An Old Fashioned Road Trip

Enhanced view of the Badlands showing colorful layered rock formations, rugged hills, and a winding road with cars and an RV traveling through the landscape under a partly cloudy sky.

The Lost Art of the Road Trip

Ahh, the road trip. It’s a lost art, and this year it’s been on my mind thanks to the 100th anniversary of the Mother Road. Yes, Route 66 — the ultimate American road trip — is still celebrating, if the headlines can be believed.

Thinking about Route 66 made me remember how different road travel was when I was a kid. So buckle up and let’s take a little drive down memory lane. And by the way… we didn’t have seat belts when I was growing up.

Rule #1: Never Let the Tank Drop Below Half

This was the big one. The rule. The commandment.

Never let the gas tank fall below half. No matter what.

And honestly? I still follow that in winter.

Why it mattered:

  • We didn’t have 24‑hour gas stations
  • Fuel gauges weren’t always reliable
  • Stations could be miles apart
  • You needed enough gas to stay warm if you got stuck
  • A half tank reduced condensation in the fuel line

It wasn’t a suggestion — it was survival. Half a tank or bust.

Rule #2: CB Radios Were Our Lifeline

I bet some of the younger crowd doesn’t even know what a CB radio was. But for road trippers, it was essential.

With a quick “Breaker Breaker 1‑9”, you could:

  • talk to truckers
  • learn about trouble up ahead
  • find out where the “Smokey Bears” (police) were hiding
  • get recommendations for the best cup o’ joe

If you wanted to make time, you found a couple of truckers, slipped into the “rocking chair” between them, and put the pedal to the metal.

Rule #3: Map Reading 101

We weren’t just good at reading maps — we were excellent.

No GPS. No cell phones. Just paper maps that folded into more creases than an origami swan.

It helped to have a passenger who could read the map while you drove, but even kids learned how to follow the lines and symbols.

Rule #4: Scenic Overlooks Were Mandatoryrangeley overlook

“What’s that? A scenic overlook?”

Pull over.

Not slow down. Not glance out the window. Stop the car completely.

Kids tumbled out, parents took pictures, and every stop looked exactly like the last one — except for the sign telling you which overlook you were at. We got very good at photographing signs.

Rule #5: Change in the Cup Holder

Before EZ‑Pass, SunPass, or anything-pass, we had:

  • nickels
  • dimes
  • quarters
  • and whatever random coins lived in the cup holder

If you were on the New Jersey Turnpike, you needed toll money every few miles. The cup holder was basically a portable bank.

Rule #6: The Cooler Was Sacred

You’ve heard “Don’t leave home without it”? For us, that meant the cooler.

It was packed with:

  • ice
  • soda
  • sandwiches
  • snacks
  • and “adult beverages” for the folks

No McDonald’s on the roads we traveled. Lunch was whatever Mom packed, eaten at a rest stop picnic table with ants for company.

Rule #7: Entertainment Was… Minimal

Hang onto your hats, kids — there were:

  • no tablets
  • no built‑in TV screens
  • no cell phones

If you were bored, you looked out the window.

Games included:

  • counting cows
  • spotting license plates from different states
  • singing songs
  • and yes… 99 Bottles of Beer (which felt like it lasted the entire trip)

Road Trips Then and Now

Road trips today are easier, faster, and more comfortable — but they’re missing that old‑school charm. The cooler, the CB radio, the paper maps, the scenic overlooks… they were part of the adventure.

And maybe that’s why Route 66 still captures our imagination. It reminds us of a time when the journey mattered just as much as the destination.

 

When Wildlife Pays the Price for Human–Wildlife Encounters

 

A brown bear stands among dense reddish‑brown autumn shrubs, reaching its nose toward the branches while foraging.

A Headline That Never Gets Easier

Every so often, a headline pops up that makes me stop what I’m doing and sit with it for a moment. This week it was the story out of Colorado: a bear euthanized after attacking a fisherman. It’s the kind of headline we’ve all seen before, and it never gets easier to read. And by the way, the angler was hospitalized with non‑life‑threatening injuries and is expected to recover. The bear wasn’t given that chance.

Whenever wildlife and humans intersect, the situation is fraught with danger. Sometimes humans behave recklessly. Sometimes animals react instinctively and sometimes no one does anything “wrong” at all — it’s simply a moment where two worlds collide, and the animal is the one who pays the ultimate price.

