Welcome to D.C.

The new big beautiful flag pole in front of the White House

Washington D.C. is a big place with a small town feel. The seat of power in the United States revolves around certain buildings along the National Mall and blocks on either side. It may seem large but the locals don’t view the capital as such.

“We’re really a city of small neighborhoods,” Tony, a bartender at the Dubliner, told us. “The capital seems large and bustling to many tourists, but to us locals, it’s just home.”

Laureen and I had walked about a hundred miles during the first four hours on the day of our arrival in our nation's capital and I was parched - from the walking and the two hundred percent humidity.

Since this was only the second time I’d traveled to Washington, D.C., I asked myself why I had come during the summer again. Wasn’t the first time enough to warn me off future summer trips where a shower in the morning wouldn’t last for the first three minutes when exiting the hotel?

“I need a shower and a towel,” I said. “And not sure in that order.”

We had stopped by the Dubliner, located on ‘F’ Street, not far from Columbus Circle, for a bite of lunch and a respite from Mother Nature.

The Dubliner - a fine Irish pub in the heart of Washington D.C.

“Tony,” I said. “How do you folks deal with the humidity?”

He simply smiled at me while passing over a pint of Smithwick’s. Did I mention Tony was a saint?

“We think cool,” he responded, and then went to wait on other patrons.

I looked at Laureen, “Does that work?”

Even my lovely bride had shiny beads of sweat upon her brow. Women don’t perspire, she once told me. They glisten. “No. It does not.”

Washington, D.C., is a city laid out by the founding fathers in a rather neat mathematical way. Four quadrants - northwest, northeast, southwest, and southeast. Rather mundane but easy to understand, compared to many places I have encountered in my travels.

“Well,” someone would say to me with a piece of straw hanging out of their mouth. “You go down until you see a red-spotted cow and then turn right, but not before waving at old widow Wilson. Then you move on for a stretch until …”

The point is made.

Each of the supposedly 130 various neighborhoods in D.C. revolve around their own culture and vibes.

“Do you want to visit all the neighborhoods?” Laureen asked me as our lunch arrived. A light pub salad for Laureen and a heavy dose of Shepherd’s pie for me - I had to gain my strength back to continue walking the streets of D.C. later.

 “Nope,” I said. “That’s why there is Uber, Lyft, the Metro, or Flip.”

“Flip?”                                                                                                                                                             

I nodded. “Flip a coin to see if we head back to the hotel after lunch and take a nap.”

We ended up, after a wonderful time at the Dubliner Restaurant, heading out into the steamy afternoon. It got even steamier when a sudden thunder storm eased over the east and blanketed the capital with what seemed like ten inches of rain in two minutes.

I knew it was coming, since I had insisted that we would not need an umbrella - my albatross.

“Why an umbrella?” I once posed to Laureen in the hinterlands of Northern Ireland. Fifteen minutes later the Irish Coast Guard showed up.  

As we walked back toward the National Mall to take in the sights, Laureen said, “I wish we had brought an umbrella.”

Which in her world actually meant, you should have listened to me and taken the umbrella from the Watergate Hotel like I suggested.

There really should be two dictionaries - one for smart women and one for the rest of us.

With soaking shoes and smiles, we meandered our way to the White House to see the two new big beautiful flag poles that were recently erected.

It is awe inspiring to stand across the street from where the President and First Lady reside, no matter what political party, and contemplate the importance of such a building.

The current residence has housed every president since John Adams. But George Washington chose the spot and supervised its construction - so his spirit is still there. It is a venue where world leaders come and discuss worldly issues on a constant basis.

But, being tourists, we could only gawk through the tall black wrought iron fencing and ponder what goes on inside those special walls.

“Do I really need to meet with him this afternoon?” a president may ask his Chief of Staff.

“Sir, he’s the Prime Minister of England.”

“But he sounds so Scottish.”

The White House is located in an area known as Foggy Bottom. And yes, Laureen asked me not to write immature statements about the name. So, in bygone days the area was often covered by a blinding low-lying fog along the marshy area of the Potomac River, and with the smoke from and soot from nearby industrial complexes, the  name stuck.

This is also where the Kennedy Center is located, along with the Department of State and other high-affluence entities. D.C. is full of such places.

Standing across from the White House was special and allowed us to see America at its best. There were lots of tourists snapping selfies, asking for others to take their photos, selfies taking selfies, and others trying to steal their cameras. There were also a bunch of protesters waving posters and flags, wearing masks, and singing songs out-of-tune.

John R Beyer right before asking protestors what they were upset about

“What are you protesting?” I asked, being a journalist and all.

“Not sure,” a lime green-haired woman told me. “But it’s probably something about the government.”

“That is an awesome answer,” I replied.

Laureen shook her head, “She has green hair and a nose ring that hangs to her belly-button.”

“The First Amendment covers poor fashion choices, I believe,” I said. 

Our first day back in the nation’s capital after two years was interesting, sweaty, and overall great. This D.C. is a place to visit time and again. The week we had planned was not nearly long enough to see everything. We knew that but also realized we would pack as much into this adventure as possible.

I have always said to our children - if you are not exhausted by the time you return from a vacation, then you haven’t been on vacation.

Our Founding Fathers wondered if this great American dream would work out in the long run -  at this point, for nearly 250 years it’s done okay. A few bumps and hiccups but overall, not a bad experiment in the concept of a nation being self-governing.

For further information:

https://washington.org/visitors-guide

https://www.dublinerdc.com/

Washington D.C. is getting ready to Party

White House with brand new big beautiful flag

Big doings are on the way to prepare for our Nation’s Capital Semiquincentennial in 2026. It seems like only yesterday when Franklin turned to me and whispered that he hoped we could hold onto our republic.

“Ben,” I said. “Of course it will last.”

And I was correct. On July 4th, 2026, this great experiment that is our country will turn 250, and prove the old naysayers wrong.

As stated in the previous blog, we were contacted by Kyle Deckelbaum, Senior Manager for Domestic Media Relations from the non-profit group Destination D.C. He had complimented a story I had written about spending the 4th of July in our nation’s capital in 2023 for USA Today Network.

