Category: Adventures with family

When you travel with me, the rule is we eat with the locals and avoid chain restaurants if at all possible. Of course, many of the places I travel have no chain restaurants. My girls laugh and say when they travel with me, “We’re off the chain.” Through the years I’ve had good meals, best meals and an occasional worst meal. When I think of the best meals I’ve had while traveling, many come to mind.

One of the best meals in the mountains backpacking with my dad was rice cakes cooked over a campfire in a skillet of butter and drizzled with honey. The best meal after coming out of the mountains on backpacking trips was anything that Aunt Barbara cooked – usually fresh beef, potatoes, gravy, and fresh bread. The best meal while camping in the high desert was left over Costco rotisserie chicken mixed with boxed Mac ‘n Cheese with fresh Aunt Betty tomatoes on the side. It seems that food just tastes better cooked over a campfire in the mountains! The best cream puffs were a toss-up between Aunt Lois and Aunt Barbara, both made with real butter and topped with fresh whipped cream and wild berries.

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There have been three best Mexican restaurants: a Mexican restaurant on the outskirts of Omak, Washington; a taco bus in Dillon, MT; and El Rodeo bus in Bozeman, MT.

One of my favorite historic places to visit was the Historic Marysville House. Who would think of finding a restaurant serving the best of steaks and seafood in a partially inhabited ghost town off the beaten path? At one time the dining room was the freight & baggage room of the railroad station. They say it’s “worth the ride,” and it is! Two more historic great dining experiences were the old inn at Gold Hill, CA and the Grand Union Hotel in Ft. Benton, MT. Hands down, the best milkshake was and is at Cole Drug in Big Timber, MT. Madison’s Restaurant in the Old Edward Inn situated in the quaint little town of Highlands, NC was one of the best all-around fine dining experiences with good food, beautiful presentation, wonderful atmosphere, and exquisite service. The Woodbridge Inn in Jasper, GA was also a great place to eat with a Dutch twist. The best breakfast was at the Adair Manor B & B in Adairsville, GA. It’s worth a stay in this restored 1895 home full of Southern charm and Country French style. The hosts shower their guests with Southern hospitality. They set the table with the most exquisite breakfast served on their fine china.

The best huckleberry pie was at Park Café at St. Mary, MT. The best cinnamon roll was at Polebridge, MT (unless you get one at cousin Bobbie’s house). The best fish was a toss-up between fresh caught trout cooked over a campfire and fresh salmon Aunt Lois cooked on a wood-burning stove. The best water is from a mountain spring at my grandmother’s old place. One of my very favorite places to eat is at Sweet Grass Ranch. I’ve had the privilege to eat there a few times, and it has been marvelous every time. One reason the food tastes great is because the friendship, history and atmosphere are outstanding.

There have been worst places to eat, too. The VERY WORST of all time was Denny’s, a chain restaurant in Bishop, CA. It was the only place open when we got to town. I ordered spaghetti, and I got spaghetti noodles tossed in ketchup. Yep – it was terrible – the worst ever! I’m sure glad there are more best places on my list!

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My youngest granddaughter is just about too cute. That means she is as cute as can be as well as smart and oozing with life and full of energy. She also has another quality. She is a Daddy Buck Whisperer. That’s quite an accomplishment at just four years old.

She was a surprise, and what a good surprise she was! There is ten years between her and her big sister with a brother stuck in the middle. I know about surprises because I was a surprise, too. There is ten years between me and my big sister. I was a 1 in 1000 chance baby. We were meant to be!

Little Bit came at just the right time. Her great grandfather, Daddy Buck,    needed her. I believe she was sent as a special gift to Daddy Buck. She brought light to his clouded eyes and life to his aging aching bones. She would come into his house at breakfast time, sit in his lap and share his blueberries. When she thought he had been at the table long enough, she’d run over to his recliner, pat the seat and say, “Daddy Buck, I need you.” He would roll his walker over to his chair, sit down and the little girl climbed up there with him. She would sit at his left side tucked up under his arm just like I would sit with my granddad when I was her age. When we went to get Daddy Buck a new chair, he tested it to make sure there was enough room for him and his little sidekick before he made his selection. Those two were like two peas in a pod. There were times when she would climb up on his walker seat, and he’d roll her off to his room or to the table as she sang a funny little tune. Sometimes he sang a funny little tune while she rang his bell and rolled from one room to the next.

