Swissair Flight 111, Nova Scotia

Memorial for the Swissair Flight 111 near Peggy's Cove, Nova Scotia

Often when traveling, the adventurer will come across a locale they were not expecting, which makes journeying here and there so much more enlightening.

But that journeying can also conjure up feelings of sadness when tragedy is suddenly remembered as though it were yesterday.

For those of us old enough, it is like knowing where you were when President John F. Kennedy was assassinated, or where you were when the first hint that 9/11 was more than just one airplane crashing into the North Trade Tower at the World Trade Center.

There are just those moments in life, no matter how many days pass, a specific memory is seared into the subconscious for all time. 

And that is what Laureen, my lovely wife, and I found while driving southwest toward Peggy’s Cove, less than an hour's drive from Halifax in Nova Scotia.

It was one of those perfect mornings where the sun was shining, birds were singing, the ocean water could not be bluer and a Sasquatch was playing an acoustic guitar while a moose was singing wonderful melodies of life in the forest.

Driving along the coastline passing tiny towns with names such as Glen Haven, Seabright, Glen Margaret, and others seemed to be flipping through wall calendar pages in real time.

Fishing villages dotted the blue Atlantic waters with lobster traps lining the shores. Colorful homes, small and large either hugging the rocky beaches or laid back amongst long stretches of green grass with pristine forests as their backgrounds.

I used the phrase, “This is such beautiful scenery,” so often that it even began sounding redundant.

We stopped and snapped a few photos at French Village, a quaint way station for boats moving in and out of the large bay on their way to or from fishing. A large boatyard piqued our interest and time was spent walking along the docks and gazing at the massive boats laid up onto wooden inland docks awaiting their turn for repairs.

The entire drive was idyllic.

Closing in on Peggy’s Cove, which we had chosen as the destination for this day’s outing to view the iconic lighthouse and have a light lunch, we drove by a sign stating that a memorial for Swissair Flight 111 was at the next turnout.

And that is when those certain memories which may hide in the wrinkles of the brain, leap out.

“I didn’t know,” Laureen said.

My reply was to brake slowly and enter the parking lot reserved for visitors who want to stop and walk a short trail to wonderful artwork that recalled a horrific accident that claimed 229 fellow humans only a short five miles out in the cold Atlantic Ocean.

Laureen Beyer looking out towards where Swissair Flight 111 crashed into the ocean

On a warm evening on the 2nd of September of 1998, Swissair Flight 111 was scheduled for a routine flight from JFK International Airport in New York City to its destination of Cointrin Airport in Geneva, Switzerland. The plane taxied the runway and took to the skies at approximately 8:17 PM.

The 215 passengers may have believed they were heading off for a fantastic and well-deserved vacation or perhaps to nail a business deal that had been in the works for months. The crew settled down to their specific duties knowing that tomorrow would bring another flight and another destination.

For these folks of Swissair Flight 111, tomorrow would never dawn.

A little over two hours later, the flight disappeared from the radar screens at a height of 9,700 feet above the Atlantic.

Five minutes later, the Bedford Institute of Oceanography in Halifax registered a seismic event about five nautical miles southwest of Peggy’s Cove.

The aircraft had nose-dived at 345 miles per hour into the ocean.

Half a dozen vehicles were already parked as we came to a stop.

The breeze blowing off the waters of the Atlantic was cool, we donned light jackets and wandered to the trail toward the memorial.

It is a lovely path, with signposts advising visitors to stay on the trail and not wander onto the national preserve area.

The stunning coastline looking toward Peggy's Cove, Nova Scotia

The rocky coastline is home to a variety of indigenous plants - the Crowberry, the Three-Toothed Cinquefoil, and Laureen’s favorite, the Pitcher-plant (a carnivorous species that traps insects within their flowers and then digests them). 

The green moss clung to the huge rocks that lined the coast like toupes upon bald men trying not to look like bald men.

It is also a place where the only sound is the breeze blowing through the air and the waves crashing along the nearby beaches.

A perfect location for a memorial for those lost out at sea.

Swissair Flight 111 was the deadliest accident for Swissair involving the McDonnell Douglas MD-11 and the second-deadliest accident to occur over Canadian airspace after the Arrow Air Flight 1285R. That air tragedy occurred on December 12, 1985, in Newfoundland which took the lives of all 256 aboard - only a half mile from the runway. 

As we passed folks heading back from the memorial we nodded and smiled. They did the same but all were somber, as it should be when visiting such sites.

Though we may not know a soul who perished aboard Swissair Flight 111, they were all souls like ourselves. So, in a manner of speaking - we are very much like those who plunged into the ocean a short distance off the coast. Just regular people out traveling and not expecting the unexpected.

Huge pieces of natural granite stand at an angle at the memorial site. Strong and resilient against the constant barrage of winds and storms that batter this coastline. There are stone benches for visitors to sit and take a moment of reflection - either for those lost or perhaps themselves.

Words are etched into those pieces of granite thanking all those who assisted in the rescue and recovery efforts after the crash.

Large memorial located in Bayswater, Nova Scotia

But there are other tributes left by loved ones of those killed, and one said it all - ‘No longer by my side, but always in my heart.’

I had to turn away and wipe a tear from my right eye - the breeze must have picked up some sand from the beach and flung it at me.

The memorial will last longer than the lives lost on that flight and even those who will remember the last words spoken before that fateful flight.

The airliner crashed almost equidistant from Peggy’s Cove and Bayswater, another small town across St. Margarets Bay from Peggy’s Cove where there is another memorial for those lost,

After an hour we ventured back to our vehicle and made our way to Peggy’s Cove.

