Another Thing My Wife Got Me Into...

It was a hot August day in the South Carolina lowcountry; the kind of heat that radiates off the old city of Charleston waiting expectantly for a sea breeze. Or, maybe, a thundercloud would form and drench us with cool rain soon to become steam I mused as the group walked up Queen Street past the half buried cannon barrel toward Meeting. We had just left the Southend Brewery and Restaurant at the corner of Queen and East Bay where our culinary adventure had begun.

I was not new to the craggy brick structure that houses a brewery and has the only glass elevator in the city. I had long enjoyed their grouper sandwiches when Vincent and I sold art on the streets. Now Vincent is gone, and I don't sell art on the street anymore and haven't been in the Southend Brewery in several years until today. Today was sort of a "Honey-do".  Claudette approached me several days ago and told me she had purchased tickets via Groupon for a Charleston Culinary Tour.  I had agreed remembering the fine progressive dinner we had enjoyed several years ago. This time we would be walking instead of taking a carriage.

I arrived at the brewery a few minutes late and found our guide, Glenn Morehead, right inside the door. He told me to go up to the third floor.  Aboard the glass elevator I surveyed the kitchen, brewing vats, and dining areas on the way up.  The tables were decked out with white tablecloths, and the earlier arrivals were already seated. I believe there were about a dozen  people, some retired couples and some younger, with a sprinkling of retired high school English teachers.  Our guide briefed us on the culinary scene in Charleston. One interesting fact was that if you ate in a different restaurant every day it would take about 15 years to complete the cycle.  Our tour would include visiting three eateries and sampling three dishes in each with commentary by the chef who prepared them.

Then, they brought out the food.  There were some interesting dishes: pulled pork with coleslaw on toast with a fried green tomato on top, char-grilled  pork, and barbecue shrimp on cheese grits. I am basically a "grits for breakfast" guy, but I've found that they're good at other meals as well. One dish at the Southend Brewery proved the exception.  The barbecued shrimp on cheese grits were

exceptionally good.   They were very coarse ground grits, and the mild cheddar cheese seemed to be suspended between each "grit". The shrimp were batter fried to perfection, a rarity.   I must admit that 99% of all the shrimp I eat have been over-cooked. Once the shrimp changes color, it's cooked.  Additional cooking just makes it tough. The barbecue sauce was red and sweet with just a bit of heat. Chopped scallions added a touch of contrasting color and additional flavor.  The dishes were great accompanied by a couple of in-house beers, a dark and a light.

We were greeted by the manager of Eli's Table  on Meeting Street. This building previously housed  Joseph's, which was a favorite of ours. We preferred their cranberry bog roll-up. But, alas, cranberry bogs are no more. The lady chef here had prepared some special treats for us.  A melon gazpacho, grilled pork chop, and peach cobbler was the fare. The gazpacho was unique with a blend of melon, cucumber, cilantro, jalapeno and other various and sundry items. The first taste was interesting with

a bit of heat. The second almost burned a hole in my tongue. If I want anything this hot, I'll light a match and eat the flame!  The pork was finished to perfection, very tender and moist, served with sweet potatoes and a pesto sauce. The couple next to me had martinis garnished with crispy fried bacon, a house speciality. The tiny peach cobblers were served in miniature canning  jars and had oatmeal topping under a dollop of whipping cream. Yum!

From there we walked over to Market Street and began the walk toward the Cooper River.  The market was full of the usual tourists. The air held a plethora of odors, the most dominant being shrimp cooking and suntan oil.  We passed the utility pole covered with tourist chewing gum which appeared to have been cleaned recently, but a new layer was being applied. Across the way was the Customs House.  Burwell's Stone Fired Grill is just before you get to the little guard house at the base of Market Street. The restaurant is relatively new and offers a unique dining experience. A very chatty fellow named Eric met us and seated us at  a long table. I immediately noticed the difference here. There was a lot more space between tables, the silverware was heavy, and a wood fired grill dominates. Here they serve a unique appetizer in a modified oriental soup spoon. It is a liquid, and since it is savory I will call it a soup. Quite tasty. According to the ever-talking Eric there is a great variety of this liquid appetizer. Eric launches into never ending facts about the restaurant and its menu. It is to be known as a steakhouse.  He says the steaks are of the finest aged beef, which comes from a cross-breed between Black Angus and Kobe cattle.  There is no Kobe breed of cattle.  Kobe is a cut of beef of Japanese beef cattle. On the menu the steaks are referred to as Wagyu steaks.  Wagyu is the Japanese word for cattle.  Nevertheless, we were served cubes of Wagyu beef to cook ourselves. Each couple had a hot lava stone on a tray placed in front of them flanked by two small bowls of steak sauce.  The stone had been heated to 700 degrees Fahrenheit and was coated with sea salt. Using my fork, I placed the cubes of meat on the

