Laureen, my lovely wife, and I have a deal. Being avid travelers, we decided years ago that every other year we would travel out of the country, and the following year, within in the country. 

That worked for decades: England and then South Dakota. Fuji and then Texas. Ireland and then Oklahoma. Peru and then Oregon. Seemed pretty simple and straightforward. The year 2023 meant out of the country. Though we did travel to Austria in 2022, but that was an anomaly since we hadn’t been able to travel much during those restrictive COVID times, in or out of the country. Besides, we just wanted to travel, and got a killer deal.

Vienna, seen from the River Danube

Though I did travel secretly, not letting anyone know of those travels during the restrictions certain entities put on their citizens. I had a travel column to write. It was my duty to throw caution to the wind. California was so restrictive that I read about a dolphin that was arrested near the Santa Monica pier for swimming without a mask. 

Visiting Hardyville cemetery during COVID

“Scotland it is,” I stated one early morning.

Laureen Beyer ready for our trip

“How about Washington D.C. instead,” Laureen countered. 

Nope, it was the ‘out of the country year’ - I knew who would win this discussion. 

A few weeks later, we were headed to the Los Angeles International Airport for our booked flights. And soon, we were landing at the Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport. Most would think that this would be a quick layover to the next flight which would deliver this traveling duo to the Edinburgh Airport in the area once known as Caledonia. Nope, we were staying in the swamp of Washington D.C.

Washington D.C. - the Swamp

“You know it really wasn’t built on a swamp,” Laureen stated as we waited for our car to take us to the hotel.

I had heard, from unreliable sources, that the capital of the United States had been built on a mosquito infested, alligator overrun swamp that oftentimes the likes of Sasquatch would snatch lawmakers out of their Congressional seats. 

Just a myth - but a good one. George Washington, the first president of the United States, envisioned this city on the banks of the Potomac River since it was so close to Georgetown, a strategically important locale at the time. The town was probably named after King George III (whom we pummeled), or either George Gordon and George Bell who first owned the land. 

Does it matter? George Washington just wanted the land to be away from the swampland that surrounded Chesapeake Bay. 

It is rumored that the future president said, “I hath thought of a most opportune locality for the splendid capital of this country we are striving to complete.” 

His assistant may have replied, “Hath you?” 

“Yeth, I hathhh,” Washington started but stopped, as his wooden choppers fell into some swampy ground at his feet. 

Being from a drier climate than Washington D.C. is during July, I felt the sweat start rolling down my back like a leech that has attached itself to your body while swimming in a not-so-clean lake. 

Actually, leeches don’t move much, they just burrow into your body searching for blood. I’ve had a few in my time adventuring here and there in remote locales. But my sweat rolled down from my back like the Potomac River making sure everyone knew I was a sweat attractor. 

And we were barely out of Terminal 2 at that point. “It’s humid,” I said. 

“The car is air conditioned,” Laureen replied, as our driver showed up. “Aren’t you sweating?”

“Women glisten,” she said. “Men sweat.” 

Thus began my adventure where three separate branches of government rule this great land of ours. The Executive Branch, the Legislative Branch, and the Judiciary Branch. All separate but equal. I would be the judge of that, by the time this trip to the swamp was complete. 

U.S. Congress - one seat of power

First, to the hotel and a cold adult libation. It was awfully muggy. How muggy? A person could wear this weather. 

I had never been to Washington D.C., and I was looking forward to all the sites to be sought. 

George Washington, besides being the first president of the newly formed United States and the Hero of the Revolutionary War, actually chose the location of the nation’s capital. The future home to the Republic was to be between the Potomac and Anacostia Rivers, above the shores and away from any of the swamp lands that are often present in slow brackish water located in eddies or estuaries. 

Potomac River looking toward Washington D.C.

The states of Maryland and Virginia ceded the land to build the capital, and according to the newly written Constitution, the area would be referred to as a ‘district’ distinguishing itself from belonging to any particular state. Thomas Jefferson and his fellow signers knew that the nation's capital had to be independent and never given state status, since that would imbue the small state an immense amount of clout that the other states would not have. 

Pierre L’Enfant, clearly a Frenchman, drew up some really cool plans for the new city.

“I, Pierre L’Enfant,” announced L’Enfant in a perfect French accent, “will make something you Americans could never think of. Because I am French.” 

