The Bats of Congress Avenue Bridge

Really had a great time in Austin, Texas, thanks to my son Jeremy, daughter and son-in-law (Jamie and Guillermo) all of the extended family and friends, and of course little Mateo. Were it not for his 1st birthday celebration, none of this would have happened.

After a great day of celebration, there of

course way bit of cleaning up to be done. Somehow, I avoided the bulk work and was sent out to take Mateo for a walk. I'm still confused though. I did all the walking (up and down the hilly subdivision), while Mateo dozed comfortably in the "walker;" I think it should be called a "rider."

The real highlight of the day came at dusk, when we set out on a ferry boat ride on Lady Bird

Lake, to see over a million bats begin their nightly ritual and fly out from under the Congress Avenue Bridge, in search of their evening meal.

The Congress Avenue Bridge is home to the largest urban colony bat population in North America, and is Austin's best-known tourist attraction.

An estimated 1 1/2 million bats make their spring, summer and fall home under the Congress Avenue Bridge. The bats, having found refuge by

virtue of a fateful design, unknowingly, built into the bridge. Today this same design is now incorporated into similar bridge designs by intent, in order promote the growth of future bat colonies.

Specifically, that design incorporates a narrow 3-5 inch wide crevice with a recess of 12 inches or more; providing a haven (or perhaps heaven) for bats. The Congress Avenue Bridge has several such crevice-recesses which run the full length of the underside of the bridge.

Our guide for the evenings cruise explained that the bats leave at just after dusk in quest of their evening meal. They will, we were told, normally fly out a distance of 150-200 miles, in search of insects, and return before daylight. During their evening sojourn, they will devour up to 1 1/2 times their own weight in insects, in a single night. Though a mature bat normally averages a weight of only 3 ounces, a quarter of a pound (or more) of insects - is a lot of insects! In total, it is estimated that this single colony of Mexican free-tail bats consumes from 10,000 to 30,000 POUNDS of insects in just one evening.

When one considers the amount of undue pesticides that are conserved by virtue of this single colony of bats, and then, multiplies this by all the existing (and potential) bat colonies, it is clear that, we owe a debt of gratitude to these - ugly little "critters."

The whole event, from the first bats departure until the last, takes several minutes (we left after 10-15 minutes, and they were still departing in large numbers).

Many of the bats have already departed on their southward migration to Mexico, which we were told began in early October and will end in mid November. And so, what we were seeing, though impressive indeed, was not even the full spectacle. In August at the peak of the season, it must be truly SPECTACULAR!

Although, seeing the flight of the bats is, of course, the highlight of evening's ferryboat cruise; the entire event is a pleasant, relaxing and very affordable (only $10.00 per person) evenings entertainment. With the addition of some great photos provided courtesy of the Austin skyline, the night was a complete success.

Tiny Texas Houses

The other day I implied that there would not be any more blogs posted until new plans were formulated. Things have changed, however, and now it's back to blogging sooner than expected.

Yesterday, my daughter, Jamie, and I took a short trip to Luling, Texas, about 50 miles northeast of Austin. The intent of our trip was to see the Tiny Texas Houses located in Luling. We both were expecting to see miniature houses- sort of,oversized doll houses, big enough to (perhaps) walk in, but too small to live in. We

had envisioned a tourist attraction; but what we discovered was much more.

Tiny Texas Houses, is the brain-child of Brad Kittel a slightly-graying hippie (complete with

ponytail and round wire-rim, John Lennon glasses), intellectual and self styled adventurer turned

entrepreneur.

What he has created is a whole new life style of what he calls - "a whole new paradigm of pure salvage living." While not exactly a part of the Green Movement, conceptually it follows the same beat. Kittel downplays America's whole philosophical mindset of, more and bigger is better; and replaces it with the minimal requirements for living comfortably with no frills included.