Not Every Encounter Is Human-Caused — But the Consequences Always Fall on the Animal

It’s easy to blame humans for every wildlife incident, and sometimes that blame is deserved. But it’s not always that simple. I’ve had encounters where humans were absolutely the problem, and others where the animal reacted to something as small and unintentional as the color of my rental car. And I’ve had moments where neither side provoked anything — we simply surprised each other.

The common thread is this: the animal is punished for the encounter, no matter who or what caused it.

The Yellowstone Bison Who Was Just Being a Bison

A few years ago, a tourist in Yellowstone was attacked by a bison. The headlines were dramatic, but the park rangers made a point of saying the bison would not be euthanized. It wasn’t aggressive or dangerous. It was simply being a bison — defending its space the way bison have done for thousands of years.

That decision stuck with me. It was one of the rare times the animal wasn’t blamed for behaving exactly as nature designed it to.

The Old Faithful Selfie That Could Have Gone Very WrongBison

Contrast that with another Yellowstone moment I witnessed at Old Faithful. A lone bison was grazing near the geyser, minding its own business. A teenage tourist decided she needed a selfie with it and approached from behind — close enough to touch it.

She got her picture. She also got lucky.

That bison was feeling mellow. If it hadn’t been, we would have had a very different headline. And if anything had happened, the bison would have been blamed and likely euthanized, even though it was the human who created the danger.

 

The Tree Bear and the Crowd That Pushed Me Forward

Then there was the little bear sitting in a tree right next to the road. I had a long lens and didn’t need to get close, but the crowd behind me kept pushing forward, nudging me closer and closer to the bear so I could “get the shot.”

That bear could have been down out of that tree in seconds. If it had felt threatened, if someone had moved wrong, if the crowd had surged — that bear would have reacted instinctively.

And the rangers would have come, and the bear would have been killed.

But the bear didn’t do anything wrong. It was just being a bear.

The Black Rental Car and the Territorial BisonGetting ready to pass by

And then there’s the encounter that had nothing to do with human recklessness at all.

I was trapped in traffic on a Yellowstone road, nowhere to go, when two bison suddenly charged my car. My black rental must have triggered their territorial instinct — bison don’t have great eyesight, and something about that color set them off.

Their hoofbeats thundered behind me as they chased my car down the road. I wasn’t close to them, and I hadn’t interacted with them at all — they reacted purely on instinct.It was simply a moment where wildlife reacted the way wildlife reacts.

If they had reached the car, if they had injured me, if anything had gone wrong — those bison would have been blamed. Not because they were dangerous, but because they were wild.

The Grizzly Bear: A Moment That Could Have Gone Either Way

In Grand Teton National Park, I was hiking — and in that park, every trail is bear country. I turned a corner and suddenly found myself face to face with a grizzly. We both froze. We both startled. And then, mercifully, the bear turned back the way it came.

I headed straight for the parking lot. That was close enough for one day.

Neither of us did anything wrong. We simply surprised each other. But if that bear had reacted differently, if instinct had taken over, if fear had turned into defense — the bear would have been the one to die for it.

The Bull Moose Who Needed a Moment to Decide

Another time, hiking to a waterfall in Maine, I surprised a bull moose and a cow. The female slipped quietly into the forest. The bull didn’t. He stared me down first — a long, assessing look — before he too disappeared into the trees.

Moose are enormous, unpredictable animals. If he had charged, it would have been catastrophic. And yet, again, neither of us did anything wrong. We simply crossed paths in a place where both of us had a right to be.

The Colorado Bear: A Familiar, Heartbreaking Pattern

Which brings me back to the bear in Colorado.

The fisherman may have startled the bear, or it may have been stressed, hungry, or defending a food source. It could also have been nothing more than a moment where both were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

We’ll never know the full story. But we do know how it ended: the bear was euthanized.

Not because it was a monster. Not because it was malicious. But because it was a bear — and bears don’t understand our rules.

The Wildness We Keep Shrinking

Every time we kill a wild animal for doing what wild animals do, we shrink the wildness left in the world. We make nature smaller, safer, more controlled — and less alive.

