Migration

We are on our way south–part of the snowbird migration to Florida—with stops in North Carolina and Georgia.  Unlike most snowbirds, our Florida stay will be brief because we are eager to be out West again.

We left Massachusetts with the leaves just starting to turn and morning temperatures dropping into the 30s.  Time to go.

Good bye Boston

Our first stop was Connecticut, where we again visited with family and prepared for the trip.  Fall is the loveliest time of year in New England and, although we did not stay for the whole season, we got a good taste.

Covered bridge at Old Sturbridge Village in Massachusetts, an 1830 outdoor museum. We took my Mom there for the day.

Zoe found her calling as a farm dog.  She’s never been happier.

Surprisingly, with all of the rolling around that Zoe has done on this trip, she has not had any ticks.  And despite all of our hiking and time outside in fields and woods, we have not had any, either.  Ticks were one of our big concerns for this trip because we knew we would be in the heart of Lyme Disease country.  Plus, we hate them.  In my anti-tick zeal, I even bought light-colored, non-patterned sheets and blankets for our trailer so that any stray ticks would easily show up on the bed.  But, not a tick in sight.  I heard it was a mild tick year in New England.  Whatever the reason, we’re happy.  Let’s hope that our luck continues.

After leaving Connecticut, we revisited Pennsylvania’s Lancaster County, an area we loved when we came through in June.  Here is our previous post.

The two visits made interesting bookends on the farming season, with fields just planted in June now ready for harvest.  In the spring it was a frenzy of activity.  School was out and the Amish children were busy on the farms in the day and outside playing in the evenings.  The farmers and horse teams were working until late at night, haying, plowing, tilling, and fertilizing.

It was much quieter on this trip, with school in session and the corn, alfalfa, soy, and tobacco still in the fields.  The big Belgian work horses were grazing in paddocks, getting a rest before their harvesting work begins.

The manure smell was more pungent after the summer’s heat, battling one evening with the smell of skunk and woodsmoke. Not a place for the odor-sensitive.

Horses returning to the barn after spreading some liquid on the fields–it smelled like manure “tea.”  The glassy water on the left is a homemade swimming hole.

Stink bugs were everywhere, trying to get in the trailer, buzzing around like little armored drones when they succeeded.

The Amish women were harvesting pumpkins, gourds, tomatoes, beans, eggplants, potatoes, peaches, pears, and apples, and selling them at farm stands, along with a variety of fall products such as home pressed cider, home canned goods, apple butter, and pumpkin whoopie pies.

Hickory nuts

Every morning we looked down on a thick fog below our hillside campground, which slowly dissipated as the sun rose.

The sky was always changing, with impressionist cloud swirls.

Landscapes out West tend to be in-your-face beautiful, undeniably stunning to even the most crusty old beauty-hardened individuals.  Lancaster’s beauty is more subtle and nuanced, sneaking up on you and catching you by surprise.  Turn a corner and there’s a line of corn against a streaky sky or silos poking up from the mist.

On the weekend, the campground was full of retirees on end-of-the season trips or snowbirds heading to warmer weather.  It was mostly a big-rig Class A crew, staking out their spaces with happy hour flags and pots of chrysanthemums.  Many were rushing around to flea markets and the enormous local smorgasbord buffets.  We preferred a slower pace, walking the roads, and taking in the beauty and glimpses of Amish farm life going on around us.  It’s a special place.

Good roads for riding–motorcyclists are everywhere in Lancaster on the weekends

Parking for Sunday service, bicycles on the left, buggies on the right.

 

Boston Centers

It is not easy to spend time in a city when you are traveling with a dog in an RV.  Fortunately, we were able to leave Zoe with George’s sister for a day and we headed into Boston by commuter rail.

No trailer, no dog, just us in the city on an exquisite September day.  Boston is petite by big city standards, wonderfully walkable, brimming with history, and full of character.

