I have been to the mountain top -- Downeast cont'd

Acadia National Park occupies much of Mount Desert Island. Woodrow Wilson designated a portion of  the park, the first national park east of the Mississippi, as a national monument in 1916, and the rest of it came into being three years later.

We picked up our park pass on Monday in Bar Harbor. The ranger who helped us explained that the wonderful buses don't go to the summit of Cadillac Mountain, and because the afternoon is supposed to be sunny with temps in the 60s, we have the perfect excuse to take the Mustang with us on our visit.

Waves crash on the rocks near Sandy beach.

We'd decided on several parts of the park we wanted to see, a tiny fraction of the available sights.Why didn't I plan for more time?

A shopkeeper told me Monday to enjoy my stay because I'd never be back. I might just have to prove him wrong.

We start at the visitor center, where we pick up a map and discuss a possible itinerary with one of the rangers. We intend to take the bus to a  place called Sandy Beach, then hike the Ocean Trail to Thunder Hole and Otter Cliffs. From there, we'll grab the bus again and go to Jordan Pond. The Jordan Pond House is supposed to be famous for its popovers, so we'll have lunch there and return to the visitor center. We'll end our day at the park with a top-down drive up Cadillac Mountain.

She agrees we have a good plan.

On the way to Sandy Beach our bus driver provides some commentary about aspects of the island and the park. The only part I remember is about I house I took a picture of  while walking the Shore Path in Bar Harbor. A man from Maine named Bruneau or Grunau or something like that fell in love with an English woman and asked her to be his wife back in the States. He hadn't a house, and she wouldn't say yes until he agreed to build her one. So he did, a magnificent edifice overlooking Frenchman's Bay. He sent for her on its completion, and she took passage on ... the Titanic.

I suspect that Sandy Beach is seriously crowded during the summer. Plenty of people have gathered this day, but the weather's not very conducive to swimming. Small waves representing the remnants of the surge from Hurricane Leslie break onto the beach, and kick up spouts of spray at the edges of the beach where the rocks begin. We shoot a bunch of pics trying to catch the perfect view, then stand back to just enjoy the scene.

A woman standing behind me tells her companion, "I could stay here and watch this all day." I know exactly what she means. That picture in my mind? I'm soaking in the reality.

These women capture the scenery without the need
for camera batteries.

Finally we tear ourselves away to start down the Ocean Trail. The trail is only two miles long, but we will spend the rest of the morning hiking it. The terrain isn't difficult, but a new view presents itself every few yards, and every view begs you to take a picture. Side trails beckon you to explore them, and when you do, more spectacular views appear. The camera fairly screams, "Use me!"

I'll shoot so many photos my battery will run low, and I'll be forced to conserve power by turning my camera off between shots and limiting the number of pics I try to take. I'll learn some day to make sure I charge the battery the night before going on an adventure.

But having the battery run low is a blessing because it forces me to stop and enjoy the sights before my eyes, to build memories. The whole reason for being here, after all.

Thunder Hole

Thunder Hole lives up to its name. Though the surge is ebbing, water still flows into the cleft in the rocks and then crashes upward in a huge spray, accompanied by a loud boom. The path leading down near the cleft is blocked. Apparently the surge created dangerous conditions, and park officials don't want visitors on the slick, concrete surface, though by the time we arrive, the path is pretty dry.

The trail ducks up into the forest for a short while, then cuts back toward the shoreline. We're on the trail at the same time as a group of birders and catch bits and pieces of their guide's observations. We finally wind up at Otter Cliffs, a hundred feet above the water and a great spot for a sweeping view of the bay and the Gulf of Maine.

We catch the bus and head for Jordan Pond. The Jordan Pond House is the only dining establishment in the park proper, and we check in at the desk to get on the list for a table. While we wait we look through a gift shop, then sit out on a terrace overlooking the pond.

The pond is bigger than some lakes we've been on and is supposed to be 100 feet deep. The result is a sapphire-colored water that stands out against the green of the trees. We're called for our table and are seated at a table with a view of the lake through the window.

The popovers live up to their reputation. Light and airy, served with butter and homemade strawberry jam. I don't eat much strawberry jam, but this is wonderful. I would eat more strawberry jam if it all tasted like this.

You're promised two popovers with your meal. The first is served before you receive your entree, the second when you've finished. You don't need an appetizer or a dessert -- but of course they'll be glad to serve you both.

