Marilyn C. Murphy's Blog

Recalling A Disastrous Travel Experience…

Several years ago my writing coach gave me an assignment: Write about a disastrous travel experience.

My challenge: Which one?

Actually, in my 40-plus-year career of planning and leading groups to wondrous destinations all over the world, there hadn’t been too many disasters. Which is remarkable, considering the million-and-one variables that were beyond my control when planning a trip for a group of customers. But this one came to mind . . .

—————————————————————June 1995It’s not supposed to snow on the first day of summer. But it was snowing! For four nights, 150 guests of my most important corporate client had gathered for their annual conference at the Sun Valley Lodge - an historic haunt favored by the likes of Ernest Hemingway and Marilyn Monroe. My group of electrical contractors enjoyed 5-star wining, dining, and leisure-time activities at the lodge, which included a bowling alley and a skating rink.

Sun Valley Lodge

It was my custom to offer an optional add-on trip for those who had more time. But I was challenged, since it doesn’t get much more beautiful than Sun Valley. I’d researched a Snake River rafting trip with a wilderness outfitter. An option that would appeal to a few hardy souls, but I needed to offer another, less physically challenging, destination.Jed, with whom I was collaborating on all out-of-hotel details, suggested, “What about a luxury camping experience on Yellowstone Lake?” “Tell me more,” I said eagerly. He went on to describe an intriguing adventure: “It’s less than five hours from Sun Valley to the West Gate of the National Park in Wyoming. As you can imagine, it’s a beautiful drive. You could spend your first night at the historic Yellowstone Lake Hotel, a very nice property. They even have a string quartet playing during dinner."“The next day, we can charter boats from the nearby marina to get you across the lake - about an hour - to a nice camping area. People can buy fishing licenses at the marina. I’ll arrange for all the necessary gear: tents, zip-together sleeping bags, and fishing poles. Food will be fabulous. My guides are great - they’ll play guitar and tell cowboy stories around the campfire after dinner. You can make s’mores . . .”My mind wandered to childhood memories of camping vacations with my family, sitting on canvas campstools in my pajamas, making s’mores with my brothers. Jed was still talking, “... and people can hike in the meadow which will be full of wildflowers. There’s good fly fishing, too. And they can just enjoy the quiet and unspoiled natural beauty.”I needed no more convincing. He had me at s’mores!Bingo! I love when a plan comes together. June 20, 1995The day started as perfectly as I’d envisioned. It was a glorious summer morning when we left Sun Valley. We headed south toward Idaho Falls and crossed through a corner of Montana. Passing the One Horse Motel in West Yellowstone I teased them, “That place was my second choice for accommodations.”

One Horse Motel, West Yellowstone

Almost immediately after entering Yellowstone we spotted our first buffalo – a slovenly beast, trailing clumps of his winter fur. We passed stands of trees gutted several years before by massive wildfires which raged unchecked for several months. Those fires burned more than a third of the park, but nature’s healing was evident in meadows filled with knee-high seedlings that would eventually grow into towering Lodgepole Pines. It had been a long transfer day and everyone looked forward to a hot shower and a clean, comfy bed. Not having inspected the hotel beforehand, as I preferred to do, I had not hyped it in my description. So none of us were prepared for the elegance of the Yellowstone Lake Hotel, with its traditional architecture painted – appropriately – yellow, fronted with massive white columns. And just as Jed had hinted, they did have a string quartet to entertain in the dining room! Wow - what a great start!

