Archive for the 'Travel' Category

Packing it in

Some of our family members travel light.

Jessica can pack for a month in the States that includes her own wedding in half of a full-sized suitcase.

Josiah comes to spend the night at our house with a cell phone, his wallet, and Walmart bag containing a comb, some deodorant, sometimes a toothbrush, and possibly – but not always – a change of underwear and socks.

When forced to fly home, Katie inevitably arrives with a half-full carry-on bag.

And then there are the rest of us.

I don’t travel much, but if it’s more than about three nights, I need a big suitcase.  = {

Scott takes relatively few clothes, but a large everything else that could possibly be needed, including games, gifts, and groceries. Most of his travel is international and involves a large suitcase, one or two carry-on bags, and a computer bag.

But Andrew has officially won the prize for the highest pieces-of-luggage-to-length-of-trip ratio of any Roberts family member. His high school choir left last night by motor coach (luxury bus) for an exciting trip to Chicago over spring break. They departed at midnight Monday night and arrived in Chicago around 9:00 AM Tuesday. They will stay in a hotel Tuesday night and Wednesday night, and after seeing a show on Thursday evening, they will leave Chicago around 11:00 PM and drive home, arriving at 8:30 AM Friday. For this trip, Andrew packed one full-size suitcase, one duffle bag, and one regular backpack. Readers may leave a comment to guess the number of pairs of shoes he took.  = )



Best bottoms ever

It’s been about six weeks since we returned from our totally wonderful 3oth anniversary vacation. It was so amazing and delightful – literally, full of delight – that I wanted to blog about it, a) so I could always remember it, and of course, b) so my readers could enjoy the trip vicariously. I had planned to write a series of posts that would tell the story of our trip in sequential order. (Is that redundant?) To that end, I wrote the first post, “We should do this every thirty years,” and now, some five and-a-half long and involved posts later, we’ve barely even arrived in Townsend – boo-hoo – much less experienced ALL the great fun memories we made there. And meanwhile, life back here at home is zinging along in all its blog-worthy glory, and none of that is getting written either.  = {  So, while the logical, day by day story of our memorable time in and around Townsend surely deserves to be told, I have decided, with a deep sigh and some regret, to abandon the chronological approach and go topical. I figure it’s better to write something about our special places and activities, even if they’re out of order, than for so much water to go under the proverbial bridge that I run out of time, can’t remember the things that made this trip so special, and therefore never write about them at all. That would be maximally sad.

And so with that preamble, I hereby give you… Metcalf Bottoms!!! On Monday, our first day in Townsend, with our hammock still in the Durango and our bikes still on the rack from our cross-country trek, we packed stuff to make a picnic lunch and headed toward Laurel Falls, which was evidently a notable destination about 30 minutes from home, featuring a nice, “easy” (half-mile? paved?) walk to a lovely waterfall. Our plan was to put the lunch in a backpack and eat at the falls. Possibly with a lot of other tourists, but whatever. We’d make it work.

Our whole goal on this anniversary trip was to have fun. After all, it was just the two of us, and we could do whatever we wanted. We LOVE being outdoors in beautiful places, and the area around Townsend is one heck of a beautiful place. It also held some really precious memories. I could mention Mounds and tubing on the Little River. I could probably leave out the fact that thirty years later we still don’t agree on who locked the keys in the car in the middle of nowhere after 5 PM on a Friday night. I digress.

The route to Laurel Falls had us driving east on Little River Gorge Road, surely one of the most scenic stretches of pavement east of the Mississippi. Actually, we weren’t driving; Scott was. I was looking out the window, LOVING the views, and letting my soul be filled. Few things energize me quite like a rushing mountain stream perfectly back-lit by sunshine through millions of variegated green leaves.

The road hugged the writhing river with tight turns that, along with the incredible views, held us to about 25 mph, and every bend elicited more little gasps of pleasure and “Oh, LOOK!(s)” and “That’s so gorgeous!(es)” from Yours Truly. I was aching to take pictures, so Scott was constantly scanning for places to pull over. There were lots of small pull-outs that could accommodate a car or maybe three, but we were driving upstream with the river on our left, so they were all on the wrong side. And then there was also the matter of my bladder becoming uncomfortably full; I was getting desperate to find – or create! – a bathroom.