The other day my daughter, her kids and I went to visit an elderly friend, Dr. Grace. She thinks all kids are wonderful, but she especially loved watching Little Bit. It wasn’t long before the little bundle of wiggles asked Dr. Grace if she could sit with her. Dr. Grace was ecstatic. She needed a Daddy Buck Whisperer, too. Soon a little girl sat quietly in the lap of this soon-to-be 99 year old lady. They were both smiling and perfectly content talking their secret language.

On Sunday, Little Bit will be about her duties again using her Daddy Buck Whisperer skills when she visits the older ladies Sunday School class. She will twirl to show off her hairdo, dress and moose boots and then curtsy for them as they oooo and ahhh before she buzzes out of the room. You always know the Daddy Buck Whisperer has struck because the room is full of smiles.

While traveling with my daughter and her family, we saw a duck. That stirred a memory of when my daughter was small. I told the grandkids that once when their mama and uncle were little, we went to Montana with Daddy Buck & Grandma Buck. We drove down the road, and a duck flew into the windshield. Daddy Buck ducked as the duck hit the window. Then I said, “And that was a true story.”

I told of the time when we were traveling on that same road and chased a jackrabbit down the road for about a mile. I added, “And that was a true story.”

My youngest granddaughter took may hand and said, “Tell us another story.” I tried to think about stories that included their mama. Soon one came to mind. 

This was the story as told to the littlest granddaughter: “When your mama was a little girl we were going to the mountains with Daddy Buck to go camping. So we started off that way. Your mom had curly hair and she had on a flannel shirt and had this great big old backpack. We got up there to the cabin, ready to go into the mountains, and she started crying. ‘I don’t want to go, I don’t want to go.’ So I said, ‘It’s too late now because we don’t have a way to get you back to town.’ We started up the trail, and she had the big backpack on her back and a hat on.”

“We got up close to the lake where there’s an old hay rake. Your mom had her picture made there. She was about to quit crying, but I think her stomach was hurting. We started up the trail and came to Eagle Park. That’s where we camped for the night. I got a picture of your mama and uncle in the river with their underwear on. The water was really cold.”

“The next day we hiked up to the waterfalls. Now, your mama pooted in her pants, and her underwear was dirty. We put a stick in the ground at the top of the cliff, a big stick, and I told your mom, ‘You’ve gotta take your panties off.’ We went down to the creek washed them out and hung them on the stick. We said, ‘This is the flag of freedom.’ Your mom said, ‘But I don’t have any underwear!’ ‘Just pull your pants up, and we’ll get them on the way back.’ So on the way back from our hike that day, we got her underwear, and they were dry. She put them on. Then we went back to Gommie’s cabin and spent the night.”

We continued our drive down the road. A little hand held mine as I told stories. That sweet little girl was mesmerized. Her eyes were intent on watching me. She would occasionally ask a question about the story, and then her sweet little voice said, “Tell me the story about the flag of freedom again.” 

The summer of 1975, my sister and I embarked on a cross country trip. We had many adventures, met lots of interesting people, visited cousins we had never seen and made many memories.  After several weeks of travel, we made it to Big Timber, Montana. We stayed with our grandmother for a few days and then headed up the Boulder to stay with cousin Babs. 

She let us use their one room cabin that was up the road from the ranch.  We parked our beat-up jalopy and waded the creek to our “new home.” There was no electricity. We did have running water right outside the door. We drank right from the creek. Our bathroom with a view was beside a tree. It was perfect!

We hung our kerosene lantern in the middle of the room, set up our Coleman stove, hauled in our cooler and threw our sleeping bags on the cots.  We were there only a couple of nights when our sleep was interrupted by the gnawing teeth of mice – no, rats! The next morning, we went to the ranch and reported the night’s events to Babs. She laughed as I gave a detail description of the huge rats that infested our living quarters. She declared that there were no rats– only mice. Whatever it was, we didn’t like to share our little cabin. We took a maze trap back with us to capture the little beasts.  We weren’t disappointed!  The little critter visited right on time after we blew out the light. Those little fellows always sound larger and beastlier in the dark in the middle of the night.  We heard clawing and pawing and gnawing as the little guy caught in the maze sought a way out.  The cheese wasn’t worth it that night!  

