Eastern Promise

The spirit of Prague is difficult to describe, although many have tried.

The poet Andre Breton, proclaimed that Prague was the magical capital of old Europe.  Artists described the city as a black temptress... hidden in the neglige of the white mists of the River Vltava, a tempting and treacherous woman, a capricious harlot -- a dark Salome who dances with the heads of her paramours.  Italian academic Angelo Maria Ripellino described the city as a breeding ground for phantoms, an arena of sorcery ... It is a trip which -- once it takes hold with its mists, its black arts, its poisoned honey -- does not let go, does not forgive."

--  Prologue to the book Prague, written by Sona Thomova and Zdenek Thoma




I have been having a hard time explaining our visit to Prague, which was the second stop on our European vacation this fall.  Normally, I can sit down and get right into it.  But for some reason, I've been struggling with describing our time in this city of history -- full of age-old dreams and ancient legends.

Like the constantly changing head of Franz Kafka's statue near Narodni Trida Square in Prague's New Town, it's hard to put your finger on what makes the town so interesting.

This much is easy -- Prague is a beautiful city.  Untouched by the destructive bombing of World War II, the city's combination of gothic, renaissance, baroque and art nouveau architecture remains one of its many delights.

This morning I have escaped the boring confines of my hotel room to explore the natural beauty above the River Vltava, which winds its way through the very center of the city.   The banks of the river are connected by twenty bridges, including the medieval Charles Bridge and the art nouveau Czech Bridge with its four statues of Victory.  Behind me, through an early morning mist, are the remains of Vysehrad (Czech for "upper castle"), a historical fort built on a hill above the river in the 10th century.  Within its remaining walls, is the Church of St. Peter and St. Paul (with its twin spires reaching toward the skies) and the Vysehrad Cemetery, containing the remains of many famous Czech people.

As I stand on its remaining brick ramparts, I am able to see the land and hills that surround the city of Prague.  There are seven hills on which rest high stone walls, palace gardens and the St.Thomas, Brabant and Strahov breweries.  On the horizon, Castle Prague's huge mass cannot be missed as it sits atop a hill covered by the early morning haze.  Beneath its watchful eye is a collection of reddish-orange roofs and white houses leading down to the river.

A small boat, with its white hull and bright red cabin, gently floats by the cliff I am standing on.  I wonder if its occupant -- maybe a fisherman looking for steelhead or brown trout -- knows about the legends that have walked the embankments of this river --   Wenceslas Hollar, Bedfich Smetana, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Alfrons Mucha and Franz Kafka.  For centuries, their stories, songs and paintings have captured Prague's beautiful and picturesque subjects.

Luckily for us, this is our first full day in Prague.  It will give us lots of time to unravel the mysteries that remain hidden -- much like some moss-covered door which leads underground, unopened but for the bravest of us.


*          *          *          *          *


Ales, our young guide from Walking Prague, stops and turns toward us with the excitement of a new father.  His voice is raised in an effort to speak over the passing crowd.

"As I said earlier -- Prague is divided into four main areas:  New Town, Jewish Quarter, Lesser Town and Old Town.  We spent this morning in New Town and had lunch near the Jewish Quarter, getting a glimpse of the Old Jewish Cemetery and their New Synagogue.  Surrounding the Jewish Quarter is Old Town. which we are in now."

"The Old Town Square is the city's oldest and most significant square.  Its history dates back to the 10th century, when it served as a marketplace at the crossroads of European trade routes.  At the square there were both fixed and portable shops. Around the base of the town hall tower there were thirteen stone shops, where the most expensive imported cloth was sold.  Even the town hall building itself was surrounded by shops of marketers.

He continues, "Portable stalls were occupied by bakers, potters, manufacturers of wood products, herbalists, ginger bread producers and other craftsmen selling their goods.  On the south side there were vendors of mushrooms, strawberries and other forest goods, including game, vegetables, butter, cheese cakes, grease, wreaths, skirts and fish."

Ales's voice gradually trails off as I wander away to take photos of the buildings on the edges of the Old Town Square.  As I cross the cobble stoned area, I am struck by the beautiful houses standing bolt upright on very narrow foundations -- their facades a rich mixture of oranges, greens, reds and yellows.  Dominating the square, however, is the Church of Our Lady Before Ty, with its two slender gothic towers, each with eight spires.

I continue around the eastern side of the square until I am stopped by a mass of tourists waiting for the ringing of Prague's famous astronomical clock.  On the hour, a grinning skeleton flips an hourglass and rings a bell to remind us that nothing lasts forever; the apostles and Christ file past and then a cock crows to mark the end of the spectacle.  It's viewed as one of Prague's most popular tourist attractions, but it leaves me disappointed.

The beauty of the historic buildings and shops is far more interesting to me and my Canon Rebel.
Of particular interest are the white markings at my feet, which represent a historical event in Prague's history.  On the very spot that I am standing -- on June 21, 1621 -- was the execution of twenty-seven Bohemian nobles, knights and burghers following the Habsburg forces' victory at the Battle of White Mountain.  Three were hung in front of the Old Town hall and the rest were beheaded.  The rebels' bodies were quartered and their heads and limbs mounted in various parts of Prague and other towns as a warning against future uprisings.

By now Ales, Liz, Mark and LuAnn have joined me and together we walk toward the river.  It has been a blast having him as our walking guide.    After meeting us at our hotel, Ales -- at student at Prague University -- has taken us on a historic trip through some of the best parts of  new and old Prague (although I think all of it is pretty "old.").

We have really enjoyed his perspective on not just the ancient history of Prague, but also his telling of the more modern events that have shaped Prague, including the ouster of the Soviet Union in 1989.   With a full day at his disposal, Ales has helped us understand the tram system and pointed out a few restaurants that are worth going to.

We stop before the Old Town Bridge Tower, which gives us our first view of Charles Bridge, perhaps the most famous of Prague's many bridges.  The bridge tower, built in the 14th century, is considered one of the most beautiful high gothic towers in the country and -- some say -- of all Europe.

As with so many of the things we have seen in Prague, the tower is decorated with figures that tell a story.  In the vault of the tower is a graceful female figure who is supposed to be a bath attendant by the name of Zuzana, who helped the King of Bohemia -- King Wenceslas -- escape from prison by secretly taking him to the other side of the Vltava River in a little boat.  Once free, the king was able to reassert his authority and gain control of the city.  As a reward, the king gave Zuzana ownership of the popular baths located near Charles Bridge.  He also raised the guild of bath attendants to the status of an honored craft by creating its own coat of arms -- a towel rolled into a circle and inside it a kingfisher on a golden field.  It is this coat of arms that is painted on the ceiling of the vault in the Old Town Bridge Tower.

It is at the bridge that Ales finally says "Sbohon" (good bye) and leaves us to navigate this great city on our own.  It is a journey that will take us across the Charles Bridge to Lesser Town, as well as Prague Castle and into the hills above Prague by tram and bus.

But that is for another day.


*          *          *          *           *


I can still remember my initial reaction to the lady behind the counter at U Simeka, our hotel in Prague:  Why so serious?  After the boisterous affair we had had with the hotel clerks in Munich for Oktoberfest, it came as a real culture shock.

And it seemed to extend beyond the lobby of our hotel.  People we meet on the street or in the trams are equally sour.  Perhaps it is the overcast skies or my reaction to the graffiti-marked buildings.  Something seems different, more restrained and cautious than what we experienced in Germany.

As it turns out, social interaction in the Czech Republic is more formal than other central European countries.  That's the best way I can put it.  I don't think that they aren't friendly (our walking guide is proof of that), but I do think it has something to do with their language and being under the thumb of Communist Russia.  At times I had the feeling some still hadn't gotten over it.  For those born after 1989, Prague has been a parliamentary republic.  For some born before, Prague was a one-party government of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia.

It took student demonstrations and a period of upheaval known as sametova revoluce -- the Velvet Revolution  -- for the people of the Czech Republic to finally throw off the chains of communist rule.  It took only 10 days, but what started as peaceful protests celebrating International Student's Day, quickly morphed into some brutal violence in central Prague.  Similar protests broke out in other Czech and Slovak cities before the communist party admitted defeat and stepped down.

When our walking guide took us to Wenceslas Square, he beamed with pride after telling us the story, pointing to an upper balcony where Vaclav Havel spoke to the people of Prague after becoming president.  I can remember seeing the CBS Evening News broadcast of that day when hundreds of thousands of people crowded this square to celebrate a new direction for the people of Czechoslovakia.

It was -- and remains to this day -- a significant turning point for the people of Prague.  We are reminded that the practice of jingling keys -- symbolizing the unlocking of doors and "telling the communists to go home" -- no longer applies to tourists.  Lucky for us.

