their “knees” everywhere, and water creeping in and out of various passages with the tides.  It was lush in a way that felt almost tropical.

Skidaway Island used to be isolated from the mainland until a bridge was built in 1970-ish, and is now a relatively affluent suburb of gated communities, golf courses, and our State Park.  We set up camp and hung the hammocks immediately – it had been quite some time since we had such a perfect hammock-lounging campsite.

In addition, Firebolt asked that we pitch the tent that she had asked for (and received) for Christmas, so that she and possibly her sister could sleep out.

I had initially pegged Keeper as the family member with the biggest survivalist streak, but of late Firebolt has been taking over that mantle.  She’s been asking me whether she could do a “survival skills” class as part of her homeschooling for months, and I keep assenting but then not finding a good way to implement it.  It doesn’t help that I don’t know much.  Her Christmas list consisted almost entirely of camping / outdoorsy / survival related items, and one of her most dog-eared books over the last few months has been a Boy Scout outdoor skills reference title.

She and Woodsprite did end up sleeping in the tent, but I was scolded by Tacco for encouraging two under-10-year-olds to do an unsupervised sleepout in a place with which we weren’t familiar.  Though I clearly wasn’t as concerned, I did find it to be a reasonable objection, so I dragged our big body-sized beanbag and a blanket out there after we’d said our goodnights and joined them.  It was surprisingly comfortable, with the sounds of the frogs and various noise-making insects lulling us to sleep.

The next day Keeper and I started the day with a ride through the trails.  Completely flat of course, but beautiful.  I’ve been attempting to stay on track with my master plan of making a mountain biking lover out of him, but it hasn’t been as easy as I envisioned.  Lots of places where we’re staying don’t have decent trails nearby, and his bike is working against him to an extent.  I say “his,” but in truth he inherited mine, a 23 (!) year-old Gary Fisher hardtail from back when suspension was a new thing.  It’s a “limited edition Grateful Dead” version of one of Fisher’s first mountain bikes, which is amusing since I could only name two or three Grateful Dead songs, if pressed.  Anyway, she served me very well through four years of pounding the muddy trails in Whidbey Island and Anacortes (with the occasional jaunt to Hawaii via P-3), three more in The Netherlands, a blissful high-elevation year in Park City, and then the rest of my adult life thereafter.  I got a new mountain bike for Christmas two years ago, and was thrilled to pass my old beater on to Keeper once he reached my height on this trip – which by the way I absolutely did not expect at age 12, but that’s an entirely other story – in truth, though, she’s about dead.  The front suspension, an elastomer type (you can’t find those anymore) has lost all elasticity.  The shifting is sloppy at best, and the brakes are getting dangerously close to not doing their job at all, with no easy fixes available.  You just can’t find those parts anymore.  Plus she’s heavy.  Countless hours of criss-crossing the country on top of the Toad can’t be helpful either.

He’s been game to ride with me every time I suggest it, but the writing is on the wall – assuming we settle in Bend, we’re going to need to invest in new bikes for all three kids, and Tacco too likely.  That’s ok, though, feeling justified in maintaining a stable of outdoor toys is one of the things I’m secretly looking forward to.  Shh..

So yes, a gorgeous ride through the island’s trails was a perfect way to start the morning, and from there we moved on to exploring Savannah proper.

I hardly remember “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil” (the movie – I didn’t have the pleasure of reading the book), but the one scene that stuck with me was John Cusack, playing a New York reporter who has traveled to Savannah to investigate a murder – I think?? – excitedly calling back to his home office and telling them how awestruck he was by this place, and then concluding with “…and everyone’s drunk!”

I am in full agreement with his awe.  The second part I don’t quite buy but I do see where it came from.  I’ll get back to that briefly in a sec.

It’s a stunning city.  The downtown’s hallmark are it’s “squares,” which are found every few blocks and serve as lush mini parks.

They’re a little hard to pick out from the satellite view, but basically they make the already charming downtown even more so, and extremely strollable.