Human–wildlife encounters will always be dangerous. Danger can come from humans, from animals, or simply from the unpredictable reality of sharing space with creatures who don’t speak our language.

But the tragedy is always the same: the animal pays the price for the intersection.

And that’s what makes these headlines so hard to read.

 

 

 

 

 

Lake Monsters of the Adirondacks: My Family’s Monster‑Free Record

 

Beautiful Lake George surrounded by lush green hills, framed by leafy branches in the foreground, with a small sailboat visible on the water under a clear sky.

Growing Up Between Two Monster Lakes

My family has spent a lot of time on the two Adirondack lakes most famous for monster sightings. My mother grew up in Ticonderoga, right between Lake George and Lake Champlain, and I spent my childhood on Lake George. We used to road‑trip to Vermont and often took the ferry across Lake Champlain. If Champ was going to make an appearance, we were giving him every opportunity.

He never did. My mother never saw him either. Not even a suspicious ripple.

Champ is the celebrity cryptid of the region — the Adirondack Nessie — and people have been reporting sightings since the 1800s. Meanwhile, my family crossed that lake so many times we practically deserved a loyalty punch card, and still: nothing. Not even a polite bubble.

Champ: The Famous Monster Who Never Showed Up

Champ gets all the attention. Books, documentaries, blurry photos, breathless eyewitness accounts — he’s the star of Lake Champlain. And yet, despite all those ferry crossings, neither my mother nor I ever saw anything that even hinted at a lake monster.

Plenty of waves. Plenty of logs. Zero monsters.

Georgie: The Lake George Monster We All Joked About

Lake George has a monster too, though it’s a much quieter legend. Growing up, we kids always joked about “Georgie,” the Lake George lake monster. I assumed Georgie was just the local version of Champ — a long‑necked creature lurking in the deep water, ready to pop up and terrify boaters.

 

I never knew Georgie had an actual origin story. Apparently most people don’t, because Georgie tends to get lumped in with Champ and Nessie as if he’s part of the same folklore family.

He isn’t.

The Wild, Forgotten Origin Story of Georgie

Georgie was a hoax — and a spectacular one.

Back in 1904, painter Harry Watrous built a ten‑foot lake monster out of a cedar log, complete with a skinny neck, big eyes, a wide mouth, and hemp‑rope whiskers. He created it to get revenge on a newspaper editor who had tricked him with a fake giant trout.

Watrous anchored his monster in Hague Bay and rigged it with a pulley system so he could make it rise dramatically out of the water whenever he felt like causing chaos.

And he did.

Panicked boaters, screaming passengers, parasol attacks — Georgie caused absolute mayhem. Watrous revived the monster again in 1934 just to “spoof the world” one more time. The original Georgie still exists and lives at the historical museum in Hague.

None of this made it into the version of Georgie I grew up with. To us, Georgie was just the Lake George monster — the one we joked about while swimming or boating, the one we pretended might be lurking under the dock. The prank faded, but the idea stuck.

My Family’s Real Lake Sightings (Everything Except Monsters)

And despite all that time on the lake, I never saw Georgie. My mother never saw Georgie. And my brother — who has spent more time on Lake George than anyone I know — has never seen Georgie.

This is impressive, because my brother has seen everything else.

He’s seen rattlesnakes swimming across Lake George. The lake’s had rabid beavers. He’s seen deer swimming across the lake like they’re training for a triathlon. He’s seen strange wakes, odd shadows, weird currents, and fog that makes the lake look like a horror movie set. There have even been water spouts!

Island Camping: Prime Monster Hours, Still No Monsters

My brother also camps out on the Lake George islands during the summer, which means he’s out there at night — prime monster hours. If Georgie were real, my brother would have had front‑row seats.

But no. Not a single monster sighting.

If Monsters Exist, They’re Avoiding Us

Between Champ and Georgie, the Adirondacks are supposedly home to two lake monsters. My family has spent generations swimming, boating, camping, ferrying, and occasionally dodging rabid beavers — and we’ve never seen one. Not even a hint.

If the monsters are out there, they’re clearly shy… or they’ve decided my family isn’t worth the trouble.

Mohican-Paradise-Bay-

 

The Rainbow Tree: A Real‑Life Fairy Tale

“I think that I shall never see

A poem as lovely as a tree.”