We were both rather quiet with our own thoughts but driving away from the cove, I looked over at Laureen and said, “Where now?”

“Well, I think we need to visit Bayswater.”

And the following morning we did.

The drive to Bayswater from Halifax is short. A beautiful hour filled with green forests that seem to be endless. And then there is the ocean.

Some of the gorgeous coastline while driving to Bayswater, Nova Scotia

Bayswater has a long curving sandy beach where the soft Atlantic waves curl up harmlessly while swimmers dunk in and out of the cold water.

We were the only visitors to the memorial that morning. It was quiet. It was solemn. As it should be.

Walking up the short path to the large sculpted granite monuments, we were instantly moved. One had every person’s name who had perished aboard Swissair Flight 111 etched into the granite and the other had a very touching eulogy.

‘In memory of the 229 men, women, and children aboard Swissair Flight 111 who perished off these shores September 2nd, 1998. They have been joined to the sea and the sky. May they rest in peace.’

A few steps away is the mass grave holding tightly those unidentified remains of the victims, surrounded by pillars of granite and overlooking the Atlantic Ocean.

Mass gravesite for many victims from the Swissair Flight 111

Suddenly, I felt another speck of sand entering my right eye and had to wipe the tear away.

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.

Kingman Haunts

 According to local resident, Art, there are some strange sounds coming out of a long and relatively narrow canyon near his neighborhood.

“Yeah, I have heard what could be referred to as shrieks in the late evening hours,” he said.

My buddy Paul had traveled with me to Kingman, Arizona to check out a couple of possibly scary haunts.

Laureen said nope when I advised her that the first stop would be Slaughterhouse Canyon.

Drone shot of Slaughterhouse Canyon, Kingman Arizona

After showing her some research I had conducted on the chilly-willy versions of what had gone down in the canyon there was no way Laureen would travel with me.

I asked Paul.

“Are you buying lunch?”

“If I have to,” I responded.

“You do and I’m going.”

Laureen feels things when it comes to the ghouls and goblins from the supposed afterlife. She’ll state something to the effect – “Something bad happened here; I feel a sense of doom.”

Like a good husband, I nodded my head.

Slaughterhouse Canyon is easy to locate in Kingman. Drive onto Andy Devine Avenue and look for the sign with a big finger pointing and the written words beneath it - ‘This way to Slaughterhouse Canyon – but beware.’

It is just northwest of a large housing tract where our new local friend Art lived.

In an article from the online site ‘Only In Your State,’ the canyon received its scary name from an event which may have occurred in the mid-1800s.

A family consisting of a father, mother and three children lived in a ramshackle cabin in the canyon next to a consistently running creek. The husband was a miner but not a particularly good one and the family had a tough time financially.

One day he left and never returned. With no one supplying what the family needed, the mother grew desperate watching her children getting hungrier and hungrier by the day. Legend has it that she could not take watching her children starve the death, so she murdered them to save them from such a long and painful death. She then threw their remains in the creek and took her own life soon afterwards.

Visitors to Slaughterhouse Canyon have reported feeling the anguish that still permeates the air, according to the article. And on evenings and nights when the air is quite still, it is said that you can hear the screams of the children.

Spooky caves are everywhere in Slaughterhouse Canyon

With all due deference, Paul and I were there in the late morning hours and all we heard were birds chirping, lizards scampering, and butterflies flapping.

“We have a lot of coyotes around here and that’s the sound I hear coming from inside the canyon,” Art said.

“No blood curdling screams of anguish and pain?” I asked.

“Nope, just coyotes baying at the moon.”

Enough said, that is a haunting sound all of its own. 

We drove along a well graded dirt track along Slaughterhouse Canyon Road – yes, there is a road by that name -- but we did not see any old ramshackled house where the mother and children may have lived.

Paul checking out some crumbled ruins in Slaughterhouse Canyon

However, there was a strange sort of round rock and metal structure that looked old. We mused what it may have been since there was no plaque telling us what it had been.

“An old icehouse to keep food fresh,” Paul pondered.

“A storage box for tools,” I said.

But with plenty of modern-day graffiti sprayed on it, we knew now it was a party place for youngsters who told their parents they were going to the library to study.

There are some creepy abandoned structures along the way

That excuse worked for me as a kid.

Neither one of us felt haunted while in the depths of the canyon. That is not to say something tragic did not happen long ago and if all the stories about the mother and children are true, may they rest in peace.

What a horrible decision that must have been made by a parent. That perhaps is a haunting enough story.

“What now?”

“Ghost hunting makes me thirsty,” I replied. “Let us find an old place for an adult libation and I will wager it is haunted too.”

The Sportsman’s Bar is in the historic section of Kingman and was built in the early 1900s. It is a wonderful place to visit.

A long wood bar top, which appears to be the original, stretches for nearly a hundred yards into the interior of the establishment. Pool tables, a jukebox, dart boards, animal heads mounted on the walls, American flags, and a ceiling made of metal panels, make this place one of the coolest saloons I have visited. Not that I visit many but have read stories of those who have.

The Sportsman’s Bar makes folks feel welcome with comfortable stools lined belly-up against the bar itself and that is where Paul and I plopped down.

Tammy Gross, the General Manager, and bartender extraordinaire, asked what we would be having.

“First,” I said. “Is this place haunted?”

She shook her head. “Not that I know of or at least I haven’t noticed anything.”

But the way she said it, I knew there was more to that story, and there was.

“Well, one day I was here alone, and the jukebox just started playing by itself,” she said. “We have it programmed to play random songs unless a customer puts money in and chooses the songs.”