A few other observations about the people of Prague:

If the occupation by communists can be seen in the sad eyes and faces of today's Czech people, then the joys and pride of the Slav people can be found in Alphones Mucha's Slav Epic, a series of twenty monumental canvases (and I mean monumental -- the largest measuring over 20 by 53 feet), depicting the history of the Slav people and civilization. 

In the series of paintings, Mucha shows a number of episodes from the country's past -- ten highlighting Czech history and ten showing historical events from other Slavonic regions.  It is a presentation that is unmatched anywhere else in the world.  What makes it so wonderful is how the Slavic history is completely shown -- from the early scenes of Slavic mythology to the last canvas that shows their spiritual side.  Like most art, it's probably hard to appreciate unless you can stand in the darkened gallery surrounded by these huge, awesome paintings.  But it was an awesome walk through history with the Czech people.

And finally, I can't forget Czech pivo (beer).  That's right, beer. I discovered that history can be so much more interesting if you take time out for a beer break.   And there's no better place to do that than in Prague.

Beer has a long history in the Czech Republic, with brewing taking place in the Breynov Monastery in 993. 

The most common Czech beers are pale lagers of the pilsner type, with its clear golden color, lots of foam and light flavor.  Pilsner Urquell was the first pilsner type beer in the world, created by Josef Groll, a German brewer living in Prague.  It became an immediate success.  So much so that it was exported by train all over the Austrian Empire (a special train of beer traveled to Vienna every morning).  Exports of Czech beer finally reached Paris and the United States by 1874.

It's interesting to know that the name "Budweiser" was first used by the Burgerliches Brahau Budweis in 1795 long before U.S. brewer Anheuser-Busch began making a beer which it also called "Budweiser."  After a heated dispute over the famous trademark name, it was decided that the Czech Budweiser would be sold in America as Czechvar, but Budweiser through out the European Union.

During our visit to Prague, we tasted Pilsner Urquell, Budweiser Budvar, Staropramen, Bernard and my favorite -- Velkopopovicky Kozel.


*          *          *          *          *


The young lady smiles and says, "Welcome to Folkloregarten!  Can I give you some Medovina?"  In her outstretched hands she holds a tray of shot glasses filled with a golden liquid that reminds me of a drink I had wisely avoided our first day in Prague.

"Sure," I say and select two for Liz and myself.  It was our last night in town and I felt like throwing caution to the wind.  I put the shot glass to my lips and with a quick toss of my head drink the liquid.  "Ah, it's mead, or something like it!"  Its warmth slides down my throat and into my chest.  I wipe my lips with the back of my hand and look at Liz before suggesting we have another round.

After handing us another two glasses, our hostess points us toward a large building -- a roubenka or timbered house -- that resembles something you would see in the Czech countryside.  Inside, long wooden tables are set for dinner, with red and green checkered napkins.  From the ceiling hang a variety of dried flowers, bunches of onions, and wicker baskets.  Adorning the walls of the timbered house are antique tractor parts, including sickles, saws and large wooden wheels.

Another girl leads Mark, LuAnn, Liz and me past a large wooden stage and heads toward a middle table that has a small American flag wedged into a card holder.

"These are good seats" Liz says as we thank our host and sit on long benches that run parallel to the table.  "This is great!  Look at everything -- " Her head turns left and right, finally stopping at the stage where traditional Moravian instruments sit unattended.  " -- this place is so cool!"

LuAnn, sitting across from us is removing her blue jean jacket. "I thought the outdoor village and gardens were pretty great too.  I had no idea this place was like this.  I know we're five minutes from downtown on the banks of the Vltava River, but I feel like we're 20 miles outside Prague in the countryside."

Which is exactly what Folklore Gardens is all about.   Liz had found them in Rick Steve's travel book and it had gotten good reviews from Trip Advisor.  It promised a fun evening, one with traditional music, dancing and food.   What better way to complete our time here before heading to Vienna tomorrow morning?

Soon, busloads of people are streaming into the dining hall.  We decide that they are coming from everywhere -- Israel, Germany, Japan, France and Canada to name a few  -- based on the flags at each table.  To my surprise we are the only ones from the United States.  Four against four hundred, but up for the challenge nonetheless.

As the evening's show begins and we are introduced to our emcee and members of the band and dancers, I feel myself slipping away into a concurrence of color and sound.  I don't know if it is the wine or the intoxicating sounds of the Czech folk music, but I feel a closer connection to the city and its people than when walking through the touristy areas of Old Town and Castle Quarter.

Our emcee grabs a microphone and says "Czechs have always had a passion for dancing and singing.  The dancing we are seeing is often named for towns where they were first introduced, like the hulan and waltz-like sousedska."

As the dancers appear wearing their kroje -- traditional costumes -- I grab my camera and start snapping pictures. Despite the small view finder, I'm still loving their simple costumes -- for the women, white blouses covered by red and black dresses adorned with colorful beads and flowered ribbons.  An apron is tied in the back and a thin headband circles their heads.  For the men, yellow breeches end slightly above their knees while white shirts are covered by short black jackets.  Finishing their costumes is a bright red scarf tucked neatly into their pants.

The dancers continue to stomp their feet loudly on the wooden floor, while clapping their hands.  Dancers flow from one end of the floor to the other, alternately standing behind their partner, then parting before grabbing each other again.  By the time the swift, complex music ends, the dancers are sweating and breathing hard.

And after new introductions, more dancers appear and the music begins again.

I catch Liz looking my way, and I smile -- knowing that we have unlocked another door leading to understanding the people of Prague.   For it is not the everyday grind that shapes the lives of its people, but their proud history as told through folklore dance and music.

And after just four short days, I know I will miss it.

Ein Prosit der Gemütlichkeit!

One week ago, my plan of attack was to wear the lederhosen everyday before our trip.

I would squeeze the stiff leather over my hips before coming downstairs, then sit in my recliner and read for 20 minutes before walking into the kitchen.  Liz's amused face was just the thing I needed as I dropped the pants on the kitchen floor and grabbed a box of cereal.

Today, as we prepare to leave the Kraft Hotel to walk to the wiesn (fairgrounds) for some genuine German Oktoberfesting, I am confident that I will have stretched my lederhosen enough that I can easily walk and sit without fear of ripping them apart.  Either that, or I will be too drunk to know the difference.

Mark and LuAnn Jordan (our trusty companions on so many of our travels around the world), Liz and I have been in Munich, Germany for about a day and a half, and I have finally gotten over the jet lag that had me walking around like a zombie.  There were times last night when we were sitting in the Hofbräuhaus am Platzl that I would lose my train of thought in mid-sentence.  Fortunately, Mark and LuAnn were just as tired.  At least I thought they were -- Mark did seem to be having a really good time.

This evening we are joining another group of people from the States who will be walking over to the fest grounds.  It's a short 5 or 6 blocks from our hotel to the grounds where we will get our first glimpse of what the Germans call a "relaxed autumn-Wiesn with a lot of locals." 

As we ride the elevator down to the Kraft lobby area, I catch a glimpse of us in the elevator's mirror.  Liz is wearing a long green dirndl with yellow embroidery.  Completing the look is a beautiful white lace apron and crop top blouse.  I am wearing my black suede lederhosen with matching suspenders over a white, yellow and blue checkered shirt.  A brown felt hat with a feather sits comfortably on my head.

The elevator door opens and I can hear voices and laughter coming from our group already assembled in the lobby area.  For some, this will be their second or third time to the fest.  But for us, who have some experience with our own La Crosse Oktoberfest, it will be an experience that will stay with us long after the beer has been drunk and the pretzels have been eaten.

Willkommen Zum Oktoberfest!



The Munich Oktoberfest -- with some six million people attending every year -- is an important part of Bavarian culture. Think Disneyland for adults. Then think this is something you have to do!

Munich's Oktoberfest began as a wedding for the Bavarian crown prince Ludwig to princess Therese from Saxony-Hildburghausen on October 12, 1810 and attended by the local community. Today the Munich beerfest traditionally takes place during the sixteen days up to and including the first Sunday in October.

There are 32 tents peppering the Oktoberfest grounds, with 14 mega sized tents gaining most of the attention.  These 14 main tents are massive with seating from 4,000 -10,000 people plus outdoor beer gardens holding thousands more.  Table reservations sell out up to 8 months in advance, but each tent does keep some seats open on a first-come-first-service basis.  Each tent is owned by one of Germany's beer families with names like Augustiner, Hoffbrau, Hacker, Schutzen and Lowenbrau.  There is even a wine tent featuring more than 15 wines grown by the Kuffler family.   The only way to drink is to be seated at a table, which is why we decided to join the group from Ludus Tours (who arranged this evening as well as a trip to Neuschwanstein Castle and a bike tour around Munich).