I like it when people compliment my writing - it does not happen often.

“John,” Kyle wrote to me. “D.C. is pulling out all the stops for the fourth in 2026. You’ve got to come and see what is planned.”

Don’t ask me twice to visit Washington, D.C. It is a wonderful destination for history buffs, library buffs, food buffs, pub buffs, and just buffs. And there is a chance to catch a sight of one of our hard-working representatives languishing on the steps of Congress, trying to figure out what more they can do to make life better for their constituents.

There's even a Route 66 display at the Smithsonian

That last comment may have been a bit of tongue-in-cheek. My part-time job is writing fictional novels and short stories.

I asked Laureen, my lovely wife, if she was interested in visiting . . . Actually, I never got the full question out.

“Of course, we should visit Washington D.C. this Fourth of July,” she replied to my not-quite-asked question.

How do wives do that? 

Turns out that the city is already gearing up for the spectacular extravaganza for the nation’s 250th anniversary. 

Even astronauts and flamingos are excited about the 250th

I was being invited to preview these exciting things that are going to take place within the streets of Washington, D.C., for the semiquincentennial. One year out, no problem, takes a bit of time to get articles in the queue for publishing, and I considered this as simply a scouting mission to inform my readers what will be in store if they plan on visiting D.C. to honor our wonderful country.

And what a history this nation has had over the past 250 years. Sure, not a perfect country, but one that I believe learns from its mistakes and moves forward for a better tomorrow for all of its citizens.

George Washington, the reluctant 1st President of the United States, said; The name of American, which belongs to you, in your national capacity, must always exalt the just pride of patriotism more than any appellation derived from local discriminations.

President Washington was pointing out that to be an American was not just a moniker to hang around one’s neck, but to truly honor the fact that America was not a dream but a reality to be held on to tightly. He knew firsthand the sacrifices during those war years from the beginning in 1775 until the signing of the Treaty of Paris in 1783 with the British Empire.

George Washington's farm - Mount Vernon 

Our nation was a concept that had never truly been experimented on in such a manner and at such a great cost for those sailing into uncertain waters.

To take up arms against the strongest military force on Earth at that time, Great Britain, was not for the faint of heart.

John Adams, a founding Father and the 2nd President of the newly formed United States, once said; Posterity! You will never know how much it costs the present generation to preserve your Freedom! I hope you will make good use of it. If you do not, I shall repent in Heaven that I ever took half the pains to preserve it.

This route to freedom that our founding fathers and mothers fought for should never be underestimated. 

Freedom comes at a great emotional and physical cost - just ask a Vet.

So, without wasting a moment, I booked flights, hotels, and a cruise along the Potomac to visit Mount Vernon (I wanted to see if it had changed much since the last time George and I had talked), and I was quite proud of myself.

Cruising along the Potomac River

“I think the last night we’re there, you should take me to the VUE Restaurant on top of the Washington Hotel. As a celebration.”

“Celebration?”

Laureen nodded. “We won’t be there for the two hundred and fiftieth year's birthday, but we’ll be looking forward to it next year.”

I looked up the establishment. I would be celebrating if my American Express held out that evening. 

So, we hit the ground running at the Ontario International Airport on June 30th, for our latest adventure back to Washington D.C. to learn what all the hubbub Kyle had been discussing concerning the fanfare for our country's monumental birthday on July 4th, 2026.

Knowing Kyle, I’m sure the city built on a swamp had plenty up its sleeves to ensure no one would forget this special birthday party.

And it was my job to investigate, interview, visit, and report back.

Tour of the capital back in July of 2023

John can be contacted at: beyersbyways@gmail.com

For further information:

https://washington.org/DC-information/about-destination-dc

https://washington.org/

Ludlow, a great respite along Interstate 40

Old mining cars on display in Ludlow, California

I spend a lot of time driving along that black ribbon of Interstate 40. Do I enjoy it? Sometimes. And it is the path from here to there I need quite often for expediency. Though, Route 66 is my preferable stretch of road. It’s slower, more scenic, and allows me to just ponder.

Pondering is important. .

No one likes things weighing on my mind. But I do like to think about, or reflect every now and then. To consider things soberly, quietly, or with some good old rock and roll playing in the background. I’d even say I contemplate some things deeply, as if I were a great deep thinker of soul searching meanings, but honestly, I’m often more of a surface kind of guy.

But I do like the term ponder. It rhymes with wander. So, wandering as I do gives me time for pondering.

‘He’s just a wandering and pondering sort of fella.’

So recently, while wandering along Interstate 40 and passing the exit for Ludlow, I began pondering about the history of this small berg fifty-one miles east of Barstow and ninety-two miles west of Needles. Passing it so many times during my eons on this planet, I never gave the history of the town much thought. No offense to those who reside in Ludlow - a lovely group of folks - but when I’d stop in Ludlow, there was a specific reason for said stop: pump some gas, grab a meal, or a big delicious and calorie filled DQ desert, and hit the road again.

The town deserves better. 

Time for some research. 

I discovered that Ludlow was once a booming town. But, as with many such towns that hugged Route 66 like a belt on a pair of pants after Thanksgiving dinner, a diet was in the near future. And that diet was the completion of Interstate 40.

That darn Interstate 40! But, I digress.

Ludlow was once such a happening place that it once hosted an automobile race in 1914 from Los Angeles to Phoenix along National Trails Highway, later known as Route 66, with the famous race car driver, Barney Oldfield as the main attraction.

It was reported that people as far away as Death Valley, descended on Ludlow to view the Cactus Derby, with the hopes of catching a glance of one of this country’s racing legends.

But there is so much more to Ludlow. And I’m not just writing about the reopening of the DQ there – though, that is pretty big news.

Hmmm, banana splits on a hot summer afternoon. Oops, digressing again. 

Turns out that this small community began in the 1870’s. In 1882, the actual town of Ludlow was founded as a water stop for the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad, and named after William Ludlow, a train car repairman who did such a good job repairing things, that clearly, the railroad needed to name a town after him.

The small railway stop started to really build into something grand when gold was discovered in the nearby hills. Where there is gold, there is a boom. And a boom was a-booming.