We had a specific destination–a building that played an interesting part in George’s childhood.  But first, when we arrived at South Station, we headed to Boston Common, a huge expanse of green in the center of the city.

 

Boston Public Garden next to the Common

The Public Garden’s famous swan boats

Commemorating the discovery of ether’s use for medicine. Boston’s full of these tidbits of history.

We meandered around Beacon Hill.

The doggy in the window was alive

Tiny gardens

Boston is proudly and colorfully political.  True to that tradition, things were lively in front of the State House, on the edge of the Common.

We cut across the Common again to get to the Theater District and Chinatown.  George has a history there–and it was our primary reason for coming into the city. For much of George’s youth, his father worked nights cleaning Boston’s Center Theater.  From the time George was about five years old, he regularly accompanied his Dad to the theater, where he, his brothers and sister, and his Mom helped with the cleaning.

Heading to Chinatown

 

The old Center Theater.

The theater, originally known as the Globe, was a vaudeville venue from the early 1900s to WWII, hosting famous acts such as WC Fields, Abbott & Costello, and Gypsy Rose Lee.  It changed owners and was renamed the Center Theatre in the 40s, when it became a burlesque house.  It was a beauty, with painted arched ceilings, elaborately ornamented box seats, several stories of backstage dressing rooms, and underground tunnels to neighboring theaters so the performers did not have to go outside as they went from one theater to another.

By the 1950s and 60s, when George’s father worked there, the Center Theater had become a second-run/art movie house in Boston’s infamous Combat Zone.  At that time, the Combat Zone was Boston’s “adult entertainment district,” known for its crime, strip clubs, and prostitution.  Not many children frequented it.  But George did–receiving an early education on a side of city life that many people never see.  And he’s grateful for it.  For him, it was a valuable experience, wildly exciting for a kid, giving him street smarts and a unique perspective on Boston’s late night world.  As a young child, he viewed the hookers as pretty ladies, some appearing mean and hard, while others’ faces melted at the sight of the kids.  Less pleasant was his memory of turning off the lights at the end of the night’s cleaning.  The light switches were far from the door and when he turned them off, he ran like hell to get to the door before the rats came out.

Fifty years later, the Combat Zone is gone.  It’s cleaned up and part of Chinatown.  The Center Theater now is a Chinese restaurant and that’s where we headed to meet one of George’s brothers for lunch.  The theatre has been chopped up into several different uses now.  The main seating area is a large Chinese grocery, with no hint that it was a theater, except for a slight incline to the floor where it formerly approached the stage.  The backstage area has been converted into apartments.

Dim sum at the Center Theater

The restaurant is above the grocery, with a floor where the mezzanine used to be.  Dim sum is served in the incongruous setting of the ornate ceiling and gilded proscenium arch of the theatre.  George had not been there in forty-five years, but the marble stair rails that he cleaned as a boy were still there.  Even the carpet (memories of endless vacuuming) looked the same.  I hope it’s not.

100 years and several incarnations

They tried to create a Chinese ambience, but it didn’t work

We sampled our dim sum while George and his brother talked about how things had looked in their day and their experiences there.  It was a treat for me to be able to see this place that I had heard so much about.  We were the only non-Chinese there and the owner, David Wong, came over to talk to us.  An older gentleman, immaculately dressed in a suit and tie, he bought the theater in the 70s.  He is part of a large, influential family and was delighted to talk about the theatre’s history.  He didn’t mention the lawsuit brought against him five years ago when the ceiling collapsed on the tenants’ businesses below, allegedly raining rat carcasses, chicken bones, and mold.  He was charming.

After lunch, we wandered down to the harbor area.  It was a magical day in Boston.

Some of the carousel animals bordered on creepy

We spent a lot of the day looking up

beetle traps to monitor infestation

 

Seals and chips

We did not expect to see seals on Cape Cod.  There was not much wildlife in New England, aside from squirrels, rabbits, and chipmunks, when we left in the 1970’s.  Now it is overrun with deer, wild turkeys, coyotes, and gray seals.