Depending on the tent, you are exposed to a unique menu, special beer (sometimes brewed only for the festival) and music by well-known orchestras/bands.  Each interior is different, as they create a unique theme --  some use blue and white banners strung across the ceiling, others use clouds and stars.  Some tents are modern buildings while some have a more traditional folk or lodge type feel to them.  Bavarian scenes are painted throughout and huge ovals of beer hops or greenery are everywhere.  One of the more modern tents has a transparent ceiling that can be opened to let in fresh air.  There are balconies overlooking the wood floor area which is dominated by a large band stage which is open on all sides.  Wooden tables with people eating and drinking surround the music stage and fill the remaining floor.  To the sides are the kitchens, gift shops and bathrooms.

To my surprise, the music is often traditional Bavarian (polkas and waltzes) during the day,but trend toward rock and roll or pop music including Queen, AC/DC and Van Morrison as the night gets later.  In addition to serving beer and food, many tents hold special events like crossbow shooting and "beer glass lifting."   (For the record, it's an incredible 16 glasses.)

The food served also changes according to which tent you're in:  roasted ox (Ochsenbratere tent), pork with beer sauce served with potatoes (Schitzen tent), and fish dishes like mackerel and grilled steckerlfisch (Fischer-Vroni tent).

And here I thought Oktoberfest was all about the bratwurst and Weiner schnitzel!  Whatever the food, it's important to wash it down with a good tasting beer.

Our tent, the Schottenhamel, which is known for its "Spatenbrau" beer and juicy "wiesn" chicken, is the second largest and the oldest tent going back to 1867.  Back then, less than 50 farmers could squeeze into the “little wooden barn” and now the tent, plus outside seating, holds 10,000. Inside, the tent resembles a large farmers house, with streamers of green and white strung across the ceiling.  Giant rings of green garland are suspended high above the crowd. 

The tent is famous for being the place where the mayor of Munich traditionally taps the first Oktoberfest-barrel.  If all goes according to plan, after only three hits, he will call out the popular "O'zapft is" (It’s tapped!).  At that moment, twelve cannons ring out across the grounds signaling the official start of Oktoberfest letting the other tents know that beer can be served.

As luck would have it, our tent is popular with Munich’s under 21 crowd.  But then, with this type of atmosphere, how can we not feel young?



We are sitting at a table with the buzz of the crowd and band playing loudly in the background.  On our table is a tray with white and red radishes, a Bavarian cheese spread, smoked ham, meatballs, peppered salami sausages and bread.

Liz reaches for another meatball and says, "These are great!  Have you had one?"  And like that, another one quickly disappears.

"They are good, but I like the sausages and cheese."  I reach across and clink beer glasses with Liz and then turn to do the same with Mark, who is sitting to my right.  "Prost!"

"Prost," returns Mark, with a smile that somehow stretches around his head and back again.  "Did you see those guys rolling down the hill when we were coming in?  They looked like they'd been here a while."

I pop another piece of sausage into my mouth and manage to say, "I overheard someone calling it puke hill!  Apparently it's pretty well known for causing drunks to clear their system.  When they're passed out they're referred to as "die bierleichen" -- beer corpses.  Seriously...  I think I'll head out the front door when we leave!"

From below us, the Schwarzfischer band continues to belt out some awesome rock and roll songs that seem out-of-place in this German beer hall.  I was expecting "roll out the barrel" not Abba's greatest hits.  I step away from the table and look down on a Bavarian brass band in lederhosen playing "Dancing Queen" complete with guitars, drums, violins and a choir.  The singing, which is excellent, seems to be coming from somewhere I can't see, but it wouldn't surprise me if they had different singers for different songs -- in many cases, they sound just like the original artist.  As I would find out later, the Schwarzfischer (black fishermen) have been playing in this tent since 1950 and are one of Oktoberfest's longest serving musical ensembles.

At a table to my left is a bread woman (brotfrauen) carrying a basket of pretzels the size of a soccer ball.  These are not the crunchy pretzels I grew up with in Wisconsin!  In fact, the Bavarian Brezeln has a glossy finish to the outside of the pretzel, resulting in a bread that is crunchy on the outside and soft inside.  I'm reminded of a Seinfeld episode when Kramer earnestly rehearses his single line in a Wood Allen movie -- "These pretzels are making me thirsty."  And with that thought I head back to our table in search of my beer. 

As if she can read my mind, our waitress or "kellner" comes to our table with another five beers, each with a generous head of foam.  With a thud, she places them at our table and smiles, probably out of relief than any attempt at being friendly.  Not that she ISN'T friendly -- but she has to carry all of those glasses from somewhere and deliver them to the right table.  With everything going on and with everyone asking "noch ein bier, bitte," I'm amazed at her composure and ability to deliver the goods.

Our waitress is dressed in the classic "servierschurzen" which covers her all black dress.  Think of a chambermaid wearing a small white apron and cap and you get the picture.  Apparently the kellners in Schottenhamel Festhalle do not wear the traditional dirndl found in the other tents.  That's a win for us if you ask me.

Before the night is over, we are standing on benches that line each table, holding our steins high in the air and singing with the band.  For that matter, I think everyone who starts the night sitting eventually finds the liquid courage to join us for this uniquely German experience.

It's another example of what makes Munich's Oktoberfest so much fun . 




When I think of Oktoberfest, I think of beer.  More precisely I think of drinking from a large glass -- a liter -- of beer.  Most beers that are served at Oktoberfest are either light-tasting helles, or a heavy dunkel bier (dark German lager).  Some are brewed especially for the event and feature a slightly higher alcohol content of 6 to 6.5 percent.

Throughout the night, there are times when it becomes mandatory to drink a beer.  For example, whenever someone raises a glass with a "prost" they start clinking glasses with everyone in their party, and after a few more beers, anyone within reach.  People will respond with another "prost," or "zum wohl" (to your health).

Another mandatory drink is when the familiar sound of "ein prosit der germutlichkeit" comes from the band.  It is immediately followed by "ein, zwei, drei gsufa" (one, two three drink!) and the entire beer tent follows their command. It's very similar to the singing we do at the La Crosse Oktoberfest when we shout -

"Ein prosit, ein prosit, der Gemütlichkeit
"Ein prosit, ein prosit, der Gemutlichkeit
"Eins, zwei, drei
"Zicke, zacke, zicke, zacke,
"Hoi hoi hoi!"

Given the massive number of people who attend Oktoberfest, I am amazed at the festival's ability to manage things so well.  I know the festival has been going on for more than two hundred years, and it's the same every year -- but the logistics involved in pulling it off must be unbelievable.

On the other hand, Germans have always been good at logistics.  And Oktoberfest is all about managing the numbers.  For example, this year's festival brought 5.9 million visitors to Oktoberfest.  In addition, they consumed 114 oxen, 50 calves and 7.7 million liters of beer.

The lost and found office reported finding 600 passports, 580 wallets, 320 mobile phones, 220 bags and rucksacks, 18 cameras, 230 glasses and 45 pieces of jewelry and watches.  Also found were 2 wedding rings, one brand new iPhone 6 and four tickets to a sold out football match between the Bayern Munich and Hannover 96.  Top finds were a dog, two dirndl dresses and two leather lederhosen.   I can only ask -- anyone seen four naked people walking around?

Finally, tent security stopped an amazing 110,000 people from taking home their beer mug with them.

We were not one of them...



The cool night air feels good against my skin.  Sharing a tent with 10,000 people meant there would be no need for a jacket (I can understand why so many attendees prefer the short version of lederhosen).  As Mark, LuAnn, Liz and I head back to our hotel, we spot a full moon overhead in the night sky.  It's another wonderful Munich evening, with a crispness to the air that makes fall so enjoyable.

Surrounding us is a carnival atmosphere of flashing lights, laughter and more music.  In the distance I can see a looping rollercoaster and at the center of the wiesn --  a large Ferris wheel, its round shape highlighted by bright red and orange lights and a yellow center that slowly rotates in the dark night sky.  

People continue to pour out of the beer tents, which look entirely different from the outside.  We are standing outside the famous Hofbrau Festzelt with its bright white façade, offset by blue and white checkered banners running between three  glass windows.  A large yellow crown sits atop four huge HB's which are perched on the very top.  People are lining up outside food stands selling curry wurst, kroketten (deep fried mashed potatoes), crepes with chocolate filling and of course, more pretzels.