Rumor is that a howling wind was sweeping along the Potomac and an aide to President Washington cupped his ears and said, “What did he say about an elephant?” 

The center of this new city would be the Capitol building where all the important issues would be decided by those elected by their constituents. Washington D.C. was off to a roaring start, but then the British invaded during the War of 1812 and burned down the White House, the Capitol, and the Library of Congress in 1814. 

That was very rude of them, and to this day no true American will ever learn the rules to some silly game called cricket. 

The new white house was designed by an Irish-American by the name of James Hoban and was rebuilt in 1817. He passed away on December 8th, 1831. I only mention this since I was born on December 8th and wonder if I may have gotten some of my building talents from my fellow Irishman. Aye, we Irish are a bit superstitious and believe in tall tales and conjuring of the spirits. 

One view of current White House

The town did not have much of a population and in 1847 grew smaller both in folks living there and actual acreage. The area, now known as Alexandria, left the district since they felt as though they were not being treated well by those across the wide Potomac River. 

Cobblestone road in Alexandria

It wasn’t until the Civil War that Washington D.C. increased in size, partly because all enslaved persons in the district were emancipated on April 16, 1862 - nine months before President Lincoln wrote the Emancipation Proclamation. 

It became the hub for free slaves and the city flourished. Frederick Douglass, who met with President Lincoln on three occasions, made Washington D.C. his home. 

The Lincoln Memorial

The federal government grew during the war and a large army was barracked there to protect, not only the president but the rest of the United States Government. 

A good decision, since Virginia joined with the Confederate States of America and the state can easily be seen by the naked eye from the White House. 

The history of the United States is jam packed in Washington D.C. from the Revolutionary War, to the Civil War, and beyond. This is the centerpiece for all the action this wonderful country has seen. 

It was about time I visited and learned first-hand what this mecca for democracy had to offer. After changing out of my thoroughly wet clothing in the hotel and feeling a few pounds lighter from water loss, Laureen asked what I wanted to do first. 

“There is so much to see and learn,” I replied. “I’m not sure where to start.”

“There’s the National Mall, the reflecting pool, the Washington Monument,” she said. “Or perhaps we could just saunter through some of the Smithsonian Museums until we get our bearings.”

So much to see, and so little time. We had nine days to take in 247 years of the unbelievable history of triumph, defeat, wonder, hope, imagination, despair, struggle, argument, world aggression, and the rest that makes the United States what it is today. Where to start was a question I pondered for a moment.

But as I stood in the comfort of the air-conditioned lobby of our hotel and looked across the street. I knew where I wanted to start this new adventure to learn about those who not only built the history of our beautiful country but the city itself.

“There.” I said. 

“Where?” Laureen asked. 

 “Across the street, at the Capitol City Brewing Company.” 

And our adventure began. 

Old Rock Bath House

 

Awesome rock formations near the Old Rock Bath House

I was recently in Apple Valley on an errand doing this and doing that, when I found that I had some time to kill.

So, I pulled over, safely, on Outer Highway 18, and asked Mr. Google what historical places I might find in the area.

I’ve been all over Apple Valley. In fact, I lived there once upon another time, and knew that Jedediah Smith traveled through the region. 

“Jed,” I said to the bearded, unkempt explorer.

“John,” he replied.

We parted ways then, me to my apple orchard and Jedediah south along the Mojave River.

Men did not talk much in 1826.

But there is so much to learn about the places in which we reside or may have resided.

A couple of hits came up on my search, Roy Rogers old residence, the Fairhope house, the Adobe House, and a few other famous houses in the area. I didn’t choose any of them. I wasn’t too sure the owners would like a stranger wandering their front yards snapping a photo here and there.

Then, as I scrolled down to places to visit, the Old Rock Bath House seemed like an interesting destination.

After entering the location into my vehicle's GPS, I was on my way and soon was lost.

Directions seemed quite simple. The Old Rock Bath House is near Fairview Valley, not far from Zuni Road, not far from Laguna Seca Drive, east of Fairview Valley Road, along Keator Road, and not far southeast of Drip Ranch.

After bouncing a while on the dirt Keator Road and passing by the same remote house in the area with a very nice man waving at me each time I bounced pass, I decided to stop.

“Looks like you are lost,” he said.