John D. Rockefeller -- Junior, I think -- had a series of carriage roads built on the island, closed then and now to automobile traffic. A carriage house is sited at one of the entrances to the trails, but we don't have time to do more than take a picture of it and head back to the car.

The view from the top of Cadillac Mountain.

Back at the visitor center we drop the top on the Mustang and follow the signs toward Cadillac Mountain. The mountain is billed as the tallest mountain on the East Coast, but it's only a bit over 1,500 feet above sea level. That's plenty high enough, though, to open up yet another glorious vista that sucks the rest of the life out of my camera battery.

We walk the path that takes you on a more than 200 degree arc along the shore view up to the top of the peak and drink in the beauty. Then it's back down the winding road to the hotel.

That night we decide we want hamburgers. I know. But that's what we wanted. The Internet tells me the best place in Bar Harbor is the Side Street Cafe, aptly named. Like so many of the diners, this one is a converted house with lots of atmosphere. College students seem to like the place, and some couples are obviously on dates.

The burgers are very good, and we decide to try the one other item as ubiquitous as lobster -- wild Maine blueberries, which we had in pie. Yum.

We return to the hotel, our tummies full from the good food and our minds stuffed with images and memories beyond the mental images that drew us here.

Bah Hahba

One of the picturesque streets in Bar Harbor. All the buildings
house shops or restaurants, or shops with restaurants in them.

Weather will dictate how we spend the next three days. Monday is supposed to be a bit on the cool side, "breezy," which we will learn is the term they use in Maine for pretty much a normal West Texas day, and partly cloudy.

Tuesday is supposed to be warmer and less windy. We also learn there's a storm surge warning because of Hurricane Leslie that will lessen throughout the day. Wednesday will be the warmest day, with seas of only 1-2 feet.

All that adds up to shopping on Monday, the national park on Tuesday, and whale watching Wednesday 

Once you arrive on Mount Desert Island, you can go almost anywhere using "free" buses. I say "free" because when you board the bus, it has a money collection box with a sign asking for donations to help keep the buses free. They're propane powered so you'll feel doubly good about protecting the environment -- using mass transit that uses cleaner burning fuel. The denizen of Bar Harbor seem to be very keen about being green.

For me, it's a case of not having to worry about figuring out how to get where we want to go. With my penchant for getting lost, this is a good thing. 

One bus route starts at our hotel, though we never quite figure out the schedule, which doesn't seem to match the published one. The bus delivered us to the village green, and we begin working our way down the narrow streets, popping into numerous shops. 

Bar Harbor is a tourist town, one that abuts a national park and that draws a different cruise liner almost every day of the week. Because it's September, we don't see many children. Couples are either our children's age and younger or our age and older. I send a co-worker an e-mail about our good fortune  with the car and note that I haven't seen that many old people outside a retirement community. 

We are bombarded with puns and humorous references to the Maine accent in the shop names and on the merchandise. We actually don't hear the Maine accent much, but it's charming when we do. Part of the picture in my mind.

At the risk of sounding like a teenage girl, I found the cutest little stuffed moose in one of the shops. We're not going to see a real moose on this trip, but moose toys, sculptures and pictures are everywhere, though. The cute stuffed moose is "mounted" on our bookcase now. 

This doesn't come close to doing justice to the view from
the town pier.

We're going to need a warm coat for our whale watching tour, but we were unable to find anything suitable at home. The shops have loads of the perfect coat at a reasonable price. They all have patches with either "Bar Harbor" or "Acadia" on them, but I'm willing to sacrifice. Of course, the first time we go to WalMart after our return, we find lots of similar coats suddenly available. Oh well.

We put off buying the coats until Wednesday so we don't have to haul them around or deal with them and shop our way down to the harbor. A nice, though. little park fronts the harbor, and I'm stunned by the view when we arrive. The picture in my mind lies before me, and its beauty is overwhelming. If I don't do another thing while here, my trip has been made. 

We putter about, taking dozens of pictures, then decide we're hungry. We wind up at the West Street Cafe, one of the many charming, little restaurants in the town. Maine is famous for lobster, of course, and you can't go into a restaurant without finding lobster on the menu. Hamburger joint? Lobster rolls. Breakfast cafe? You can have lobster in your omelet or as part of a breakfast burrito. In fact, the only place I don't see lobster listed is at Subway. Yes, we did. 

We have fried haddock, with a light breading. Very unlike the fried seafood you buy in Texas, even along the coast. The fish doesn't taste fried and has a firm, pleasing texture. I could eat this any time. 