Liz reaches for my hand and says, "That was so fun!"  Her face is still flushed -- a sure sign she has been drinking or is hot.  Or in this case, both.

"I agree -- once we found Mark."  I look over my shoulder to see if Mark and LuAnn are still with us (which they are).  "I still don't know where he went, but I'm glad we located him.  If you think about 10,000 people wandering around in that beer hall -- it was like finding a needle in a haystack."

After stopping for fresh, chocolate-filled crepes we leave the wiesn grounds and follow a mass of staggering bodies down Landwehrstrasse past St. Luke's Church.  I am filled with a sense of accomplishment that I hadn't felt before.  It is almost like the four of us had risen to the challenge of going to the greatest beer party in the world and not only survived, but held our own among thousands in attendance.

It would be one of two nights we spent at the Oktoberfest.  

The following night, we would find ourselves drawn again to the fest grounds for another round of great beer, roast duck and pretzels.  What had started for me as apprehension had grown into appreciation and a growing desire to return with more friends in the near future.

Anyone want to go?

One beer, please

Droplets of rain run down the rear window of the taxi as it turns onto Schönlaterngasse on its way to the Vienna International Airport.  The heat from my body quickly steams the window, causing me to wipe my hand across the cold pane of glass.  Before it fogs again, I can see ghostly images of trees and buildings slide past as we work our way from the busy downtown area of Vienna.

It seems appropriate that on this day of departure, this beautiful city of music and culture is dulled by gray skies and an early morning drizzle.  With no need to view my surroundings, I can lean back into the semi-darkness of the van and run the events of the past two weeks through my mind.

How quickly we have come to the end of our vacation - four days in Munich, followed by four more in Prague, and finally another four in Vienna.  A year in the making, it's a journey that has broadened my appreciation for strange languages and currency, as well as provide a better understanding of the ruling class that shaped centuries of European history.

For this boy from the heartland of America, where German immigrants planted new roots, the journey through Germany and Austria -- combining familiar Bavarian landscapes and colloquialisms  -- was like meeting a family member you'd never met, but often heard stories about.

On the other hand, the Czech Republic experience was extremely interesting, but with the undercurrent of communist influence still evident in its graffiti marked buildings.  I remember telling myself as I walked down one of Prague's many cobbled sidewalks, "I can't speak a word, I can't read anything I see and I have to negotiate with money that means nothing to me.  What have I gotten myself into?"  A visitor to the moon would have felt more at home.

The good thing was that wherever I went there was always beer.  Lots of beer -- and most of it great tasting beer.  In every pub or restaurant you could say "Ein bier, bitte!"  Or better yet, "One dark beer, please!" and you would be served a frothy brew that was so smooth that you wondered if it was really beer.

It's a phrase that everyone understood.  From the raucous party known as Oktoberfest, to the  pivovar a restaurace (brewer and restaurant) uFleku in Prague, or even the traditional atmosphere of Vienna's oldest beer house, Goesser Bierlinik -- there was always a cold one waiting to be delivered to our table.

Through the taxi's front window, speeding white work vans kick up clouds of rain on the Schnellstrabe as they pass on their way to work -- another gloomy reminder that our vacation is about to end.  Despite my best efforts to enjoy each day along the way, I am unable to escape the inevitability that I am heading back to work on Monday. 

Reality bites --

No more relaxing breakfasts of cheese, cold cuts, yogurt, peaches, eggs and brown bread.
No visits to historic castles and town centers.
No planned stops along the way to visit medieval cities.
No hanging on to hand rails as the subway car races toward our next stop.
No lederhosen or dirndls and shouts of "Ein prosit!  Ein prosit!"
No wiener schnitzel or roast duck for dinner.
No plugging in the camera battery before heading to bed.
No crawling under single duvets that are so much better than our comforter at home.

And... no more dark beer.

A Grand View

The morning air was cool on my face as we waited for the car to pass by.  With no cars in sight, we ran across U.S. Highway 33 and parted a clump of bushes that lined the highway.  Prickly thorns snagged our clothes, but with a shrug of our shoulders we were through.

I immediately felt like we were trespassers -- there must be some law we were breaking by being here.


Beyond the thicket was a worn path that snaked its way past land that was dry, sandy and broken, dotted by burr oak, hickory, maple and basswood trees.  I looked straight up toward the sky and found myself looking at sandstone cliffs, one nearly 30 feet high.  Above the bluff, cotton ball clouds floated in a powder blue sky.

"This way, Paul, " I said.  "We can climb to the top from here,"   My companion was Paul Mundinger, a backyard neighbor for nearly six years, and someone I could count on to skirt a little trouble.

My eyes followed the man-made trail as it wound its way immediately around and over sections of rock that had been exposed by centuries of pounding rain, wind and sun.

Adjusting the back packs on our shoulders, we began the climb, focused on the flat landing twenty feet away.  I grasped a handhold of weeds strong enough to support my weight, before finding an exposed root that offered additional guidance for the final few feet.  From this height, we could already see over the rooftops of the neighborhood houses we had come through on the other side of the highway.

Always one to feel a little queasy about heights, I took a deep breath and kept my eyes focused on the steep, rocky incline leading to our right.  Paul, wearing grey sweat pants and a Packer tee shirt, already streaked with sweat, wasted little time observing his surroundings.  He quickly disappeared through a thicket of trees, before appearing again twenty-five feet above me, smiling with the knowledge that most of our classmates were sitting in school, listening to Bunny Bowler -- who by now was boring them to death with tenth grade math.

I finally caught up to him another fifty feet later where the path leveled out through an open stretch of prairie grass, still wet from the morning dew.  "Look what I found," Paul said excitedly, as he held up a woman's red silk bra, coated with dust and dirt from being smashed into the ground.  "Someone obviously got lucky," he continued and hung it on a nearby bush for the next hiker to see.

"Well it wasn't me," I said, a little embarrassed at the thought of how it got there.

"Duh!  That's for sure!"  

Paul moved on as the path continued to rise through more hickory trees, moving left, then right and finally to an area above the exposed, rocky face of Welch Bluff.  Standing at this vantage point, we could follow the broken trail we had just climbed, twisting its diminutive way back to the highway. Vehicles, the size of a mini-matchbox cars, zipped in and out of town as drivers headed to work for the day. 

Three hundred and seventy feet below us, etched in the bright sunlight of the morning sun, was the city of La Crosse, Wisconsin.  Looking west -- across straight, tree-lined streets -- wound the Mississippi River, looking like a brown trickle of water I may have created with my finger in the dirt.  Further west, on the Minnesota side of the river, rose more bluffs, covered in a thick blanket of dark green and black.  The La Crosse coulee region -- God's Country -- if you believed the Old Style beer commercials, stretched into Iowa to our south and Minnesota to our north. 

"Come on, let's keep moving," I said, finally exhaling in relief.  "We didn't skip school today to stop now."




Having grown up in the La Crosse area, I'm positive I've become spoiled.  Like all things in life, if you do something a hundred times, you are bound to take it for granted.

La Crosse is in the heart of the "drift less" or unglaciated area bypassed by the great glaciers of the Ice Age.  Glaciers passed west and east of here.  A small portion of the Lake Superior lobe went into the Chippewa River area to north and a small portion of the Lake Michigan lobe went into the Green Bay area.  Both glaciers were headed toward La Crosse, but they were going uphill and they were melting, so they never reached here.  This left the undulating hills now known as the Coulee Region.

Then glacial deposits melted and drained into the Mississippi River -- with far greater volume than now -- and cut the valley between the bluffs, leaving their edges hard and flat.

Today, this valley has become home to more than 100,000 people living in La Crosse and nearby cities  We are sheltered by the bluffs, some rising more than four hundred feet above us.  Through the years, I have either climbed or driven to the top of most of them -- Miller and Grand Dad bluffs to our north, and Cliffwood, Hedgehog and Welsh bluffs to our south.  I'm not as familiar with the bluffs on the Minnesota side of the river, but I have driven the bluffs above La Crescent and Dresbach, past the sweet smell of apple orchards and scenic river views that are to die for.

There was a time -- before conservationists and naturalists organized to make a name for themselves - that these bluffs were used as quarries for limestone that were used in the construction of buildings during the early history of La Crosse.

By digging through some old Tribune new stories, I found a history of quarry activity on the bluffs that increased as the city grew.  It goes back prior to  the Civil War when the city was but a small village, limited to a few blocks of residences and business housed near the water front.  As the town grew, the limestone rock from Grandad and the surrounding bluffs was in greater demand.