Every day on the Cape beaches, we saw seal heads bobbing in the surf, sometimes only one or two, sometimes as many as a dozen.  But, on our final day on the Cape, we ran into a full-blown seal convention.  We headed for Coast Guard Beach fairly early, near low tide.  On a sandbar on the beach’s southern end, a no-dog zone, there was a writhing mass of blubber–hundreds of seals.

Approaching the sandbar

And they were loud.  Making a huge variety of sounds–barks, groans, howls, and unearthly moans, like the sound made when you blow across the top of a bottle, only much louder.

 

Check out the open mouth on the right. Impressive vocal capacity.

A group of large seals patrolled the edge of the sandbar closest to the surf, waddling and rocking their way along the sand.

Others swam in the water between the sand bar and the beach, fixing their enormous eyes on the people on the shore. 

But the bulk of the seals were tightly packed on the shore edge of the sandbar, constantly moving, rolling, yowling, flapping fins, and jousting with each other.  Occasionally something would startle the skittish, starting an exodus into the water.  Most, though, just continued to carry on with their noisy, blubbery social hour.  What an amazing spectacle.

We eventually left the seals and, because it was our final day on the Cape, decided to make a quick trip to the Cape Cod Potato Chip factory.  I am picky about my potato chips.  When I was growing up, I would eat nothing but State Line Potato Chips.  When Cape Cod Chips were born, they became my favorites.  Unfortunately, except for a brief time, they have not been available in Alaska.  So, we ordered them by the box, froze them—they freeze well—and would savor them like a treat.  George usually ordered them by telephone for me and the same woman—with a heavy Boston accent—usually took the order.  After a while, when George called, he would say, “It’s George from Alaska,” and the Cape Cod Chip woman would respond with, “The usual?”

We hoped that she would still be working there.  Sure enough, when George walked into the factory gift shop, he said to the woman behind the counter, “I’m from Anchorage, Alaska . . .” and she immediately responded, “Are you George?”  We felt like we were meeting a long lost friend.  Not surprisingly, their only regular orders from Alaska came from us and occasionally one other guy.  One person in Hawaii also orders regularly.  We should have formed a support group.

The factory was interesting, too, but no photos allowed.  The manufacturing process was just as you would expect–potatoes peeled, cut, fried, salted, and packaged.  But the place was surprisingly small.  I had expected a massive industrial enterprise.  It felt more like a family business.

After our chip interlude, I returned to the beach to try to see the seals one last time.  I talked with some of the locals fishing from the beach, who were very vocal in their desire to see a culling of the seal population.  It has exploded since the Marine Mammal Protection Act passed in 1972, from near extinction to a population estimated at over 15,000.  These fishermen were convinced that the seals are affecting the fisheries and preventing a recovery of the fishing stock.  I don’t know enough about the region’s ecosystem to know if their concerns are warranted.  But there’s no doubt that these massive animals consume a lot of fish.

The tide was fairly high when I returned in the afternoon, but the seals were still swimming together in groups near the sand bar.  Their faces, with the big dark eyes, reminded me of Zoe.

Cod pieces–biking, hiking, and beaching

Cape Cod has plenty of flaws. The traffic is horrendous. It has lots of snotty rich people. But our visit was a return to childhood. Outside all day, no plans, no deadlines, a brand new bike for exploration—just like a typical summer day when we were kids. That was, of course, when kids were treated as if they were sufficiently competent to navigate the world on their own with a bicycle.

On the Cape, we had sun and time to spare—a rarity in our working lives. It is difficult to describe the Cape’s September sunshine. It infuses the air with a thick gold that almost—but not quite—seems to be palpable. It makes other colors pop, with more intense blues and greens in contrast.

