A RIDDLE WRAPPED IN AN

Say, what?  Stay tuned.

Our second day we decided to take the scoot south along the Banks to the 1870 Cape Hatteras lighthouse and the Graveyard of the Atlantic Museum.  The lighthouse is the tallest brick one in the country, at 208 feet, and sports a distinctive spiral pattern.

There are 257 steps to the top.  This was the first.  Sure, she’s smiling now.

A (ahem) few stops later, we got a great view from the top of the coast

and of the original keepers’ houses.  Hey, she’s still smiling!

The Banks are, of course, barrier islands, and take the brunt of the open sea.  There is constant erosion and replacement going on.  The lighthouse originally was a half mile further east, but in 1999 was moved (intact!) inland that distance to put it on safer ground.  Below is a shot of the original site – the sandy area at the end of the cleared ground.  Back in 1870, that location was itself a half mile from the ocean.

OK, to get back to the title, der riddle vas wrapped in an

Being a fan of spy novels, seeing an actual Enigma machine was pretty neat, although I have to say it’s not much to look at.  Unfortunately, it was the best part of this “museum,” which very much is a local, low-budget effort.  There was hardly anything else to see, and the free admission was just about the right price.  Don’t make a special trip for this one.  As we left the museum, the sky had changed quite a bit, and we were facing a 40 mile ride back to camp.  Note the elevated beach houses that front the ocean.

We didn’t get very far before the skies opened up with a vengeance, and the wind started howling.  This is a no go for the scoot.  I couldn’t see a thing, we were getting drenched, and we were in danger of skidding or getting blown over.  Luckily, we were near a line of houses that had carports, so we pulled over and into one that looked unoccupied, and waited out the storm.

I kept wondering who put the trash cans out and whether they’d come home to find us lurking in their garage, but no one did.  Some of these beach houses are bizarre in their styling, and they all sit high on stilts.

The rain slowed enough that we could proceed with caution, although I kept thinking about the “smooth” tread pattern (or lack thereof) that the scoot sports.  Not the best thing for riding in the wet.  We made it back without any real drama, but it was exhausting.  Ahhhh.  Just don’t put a white lily in my hands.

THEY CAME FOR THE WIND

and Wilbur and Orville found it, as did we.  But I get ahead of myself.  We made our way to the Outer Banks and the Cape Hatteras National Seashore.  We entered via the bridges to the north, at Nag’s Head, then went south about ten miles along the island to the Oregon Inlet campground of the NPS.  Again, no hookups, but there were flush bathrooms and little cold-shower outhouses.  All the comforts.  The park doesn’t have any beach views as it is shielded from the ocean by the sand dunes, but it was just fine.

We had tanked up on water at Pettigrew and our waste tanks were low, so we were set for 3 days of dry camping.  I was eager to see how well our solar panel recharged the batteries now that I reset the float level lower (~13.65V vs the “super boost” 14.6 that the factory uses).  I was afraid the constant higher boost was cooking the batteries, which would cause premature failure.  With watching TV and viewing a video, and normal lights use, we did just fine.  Of course, we’re at the seashore (no tree shadows) and the sun is almost at its maximum height, so all conditions were optimal.  Except for the clouds and rain.  More on that later.  That’s the bridge connecting ours with the 

next island in the Banks’ chain.  The place was only about 15% occupied, so we had some space between ourselves and our nearest neighbors.  Not enough, as it turned out.  There was a large tent, with nobody around when we pulled in and set up.  They returned about 8:00 that evening; four guys and two girls, early 20’s.  It’s still plenty light out at 8 at this time of year.  One of the guys simply turned away from his friends and proceeded to piss on the ground almost facing us.  One of the longest pees on record.  They must have been out having more than a few brews.  One of the girls was a shriek-laugher, and she kept that up until about midnight.  Fun and games at the seashore.  Fortunately, the wind came up and helped drown out the party.  Even more fortunately, the wind really howled the next night, nearly blowing their tent away, and we heard no merriment.

We headed north to Kill Devil Hill, just south of the hamlet of Kitty Hawk.  It was at the Hill that they made their flight, but stayed in a private home in KH during their first stay testing their gliders.  The monument is quite good, and a must-see if in the area.  The Hill is where they launched their gliders, and it more or less remains today.  Atop it is a huge concrete monument to the brothers and the birth of flight.