“Uh huh,” I said.

“It ran through every song with a Tuesday in it. Ruby Tuesday by the Stones, Tuesday’s Dead by Cat Stevens, Sweet Tuesday Morning by Badfinger, I Think It’s Tuesday by the Drunks and every other song that had a mention of a Tuesday.”

“Huh,” I said.

“Yes, it was a Tuesday.”

“Makes sense since it was a Tuesday,” I replied. “It wouldn’t if it had been Wednesday, or they may have been pretty dumb ghosts.”

Tammy then mentioned that some other staff had seen lights go off and on with no one present. Sounds of people walking on the roof when no people were there.

“You know there are tunnels beneath all the buildings on this street. Tunnels the early miners used. No one is allowed to enter now due to their condition, but rumor has it that there is even an old Speakeasy down there used during the prohibition years.”

Interior of the Sportsman Bar, Kingman AZ

A gentleman was sitting next to me by the name of Dean spoke up.

“I camp out near Sitgreaves Pass on old Route 66 out of Oatman and I’ve heard some things during the night I cannot explain.”

Turns out Dean is quite the outdoorsman and spends his time camping here and there when he has a chance. Along Sitgreaves Pass is a long view of the valley heading toward Kingman and he finds the solitude enjoyable.

That is until one night around midnight he was awakened by the sound of someone using a pick-axe nearby.

A lot of small mines had been started and abandoned near Oatman in the late 19th century but not much activity during the 21st century.

Well, someone or something was going to town trying to dig for riches on this evening.

“I got up, looked around and walked toward the sounds. The picking was so close I knew I would bump into whoever was working so late in the night on their mine. But suddenly the noise stopped. I stook there for a long time and nothing else happened. In the morning, I checked all around where I had heard the pickaxe, and nothing had been disturbed. It was very chilling to say the least.”

Perhaps an old miner had returned to try their luck one more time near Sitgreaves Pass without knowing a live body was nearby.

Next door to the Sportsman’s Bar is the Hotel Brunswick, listed as one of the most haunted hotels in the area.

The once famous and glamorous Brunswick Hotel, Kingman AZ

Ghosts and shadow people wander all over the hotel – in fact, some shadow people walk through living people. Very rude indeed.

A little girl ghost frequents the dining room.

“Tammy, what about the Brunswick next door?” I asked. “Shadow people, ghosts wandering here and there without a care in the world.”

She looked around. “You know a shadow person is an entity in a sense that looks like a person. I have seen them.”

“At the Brunswick Hotel?”

She shook her head. “I’m pretty much of a local and have been in the hotel, the restaurant, and the bar lots of times. No shadow people there.”

“Huh,” I said.

“But others have seen them and heard strange sounds when the place was supposed to be empty.”

Unfortunately, the Brunswick Hotel was closed for refurbishing. The owners want to bring it back to its original beauty and will be something to see. The once grand establishment was built in 1909 and has hosted famous folks like Andy Devine, Barry Goldwater, and Clark Gable to name just a few. It was the poshest of the posh during its heyday.

Is Kingman haunted?

Could be, but more importantly historic Kingman deserves a visit and you never know, there’s always the possibility a ghost may introduce themselves.

John can be contacted at: beyersbyways@gmail.com

 

 

Is the Ghost Town of Calico Truly Haunted?

In a proclamation signed by Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger in 2005, the town of Calico actually became the Official State Silver Rush Ghost Town. Another old mining town, named Bodie a little further north along the 395, became known as the Official State Gold Rush Ghost Town.

Not sure where the Official State Bronze, Tin or Recycled Beer Can Ghost Towns are, but we will keep looking fervently. Actually, I’m not going to bother to look – except a recycled beer can ghost town could be fun. Probably a lot of happy spirits reside there. 

 With Halloween just around the corner, we wanted to see if there’s any truth to how haunted this once bustling mining town of Calico really was. Of course, when visiting such places in search of the paranormal, it is crucial never to trespass or do anything else which may be considered illegal or in poor taste. 

 An example of illegal would be, breaking and entering supposed haunted buildings, houses or other property. In poor taste, would be running down the street with a sheet over your head, screaming for ghosts to show themselves.

Of course, that may even be considered crazy. There are some pretty interesting hauntings going on in the little burg of Calico. I mean really interesting in the realm of: “OMG, there’s a ghosty right there. I can’t wait to Instagram my friends with this selfie, well, after I post what I had for lunch, of course.”

Laureen and I decided to take our four legged wards on an overnight camping trip to the historical 1881 silver mining town, but not before I made a sensible suggestion. “You know, we can leave them home. They are dogs, after all.” 

 Laureen looked at me solemnly. “They’ll miss us.” 

“For five minutes, and then they’ll be sleeping and drooling all over the furniture.” 

We loaded our four beasts into the motorhome, and we were off for the short jaunt to Calico. 

The San Bernardino County Park has plenty of spaces for camping large rigs, not so large rigs, tents, and even cabins for rent. Some guests haul out their off road toys and enjoy cruising the hills behind Calico looking at this or that. 

 When looking at this or that though, be mindful that there are open vertical mine shafts – those are the ones that go straight into the earth. 

Some of these old mines are not safe and very deep. So deep, that I’ve heard in one of them, colonies of trolls live, waiting for an unsuspecting off-roader to miscalculate and end up as a troll entre for dinner.

But seriously, when cruising anywhere abandoned mines are located – extreme caution should always be used. I travel off road a lot and am always on the lookout for dangerous road or trail conditions – and also groups of trolls. 