The quarrying business -- run by La Crosse Stone Company and Wolley & Hanson -- never had much of a foreign business, it was practically a local industry, running only to meet local demand.  Many of the buildings still located downtown sit on foundations made from this limestone.  Some of the more famous buildings are the Mons Anderson home on Cass Street and the George Zeisler building, which currently houses Satori Arts and the Pearl ice cream shop.  Smaller pieces of crushed limestone were used for macadamizing (paving) roads and highways, while dust was used to make concrete.

 

After years of quarrying, however, the beauty and symmetry of the bluffs was being lost, so the citizens of La Crosse wanted the practice stopped.  Unfortunately, they didn't have the money to buy the land, so they looked for someone else with deep pockets and found Joseph and Irene Hixon, who eventually bought the bluff land in 1909.  The family held the property in trust until 1912 when the land was donated as a park to the city of La Crosse.   A group of residents, led by Gideon Hixon (a lumber baron who lived in the now historic Hixon House) raised $15,000 to construct roads and purchase more land around the bluff.

Another person that had to do with the ownership of Grandad Bluff was Henry Bliss, who at one time had a summer home on top of the bluff.  The road leading to his home was called the Bliss Road, and it is still known by that name today.

In 1928, there was a movement to change the name of the bluff to "Granddad Mountain," and to name the series of bluffs along the Mississippi River the "Mississippi Mountain Range."  While neither proposal ever happened, it was important to the survival of the bluff lands surrounding the Mississippi River that conservation, not quarrying, was pursued as a legacy to the future.

Today, Grandad Bluff and the surrounding bluffs of Miller, Clifford, Hedgehog and Welsh, have become a popular destination for thousands every year.  Recent renovations to the bluff area have allowed better views from the 600 foot bluffs that overlook the city of La Crosse, the Mississippi River valley and the three states of Wisconsin, Minnesota and Iowa.  Wisconsin Trails readers recently voted the bluff area as the "Most Scenic in the State."

For most of us locals, it remains a symbol of the Coulee region.  It's who we are - we ride bikes on the dirt bike trails, practice climbing the limestone faces, or walk through heavily forested trails,   We feel it in our legs, arms and backs the way our bodies feel while floating in the muddy waters of the Mississippi.  When we move away to go to college, start a family or to find a job in another state, our memories of climbing the bluffs never fade away.



"Do you know why they call it Grandad Bluff?" I asked Paul as we lay on our stomachs creeping closer to the edge.  A couple hundred feet directly below us someone was cutting some grass.  With my finger tip, I covered him up and most of the yard he was mowing.  "Some say because it's the grand daddy of them all.  It's the largest bluff in the area and offers the best views."

Our point of view was slightly to the left of Cass Street, which ran in a straight line from the base of the bluff to the Cass Street Bridge, its light blue tresses reflecting the late morning sun as it crossed the Mississippi River.  

"I always thought it was because the rock formation looks like an old man's face."  Paul's thick glasses had slid down his nose, threatening to fall off and over the edge.  With a dirty finger, he pushed them up, then continued.  "It doesn't really matter.  I like it over here better anyway.  Not so many people and a lot more room to explore."

And explore we did.  Our adventure had taken us up Welsh and over Hedgehog before back up Cliffview to our current location.  I rolled over to my back and looked up to the sky, which by now had become partly cloudy.  The leaves of the trees had begun spinning in the wind, making it look like the some of them were full of silver tin foil.

"You know, I've never called in sick before," I said, "when I wasn't really sick.  That was pretty cool calling in as each other's dads."   A smile crept across my face as I remembered how nervous I was when the office secretary answered the phone.  "I don't think shouting into a pillow made much difference though.  My voice is about as low as it's going to get." 

I looked over at Paul who was sitting up digging through a lunch bag, looking for the sandwich he had made earlier at his house.  His face suddenly looked grim as a cloud moved in front of the sun, casting a shadow that slid across his body like water flowing downstream.  "I just hope the school didn't call back later to verify that we were really sick.  It seems like I'm always getting blamed for something.  I don't need anymore trouble."

After lunch, we continued on our way, finding new paths to explore.  We climbed down a path that narrowed as it passed beneath one of the rocky faces of Cliffview Bluff.  Round holes pocketed the layered cliff where birds had dug nests.  Some of the larger holes contained bees which for the moment left us alone.  With my right hand I was able to rub loose some of the soft sandstone, creating a shallow ridge that I used for balance.  

Between two large rocks that had fallen from above, we found a shallow cave that provided shelter  from the hot sun.  Inside was an abandoned campfire, with remains of blackened sticks and tree branches scattered around a flat, sandy area.  Empty Papst beer cans were thrown in the back of the cave along with a two-month old newspaper that was probably used to light the fire.  The words FUD WAS HERE! was scratched on one of the limestone walls -- a meaningless scribble that archeologists would someday question.

I felt strange sitting in this cave, as though we were violating someone's private dwelling. I pictured a hobo spending a few nights here, or even some Indians from long ago using this cave as a temporary shelter while exploring the valley below.  I imagined these bluffs were climbed many years ago by New World explorers traveling west in hopes of a better life, risking lives against waring Indians and savage animals looking for their next meal.

But today, there was nothing to fear.  With an innocence that only comes from being young teenage boys, Paul and I moved fearlessly from the cave and descending through the surrounding trees and rocks.  It had taken us half an hour to climb the bluff, but coming down -- with little to stop us -- we quickly found ourselves in someone's backyard and headed for home.  The freedom and sense of adventure I had felt while we climbed the bluffs was still with us and would remain there for many years, but never repeated.

Glancing behind, I could no longer see where we had walked.  No footsteps creased the grass -- not even a broken branch hanging from a scrub bush.  It was as if the green shadows beneath the swaying trees and hardened rocks had swallowed our footsteps, leaving no sign that human beings had ever existed.  

Full Steam Ahead!

I close the door to my car and cross the sandy beach that will -- in five hours -- be full of young adults playing volleyball.  At this time of the day, however, there isn't a soul to be found. 

Well, that's not exactly right. 

Before me rests a small houseboat, anchored to the sand in front of the Pettibone Beach House.  In the pre-dawn darkness, it is silhouetted against the lights coming from the Logistics Health buildings on the eastern side of the Mississippi River.  The boat looks empty, with an eerie blackness staring back at me.  I suspect there are sleeping people on board, so I quietly move past it.  What it's doing here is a mystery to me -- you would think the boat owner would need a permit or something to stay overnight.  But this isn't the first time I've seen it beached here.

As I step onto the beach, I'm amazed at the stillness of the river.  Patches of color reflected off the river are dispersed by the gentle current as it slowly heads downstream.  The air is thick with humidity and the temperature is already into the seventies.  Once the sun is up, it will be a scorcher -- reaching 91 degrees if you believe WIZM's "weather on the sixes."

To my left is a thicket of brush and river grass.  I can smell dead fish somewhere, but the smell and the buzz of mosquitoes don't deter me from walking through it to get to my destination.  With anticipation, I walk out onto a series of rocks that jut out into the river, careful not to lose my balance and fall into the water.

To my south, clouds -- appearing orange, pale blue and purple as the sun awakens from it's evening slumber -- paint a dreamy picture over the big blue bridges that span the 462 foot wide river.  Yellow lights outline the contrasting shapes of both bridges, one arching gracefully from Barron Island to La Crosse; the other looking like an aging battleship with its pointed, steel trusses crisscrossing it's way out of La Crosse.  These structures remind me that the river has always embraced both the past and present.

This morning, an even bigger tie to the river's past lies docked on the other side of the river in Riverside Park, its shadowy length dotted with deck lights.  According to the arrival/departure times I saw yesterday, the majestic boat is ready to depart for St. Paul within a few minutes.   I set my tripod down and adjust the camera lens to focus on the largest steamboat still operating on the Mississippi River -- the American Queen.


*     *     *     *


Every summer and fall, La Crosse hosts the arrival of steam-powered riverboats.  Through the years, I've enjoyed seeing The Delta Queen, the American Queen, Queen of the Mississippi and our very own over-achiever -- the La Crosse Queen.  Today's steamboats -- with elegant woodwork, calliopes and steam-powered stern paddle wheels are meant to replicate the Victorian Era steam paddlers of old.  But while they look the part, they are anything but like the steamboats that traveled the Mississippi River during the 1800's.

For many years, boat travel on the Mississippi River was a slow affair, with products mostly traveling down river on flatboats and keel boats.  The only way to move things up river was to use poles -- and push -- and that meant a large amount of time and money.  So the development of steam to move people and goods upstream helped create a new economy and many new river towns, and brought fabulous luxuries to the settlers.  Suddenly, travel on the Mississippi River was no longer a one-way route!