Yellowstone Lake Hotel

June 21, 1995
The morning dawned sunny and bright. I took a short hike. A strong wind was blowing. When we arrived at the marina a few hours later, the clouds were ominous.And then it started snowing. Big, fat flakes of snow. On the first day of summer!A lady approached me with a logical question. “Marilyn, what do we do now?”  Because a trip leader must always stay calm (at least on the outside), I simply replied, “We get in the boat.”Our three boats set off across the lake, and, as if everything was part of my grand plan, within 15 minutes the skies cleared up and the sun shone brightly. “Whew!” I thought. “Glad that’s over.”Twenty minutes later, the blizzard hit. With a vengeance. A total white-out with zero visibility. Our boat captain killed the engine and we huddled together for warmth as we drifted. Ten minutes later, the weather abruptly changed and skies were once again clear. When we finally made it to the opposite shore, a guide from one of the other boats took me aside to warn me about a disgruntled lady who had asked, “So, where is the lodge?” When told that there was no lodge she said, indignantly, “There MUST be a lodge! Marilyn wouldn’t bring us all the way here without a nice place to stay.”I swallowed hard and asked him to discreetly point her out to me. She was the one with the beehive hairdo and brightly painted nails. I made a mental note to keep close tabs on her - from a distance. I busied myself helping unload the gear.Next up on the agenda: an ice storm! Mother Nature just could not make up her mind! The wind blew sideways and freezing rain coated the pile of duffel bags that hadn’t yet been delivered to the tents. My guests ran to their little tents for cover and guides rushed to secure the kitchen pavilion as powerful gusts loosened the tent stakes from the ground.No different than before, this storm was over within ten minutes, and skies cleared again. The cook busied himself with lunch as the guides chipped ice off the duffel bags. I gathered my guests around the fire-pit for an orientation. One of the women complained, “Marilyn, I thought you said we’d have sleeping bags that zipped together. The ones in our tent are individual mummy bags.”I turned toward one of the guides with a questioning look. “Sorry, ma’am. Nobody told us to bring zip-together sleeping bags.”I soon learned that nobody had told them to bring fishing rods, either. Nor was there a guitar. I dared not ask about campfire stories, marshmallows, or Hershey bars.Next, the lead guide, Austin, gave the “bear lecture.” He explained that grizzlies had been spotted in the vicinity and that there would be no hiking through the meadow to pick wildflowers. Continuing his fireside chat, he instructed, “Before nightfall, you’ll surrender everything that has any fragrance – lotions, toothpaste, mints, lipstick, chewing gum, soap, shampoo, snacks – EVERYTHING. We’ll put all that stuff into a knapsack and hoist it up a tree. Even our cook will shed his clothes, smelling of food, before bedtime.”“And if you see a bear, do not run. I repeat, do NOT run away. Bears run faster than humans, and they think chasing prey is fun.” He demonstrates as he instructs, “Instead, stand and face the bear. Slowly raise your arms to make yourself as big as possible. Speak to the bear in a low, calm voice. And slowly begin to back away. The bear should leave you alone.”The group giggled nervously. The bear should leave us alone???The three boatmen had left me with promises that they’d be back at 9 a.m. tomorrow morning. Discreetly, I glanced at my watch. Slightly more than 17 hours to go. Throughout the afternoon I avoided eye contact with the beehive hair lady. I learned that her husband had signed up for the Yellowstone extension without sharing any details with her.I’m relieved to see people engaging in pleasant fireside chats. One couple played cards at the lunch table. One guy had brought his own fishing rod, which he generously shared with other anglers. We can’t take the hike through the meadow as I’d promised - so there wasn’t much to do.It occasionally rained, and we scattered to our tents until it passed. More than once, I hoped it would never stop raining so I could just hide out in my tent. I’d created great expectations about this adventure and now I was letting people down. I was furious at Jed for not delivering on his promises, and frustrated that there was no way to contact him. And I was mad at myself for not double and triple-checking the details in advance. In front of the group, I put on my game face but I was a lousy actress. For my entire career, I have always fixed whatever might have gone wrong. But this time, I couldn’t fix it. There’s nothing I could do and there’s no place to hide.I struggled to shift out of my negativity. I needed to find something to “do”, so I decided to fetch some wood for the fire. I headed toward the outhouse at the edge of the woods, grabbing an axe as I left the campsite. I don’t realize that three of my guys had seen me and decided to come to help! This is NOT what I had in mind. All I need now is a slip of the axe or a heart attack . . .None of which happened, thankfully. Again, I sneaked a peek at my watch. About 14 hours to go. Time has never passed more slowly than this day - the longest day of the year. June 22, 1995A bright shaft of sunlight streamed through my tent - finally, it was morning! Somehow, I had managed to sleep through the night. I heard people stirring and stretching. I heard chattering and chuckling. I smelled coffee. And bacon. Nothing smells better than bacon.It was a gorgeous sunny morning. No bear attacks. No medical emergencies. There was lots of laughter. I felt vindicated. Even beehive hair lady was smiling.I heaved a big sigh and discreetly looked at my watch. We survived. Only two more hours . . .

Roadtrip - Day 3: Family Time!

All those miles were worth it - to spend time with Scott’s daughter, Ashley, her hubby Chad, and our precious grand-daughter, Winona! She’s 18 months old and full of energy and spunk.A few things to report about the day:Our car is in the shop for an expensive repair to the starter thingie. Following afternoon naps for Grandpa and Winona, we went to a charming, family-friendly amusement park.Then it was Thai food at a local restaurant in an historic Portland neighborhood.