Balance Rock

After lunch we decide to walk the Shore Path, a one-mile improved path that starts at the scenic, and huge, Bar Harbor Inn and winds between Frenchman's Bay and a bunch of mansions, some of which hark back to early last century when rich folks with names like Pulitzer, Rockefeller and Campbell (you know, the soup guy) built summer homes in the town. One of the smaller ones is for sale, but we don't bother to do any research to try to find out how much it might cost. If you have to ask ...

The sign marking the beginning of the path features an interesting rock formation that comes  into view a short way along the path after you pass the Inn. Apparently it's called Balance Rock and dates back to some distant ice age. The tide is out, and on our way back Sharon climbs down to the Shore and stands by the rock to provide a size perspective shot.

One of the Porcupine Islands. See the resemblance?

The Porcupine Islands dominate the view, and you discover quickly why they're called that. A birch tree that no longer produces leaves stands like a ghost with long arms stretched to the sky. And flowering bushes with red, berry-like fruit line the path and shore.

Another couple on the path stop, and the woman pulls off one of the fruit and begins eating it. I ask if they can tell us about the plant. It's a rose, the man tells us, and the red fruit are rose hips, tart and high in Vitamin C. They're an Asian import, from Japan, he thinks. According to the Internet, the popular name for them is Beach Rose and the hips are sometimes referred to as Beach Tomatoes. Neither of us is tempted to try the rose hips for ourselves.

A Beach Rose with rose hips.

We walk to the point where the path turns up into town, then go back to enjoy the sights from the opposite perspective. Back in town, we find plenty more shops to visit, as well as the post office so we can send post cards to the kids and a convenience store for a soda.

We decide we'll be cheap for dinner and stop by the Subway to pick up a sandwich -- told you we did -- and head back to the village green to grab the bus back to the hotel. After a nap and supper, we try to figure out where the town's grocery is. The phone book lists one but does not provide an address, just a phone number. I find the location on the Internet. So much for phone books.

We take the Mustang and head back to town to the grocery and buy some fruit for snacks. We'd already stopped by a bakery across from the post office and picked up pastries for breakfast. After having walked for some six hours, sleep probably won't be a problem.

Tomorrow, we'll head for Acadia National Park.

Going Downeast

Where to go for vacation?

A trip of a thousand miles begins with a single plane flight.
Those fins at the end of the wings indicate this is an Airbus.

We started asking that question several months ago. I'd always wanted to go to Maine, though I can't really explain why. It's a picture in my mind, and I wanted to see it in reality.

I told Sharon, and she agreed it would be an interesting place to visit, though it was obvious she wondered why I wanted to go. The questions then became when and where.

We could go in late September, early October and hope to catch the foliage changing color, but we needed to get away, and I wasn't sure at the end of spring that I could wait that long. Some Internet research revealed that the East Coast's first National Park -- Acadia National Park -- was in Maine, and a bit more research indicated that would be a great place to go. So we made our plans.

We'd arrive on a Sunday -- Sept. 9 -- and leave the following Thursday. We'd spend a day at the park, a day in town and a day doing something else, depending on what we discovered. With some more Internet research, I found out we could go on a whale-watching tour, and that settled our last activity.

One of our plans wouldn't come to fruition, though, or so we thought. Taking a cue from some folks we know who'd rented a Mustang convertible for their vacation, we thought we'd give that a try. But the car rental site didn't show any available Mustangs, and the convertible listed was going to cost a chunk of change. We settled for a "midsize" car -- Toyota Corolla class, which doesn't quite meet my definition of midsize, but it would have to do.

The day arrived. We loaded our one suitcase each -- to keep baggage fees down -- into the car and headed for DFW International. Leaving early, about 6:15 a.m., helps with my nerves about driving there, but I won't begin to relax until we've checked and boarded our plane for the first leg.

I go through security first, through a machine that looks like the standard metal detector. The TSA agent asks me to stay put and calls out, "Passenger assistance." Another agent comes and asks me to follow him. We walk to the end of aisle, and he tells me to put my hands out. Then he swabs my hands and says, "Stay there, sir," like I'm gonna run off or something. The swab-reading machine clears me, and I'm on my way.

Sharon goes through without a hitch.