“Was it my expression or the fact I passed your house seven times in the past half hour?”

“And I waved each time,” he replied.

Our man-talk over, he pointed out another narrower dirt trail that led to a canyon deep into some very rocky canyons to the southeast of his property.

The kind stranger told me the road up to the site was too rough for my vehicle and meant for four-wheelers, and also that I should have taken the wide dirt road off of Cahuilla Road. It would have made the trip a lot easier.

Pretty rough route to the site

My truck is pretty good in rough areas, but I decided that the gentleman had been correct, not only did the path get pretty narrow but it was very difficult to traverse over boulder-sized boulders. My Toyota FJ, no problem - but that stead was back in the barn, so I hoofed it.

Getting on to summer-like temperatures, I of course remembered the rules of desert hiking; bring water (I didn’t), have sturdy hiking shoes (I had on a fashionable pair of Sketchers), make sure people knew where I was (I wondered if that included the stranger I had just met), and know your personal limits (I know when it is time to leave a bar).

A half -mile hike uphill into an unknown canyon looking for something I hadn’t known existed wouldn’t be a problem.

It wasn’t.

A little thirsty, a bit out of breath (time to work-out more), and I found myself staring at large stone and concrete structures where the canyon, known as Hidden Canyon, narrows into the hills to the south of it.

Trail leading into Hidden Canyon

According to Rick Schmidt, Director of the Mohave Historical Society, the place has some pretty interesting and tragic history. The canyon, located in the Granite Mountains of eastern Apple Valley conjured up stories of the tough old pioneers who ventured where many would not, to make a new life for themselves.

There had been natural springs in the nearby hills and one such place was here where I was standing.

In an article written by Schmidt in 2018 for the Mohave Muse, it is rumored that Pegleg Smith and Bill Williams used to water their stolen horses in the canyons, while eluding the owners of those stolen horses.

In 1862, the United States Congress enacted the Homestead Act, giving free land to those willing to move west.

It worked and millions of once vacant acres were developed by those willing to take a chance and head to the unknown to better their lives.

It was also here in this hidden cove with water that Warren Hair decided to homestead 25 acres of land in 1919. He began construction on several structures in the hopes of creating a family oasis.

As I strode about the buildings, one thing stuck me, and it was the finely made rock stairway leading away from the largest of the structures to what appeared to be a creek at the bottom of the stairs.

Beautiful stairs leading to seasonal stream

No water was running, but I could imagine at certain times of the year, the creek would be flowing well from its steep grade through the canyon. If someone built a dam, or a reservoir, then water could be contained possibly through drier parts of the year.

The remoteness of the canyon would surely be an advantage in keeping the water a secret from others who may take advantage.

According to an article from the San Bernardino Sun, dated November 13, 1949, a permit to divert water was issued to a Clifford Hair, the son of Warren, to use for the family’s homestead. 

Looking over the remains of the structures, a heck of a lot of work was put in by both Warren and Clifford through the decades to build the various rock and cement buildings. It was rather eerie walking about the place.

Some of the remains that are still visible

A slight warm breeze seemed to assist the dragon flies in gaining altitude, as I walked from building-to-building wondering what it must have been like to take on such a project.

In my many travels, I have encountered places like the Old Rock Bath House, but it never tends to diminish the feeling of awe I have for such folks who invested such labor and time into their dreams.

It always seems to be an honor to walk where they once tread.

Clifford may have had a dream to create a holiday resort at the location. A hidden cove where an abundance of cool water flowed from above. What a great idea for a desert and those who may have wanted a chance to wash away the dust.

But, from the early 1900s, cattlemen in the area had been using the water which flowed from the Isabelle Spring, now part of the Hair’s claim, to water their livestock.

It was easy to take a herd of cattle to the canyon, water them and head back to the ranch, but the cattle would tear up the trails leading to the springs. 

A solution was needed to keep the property pristine. Clifford decided to fence the property off. 

Apple Valley, being a small and close-knit community at the time, Clifford ran into numerous disagreements with the ranchers about fencing off such an easy access to water.

But he stuck to his guns and continued with the building project.

Great construction by Hair

In reading a brief article written in the San Bernardino Sun on July 30th, 1956, I learned of the mysterious death of Clifford Hair.