Combined with the drone of insects and the spicy odors of bayberry and sweet fern—it was straight back to childhood for me. It was eerily as if I had never left New England, even though I have been gone for most of my adult life. Unsettling, but nice, too. Most days on the Cape, I would set out on the bike, with no specific destination or time by which I had to return—a luxury of childhood and retirement. It was a sweet feeling to rediscover.

Cape Cod Rail Trail

Our campground, Atlantic Oaks, was on the Cape Cod Rail Trail—a 22 mile bike and walking trail following an old rail bed. We could hop on the bike and head in either direction. The trail has bathrooms, bike shops, and restaurants along its route and is prettily heavily used. It also intersects with a trail out to Coast Guard Beach, which was nicely hilly and my favorite ride. I rode and rode and rode, just so happy to be on a bike again.

Bike path to Coast Guard Beach

Birds feeding in the marshes along the bike path before the beach

At the beach

The weather cooled down enough to bring Zoe on a short hike. We took the Pamet trails in Truro to an almost deserted beach and an old house on the cranberry bog.

Pamet overlook trail

A short hike to this deserted beach–just George and Zoe

On the crowded East Coast–no one there.

Cranberry Bog House on the Pamet trails. I don’t know why the door is on the second story. More research required.

Zoe’s ears now perk up at the word “beach,” where every day she got to race around like a pup. These were her first beaches with real surf and, surprising to me, she had no interest in swimming in the waves. She was happy with a nice wade.

Others were enjoying the (relative) solitude

The beach cliffs. These bird homes look a bit like cliff dwellings.

We sacrificed outdoor time one afternoon to finally get our phone service switched to Verizon, which has better coverage than AT&T. The Verizon folks allowed Zoe in the store, where she made herself right a home. Zoe has become a pro at adapting to changing environments.

At the Verizon store.  The saleswoman also had a yellow lab.

P’town

The tip of Cape Cod has miles of windblown dunes, ocean on three sides, and Provincetown.  The village, P’town for short, sits on a deep harbor, has the hodge-podge of streets and gray shingled houses of an old whaling port, and is known for its long tradition of welcoming artists, writers, hippies (when there were hippies), and gays.  Its natural harbor likely attracted Viking explorers and was the first landfall for the Pilgrims, who eventually moved on to Plymouth and its rock.

We started our day in Provincetown at Herring Cove, watching the water, the gulls, bicyclists, and trying to avoid watching an uncomfortable-looking girl posing for photos in a bathing suit on a windy, cold morning that had everyone else (except us—hardy Alaskans) bundled in several layers of clothes.

Rosehips at Herring Cove Beach

 

Tip of the Cape

We then ventured into Provincetown, dwarfing the cars and pedestrians in our red Tundra, a pick-up that seems to grow increasingly gargantuan on the narrow streets here in the East.  We navigated the tiny streets in search of a parking space, while I grew increasingly nervous that we would never be able to extract ourselves.  Finally, thanks to directions from a policeman, we found a parking lot large enough to accommodate a truck.

Commercial Street

By then it was mid-morning and already tourists were clogging the streets.  I cannot imagine what it is like on a summer weekend.  P’town is filled with the usual shops, restaurants, and galleries that you find in any seaside tourist town, but with an added profusion of rainbow flags.  And, in contrast with most tourist places, it is almost cultishly dog-friendly.

We joined the parade of dog lovers, following behind Zoe on her leash as she charmed every dog and person who looked her way.  Although we carried water and a dish for her, it wasn’t necessary.  All along the sidewalk, businesses set out bowls of drinking water for the doggy pedestrians.  Zoe’s favorite was at the Governor Bradford Inn, because it had ice cubes.  She stopped there twice.

Statue entitled “tourists” in front of the beautiful library

Faces in alleyways

Of course, Zoe was able to join us for lunch at a dog-friendly restaurant, where I had fresh local mussels—perfectly cooked with white wine, tomatoes, tarragon, and some chili for heat.  After lunch, we rambled around some more and headed to the docks.