stone to cook. Forty-five seconds on each side and it was cooked to perfection. The beef was very tender and juicy. Yum! Burrell's also serves up kangaroo. Maybe I'll try that sometime. Our final dish was octopus.  Claudette got them to substitute pork for octopus in her salad.  She was not the only person who asked for a different meat.The cephalopod's tentacles were cut into one inch lengths,  grilled, and served on a bed of greens with pickled peppers. It was delicious.  I had had octopus in Japan, but this one was much more tender.  Local is better?  The texture reminded me of the pig's knuckles I had eaten in Santo Domingo, and the tiny suction cups were not a problem.  Claudette enjoyed her pork.

We enjoyed the culinary tour immensely and would recommend it highly. The tour doesn't visit the same restaurants each time.  I'm sure we will do it again. One note of interest: no one served chicken!

South Dakota NIghts

Wikipedia photo 

The sun was sinking in the west when we pulled in the campground east of Mount Rushmore. We had spent most of the day at the National Historic site. Now it was time for a relaxing evening by the campfire after pitching the tent and preparing dinner.  We had picked the worst possible time to visit Mount Rushmore. I will never again visit this area of South Dakota during the great motorcycle rally in nearby Sturgis. The area is inundated with Harley-Davidsons. I don't have anything personal against bikers, but I do have a problem with someone cranking up a motorcycle six feet from my tent at three in the morning. Hopefully, we had left most of the two-wheelers behind when we entered this campground. Claudette was erecting the tent while I prepared the evening meal when I heard that deep throated rumble of a Harley.

"Guess what?" I said.

"I thought we left them at the KOA," she said.

"Well, tomorrow we'll be out of South Dakota.  If I never hear another motorcycle it'll be too soon," I said.

We were camped on a small clearing in the tall prairie grass. Our biker "friends" were some thirty feet away. We had salmon with rice and vegetables and a nice sauvignon blanc. Then, relaxing around the campfire, we watched the last rays of the western sun disappear. "Have you noticed it?" I asked.

"What?" said she.

"The silence," I responded with a smile.

"Oh, the silence; it's nice," she noted.

"Our biker 'friends' have turned in early," I said.

We sat in silence, each too much involved in our own thoughts to talk. The flames turned to glowing embers as the darkness crept upon us.

"What's that!" she said.

"Where?"

"Over there at the edge of the grass." There was concern in her voice.

I saw a pair of glowing orange eyes at the edge of the tall grass.
"Probably a house cat,"  I said reassuringly.

"It looks too tall!"

"Well, maybe, but I think it's a cat," I said.

"It's too tall.  It's three feet off the ground." Now her voice had a tinge of fear.

"You know our cat Sophie is a big kitty, and when she stretches out she's pretty tall." The assurance in my voice was not projecting well.

"Maybe it's a bear!" Now she really had fear in her voice, and she was moving closer to me.

"There are no bears around here. Could be a coyote though," I said, moving closer to her.

"Will they attack people?" She was now gripping my arm.

"No, not usually," I said, trying to be calm but remembering that if animals have rabies they will attack humans. "I'm sure it's nothing to be afraid of."

"Maybe a wolf, I remember what that Indian said about them in Wyoming." She was now pressed against me.

"I don't think they're wolves around here."

We watched in silence. Time drug by. We stared at the eyes in the dark.  I think we blinked our eyes maybe every five minutes. And then they were gone.  "Whatever it was is gone now.  Let's get some sleep," I said, but I wasn't sleepy.

"Is there room for both of us on your cot? I guess that's a silly question," She asked a question and answered it.

At breakfast we looked across the clearing to the place we had seen the glowing eyes the night before. There was a mound of dirt there about two and a half feet high. It may have been an old ant hill. "You know, I believe we say a common house cat sitting on top of the ant hill last night," I said.

"It was a wolf," she said with conviction.

Down by the River

The sound of the old man singing still lingered on River Street in the morning air. He had been singing on the street for tips the night before.We were having breakfast at Huey's less than two hundred feet from the Savannah River.  The huge container ship blocked out the morning sun as it moved slowly upriver with its accompanying tug boats. Only the low of rumble of powerful diesels broke the morning silence. We were hungry and the menu was loaded with a vast variety of eggs benedict and various omelets. But for me it was simple fare. I decided on two eggs scrambled with bacon and cheese grits. The eggs were not of the free range variety and lacked fluff. I like my scrambled eggs fluffy. The grits with melted cheese on top were served in a bowl. It's akin to southern culinary sacrilege to serve grits this way. Does only Waffle House know how to serve grits properly? Grits served on a plate cool at the same rate as eggs and don't stay hot forever like they do in a bowl. The thick-cut bacon was spot on, great taste and little salt.