I’ve never had children of my own, and after witnessing Ashley and Chad - who are wonderful parents - I can’t imagine that I could give any child of mine the energy and attention a little human deserves. It will be fun to watch her grow up!Day 3 was a beautiful day!

Roadtrip, Day 2 - Destination #1 Reached!

YUM! The day started with a hearty (and I DO mean hearty, not healthy!) pancake breakfast! Today was only about six hours on the road, most of which were very scenic. Mount Shasta, especially, was a sight to behold from every angle.



Yreka - without the “b” - is “bakery” spelled backwards. A bit of trivia I did not know: According to Mark Twain, “There was a bakeshop with a canvas sign which had not yet been put up but had been painted and stretched to dry in such a way that the word BAKERY, all but the B, showed through and was reversed. A stranger read it wrong-end first, YREKA, and supposed that that was the name of the camp. The campers were satisfied with it and adopted it.”) Other observations:Didn’t get a picture of the sign reading: “Eat Beef, Support a Rancher”Approaching the Oregon border, there were a flurry of signs for LiquorLand, Liquor Expo, and Bargain Liquor (Liquor must be cheaper in California??)Lots of southbound trucks were loaded with enormous logs and bales of golden hay. Plus, plenty of those ubiquitous Amazon trucks.

An exit sign that I mis-read from a distance!

Yesterday, I saw a town on the map (in California) called Minnesota. Today, I learned there is the city of Saginaw, in Oregon! (No, we didn’t exit.) Another funny sign:

More beautiful scenery. . .

Until we finally reached Destination #1, our grandbaby named Winona!

She’s just sucked on a lemon wedge!

Road Trip - Day 1

A little different journey than I typically write about . . .

Scott and I are doing an extensive (2-week!) road trip around the Pacific Northwest to visit family and friends. Day one started with news that the 5 freeway was closed in both directions because of a brush fire near Gorman. That necessitated a detour, driving northeast to Mojave (as in the Mojave Desert), northwest to Bakersfield, and then lots of miles northbound on highway 99 through Bakersfield, Fresno, Stockton and Sacramento before joining the 5. (FYI, we Californians don’t say I5, just “the” 5, or “the” 405, etc!)We stopped for the night in Redding, after 10 hours on the road. The drive wasn’t as horrible as it sounds, as I made some interesting observations along the route:

We stopped for lunch at this vintage spot in McFarland, CA

We passed miles and miles of wind farms, citrus orchards, cornfields and gigantic billboards hawking injury attorneys. Plus one billboard for “Guided Goose Hunts.”We chuckled as we passed an exit in the middle of nowhere for "Avenue 21½”. (They couldn’t have rounded it up or down?)I learned that Selma (CA) is the “Raisin Capital of the World”! (I wonder if they have a statue in the center of town?)We passed a few construction sites for the California High Speed Rail Project which will link San Francisco and Los Angeles. (Ground was broken more than 10 years ago for this ambitious project, but by the time it’s finished we’ll probably have flying cars!)

An overcrossing on the 99 (again - in the middle of nowhere) was decorated with mastodons. (Is this where they crossed the highway?)

Map observations: Sour Grass Road, and a town in California called Minnesota!Next time I want to buy a bulldozer, I know where to shop!This inland area of central California grows an enormous amount of produce, including rice, almonds, and olivesStay tuned for Day Two!

Fizzies & Fartless Baked Beans - Treasured Summer Memories

It was a ritual of my summers in the 1960s:

Dad, up in the rafters of our one-car garage on Glendale Street in Saginaw, rummaging for tent poles and stakes. Teenage brother Jim balancing on a ladder, helping Dad attach his homemade wooden storage box to the roof of our steel-gray Chevy Impala station wagon.Mom in the kitchen, cooking up a big batch of her famous fartless baked beans. Brother Bobby, 18 months older than me - being his typically bratty self – teasing and taunting me, the solo sister.Ronnie, four years younger than me, just trying to stay out of everybody’s way.Me? Ready to go. Wishing we would just get in the car and GO!Dad had three weeks of vacation from his job at Michigan Bell Telephone. We’d almost always be heading west, toward the mountains. Dad loved his mountains. We’d head south out of mid-Michigan, skirt the northwest corner of Indiana, traverse the width of Illinois, then Iowa or Missouri, on to Nebraska, South Dakota, or Kansas - enduring endless hours of boring plains, prairies, and cornfields. Finally, we’d reach our destination: Mt. Rushmore, the Rocky Mountains, Yellowstone, or the Grand Canyon.Our car was not air-conditioned. Dad always drove with his window rolled down, his left arm resting on the window frame. We had no sunscreen back in those days. I remember the time he got a blistering sunburn on his arm and had to drive with his forearm swaddled in a towel.Jim squeezed between my parents in the front seat, playing navigator. We should have known he’d be an engineer one day, as he dutifully followed the roadmap from place to place and neatly logged our progress in a notebook. The back seat folded flat to make space for us three younger kids so we could squirm, lie down, or play games. No seat belts or car seats back then! Mom frequently scolded me and Bobby for bickering. (“But Mom, he started it!”)