 So, we arrived at our camp site, set up everything, and made sure the doggies were well taken care of inside the motorhome – water, food, air conditioning, blinds closed, and Jimmy Buffet playing softly in the background. 

 The dogs had it so good, I wanted to stay and have a cold one, while listening to Margaretville. 

But Laureen was adamant. “Listen here, Buster. We’ve got ghosts to find.” 

 Funny thing, when we hit town, everyone wanted to talk to us about how haunted the place is. 

Mr. Anonymous had great stories to tell us. Ms. Anonymous had even better stories to tell us. Baby Anonymous had by far the greatest of all the stories. Sounds like something out of the Goldilocks fairy tale. 

Actually, when people talk about ghosts, unless they are high paid television paranormal types, they don’t want their name used in public. 

 “They’ll think I’m crazy,” stated a woman wearing a tin foil hat. 

 “I doubt you believing in ghosts will be the giveaway,” I replied. 

One story we heard about was a little girl who haunted the wooden bridge which spans a deep gulley near the one room schoolhouse.

The old school house located in Calico Ghost Town

Seems, as the tale goes, back in the late 1880’s, a school teacher had a young daughter – maybe ten or eleven years old. 

One day, tragically, the girl fell off a high cliff near the bridge and perished from her injuries. Ever since then, people claim this girl wanders the location of the bridge, talking to children. What she is saying, is very sad but sweet. 

According to many we spoke with, the ghostly little girl is warning the children to stay on the bridge, and to be careful about falling down the steep sides of the ravine. 

 Stranger, only children see her. Adults have had their children tell them that a young girl, dressed in a long white dress with a white bonnet, has been scolding them about the dangers of not looking when running and playing. Parents look, but to no avail. The ghost who cares is gone. 

 “Even my friends this year, told me their kids said this little girl approached them, warned them and then just disappeared,” Mr. “I don’t want to be identified” stated. 

And no, this person was not donning a tin foil hat. 

We walked across that bridge a thousand times. 

No ghostly apparition of a tyke in period clothing. I even crossed it a few times on my knees to make myself look smaller, in case I could outsmart the girl. No such luck, but, just because we adults didn’t see her, doesn’t mean she doesn’t exist. 

 “You have got to check out Hank’s Hotel.” Someone stated. 

“That place is really haunted. Doors slam shut when there is no wind. Things get tossed across the rooms. People used to stay there, but by dark, they were heading for their cars.” 

 “Really?” I asked. 

 “Would I lie to you?” 

 “I don’t know. You won’t even tell me your name.”

Hank's Hotel, supposedly haunted in Calico Ghost Town

The hotel was locked. 

Laureen and I peered through the windows. Nothing slammed. No things were thrown around the rooms. But that doesn’t mean the place isn’t haunted. 

 Another person with no name, told us that some shops in town have poltergeists. Those are the angry, or misunderstood ghosts that like to throw items at people, hitting them and sometimes causing injury. 

We walked through every store that was open, and the only thing which got hit, was my wallet. 

A store means purchasing in Laureen’s world. 

 The cemetery. Now, that had to be haunted. All those souls on boot hill. They couldn’t have been happy, and probably spent the evenings wandering around complaining to each other.

A cemetery plot in Calico Ghost Town

When it was plenty dark, we carefully and respectfully wandered the tombstones. 

Laureen thought she saw an eerie light floating toward us. 

Nope, just other tourists looking for a close encounter with a being from the after-life. 

 Is Calico haunted? Could be – but just not on our visit. But perhaps, if you drive out there – it just may be.

John can be reached at: Beyersbyways@gmail.com

The Rebirth of the Ghost Town of Amboy

Welcome to Amboy, CA

According to Ken Large, Operations and Logistics Manager for Roy’s Motel and Cafe in Amboy, there are ongoing plans to rejuvenate this once prospering town into something for the future.

“When Albert passed away in 2023,” Ken said, “I wondered what would become of his dream of turning this once vibrant town into a go-to destination for those traveling along Route 66.”

Albert Okura, the founder of the popular restaurant chain Juan Pollo in Southern California, had purchased the nearly forgotten town of Amboy in 2005. Albert loved history, especially the history of Southern California and more importantly Route 66. When he purchased the town of Amboy, his wish was to do all he could to turn it back into the iconic spot where travelers from across the United States would stop along America’s Highway during its heyday.

The original sign is lit up nightly in Amboy, CA

He had big plans, but that was nothing unusual for this man who created a chain of cookeries which would later label him the Chicken Man for the delicious food served in his nearly 30 various locations.

Albert knew he could recreate the thrill of travelers along Route 66 that was once felt after the route was completed in 1926. Sadly, Albert passed away on January 27, 2023 at the young age of 72 in Ontario, California. 

But, his dream did not die. “His family have been wonderful in keeping Albert’s dreams alive here in Amboy,” Ken said. “Take a walk around and see for yourself all the construction being conducted to complete this place by the summer of 2026.”

That summer would be the 100th anniversary of the completion of Route 66, and there are huge plans being developed along that long river of asphalt stretching from Chicago all the way to Santa Monica.”

Rumor has it that a family of Sasquatches may attend the festivities somewhere along the nearly 2,500 mile highway - but of course, that is on a need-to-know-basis.

And, I need to know!

Before I started walking the property, Ken did inform me that finishing the entire project may be a bit of a stretch but “...knowing Albert’s family as I do, I think we may indeed have everything up and running for the huge crowds that will be coming through. They are an awesome group of folks and I am sure keeping Albert’s legacy alive will be in the forefront of their thoughts.”