We finished our meal and decided on a walk by the river.

There wasn't much action. The revelers whom I heard at  2 am were sleeping late. A man fished from the rail near the paddle-wheel boat tied up nearby. We continued to walk, meeting joggers and dog walkers. Near the large ship's anchor dedicated to merchant seamen there seemed to be a hubbub of activity. Claudette and I stopped to investigate.

There was a photographer photographing a model. I found this quite fascinating. Claudette did not share my fascination.  My interest is not just some old man's interest in pretty girls. It's the process of capturing an image for commercial use that I like. It takes a team effort. Not just a photographer and model but other team members. The photographer directs the process. He picks the location and directs the model. Then, there is the lady who arranges the model's clothes and the one with makeup kit retouching the model's makeup. There is a young man pulling a small cart hauling a small generator. The generator is needed to power the fan which blows the long blonde tresses of the model. Oh, yes, there is an assistant to operate the fan. It is amusing to watch the model cycle through her repertoire of poses, robot-like, as the shutter of the camera clatters. The entourage moved along Factors Walk with more posing and photographing a tall skinny girl in black stretch pants, very high heels, and white blouse.  Her pretty child-like face was framed by long blonde hair. At one point the model was on  a vintage bicycle.

I enjoyed watching, but I was reminded that we needed to check out of the River Street Inn to return home.

Gravity Does It All

Chu Ram Falls

"I think we turn ahead to the left," I said in my role of navigator.

"How much farther?" the driver asked.

"According to the Internet, two miles from Westminster," I answered.

"And the Internet is always right. Remember the time we were following Internet directions in northern Utah and couldn't find the campground?" said she.

"I'll consider that a rhetorical question.  There should be a sign for Chu Ram Falls."

"What kind of name is that for an Oconee county waterfall?"

"Cherokee? maybe? I don't know.   Look, there is the road to the falls!" I said.

She made the turn onto the narrow road marked by the sign stating "Chu Ram County Park".
It was a short drive to the park. We paid our $2 fee to get into the park via the honor system and easily found a parking space in the empty parking area. There was space for at least fifty vehicles. We could hear the river as we disembarked. Our grandson leaped from the car and headed for the sound of falling water. We were unable to keep up to his pace. Perhaps being over fifty years his senior could have affected that.

There is a rather large, about 1200 square foot, building overlooking the river. We walked down to the river beside it.  It was only about one hundred feet from the parking lot to the water. A massive boulder is at the bottom of the waterfall. The waters of Ramsey Creek and the Chauga River join and tumble down a thirty foot cascade.  It's a beautiful waterfall and easily accessible. We sat on the big boulder and felt the mist of the mountain water on our faces. There were few other visitors to the park that day.  Some things are best not shared with a crowd.

We continued on Highway 76, which incidentally is a highway we travel each year to visit Long Creek for mountain apples.   We like to go after first frost, because that is when the Arkansas Black apples are available. This highway has many apple orchards, but it was lunchtime and so we weren't looking for an orchard. What we were looking for was the Chattooga Belle Farm in Long Creek.  We began looking for Damascus Church Road. There must be a half dozen roads named for churches off the left side of highway 76. but we eventually found it.

The Chattooga Belle Farm is a 138 acre working farm. We turned into the slightly eroded parking lot on the right and walked uphill toward the entrance  of the building, which appeared to be a house or barn, or a whatever. When you enter the building the maine area is about the size of a basketball court. We walked past a table with containers of tea and lemonade with accompanying cups and ice to see an open porch overlooking the valley and mountains in the distance. I was drawn immediately to this panorama. Claudette and Nathan were drawn immediately to food. Teenage boys are always drawn to food. I was summoned by Nathan telling me, "Grandpa, we have found the restaurant." I obliged by following him through a door to the left of the entrance. I found myself in what appeared to be a store selling "touristy" type merchandise, but a closer look revealed that it was primarily farm products and farm related merchandise. At one end of the store was a counter at which a pretty girl from Seneca, a few miles closer to civilization, took our lunch order. I ordered the herbal burger. I was feeling healthy. Nathan grabbed the table marker, #12, I paid, and we found a big round table to enjoy the mountain view.