My brother, Jim (a future engineer) made these signs as titles for the movies shot with Dad’s movie camera.

Sometimes, as we passed a big truck, we’d roll down the window and furiously pump our arm, encouraging the driver to blast his air horn. Always enjoyed a laugh when the trucker responded!At lunchtime, Dad would pull into a roadside rest area. Never a restaurant. Mom would retrieve the flowered tin breadbox, unfold a gingham oilcloth tablecloth, generously slather Miracle Whip on Spatz’s white bread, and add a piece of ham. We tried to wolf down the sandwich before the bread dried out from blast furnace of roadside heat. (Saginawians: Is Spatz’s Bakery still in business?)Our beverage was always a “Fizzie,” a lozenge that frothed and hissed like Alka-Seltzer and flavored the water like KoolAid. Sometimes Mom let us have potato chips. But there were always homemade cookies. Dad loved his cookies! (So did we!)

Basic pantry items for our camping trips

On travel days, we’d pull into a campground late in the day after driving for 8-10 hours. Bobby and I always lobbied for a campground with a pool, but that almost never happened because Jim had calculated exactly where we would stop. Once at the campground, we searched for the perfect campsite – one that had trees spaced the proper distance apart from which to hang Dad’s canvas hammock. I kept a lookout for the closest water spigot – I was water girl.We’d set up camp – with a monstrous, green, smelly canvas tent in the early years – upgrading to a Reliart (that’s “trailer” spelled backwards) pop-up tent camper after a few frustrating years of wrestling with tent poles and stakes. A canvas tarp provided cover and shade for our al fresco kitchen, dining room, and living area.

Required gear (clockwise from top left): Chevy station wagon, metal breadbox, “Reliart” camper trailer,and Coleman 2-burner cook stove.

Dad would attach the tank to the green Coleman stove, pump it a bunch of times, and light the burners with his Zippo lighter. I was sent off in search of water and Bob would find kindling for the campfire. Dad and Jim hauled out the heavy aluminum cooler with the almost-melted block of ice. I set the table with our plastic camping dishes, stored in a homemade plywood cupboard. And Dad would settle into his hammock, smoking a cigarette.Within an hour of pulling into the campground, ham slices were sizzling in the cast iron skillet alongside a pan simmering with Mom’s famous fartless baked beans.I can hear it, smell it … taste it – like it was yesterday!  

Our campsite from the early years - with our big green canvas tent.

Then we graduated to a camper trailer - this one barrowed from an uncle.

1964 - Photo from the Petrified Forest in Arizona.

Mom and our first dog, Penny. She (the dog!) delivered a litter of puppies on one of our camping trips - right underneath my cot!

1964 - Squinting into the sun with the Grand Canyon in the background.

At Niagara Falls

Colorado Springs

One summer we broke tradition and headed east - to the coast of Maine

This would have been the year after Madras plaid was in fashion. (We were never “on trend”, but rather a year or two behind, when trendy things would be discounted.)

My daddy was always the man behind the movie camera (and, later, the video camera). Would he have adapted to filming with a cellular phone…?

Always my favorite memory from those camping trips: s’mores in our jammies!

Aaaahhhh . . . memories! What were summertime vacation rituals in your family? Please share!

pssst:  Wanna know Mrs. Murphy’s secret recipe for fartless beans?  Just leave a comment and I’ll send it to you!

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Summertime Memories - from 1941!

That’s my mom on the left…

(No, I wasn’t alive in 1941,

so these are not MY summertime memories…)

I was doing some “house-cleaning” recently. But I didn’t get much accomplished because I bumped into a vintage wooden scrapbook from my mother’s summer vacation with three girlfriends - back in 1941! She recorded every day of her 2-week, 4,317-mile journey in a typewritten, “Diary of My Trip Out West,” and saved all her photos in a wooden souvenir scrapbook from Yellowstone National Park.