I’ve been through Amboy more times than I can count - either heading east or heading west. Did I stop each time? No, but every time I passed by those stark white empty cabins, the large paned windowed reception area of the motel, and the gas station with its huge sign out front welcoming visitors, I felt a slight tug at my heart.

Road monument with unfished cabins in the rear at Amboy, CA

Amboy, once a bustling and hustling railroad stop for miners, travelers, shippers, receivers, and those that just wanted an adventure which then, as many such towns did, turned into a ghost town and was now being brought back to life, makes me smile.

The last time I visited and spoke with Ken, a large tour bus had just pulled up and about a million tourists exited. It was a very large custom made bus.

“We sometimes get up to three thousand people visiting a day,” he said. I just saw a million, so I suppose his math could be accurate, rounded off for the year.

As I was taking a snap of some of the construction going on, a tourist walked to me and in a very German accent and said he recognized me.

“Yes, I am John R. Beyer, the world-renowned travel writer,” I humbly responded.

“Nein,” he retorted. “You look like the restroom attendant. Paper is needed in stall three.”

I nodded and then mumbled, “You probably meant number two.”

Ken advised me that 50% of the visitors are European, 35% from the United States, 10% from South and Central America and the remainder from Asia or perhaps the territory of Nauru.

As I wandered here and there, teams of construction personnel were wiring this, harnessing that, and pretty much doing what construction personnel did. They were busy rebuilding Amboy into what Albert Okura had imagined.

New construction in the works in Amboy, CA

A town full of life which invited the tourist to stop for a spell for a rest, and perhaps a meal and then back onto the historic byway or Route 66.

In fact, in keeping to Albert’s plans, Ken explained that they hoped to have rooms ready to rent, a fully functioning restaurant, and other amenities which made staying in Amboy for more than a couple of hours a reality.

I asked about the family and their thoughts about Albert’s visions.

“I must say that Kyle, one of Albert’s children, comes here quite often and spends long weekends checking out how much work is getting done. Often, Mrs. Okura and other family members accompany him and they love it out here. They are a great and loving family.”

Years ago, my lovely wife Laureen, along with one of our daughters, Kelly, drove through Amboy and were delighted to see the site was being used as a Fly- In. Planes of all makes and models were actually landing along Route 66 and taxing to the small airport located there.

Music, food, and other entertainment were in abundance for all to share in.

Other events which are being coordinated by Ken, the other staff members, and the family are motorcycle rendezvous, classic car shows, airplane fly-ins, music festivals, space alien conventions, and the list goes on and on.

And gas is available at the original pumps

“We also are also a venue for those who want to rent the place out for movie shoots, television ads, music videos, weddings, and the like,” Ken stated.

Recently a Polish singer by the name of Daria Zawailaow utilized the town for a music video. It is spunky, riveting, and I have no idea what she is singing about - my Polish is rather limited except for some old and now inappropriate jokes.

The below link will show just one of the musical talents who visited Amboy and wanted to share with their audiences what an iconic place this little town is and why it is important to visit.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?app=desktop&v=CoMFkWwevjA

For more information: https://visitamboy.com/ 

John can be contacted at; beyersbyways@gmail.com

 

Amboy, Part I

Anyone who has traveled extensively along that long black ribbon of highway called Route 66 will recognize the name of the town of Amboy. Tourists, locals, and America’s Mother Road aficionados know of this old railway stop smack dab center in the Mojave Desert.

It is that iconic place just a few hundred yards from a double set of railroad tracks to the southwest which conjures up images of past times. Towns like Amboy were vital stops for visitors who ventured from the windy city of Chicago to the edge of the Pacific Ocean.

The Mojave Desert is not for the weak-willed or unprepared. No, in the summer months the temperatures can easily soar into the triple digits making driving along Route 66 a challenge at times - especially before the invention of air conditioning for vehicles.

But it is these exact spots that remind the traveler of the fortitude and tenacity of those who went out and settled in sometimes very hostile territories - and succeeded.

Railroading was big business, moving goods from here to there to be consumed by those needing supplies or simply desiring goods from various locales around the country.

And the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad honchos knew the fastest route from large hubs, such as Barstow, would be straight across the Mojave Desert.

In the late 1880s, train engines needed water to build up steam to pump those large steel wheels along hundreds of miles of track.

So railroad stops were created and boom towns blossomed.

Towns like Siberia, Bagdad, Ibis, Bannock, and so many more once were thriving, but have now been nearly all forgotten through the decades. A sign here or there may advise the traveler of a tree as the only living entity in Bagdad. There are broken slabs of cement littering this section or that section of desert allowing those with an imagination to understand that folks once laughed and loved in these towns. And yes, deserted but well maintained cemeteries dot the desert floor giving names to those who lived and died along the railroad. And sometimes there is simply a weatherbeaten wooden cross fighting to stay upright in the blasting winds and relentless sun with no recognition of who lies below.

Many of the ghost towns have their own monuments to past residents

Amboy was such a town. A place that came into existence in 1858 as simply a watering hole for the trains belonging to the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad, later to be the Santa Fe Railway. In 1883 Lewis Kingman, a locating engineer, established the stop as an actual town and soon more and more folks were moving in.

The Church in Amboy, California

In 1926 the now famous Route 66 was completed and people were able to drive their Ford Model Ts, Pontiac 6s, Dodge Specials, or other vehicles all the way from the midwest to California. 

The love affair with cars and driving was in full gear. And the tiny town of Amboy was soon to become an iconic stop along Route 66 due to an enterprising couple who through happenstance soon made the railroad stop their home for decades.