Just when I knew I had only about five minutes of margin max, our road merged away from the edge of the river for a short distance, and suddenly there was a paved road to the left marked “Metcalf Bottoms.” We didn’t know what a Metcalf Bottom was, but with a patch of woods between the road and the river large enough to potentially afford some privacy, we turned in. How very glad I am that we did! And not only because we found real, flushable bathrooms.  = )

Metcalf Bottoms was a large, lovely, mostly empty picnic area right along the Little River. WOW! What could be better when you’re hungry and looking for a photo-op? Maybe we could just go ahead and eat there and then go on to Laurel Falls later. So in true Roberts fashion we first drove around and scoped the entire area, noting the picturesque (my dad always says “picture-skew”) wooden bridge over the river, the many well-situated tables (some in shade, some in sun), and of course, the conveniently located bathrooms. After an almost painstakingly detailed analysis of our options, we picked a table, unloaded our stuff, and chowed down on a delicious lunch of sandwiches topped with with red onion and homegrown tomato, funner crunchies than we get at home, and two colors of grapes (thirty years being insufficient time for either of us to compromise on brands of toothpaste or colors of grapes) while playing a casual card game called Minus Five. The river gurgled past us just a few yards away, and as a bonus, the weather was absolutely perfect.

After lunch, Scott hauled out our MASSIVE hammock frame (the pipes are more than six feet long!) and set it up right at the water’s edge. With our big, green two-person pillow for comfort, my trusty walking stick for rocking, and dappled sunlight on the water for making us smile, we settled in to listen to the next installment of our Eric Liddell audio book. Ahhh, this was the life! However, I have been told by a reliable source that just a few minutes into the book I fell asleep, and that’s probably true since I seemed to have missed part of the story…

To be continued.


Wanna go to Walmart?

Scott had already decided that the thing to do would be to buy an initial amount groceries in Knoxville, and while I was in the restroom at the rest area, he had located and brought up on his phone a 24-hour Walmart that would only take us a few blocks off our planned route to Townsend. So while he drove us on into the night, Siri and I steered us toward 2501 University Commons Way, Knoxville.

We did as directed, but things started to look, well, odd. All the Walmarts I’ve ever seen (and I’ve seen a LOT of Walmarts) have been in “normal” shopping areas, but as we exited the freeway and twisted and turned to follow The Other Woman’s directions, we were clearly downtown. Downtown? Could there even be a Walmart downtown? Siri’s pretty smart, but she was clearly totally confused. We saw two really big, modern-looking, brick and glass buildings up ahead. The street Siri told us to turn onto, the one that ran alongside those buildings, was cobblestone – you know that ten year-old cobblestone stuff that was made to look quaint and like it’s been there since the 1780s? And the streetlamps were kind of ornate and looked like old-fashioned gas lights. Despite the curious décor, this was a dark, weird part of town, and we were obviously messed up. And hungry. And tired. And I was getting frustrated.

Doggone-it! All I wanted was a Walmart so I could buy some groceries, for crying out loud!

And then, shock and awe, we saw a Walmart sign on the nearer of the two buildings! How welcome, but how very bizarre. Here’s a link to some pictures. If you click through them – you can skip the interior ones that look like any Walmart anywhere – you’ll see several shots of the exterior and one of the parking garage and the escalator and the cart storage… The whole thing was like walking into another world! It actually made me think of Jessica. Maybe that’s what Walmarts are like in China or Hong Kong where land space is limited and they just keep building up?

We parked in a spacious, well-lit, clean garage, got out and followed the signs to Walmart. We also saw signs to Publix, which my memory said was a grocery chain. Tackling a new grocery store would definitely be an adventure, but at that hour of the night, we opted to stick with boring and familiar. We then rode a long escalator UP to… Walmart. Yes, Walmart was upstairs on the second floor. Inside, it looked pretty much like a regular Walmart, smaller than our super center at home and laid out strangely, but “normal” enough. So we wandered around trying to locate some breakfast stuff and lunch stuff for the next day, some milk, some juice, and maybe a bag meal or something for a supper. We also found a HUGE supreme pizza for $1.19!