The powered flights did not take off from the hill, but rather from a flat field at its base.  My finger points more or less at the end of the flight path of the fourth flight that took place that day.

There were four flights.  Orville took the first, and went a grand total of 120 feet.

Wilbur went next, and went about 175.  Then Orville took the third attempt and made it just a tad further.  The fourth and final was Wilbur’s, and he made a beaut at over 400 feet.  That’s the little white dot in the far distance above.  Controlled, powered flight was finally a reality.  The excellent museum on site goes through the unbelievable story about how these two bicycle mechanics from Ohio analyzed the problems of flight, tested endlessly, built their own wind tunnel, corrected the wildly erroneous existing mathematical tables on various lift applications, and essentially geniused their way into their well deserved place in history.  And it all happened right where we were standing.  Very cool.

THE LONELIEST PARK

. . . if you don’t count the number of rangers manning the place.  This is the entirety of the campground at Pettigrew State Park, near Creswell, N.C.  I’m sure that pinpoints it for you.  It was our overnight jumping off point for our push to the Outer Banks.  No electric, no water, no people.  We were the sole campers that night.  The whole place has only 13 campsites.  Regardless, there were seven ranger vehicles parked at the entry station, and someone drove by “on patrol” at least every hour.  Note to the N.C. Parks system:  some serious resource reallocation needs to be considered.  These guys got nuttin to do.  The patrols were creepier than the solitude.  We got a whopper of a thunderstorm in the middle of the night.  We feared not.  Lazy Daze construction kept us perfectly dry.

DOIN’ THE CHARLESTON

Charleston, like Savannah, is loaded with history, charm, and houses.  On the whole, I preferred Savannah for its squares, while Loni leaned towards Charleston for the nifty houses.  Charleston features a housing style that is multi-story, with a false front door that opens onto a breezeway, over which are porches that run the length of the house.  This one has part of

upper breezeway closed in, but most have full porches.  This was for increased ventilation and outdoor entertaining in pre-air conditioning days.  Most all of these are 19th century houses, with some going back to the 18th.  The true swells lived in mansions along the quay fronting the bay, looking out to Fort Sumter.

 

A typical street in the old part of town:

Charleston reeks with history.

St. Michael’s Episcopal Church was begun in 1752, and still features the original box pews and pulpit.  In 1791, Washington made a tour of the South and worshipped here in one of these pews.

We of course had to drop by and tour the namesake:

I have to say, this was a mixed bag.  The house has been restored to magnificent condition, inside and out,

but the interior furnishings are, to be charitable, expensive clutter.  They are not original, but are a mixed bag of items that the current owner, a (extremely) wealthy attorney from Atlanta has picked up from seemingly everywhere.  Literally every surface is packed with knicknacks and the rooms are so crowded it would be hard to maneuver through them.  We contented ourselves with the exquisite woodwork and original chandeliers, but someone needs to edit the decor.  The docent who gave us the tour (with irritating dramatic emphasis) assured us that major museums, like the Getty, were anxious to get their hands on some of the works.  Please!  Take a bunch.

The back yard is a very nice formal garden with fountains and walks.  Perhaps the biggest disappointment (besides the $15-a-head entrance fee)was finding out that the mansion had nothing to do with old John C.  He was dead at least 25 years before it was built in 1876.  It was built by the wealthiest (and, apparently, the most despised) merchant in Charleston to show off his affluence.  John C’s grandson, Patrick, showed the right stuff by marrying the merchant’s only daughter, and they inherited the place.  So, the Calhoun mansion has a little less historical luster than I had thought.  We did finally catch up with the old boy, though.

An even bigger letdown was Fort Sumter.  Hey, you gotta go there to see where the first shots of the Civil War were fired, right?  Well . . . I guess that depends on just how keen a Civil War buff you are.  I’m not.  The fort lies way out in the bay,

and you reach it by ferry.  The fort is free, the ferry is not, but it’s a nice ride out and back with good views of the city.  The disappointment is that the fort today, as restored, bears little or no resemblance to the multi-story structure that was there at the first shot.  The fort was completed in 1860 after 30 years (!) of construction.  The Union held it for only two days after the first bombardment, and was occupied thereafter until the end of the war by the confederacy.  However, Union guns, including rifled cannon, virtually destroyed the entire place.  It was rebuilt, but only in the form that we see today.  Frankly, there’s not a whole lot to see, other than this exciting shell round still stuck in a wall after 150 years.