Roy Crowl and his wife, Velma, ended up in Amboy in 1924 after a vehicle mishap, and not being able to afford the repairs stayed while Roy worked as a mechanic and other jobs and Velma became a cook at a couple of restaurants that were there at the time in Amboy.

In the late 1930s, Roy believed Amboy was going to be huge on the map along Route 66 since the vehicle traffic kept getting heavier by the month and purchased four acres of land. In 1938 Roy opened a garage, Roy’s Garage, to service any and all vehicles heading east or west out of town and soon his business was booming. His son-in-law Buster Burris, who had married the couple's daughter, Betty, went into business with Roy in the garage and opened up a parts store inside the garage. Soon though, Betty came up with the idea of their own cafe and confiscated the parts store for her restaurant.

The name was then changed to Roy’s Garage and Cafe. Soon the realization that travelers not only needed fuel, food, and repairs but also a place to spend the night gave the owners another business concept.

Cabins were built just east of the garage and cafe and the name was again changed to Roy’s Motel and Cafe.

Rental cabins to be used by guests at Roy's

In the 1940s the population of Amboy was reported at nearly 200 citizens with three small motels, restaurants, multiple garages, a church, a school, and a post office.

Amboy was certainly on the map for those driving Route 66,

When Roy retired in 1959, Buster not only maintained the motel, service station, and restaurant but also acquired the whole town which included other entities such as a Post Office and school.

Unfortunately, with progress often comes decline and that is what occurred when Interstate 40, a few miles north of Amboy was completed in 1973. Travelers now opted for the faster route instead of the single lane winding road of Route 66 which often meant stopping for trains at crossings or slowing through the towns along the roadway.

Almost all but Buster’s business closed, leaving the town pretty much empty except for a few hangers-ons.  Buster sold the town in 1995 to Walt Wilson and Tim White who used it as a film set and for photo shoots. But even that dried up, forcing the men to lose the town in a foreclosure which returned what was now a ghost town to Betty Burris, Buster’s widow.

As the town died, the citizens left derelict houses

Amboy went back on the market and finally was sold to Albert Okura, the owner of the popular chain of restaurants, Juan Pollo, in February of 2005.

Part of the deal was that Okura had to promise to preserve Amboy and reopen Roy’s. Perhaps Betty Burris did not understand that Albert was a man full of his own dreams and a lover of history.

In fact, he established the one-of-a-kind McDonald’s Museum in San Bernardino of the site where the original McDonald’s restaurant was owned by brothers Richard and Maurice McDonald.

Albert Okura knew what he wanted to do with this Amboy town which he had purchased - turn it back to how it looked in its heyday and welcome guests from around the world to come and enjoy this particular part of true Americana.

He was a man with a mission and a revamping of Amboy was started as soon as the ink dried on the escrow papers.

In Part 2 - Even after Okura’s passing in 2023, his dream is very much alive with his family and the staff working on taking Amboy off the ghost town rolls and making it a living historical landmark.

John can be reached at: beyersbyways@gmail.com

Baddeck, Nova Scotia

Lighthouse along shore of Bras d'Or Lake in Baddeck, Nova Scotia

Traveling often means discovering things that are sometimes unexpected. I’m not talking about such things as teenagers not functioning as humans before noon, or when your wife mentions that a restroom would be welcomed ‘soon’ which translates to means 'right now’ when the nearest town is an hour away.

No, those things are just facts.

It is those moments when traveling when one person turns to the other and utters, “Wow, check that out.”

Laureen, my lovely wife, and I had one such experience as we entered the town of Baddeck in Nova Scotia.

Baddeck is a quaint town sitting along the shores of Bras d’Or Lake. Despite its French spelling, the name is said to have originated from the native Mi'kmaq meaning ‘the long saltwater’, which stretches all the way to the Atlantic Ocean.

One of the wharfs along the water in Baddeck, Nova Scotia

Baddeck looks like a Hallmark setting. A beautiful wharf with fishing boats, trees, and green grass stretching to the shoreline, fancy restaurants, vintage hotels, and a princess gazing into the distance for her prince.

Laureen told me that it was not a princess but a woman who dropped her phone into the water and was yelling at her husband to get it. But, I will stand by my story - her blonde hair was flowing majestically in the slight breeze as she scanned the horizon for her White Knight.

I’m a romantic, all truth be told.

The original Post Office in Baddeck where Bell would mail his correspondence

The town of Baddeck was founded in 1908, but the history goes way back to the 17th century when French missionaries started a settlement in nearby St. Anns in 1629, twelve miles to the north.

It is rumored the French declared, “Les Anglais ne connaîtront jamais cet endroit.”

Well, the English did find the area during the 18th century when the French were forced to give the whole territory to the British Empire.

It is also rumored that the French may have said, “Au diable les Anglaises.”

So, as Laureen and I entered the town to locate our hotel, we passed a large sign that suggested we may enjoy visiting a certain museum. 

And this is where that unexpected thing when traveling happens: it was the Alexander Graham Bell National Historic Site.

And as any good American, even though technically we were still in America, you know what I mean.  I was flabbergasted.

“They need tourism in Cape Breton so badly that they stole our inventor of the telephone?” I asked Laureen.

What next? This is where Sasquatch is seen more frequently than in the state of Washington, or Area 51? And he is really guarded by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police?

Turns out that Alec, as he liked to go by, had traveled to the Baddeck area years in the past and had fallen in love with the town.

The young Bell had started his life in Scotland but due to health problems, including the death of his two brothers to tuberculosis, his mother and father decided to move to the United States for a better climate.

It worked, and the young man soon became an inventing genius.  

At 18 years of age as he was working for a man who sold corn, Alec developed a method of instead of having manual labor shuck the stalks, a machine could do it.