Once on board, I can relax. We fly to Philadelphia first and have 45 minutes to grab something to eat and get to the farthest away terminal. Neither proves to be a problem thanks to a moving walkway and a shuttle. As we walk through the terminal we see a succession of small, prop-driven aircraft that I insist has to be the kind of puddle jumper that will take us to Bangor. (By the way, the Mainers pronounce that town's name as Bang-or, with a slight emphasis on the "Bang," not Banger.)

But when we reach our gate, we discover the plane is a decent-sized commuter jet. Both legs are  uneventful, and we arrive on time in Bangor. After retrieving our bags, we go to the Hertz counter, and the lady tells us she only has one car on the lot, a Mustang convertible. We can have it for no extra charge, if we'd like. Hmm. Let me thinkyes.

We load up the Mustang and head for Bar Harbor. I brought my GPS with me, and it indicates that Bar Harbor is about 48 miles away and will take about and hour and half to drive there. What? This definitely ain't Texas. Route 3 to Bar Harbor is a two-lane, winding road, and even though the speed limit is sometimes as high as 60, we rarely go that fast.

Sailboats moored at the hotel docks.

The day is overcast, and it had rained earlier in the day, but the scenery is still gorgeous. Trees. Seventy to 80 feet tall or higher. Picturesque houses. A business that looks like it used to be a farm house with the barn attached. If the sun comes out for the rest of the week, as it's supposed to, this place is going to be gorgeous.

We cross over a causeway to Mount Desert Island, where the park and Bar Harbor are located. Our hotel is situated by a bay, and after we check in, we go exploring. Our room doesn't have a view of the bay, but the elevator has a glass back wall, and we see the bay every time we go downstairs.

This guy buzzed my head so closely I thought he was going
to hit me. And he seemed to love having his picture taken.

The hotel also has its own boat dock, and a couple of sailboats are moored there. I think that a bunch of spots we see floating on the water are mooring buoys, but I discover while looking at the photos later that they are lobster buoys. More on them later.

A gull buzzes my head, then lands and struts around nearby, allowing us to shoot as many pictures as we want. While we wander about, the clouds break a bit, and the setting sun casts a golden glow over the landscape. Looking toward the Harbor, we see a cruise ship and a four-masted schooner, the Margaret Todd, at anchor.

The cruise ship weighs anchor and steams away while we watch, its white hull tinged golden as well. This is going to be a great trip.

Mini-vacation at Lantana Lodge -- Day Three

Somehow we managed to go to bed earlier Saturday and get up later Sunday. Must of been the peace of mind from knowing we didn't have scorpions in our bed -- or we had so much fun Saturday we were really tired.

Breakfast at the restaurant was another stuff yourself affair. Sharon ordered pancakes, and they were huge. So was my omelet. Lots of running in my future.

We decided to forgo another day's sail in favor of hitting the hiking trail. Hikers, cyclists and horses share the trails, with horses always having the right of way. The trail was sanded, in spots heavily so. I took it that was for the horses' benefit, but the heavily sanded spots made for slow going.

We saw more tracks -- criss-crossing lines made by lizard tails, the occasionally thin, slithery track that probably belonged to the slender, green snakes like the one Sharon spotted, possibly a deer track and a rabbit track. Makes you feel like you're in the wilderness.

Riders and mounts take a dip in the lake.

We heard voices ahead and figured we'd have to get out of the way of some horsemen, but we came to a clearing where we could see people riding their horses in the lake. This may be why I'm not such a big fan of lake swimming. 

The morning passed by too quickly, and we had to leave. The lodge was a wonderful place, and I would be happy to come back another time. Rates are reasonable and include your daily fees for the state park units, food at the restaurant was good, and as I mentioned before, the whole atmosphere was peaceful and relaxing. And no, I'm not being paid to puff the place.

We decided to stop off at Cabela's on the way back, having never been to one, and just for fun we fired up the GPS to guide us on the trip. Really, it's a simple hop over to the interstate at Sanger and then a straight shot, with the store plainly visible and signage directing you to the sportsman's amusement park. But Ronnie, as I decided to call the GPS in Sharon's car, took us on the most amazingly tortured route to the interstate. I wonder who programs these things.

I had wondered about bringing the boats but needn't have. Boat trailers and RVs dotted the parking lot. We passed the pond that I assume they use for fishing demonstrations, crossed the bridge and saw a large, yellow, corrugated tube contraption sitting in front of the store -- a storm/survival shelter. And it was on sale! Just $69,999. Shoot, for that price I wanted to buy two, but we don't have a place to store the other one.