We didn’t have a game plan for the day, so parked the car somewhere central and stroll we did.

One thing that stood out immediately, and here I’ll return to Cusack’s quote, is that Savannah is somewhat of a party city.  It took very little time to lose count of the bachelorette parties in progress, and this was the middle of the day.  There are quite a few of these mobile bar on wheels things, which I had first seen in Bend by the way, and every one we saw had a group of women yelling “wooooo!!!!” every time they were acknowledged or saw something they appreciated.

Keeper was a little befuddled by that, having not been in this sort of environment before, and I had to try to figure out how to explain that yes, that seems to be what women in a party situation do — they yell “woooooo!!!” a lot — and no you’re right, men don’t tend to do the same thing in the same situation, and no, I don’t have a better explanation than that, but just roll with it and don’t think about it too much because it’s fun.

We had our observations confirmed soon thereafter when a tour guide informed us that Savannah is far and away the number one bachelorette party destination in the South.  The “carry drinks around in the open” rule helps too I’m sure.  Interestingly that stat doesn’t hold for bachelor parties, however – my guess is that the guys tend to head west to New Orleans.

At any rate, it does contribute not only to a celebratory atmosphere, but also to Savannah’s vaguely feminine character.  It’s difficult to explain, but it makes sense when you see it.  She’s like a classy, well-dressed Southern belle with a deeply (and maybe darkly) playful sass driving everything along just below the surface.

We opted for a horse-driven carriage tour of downtown in order to get a little insight on things and give the kiddos a break from walking.  Despite Keeper’s initial resistance to the mode of travel, it proved to be an outstanding way to see the city, as well as to scout out restaurants for dinner.

Reasoning that we’d go with full-blown Low Country cuisine in Charleston and that our bodies could only handle so much of it, we went for a highly recommended Asian restaurant instead, and it was a hit all around.

Upon our return to Skidaway, we discovered that we were in time for a Ranger-led nighttime walk through the tidal marsh, which was a perfect bookend to Keeper & my bike ride across some of the same trails that morning.

She explained at one point that she had just returned to Skidaway after several years living in Maui, and had been yearning to be back.  She then added that “that should give you an idea about how special a place this is…”  It did.

The rangers’ info made the tidelands even more fascinating to me, and one of the interesting things we learned was how to spot spiders in the underbrush at night.  Much like the back of animals’ eyes will reflect a blueish light at night, a spider’s eyes reflect green.  But they’re tiny of course, so you need to get the light to reflect directly, and the way to do this is to hold a flashlight tightly next to your eyes, shining out at the same area you’re looking, while being careful not to kill your night vision by shining the light in your own eyes.  What you see as you look around are hundreds, thousands even, of these tiny green twinkling dots, each one of which, upon closer inspection, sports the remainder of a spider hanging out trying to eat and not be bothered.  Even arachnophobic Keeper found that cool.

So far this trip, we have yet to have a park ranger-led program be a “miss.”  They’re not something I would’ve sought out in the past, but as I’ve said many times now in this blog, wrong yet again.

Chalk that up to another benefit of this year.

Tomorrow we head up to Charleston, and I’ve heard amazing things.  Evidently there’s somewhat of a long running Savannah / Charleston rivalry in place; I’m very much looking forward to gathering the data to weigh in personally.

And here we reach the southernmost point in our journey.

Our plans have morphed too many times to keep track, but one of the most major changes was our decision to return to Maryland for the Winter and leave Davista in California, rather than heading deep into Florida for the Winter.  We had originally toyed with getting all the way to Key West before turning around and possibly parking the rig in South Florida while we went elsewhere for a while, then returning to make our way slowly up Florida’s Atlantic coast.  Losing the Winter and staying west caused us to essentially chop Florida from our plans altogether (though we figured we would still hit Pensacola).