Specifically, he has picked up on the America's material extravagance and launched what might

be perceived as a - one man crusade, against our material excesses and our throw away society. Tiny Texas Houses use 99% pure salvage materials; only the nails, wiring, insulation and finishing materials (mostly linseed oil, Tung oil and milk paint) are

purchased new.

Kittel began, over twenty years ago, collecting architectural salvage materials, and now has a 140,000 square foot manufacturing/warehouse facility where he both lives and produc

es his- Tiny Texas Houses.

The word salvage harkens visions of the scatters remnants of days gone by; but, in fact, what you find at Tiny Texas Houses, is an orderly arrangement of materials waiting to build the next Tiny Texas House.

The houses are, architecturally, built around the concept of the minimal requirements for living. Most are built with only - a living room, a kitchen, a bathroom and bedroom loft; and range in size from 10 x 16, to the largest, tiny house built to date, 12 x 33.

There is no "lip gloss" in a tiny house; the appropriate term would seem to be - adequate. The tub and shower may be a cast iron tub with a shower overhead, or it may be horse drinking trough with plumbing for a hand held shower; one is more attractive than the other, but both are - adequate.

Perhaps, the most surprising thing about the tiny house is just how livable they appear to be. One finds oneself thinking - I could live here! And the Tiny Texas House, has all the amenities one truly needs for survival - even in the 21st century.

Though the tiny house, is indeed small in size, the price of the tiny house (in relative terms) is not so small; the 10 x 16 models sells for $38,000 (a building cost of nearly, $250 per square foot); the equivalent of paying $380,000 for a 1600 square foot home - less the lot. Salvage materials are not cheap!

Despite the name, and despite its size, the concept underlying the tiny house is more about salvage than it is size. By his own admission, Kittel's future plans call for ever larger - "tiny" houses; but, there are no plans to change the underlying concept of - pure salvage. One gets the feeling that Tiny Texas Houses will remain, for always and ever, 99% pure salvage materials.

The problem is that most of us are just too spoiled with all of our excesses and our need to keep up with the Jones's. Clearly, the Tiny Texas House is not for everyone (I can't imagine raising a family of five in house of 250 square feet or less!).

Nonetheless, I for one, applaud Brad Kittel's effort.

Gathering Things Together & Making Plans

The original plan was to - upon completing the Fort Sumpter trip, head back out the following week to Austin, Texas, to attend my Grandson 'Mateo's' First Birthday Party. To heighten the travel part of the experience, it was my intent to follow Old Route 66 on the Harley.

Unfortunately, with the unseasonably cold October weather, I just couldn't get myself up to make the "trek;" and therefore, decided to take the time to do (what I should have already done) and add photographs taken from the Fort Sumpter excursion, to the blogsite.

The photographs have now been added, and so I would encourage any of you who read the blog before the photographs were posted to, now reinvestigate the site and view the "photos."

Upon returning to Michigan, new plans will be made, and as soon as they are formulated everyone will be advise.

Day Fifteen - The Return Home

In the morning I awoke to the unexpected sound of voices - not good! It had been my intent to wake peacefully undisturbed, and depart from the area undiscovered. Being that it was Saturday, I was confident of that happening - Wrong!

Fortunately, however, after hearing voices, I quickly rolled up my sleeping bag, tore down the tent, packed everything, made sure the area was clean and departed the scene without consequence. Although I was clearly trespassing, they thankfully, for "what ever reason" decided to allow me to vacate area on friendly terms.

Left with no other options, I brushed my teeth and "showered" with my washcloth, bar of soap and water bottle, and struck out for what I knew would be a long day.

Although, I had been there before, it would have been nice to make a return trip to Gettysburg, but the with my remaining resources, that was no longer an option. The entire trip had, thus far, covered some 2400 odometer miles, Bronson, Michigan was still over 600 miles away, and I was determined to sleep there tonight!

It was, of course, cooler now, but I was dressed for the occasion, and at least wasn't raining.