To understand what traveling on the Mississippi River was like during the early 1800's, you need to know that there was little reason to travel this far north on the river.  In the late eighteenth century, most river travel was on the eastern rivers of the United States and the lower Mississippi River between New Orleans and St Louis.  Between sandbars, strong current and hostile Indians, travel on the upper Mississippi River was no sure thing.  There are accounts like this from the La Crosse Historical Society that paint a very rugged and dangerous country:

"The whole country west of the Mississippi River was in the undisputed possession of the various Indian tribes when a few straggling settlements began to appear.  The Winnebago, Sioux and Chippewa Indians were the principal tribes along the river when the whole country from Prairie du Chien to Fort Snelling was one continuous wilderness.  The scenery of this region was grand and picturesque, but offered few inducements for settlement as long as it remained in the hands of a barbarous population."

"Fort Snelling (in Minnesota) was for two decennaries the great -- and in fact the only -- trading post in the Northwest.  It stood alone as the only civilized center in the midst of a great Indian territory, and within a few miles of the head of navigation on the Mississippi River."  

"The first steamboat to reach the post occurred in 1823; and the necessity of having provisions taken to the post would bring a boat up there only a few times every year, until 1845, when boats began to make regular trips to the fort."

With continued expansion to the west -- including growth in areas like Dubuque, Prairie du Chien, La Crosse and St. Paul --  steamboats were becoming a familiar site along the river.  But they weren't the kind that visit La Crosse today on a regular basis.  These were flat boats -- called packet boats -- which carried crops up and down the river.  In fact many river towns were built near plantations and farms to make getting crops to packet boats easier.  La Crosse was one of those towns.

From the La Crosse Historical Society --

"La Crosse is exceptionally well located for river trade.  The bluffs come close to the river's edge both north and south of the city.  The bend of the Mississippi River as it rounds the end of Pettibone Island just above the mouth of the Black River causes the channel to flow along the eastern shore where the levee is deeper for boat landing."

"Indian trails from northern Wisconsin centered at Prairie La Crosse while the junction of the La Crosse, Black and Mississippi Rivers formed a break in the means of transportation and made the location a cargo-breaking point."

In 1824, Congress passed legislation to improve the navigation of the Ohio and Mississippi rivers by making rivers more accessible -- removing sand bars, dead trees and snags.  Part of the process was the development in 1829 of another type of steamboat called the snag boat.  These boats were to find sunken trees, stumps or boat wrecks -- and remove them.  With storms and unpredictable current, the Mississippi River was constantly changing.   So snag boats were a very important improvement that allowed continued expansion along our great river.

As the river conditions improved and more towns popped up along the river, the need to bring people up the Mississippi River grew.  In 1823 the small steam packet Virginia became the first boat to travel from St. Louis into what was called the Minnesota Territory, carrying a trickle of what would soon become  a deluge of immigration.  An interesting side note -- also on board the Virginia was Captain William Clark of the famed Lewis and Clark expedition.

 

Early passenger travel was not a pleasant experience:  many of these immigrant families traveled in horrible conditions.  Among them were cramped spaces, often among cattle and pigs.  Passengers were exposed to diseases and enjoyed few luxuries.  Despite these conditions, steamboat travel opened immigration to settlers and their children.  The speed of travel made it possible for families to travel together, rather than have the father leave loved ones behind while exploring the wilderness with the hopes of returning for them much later.

As the years passed, steamboat travel for passengers became better.  Boat builders added more luxuries, making the experience something to write home about.   Again from the La Crosse Historical Society --

"The saloons of the boats were highly decorated with brilliant if not always artistic paintings.  Music was highly attractive to the passengers.  As brass bands were too expensive , a colored stringed orchestra was usually to be found in the main cabin.  These Negroes also worked as deck hands when unloading or loading the boat.  Six or eight Negroes who could play the banjo, violin and guitar, as well as sing, and who were also barbers, waiters, baggage hands were hired.  During their time off, they furnished music and received a little extra pay for it.  It was about 1879 that the first steam calliope was heard on the upper Mississippi."

"Three good meals were served on the boats each day, and the passengers were welcome to eat all they wished.  This was quite a contrast to the lower river boats, where passengers were expected to furnish their own food.''

"In the days of the keenest competition, all this and dancing was offered at the lowest prices, each company trying to outdo the other in an effort to gain trade.  They went so far as to keep agents at the railroad stations to persuade passengers to take their particular boats."




The glamorous style known as "Steamboat Gothic" attracted pleasure-seekers and wealthy travelers.

Herbert Quick wrote in "Mississippi Steamboatin' " -- "To mid-westerners in those days cabin passage on a steamboat was the ultimate in luxury.  More comfortable than their setting rooms and more ornate than their parlors, these travelers had never seen anything like it before.  The wooden filigrees that stretched down the long aisle in a tapering vista illuminated by glistening cut-glass chandeliers; the soft, oil paintings on every stateroom door; the thick carpets that transformed walking into a royal march; the steaming piles of food on the long linen cloth in the dining rooms, and attentive waiters standing with more food and desserts -- neither home nor hotels were ever like this!"

As interesting as it was to travel on a steamboat, they could be quite dangerous.  On the upper Mississippi River it was common for rival steamers to race, beam to beam, down narrow channels.  Their captains could ignore safety measures and occasionally ram their competitors to gain an advantage.  Boilers -- pushed beyond their limits -- occasionally blew up and killed passengers.

A well-known steamboat in this area -- the War Eagle -- burned at La Crosse in 1879 at the confluence of the Black and Mississippi Rivers with the loss of two lives and $215,000 in property damage.  A picture of the boat is painted on the side of a building near downtown.

I've often wondered about cost -- both to build one of these boats and to be a passenger.  According to early record keeping, the average steamboat -- accommodating 200 cabin passengers and 100 second class passengers would cost from $25,000 to $30,000.  Monthly expenses for the crew, food, wood and sundries were $11,500.  Passengers would pay $5 for a cabin when traveling downstream from St. Paul to La Crosse.  Traveling upstream was a little more expensive -- $6 from La Crosse to St. Paul.  The profit of the average boat for a season was about $56,300.

The average life of a steamboat was eight years.  Based on the costs of operating the boat and the large profit being made, it's easy to see why river traffic increased so much during the mid 1800's.

As quickly as they became popular, however, steamboats began to lose their appeal as railroads gained popularity.  In the year 1830, there were only 23 miles of tracks in the United States.  By 1880, there were 93,000 miles of tracks.  As the country moved into the 20th century, the invention of cars, trucks and airplanes signaled the end of steamboat traffic as a preferred means of transportation.

In the early 1900's, the Great Depression, the explosion of shipbuilding capability on the river because of WWI and II, and the rise of diesel tugboats finally finished the steamboat era.


*    *     *     *     *


As the great boat slowly pulls out from the landing, the quiet of the morning is disturbed by the mournful sound of the American Queen's steam whistle.  In my mind's eye, I image the captain in the pilothouse, grabbing the whistle handle and slowly pulling down against the pressure of the steam valve.  The captain's face is lit by the lights of the boat's control panel and the early morning glow of lamps in Riverside Park.

Another low moan can be heard from the gilded steam whistle atop the smokestack bonnet.  After blowing the long blast, the captain pauses to wait for the echo which comes shortly from the surrounding bluffs, barely visible in the early morning light.  It is almost like his last pull on the whistle has awakened the ghosts of previous steamboats that traveled this river almost 175 years ago.  The echoes continue until the last ghostly specter has vanished like a warm river mist.

And with a slight turn to the left, the American Queen continues its journey north through Winona, Wabasha, Lake Pepin and eventually St.Paul.

Life along the Mississippi River has inspired many people:  Mark Twain, with his wonderful stories of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn; and one of the greatest American musicals, Show Boat.  Both of these examples show the drama that lived in the daily lives of people along the river. “Ol’ Man River” and other songs are poignant reminders of how rivers wind their way through people’s lives as well as the American landscape.

"In my dreams I seem to hear a whistle shrill -
Like the whippoorwillin'  of the whippoorwill.
In my ears I hear it ringing
And the past to me it is bringing.

It reminds me of the dear old past
to me it is bringing.
It reminds me of the dear old Mississippi.

When I loaded cotton on that
stern wheel ship
They were the happiest days
there's no doubt.

On the Mississippi."

-- On The Mississippi, Ballard MacDonald, 1912

The New America

I have said many times before that one of the reasons I write this blog is to leave something behind for my children and their children to read.  By doing so, they will have a better understanding of who I am -- what was important to me, a little family history and a trail of cultural change that may some day seem too good to be true.