You can walk through the shelter. The beds seemed kind of small for adults. I suppose you could put a sleeper sofa in there.

The store is huge. We'll spend a good bit of time wandering about and not see the whole thing. We didn't find what we wanted at the price we wanted to pay, but it was interesting just to see all the stuff.

All good things must come to an end, or so someone said, and we had to return to life as usual. Laundry, grocery shopping, putting everything away, but it was all the more bearable because of the trip to the lake.

Mini-vacation at Lantana Lodge, Day 2

Despite the dire warnings about scorpions in our bed, we passed a restful night and prepared to embark on our adventures for the day.

After breakfast we grabbed cameras and headed out to explore the paths that led to the shore from the lodge. Most of the shoreline was rocky, but one section smoothed out into a kind of beach. We found lots of animal tracks in that section -- from my five minutes of Internet research, I have decided most were probably tracks of a coyote and either a squirrel or a skunk. Some obvious bird tracks appeared as well.

We were interested in the beach area because we'd brought the Hobies and thought we might beach them at lunchtime and walk up to the restaurant. We didn't need to because the lodge had a floating dock around a bend on the other side.

While we were walking back up to our room to change into our boat clothes, I felt something stab my toe. I wear closed-toe sandals, so I was a bit confused as to how a thorn managed to get in there. Back at the room, Sharon pulled what we thought was a thorn from my toe, but I noticed I had another spot just below the thorn site that looked like an ant bite, and my toe hurt a lot more that it does when stabbed by a thorn.

Kayakers cross the lake while we explore the shoreline.

Maybe a scorpion? Who knows. A scorpion sting certainly makes for a better story.

We headed for the lake and decided to sail around an island we'd spotted just east of the lodge. As we drew closer, Sharon noticed tree stumps sticking up from the water. As we passed the edge of the island we saw telephone poles as well as tree limbs. Plans for sailing all the way around were abandoned. It was late enough for lunch, so we headed back in.

We ordered hamburgers for lunch, and they brought us monsters. Big, juicy patties with what appeared to be homemade buns. The meat had to weigh in at a half pound, and the menu indicated you could order a bigger one if you wanted. We made up for it by ordering salads on the side instead of fries. But our diets were blown for the weekend.

Back on the lake the winds had kicked up over the morning but were quite manageable and made for a pleasant afternoon of scudding about the lake. For a change, Sharon fell way off from me. I'm usually chasing her wake.

The lake is large enough that even though plenty of boats were out, we never felt crowded, and by the time the wakes passed us, they weren't the toss-you-about wakes we're used to on smaller lakes. All in all, a pleasant, peaceful day on the water.

In fact, the whole weekend could be described as pleasant and peaceful. Despite the number of guests, including some children, the place seemed quiet. Even the boats didn't seem to make as much noise as at the smaller lakes we usually inhabit. The space seemed to swallow up sound. No push, no hurry. Just relax and enjoy yourself, the area seemed to whisper.

We decided to try out a Mexican food place in Pilot Point that we'd seen driving in and whose telephone book ad promised low-fat, low cholesterol fare. Either they changed their philosophy in the years after that book was published -- it was several years old -- or they lied. Either way, if our diets had been blown before, they certainly were after supper. But it was yummy.

And apparently Ernesto's is the place to come in the area. The parking lot and restaurant were jammed with people.

Back at the lodge, we popped in another movie we'd brought and crashed as soon as it was over. Another grand day.

Mini-vacation at Lantana Lodge, Day 1

Wow. Has it been that long since I've posted anything here? Has it been that long since we've been away and done anything?

Yeah, pretty much. We've visited the kids but not much else. Those trips are enjoyable. Good times visiting and eating good food. We went to Inner Space Caverns with Kevin and Michelle, but I was too lazy to write about it. Oh, and we went camping a couple of times -- also too lazy to write about.

Since then the boats came into our lives, and we've spent nearly every weekend at an area lake learning how to sail them well.

But I decided we needed to get away. Not far away, but away.

While looking for information about nearby lakes and state parks, I found out that Forever Resorts -- the same outfit that operates the Chisos Mountain Lodge in Big Bend National Park -- operates a lodge at Lake Ray Roberts, near Pilot Point, Texas.

I thought we might go the weekend after our anniversary, but Sharon told me we already had plans, so I set us up for the weekend before. The lodge's website informed me that we needed to be there by 8 p.m. or call to find out how to check in late. No problem, I thought. The trip's only about an hour; if we leave by a reasonable time, we should make 8 easily.