Souvenir scrapbook from Yellowstone, and Mom’s typewritten diary

Perhaps one of the most exhaustive travel journals ever! Four young women traveled, on average, more than 300 miles per day! I love her comment under Weather: “A few showers, but not enough to dampen our spirits.”

Mom was meticulous with her typewritten journal and carefully-printed photo captions. The black & white images are still sharp, 84 years later!

Some of her more interesting entries:– Tuesday –

       “Got a fairly good start this morning.  Did not last very long though, because Agnes killed a dog just before we got to Waterloo. We spent some time there getting the headlight fixed, which was broken during the accident.”

– Wednesday –

     “Saw our first real cactus when we reached Chamberlain. Drove in the desert for many miles. No sign of trees or houses for a good many miles. The land here is worthless, nothing but cactus and sage grows on it.”

– Thursday –

    “Spent the day in the Black Hills. Also visited Mt. Rushmore and climbed 900 steps to the top and stood on Washington’s and Lincoln’s head. A tiresome trip up to the top, but well worth the effort.”

– Friday –

     “Took the Needles Drive out of the Black Hills and really enjoyed the drive. The scenery along this part was really beautiful. This was by far the prettiest part of the Black Hills. Entered the state of Wyoming. I did part of the driving today. Although the mountains were the highest we’ve seen so far and the scenery breathtaking, we were tense throughout most of the drive as the roads weren’t very good and had no barriers on any of the curves. A good many times we held our breath and prayed for the best. But Agnes managed to drive out safely and we were very much relieved.”

– Wednesday –

“Visited the capital building in Cheyenne. Also saw the governor of the State. He is very good looking – the State seems to advertise that fact, too.”

Images of Wyoming Gov. Nels H. Smith (He’s VERY handsome!)

And, her final entry:

“All in all, I had a very nice trip. The girls were swell and game to do most anything anyone suggested. I’m afraid Congressional action on the draft bill, and my longing to see Leon* again, somewhat made me feel blue at times, but outside of that, I had a grand time. I must admit, I was glad to get back home.”

 

p.s. “Leon” is the man she would marry; the man who would one day be my father.

So…Wherever your summertime travels may take you – enjoy every moment. And, please consider documenting your experiences somewhere more permanent than on Instagram! (Your children and grandchildren will thank you!)

Comments? Do you have any old albums or photo prints lying around that could use some captions or journal entries?

My favorite country…

India!

Friday, February 21, 2025

at Mela Kothi, Chambal Safari

I enjoyed a “lie in” this morning, as Philippa - my beloved British co-conspirator would call it. For the first time in a couple of weeks of traveling, we have nothing on the agenda till later this afternoon when we’ll visit another spectacular off-the-beaten path sight.

My eyes filled with tears as I reflected on these recent two weeks as well as the past umpteen years of my life. I snuggled under the coverlet as my feet searched for the still-warm hot-water bottle they placed between the sheets last night at turn-down. I gave thanks for the blessings and opportunities I’ve enjoyed, as well as for the difficult lessons that helped me grow.

I love this country. It was exactly one month ago when I posted a blog entitled, “Goin’ Back to India,” which explained a bit about the Maha Kumbh Mela festival, which was the impetus for this particular journey at this particular time. I promised to share more about that - and I will … but not on this posting. That experience was many days ago - and I’ve seen and done and tasted and listened to SO much in the days since then.

On my walk to breakfast this morning I heard chattering the trees overhead. This area is renown for its birds so I looked up, expecting to see some variation of colorful feathers but saw nothing but large brown leaves all aflutter. Standing still for awhile, I realized they were large brown bats. I was absolutely fascinated - as I have been time after time after time on this journey.

Fruit bats on my morning walk to breakfast!

Whether it’s fruit bats, or alligators, or Black-Faced Langur Monkeys, or leopard - or any of the dozens of animal species we’ve seen; or whether it’s naked sadhus (holy men), or local ladies attired in a kaleidoscope of colorful saris, or curious kids wanting a selfie with a white-faced visitor - there is ALWAYS something to witness and experience.

I confess to having FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out), hence there has been very little time to sit and reflect on all that I’ve seen. So this morning I’m sitting in a private, quiet place to record some thoughts and share some photos on this blog. I hope you will get an inkling about why this country is such a special place for me!

I’m getting “blessed” by a naked sadhu during the Maha Kumbh Mela festival.

Our next destination - an idyllic lodge called Sarai at Toria -could not have been more peaceful and placid.