The view is awesome. The low Blue Ridge Mountains seem to emerge from the blue sky. As the landscape advances forward the blue becomes green, culminating in the greens of the orchards and vineyards one hundred fifty  feet down the hill from the restaurant.  From our vantage point we could see the state of Georgia to the left and North Carolina to the right while enjoying our burgers in South Carolina.  The burgers were of grass-fed Black Angus beef, grown right on the farm. They, the burgers not the Black angus, were dressed with what I call the "Scarborough Fair" blend: parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. A bit of lemon mayonnaise added a little zing.

As we enjoyed our food with large cups of tart lemonade we watched as tourists picked baskets of blackberries and other fruits from the vines and trees. Baskets are rented at the store for this purpose.  The Chattooga Belle Farm is open for lunch  from 11-2 and provides a venue for meetings and wedding ceremonies as well. But for us, there were other waterfalls to find.

Unfortunately the aforementioned teenager developed a stomach ache which required attention. We returned to highway 76 and stopped by the Long Creek "shopping center". There's a gas station at the end of which appears to be a row of buildings circa 1900. Actually, it's a modern structure but adds a lot of charm to the landscape and seems to be perfectly at home there.  I entered through the gas station hoping I would find a convenience store, and I did. On the shelf of medications, of which most seem to be for colds and headaches, I found a package of Alka-Seltzer. One tablet in the package. $1.99. It appeared to be new. I stood in line at the counter.  To my right was a display case with open five gallon cartons of ice cream. The sign said "Hand dipped". A man asked the large woman behind the case for some butter pecan. "Ain't got no butter pecan.  Man's bringin' some tomorrow."

"Strawberry?" he queried.

"Jest choc'let and vanilla," she said. She was a large woman with a pasty white face.  A droplet of sweat hung precariously to her left nostril.

"I'll wait 'til tomorrow."

There was only one fellow in front of me at the counter. The line moved slowly. Each customer wanted to know why Jake, the cashier, was walking with a crutch. By the time he rung up my

purchase, I really didn't care how Jake hurt his foot. I had heard at least three explanations. From the ice cream area I heard, "Cut out all that yakking, Jake.  You gotta a lotta people in line! "The drop of sweat was still hanging on.  I hurried back to the car with my purchase only to face another crisis. You can't just swallow an Alka-Seltzer tablet; you need a glass of water. We had water, and my Rebel ingenuity kicked in.   With my trusty Schrade Old Timer I cut a half liter plastic water bottle in half for a glass and filled it with water and the Alka-Seltzer. Another little bump on the traveler's road smoothed out!

We continue on highway 76 looking for Brasstown Road on the left. We turned on the narrow country road and passed a farm or two before the road abruptly changed at the "End State Maintenance" sign. It was a little rougher but still much better that some of those we traveled in northern New Mexico. We turned onto FS 751. This is a forest Service Road.  I've found that roads built and maintained by the U.S. Forest Service are generally quite good. We followed this unsurfaced road to the end. We could hear the rushing water as we got out of the car. "Hey, there's the trail head!" said Nathan, and he hurried in that direction. We, Claudette and I, followed at a slower rate of travel.We could see the creek through the trees and hear the fast moving water. Off to our left was a forty foot waterfall.  Unlike Chu Ram Falls the water doesn't cascade much. The path is about fifty feet from the creek and muddy.  It has been raining a lot in the mountains. Neither Claudette nor I have on our hiking shoes. In our hurry to see this waterfall we had left our hiking shoes in the car. She had on sandals, and I wore some Rockport slip-ons. We tried to avoid the mud by walking on the grass, weeds, and occasional sweetgum sapling near the path. Thoughts of

Brasstown Falls

poison oak entered my mind.  I once had such a bad encounter with the toxic plant that my eyes swelled almost shut.  The sky was dark, and the heavens were about to open with another deluge of rain. Hurriedly, we did catch up with our grandson.  He had stopped at the top of the fourth waterfall on Brasstown Creek. The creek is beautiful.  Though swollen by recent rains the water was not muddy. Today the creek reflected the overhanging hardwoods  and hemlocks, with flecks of white. There is a low rumbling sound as the water pounds the rocks and continues to reshape the stones as it has done for hundreds of years. I felt a raindrop and yelled, "We gotta get out of here!"  We returned to the Toyota as quickly as we could. By the time we had reached the hard surfaced road the rain was steadily coming down.

The rain shortened our waterfall hunting trip, but we had enjoyed ourselves. There are at least twenty-two waterfalls accessible in Oconee County and more in the surrounding counties. Perhaps, when we return to Long Creek for apples, we can enjoy more waterfalls in the colorful woods of autumn.  But, of course, it won't be quite the same without a grandson.