As miners flocked to the region, entrepreneurs also moved in offering all sorts of distractions for those tired and grubby guys with pockets full of gold to spend on lonely weekends. 

One such person was Mother Preston, who built or purchased buildings to convert into a general store, hotel, boarding house, a saloon, café, pool hall, and even a few homes. She was one smart business woman. 

According to an article in the San Bernardino County Sentinel, Mother Preston became so wealthy, she sold her holdings to the Murphy Brothers, who already owned the rest of the town, and promptly retired to France.

It is reported that Mother Preston stated, “Ooh, la la!” after the sale of her holdings. A rough translation is – “Wow, is Versailles for sale?”

In 1900, gold was discovered in the Bagdad-Chase Mine, and became the largest gold-producing mine in San Bernardino County. In fact, the mine produced half of all the gold mined in the county.

Ludlow was also utilized as the southern railhead for the Tonopah and Tidewater Railroad, which was owned by the Pacific Coast Borax Company.

Borax, the answer to those nasty stains in clothes. A little here and a little there, and whammy, just like brand new.

“Johnny, your clothes are filthy!”

“Don’t worry, ma,” Johnny replied. “A little Borax, and they are good as store bought.”

“You are a smart young man, Johnny. You may end up writing for a newspaper someday.”

“My dream of dreams, ma.”

Anyway - with all that gold, and the Borax pouring in from Death Valley, Ludlow began to truly prosper.

For the next few decades, the town continued to grow, as new mines were established, trainloads of Borax along with other minerals coming through, and the advent of the automobile, there didn’t seem an end to the expansion of this town in the Mojave Desert.

But by the 1940’s there wasn’t much use for all the rail activity with the ore playing out and other avenues being found for the delivery of the minerals. The railroads became more efficient and water stops no longer played much of a roll in their daily lives. 

The love of the American automobile came to the rescue to Ludlow. Vehicles roared by on Route 66, right through the town where visitors could grab a night’s sleep at a motor court, grab a meal at the Ludlow Café, fill up at the gas station, or just relax under the branches of a shady tamarisk tree.

But then in the late 1960’s, Interstate 40 was completed, and even though it was merely inches from Ludlow, travelers didn’t need to stop any longer.

“Can’t we stop? I’m hungry,” a child was heard to whine, through the open window of a passing Chevrolet.

“Can’t stop, we’re on a mission to get east of here,” the father replied. “There’s boating fun to be had on the Colorado River.”

So, the people sped by and Ludlow dwindled in population and importance.

Though, it is still an important stop in my mind. Here I go with pondering again.

History is alive here in this little highway town. Strong and independent people took a shot at life in a very hostile environment - threw the dice and survived.

No, not only survived, but prospered. 

Sure, now there isn’t much to the town. Deserted buildings, empty lots, ruined structures, and an old cemetery – but the town truly lives.

There’s a hotel, café, gas station, and the planned re-opening of the revamped DQ attached to a gas station on the north side of Interstate 40.

A great place to stop and eat in Ludlow, California

Most of my sources agree that Ludlow is a ghost town. I say nope, this town is alive, and all the times I’ve stopped there – not one ghost have I seen.

Recently, I stopped at the Ludlow Café and had a great and healthy breakfast (that was for Laureen’s benefit, she worries about me). I pondered on how much grit the early settlers had in settling in such hostile and questionable surroundings. They had it, no matter the obstructions thrown in their path.

And their legacy lives on.

Ludlow might be thought of as a little community, but one with a large part of the history of the Mojave Desert. There is so much to explore in the area, if you have the time. 

And a place to rest your head for the night in Ludlow, California

Albert Einstein once wrote; ‘People like us who believe in physics know that the distinction between past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion. Time, in other words, is an illusion.’

Can’t argue with a guy rumored to have an IQ of ten thousand, but I know that time, in this world is not an illusion.

Watching your children grow up, a person realizes that time is real and it’s precious. Time for us mere humans is finite.

That’s why I travel and look for new things. New doesn’t mean new construction, but things I didn’t know were there. The history of Ludlow is just one more example. 

The quirky ghost town of Nelson, Nevada

 

Years ago, Laureen and I sat down to watch the 2001 film, 3,000 miles to Graceland one evening. Not sure why, but we are fans of Kevin Costner and Kurt Russell and decided to give it a shot.

We like doing that - watching a film on a shot.

Most end up as a 22 caliber plink but some end up as a full blown 44 caliber full-metal-jacket blast. While on the subject, may I mention Top Gun Maverick? That was, in my opinion, a macho-side-winder-missile of a film. But I digress.

The Graceland film was probably, in my ‘Beyer what round would this film rate’ opinion, would be a solid 40 caliber. Enough to do damage but not enough to awaken neighbors three doors down.

I am not sure why I am using such terms to determine the strength of a film but perhaps since I recently went to a legal shooting range with a few friends, the aroma of gunpowder is still circulating through my senses.

Anyway, Laureen and I drove to the film location for one of the scenes in the film - the ghost town of Nelson in Nevada.

This is where Costner, as nasty as his character is, flicks his lit cigarette out of the car and blows up the place, sending a couple of full sized planes right into the air.

Sections of the planes are still there, with one sticking right out of the ground as though it crashed nose first.

Destroyed aircraft from film 3,000 Miles to Graceland in Nelson, Nevada

Really cool.

Unlike most ghost towns I visit, Nelson is a bit different. Not the average ghost town where buildings are there but mostly not. Rumors of past lives are envisioned across desert landscapes or remote mountain valleys. No, Nelson is unique in that aspect.

As we drove through the eleven miles of desert toward Nelson off the 95 and on the 165, there were a lot of Joshua trees, creosote bushes, cacti, and other plants which I cannot possibly name.

“Beautiful area,” Laureen mentioned.

“Some folks think the desert is boring,” I replied. I had actually heard someone say that once, but then again they also did not believe Sasquatches existed.

“Then they have not traveled much,” Laureen said.

Besides being one of the settings for a movie about a bunch of Elvis impersonators about to rob a casino in Las Vegas, the town of Nelson has a fascinating history.