Produce was a challenge. We finally found minimal freezer and refrigerator cases at the back of the store. If you shop at Walmart regularly, it would be like having a couple row of food stuff stuck back between sporting good and toys. Very odd. We were looking for fruit, but all I could find was a small display in the middle of an aisle, about half the size of the one they set up at home in the fall out in the middle of the main front-to-back aisle with all kinds of holiday baking goods. This never makes sense to me because all those baking goods are also in their normal places on the baking goods aisle, but whatever. This display was maybe eight feet long and four feet wide with a few plastic bins (about the size of those rectangular carry baskets some stores have if you want to use something smaller than a cart) that each contained four or five pieces of sad-looking fruit. I couldn’t find any employees, so I a customer, a young man, to ask if he knew where the full produce department was. He said that was it! He was very kind and respectful, a college student, as were all the other six so customers we saw. There’s evidently a college close by there. He said Walmart was good for cheap stuff for poor college students like him, but that if we really to do serious grocery shopping (we didn’t), we should go to Publix. We obviously weren’t going to mess with that, but we thanked him for the tip.

So we bought our few bags of essential edibles and checked out. And I was wondered how on earth we were going to haul our haul to the car. This was going to be a major challenge. We clearly couldn’t take the cart down the escalator, and it wasn’t going to be fun to carry several bags of groceries, some of which were heavy, down to our the escalator and across the garage to our car. Not to mention that two-foot-square pizza!

But not to worry. When you exit Walmart, you can either go back down the escalator… or… take a nice big, clean, speedy elevator! So we wheeled our cart into the elevator and then across the garage to our trusty Durango, unloaded our groceries with some difficulty because (well, we’ll skip the part about How. Much. Stuff. was already packed into said vehicle; let’s just remember that Scott likes options), parked the cart in its handy designated spot, and, still shaking our heads in consternation, drove off. Our whole Walmart-in-Knoxville experience was just surreal.

Sunset in Somerset

Scott’s parents were missionaries in China. All I’m going to say at this point is that ministering the gospel in a closed country is definitely not for the faint of heart. Scott’s dad was very highly motivated and didn’t take much time off in the way of furlough, but with five kids, four kids-in-law, and something like 13 grandchildren Stateside  – especially with 13 grandchildren! – his mom did come back for visits from time to time, and in May of 2002, she happened to be in the States while Dad, in China, had a heart attack and died.

Through a truly amazing series of events, Scott “happened” to have a valid Chinese visa and was able to fly there with Mom to comfort her and help with all the final arrangements, cremation, funeral service, burial, etc. So Dad’s body was cremated and buried overseas, but Mom wanted there to also be a service here in the U.S. with a marker placed adjacent to the plot where his parents had been buried, in Somerset, Kentucky.

At the time, quite a bit of money had been spent on a very nice headstone and plot, and later that year (or was it in early 2003? I know it was cold…) Scott had met Mom there in Somerset for Dad’s Stateside memorial ceremony. However, neither of them (and as far as I know none of his siblings) had been back there ever since. But when Scott realized our vacation would take us through much of Kentucky, he thought it would be fitting and proper to go back to Somerset to locate his dad’s headstone and take some pictures, mainly for his mom who is now 83 and unlikely to travel to China or Somerset in the near future.

We assumed this would be a quick and straightforward visit. We’d go to the cemetery, look around, and find the headstone. I’d take some pictures of it, the surroundings, Scott by the headstone, etc., and we’d proceed on to our sweet cabin in Townsend, Tennessee. Once there, or maybe even on the way, Scott would send the pictures to his mom, she would be happy (and probably sad), and we would say, as does the narrator when the Peach exits the scene, “good has been done here.”

It wasn’t quite that simple.

For one thing, there are THREE cemeteries in Somerset.

For another thing, having slept some 5,475 times in the intervening 15 years, Scott no longer had in his mind a clear picture of the cemetery, the plot, or the headstone, although he did recall that the latter was upright and of a fair size. We prayed for God to grant us favor and help us find Dad’s headstone. We were sure he would! This was, after all, a very important mission.