We went from one less than compelling attraction to another.  The Charleston Aquarium, located next to the ferry dock, was a “gem” attraction, according to AAA.  NOT.  It was just “ok,” as aquariums go, but nowhere near the league of Monterrey or the National Aquarium in Baltimore.  Heck, even Long Beach’s is better.  The only thing of real interest was the albino alligator, a rare beast indeed.

Charleston does have a nifty suspension bridge which was cool to ride over on our way out of town.

 

SEMPER FI

Paris (it’s actually spelled both ways) Island lies on the way from Savannah to Charleston.  Since my younger (20 months) brother Wayne spent so many delightful weeks frolicking there in the mid-60’s, we just had to drop by and snap a few photos for his memory bank.  Right after snapping this one, we took one of the guard shack and the snappy Marines manning it.  Uh oh.  “Maam, did you just take a picture of the guard station?  You’ll have to delete that from your camera.”  Hmmm, welcome wall, O.K., shack a no-no?  “You can take pictures anywhere else on base.”  Well, alrighty.  Must be something mighty special about that shack.   Looked like a parking attendant booth to us. 

We motored in, felt the spirit,

imagined what it would be like to be running these obstacles in this heat and humidity,

and were thankful to escape into the cool climes of the base museum, which actually was very nice.  Since both Dad and Wayne were Marines (I wimped into the Navy), it was fun looking at the history of the place and pondering what it was like to have endured it.  Give me Newport, R.I. anytime.  More lobster, anyone?

COCKAMAMIE

This is what happens when the stupid park installs the receptacles upside down.  The black box is our power controller, an expensive gizmo that normally hangs from its plug, then we plug our power cord into it.  This prevents us from hooking up to a faulty power supply, bad grounds, etc., and protects against surges or brownouts.  It either cuts off the power or sacrifices itself, depending on the event, so that the even more expensive circuitboards in the rig don’t commit hari-kari.  Because it is pricey, I use the chain to lock it to the electrical post.  Here, I had to use bungee cords to support the upside-down weight of the box, chain, etc.  Idiots. 

HARD HEARTED HANNAH

. . . the vamp from Savannah, G-A.  We didn’t see Hannah, but we certainly felt at home.

Old Savannah, founded in 1733,   is basically a grid layout, but punctuated every two blocks in all directions by these squares (not all so famously named).  The north/south streets intersect the squares in the middle, and the street then makes a big square “roundabout” around the square.  Every square is covered with these huge trees that you see in the background, dripping with Spanish Moss.  Big old mansions and 19th century buildings front each square on all sides.

   Many have fountains or statues in the center.

Many of the period houses have gaslamps on 24/7.  Look hard and you can see the flame over the door.

Very genteel.  Note the date plaque.  This would be casual ho-hum stuff in Europe, but coming from L.A., where history is measured in pre-and-post Technicolor, this is a cool step into the past.  Loni also loved the little walled gardens that many of the houses had.

European atmosphere is provided by numerous cathedrals and churches, like this Cathedral of St. John the Baptist, one of the largest in the country.

Colonial Park Cemetery sits in the middle of the town

and sports some interesting markers, like this one of the duelists:

The woman who runs the campground we were staying at said one of the “must-do’s” is to have lunch at Mrs. Wilkes.’  It’s only open M-F from 11:00 to 2:00, serves your basic Southern cuisine, family style (at a table for 10) with strangers.  She said it was much better than Paula Deen’s, and cheaper to boot.  Well, all righty.  The downside is that people start lining up at 10:00 and keep on doing so until closing time.  She was right.

Looks nice and pleasant there in the shade, eh?  NOT.  Ambient temperature was in the 90’s, humidity 93%, and we stood there for an hour and ten minutes.  Was it worth it?  Well, hell yes!