A long detailed history of exploration, riches, murder, and all the other ingredients that make visiting such a place a must.

We suddenly came into view a collection of modular homes, stick built homes and lots with no homes at all. In fact, some of the homes were large and beautiful. 

“Are we there?” I asked.

“We just passed a sign that indicated we had arrived in Nelson,” Laureen replied.

This was not a ghost town at all. Folks walking around, doggies prancing in front yards, people driving modern cars instead of horse and buggies, and not a ruin in sight.

“I think we’ve been bamboozled,” I uttered.

Nope, the ghost town was about another mile or so past the present and very much alive village of Nelson.

In 1775, a group of Spaniards were walking here and there about this locale when they discovered pockets of rich ore containing large amounts of gold.

Immediately they called the area, El Dorado, which in Spanish meant any place where riches, opportunity, or abundance of things can be found. And this, El Dorado, was such a place just west of the rushing Colorado River.

After the Spaniards left, the area was searched now and then, but in 1859 large lodes of both gold and silver were discovered and El Dorado came into full force, creating one of the largest mining booms in Nevada state history.

It seems that every time I conduct research about a mineral strike, it happens to be one of the largest in that particular state.

“We got us another boom,” one old miner may have said to another.

The other miner may have nodded his unkempt bearded head. “Yes, and last week I was at another boom over yonder.”  

Two years later the rush for riches was truly on and a steamboat landing was created at the mouth of Eldorado Canyon at the shore of the Colorado River to transport goods to the quickly forming town and to take the rich ore south along the river.

The ore would be transported nearby on the Colorado River

The first name for this mining bonanza along the Colorado River was Colorado City. Must have taken moments to come up with that name. Then it was changed to simply Eldorado.

It should be noted that this was before any man made dams were along the length of the Colorado River and thus supplies and riches could be transported nearly 350 miles from this location all the way to the Gulf of California.

Try that today. In fact don’t…unless you feel like dragging your boat out of the water in front of Hoover Dam, Davis Dam, and the Dam Dam.

With money rolling in from the various mines in the area, the town of Eldorado continued to grow and one of the richest was the Techatticup Mine which produced millions of dollars from gold, silver, copper, and lead.

One of the canyons leading to riches in Nelson, Nevada

And with all such boom towns, another element came to town - hooligans.

Yes, Tom Hooligan moved to Eldorado in 1897. Okay, I may have made that name up, but bad hombres and bad hombres showed up, making the mining camp a very dangerous place to reside.

Since Eldorado Canyon was so narrow and yet so rich in mineral deposits routine, arguments arose between miners, and murder became a way of life. And, add to that fact that the Civil War hadn’t ended that long ago, deserters from both the Union and Confederate armies migrated there believing the location in Nevada was so isolated they would not be hunted down by the authorities.

Of course, there were no animus feelings between those two factions at all. Did I mention that murder became a fact of life?

A town was eventually built further up the canyon away from the rushing river since that area had seen the building of a stamp mill and docks for the steamships that would visit Eldorado on a routine manner and had become too crowded. 

In 1897, a prospector and camp leader by the name of Charles Nelson was found murdered in his home, along with four other people. The killings were blamed on a Native American by the name of Avote. The town’s name was then changed to Nelson in his honor.

Nelson was a different sort of mining camp, in which the majority see their boom last a few years at most and then dry up. No, this locale produced rich minerals from its founding all the way until 1945.

Around 1901 to 1905, railroads were becoming more and more accessible for the citizens of Nelson to move products and soon there was no longer the need for the steamboats along the Colorado River. It was faster and cheaper to bring goods in or ship out the needs of the mining boomtown by rail.

In 1907, the post office closed in Eldorado and was moved to Nelson.

As we walked around the now eclectic ghost town of Nelson, we marveled at the displays of vintage automobiles and trucks scattered everywhere. Some were parked along the only paved road through town. Some were parked in dirt parking lots in front of original buildings from the heyday of Nelson. Some were just parked as though the owner had just exited the vehicle to carry on some business in a nearby structure.

Some strange looking vehicles in Nelson, Nevada

There are signs indicating that this isn’t just a ghost town but a town where people live. The wording on the signs are clear - ‘Leave before Dark.’ The residents do not want tourists trampling all over private property looking at this or that artifact.

John R Beyer standing in the doorway in Nelson, Nevada

It was a wonderful couple of hours we spent trampling around - it was early in the morning. The gift shop/visitor center was open and we chit-chatted with a woman running the place. She mentioned that mine tours are available and reservations can easily be made by visiting the Eldorado Canyon Mine Tours website. Not only can the guests visit the actual mines in the area which produced the boom, but the tour also incorporates visiting film sites, wedding venues, great photo opportunities, and overall explains the entire history of Nelson.

The main street in Nelson, Nevada

In fact, we watched as three or four small tour buses entered the small town and deposited tourists for their day of adventure.

It was windy, so we decided to pack it in and head west, knowing we would be back to explore much more of this Eldorado Canyon.

For more information: https://www.eldoradocanyonminetours.com/index.html

John can be contacted at: beyersbyways@gmail.com

Amboy Crater

*Editorial note - this blog first appeared in 2018, but this is one of the best times of year to visit Amboy Crater. John traveled there during the middle of summer - don't do that! It is dangerously hot, as is stated in the article. That written, Go Out and Explore this Marvel of Nature.

Amboy Crater, as seen from above

Roughly ten thousand years ago, according to all the scientific types, there was a huge volcanic eruption not far from the city of Barstow. So close, in miles as those crows fly, which anyone living there would have looked up into the eastern sky and scratched their heads in wonder.

What was that? What could that have been? Is there something we should be doing at this time with all that smoke and fire in the sky? I wish we had finished that living trust before all this, don’t you?

Of course, there is no evidence that anyone lived in the Mojave Desert during that time. Then again, this is still up to debate. 

Anyway, that volcanic explosion would have been something to witness - from a distance. Bring out the popcorn and suitable drink for the show of a lifetime. Probably should also have a fire retardant umbrella, just in case of floating fire cinders or something else hot enough to ruin your day or life. 