The mountains of Pennsylvania are always beautiful, but with the fall colors in full bloom, the Harley ride along our nations first turnpike was - pure pleasure.

Unfortunately, that changed as I crossed into Ohio, the terrain flattened, the sun began to set and, as a consequence, the air cooled quite drastically. The last 100 miles were - not fun; and when I finally got-off my bike, I found that I could no longer turn my head in either direction, but "time heals all wounds" and - I had made it!

Day Fourteen - Virginia, Maryland, Delaware, New Jersey and Pennsylvania

After braking camp, I headed north into what was for me more - uncharted territory. One the things I had been looking forward to seeing was Chesapeake Bay, and I wasn't disappointed. Having not done any prior research, I was not prepared for the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel system that connects the south-eastern shore of Chesapeake Bay, at Norfolk, Virginia with Virginia's Cape Charles.

I wasn't prepared the for the - Chesapeake Bay Experience. It begins with several miles bridge, after which your "dumped" into a tunnel for a few miles beneath the waters of Chesapeake Bay. You emerge from the tunnel onto a manmade island and enter onto the second bridge for - still more miles. You are now more than half way across bay, when you're once again "dumped" into, yet another tunnel which emerges onto a second manmade island. On the final leg - the bridge connects to the landfall of Cape Charles.

This area, from the southern point of the cape in Virginia, through a few miles in Maryland, to Dover, Delaware, is a series small, seemingly prosperous cities or perhaps even villages. The whole cape (or is it a peninsula?), bounded on the east by Chesapeake Bay and on the west by the Atlantic Ocean, appears to geographically form the natural boundaries of a state. As isolated, as it is, from the rest of Virginia, I can't help but wonder just how it is - that Virginia and Maryland, and not Delaware, came to acquire the major that part of that cape/peninsula. How is it that, the major land area was somehow bequeathed to Virginia and not Delaware. Food for thought!

From Delaware I proceeded to the east and entered into New Jersey. I was impressed with what New Jersey, in the short time I spent there; but, like my time in Savannah, once again, I departed feeling that I had not done justice to - The Garden State.

At this point, as I entered the state of Pennsylvania, were the weather was becoming a ever increasing factor. Now wrapped in my leather jacket, I reflected back on how - just yesterday, I rode all day a Harley T-shirt!

I was growing weary and eager to find a campground in order to rest for the night. Unfortunately, on the Pennsylvania turnpike, as well as other interstate highways, campgrounds are not well advertised along the way.

As dusk settled in the fall chill increased, and having not found a campsite I made "my own", and hoped I wouldn't be discovered and "booted out".

More Day Thirteen - Because It's There

There were still a few hours of daylight left when I finished the tour of the Wright Brothers National Memorial, and so, (I reasoned) why not - ride Cape Hatteras, to end of the Cape? It seemed, that it would be a shame not to more fully explore the famed "Outer Banks" favored as presidential retreat.

They climb mountains - "Because it's There." And in the same way, I felt compelled to travel to the end of Cape Hatteras - just, "Because it's There."

Along the way, the drift fences placed in the dunes to halt the advancing sands, were now, save all but the very tops of the fences, buried by the sands relentless onslaught. For me, the rolling dunes and the drift fences when combined with the sprouts of reed grasses, presented a scene reminiscent of the paintings which are so often favored by watercolor artists. Several times I stopped to capture the scene with my Nikon camera; but each time, after snapping several photos, I left feeling disappointed by my inability to do - just that.

Actually, there was, one more "ulterior motive" for wanting to go to end of the Cape; and that was to find out what it would take to get to Ocracoke Island. Why (you ask) the interest in Ocracoke Island? It was, in an inlet to Ocracoke Island where on the morning of November 21, 1718, that one Edward Teach, the notorious "Blackbeard the Pirate" was killed and beheaded.

It was only 100 miles ride to end of the Cape. Even so, it was twice as far as I had anticipated, and once I got there it seemed like - it's more less like the rest of the Cape.