I usually have french fries with the mussels–moules frites–my favorite lunch

And then, happiness—we went sailing.  I love to sail with a passion but have not been in a very long time.  Provincetown, lovely doggy place that it is, even has dog-friendly sailing.  So, Zoe added another mode of transportation to her already extensive resume.  The captain and crew, Rory and Sue, were wonderful and Zoe had company in the resident pup, Minnie.

Moondance II,  a 30′ Island Packet

Zoe settled right in

Minnie’s berth

A bit overcast but with a good sailing breeze

Photo tributes to local women on the old fishpacking plant

Heading back to the dock

We went home tired and happy.  A salty dog and her crew.

 

Codified

This makes me hungry.

September in Cape Cod—I’m approaching bliss.  Only one day in, but what a day—blue skies, breeze, not too crowded, NOT TOO HOT, a beach with seals, my favorite lighthouse—it’s all good.

We spent the past two weeks again hanging out with family in Massachusetts (near, but not quite on, the Cape) and putting things in order after four months on the road.  We ate well, drank well, and discussed the way of the world with our good family—soaking up time together that has been all too rare during our years in Alaska.

Conversations on the back patio of our temporary driveway home. Not too shabby a view–pretty sweet, in fact.

We organized–discarding things that we were not using, and buying a few others, including a bike and an RV GPS (it is geared to RVs in planning routes, locating gas stations, and much more).  I initially resisted a “fancy” GPS, being a map lover, and thinking that our free phone apps would be fine.  But after two months of hauling a trailer on the narrow, low-underpass laden, twisted roads of New England (with infamous Massachusetts drivers and tiny gas stations), I had a near meltdown when the phone GPS kept dumping me and reverting to a search we did in Oneida, New York. George kindly suggested that we could buy a better GPS and I gratefully agreed.  We should have bought the RV GPS sooner, but if we had, we would not have appreciated it as much as we do now.

We didn’t really need the GPS in getting to the Cape—one road, straight shot—but enjoyed its features anyway (3D lane changes!).  To me, Cape Cod resembles an arm flexed to show off the biceps, like the Rosie the Riveter poster or the Arm and Hammer logo in reverse.  We are staying in the forearm area (above the biceps), which is full-on National Seashore, thanks to JFK, a part-time Cape resident.  Not only is this area protected from development, but the beaches are unusually dog-friendly—a winning combination.

We had a good morning romping on Coast Guard Beach.

Marshes behind Coast Guard Beach.

There are extensive bike paths on the Cape, including one to this beach.

Amazing September light and not too many people

There were seals all over the place in the surf right next to shore. They seemed to focus on Zoe, watching her carefully.

What is that white dog up to?

We noticed this before with seals and sea lions (and a bear) in Alaska.  I do not know if they view her as a potential threat, prey, or if they are just drawn to her bright white squirminess.  The only problem with seeing so many seals is that they attract the sharks, including great whites, making a trip to the beach a little more exciting in these parts.

This seal was not looking toward the shore.

Peeking over the foam.

Last week two kayakers seal-watching near Plymouth got their boat crunched by a great white shark–they were unharmed, but wet.  This is Jaws territory.

Plenty of shark warnings.

Zoe enjoyed herself on leash

and even more off leash.

No shore development to interfere with natural dune formation

The Nauset lighthouse is right down the road from Coast Guard Beach.  A real beauty, it’s the one featured on the Cape Cod Potato Chip bags.

To potato chip fans, this may look familiar

They took some poetic license with the picture, but it’s the Nauset lighthouse

An addiction of mine—potato chips (most especially Cape Cods)—I almost drooled when I saw the lighthouse.  It’s only open for tours on Sunday.  I’ll be back.  Zoe, who also loves her chips, did a full back roll on the grass when we got to the lighthouse.  Another good day.

Back rubbing roll at the lighthouse 

and later, another ecstatic roll.   We like it here.

Old Coast Guard station