I was driving and Scott was navigating on his phone. He found addresses for the three cemeteries (amazing thing, that Internet) and we followed Siri’s directions to the first one. Let’s call it Cemetery “A.” After many convoluted gyrations and navigational hiccups caused primarily by an extremely poorly positioned and crossing-less railroad track, Siri proudly announced that we had arrived at our destination: an extremely seedy house in a very run-down neighborhood. Hmm. Clearly not a cemetery. Frustrated, we drove around a few blocks and up a steep hill and did find one, but it was HUGE(!!!) and nothing about it looked familiar to Scott. Sigh. We drove back and forth and up and down its many driveways, scanning for an upright headstone of fair size but finding nothing promising. The place was so massive with so very many hundreds (thousands?) of markers that it would have literally taken us all day just to traipse through the whole thing. Hopefully Dad’s headstone was in Cemetery “B,” which would hopefully be a much smaller piece of real estate and which would hopefully look familiar to Scott. We were quite hopeful.

Unfortunately, after another 20 minutes of driving characterized by much turning and backtracking and re-turning and re-backtracking, we finally came to the conclusion that although Cemetery “B” may well have existed in Somerset at some time in the past, it no longer did. We found an apartment complex and a community college, but no cemetery.

Another frustration was that it was by now about 5:00 PM on a Sunday afternoon, which meant that there was no way to call any human anywhere to find out anything. But just as despair threatened to descend, Yours Truly had what she thought might indeed be a brainstorm: with all the tech-y stuff nowadays, wouldn’t cemeteries have online lists of whose bodies were buried in them? Well, guess what? They do! So Scott began looking up his dad’s name, but could find it listed nowhere. And then we thought, “Well, his headstone is right where his parents were buried,” so Scott looked for either of their names. And found… nothing. The hours were ticking by, daylight would soon be fading, we were both tired and hungry, and we still had quite a drive to get to our digs in Townsend that night, BUT we are Robertses, as as we all know, Robertses don’t turn back and they don’t give up. Having come so far, were were DETERMINED not to leave Somerset without finding Dad’s grave and gaining photographic evidence thereof, even if we had to take the picture with flash!

Scott was just about ready to quit and go on, but I said that since we’d come so far, we might as well check out Cemetery “C.” Surely it would be there, but if not, at least we’d be able to say that we’d done all we could do, that we’d left no (head)stone unturned. Besides, I did NOT want to have to tell Mom that we couldn’t find it, that we didn’t know where Dad was buried. We even called her to see if she could describe the place or the cemetery or surrounding area or anything, but she could not.

Cemetery “C” was some ten miles out of town, out in the country. It was basically a field down in a valley, and as we approached I knew it could not be the right place. It was one of those cemeteries where there are no upright headstones. All the markers are flat on the ground (much easier for mowing and weed-eating, I’m sure) and each one has one of those identical metal cone-shaped holders for flowers. Now, I actually like exploring a good cemetery. I get into wandering around and reading the inscriptions and seeing when people lived and for how long and figuring out who was related to whom, etc. But “C” was a cemetery with absolutely no character; it was to cemetery what tract housing is to neighborhood. I was trying to not to cry as we drove away.

I gave up trying.

This whole thing was just about too sad for words! I cried so hard Scott offered to drive.

Of course, Dad’s body was long gone, but not his memory, and it just didn’t seem right. We were so terribly disappointed that we couldn’t find the place, and I think we both realized that what it meant was that NOBODY in our family – nobody who remembered Dad and cared – nobody would ever know where his headstone was. Whatever money had been spent to have it made and shipped and placed was basically wasted. There’s a big headstone where his ashes are buried in China, but Scott hasn’t been allowed back there.

While I cried, Scott called his mom and left a message saying that we had tried our best, but we couldn’t find it.