Sunset at Lake Ray Roberts, Aug. 10, 2012

We left in what I believed was plenty of time. There I go thinking again.

While we were eating supper somewhere north of Fort Worth, my phone rang. Because it was the general ring, I let it go to voice mail, as most such calls are misdials. I checked in a bit to see if I recognized the number, which I didn't, but I had a message.

The number seemed familiar, so I asked Sharon to give me the number from our reservation confirmation, and behold, the lodge had called. The message was from "Donna," who left me instructions about checking in after hours and suggested I call her back, so I did.

I told her we'd just passed the Texas Motor Speedway, which I guessed was at least halfway there, and as it was just a bit after 7, I thought we'd be there in plenty of time. Unfortunately we'd cranked up the GPS and were following its directions instead of the ones I'd printed off the lodge's website.

The GPS took us to the town square of Pilot Point, after we missed the initial turn it wanted us to make. But the lodge is not located on the town square. Using the printed directions, we were able to arrive just as the woman I assume is Donna was about to put out our key for us to pick up.

She explained that she would check us in, but her husband's birthday was that night, and she needed to scoot home. We could finish our registration in the morning. I teased her about having a bunch of questions but let her go on.

We found our room, unloaded our stuff and grabbed the cameras because the sun was going down, and we figured we could get some nice pics. While we were shooting and wandering the grounds, I looked over the materials we'd been given with our key.

The lodge is part of a state park, the material informed me, and as such was part of a wilderness area. We should, therefore, keep an eye out for critters, especially scorpions. Scorpions can enter your room, and you should be careful to check your bed before retiring for the night. Oh, yay.

We only encountered a cricket in our room, but I may have had an encounter with a scorpion. More on that in the next post.

When dark fell, we went back to the room. I turned on the TV to see what was happening with the Olympics. But for some reason, the one network channel that would not pop up on our TV was the NBC affiliate. So, we watched a movie we'd brought with us. Then Sharon carefully checked the bed for critters, and we called it a night.

The celebration ends

The San Jacinto Monument

We stumbled into the 175th anniversary of Texas Independence. We're life-long Texans but had never really thought about it.

Fittingly, we found out about it at the celebration of the signing of the independence declaration at Washington on the Brazos, and though that was the only site we visited during a time when some sort of official event took place, our visits to key places in Texas history renewed our knowledge, and appreciation, of the state's past.

As a part of the state celebration, the parks service or the historical commission, or some other group came up with the brilliant idea to create a "passport" listing essential historical sites that tourists could visit. While there, tourists could have their passports stamped to show they'd visited. The idea appealed to us and became a great excuse to take a series of weekend vacations for the rest of the year.

We'd visited Goliad and Gonzales, the Alamo and the missions in San Antonio. All that remained was for us to visit the San Jacinto memorial and San Felipe de Austin. With vacation in Big Bend recently completed, paid time off was a bit scarce, so we decided to fit the last trip into a standard weekend.

We packed and headed out after work on the 12th. For a change, Alice, the voice of our GPS, didn't really provide a good story to be included in these musings. I had changed the settings on the device, so once we approached Houston, Alice wanted to shuttle us off onto toll roads, but I had preloaded a Google-map route on the iPod, so we avoided the tolls.

A stop in Corsicana provides the unusual story for the trip down. We looked for a place to eat along I-45 and found the pickings a bit slim. Seems we'd connected with the highway on the southern end of town and missed most of the restaurants.

We spied an Applebee's and headed that direction. We were greeted at the door by a man who asked us if we had a reservation. Now, Corsicana qualifies as a smallish town, but really, could Applebee's really be considered an upscale establishment or was it such a busy place that patrons would need reservations?

Alas, no joke could be found. Seems the restaurant was brand new, not officially open, and they were having an invitation-only night before the grand opening. We settled for Subway instead, where the guys manning the joint served us with somewhat less than a jovial attitude.

Another diner sought directions to a Holiday Inn just a stone's throw away, but the area is so new a road from the Subway to the motel hadn't been built, so no easy route was available. The diner was confused and the server irritated.

The bad part about traveling at night is that your perception of distance and time are distorted. The trip through Houston to our hotel in Baytown seemed to take forever. I worried a bit about staying Baytown because of the refineries. (We used to live in the Borger area, and the Phillips refinery could sometimes assault the senses.) But they provided a beautiful sight as we drove past, with the colored lights shining off the water.