It was now early evening, and thus, too late to think about boarding the ferry (the access to Ocracoke Island) with out provisions for staying the evening. And so, now there was nothing left to do, but - "go back to whence I came."

Day Thirteen - First in Flight

1903, and what a year it was! Just think about it - Henry Ford began assembly line production of Ford Motor Company, Bill Harley and Arthur Davidson began production of their iconic classic motorcycle and Wilbur and Orville Wright made history by launching the first flight of a heavier than air aircraft in that same year.

Although, I was eager to go to the Wright Brother's National Memorial, I also needed to get caught up on a back log of computer work that was beginning to pile up; and so, I dedicated the

morning to doing just that. Having accomplished that task, I then proceeded in eager anticipation of what I knew would be a very special day.

Three large buildings of the Wright Brother's National Memorial, commemorate not only the Wright Brothers' accomplishments, but memorialize the entire history of flight itself. From a film documenting the Wright Brother's achievements, trials and tribulations, to paintings and photographs of historical figures from the history of flight, to the first satellites, the moon landing and the International Space Station - it's all there!

In pursuing an area to begin their "exploration of flight", the Wright brothers had selected three prospective sites which fulfilled their requirements for - strong "steady" winds, rolling hills, sand dunes and privacy. Of the three, only the city of Kitty Hawk responded to their letters, and invited them with a warm welcome to Kitty Hawk, North Carolina.

Today, grasses now cover the slightly rolling hills of what were once the sand dunes of Kill Dare Hills. Adjacent to the three large buildings of the National Memorial, there are two small wooden reconstructions of the hanger that housed the aircraft and their small workshop. Barely 100 feet from the workshop, stones mark the landing spots of the four flights they made on that cold day on the 17th of December, 1903.

Orville made that first historic flight, simply because - it was his turn. The brothers, to avoid any arguments, simply took turns - and on that day, it was Orville's turn.

That first flight lasted a mere 12 seconds, covered a distance of 120 feet and reached an elevation of 10 feet. Nonetheless, they had proven that - man could indeed fly!

In total they completed four flights that day. On the second flight Wilbur reached a distance of nearly 200 feet and, following that, Orville reached the 200 foot plateau. However, not to be outdone, Wilbur's final flight of the day, was the ultimate triumph - flying for a full 59 seconds he covered a whopping distance of 850 feet!

Wilbur and Orville knew full well, "that today they would make history," and had mounted a tripod camera ready to capture that historic flight.

The Park Ranger related that the photographer that day, "was so caught up in the moment," that when the brothers later asked if he had indeed "captured the moment for all posterity?" He could only relate - "I don't remember!" Fortunately, he did indeed, snap that now historic photograph, perfectly timed, just after lift-off.

Day Twelve - To Kitty Hawk

For those of you who may be counting - I did not miss day eleven. It was rain delay, laundry and internet catch-up day!

However, I will mention that New Bern, North Carolina, where the day was spent, like a lot of the towns that I visited throughout the south -IS VERY LIVEABLE. It's the kind of place that one could easily think about laying down tracks. The city is just right - not too big and not too small, and a city filled with history.

Located at the confluence of the Neuse and Trent Rivers, there is water everywhere, making it appear like a boating and fishermen's paradise.

In addition, as a side point, New Bern will next year celebrate its 300th year!

The next day, I continued northward to Washington, North Carolina, where the Pamlico River meets the Atlantic Ocean to form (together with the Neuse River) the estuary of Pamlico Sound. Pamlico Sound, in turn, combines with the even larger Albemarle Sound, to complete the second largest estuary (after Chesapeake Bay) in the United States.

There is so much history to be seen in this region. One could easily spend days and travel the entire 300 miles of highways around Pamlico and Albemarle Sounds, in order to capture the beauty, the history and gain a full appreciation for all that the area has to offer. Unfortunately, at some point, it is necessary to make a decision about - just how much of the area to take in. In the end, I chose to limit my travel and skirted eastward, traveling, one small part, of the historic Albemarle Highway.