Imagine the scene in the middle of the night.  Us girls slept in the bare essentials.  When the mouse started its shenanigans, up we jumped.  We lit the lantern that was hanging in the middle of the room from the ceiling.  Sis grabbed a broom, jumped back up on her cot and started swinging at the poor little mouse in the maze trap.  She did that with one hand while the other arm crossed her chest trying to hide her exposed self from unwanted eyes.  I could do nothing but laugh.  There were definitely no peeping toms out there!  Only critters would look in that lone window by the creek.  There was nothing else to do but wait until morning.

When dawn came, we got up and decided to dispose of the mouse properly. We’d drown it!  We took the trap to the creek and submerged it in the icy cold water tumbling over the river rocks. That mouse didn’t drown! It floated to the top and started swimming. It got to the bank and crawled out of the water. Now what?  It would come back that night if something wasn’t done! Sis grabbed a boot and started smacking the little gray-haired, long-tailed varmint. Finally, he gave up the ghost.  We picked him up by the tail and sent him to his watery grave.  

We went to the ranch for breakfast, and I recounted the animated tale to Babs.  She laughed.  No, she bellowed, hee-hawed, at our story.  She had a hearty laugh and used every bit of it! We later went to town and got some real traps – those that snap their heads off.

My mother never understood our need for adventure nor did she understand why Daddy always had to be in the middle of it. Our adventure into the Okefenokee Swamp was no different.

We got together around the table and by phone to coordinate schedules and pool ideas to formulate a plan. On two different occasions, we took a camping trip into the Okefenokee Swamp. Now I’m a mountain girl. Swamps and lowlands aren’t my first choice, but I couldn’t miss those trips!

We gathered up everything we needed to camp in the swamp – tents, rope, Coleman stove, lanterns, food, fishing gear, insect repellant, water. Once we arrived at our destination, we got our canoes and put in at the dock. We were off.

The swamp is a fascinating place that teems with life. Birds of various kinds flew from tree to tree. Fish in the canal jumped leaving behind ripples in water as dark as brewed tea. Flowers and foliage lined the banks. The reflection of the trees in the water was so vivid I couldn’t tell where the trees ended and the reflection began. There were logs floating in the canals. As we got closer we saw the logs had eyes. Then they just disappeared. Something scraped the bottom of the canoe, and the canoe started rocking. Those logs weren’t logs – they were gators!

I’ve been on trips with my sisters before, and I’ve learned some lessons: always have a secret stash hidden in my pack and never give all the food to just one person. On one particular swamp trip my brother-in-law was along. As we rowed through the main canal, we would take an occasional side waterway to explore deeper into the swamp. My brother-in-law’s canoe took another canal to fish. The rest of us went on ahead. It was getting close to time to find our campsite, get our tents set up and cook supper before dark. We found our site, docked and got our tent up on the assigned platform. After waiting a while for the others, we went ahead and gathered our supplies to fix supper. We had caught enough fish for a mess. Though my brother-in-law had many of the food items in his canoe, we managed to pool our stashed resources and came up with enough to supplement our catch. After getting everything cleaned up from supper, we tied up the other food items into the rafters of the platform. The others never did show up. 

It got dark. Let me tell you, when it’s dark in the swamp, it is dark! There was no way the other travelers could see to make their way to us in the dark. We had the tents, stove and lanterns. There was nothing we could do, so we went and crawled into our sleeping bags for a good night’s sleep. We heard noises in the middle of the night. We all turned our flashlights on and saw raccoons using our tied up supplies as punching bags as they tried to grab a free meal.

Our intention was to do some exploring in the swamp. Instead, after a bite of breakfast, we loaded up and headed out to find our missing companions. We came to the main canal, made the turn, and there they were. There was a picnic table next to a small dock. They had made their way to the canal at dark and slept on the picnic tables. They didn’t get carried off by gators or skeeters. We left the swamp with many stories to share and add to our memories.