In addition to making me cry for quite a few miles, this situation also made me think. It made me think that I want to be sure to look up the information my parents prepared a lot of years ago about their wishes for what’s to be done with their bodies. It made me think that we need to find out what Scott’s mom wants done with hers. And if that is, “be buried next to my husband,” well, it looks like that can’t happen.  = {  It made me think about what Scott and I want our kids to do with our bodies, and where. And it especially made me think that I want to make sure that Scott’s and my names and our currently living parents’ names all get entered into some online cemetery registration(s), so that if somebody in the future wants to visit our/their grave(s), they can look it up and know where to go look. Sweet Georgia Peaches!

And if anybody’s reading this who happens to be around when I leave this earth, be it noted that I don’t give a flying rip how much weed-eating hassle my marker causes; I want a headstone that stands up and says something that matters! While I guess I can handle that business of grieving without a body, I think having a headstone firmly anchored to the earth at some known physical place – while it obviously matters not one iota to the deceased – is really important for the the living who remain and remember.

So, through my tears we left Somerset, probably forever, and turned southeast. It was about 7:30 PM and we still had 159 miles to go, but we’d be traveling through some truly gorgeous scenery. After all, eastern Kentucky is awfully close to West Virginia!

“I lift up my eyes to the mountains – where does my help come from?” Psalm 121:1

Brochures, BBQ, and billboards

We’ve been home from our nine-day, 30th anniversary trip-of-a-lifetime for 12 days now, and I have been absolutely itching to blog. However, as you know, I am never bored, there’s been quite a bit going on recently, and I’ve just not had made the time to write. But my reward for completing a certain part of today’s to-do list is to blog, so at long last here goes the next installment of our trip!

Having completed our two super tours of Mammoth Cave, having obtained our requisite “black bar” national park brochure (Katie, who lives in Virginia, a state FULL of national parks and monuments, started aggressively collecting these brochures a few years ago; I already had in our filing cabinet a handful of them I’d picked up in the Dark Ages, but I’ve just officially re-started the habit in the past couple years),

Mammoth Cave brochure.jpg

and having driven to and then walked the 0.4 mile loop boardwalk trail around Sloan’s Crossing Pond, we were hungry and more than ready for a tasty BBQ lunch at the Porky Pig Diner, which we had previously noted was open till 3:00 PM on Sundays. On the way, we once again saw those mysterious Cedar Sink Road Pig signs, one of which was in sight of the diner itself. We parked, stretched our legs, and walked to the door.

The Porky Pig Diner sits alone at a crossroads in rural Kentucky. It has a gravel parking lot, in which were several cars, and a glass door, through which we could see folks inside sitting and talking at several tables. It was 2:40 PM, and our mouths were watering. Scott reached to open the door for me, but even before he touched it, an older woman – she had to be at least 60 – pushed it open from inside and said loudly and firmly, “We’re CLOSED.” Scott said, “But it’s only 2:40, and…” and she cut him off with an even more emphatic “We’re CLOSED.” There was no arguing with the lady, so, disappointed, we turned and drove away. Clearly the Porky Pig Diner doesn’t need (or want?) any additional tourist dollars, care deeply about customer service, or feel an obligation to adhere to its stated hours of operation!

That said, I still have a soft spot in my heart for a small business owner who makes her own decisions and refuses to be controlled by others. Long live that independent, conservative spirit! That Sunday afternoon those folks in the diner were probably ready to go home and watch a football game or go fishing or play with their grandchildren or take a nap. Our luncheon loss, but more power to them.

We then took the scenic route back to the highway – VERY scenic and fun! – and at long last ended up in Glasgow, KY where, in desperation we ended up buying White Castles to go. This was a throw-back to my childhood; White Castles are called “sliders” now, and yes, I did eat and thoroughly enjoy not one, not two, not even three, but five of them. (They’re small.) From there we traveled the lovely Cumberland Parkway toward Somerset.