The trip to the memorial took us across a bay, and we drove over a cool bridge that looked like a piece of modern art. I wished I could have taken a picture.

The memorial dominates the landscape. It's taller -- thanks to a star placed at the top -- than the Washington momunent, and the star, we discovered, was designed so that no matter what angle you view it from, you see the five-pointed star that is the symbol of Texas.

The museum at the base contains a theater where they show a short film on the battle of San Jacinto, narrated by Charlton Heston, or someone who sounds like him. The film is interesting enough, but the narration nearly drove me nuts. Heston would occasionally try to pronounce place names or people's names using their Spanish pronunciation. Sometimes he said it properly. Often, he did not. And at other times, he used Anglicized pronunciation. But hearing San Jacinto pronounced as Sawn Jo-seen-to gave me the shakes.

We took the elevator to the top and gazed out over the battleground and the city, a pretty impressive sight. Then we took in the rest of the displays in the museum, where I learned that my impression that his loss at San Jacinto had pretty much ended the career of Santa Ana was entirely mistaken.

View from the top of the memorial. The stands of trees at the end
of the pool are where the Texans encamped before attacking Santa Ana's troops.

I took Texas history many moons ago, and whatever I may have actually learned had long since dissolved into the mists of time. Santa Ana led a long life of making Mexico miserable until they finally ran him off to Cuba.

Another fact I picked up while there was that the Texans turned items captured from Santa Ana and turned them into to souvenir cutlery.

The USS Texas

The battleship USS Texas lies at anchor nearby, and we headed there next. The Texas is the only surviving warship to have served in both World Wars. We've visited the aircraft carrier USS Lexington in Corpus and were amazed at the spartan nature of the accommodations for the sailors and marines. Compared with the Texas, though, the Lexington was a cruise liner.

Crew accommodations. That's bunks for eight men, short men.

The ship was designed for a complement of 900 plus men but sailed with up to 600 more. As a result, you see bunks hanging everywhere. And the officers didn't have much better accommodations, just privacy.

By the time we'd finished crawling over the ship, we'd been touristing for most of the day. We'd discovered that the Kemah boardwalk was nearby and decided to go there for supper.

We'd visited Kemah a bit more than a decade ago, and then during the week. I don't remember it being quite as crowded and nuts as it was that night. We walked around for a bit, then headed over to The Aquarium, a seafood restaurant with an aquarium built inside. Seems a bit cruel to dine on fish while their cousins are swimming in giant tanks nearby, but I didn't let it bother me.

After dinner we walked around a bit more, checking the boardwalk in hopes that a boat would sail near by on its way to the marina, which had happened the last time we were there, but no luck.

We picked up a giant muffin to split for dessert and headed by to the motel. I was so tired that when I lay down, I immediately fell asleep. A good day.

Sunday we headed for San Felipe de Austin, about an hour's drive west of Houston. A small state park has been established at the site of Austin's colony, which was commonly called Austin.

Stephen F. Austin, the father of Texas.

They have a statue of the man, some interpretive signs, a restored general store that serves as the visitor center, and a replica of the only home Austin ever owned -- a two-room, dog-run built in the 1820s. Though a reproduction, the cabin is supposed to contain some bricks from the original fireplace.

Replica of the only home Austin owned.

We were the only visitors at the time, so we had the full attention of the attendant. The park had a grand opening the week before, but she told us that it wasn't very grand. The interpretive signs arrived barely in time, and the visitor center wasn't completed. Not very many people attended. So, she said, we hadn't missed anything.

The final highlight of the trip came, of all places, at a Whataburger in Waco. Waco is the home of Dr Pepper, and the interior of the eatery was decorated in a Dr Pepper theme, including a display of bottles the company has used through the years.

This display explained to us that the company changed typefaces in the '60s, and the typeface chosen used an "r" in which the the little serif at the top that makes the letter an "r" was slightly separated from the letter's stem. When a period was added, it looked more like an "i" followed by a colon than an "r." So, the company dumped the period and never brought it back.

The anniversary trips are over now. I'm glad to have re-learned the history of the struggle endured by Texians and Texans that eventually resulted in a major expansion of the territory occupied by the United States.

From "Come and take it" to "Remember Goliad; Remember the Alamo," the story of Texas gives us a heritage worthy of the braggadocio we Texans are so fond of indulging in.