Sometimes adventures take you unawares. While visiting the Pacific Northwestern coast, I met such an adventure. Thankfully, it was a short adventure but one worthy of retelling, if only for a warning.

We stopped at Rialto Beach. It was a foggy gray morning. The photos I shot looked like they were shot in black and white. The sky, ocean and beach all blended in together. Bleached pieces of driftwood, small pieces as well as full sized trees with roots intact, were drifted into piles along the shoreline, one butting against the other. Some were more weathered than others. The beach was covered with pebbles of various sizes. I was especially fascinated by the green smooth rocks scattered among the other smooth stones. 

Waves battered large rock formations that jutted out of the water. They stood as cold beacons against the foreboding sky, unmoving and strong against the gray relentless waves. The incoming tide swallowed up the sandy beach leaving little choice but to walk in the rocks that lay on the beach. It was difficult to walk through the rocks and the occasional stretches of soft sand. My calves got tight, and I started to get warm. I soon took off my extra shirt and jacket.

After walking down the shoreline for a bit, we turned and headed back in the direction we came. I had seen some people walking at the edge of the surf. I took off my shoes, rolled up by pants legs and walked right at the edge of the water. As the tide came in, the sandy part of the shore was buried. I headed to the higher rocky shoreline. About that time, a sleeper wave, or sneaker wave, rushed in. I braced myself because I knew when the wave was sucked back into the water vacuum, it would try to take me with it. The power of the surf sucked the sand and stones from under my feet pulling me with it. It was like a sea monster had whipped its tentacles around my ankles and was pulling me back into its lair. I know it was quite a sight. I was in the water, but my left hand that held my camera and my 70-200 white lens was lifted high. I even took three upside-down pictures in the process (quite by accident). My traveling companion was quick to help. “Always get the shot” is the motto. It was okay if I was sucked out to sea as long as there was a photo to document it. Some help! I learned later that these sneaker waves are common in Northern California, Oregon and Washington. They can grab someone standing on the beach and pull them under and out to sea. The NOAA says, “Don’t turn your back on the ocean.”

I was sufficiently soaked. It’s a good thing I wore layers. Back at the vehicle, I put the floor mat on the seat, and traded some of my wet clothes for something dry. I had to have a shower to wash off the salt, got on some dry clothes, and we were off again on another adventure.

It was a perfect day for a ride in the mountains. There was a charge of electricity in the air.  Adventure rode on the breeze all around us.  Yep, it promised to be a good day! Cousin Babs had matched us up with our steeds.  My sister was atop Captain. True to his name, he was demanding and always vying for the lead.  I was atop Ramona.  She was a pretty sorrel. She would edge up beside Captain and he’d reward her with a bump of his rump or a swift kick.   

Mounted up with our lunch packed on our saddles we started across the field. We passed the ranch crew already hard at work. We came to a downed wire. Babs stopped and pondered the situation.  She led the way with Captain quick on her heels. When Ramona started over the wire Captain’s back hoof lifted the wire and tickled Ramona’s underside.  She didn’t like that even a little bit and took off like a bucking bronc.  Away we went – Ramona and me. The stirrups were too long for my short legs. There was no way I could brace my feet in the stirrups, so I clamped my knees into the sides of the saddle, grabbed the reins and waved my other hand in the air like a bucking bronc rider, my trusty backpacking hat flopping up and down in the breeze.

Ramona headed straight for a barbed wire fence. I pulled on the reins and yelled “whoa” along with words Babs had taught me on the cattle drive over the mountains. I learned the meaning of seeing daylight between rider and saddle – from the rider’s perspective!  Ramona bucked her way closer to the fence. I caught a glimpse of cousin Babs out of the corner of my eye, sitting high in the saddle, arms propped over the saddle horn, hat in place, pasted smile on her face, roaring and jiggling with laughter. I wasn’t very amused but was in no position to discuss the matter. My immediate future flashed before my eyes.  I could see myself flying over the saddle, crossing the top of the fence as Ramona hit the sharp barbs. She skidded to a stop just shy of the fence. I held on, determined to stay right-side-up. For the life of me, I don’t know how I stayed top-side.