Scott and I do have a definite driving rhythm, developed some fifteen years ago when we were driving 45 minutes one way to church every Sunday. Scott likes to use his time in the car to accomplish something, be it reading the Bible (which is what he did back in the day), working/researching on his computer, keeping up with the Red Sox on his phone, planning ministry activities, or dealing with issues related to our vacation rental house business. I like to drive, and since I’m more comfortable in the driver’s seat than in the passenger’s, I do most of the long-distance driving while he does the in-town part. [I never have understood why he feels compelled to take over driving once we get into a town. Maybe he doesn’t trust me? He used to do this on the rare occasions when we ate lunch out after church in Springfield. He insisted on driving us from the church to the restaurant, but then wanted me to drive the 35 minutes home on the freeway.] In any case, these default settings worked really well for us on this trip, with the result that until we actually got where we were going, he was in the Bible or on a device and I was driving.

Oh, now I also remember this: Scott had gotten banged around playing basketball the week before, and he had a hip that was much happier in the passenger seat; that was another reason I was the one behind the wheel on the Cumberland Parkway.

Now, this particular highway was interesting to me. For one thing, although it looks and feels like an interstate, it didn’t seem to have a highway number. (?!?!?) I guessed at the time – and later confirmed my hunch – that although this is no longer the case, it was originally a toll road. And as is usually the case with toll roads, the Cumberland Parkway has NO billboards. I mean zero, zilcho, nada, not one. The rolling countryside is lovely, and it’s nice to not have a lot of junky signs all over (think Branson), but with some 80 miles of billboard-less pavement, I was beginning to get bored and sleepy. As I told Scott, you can’t play the alphabet game on the Cumberland Parkway!

And the Cumberland Parkway wasn’t even the most direct route from Mammoth Cave to Townsend, TN, but it was the best way to get to Somerset, KY, a city where we were determined to accomplish a special mission.

To be continued…

Down, down, down; it was a long way down.

We do very much enjoy exploring country roads, so as we bid a fond farewell to the Green River ferry, we took a short cut on Joppa Ridge Road. It was dusk, the road was gravel/dirt, and Scott’s estimation from our trusty Mammoth Cave National Park map was that we should hit the highway in about two miles. We wound over and up and around and down, and sure enough, Joppa Ridge Road spit us out by Joppa Church (Baptist, built in 1900) on Highway 70 exactly 2.1 miles later. My Hero is really good with directions and distances.

From there, we once again passed a mysterious sign for “Cedar Sink Road Pig” and continued on to our hotel in Bowling Green. Note to self: Fairfield Inn Bowling Green beats Courtyard in Paducah, hands down. Not only was the carpet dry, the breakfast there definitely was something to write home about. Between the two of us, we feasted on waffles, fresh pineapple, scrambled eggs with cheddar cheese and salsa, cantaloupe, sausage, orange and apple juices, and the best poppy seed bread I’ve ever eaten. Truly a breakfast of champions.

Back at Mammoth Cave for our 11:00 AM “Domes and Dripstones” tour, I was a bit troubled when our ranger guide (Ashley, not Holly) informed us that this 3/4 mile tour would involve 500 steps. Wow. The two-mile “Historic” tour the day before had featured an upward set of 155 steps, and while I had been proud to manage those at a slow but steady pace – without even stopping to rest on the landings! – the thought of doing three times as much gave me pause. Had me concerned. Filled me with dread. OK, the truth is that I was really worried.

Needlessly, as it turned out. 500 was the total number of steps, both up and down, and after the first very narrow 288 down, the rest were scattered throughout the tour. I was again amazed at HOW MANY folks they put through on a tour – typically about 100 – and how efficiently it all works. As we had done the day before, we (I) had chosen to be at the front of the pack, one, because our guides had said that slow movers should be at the front and fast walkers at the back, and I’m a slow mover, especially with stairs, and two, because I don’t hear as well as some, I love a good tour guide, I love to ask questions (we know where Josiah gets it!), and I learn the most when I am up close and personal with the guide. Ranger Ashley did not disappoint, and since we had to wait several minutes at each stop for the whole snaking line of folks to make their way to the benches, we got to ask her extra questions and get extra explanations – a real bonus.