We made an excursion to the thousand-year-old temples at Khajuraho, with their sensuous sculptures of beautiful women.

Highway drives were always a fun (and often harrowing) experience!

In Gwalior, there was a traditional Indian wedding at our hotel. I was invited to join the groom’s procession!

Again … highways provide lots of amazing sights. Gratefully, this was NOT our bus!

We enjoyed a river safari on the Chambal River, spotting alligators, turtles, river dolphins and lots of bird life.

In the village of Holipura, once-resplendent “hovelis” (grand homes) were built by members of a prominent merchant clan over the centuries. Many are abandoned, but some are still occupied by descendants. We were invited to enjoy a cup of chai (tea) in one of the homes.

So - are you beginning to understand my fascination and fervor for India…? Stay tuned for more!

Goin’ Back to India!

400 million people.That’s a LOT of people. More than the population of the U.S.400 million people are predicted to attend the religious festival of Maha Kumbh Mela in India in the coming weeks. The 45-day festival will be the largest gathering of human beings on planet earth.I will be one of them. “Why,?” you might ask.Good question, for which I don’t have a logical answer. I love India. Traveling to India is travel on steroids. Chaotic, contradictory and colorful. Unpredictable and surprising. And I love surprises!I am fascinated by the prospect of so many people traveling to a location on the confluence of three rivers in northern India: the sacred Ganges, the Yumana and the mythical Saraswati, where they will submerge themselves in a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to cleanse them of their sins, purify their soul and break the cycle of rebirth - thus attaining salvation.I do not plan to submerge myself in river water. I don’t believe in rebirth. I believe this is my one and only lifetime, and I want to fill my remaining days with as many unusual and captivating experiences as I can - while I still have the good health and energy to do so. That’s my idea of heaven!Kumbh Mela happens every 12 years, at one of four different auspicious sites when there’s a specific celestial alignment. Apparently, this year’s planetary configuration only occurs every 144 years, making it extra special. In fact, on opening day, when they expected 20 million people, they received 35 million! Candidly, I’m especially looking forward to seeing the reclusive sadhus, Hindu holy men, who will have emerged from their caves with their dreadlocks, ash-smeared bodies and colorful (often minimal) clothing.

There are 4 to 5 million sadhus  (holy men) in India who have renounced worldly life in order to gain spiritual powers and mystical knowledge. They live in caves, forests and Hindu temples.

Authorities have set up a temporary tent city which includes 160,000 tents, 150,000 toilets and a drinking water pipeline of almost 800 miles. The site is roughly the size of 7,500 football fields! It’s gonna be a “WOW!” experience, for sure! I’m staying just outside the perimeter, in what looks to be a charming and lovely tented accommodation for three nights.

I’m hoping the bed will be slightly more cushioned than this image suggests!

I’m traveling with a handful of female friends, led by Philippa Kaye, Founder of Indian Experiences - with whom I previously collaborated on WOW! Travel Club projects. Philippa is well-connected, well-respected and just an all-around fun, fabulous friend. I cannot wait to share this experience with her and the gutsy women who trust me enough to jump onboard!

Philippa makes friends wherever she goes!

The experience of the Kumbh is just three nights of my 3-week itinerary through India. I’m concluding this adventure with a return to Srinagar - the place named in the title of my memoir, and the final destination of my 8-month solo travel adventure of 46 years ago. Back then, I wondered, “Will I ever come back to Srinagar? And, if I do, will I be able to afford to stay on a 5-star houseboat?”Stay tuned . . .