But then my cousin and aunt/uncle made contact and asked if we would see them in Tampa, and we thought “why on Earth would we not do this?”  So fortunately we cast aside our feeling of “gotta get back moving west!” and did.

My cousin – she needs a callsign… I’m going to go with ‘FunStep’ – is my only first cousin on my Dad’s side, and we’ve lived far from each other for most of our lives, which is a shame.  We were lucky enough to attend her and her husband’s wedding in Fort Lauderdale back in 2012, and they’ve since moved a few times and had two gorgeous, blond kids, who my kids hadn’t had the opportunity to meet yet.  Tacco asked me about the age difference between FunStep and I, and I instinctively answered “oh, just a couple years.”  She looked at me oddly, and I simultaneously realized I was way off.  “Wait, I remember her birth, and I’m pretty sure I was in High School.  That’s not ‘a few years,’ is it…”  “Ummm, no.  It’s not.”

I assume it’s not just me who sees people far younger than I and mentally pegs us as the same age.  Or at least “pretty much” the same age.  Peers at least.  Definitely not with me as the old guy though.  And then I see a mirror.  Or a picture.  Yikes.  Oh yeah, that’s right, I’m pushing the upper end of middle aged, and you’re in your twenties or early thirties.  Oops.  This phenomenon has only gotten more exaggerated as the years pass.

Anyway, I’ve got about 15 years on FunStep.  Her parents, my aunt and uncle, did figure into my childhood pretty significantly as they lived fairly near us in Southern California.  He’s my Dad’s only brother, and inherited 100% (maybe more?) of my grandmother’s fun-loving and magnetic personality.  He was always the one who made the family gatherings more fun and bought me cool stuff for Christmas.  Tacco commented that FunStep is the perfect mix of her parents in that she mixes her mom’s liveliness and beauty with her dad’s impish sense of humor and play.

I hadn’t yet had the opportunity to get to know her husband, either, and I always enjoy catching up with my aunt and uncle, who by the way never seem to age. Wait, am I the only one aging around here??

Anyway, as a bonus, my parents decided to take the opportunity to fly out to Tampa and join in the festivities.  Excellent!

The drive from Miramar Beach was a long one, and mostly inland.  I would have been tempted to take the coastal route down to Tampa if that existed; unfortunately beaches on the Gulf side give way to swampland not too far east of where we were, and the coast doesn’t really become “beachy” again until just a bit north of Tampa.  There’s no real coast to drive down!  What there are, and I wish we had had a bit more time to explore them, are lots of rivers and crystal clear spring-fed pools.  Alas though, we had a campsite to get to, after a late start no less, and I had a work trip to fly the day after we arrived.  I still find it almost unfathomable that we often feel rushed on this year-long trip, yet we do.  If we ever do it again (just Tacco and I this time!), we’ll take two or three years…Tampa is huge, and not particularly flush with RV campgrounds, but fortunately MacDill Air Force Base is near where my cousins live and sports a massive “Family Camp” on its southern flank.  When I called to reserve a spot I was told that we would just be missing their high season, and as such would have pretty much the run of the place.  Evidently these are prime overwintering grounds for military retirees.

The gentleman I talked to was correct, by the way.  We pulled in just at dusk and had at least a hundred spots from which to choose.  We took the one nearest the beach, made some dinner, and went to sleep.

I would like to say that the beach there gave the one we had just departed from a run for its money, but, well… It’s probably not a fair comparison from the get-go, as it’s deep into Tampa Bay rather than on the actual oceanfront.  But it was also just a little unpleasant within those constraints.  When we walked over to take a look, we were first confronted with an educational sign that described the importance of leaving the rotting algae and bits of seaweed in place, as they served as a vital habitat for the various insects and crawling things.  Ah.  So that explains the smell.  It wasn’t that bad overall… but it wasn’t really nice either.  The sand’s consistency was closer to dirt than to our last few beaches’ sugar, and the water looked a bit muddy and seaweedy.  Plus lots of little crabs near the waterfront.  Like enough to freak Tacco out a little.  It’s not often you see that many of them skittering away into their burrows when you approach.  I had hoped for another day of beach play there with FunStep and family, but after our morning walk we opted not to suggest it to her.