This is one of those days where I feel like my two boys will never understand how much life has changed in the years since they were born.  They will say, "Dad's doing drugs again!  This could never have been the way things were!"

Sadly, I'm telling the truth.

America used to be a country where dreams were made, where free speech, religion and traditions were not only accepted, but cherished.

Recently, schools, courts and our current mass media have been relentless in tearing down so many important things that someday there will be no record of them.  History books will conveniently alter why this country was founded; significant people and monuments will be removed and movies will be made rewriting who the good guys were and what they believed. My children's children will grow up believing that "this is just the way things are."  Ignorant to the fact that there was a time when this nation was great and people were proud to be known as Americans.

I've chronicled President Obama's attempts to slam American exceptionalism.  In his mind, American exceptionalism is something that needs to be apologized for because it makes other countries feel inferior.  The weaker we appear on foreign policy, human rights and economic strength, the happier he is.

Exceptionalism, as told in my household, is the foundation on which we have fought wars, for which we died and for which we are proud to display the flag.  It's not about bragging about our accomplishments -- its about believing we have a God-given right to be free people.  Free to do our best without the interference of government.

It's a contrast that in recent months has never been greater.  It's a sign that we are living in a new America.

Take the recent decision by the Supreme Court to rewrite law and allow Obama Care subsidies to continue.  Or to define marriage as something other than a union of one man and one woman.  Some may say the I'm just a sore loser -- which I am (I hate to lose).   But I firmly believe that activist judges are taking power away from Congress to write laws and removing state legislatures from having the authority to do what its voters want.

Its too easy for someone not happy with current affairs to challenge it in the court of law, where it is defeated then appealed again and again until it reaches the Supreme Court.  Once there, nine judges -- under the influence of cultural change and political pressure -- will make a decision that 99.9% of America hasn't voted on.  It's a concentration of power that our founding fathers could not have wanted.

Thank you President Obama, Harvard law professor.

Another  change can be found in recent treatment of blacks and illegal immigrants.  President Obama has made it clear he supports racial unrest by promoting false narratives about police brutality in St. Louis, New York City and Baltimore.  Instead of exhibiting a strong leadership role as America's first black president, he consistently picks at the scab of racial inequality to further his belief that white America has an unfair advantage.  WHITE PRIVILEGE! And this coming from a president who is supposed to represent all of us.

Racial issues are so out-of-control that the removal of the Confederate flag from South Carolina has morphed into something censoring old television shows and Academy award winning movies.  Historic Civil War monuments are spray painted and vandalized.  Public employees are removing confederate flags from cemeteries in Georgia.  Thomas Jefferson and Andrew Jackson are being removed from an awards dinner because they owned slaves.

We are truly living in a new America:   When something offends someone, it's beyond being politically correct. It justifies the need for change.  Activists maybe can't change history, but you can bet they don't have to honor it.

Free speech is classified as "hate" speech if it doesn't conform to the left's view of gay marriage or "black lives matter".  It's gotten so bad that someone, who is offended at a flea market by the sale of Civil War memorabilia, calls the police to complain.

Thank you President Obama, community activist.

His unconstitutional executive orders to allow illegal immigrants into this country have contributed to higher crime rates and a higher risk of a terrorist attack.  Rest assured when a black man (usually someone who has broken the law) is shot dead, you will be forced to watch weeks of non-stop coverage from the drive by media.  But let an illegal alien kill an innocent woman?  Good luck finding a story from ABC, CBS or NBC.

I read today that the Obama administration has stripped the requirement for naturalized citizens to defend this country.  In the past, candidates for citizenship normally declare that they will "bear arms on behalf of the United States" and "perform noncombatant service in the Armed Forces of the United States" when required by the law.  Today, that requirement is no longer necessary.

Why would Obama allow this?  Never before have laws been rewritten, ignored or blatantly broken without consequence or challenge.  How can people ignore such a blatant abuse of power?  Our freedoms are being threatened every single day and nothing is being done about it.

Another sign of the new America is how our military is under attack -- not from enemies in Iran, Afghanistan and Iraq, but from within our borders.  Home-grown Muslim terrorists are killing unarmed service men and it's being called a result of work place violence or the result of unmedicated depression.  Anything but the truth which involves calling terrorists radical Muslims.  And for no reason -- other than legacy building -- did President Obama and Secretary of State John Kerry negotiate a horrible agreement with Iran that bypasses Congressional approval and brings the world that much closer to World War III.

Thank you President Obama, negotiator-in-chief.

Our culture has become so rotten that I'm embarrassed to turn on the television.  It's not  because I'm easily offended or in denial of my age.  I ashamed to see all of these reality shows, to hear cable news programs ripping each other, and to find ESPN advocating gay athletes and transgender Olympians for their "courage.".

The attacks on religion have been successful in removing all consequences of bad behavior.  I am reminded daily that life has little value (Planned Parenthood selling fetal baby parts for money), rules are to be ignored until you get caught (have you watched people drive lately?), and language has deteriorated to the point that anything goes (if rap and popular music are any indication our youth put more value on respect than on earning it).

Our level of tolerance for people with different views has dropped to zero, as the left has chosen to prosecute anyone who disagrees with them.  Instead of disagreeing and moving on, businesses are sued and people are beaten in public.

And have the people we send to Washington D.C.ever been worse?  Until our elected officials listen to their constituents and are forced to take the same health benefits that are forced on us (think Obamacare) I refuse to contribute a single penny to anyone's campaign.  Sex scandals, money deals and political maneuvering that horrify us while watching "House of Cards" are simply telling the truth that none of us want to believe.

Yeah, the new America sucks.

I can hear my kids telling me to back away from the edge of the cliff.  "It's not as bad as you think, dad.  Change is tough when you get old."  Ok, I guess that makes me feel better.

I admit, the older I get the harder it is to change.  But why does change have to be bad?  Must I forsake so many of the things that I like?  For the most part, new technology makes my life better, but how does removal of the Ten Commandments or acceptance of a perverse lifestyle make my life better?

And how does spending more money -- no! wasting more money -- than what we have make my future better?  Someone said something so true about government spending that I wish I could find the quote and repeat it here.  It goes something like this --    "If you spend your money on yourself, you are very careful what you buy and how much it costs.  But, if you spend someone else's money on someone else, you don't care what you buy and you don't care how much it costs."  The last part explains why our country is $18 trillion in debt.

So, while standing here --  ankle deep in the sewage of failed government ideas and a politically correct culture -- I propose the following attitudinal change.  I know it won't make you feel better, but it allows us to go down fighting, and in my book that's much better than just taking it in the chops.

Let's get this election right.  We need a conservative candidate, not someone from the establishment right or left.  I know there are currently 16 GOP candidates wanting to be president, but if we want to take this country back, we need to look no further than Carly Fiorino, Scott Walker or Ted Cruz.  And while we are at it, let's show the RINO contingency out the door.  I am tired of faux legislation that allows Republicans to say "we tried, but couldn't get the votes."  Their election promises to stop Obama were good enough to help them to a landslide last November, but the proof is in the pudding:  taking no action on Obama Care, accepting his DOJ nominee and getting out of the way of the recent Iran deal aren't fooling anyone anymore.

Stop being afraid of saying what you think.  I'm not suggesting that you lie or slander those you dislike.  But it's long past the time for people to stand up to the politically correct crowd and stand for something.  The next time some Democrat shouts "Black Lives Matter!" ask them why they support Planned Parenthood where 90,000 black babies are aborted every year.  The next time you hear someone claim Conservatives don't care about the poor, ask them why -- after eight years of Obama -- minorities and the poor have never been in worse shape.  And why the middle class is shrinking.  The silent majority must find their voice.

Let the radical left eat itself into submission.  I know not everything will be as obvious as Hillary's destruction of her email account, but sooner or later, people are going to realize that the left is only interested in controlling our behavior and taking our money.  Let everyone know -- left right, black, white, female and male.  We're all in the same sinking boat, so it's time to bail out the water or sink -- and I'm not ready to sink.

There are signs that things could change in the near future.  Fox News has wrestled the stranglehold that the liberals in the media had for so long.  Today, all of the great liberal forums -- newspapers, television stations and news magazines -- have been slowing fading away.  Their days of incredible influence are past and in some cases they are struggling to survive.

That leaves it up to us to tell our children that life is more than going to college and organizing gay pride parades.  Today's reality -- a welfare state on the rise, the threat of ISIS, and the uncontrolled illegal immigration -- will force our children to deal with this new America sooner or later. It is our final responsibility as parents to prepare them for it.

Because America will never be the great country it once was.

Let's not be the last one's to know it.