John R Beyer pointing to the distant Amboy Crater

Actually, according to several scientific resources, the first suspected volcanic activity in the area near the present small town of Amboy, was about 80,000 years ago and it kept burping up magma for thousands of years.

Anyone who has traveled Route 66 eastbound from Barstow knows something catastrophic happened here. Miles and miles of magma fields, giving the landscape an almost out of this world appearance. Driving that lonely stretch of highway, away from the hustle and bustle of Highway 40, gives a person a chance to slow down and take a look around at the gorgeous desert.

And in that middle of the desert is a 250 foot tall and nearly 1500 foot wide ancient volcano named appropriately, the Amboy Crater. 

Amboy Caldera

But what is a volcano? 

Come on, we all know after watching, Dante’s Peak. It was a big Hollywood hit in 1997, and made us all experts in what is really happening down in the bowels of the earth. Who can forget, unless you never watched the film, Harry Dalton – played by Pierce Bronson (enough to go to Netflix now?) stating, after finding two people boiled to death in a seemingly cool pool of mountain water.

It’s really hot down in the earth. Dalton said, as he scratched his two day growth of beard on his handsome face. So hot, that sometimes yucky stuff comes to the surface and really makes a mess of things – including my hair and make-up.

I made those script lines up – literary license provoked.

According to NASA, a pretty decent resource in itself, a volcano is an opening on the surface of a planet or moon that allows material warmer than its surroundings to escape from its interior.

I had a thought about a spicy burrito being the cause of a volcano, but that would be childish.

So, a road trip to the Amboy Crater was in store.

Being summer, Laureen had a comment about that idea of mine.

“You know it is summer.”

“Yes, I looked on my phone – you are correct.”

“It’s not really a great idea to hike in the desert during the summer.”

“When have I ever done anything stupid?”

For the next three hours, Laureen went through an entire litany of the things I have done in my travels which be questionable, as either being stupid or supremely adventurous.  

I went for adventurous.

When hiking in the high desert during the summer, one has to be prepared. A backpack full of yummy snacks, bottles of water, a first aid kit, and a bit of smarts.

It does get hot in the summer months, and it was early

So, I arrived at the Amboy Crater trail around seven in the morning – it was warm but not the melting type of warm. Laureen, being smarter than me, had only shook her hear head as I left our abode for my morning hike to the Amboy Crater.

“Stupid idea.”

“Adventurous.”

The crater is only about two and half miles west of the small town of Amboy along Route 66. Being a national natural landmark, it is well marked with an easy drive across black asphalt to the parking area just at the beginning of the trail.

After a hike, stop by Amboy for a cool drink

There are restrooms, picnic tables, and kiosks telling the visitor what they are viewing in the near distance. The volcano looms up from the desert floor like an impregnable castle from the days when knights controlled the countryside. Well, that would be knights like in ancient Europe and not the United States, but the sight is pretty awesome.

Walkways, tables, and kiosks for the visitor at Amboy Crater

Hardened black flows of ancient volcanic rock covers the entire area, comprising of nearly 24 square miles. When this thing erupted the last time, it sent volcanic debris flying in every direction and also rivers of molten lava covering the desert floor like bugs on road kill. That was gross, sorry. 

That was deep and shallow at the same time.

The trail to the top of the Amboy Crater is an easy stretch of a little over a mile with signs indicating which way to go. The climb to the top of the craters rim is a bit steep, but nothing that sturdy shoes cannot handle.

I was the only one there for the nearly two hours of hiking, and it was a wonderful experience. To look at this crater and realize I was standing on the top of something so powerful was intense. Though I have never been to the moon or any other planet besides the one I currently reside on, I wondered if this is what future explorers will witness. 

Just some of the hiking trails within Amboy Crater

Well actually, I hope if we visit another planet there may be people or beings we can talk with. I don’t want wind up in a cook book. Twilight Zone, get Netflix.  Just a thought.

On a serious note, and I hate those, hiking during the summer in the desert must be well thought out beforehand. If there are signs warning of excessive heat precautions, those I ignored, stating that hiking is not recommended, then heed the signs. I’m a professional – okay, that doesn’t cut it for moving around in the desert when it is four hundred degrees. Take ample precautions, start very early in the morning and be done well before the sun is directly overhead. Otherwise, then any other time of the year is a wonderful time to explore the beautiful Amboy Crater area.

Heed the warnings, may save your life

Rainbow Basin, Barstow, CA

Though I have traveled down this narrow, winding dirt path multiple times in the past, it seemed as if it were the first time I’d taken the route.

That is the amazing mystery of adventuring here and there. You may have visited a certain park, lake, town, or some other destination multiple times in the past but suddenly the experience seems like a first.

I’m the usual suspect in the driver’s seat when motoring here or there. Mostly, because I travel alone on the byways the majority of the time. But on those occasions when company is present, they tend to sit in the passenger seat looking out the window trying to ignore my storytelling. 

“Stop me if you’ve heard this story,” I may say to Laureen, my lovely wife. “I was almost run over by a five thousand pound bull in Pamplona . . .”

“Stop.”

“Did I ever tell you the time a Sasquatch and I sat by the campfire in western Oregon, sharing a bottle of Macallan and a smooth Fuente y Padron?” I may ask Paul, a sometimes traveling friend.

“Stop.”

So, as I idled through the twisty twists of Rainbow Basin, my thoughts turned back to wondering if I had ever seen these natural geologic formations before.  I had, and yet somehow they appeared fresh and new, like a pair of white socks when washed in hot water and not cold. Laureen taught me that trick, and to this day, beige (used to be white) socks will never again caress my feet.

Rainbow Basin is passable by most vehicles 

Rainbow Basin lies just a few miles northwest of Barstow and is maintained by the Bureau of Land Management. It is easy to find right off Irwin Road with a large sign that points north telling the traveler the basin lies just another few miles away along a wide but oftentimes bumpy dirt road.

Any vehicle can cruise along the road but no large vehicles should attempt to enter the trail which leads through Rainbow Basin itself. Some of those humongous monstrosities from the Mad Max films may find the hairpin turns a bit challenging. Otherwise, have at it.