It seems, Clifford had gone into the canyon to work and had not been heard from for nearly a week. When investigated by his family, his body was found lying at the bottom of the creek near one of the structures he had been working on.

A single bullet hole through the heart was the cause of death.

It was known that he carried a revolver for protection against rattlesnakes. The police investigation concluded the gun had dropped and accidentally discharged, killing him.

Right through the back and into his heart.

I do not believe in conspiracy theories, but I do love a good conspiracy. 

A man suddenly gates off a popular watering hole for ranchers and a later is found shot through the back.

Hmmm?

In all transparency, I have not been privy to the actual police or coroner’s report and have not read if the bullet which killed Hair was the same caliber as the gun Hair carried with him.

I’m sure a thorough job was completed to get to the bottom of the death at the time though.

Wandering about the property, I wondered what Clifford’s last thoughts may have been on that fatal day.

Possibly ‘I should have holstered my gun better’ or ‘perhaps I should not have fenced off the water.’

We will never know, but one thing is for certain, Clifford Hair had a dream and continued with it to his last day in that hidden canyon, building his rock bath house. 

Hair's dream and hard work almost came to fruition

Monterey and Stevenson

Laureen in front of where Stevenson once lived

In the latter part of 1879, a young unknown writer lived in a small Oceanside village called Monterey. He would be there only a short period, but the impact of that village would stay with him the rest of his life and influence what he would go on to write.

Robert Louis Stevenson was so little known, that most people just called him Bob.

He truly would not be the Robert Louis Stevenson of writing fame until the publication of his bestseller, Treasure Island, in January of 1882. 

Laureen and I love the city of Monterey. In fact, we try to get there at least once a year. There is something about walking the waterfront, driving beneath tall billowing trees, walking shoeless across the sandy beaches – the same sand that may have been there during Stevenson’s stay.

The entire Carmel Valley, where Monterey is located, is gorgeous.

Not many folks realize the man who penned such literary classics as Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, resided there in a modest boarding house.

Robert Lewis Stevenson's old abode

The writer would wander the hills, valleys, riverbanks, and streets soaking everything in.

‘The town, when I was there, was a place of two or three streets, economically paved with sea-sand, and two or three lanes, which were watercourses in the rainy season, and were, at all times, rent up by fissures four or five feet deep. There were no streetlights. Short sections of wooden sidewalk only added to the dangers of the night, for they were often high above the level of the roadway, and no one could tell where they would be likely to begin or end,’ he wrote of the village of Monterey in his work entitled, Across the Plains with Other Memories and Essays, in 1892.

Today, that image of Monterey seems so out of date – well, I guess it is, since it was written 131 years ago.

Nearly 30,000 residents now make this charming old California town home.

“I love Monterey,” Laureen said, as we turned onto Pacific Street from Highway 1.

I nodded. “We better, since this time of year seems to include large amounts of rain.”

It was raining as we drove near the Monterey Historic Park. There was a promise of some sun later in the day as the clouds kept teasing us by tearing apart and then sticking back together like a kid eating cotton candy.

Some of the beautiful natural sites to be seen in Monterey

In all the times we had been to the city by the bay, we had never visited the Robert Louis Stevenson’s Museum on Houston Street.

“Why haven’t we visited it before?” I asked Laureen, slowing at a red light.

I bet during Stevenson’s stay there hadn’t been any red lights. Nope, just big wide sandy based paths going here and there across Monterey.

They knew how to lay out streets in 1879, no traffic lights and probably no stop signs either. 

“Whoa, Nelly,” a farmer may have said. “We have to stop at the stop light and let Bob cross the street before us.”

“It’s Robert.”

“Sure, it is, Bob.”

A romantic story is the basis for Stevenson’s stay in Monterey, and that deals with a woman by the name of Fanny Osbourne.

She was married to Samuel Osbourne, but their marriage was a rocky one since he was not faithful to her. In fact, so unfaithful was he that she finally left the cheating Sammy in 1875 and moved to Paris. In April of 1876, her young son, Hervey passed away from tuberculosis and she had him buried at Pere Lachaise Cemetery.

That’s the same graveyard where Oscar Wilde, Sarah Bernhardt, Marcel Marceau, Jim Morrison, and many other well-known artists, writers, and musicians are buried today.