Tales From The Crater

With each step, the worries of the day begin to drain away like water draining from the hanging baskets that add color to nearby houseboats. As Liz and I move down the dock area, a small painted turtle slips into the brown water, anxious for the cool down that must feel good after sunning itself on a floating cable.

Our pontoon boat, positioned straight ahead and to the left in slip D10, is ready.  The canopy is extended, providing a patch of shade against the hot summer sun.  A cooler with food and ice cold beverages promises a good time on the river as we prepare to drive down towards Brownsville, Minnesota.

Tonight, the winds are mild and the temperature in the mid 80's.  A perfect combination that makes boating so enjoyable.  We've had a good start to the summer -- with a couple of journeys to Lawrence Lake Marina for their Friday night steak fry and a weekend journey north through the locks to Trempealeau, WI for their Cajun Music Festival.  It was our first overnight stay and remains one of the highlights of the young boating season.

It's an experience that cuts both ways.

During the frigid months of January and February -- while standing in front of the picture window watching snow pile up in our front yard -- I have mixed feelings. I relish the memories of nights on the river to get me through our long, dark and cold winter.  But it's agony knowing that we have a ways to go before I can get the boat out of storage.  Such is the life of someone with a boat in Wisconsin.

I untie the ropes holding us to the dock and push the boat into an open area between docks D and C.  Liz, who is comfortably sitting in the captain's chair, slowly maneuvers us into the marina's waterway leading to a gas hut and new clubhouse.  She slows the boat to allow two mallard ducks, with a gaggle of young ducklings swimming behind them, to pass on their way to safer waters. We idle pass an odd collection of houseboats, runabouts and pontoon boats that remind me of an old Skipper Liner ad that ran on television during my high school days --   summer on the river and some are not.

With river levels down, I am able to see a line of white rocks that lead us toward the main channel.   Within minutes, we are leaving Pettibone Marina and heading toward our night's destination -- Crater Island Cove.  It's an area that holds many memories for me, including a couple of summers from 1978 and 1979.


*     *     *     *


When I was twenty years old, I was part of a small group of young men who traveled down the Mississippi River to take part in a sporting event that pushed our young bodies to their limits.

In Pool 8 of the Mississippi River was a large island of sand -- a remnant of dredging by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers to keep the main channel of the river open for barge traffic.  Over the years, the amount of sand that was piled onto that island was enough to create a hill that was easily over 25 feet high.  In the middle of the island was a 100 yard long area that remained flat.  When combined, the island looked like your typical football stadium -- with the flat area resembling the football field and the piles of sand surrounding it resembling the stadium seats.

It was here, in an area surrounded by piles of sand, that the annual event known as the Crater Bowl was born.

The Bob Johnson family was your typical river rat family that spent every weekend and sometime weeks in between, on the Mississippi.  One of the areas that they would dock their houseboat at was a small sandbar that attached itself to Crater Island by a strip of sand bordering a small inlet that ran behind it.  It was common knowledge that if you wanted such a prime location for the weekend, you would need to grab it Thursday night or at the latest Friday morning.

Their son, Dave, who hung out with some of us during the summer, and his younger brother came up with the crazy idea of playing football in the middle of Crater Island.  It was an idea born out of the competitive spirit of young men needing a good excuse to run around and drink beer.

You might think that hot sand and sun would not make for good football.  But you'd be wrong.  Playing good football was never our intention.  Winning at football while playing in the sand and sun was our intention.

Our formula for winning was to stay sober long enough to last into the third and fourth quarters.  If the score was close, then we felt like we had a chance.  If you've ever walked on a sandy beach or played sand volleyball you know how hard it is to get any kind of traction, so cutting left and right required an equal amount of skill and strength. Our goal was to take advantage of their bad footing and miscues -- an interception or blown coverage  -- and turn it into a big gain or score.

Game-time temperature in the bottom of the sand bowl easily reached into the nineties if not closer to a hundred degrees.  All of which led to more beer, and then more football.

Our games featured two teams -- the young guys (a group of high school kids led by Dave Johnson's younger brother against an "older" team, with Dave Johnson as our captain.  That older team included myself,  Tom Carr (Bun), Doug Schoenfeld (Clud), Paul Mundinger (Stein), Tim Wuebben (Wib) and Glenn Gossfeld (Goose), to name a few.  None of us were great athletes, but we were still in our twenties with lots of time playing touch football in the grassy field next to Bun's house.  What more did we need?  We were banking on our experience to bring home the trophy, which was nothing more than the knowledge that we were better than them for another year.

To show our level of seriousness, we video taped the game and kept statistics (thanks to Goose, who would later keep the books for the La Crosse Catbirds and Milwaukee Bucks).  Fans -- other boaters who happened to climb the outer edge of the bowl -- would watch with the friends of the Johnsons who were not playing.  They must have thought we were crazy.

A newsletter was printed, which covered all parts of the game and sent to participants.  After the game, we would eat and re-watch the game and other movies until we dropped from exhaustion.  Or a day of drinking.  I can remember falling asleep in someone's boat, which wasn't a bad idea until it started to rain.

For me, the Crater Bowl never got past the second summer.  If it continued, I don't know.  But as I began spending summers with a certain brown-eye girl who I met at Dell's Bar, and later chased to Michigan, my summers on the river dwindled to none.  The river was replaced by Lake Michigan, although it was usually from the shore.  An occasional night spent on a friend's houseboat kept the flame flickering, but for the next fifteen years most of my time on the Mississippi River and Crater Island was spent in my head.

Remembering the fun we had thinking we were better at football than any of us ever admitted.



*     *     *     *

I turn the ignition key and slowly back the pontoon boat away from the sandy shore.  Ahead, the sun's reflection is scattered into tiny pieces of light as we maneuver through the opening and head into the main channel.  Behind us, the motor's wake sends ripples through the water's smooth surface.  It is time to head north -- back to the land of hot concrete and humanity.  There is an evening chill in the air that prompts Liz to grab her sweater and put it over her shoulders.

Leaving the quiet confines of Crater Lake, I reflect on its transformation from the pile of sand we enjoyed in my twenties to the shrinking cove it is today.  From 2006 to 2010, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service and U.S. Army Corps of Engineers closed Crater Island and began barging sand from the island to create new islands further downriver.  Twenty-six islands were created or protected as part of the Corps Pool 8 habitat restoration and enhancement project built along the Raft Channel in Wisconsin.

When they were done, they had transformed Crater Island from a massive pile of sand into an island with a small cove that filled with water from the Mississippi River.

In many ways it is better than before -- a larger area for beaching boats and for swimming.  On a windy day, you are protected and can safely beach the boat, instead of anchoring it so it you don't float downstream.  On week nights, it's quiet enough that you can enjoy the beauty and sounds of the Mississippi River.  And eat a light dinner of pizza or chicken or sub sandwiches.

But on weekends it's the party capitol of the Mississippi River.  Between fifty to one hundred boats crowd the beaches on your typical Saturday or Sunday.  A quick look on Facebook will show pictures of bikinis, boats and booze.  Lots of booze.  As one poster said, "It's the place to party your ass off!"

As I've gotten older, I'm thankful I survived my wild, younger days.  Had I known how stupid we looked, I never would have done it.  But if you're looking for a party, with the smell of suntan lotion and diesel gasoline in the air, I know a place you can go.

Like football in the sand, it's just not for me anymore.

Every season brings a different look to Crater Island -- from the lengthening shadows of a late summer night, to the colors of fall as they spread across the bluffs rising above the small town of Brownsville, Minnesota.  If you're lucky (and have enough notice), you can climb the southern end of Crater Island and wait for the majestic paddle wheelers coming down the river from La Crosse.  Or sit back in a partially submerged beach chair and bask in the warmth of a hot summer sun.  There have been evenings when we will grab a life preserver and float around the cove area.  Climbing back into the boat, we literally feel the aches and pains of the day sliding from our bodies as the water drains from our drying bodies.

In the skies above Crater Island we have watched American white pelicans circle by the hundreds as they migrate south to avoid the inevitable chill of late fall and winter. They will appear in a flash as the sun reflects off their white plumage, only to vanish seconds later as they change direction.   Much like our visit to the cove tonight, it is but a stop for these pelicans along the way to another destination.
 
Liz and I don't know what our destination will be in ten or twenty years.  We struggle with talk of retirement and old age.  Some of our boating friends plan to leave Wisconsin for the warmer climates of Florida and Arizona.  Perhaps Liz and I will follow suit, or find our way back to the Great Lakes and Michigan.

Regardless of where our future takes us, I will always remember the friendly confines of Crater Island where young men played football, and boat lovers found temporary relief from a hot summer day.