Sometimes You Just Nail It

"It's heavy!" I said.

"I'll bet it smells bad," she said with a slight crinkled nose.

"Not, really. It must weigh at  least ten pounds," I said, raising my arms and adjusting the slouch hat on my head.

"It probably didn't feel that heavy to the buffalo though," a slight grin spread across her face. "After all, when the buffalo had that coat, he was bigger and had four legs."

"Sometimes it's irritating when you're right!" I said.

We were at the famous Holzwarth Historic District of the Rocky Mountains National Park, Colorado.  This part of the 265,761 acre park has the restored Holzwarth Dude Ranch, which was built in 1917. There are guest cabins and other out buildings filled with artifacts of that era. I was trying to get the "feeling" of the mountain men who roamed this area in the mid 1800's. I had donned the buffalo hide coat and put a broad brimmed felt hat on to get the "feeling".  I could imagine drudging through snow all bundled up and breathing the thin mountain air. Later, while visiting a friend, I was able to fire a  replica Sharpe's buffalo gun of the type carried by these mountain men and buffalo hunters. The gun weighed almost ten pounds. They were strong independent people who blazed trails through the Rocky Mountains. They built their houses from whatever material was available, some of wood, some of stone, and some of dirt. The dirt houses were those of sod.  We saw the curious plow used to cut the sod strips from the earth, which would be cut into blocks to form the walls of a sod house.  There was a sod house there with grass growing on some of the walls. There were other curious primitive tools and machinery around.  Claudette was interested in the washing machine but had no desire to replace her modern one, although the old one was more energy efficient.

As we wandered around the old dude ranch, a small wooden cow caught my interest. Actually, it was about the size of a calf. "Hey, look at this!" I said to Claudette.

"What?"

"It's a wooden steer," I answered.

"So?"

I walked over to the wooden steer and took the coiled rope from around his horns. "I'll tell you

what I'm gonna do," I exclaimed, "I'm gonna show you how to lasso that steer!"

"Yeah, right!" she says with that "here we go again" tone in her voice.

"Did I ever tell about the time when I was about ten and I lassoed this little bull when I was a boy on the farm?"

"I've got a feeling I'm going to hear it now," she said in resignation. (She is not always thrilled with my stories.)

"We had just gotten this young Black Angus bull.  I guess he weighed 'bout eight hundred pounds, and I was gonna lasso him.  I'd seen Gene and Roy lasso many a steer, and I knew I could do it too.  I made me a lasso from a plow line  and tossed it around that bull's neck as he came around the barn. He started to run, and I held on. We made about three laps around that barn with that bull pulling me behind. I was holding on to that rope with both white-knuckled hands as he dragged me along.  I hit every cow pattie in the lot before I finally realized that I could turn loose.  And I did.  I was not injured, but Mama made me strip down to my underwear before I could enter the house for supper. My sister thought it was funny."

"Okay, go for it.  But we don't have all day!" my dear travel companion said.

"Piece a cake," I said.

Of course I had no idea I could lasso the wooden steer.  It would be a feat similar to parting the waters, but I picked up the rope and made a loop of about five feet across. As I swung the loop overhead in the thin mountain air a smile spread across my face. I took careful aim at my wooden adversary and released. The loop floated through the conifer scented air before gently settling around the horns of the steer with a soft "whack".  I felt like taking a bow. I had nailed it!

"I want to see that again!" she exclaimed.

"Not a chance!" said I.

We continued our drive in the Rocky Mountains National Park.  We took the Trail Ridge Road through the park.  It's forty-eight miles of the lush and rugged terrain of the Rockies. Along the road were small diameter poles of about ten feet in height, placed at intervals, with marks on them. We decided the these would mark the roadway in heavy snow conditions.  Waterfalls tumbled from the mists of the high mountains down through the meadows in their passage to the salt waters of our coasts.  This is where the elk roam.  The bighorn sheep are elusive, but we saw one of the magnificent creatures. As we reached the higher altitudes there were no trees. Eleven miles of US 34 are above the tree line.  When we stopped at an overlook we noted the very thin air, cool and sweet. The altimeter in the car read in excess of twelve thousand feet.  After all, we were on the highest continuously paved highway in North America. We saw no motor homes or travel trailers at this altitude.  We descended to where we saw a marker indicating the  Continental Divide at Milner Pass. From here the mountain snowmelt either goes into the Gulf of Mexico or the Pacific Ocean. We were now down to 10,120 feet.  This beautiful drive is open from Memorial Day to Columbus Day. It was a photo op.

The Rocky Mountain National Park exhibits all the splendor of the Rocky Mountains and is a testament to the great untamed outdoors.

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