As soon as one bowl is empty, they bring a replacement.  We had fried chicken, barbequed beef, and a zillion sides.  Southern Thanksgiving.  And, a rhubarb crumble with ice cream for dessert.  Oye.  We were severely hurting for the rest of the day and night.  Note the two-handed porker at the other end of the table.  He did the place justice.  We tried to walk it off in the park

but ended up taking the scoot out to see Fort Pulaski, named for Count Casimir Pulaski, a Polish hero of the American Revolution who lost his life in the siege of Savannah in 1779.  It was built as one of a series of coastal fortifications commenced after the War of 1812, completed after 18 years of construction in 1847.  It was considered invincible.  It’s built in a pentagon, with a moat going around:

Unfortunately for the Union, it never got garrisoned, and was seized by the Confederate troops a week after Sumter fell.  With its thick walls

and many cannon,

the Rebs weren’t concerned when the Union blockade allowed the North to set up position nearby and proceed to pound the daylights out of the fort.  What the Rebs didn’t know was that the Federal armament included 10 new, experimental “rifled” guns that were much more effective than cannonballs.  The new armament opened huge holes in the walls and threatened the powder magazine, so Col. Olmstead surrendered.  This fort is in beautiful restored condition, almost exactly as it was 150 years ago, and was much more interesting than Sumter (more on that later).

Woozy from the huge lunch, tired and sweaty from walking around Fort Pulaski, there was only one thing to do. 

A coffee malted at Leopolds, in business since 1919, and still making their own ice cream.  I’m really giving my Lipitor a run for its money.  So long, Savannah.

Farewell

When I had my tussle with stage 3 cancer back in ‘07-‘08, I was helped immensely psychologically by the counsel and empathy of an old friend from high school and Stanford, Jim Green.  Jim was himself battling an even more virulent form of the disease, a form of lung cancer (no, he never smoked) which had a miserable prognosis of 6-9 months of remission.  He had just finished his massive treatments when I started mine.  His emails were a great comfort and encouragement.  Jim beat the odds, and his remission lasted until the end of last year, when the disease returned, this time spreading to the brain and elsewhere.  He recommenced treatment.  He was a doctor and knew the science, but he never gave up hope, never complained, and just fought and fought.  Last week he couldn’t fight any longer. 

Good bye old friend.

James Floyd GREEN, M.D. November 17, 1944 - May 20, 2010 Jim was born in Miami, Florida and grew up in Modesto, California where he was a star basketball player in high school. He graduated Phi Beta Kappa in chemistry from Stanford University and obtained his MD from Stanford Medical School. After an internship in Minneapolis, he served in the Public Health Service for two years on the Rocky Boy Indian Reservation in Montana, and then did an orthopedic residency at USC in Los Angeles. In 1980, he and his wife moved to Mercer Island, Washington, to raise their three sons near other members of their family. He soon founded the Evergreen Fracture and Orthopedic Clinic in Kirkland which has now grown into the Evergreen Orthopedic Center. He actively participated in Indian Guides with his boys and became the nation chief. An avid sportsman, he continually sought to improve himself in all manner of competition, and he coached youth soccer for many years, including an appearance in the state tournament. He had a great sense of humor and was extremely intelligent and principled. He loved to garden, and he recently applied his competitive spirit to bridge, attending numerous tournaments over the past few years. He will be missed by his wife, Jane, of 42 years; his three sons Jeff (wife Karen) in Redwood City, CA, Justin in Portland, OR, and Jamie in New York, NY; his mother Jeanne Bigelow; and his brother Roger. A memorial service will be held at the Bellevue Club at 2:00 p.m. on Sunday, June 6.

SPLISH SPLASH

Before leaving Darien, we had to dump tanks, unhook the electrics, stow the leveling ramp, etc.  So of course it starts to rain just as I open the black tank valve.  Hard.  I just left the sucker in the hole and ran for cover.  Fortunately, these cloudbursts don’t last long, but that was the pattern for the rest of the day.  We took the back road up to Savannah, and we were rewarded with an off-highway gem.

Only in America.  I love the blue highways.  We got to Savannah, found our grossly overpriced (but the only one in the area, which explains the pricing) r.v. park, the Savannah Oaks.  The setting is ok, but the showers are the “ten seconds of water per push of the button” type, with huge drain grates that extend into questionable holes in the wall (don’t drop the soap or you might never see it again).  The cable t.v. loses the digital stations when too many rigs are using it (ok, ok, we’re supposed to be “camping” and I’m complaining about cable tv?  I get it.).  The sites are gravel, which makes for sloggy conditions when we get hit with

rain, which is what it did all the rest of the day.  At least the wifi worked.  We listened to the thunder and vegged. As they say in the South, tomorrow is another day.