In case you are wondering (as I was) - "just what is the definition of an estuary". According to the Free Dictionary on the web, an estuary is - "The wide lower course of a river where it flows into the sea. Estuaries experience tidal flows and their water is a changing mixture of fresh and salt water".

Leaving the Albemarle Highway, I crossed over to Cape Hatteras by way of Roanoke Island the site of the famed "lost colony". For a period of three years from 1587-1590, the islanders occupied a site on island, then seemingly disappeared in an, as yet - Unsolved Mystery.

At last, after riding all day, I crossed over the causeways connecting the mainland to Roanoke Island and the island to Cape Hatteras. It had been a long day, but an enjoyable trip; before, at last arriving at my destination, Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, site of the Wright Brothers Historic - First Flight!

Day Ten - Into North Carolina

This trip has awakened my consciousness of just how truly beautiful America is, and has made me more fully aware of how little I have explored its horizons. I had no idea of what to expect and how much I would find myself in awe of the southeastern shoreline. The swamp grasses and salt marshes have a simple and, perhaps even, - elegant beauty all there own. The area is ever changing from swamps and marshes to areas of heavy forests.

Even so, quite surprisingly, the thing that capture my attention the most during my day of traveling north from Myrtle Beach to New Bern, North Carolina, was the Williamston National Cemetery in Williamston, North Carolina. I would not have even traveled that route, had I not missed my turn and found myself on the business route instead of the main road; how fortunate it was to have gone by that route.

What caught my eye was the simplicity and orderliness of entire cemetery. My immediate thought was that this was a civil war cemetery, and as such, was certainly worthy of a closer look.

Perhaps, no more than three acres in size, with rolling hills and simple stone markers less than two foot wide by three foot in height - laid out in orderly vertical and horizontal rows, they stood like soldiers in a military procession; and I could not help but reflect back to memories of Arlington National Cemetery outside of Washington, D.C. Even though, the markers were flat stone markers and not crosses as in Arlington National Cemetery; the similarities between the two were compelling.

It was somewhat baffling how, that though I never saw an open burial plot, one marker bore the date "May 2009", as if it had laid in wait for its rightful claimant. Though the cemetery bore the title of - Williamston National Cemetery, it appeared to not be limited to military burial sites. There were frequent markers bearing the designations - "Beloved Wife" and "Wife and Mother".

The oldest marker I observed in my brief time at the site was an amazing "1698" and marked the final resting place for one - J. E Owen from (my home state) of Michigan. And yet another marker, bore a date - too weathered to read, and said simply, "unknown soldier".

In all, Williamson National made no less an impression on me than Arlington National, and I could not help but be captured by the dignity and equanimity with which all are held in the same regard, as if to say - "in death all are deserving of the same equality that they were not be accorded in life".

Day Nine - Georgetown and Myrtle Beach

Today begins the ninth day on the road, and I am now heading towards Myrtle Beach one of America's major golf tourist meccas. Along the way I past through historic Georgetown and at first continued down the road, until, I remembered that - there was no need to hurry, this trip was suppose to be about discovering things along the way; I turned back around and returned to discover just what was historic about Georgetown.

What, was and is, historic about Georgetown is that, Georgetown was once the rice capital of the world; producing at its peak, just before the war between the states, over 50% of the worlds annual rice production. Charleston, of course also owed much of its wealth in the early years to

its rice plantations, but the heart of the South Carolina's rice production was Georgetown County.

Five rivers the - Pee Dee, Waccamaw, Black, Sampit and the Santee (which forms the southern border of the county) provided the Georgetown "low country" with the potential to capitalize on the valuable rice resource. Unfortunately, the key to exploiting this rice was - slave labor; and hence, after the civil war, the loss of slave labor effectively meant the demise for rice production in Georgetown County. The soft "low country" soil could not support the heavy equipment required to competitively produce rice, and Georgetown lost it's importan

ce as a major rice producer. Our History books are filled with how cotton was king, but for the Georgetown and Charleston County areas, it was rice (and to a lesser extent indigo) - not cotton, that was king.