Well, motorhomes and trucks pulling trailers should not try the canyon road either. AAA doesn’t have a policy for Stupid.

One photo says it all - pay attention to road hazards

According to some geology know-it-alls, ‘Underneath Rainbow Basin is the massive batholith that lies below much of the western Mojave. Made from a type of rock called quartz monzonite, this batholith dates to either the Cretaceous or possibly the late Jurassic period.’

I have no idea what that means but I do know what Jurassic means - I’ve watched the movie Jurassic Park a million times - though in all transparency, most of the dinosaurs used in the film were really from the Cretaceous period and not the Jurassic period.

The Jurassic period was roughly 201 to 145 million years ago, whereas the Cretaceous period came into being roughly 145 million years ago until that nasty old meteorite turned the dinosaurs' day into the eternal night 66 million years ago.

So, T-Rex, the star of the 1993 film lived during the Cretaceous period, 90 million years ago, and not during the Jurassic period.

You better run, Little Man!

When asked about this small ‘time’ issue, it is rumored that the director, Steven Spielberg when asked simply said, “Who can say Cretaceous Park? Jurassic Park sounds so much cooler, and we’ve already had the Jeep decals printed. Back on set!”

Batholith is made up of two ancient Greek words, bathos meaning depth and lithos meaning rock. Those Greeks think of everything - deep large rocks that form when molten magma cools far down in the Earth’s crust. 

During the early years of the Cenozoic Era, roughly 66 million years ago, the batholith was exposed in the Rainbow Basin area and was molded downward with the immense pressure of the faults, creating some truly amazing geologic landscape for the traveler to gaze at.

Lots of beautiful landscape to explore

Through the eons of the Cenozoic Era, which includes the modern day, more movement by the faults in the area, including the Garlock Fault, created otherworldly geologic wonders.

Now, if I have gotten any of the geology mambo-jumbo incorrect, let it go - it does sound rather brainy.

Driving through the canyons, a visitor can park in pullouts and get up close and personal with the sandstone formation which makes up most of the area surrounding Rainbow Basin and the nearby Owl Canyon, where there happens to be a large and welcoming campground for those with longer stays in mind.

One noticeable thing about Rainbow Basin is the beautiful array of colors, and thus the name, I imagine.

There are vivid shades of green-gray, yellow-gray, and some almost red. As I wandered the canyon it was amazing how the colors from the land seemed to melt into each other while still leaving their own definable individualism on the landscape.

It was a weekday, so there were no cars honking at me to move from the center of the roadway while I studied the various formations while taking the occasional photograph.

The formations at Rainbow Basin are spectacular

My buddy, Paul, had traveled with me on this one-night excursion and was thoroughly enjoying himself climbing ridgelines to get a better gander at the joys mother nature had made.

Of course, as any true outdoors person, we both took care not to disturb anything in the way of plants, animals, or space aliens we may have come across.

To travel is to respect where one travels. 

Spending over two hours along the drive through the canyon gave both of us a better appreciation of how nature can turn simple things like sand, granite, and other geology thingies into works of art.

Our base camp at Owl Canyon Campground had been set up earlier in the day and we headed back to relax and discuss the day's adventure.

“I think I’m going to sit and relax a bit when we get back to camp,” Paul said.

With a nod, I agreed. “Yes, then we can discuss the geologic wonders we witnessed today.”

He rolled his eyes, a trick I swear he learned from Laureen. “Nope, I’m going to discuss having a nice cold one, it’s hot.”

It was warm and there was not nearly a breeze to cool two adventurous souls who only wanted to sit, relax, and go over the adventure of the day.

Owl Canyon Campground is a wonderful place for individuals, families, loners, and college geology classes who want to spend quality time outside while enjoying the openness of the desert.

A great trail doggie and humans, Laureen and our buddy Paul Bakas

Laureen and I, along with our doggies, camped here in our motorhome years ago and it turned out to be a wonderful experience. However, our Doberman, Dobie, decided that sliding down a steep ‘uplift’ in the canyon would be adventurous. It was not and after a few hair-raising moments, we were able to coax her up the steep sides and into the arms of Laureen. After that, Dobbie believed well-marked hiking trails were the next best thing to Minties.

Our furry companions exhausted after a day of exploring

Since it was a weekday, there were only a few other campers taking any of the numerous campsites. It was quiet, the sky was blue, barely a breeze, and made for a perfect ending to the day of exploring.

A warm campfire in the desert is a welcomed delight

Owl Canyon Campground is on a ‘first come’ basis, so the weekends during Fall, Winter, and Spring can be tricky to find a spot, but in summer - the place is wide open. With no electric hookups and very little water, it is a place for campers to think twice about before adventuring for the overnight. Daytime, no issue, just bring plenty of water, sunscreen, a yummy lunch, and a copy of one of my traveling columns, and it is a setting for a perfect outing.

A trip to Rainbow Basin is a must for locals and visitors from far away. It is where geology comes into contact with humans to understand how precious this floating globe in space is. 

For more information: https://www.blm.gov/visit/rainbow-basin-natural-area

John can be contacted at: beyersbyways@gmail.com

Anne of Green Gables

The bridge to find the home of Lucy Maud Montgomery.

I have had the privilege of visiting the residences of Hemingway, Steinbeck, Wilde, Stoker, Doyle, and so many other writers of renowned fame.

Recently while traveling through Nova Scotia, Laureen, my darling wife, and I had a chance to stand next to JK Rowling’s 290-foot yacht, moored by the boardwalk in Halifax. The rain was pounding our umbrellas but we did not care - the ship was gorgeous and I was hoping Joanie (as I call her) would look out and say, “Johnny, don’t be a silly sod and get your waterlogged behind onboard.”

Turns out that she may or may not have been aboard, but nevertheless, the invitation never came.

Writers can be criticized, and I get my fair share for my columns, but one thing I learned at a young age is if there were no writers, there would be no readers.

That almost sounded profound.

The truth is that I love to read: fiction, historical fiction, non-fiction, somewhat non-fiction, newspapers, magazines, and I truly love real estate magazines.

Oh, there are other books out there, just saying.

So, when we traversed the Confederation Bridge and landed on Prince Edward Island, Laureen looked at me and smiled.