Scott and were again amazed and intrigued by the ENORMOUS size of the cave, the amazing stories of early explorers and guides, the “candle-spotted” ceiling autographs of visitors over a hundred years ago, and the absolutely unbelievable work that had been done through the years to engineer and install all the staircases, walkways, railings, benches, and lighting that allowed us to tour the cave. And of course, our wonderful experience at Mammoth Cave just re-kindled Scott’s desire to go spelunking – in the wild, wet, dark, muddy, cramped, slithering, exploring sense of the word. Personally, I am not a wild, wet, dark, muddy, cramped, slithering kind of a girl, although I do love my own style of exploring – in a car or on a trail – but I’ll happily send Scott on a wild cave experience, cheer him on, pray for his safe return, and afterwards do his laundry and tell him how brave he is. = )

In which we cross three bodies of water

I don’t know if we took the most direct route from Walnut Shade to Mammoth Cave, but I’m sure it was the most fun, the most scenic, and for me, the most exciting. Somewhere a few miles east of Wilson City, MO (population 110, area 52 acres), out in the total middle of absolutely nowhere and surrounded by soybean fields, U.S. Highway 62 does a most amazing. As we came around a tight bend with warnings about narrowing lanes, there suddenly rose up in front of us a slim, elegant, arching “Erector Set” (as we called such when I was a child) bridge. Over the Mississippi River!!! Oh my! How glorious! I have since learned that it was completed in 1929, and I can’t imagine what all it took to build it. Here’s the view we had as we approached the bridge, compliments of Wikipedia.

As we crossed the Cairo Mississippi River Bridge, we could actually see the Ohio River emptying into Mississippi. Wow! The far end of the bridge landed us on the very southern tip of Illinois, but only for about a minute, as the road angled right and then crossed the Cairo Ohio River Bridge, a spring chicken of a bridge, completed in 1937. Here’s a Wikipedia photo of that one.

Two incredible bridges over two major rivers, back to back! And none of that boring flat concrete stuff. These huge spans had character. They looked dignified, like any good, self respecting bridges should look. I was just about beside myself with joy. (Well, Scott was beside me and has been for thirty years; an even better reason for joy.) Those two sequential crossings meant that in the space of five minutes, we were in Missouri, Illinois, and Kentucky. MUCH more exciting than that Four Corners stuff in the American southwest.

I’ve been making a list in my phone of all our great 30th Anniversary Trip experiences I want to blog about. The list is LONG and growing almost hourly. We’re having the time of our lives! So, having written about those two unforgettable crossings, I’ll return to my chronological narrative back where we left off, after our super fun late afternoon ride down and (walk) back up on the Mammoth Cave National Park bike trail.

On Saturday afternoon, as we’d been driving through the park toward the Mammoth Cave visitor center, I had seen a sign about a ferry. Now I do have a special fondness for ferries. Just ask Katie. Ferries are rare birds these days, much like endangered species, and I feel somewhat of an obligation to avail myself of any ferry that presents itself. To this end, I had asked Scott if perhaps we could scope out the ferry on Sunday afternoon after our second cave tour, and he had seemed willing. So after our first cave tour and aforementioned bike ride, with dusk approaching, he turned down the road with the red warning sign: “Ferry closed to all trailers.” A mere half mile later, we were face to face with the Green River, the stream that formed Mammoth Cave either six thousand or six million (depending your age-of-the-earth perspective, but let’s not go there tonight) years ago. Now the Green flows more or less next to Mammoth Cave, and I think the two rivers that flow through the lower levels of the cave, Echo River and the River Styx, ultimately converge with it… ? Anyway, the Green River is not huge and neither is its ferry. In fact, with a maximum capacity of three cars, it’s the smallest ferry I’ve ever seen!

I thought the side-mounted porta-potty was a nice touch, and no, I didn’t try it out! There are two cables strung across the river, and the ferry is pulled across along them, via two cables on each side of the boat. One is visible on the right front corner of ferry at the right end of the yellow bar. And here’s one of the connections to the top cable.

We rode over and turned right around and rode back, just because we could, and it was free. Below Scott’s turning the Durango around at the top of the hill, while I inspect the very long metal “tape measure” mounted in the ground beside the ferry approach. I think it shows the water depth…?

You’ll be pleased to know that The Green River Ferry operates every day except Christmas, weather and water conditions permitting.

This whole experience made me smile big for a very long time!