After leaving Georgetown, I once again proceeded to make my way for Myrtle Beach, little more than 30 miles north of Georgetown. Upon arriving in Myrtle Beach I discovered that, my timing was perfect; this was the weekend for the Myrtle Beach Bike Rally, with thousand of biker's having descended upon the city. Fortunately, despite the number of campers who were in Myrtle Beach this week-end, I was still able to get the last available campsite in the state campground.

Actually there appeared to be more happening in South Beach than the city of Myrtle Beach itself. This was due in a large part (as I learned later) to Myrtle Beach's insistence to override the state's - no helmet law, with their own (self imposed) ban on riding helmet-less within the city limits of Myrtle Beach. Regardless of where you stand on the issue of - helmet or no helmet, one has to question the city's right to override the state's own law.

Despite being unfamiliar with Myrtle Beach and even though, there were a lot of really crazy things going on, I survived the insanity, quite well - thank you!

Days Seven and Eight - Charleston to Savannah and Back

Since Savannah, Georgia was only a little more than a 100 miles south of Charleston, it seemed a shame not travel on down and take a look. Therefore, after completing the morning - "Civil War Walking Tour of Charleston", it was - back on the road heading for Savannah.

I knew that Hilton Head Island, lay somewhere between Charleston and Savannah, but where? There were signs along the way promoting the site, but somehow, I had missed it. The only thing to do now was to make sure and do better on the return to Charleston.

How easy it is, when on the road, to waste the time away and to find, by the end of the day, that you have not accomplished anywhere near what you had intended. That is especially true, when your day lacks for any real agenda. This was the case in Savannah and the day just seemed to passed me by.

Later that day, while there had been no plans to visit the Savannah Visitors Center, after seeing the signs promoting the visitor center, it seemed like a logical place to start. Unfortunately, however, the center closed at 5:00 p.m., and it was now 5:30 (I'm beginning to understand the need too - plan ahead!).

In spite of everything, in the course my effort to find a campsite, I discovered Abercorn Street in Savannah, and more BEAUTIFUL Southern Mansions. They were, in fact, even more spectacular (if that's possible) than the homes of Charleston. And so, what seemed at first, to be the misfortune of finding the visitors center closed, turned out to be the good fortune of discovering Savannah's mansions. They made the day!

After a brief struggle, to find a campground, I was able to find a Travel Lodge Motel for little more than the cost of a campsite (and that included WiFi and laundry facilities).

The next day, however, after spending half of the day doing laundry, the thought of traveling back to the visitors center in the inner city (a whole 20 miles), and then trying to make something out of the day, seemed like an exercise in futility. And so, "Plan B" - return to Charleston via Hilton Head Island.

The salt marshes and swamp grasses of Hilton Head Island were (for this Michigander) truly a sight to behold, and well worth the drive through the area. Then too, the whole drive (following the Atlantic coastline) was spectacular.

Days later, still feeling somewhat guilty for failing to give fair justice to Savannah. I went to the website for the city of Savannah to find out just - what I had missed. To my surprise the website heralded at the top of it's list of - things to do in Savannah was the drive down Abercorn Street to view the beautiful mansions. My guilt for not having spent more time in Savannah was, therefore, moderately diminished.

Day Six - Fort Sumpter

Fort Sumpter (I have chosen the original spelling over Fort Sumter, commonly used today) is a man made island that was built after the War of 1812; one of a series of forts built to protect the southern U.S. coastline. Seventy tons of granite were brought from New England to build the island, on a sandbar, at the mouth of the Cooper River in the Charleston harbor.