Soon after her son’s death, Fanny moved to Grez-sur-Loing, where she met Robert Louis Stevenson, though he was probably still known as Bob back then.

She was a successful artist and magazine short-story writer, able to support both her and her remaining children, Isobel, and Lloyd in good stead.

Fanny became friends with Stevenson in 1876. The young man, ten years her junior, showed promise as a writer and she encouraged and inspired him with the talent she believed he had.  

They became very close when she suddenly jetted back to the United States, to California to be exact.

Actually, she did not really jet since such transportation was still more than six decades away, but rather boated back from France.

In two years, Fanny notified Stevenson that she was finally divorcing the cheating-dog Sammy.

Stevenson was thrilled with the news and planned to join her, but he didn’t have the funds for the trip and his parents refused to pay.

“Wait until you write Treasure Island, then you can afford passage,” his mother may have said.

“What’s a treasure island?” Stevenson may have replied.

Anyway, he saved up his money for the following three years and moved to Monterey in 1879 to be with Fanny who was suffering from an emotional breakdown dealing with the personal trauma over the divorce.

It was during this short stay in Monterey that Stevenson found his writing voice, which would lead to his long list of literary successes; Treasure Island in 1882, A Child’s Garden of Verses in 1885, Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in 1886, Kidnapped in 1893, and other books, poems, and essays.

He and Fanny married in May of 1880. 

After the publication of Treasure Island, he and Fanny found it difficult to travel anywhere without throngs of folks wanting his autograph.

I know the feeling.

He would die on December 3rd, 1894, at the young age of 44 from a stroke while they were living in Samoa.

But it is his short say in Monterey that had brought Laureen and I back to this beloved town.

In his essays, he wrote about the woods surrounding the village at that time and mentioned how during the winter, with all the fog and rain coming off the coast the land would blossom into nothing but green.

And, then in the hot summers those very same forests would ignite into infernos. 

From, The Old Pacific Capitol – 1880, ‘These fires are one of the great dangers in California. I have seen from Monterey as many as three at the same time, by day a cloud of smoke, by night a red coal of conflagration in the distance. A little think will start them, and, if the wind be favourable, they gallop over miles of country faster than a horse. The inhabitants must turn out and work like demons, for it is not only the pleasant groves that are destroyed; the climate and the soil are equally at stake, and these fires prevent the rains of the next winter and dry up perennial fountains. California has been a land of promise in its time, like Palestine; but if the wood continue so swiftly to perish, it may become, like Palestine, a land of desolation.’

Some things never seem to change with California. Large forest fires during Stevenson’s time and large forest fires in the present.

The Stevenson House, where the museum is located, is a two-story adobe building that has existed since the earliest days of Monterey.

It has been used to house government officials, families, artists, writers, and fishermen from the Mexican Era. It was even a rooming house called the ‘French Hotel.’

When Stevenson arrived back in 1879, he was very ill from his long and arduous journey across the United States. He wrote about these travels in his book, The Amateur Emigrant, published in 1895. 

Friends at the French Hotel nursed him back to health so he could court Fanny Osbourne.

“You have to be well, Bob, if you want a woman to fancy you,” a friend may have said.

“It’s Robert.”

The Stevenson House is a must-see when visiting Monterey, with several rooms dedicated to the author. 

This particular area of the house is actually referred to as the Stevensonia rooms.

A fireplace to warm your toes

Artifacts dating to the time Stevenson stayed there are to be seen, and since donated by his family, along with information concerning his life as a writer and his bohemian adventures.

One photograph intrigued me. Stevenson and a large group of people spread around a large dining table filled with all sorts of food. It gave me a sense that this historic figure of a writer was just a man. A man enjoying time with family and friends possibly. Of course, it turns out that the dinner was a luau, and his friends included one of the last monarchs of Hawaii, King Kalakaua.

His lucky black velveteen writing jacket is prominently displayed along with other mementos of Stevenson and Fanny’s life together as they traveled the world, including an old steamer trunk emblazoned with his name and destination: Samoa. The whole place just gave a sense of humanness. 

Items on display concerning Stevenson's personal life

It is rumored that the setting for the novel Treasure Island was based on Monterey, and that this story may have been the driving force for the film, Pirates of the Caribbean.

Now, that is something to ponder while stretching one’s toes in the sands near Monterey Bay.