Thai Christmas Pie Story

Around this time of year, I always recall a pumpkin pie memory.In December of 1978 I was staying with a bunch of “hippie backpackers” at the Isra Guesthouse in Chiang Mai, in northern Thailand.  I had been traveling in southeast Asia since Labor Day and, by this time, had happily adapted to the life of a solo traveler.I was sharing a bedroom (not a bed) with a handsome Canadian named Graham and an affable Welshman named Trefor.  Housemates included a French couple and crazy, free-spirited Peter – a long-haired, pot-smoking, barefoot hippie from California.  Dale is a semi-professional golfer from Vancouver who is spending the winter in Thailand, where it’s warmer and cheaper.Two weeks earlier I had shipped my suitcase back home to Michigan, along with nearly everything I had originally brought with me.  I wrote a letter to my Mom, explaining that my suitcase full of practical mix-and-match polyesters was just not practical.  I told her that everything was a lot different than I had expected, that I was doing fine and that she shouldn’t worry about me.  But I knew that was futile advice – she was going to worry, no matter what.I didn’t go into too much detail about how each day revealed extraordinary new adventures, exotic new tastes and interesting new people.  I was experiencing a great big wonderful world that had eluded me in the comfortable, boring bubble of Midwestern life.  I was having more fun and finding more fulfillment than I’d ever experienced.  There was almost nothing about my former life that I was missing, but didn’t want to rub it in.Still … Christmas was coming.  The holidays were a favorite time of year and even though I was delighted with my current nomadic lifestyle, I anticipated some homesicknesses.  I was pleased when Graham, Peter, Dale and the French couple agreed to stay here with Isra and his wife to spend Christmas as a “family.”Graham was quite the cook, so he started to plan a menu for Christmas day.  I volunteered to make a pumpkin pie.I didn’t admit that I’d never made a pumpkin pie in my life.  Regardless, I was a Home Ec major!  I could do this!Hmmmm.  I’d need a recipe.  This was years before internet so I had to get resourceful.  I found a Betty Crocker cookbook in a bookstore and copied the recipe.  Progress!Canned pumpkin puree was not available but they sold pumpkins in the local market.  An Indian medicinal shop had fresh whole spices – cinnamon sticks, cloves and nutmeg – which I ground to a powder in a wooden mortar and pestle that I bought at the market.  Couldn’t find a round pie plate, so I substituted a square cake pan.  Flour, eggs, cream and butter were easily sourced.Now … all I needed was an oven.Thai kitchens don’t have ovens.  Most everything is cooked in a wok and some things are barbecued.  But a traditional western-style oven?  No.Fortunately, Dale regularly played golf with some wealthy ex-pats who lived in a western-style housing complex.  He asked one of his buddies if they had an oven.  The guy said yes.When I showed up at their doorstep the day before Christmas, my bicycle basket laden with pumpkin and all the other ingredients, the lady of the house seemed rather put out.  Apparently, they assumed I would come with a pre-made pie to simply pop in their oven for an hour.  Nobody had mentioned that I was literally starting from scratch.  The pressure was on!First I baked the pumpkin.  That was easy, but the mashing and pureeing was a messy and laborious process.  My pastry was a disaster.  Recalling how my Mom rolled out a beautiful sheet of dough which she carefully laid down in her pie plate, mine was a sticky, buttery mess that I pressed crudely into the corners of the cake pan and stuck in the refrigerator to chill.It didn’t help that the lady periodically popped into the kitchen to assess my progress … as she had her own dinner to prepare.I guessed completely as to the quantity of spices to add.  Betty Crocker wasn’t much help after all.A few hours later, I tidied up the kitchen and extended profuse apologies and thank-yous to my hosts for their generosity.  I carefully balanced my concoction in the bicycle basket and pedaled back to the guest house.By this time, Isra’s wife, Mon, had decorated a tropical bush with colorful candies as our Christmas tree and cut letters from crepe paper to spell out, “Merry Christmas.”  She was beyond excited.I helped Peter cut up fresh fruit for a salad: papaya, mango, banana and pineapple.  We set up tables in their front room and I watched Isra make Sukyaki.  Into each bowl he layered green veggies, added some beef and squid which had been gently boiled in a broth, added cooked rice and vermicelli noodles and filled the bowls to the top with a piping hot broth.  He added Thai chili sauce to each bowl: a weak mix for us foreigners, and a more potent version (with six times more chilies) for the Thais.

That’s me in the green shirt – at the beginning of my southeast Asia travel adventure

The caretaker, a bony old man we called Mr. Noo, showed up in a halter top and skirt who tended to the chicken on the barbecue.  The French couple made crepes, which we slathered with lemon juice and sugar.  There were bowls of peanuts and sweets, as well as copious amounts of Mehkong whisky of which Mr. Noo had more than his fair share.  Everyone was in a festive mood, further enhanced by Thai sticks (marijuana) of which Peter had more than his fair share.Someone produced some clove cigarettes from Indonesia.  Perhaps the Thai sticks intensified the humor of Peter’s comment, “It’s better than smoking a ham!”By the way … my pumpkin pie was absolutely terrific!

Summer Vacations with Fizzies & Fartless Baked Beans

Summertime.  1960s.  Getting out of Saginaw.