“This is where Lucy Maud Montgomery spent much of her life.”

I drew a blank. “Is that before or after she used to snag the football from beneath Charlie Brown’s foot when he went in for a kick?”

The roll of her eyes almost threw us back across that eight-mile bridge we had just crossed.

“Anne of Green Gables? The books our girls read while growing up,” she said.

I remember reading to our girls all the time. But they were fun books about how body parts made funny noises - usually Laureen was not within earshot for those bedtime readings.

‘What sound does the elephant make before going to sleep?’ And our daughters would roll with laughter as I impersonated a gaseous elephant in the forest. If Laureen happened to come in, the reading topic would suddenly change to something by Niccolo Machiavelli.

I wanted our children to be well-rounded when it came to literature.

It seems on Prince Edward Island, Lucy Maud Montgomery is very important, and rightfully so. 

We drove into the town of Cavendish and spent a couple of days looking here and there. What we learned was there was nowhere we looked that the name of Lucy Maud Montgomery wasn’t present.

She put this small village on the map - well, it was actually on the map already but she made it famous.

It is very similar when people mention Riverside, California.

“That’s where John R. Beyer was born, right?”

Cavendish is an old town, founded back in 1790 by three families who had moved from Scotland. It was not a sea town with a large harbor but what it lacked there, it made up with wonderfully rolling green farmlands and the town flourished.

We drove around in the pelting rain, loving every moment of it since we came from the desert and rain is simply something one reads in the history books.

Montgomery was born around November 30th, 1874 (exact dates at this time period were not always exact) and died on April 24, 1942. During that time she was able to write 20 novels, 530 short stories, 500 poems, 30 essays, and knit a full-length replica of the Canadian Red Ensign.

She also was married and had three children. And my kids believe getting up before eight in the morning is a hardship.

Growing up in the idyllic countryside of Prince Edward Island, Montgomery came up with an incredible story of a young orphaned girl, Anne of Green Gables, being taken in by a brother and sister to work their farm. They had wanted a boy to work the land but by mistake, they were sent a girl, Anne Shirley.

This was before Amazon and returns were not easy to accomplish.

As Laureen told me, and I nodded, this fictional brother and sister who got Anne by mistake were meanies but later, due to Anne’s wonderful personal demeanor, loving spirit, goodness, and the fact she could pull a plow across rocky ground without the aid of a horse proved she was a wonderful asset to the community.

The point the author was making was that this young woman, no matter her dire background, succeeded due to her ‘youthful idealism and spirituality.’

The novel, Anne of Green Gables, was an immediate success and the young author gained both national and international fame.

Later in life, Montgomery tried for a new series entitled, Joey of Yellow Gables, but it did not do very well.

We visited a wonderful public park in Cavendish, Montgomery Park, where there are kiosks describing Lucy’s life and what her inspirations were as she spent her life telling tales for her readers.

Bronze benches lined a walkway around the park where the visitor can sit and reflect amidst beautiful green treed lanes. There is a bench dedicated to the writer with a full-size metal sculpture of her gazing into the sky while two black cats saunter nearby.

Bronze bench with the author and her cat.

We wandered the park and then ducked beneath overhanging tree branches as we made our way to the home in which the author grew up. There is a wonderful visitor center and gift shop at the site and docents who explain everything one would want to learn about Montgomery.

“It is sad,” a male docent told us. “Even though she was a famous writer and her books sold well, she never made the same money as her male contemporaries did.”

“Talk about misogyny,” I retorted, in solidarity with women.

He looked at me, “No, she had a bad literary agent. She made good money later on with her writing.”

We walked the grounds despite the gale-force winds and soaking rain and learned that this writer did not grow up in a land of the rich. Simple wood-structured buildings were her home with large rock foundations laid as the floors. A small kitchen, which was refurbished for the museum site, showed a very modest room with rudimentary furnishings.

The original kitchen where Lucy grew up.

“So, is this Green Gables house real?” I asked as Laureen was shaking off her umbrella.

The docent looked at Laureen who only slowly rolled her eyes. “Ask him if he ever heard of the book before this trip.”

Foundations of the original home where Lucy grew up.

Thirty minutes later we found ourselves at another museum in honor of Lucy Maud Montgomery and this one was huge. The entire life story of the author was on display, as well as the actual house that inspired the story of Anne Shirley.

A beautiful two-story, not counting basement, farmhouse-styled structure painted white with green gables.

The original 'Green Gables' home

Tourists, despite the continual rain, were traipsing here and there across the grounds and as we toured the home, the docent reminded us to wipe our feet.

“We need to keep the home as pristine as possible and water tracked in can ruin the period carpets.”

I wanted to mention that this section of Prince Edward Island receives about 600 days of rain each year but kept that to myself.

It is a beautiful home, but the best part was the exterior trail leading to the Haunted Woods.

Once again grabbing our umbrellas, we traipsed through the mud into the thick and dark woods behind the home and looked for ghosts or anything else that would be haunting. There was nothing scary except plants that looked very similar to poison ivy. Then I remembered I was an adult and Montgomery would have written her stories about a young girl entering these dark woods alone.

The narrow tree-clogged trail could easily allow the imagination of a young girl to expect something terrifying to emerge at any moment. When Laureen was turning her head from the trail I jumped up and yelled, “Boogie boogie boo!”

Trails to the haunted woods.

I did not know that the swelling of an eye could last a week even with ice packs.

Anne of Green Gables is still a must-read for young folks, both boys and girls since it is a series that shows the reader diversity in one’s life is no excuse for failure. Anne knew that and with her inspiration and positive attitude achieved wonderful things in her life.

Laureen explained that - but I do know the noises elephants make in the forest.

John can be contacted at: beyersbyways@gmail.com

The Whaley House in San Diego

Whaley House in San Diego, CA

The most haunted house in Southern California is supposed to be the Whaley House in San Diego. But is it really haunted? Thousands upon thousands of visitors each year, declare the following – 

“I’ve never been so scared in my life!”

“Voices were speaking to me, the moment I walked into the house.”

“A ghost was so real and fresh, it asked me out for a date.”