Also – it turns out it was love bug season!  I had forgotten about these entirely from my time as a Florida resident, but definitely noticed more than the normal amount of bug splatter on Davista’s front (and my windshield).  Once we stopped, I saw them everywhere.  Basically they’re these little black bugs that resemble fireflies without the glowing part, and they fly around in mating pairs, attached at the bug-genitalia.  Not only are they prolific, but they’re far less maneuverable than your normal run-of-the-mill insect due to their chosen flight configuration.  They.  Get.  Everywhere.  And what I had forgotten was that they only come out for a few weeks in the Spring (possibly Fall too) to do their thing, so our timing was impeccable.  But that’s not all!  I was informed by my uncle, who worked at an auto auction for a while, that their innards are acidic and will eat through your car’s clear coat if you don’t clean them off.  So I spent a good 45 minutes wiping and scraping and scrubbing lovebug remains from Davista’s front on one of our first days there, with only marginal success.  It fascinated me, while I was cleaning, to watch new mating pairs land on top of the field of body parts and semi-liquefied remains of their friends to keep on mating.  Seemed kinda hard core.  Goth even.

Tampa is quite a large city, and has an interesting Cuban section as well as a good bit of history associated with it.  I had hoped to be able to do a bit of exploring, but work was of course there ready to thwart my plans again.  That whole paycheck thing…  So I left the family behind to do their own exploring / visiting, and returned to join them a few days later.

They had already spent some time with my family in my absence, but we planned a few more get-togethers upon my return, one of which involved a rented boat, some cruising, the beach, and a yacht club, which FunStep and family had recently joined after their relatively recent move to the area.  We noted that their social strategy upon moving was quite different than ours had been in Maryland, in that they made a concerted effort to “put themselves out there” and develop a friends network.  Tacco is certainly the more social of the two of us, and did do quite a bit of networking in Annapolis, but I always felt like I had one foot out the door during our time there, and never really made the effort to connect.  I like their strategy better, I realized, and made a mental note to remember this when we eventually settle.

One of my uncle’s many talents, aside from cooking in general, is the creation of simple, yet ridiculously tasty Italian appetizer platters.  No matter where he is, he seems to be able to sniff out the best Italian deli almost immediately, and he knows exactly what to buy in order to craft his tasty wares.  Many times I’ve told myself that I needed to pay better attention when he pulls one of these out, and this time, after asking the appropriate questions, I think I might have gotten it nailed – mine have never been as good as his in the past.  Though what I should have done, I now realize, was take a picture… ah well.

The boat / yacht club day was fantastic, and exactly the type of family visit you never get enough of.  We got to see Tampa from the water, the kid-cousins got better acquainted, we did some stand-up paddle boarding, and just socialized.  Such a great day.

And then we converged on an old-school-ish Florida seafood place on the beach and tied things up nicely with some excellent food.  I realized at some point during the meal that I had eaten more oysters in the past couple weeks than I had eaten in at least the previous five or maybe even ten years.  As a huge oyster fan, that’s a travesty.  But to be fair, west coast oysters, which I do prefer taste-wise, have gotten preposterously expensive.  Long gone are the days of shooting up to the oyster farm near our house and snagging a bag of 5 dozen Kumamotos for $30.  *sniff*  The oysters are still reasonable in the Southeast, though, and I remembered how much I like them.  Chalk up another one for the South!

Overall this has been a fitting inflection point for us as we turn north (and soon west).  It was great to visit loved ones and remember that this is part of why we chose to do this trip, and it felt like it was time to begin our return to our chosen coast.

But we’re not quite done with the South yet – several never-visited cities and at least one National Park still to come this Spring.  Looking forward to it!  Now, would someone please buy our house?