The original five sided structure, had walls of 170-190 feet in length and rose to a height of 50 feet above low tide. Intended to house a garrison 650 men and to have 135 gun emplacements in three tiers, it was still uncompleted at the start of the engagement of the civil war and never reached its full intended capacity.

Over the course of civil war, Fort Sumpter was under an almost constant siege and, hence the top two tiers of the fort were reduced to rubble. Even so, one can still get a view of some of the lower tier gun emplacements, see actual cannons used to fortify the fort and visit the on site museum.

On the 11th of April, 1861, there were only 90 union soldiers occupying Fort Sumpter, when General P. G. T. Beauregard sent aids to the fort and issued an ultimatum demanding evacuation of the fort by the Union. However, Major Robert Anderson, in charge of the garrison, refused to evacuate.

And so, on April 12th at 4:30 a.m., the Confederates fired a single mortar round which exploded in the air overhead and, thus, signaled for the assault to begin from four separate locations: Fort Moultrie, Fort Johnson, the Floating Battery of Charleston Harbor and Cummings Point. For 34-hours they continue to bombard Fort Sumpter until at 2:00 p.m. on the following day, when Major Anderson agreed to a truce. Despite the bombardment, at this point, no lives had been lost.

The surrender was scheduled for 2:30 p.m. on the next day, April 14, 1861.   As condition to his surrender Major Anderson had demanded a 100-gun salute, but after 50 rounds had been fired, a spark from the firing ignited a pile of cartridges, killing one soldier instantly. And so, Private Daniel Hough - the first fatality of America's most deadly war - was an accident!

Amazingly it would on this same day, some four long years later, to the day; when - by this time, an aged, ill and retired - Major General Anderson, would once again raise the flag of the United States of America over Fort Sumpter to signify that this tragic war had, indeed ended, and that this great nation was once again - United.

In a touch of irony, President Lincoln had expressed his desire to be present for the flag raising, but Mrs. Lincoln had the final say; and instead President and Mrs. Lincoln went that evening to the Ford Theatre - and so, history was written with an even more fateful event. The next day the assassination, of course, documented the headlines to the point that the raising of the flag over Fort Sumpter, to, dramatically, signify the end of the war - was barely a footnote!

Day Five - Exploring Charleston

Despite having arrived in Charleston, I still had no knowledge of where to go. Leaving my gear at the campsite, I proceeded towards downtown Charleston and was greeted unexpectedly by the site of the twin, diamond shaped towers, of the largest cable stay bridge in North America. With eight lanes of traffic and a wide pedestrian walkway, the Cooper River Bridge gracefully connects the City of Charleston with the Town of Mount Pleasant. The beauty of its high towers and exposed cable stays, appearing like lines of spider web, to support the roadway below, is nothing short of spectacular.

After crossing over to Mount Pleasant, I stopped to take the obligatory photos of the Cooper River Bridge, only to discover that I had left my camera at the campsite. Nothing lost, there would most likely be better shots to be taken with the backdrop of the setting sun. However, before returning the short distance to the campsite to "rescue" the camera, I decided to explore a little and find out just where I needed to go upon my return.

Shortly thereafter, I was already questioning my wisdom for not immediately returning to recover my camera, when I passed by complex of older red brick homes. The impressive site, of more than 35 large homes with heavy balustrades lining the roadway, left me wondering as to the nature and of such a development.

I parked my cycle and walked over to the read the placard on one of the balusters. While reading the placard, in the I saw a black gentleman on the front porch to one of the homes, motioning me to come over. Fearing he was bothered by my inquisitiveness, I nonetheless, wandered over his way. He greeted me pleasantly, advising that he only wanted to offer assistance to any questions I might have.

He offered me a chair and proceeded to tell me that this complex pre-dated the civil war and was originally built as an "old folks home" (in itself, a testament to the caring ways of - South Hospitality) and was now used as housing for people with disabilities.

Despite having seen his crutches leaning against the wall, I hadn't noticed that he was an amputee. We talked for some time, and Mr. Arthur Davis, offered that despite only being 52 years of age, he had recently lost his leg to diabetes.