Okay, I have no idea if any of the above were ever stated – especially the last one, but – and I want to phrase this very carefully… 

This house has spooky and had paranormal written all over it. The month of October, I’ve focused on stories about supposedly haunted places. It’s been fun, visiting and writing about them, but again, I go back to the question from my first article: do I (or you) believe in ghosts?

I’m not a believer or disbeliever in these spirits who apparently walk between this place we call reality and some other realm.

But this trip to the Whaley House had me really question all this hoopla about ghosts. I mean really question it.

Built in 1857, this Greek revival home – no idea exactly what that means, but it is stylish -- sits in what is known as Old Town in San Diego. It’s known as Old Town, since it was first built near San Diego Bay a long time ago.

“Papa, why do they call this Old Town?” a son asked his father, a long time ago in the old part of town.

“I don’t know,” the owner of the Greek revival house replied. “But please, bring me some bread, olive oil and umm, you know, something else to do with mythology. I understand, future generations will study it and think we were really smart. I mean, we live in a Greek revival home and all. We have a responsibility to live up to, right?”

Turns out, the original owners of the house weren’t Greek at all, but of those Scotts and Irish breed. They just liked the Greek style of home.

Thomas Whaley moved to this part of the Southern California coast with his spouse, Anna Whatley, in 1853. The couple built a house and moved in to their home, along with six children, on August 22, 1857.

Times were not that wonderful for the Whaley family. They lost their son, Thomas Whaley Jr. on January 29th, 1858 from scarlet fever. He was only eighteen months old – so tragic. Soon after that, a store they owned burned to the ground. The family packed up, and moved to San Francisco. But in December of 1868, found themselves back home again in San Diego.

Everything was looking up for the Whaleys now, but that wouldn’t last forever. Their daughter, Violet, married George T. Bertolacci in 1882. Turns out, he was a con man who only married Violet for her father’s money. He left her after just two weeks, when he learned there was no dowry to be had.

Distraught, Violet filed for divorce but the shame of the sham of a marriage haunted her daily. On August 18, 1885 Violet went into the backyard and committed suicide. She was twenty-two years old.

Rear yard of Whaley House where Violet committed suicide

She left a note – 

Mad from life’s history, Swift to death’s mystery, Glad to be hurled, anywhere, Anywhere, out of this world.

The note was part of a poem by Thomas Hood, written in 1844. 

Such a sad ending for someone so very young. To add more pain for the family – Violet’s sister, Corrine Lillian’s fiancé broke off their engagement.

“The humiliation of it all, Corrine,” stated the jilter. “How can I marry someone whose sister took her own life? What would the Commodore think, down at the yacht club?”

Not sure he said it exactly like this; I’m paraphrasing since the records are hazy on this point. But what a jerk! 

So, Thomas Whaley built another house not far away – guess he was done with the terrible memories his original house had for him. But, not all the Whaley’s felt the same. In fact, many of the family resided in the house until their deaths.

The last to go was, Corrine Lillian who lived until 1953.

So, is the house haunted? Guests and staff state that they have heard voices, footsteps, openings and closings of doors at all hours of the day and night.

Ghostly images of one of the Whaleys are often reported by a docent or to a docent. Baby Thomas Jr., Violet, Anna, Francis, George, and Corrinne all died within the walls of the Whaley House. Perhaps, they never truly left.

Sounds of a baby crying can sometimes be heard in the nursery

Life Magazine, in 2005, referred to the Whaley House as – the most haunted house in America.

Obviously, Life Magazine never visited my house on Thanksgiving when our relatives come haunting – I meant visiting.

The house has appeared in so many episodes of people chasing ghosts that I can’t write them all down here. Actually, I could, but don’t want to. Okay, here’s a couple – Fact or Faked: Paranormal Files and Biography Channel’s, The Haunting of Regis Philbin. Huh? Turns out way back in 1964, Philbin stated he had a personal encounter with Mrs. Whaley – and they made a documentary out of that!

I once saw a ghost coming right at me – or perhaps, it was a tree I ran my motorcycle into. Anyway, I blacked out – it could have been a ghost. Biography Channel presents, Beyer has close encounter with ghostly tree or How a Beyer should not be allowed to drive a motorcycle.

A floating orb is plain to see above the desk in the study

One of the first ghostly sightings was of a man by the name of Yankee Jim. With a name like that, a person would think he was a mighty sea faring sailor. Nope, turns out he was a ruffian who has been convicted of grand larceny. For his crimes, he was hanged from the gallows. Would you like to guess where the gallows were located? Yep, in the yard where Mr. Whaley would soon build his house. Whaley actually was a witness to the enforcement of the sentence, but that didn’t prevent him from buying the property and building his family residence there.

“It’ll be a safe place now,” Whaley was heard saying. “Yankee Jim won’t be hanging around here anymore.”

Okay, I apologize for that one.

There are so many ghosts haunting the Whaley House, according to numerous sources, that they have to wait in line to scare visitors.

“Hold on, Casper, it’s my turn.”

Even ghost canines have been spotted running down the hallways looking for a fire hydrant. I couldn’t help myself – a little embellishment about the fire hydrant -- but dogs have been seen and then unseen within seconds.

So, about our encounter at the Whaley House? Turns out that we take a lot of photographs on our adventures – and this one was no different for Laureen and me. 

Study where people say they see the chair move on its own

As I was coming down the stairwell in the house, a photograph of Laureen was a must. I asked her to pause on one of the bottom steps – she loves posing for the camera, and she easily complied.

At that moment I felt as though someone was right behind me on the stairs. I turned around and saw something move to the right so quickly, like a blink, that the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Not sure what it was – but it was there and then it wasn’t.

“Did you see that?” Laureen asked.

I nodded. “Saw it and felt it too.”

“It was right behind you. A whitish something – right behind you and then it was gone.”

I didn’t get a photograph of Laureen at that moment. I actually think I forgot I had a camera at all. We left with great rapidity when we hit the bottom of the stairs. 

Am I a believer in ghosts? Can’t say I am and can’t say I am not – the jury is still out. But that experience on the stairwell is hard to explain.

Happy Halloween.