The rest of the traveling rodeo watchers rode up and applauded the bucking bronc & rider.  Well, I guess you can interpret uncontrolled laughter as applause!  I pulled my knees out of the sides of the saddle leaving an impression behind and slid out of the saddle. I stroked Ramona’s lathered neck and sides and talked softly trying to calm both of us. I kicked the sod back in place over the skid marks and remounted. 

We headed up the trail. It was a nice ride through the mountains. The horses were skittish and suspicious of every little noise and movement for the rest of the ride. We stopped for a picnic lunch and enjoyed the beautiful scenery and crisp mountain air. 

We made our way over the ridge down the trail where we would cross the Boulder River. Babs went first to test the water and find the best path for horses’ hooves on the slippery river rocks.  The rest of us followed.  We got sufficiently wet, but all stayed atop our trusty steeds and made it across the river with no more incidents.

The dog refused to cross the cold river. Babs had no choice but to cross the river again and take the dog in tow. About that time, Captain decided to complete his bath by getting dried off.  He shook and my sister shook with him.  Before we could even blink, Captain went down.  We all hollered for his rider to jump off.  She just barely got her leg free and out of the saddle before Captain rolled over on his back, rolling in the dirt.  When he got up he shook all over before being remounted. Babs wasn’t laughing quite as hard by this time because she was using her cattle drive language on the dog. 

We started out again. Half way across the pasture, we were greeted by neighs and snorts.  The horses seemed ready for a fight. We made it through and headed back toward the ranch.  By this time, the sun was just barely peeking over the horizon. We came to a little bridge and the horses jumped and bumped and rumped together all the way across. By the time we turned into the yard, we were all ready to end the day’s adventures. 

Note:  No animals were hurt during the course of this story which took place in 1975.  However, the bronc rider suffered bruises to the inside of her knees and had various other sore spots.  Yep, it had been a good day. 

My daughter and her family joined me after I had arrived at our AirBNB cabin. It wasn’t long before our host knocked on our door. As he had done at my previous visits, he offered a selection of jackets, sweaters and vests of various sizes for us to use during our stay. He knew that wasn’t my first rodeo (so to speak) and that I was acquainted with the west and the area in which we visited.

As I chatted with him, he told me about some of his former guests. A couple that had come to stay in his little cabin was from the Deep South. One cold and windy summer morning the lady, dressed in a chiffon dress and stilettos, came across the yard to his home. He was quite amused and asked, “You didn’t bring warm clothes did you?” He wasn’t surprised at her answer and promptly went into his house and gathered up sweaters and coats. I’m sure he also suggested that she go to town and get some jeans and proper shoes for her western culture experience.

Having traveled out west numerous times, I’m familiar with what to pack. My wardrobe includes jeans, a few short and long sleeved pullover shirts, long sleeved button up shirts, a jacket or two or three, socks, shoes, undies, daily necessities, and of course my camera gear and various electronic devices. I also pack something else – stilettos and chiffon. Well, it might be considered Western Stilettos & Chiffon. In my case that is my boots and a flannel shirt. That is high fashion! Sometimes I even top it off with a cowboy hat.

Maude and I picked up beautiful Aunt Lynn and headed out on our adventure. It was a gorgeous morning. Actually it was a perfect Montana morning. Our first stop was the little town of Martinsdale where we visited the Charles M. Bair Family Museum that exhibits European and Western art collections. This collection also includes Indian art of intricate beadwork stitched into clothing and shoes. Shields, papooses and other items are protected behind glass. Navajo and European rugs line the walls. Western artists are featured with paintings from eyewitness accounts while other artists embellish stories on canvas.

Next door, we stepped into the Wild West pioneer home and were ushered into the halls furnished with the splendor of a palace. Who would expect to find a hidden trove of historical treasures and elegance in the middle of Montana? Rare paintings and exquisite dishes, door knobs of pure gold worth $70 grand a piece, Indian history, gifts from King Louis XV and King George III, a gun of Daniel Boone’s and photos of renown people that depict relationships of Bair are just a few items. The history of Bair alone is fascinating. 