It was a ritual of summer:Dad, up in the rafters of our one-car garage on Glendale Street, rummaging for tent poles and stakes. Teenage brother Jim balancing on a ladder, helping Dad attach the homemade wooden car-top carrier to the roof of our steel-gray Chevy Impala station wagon.Mom in the kitchen, cooking up a big batch of her famous fartless baked beans. Brother Bobby, 18 months older than me - being his typically bratty self - teasing and taunting me, the solo sister.Ronnie, four years younger than me, just trying to stay out of everybody's way.Me? Ready to go. Wishing we would just get in the car and GO!Dad had three weeks of vacation from his job at Michigan Bell Telephone Co. We’d almost always be heading west on our summer vacation – toward the mountains. Dad loved his mountains. But before we got there, we had to endure endless hours driving across boring plains, prairies, and cornfields. We'd head south on I-75 out of mid-Michigan, skirt the northwest corner of Indiana, traverse the width of Illinois, then Iowa or Missouri, on to Nebraska, South Dakota, or Kansas before finally reaching our final destination at Mt. Rushmore, the Rocky Mountains, Yellowstone, or the Grand Canyon.Our car was not air-conditioned. Dad always drove with his window rolled down, left arm resting on the window frame. No sunscreen back then, either. I remember the time he got a blistering sunburn and had to drive with his forearm swaddled in a towel.We should have known “Navigator” Jim would be an engineer one day, as he dutifully followed the roadmap from place to place and neatly logged our progress in a notebook. The back seat folded flat to make space for us three younger kids – so we could squirm, lie down, or play games. No seat belts or car seats back in those days. Mom frequently scolded me and Bobby for bickering. (“But Mom, he started it!”)

My brother Jim (the future engineer) made these titles for the vacation movies.

Once in awhile, to break the boredom, we'd roll down the window and furiously pump our arm as we passed a big semi-truck, encouraging the driver to blast his air horn. Always a big laugh when the trucker responded!At lunchtime, Dad would pull into a roadside rest area. Never a restaurant. Mom would retrieve the flowered tin breadbox, unfold an oilcloth gingham tablecloth, generously slather Miracle Whip on Spatz’s white bread, and add a piece of ham. We hurriedly wolfed down the sandwich before the bread dried out from blast furnace of roadside heat.

Miracle Whip was only 37 cents! And Lays Potato Chips only 79 cents! Hmmm... wondering if Spatz's Bakery is still in business in Saginaw?

Our beverage was always a “Fizzie,” a lozenge that frothed and hissed like Alka-Seltzer and flavored the water like KoolAid. Sometimes Mom let us have potato chips. But there were always homemade cookies. Dad loved his cookies.On travel days, we’d pull into a campground late in the day after driving for 8-10 hours. Bobby and I always lobbied for a campground with a pool, but that almost never happened because Jim had calculated exactly where we would stop. Once at the campground, we searched for the perfect campsite – one that had trees spaced the proper distance apart from which to hang Dad’s hammock. We’d set up camp – with a monstrous, green, smelly canvas tent - upgrading to a Reliart (that's "trailer" spelled backwards) pop-up tent camper after those early years of wrestling with tent poles and stakes. A canvas tarp provided cover and shade for our al fresco kitchen, dining room, and living area.

Required gear (clockwise from top left): Chevy station wagon, metal bread box, "Reliart" camper trailer, Coleman two-burner camp stove.

Dad would attach the propane tank to the green Coleman stove, pump it a bunch of times, and light the burners with his Zippo lighter. I was sent off in search of water and Bob would find kindling for the campfire. Dad and Jim hauled out the heavy aluminum cooler with the almost-melted block of ice. I set the table with our plastic camping dishes, which were stored in a homemade plywood cupboard. And Dad would settle into his hammock, smoking a cigarette.Within an hour of pulling into the campground, ham slices were sizzling in the cast iron skillet alongside a pan of Mom's famous fartless baked beans.I can hear it, smell it ... taste it - like it was yesterday!  

Our camping setup in the early years: a big green canvas tent plus tarp.

Then we graduated to a camper trailer, borrowed from my Uncle Ferris.

Mom and our first dog, Penny. She (the dog) gave birth to a litter of puppies in our tent one year - right under my cot!

I think this was the Petrified Forest in Arizona.

Obviously, the Grand Canyon!

Niagara Falls.

A bad photo from the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs.

One summer we broke tradition and traveled east - to the coast of Maine.

This photo must have been taken the year AFTER Madras plaid was popular! (We only had such trendy things when they'd be discounted.)

Always the best part of our camping vacations ... making s'mores in our jammies!

Aaaahhhh . . . memories! What were the summertime vacation rituals in your family?pssst:  Wanna know Mrs. Murphy's secret recipe for fartless beans?  Just leave a comment and I'll send it to you!