It worked and Alec is credited with the saying, “Ah, shucks.”

As the years wore on Alec became more and more a man of invention. His father worked with various methods of assisting those without hearing actually to communicate and Alec made that part of his life goal. He became a speech teacher helping those, including Helen Keller.

In fact, his wife was a former student of his who was barely capable of hearing - but due to the extraordinary work from both his father and himself, Mabel was able to speak and read lips to the point that most did not realize she had any hearing issues.

It should be pointed out that Bell’s own mother was deaf but learned how to speak through the research and study by her husband who handed this down to his son.

Bell established the American Association to Promote Teaching of Speech to the Deaf in 1890 and is still doing wondrous things to this day for the hearing impaired.

So, we wandered into the Alexander Graham Bell Museum and were blown away by what we learned.

The Alexander Graham Bell museum in Baddeck, Nova Scotia

In 1876, when Bell famously yelled into the telephone mouthpiece, “Watson, get me a ham sandwich.”  Life changed for the entire planet.

And that set Bell into the history books, which also made him a fabulously wealthy man.

A point learned at the museum was that Bell did not care that much about money. He enjoyed the benefits for humanity but when one of his inventions, and he had countless, went public he dropped interest and moved on to the next idea.

Missing Scotland, Bell convinced his wife that they needed to find a place that would bring that sense of home back to him.

They traveled here and there, with his newfound funds, and happened to stop by Baddeck on one of their adventures.

With the lure of the green hills, tall trees, huge estuary, and rivers, this was the place for him. 

Mabel and Alec settled on a point called Megwatapatek, named by the Mi’kmaq meaning ' Red Head’ due to the reddish sandstone rocks at the end of the peninsula.

The Bells purchased 600 acres and built a beautiful home there and other residences for family members. The property is still owned by the descendants and no non-family members are allowed unless they are guests.

Looking across Bras d'Or Lake at the Bell estate

I tried, even showing my press pass. 

I did not know how cold the waters of the  Bras d’Or Lake were in late June until the security personnel tossed me into them.

The museum was enlightening into the life of Alexander Graham Bell.

Most think of him only as the inventor of the telephone, but he was so much more.

He had a total of 18 separate patents and 12 he shared with other brainiacs which included devices to assist the deaf, phonographs, multiple telegraphs at one time, photographs, metal detectors, and so much more.

We spent hours within the large museum marveling at this and that. All the inventions Bell was involved in were amazing. His wife once said that got his greatest creative ideas by floating in the waters by their house in Baddeck while smoking a pipe, an event that could fill an entire day.

A mockup of Bell's private study in Baddeck, Nova Scotia

He always carried a small notebook and scribbled notes in it constantly.

I suggested Laureen take that stance when I was floating in our pool at home with a cold adult beverage but her eyes rolling stopped that idea.

Bell even got into human flight.

He loved kites and often over the peninsula where their home was, the folks in Baddeck may have seen a dozen various colored and shaped kites skirting the breezes above their land.

The fight for dominance of who could put a human into the air was intense - some guys by the name of the Wright Brothers were doing it but everything was in secret, but Bell believed in publicity.

So, on February 23, 1909, Bell along with a host of like-minded fellas, launched the Silver Dart into the air off the shores of the Baddeck estate, creating the first powered heavier-than-air craft in Canada with a human.

A few years later, Bell and those engineers around him came up with the first hydrofoil concept of a plane that could take off and land on water.

On September 9, 1919, the vehicle took off from the waters of Bells Home and reached a speed of nearly 71 miles per hour.

A replica of Bell's hydrofoil on display.

Though through the years the concept would become indispensable for the military, when the First World War was done, there was not much interest in Bell’s idea.

It was decades later that the military realized Bell was far ahead of almost everyone and now hydrofoils are utilized by all branches of the service.

 In a fitting farewell for one of the United States' most prolific inventors, during his funeral after his death on August 2, 1922, every phone in North America was silenced in tribute to the inventor.

Even in death, Alexander Graham Bell was to be noticed.

For further information: Alexander Graham Bell National Historic Site (canada.ca)

John  can be reached at: beyersbyways@gmail.com

Tidal Bore Rafting on the Bay of Fundy

John R Beyer near the Bay of Fundy in Nova Scotia

According to Ed, “Retirement, as I view it comes in three realities. Go-go. Slow-go. Or, No-go. I am going to enjoy the first as long as I can.”

Ed is a full time RVer, along with his wife Trish. They winter in Florida and spend the rest of the year wandering here and there.

This particular here was where my lovely wife, Laureen, and I caught up with the two along the Shubenacadie River which empties into the Bay of Fundy.

The weather was warm for Nova Scotia in mid-June and we were ready for an adventure on this natural phenomenon known as the tidal bore, the shift between low and high tides in the Bay of Fundy.

We had donned our life jackets and were just awaiting instructions from our white water river guides before climbing aboard the small red Zodiac rubber raft with a 60 horsepower outboard attached aft.

Derrick, the man at the helm, announced that we would be traveling out toward the bay while the river was at its shallowest.

“I know it looks like all the water is gone but we will navigate through some channels cut out naturally by the ebb and flow of the river which will give us all a great chance to see how marvelous this experience can be.”

A view of the bottom of the Bay of Fundy after water recedes

In the past, I have run white water rapids on the Colorado River, the Kern River, the Stanislaus River, and the American River - so this should not be too much of an experience in all reality. 

Riding an incoming tide from an ocean? 