Just a short distance away we stepped back into the western frontier town of Martinsdale. The little town in the shadow of the Crazy Mountains was once a thriving train stop of the Milwaukee Road. Several abandoned buildings including the Stockman Bank are scattered among the homes of the local residents. There on the main street stands the rustic Crazy Mountain Inn that still offers lodging to weary travelers and those seeking adventures.  A brush boot cleaner sits by the door and colorful flowers hang against the weathered boards. The adjoining little restaurant with its relaxed atmosphere has a bar and four tables for its guests. Coffee isn’t sold by the cup but the amount of time you stay. Listed on a board is a whole slate of homemade desserts. It was obvious our waitress was not mastered in the skill of waiting on tables, but her charm and kindness to please covered up any lack of expertise. The cook, who had been standing outside, entered the restaurant with a baby on her hip and began the meal preparation. It was delicious. Soon there were several travelers sitting and enjoying a tasty lunch.

We headed west and then cut off a road that weaves in and out of the Lewis & Clark National Forest.  We dodged holes and bumps in the paved road that smoothed out for the most part whenever it turned to dirt and gravel. It led us into a narrow rocky canyon with majestic pinnacles of rock formations on each side of the road. We crossed the South Fork River and started to climb higher into the mountains. Campers were stopped at various random locations within the National Forest. The road took us to scenes of the Little Belts, Castle Mountains and grand views of the white peaked Crazies. Lush alpine meadows dotted with wildflowers waved at us in the breeze, and free range cattle grazed and claimed ownership of the mountain road.

The directions we had were a bit confusing. Just as a word from experience – when you cut off the main highway, stay on the main dirt road and don’t be fooled by signs that could easily be interpreted as the right road. If you follow such roads, you will definitely test your vehicle’s ability as a 4-wheel drive wanna-be when you find foreboding huge rocks and ruts in your path. We found a family camping in a lovely spot by the river to ask directions. I still haven’t figured out how they even got their camper down that road. Dogs tried to tear my legs off when I started to get out of the SUV. A man missing a few teeth walked over and asked where we wanted to go. The tags on our rental said Idaho. He was really confused when we said we were from Georgia. “So why are you out here?” “Because we wanted to take the Judith River Backcountry Drive.” He scratched his head, looked disgusted and directed me to go back and turn at the “main road.” After clarifying what he meant by the “main road,” we climbed back up the rutty rocky hill spitting rocks and kicking up dust while leaving the confused annoyed man muttering under his breath.

We breathed a bit easier knowing we were on the right road through the Judith River Valley. We had gone about 14 more miles and our elevation began to drop. We came over a hill and there in a hairpin turn was a truck with an empty cattle trailer that didn’t quite make the turn. The rear of the trailer was hanging precariously off the side of the mountain. The driver stopped us and asked if we would mind driving back out the way we came (since we obviously couldn’t go forward) and find a forest ranger or someone with a big truck to pull him out. We backtracked and finally got cell service. Maud called the ranger station, and they were zero help. We continued until we came to a campground where someone had a big truck. I pulled up to the camper and three little dirty-faced kids ran over to us. They acted like they had never seen people from the outside world before. One little kid jabbered away, and soon the other two joined in. I asked them to get their mom or dad, but they continued to talk. As I was chatting with them one little kid with spaghetti or something smeared all over his face bent down and said repeatedly, “What happened?” Then I noticed that he was rubbing the top of my toe. Maud started laughing, and I chuckled, “Oh, my toes are just deformed.” He climbed into the driver’s seat of the SUV banging on something with his stick but continued to ask, “What happened?” Finally his mom came out, and I told her the situation down the road. She got the dad, and he gave us a brochure with another number to call. A darker skinned boy with black eyes emerged from the woods. He began chattering as well. The little girl with the three boys was a bit younger, but she wasn’t quite as animated as the boys. Back in the car, we headed back to the real main road. After several miles, we finally got cell service, and Maud made another call. Though the ranger for the Musselshell district was limited as to what he could do, he did promise to pursue the situation.

Satisfied that we had taken a wrong path in order to be placed in the position to help the man stranded on the mountain, we went on our way. Maud continued to laugh at the top of her big voice and say, “What happened?”

Our road took us to the Sweet Grass Ranch, aka the Brannin Ranch where we shared a sumptuous meal with the dudes and the Carroccia family. We enjoyed the food, shared stories and had a memorable visit. That was a great way to end a day of another adventure with Maud & Me!