Before leaving he offered, in one more show of show of - Southern Hospitality, to find me a "girl friend" (not his words!). However, I graciously declined, believing that it would be best to keep my "$10.00" in my pants - along with the rest of the "stuff".

Day Four - Charleston at Last

Virginia is a welcome change from West Virginia. Not that West Virginia, is not beautiful country, but with the rugged mountains, winding roads and the forestation, it is hard to get full appreciation for its beauty from the highway. To fully view and appreciate all that it has to offer, I believe that you would need to canoe its rivers and streams and hike over its mountain trails.

It would appear to be hard, for the average person, to make a living in West Virginia. The fact that (at least in the area I passed through) motor homes outnumbered conventional housing by more than a two to one margin, would appear to a attest to a lower standard of living. In addition, one only needs view the topography and keep an open-eye, to realize that agriculturally you can, . . . forget it, there just - "ain't much corn in West Virginia."

Virginia in contrast to West Virginia, has low rolling hills and open vistas that render its beauty more apparent than its sister to the north, and traveling through the countryside was pure motorcycle pleasure.

After departing Virginia, little time was lost in passing through the beautiful North Carolina countryside and getting to Charleston, South Carolina.

At last, I arrived in Charleston at about 6:30 PM, found a campground, pitched tent, showered, had dinner and called it a night; looking forward to spending tomorrow, discovering Charleston and Fort Sumpter.

Day Three

Since my second day was foreshortened, I began day three from Ripley, West Virginia, vowing to do better. Nonetheless, a couple of hours down the road, procrastinating once again, I decided to take a short brake for coffee and gas. It soon became apparent, however, that the interstate highway systems of West Virginia were not blessed with the road service exits that usually dot the interstate highway systems.

Every time I departed the interstate, in an effort to get gas, I was met with a sign indicating that the nearest town was 3-5 down the road and not - just off the interstate as expected. At one point, I resigned to follow the signs, but now, there were - no signs! With my fuel resources, ever decreasing, I determined to not give up, and proceeded in the direction - that would surely lead to the promised gasoline. As I turned down the road, driving past businesses with no signs of activity and scores of mobile homes (which at least in this area, out numbered conventional housing two to one), but passing no traffic and no people, I realized that - it was after all "Sunday go to meeting day" in the Bible Belt.

Alas, a real person appeared at the roadside and I stopped to inquired negatively, "isn't there even a restaurant around here?" To which he replied, "not in this little holler." After inquiring further, he offered that, "you go down this road about two miles 'till you come to the Montgomery crossing ... you know where Montgomery is?" He then proceeded to offer that, "he used to drive a school bus out of this hollow. Picked the kids up here and took them over to..." - seeing no end to this conversation, I excused myself, thanked him and proceeded back to the interstate.

Three's a charm, and my persistence paid off. Even though, it was still necessary to search out a gas station, but being ever patient I succeeded at last.

At the service station, I met a fellow biker from Massachusetts, who told me that he left Pittsburg (Massachusetts - Pittsburg? I didn't question him) and drove the Ohio River Valley to as far as Illinois, and now was on his homeward stretch. He advised me that I was now on highway US-52 which would take me all the way to Charleston, South Carolina.

Now, since I'm already about three miles off the interstate, why not - stay the course, and follow "52" the rest of the way to Charleston. Decision made!

Bad decision! As I proceeded down the road, for a few miles, I past frequent sightings, directing me back to I-77; and so, I remained confident that two highways roughly paralleled one-another. After awhile however, the "sightings" became less frequent and then seemed to disappear altogether. My West Virginia map (having gotten soaked in the previous days rains) was rendered unusable. Fearing that I might have received some bad information, I stopped at a service station to acquire another map - none available. Taking this as a sign, I inquired as to how to return to I-77; eventually got back on course and shut down for the night in a small campground in Hillsville, Virginia.