The Bay of Fundy has two extensive tides that retreat into the Atlantic Ocean twice a day - roughly twelve hours apart. The tide goes out and boats that have been photographed millions of times are seen sitting on the muddy floor of the bay. Then a few hours later the tide returns and the boats miraculously start to float beautifully upon the waters waiting for their owners to get on board as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

Laureen Beyer standing on the floor of the Bay of Fundy, Nova Scotia

So, here we were near the small enclave of Green Oaks, approximately 60 miles northeast of Halifax getting ready for our four hour cruise along the Shubenacadie River.

Old Railroad bridge spanning the Shubenacadie River, Nova Scotia

“Sounds like a Rolling Stones song,” I mentioned to Laureen as we made our way down a rather steep incline to the floor of the now empty river. “I can’t get no satisfaction from my Shubenacadie. I can’t get no . . .”

“Stop,” she replied. 

“The mud can get a bit slippery here,” said Steph, a guide who would be accompanying us on our wild rapids journey.

I smiled but then suddenly found myself sliding down the path to the river as though I had just donned a pair of snow skis for a downhill slalom. I was out of control.

“A hand here,” I yelled. 

“I think Laureen pushed me,” I said when regaining my balance next to the Zodiac.

We had signed up with Fundy Tidal Bore Adventures for this excursion along the Shubenacadie to see what all the hub-hub was with these Bay of Fundy tides.

I had never heard of a tidal bore. Though, it is very true that I have met a lot of bores in my life, and perhaps one or two by a tide, but this phenomenon was new to me.

The definition is quite simple: ‘A tidal bore, often simply given as bore in context, is a tidal phenomenon in which the leading edge of the incoming tide forms a wave (or waves) of water that travels up a river or narrow bay, reversing the direction of the river or bay's current. It is a strong tide that pushes up the river, against the current.’

Huh?

We had witnessed the water in various rivers upon our travels in this region of Nova Scotia over the past few days to marvel how a river or bay is full of water and then within a couple of hours you can be having a lobster roll on the dry bed.

In fact, the lobster rolls were delicious and backed by a cold Nine Locks Dirty Blonde made eating on the muddy floor of a waterway that much better.

When the water retreats and then returns to fill in the bay or river, the fluctuation can be amazing. These tidal bores only occur in a very few remarkable areas around the world and usually have a difference of about 20 feet between ebb and flow.

The Bay of Fundy is one of the grandest of them all, with a difference of sometimes over 40 feet - in fact at Burntcoat Head Park, approximately 40 miles west of Green Oaks on the Bay of Fundy, 54 feet of water difference is not uncommon.

Some people actually surf the Tidal Bore on the Bay of Fundy

We were off heading toward the bay as our captain, Derrick, piloted the small raft with great expertise finding this channel or that channel.

“Look up at the tall cliffs surrounding us,” he directed. And we did. “When the tidal bore comes in it will not be long until those cliffs are only a few feet above us instead of the sixty they are now.”

Suddenly a bald eagle soared out of the tall green trees atop those very same cliffs and circled high above us. 

"You’ll see a lot of those today,” Steph said, and in fact, we counted at least fourteen flying high and wide across the Shubenacadie in the next four hours.

Soon we were beached along a huge sand bar in the middle of the river. “We’ll be here for about thirty minutes until the tide comes in, and then it’s off to the races.”

“I read that the tidal bore can be only a few inches in height as it comes in,” I said to Ed and Laureen who were standing near me. “Doesn’t sound very thrilling.”

We chatted about this and that when suddenly we all noticed the once dry sand bar was quickly going under water and we were ankle deep in the incoming waters. The tide was coming in at a rate of about two inches a minute.

“Let’s get aboard,” Derrick said as we all climbed back into the raft and took our positions sitting on top of the inflated sides. “Make sure to hold tight to the ropes behind you when we actually hit the tidal bore.”

Warnings were given to all us customers not to bring any personal belongings upon the raft - cell phones, cameras, jewelry, car keys, or anything else of value. Morgan, the owner of the company, had told us before casting off that the waves would be so brutal that it would be nearly impossible to hold onto anything but the ropes looped around the exterior of the raft.

“I’m sure this will be a nothing burger that we paid good money for,” I skeptically replied.

Forty minutes later they could hear my girlie-man screams all the way to Prince Edward Island.

The tidal bore was anything but boring as it smacked straight into the waters of the river and with the narrow channels filling up, created pockets of swirling masses of white water, and our raft bounded into the air like a fish fighting for its life.

“You noticed when the water was out there were dips here and there across the surface of the river,” Derrick yelled across the raft. “That is what’s creating the rapids.”

At this point, I had swallowed enough of the Shubenacadie to become a local and we weren’t done yet.

“Now, off to the washing machine!” Derrick yelled, as he throttled the raft to maximum velocity.

In moments the entire bow of the raft, where Ed and I happened to be sitting was engulfed in mammoth waves. It was thrilling. It was wonderful. It was scary, as I lost my grip of the rope with my left hand and ended up on the floor of the raft, which happened to be full of water.

“I can still see the top of the boat,” Ed yelled. “Is this all you got?”

Derrick took the challenge and plunged us head first into the first set of six footers which ran over the length of the Zodiac. I lost count on how many sets there were. 

That is when, for the briefest moment, I hated Ed.

It was probably the best ride of my life. Nerve wracking and all, but to experience a tidal bore so up close and personal was beyond marvelous.

Fishing boats get stranded twice a day on the Bay of Fundy

We survived and I had to agree with Ed - this trip to Nova Scotia was going to be a Go-go. 

For further information: https://www.tidalboreadventures.ca/contact

John can be reached at beyersbyways@gmail.com