A rainbow eucalyptus tree with multicolored bark in a lush tropical forest, showing bright patches of green, orange, red, yellow, and purple along its trunk and roots, surrounded by dense green foliage.

A Tree Too Magical to Believe

There are some things in this world that sound too whimsical to be real — the kind of things you’d expect to find in a fairy tale, or maybe wandering through a Dr. Seuss landscape. When I first heard about the rainbow eucalyptus, I put it firmly in that category. A tree with bark that looks painted? A trunk covered in splotches of turquoise, coral, lime green, lavender, and rust? Sure. And next you’ll tell me puffins do stand‑up comedy.

My Doubting‑Thomas Moment

I was a full‑on doubting Thomas about it. “Show me,” I said. And the world did.

Seeing My First Rainbow Eucalyptus in Hawaii

My first rainbow eucalyptus was in Hawaii, and I swear I stopped walking mid‑step. There it stood — tall, proud, and absolutely impossible. The bark peeled in long strips, revealing fresh layers of color underneath, like nature was repainting the tree in real time. No filters, no tricks, no tourist‑trap gimmicks. Just a living kaleidoscope rooted in the earth.

A Living Kaleidoscope of Color

Up close, the colors don’t blend like a gradient. They patchwork. They splotch. Their colors overlap in ways that feel accidental and intentional all at once, like the tree hired a team of abstract artists who couldn’t agree on a palette. Every inch is different. Every angle is a surprise.

Nature’s Reminder That Magic Is Real

There’s a kind of magic in standing beside something that looks imaginary but isn’t. It reminds you that the world still has wonders tucked into corners — things you don’t believe until you see them, and once you do, you never forget. The rainbow eucalyptus is one of those wonders. A tree that refuses to be ordinary. A tree that looks like joy itself decided to take root and grow tall.

And yes… it’s real. I’ve seen it. And it’s every bit as magical as the stories say.

 

The Cats’ Labor Day Travel Demands Have Arrived

Labor Day Weekend: Should You Travel With Your Cats?

(A WMEO Special Report)

Labor Day weekend is creeping up, and plenty of folks are gearing up for a road trip. If you’re a cat parent, that means facing the annual dilemma: pet sitter or pack the furr‑babies and hit the highway?

Some cats are natural road warriors. Kurt and Gary? They’ll probably hop in the car, buckle their imaginary seatbelts, and enjoy the ride. The Oreo crew — Pudding, Olive, and Onyx — might be a little more dramatic about it. And Nanake? Well… he’s done cross‑country travel before, with results best described as “memorable” and “requiring emotional support snacks.”

But what about Banner and Balboa?

Two Cats, Two Very Different Travel Personalities

Banner and Balboa have never left the house since the day you brought them home. The vet doesn’t even get the privilege of seeing them in a clinic — Ross Veterinary House Calls comes to you. And even then, Balboa must be sedated or he’ll stage a full‑scale meltdown worthy of a Broadway revival.

His annual routine:

  • Receive his “calming potion”
  • Get gently escorted to the bathroom so he can’t hide in seventeen impossible places
  • Spend the next hour looking like a tiny, confused marshmallow

He’s a sweetheart, but he’s also a certified fraidy‑cat. A road trip? Absolutely not. He’d unionize before you even backed out of the driveway.

Banner, meanwhile, would probably try to take over the GPS and declare himself “Navigator Supreme.”

The Cats’ Official Labor Day Travel Demands

Since I couldn’t get a straight answer out of either of them, I asked what it would take for Banner and Balboa to agree to travel with me. They immediately produced a list — and I swear they had it ready in advance.

  • At least 16 nap breaks during transit (We’d be lucky to make it to the end of the street.)
  • Unlimited treats at all rest stops (I foresee two car‑sick kitties and one very unhappy driver.)
  • Mandatory belly rubs, pending mood (Their mood changes every 4–6 minutes.)
  • A proper travel litter box — the hotel bathtub does NOT count (Honestly, fair. The bathtub is not a sandbox, no matter how much they insist.)

They warned me that failure to comply would result in unionization, followed by a strike, followed by dramatic flopping and pointed glares. Honestly, I believe them.

So in my house, the answer is clear: I’m calling the pet sitter… or just staying home.

What about you? Are your cats road‑trip ready, or are they already drafting their own list of demands?