Puerto Nuevo

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Well he wasn’t dressed like this, and this isn’t really him anyway. But the moral of the story is that every town has it’s hero(s), and this one resides south of the border in the lobster town of Puerto Nuevo… Six of us had rented a three story, three bedroom condo on the ocean and had walked into town to a market to stock our refrigerator for the night. When Dan had paid for his bag of beer, a roll of bills he was carrying, in addition to what he had in his wallet, fell out of his pants pocket. We’d walked about 10 feet out of the market when we realized that someone was calling at us to stop. A young kid had picked up the roll of bills and was trying to return it to Dan. Dan thanked him and rewarded him with one or two twenty’s and explained there was over a thousand dollars in the roll. On the walk back to the condo we stopped into a bar to celebrate Dan’s good fortune and then to spend his small fortune on rounds of drinks and requests to a 7-piece Mariachi Band at $20 a song. Off comes another layer of Andrew Jackson’s image as the band starts playing Feliz Navidad for the third time. Yes it’s only August, but we really didn’t know too many songs to request to these guys.

Cold Spring Tavern

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Stagecoach Road is one of Santa Barbara County’s most famous roads. It is part of the original Stagecoach Route when the coach’s ruled the terrain from 1861 to 1910. In 1910 the first automobile drove across the San Marcos Pass, effectively ending the stage coach era. However, Stagecoach Rd. remained the only means of traversing the Cold Springs portion of the San Marcos Pass until 1963, when the construction of the Cold Springs Arc Bridge (and modern day Hwy 154) was completed and motorists could finally pass over Cold Springs and the winding Stagecoach Rd.

15 minutes up the pass and 130 years back in time. Not quite, but it does give a sense of the past, and considering it was established in 1865, it should. The stagecoach has been replaced by a Suburban, and horse power comes in the form of a Harley Twin Cam 88® Engine, an Indian glides up now and then, and the beer is cooled by refrigeration, but just look around at the place and the setting. [photo gallery] By far, my favorite Santa Barbara bar for many years gone by and many years ahead.

Sushi Boat Restaurant

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Sum Dim, Sum Don’t, Sum Just Dumb – Who else would end up in a Japanese restaurant in the middle of San Francisco’s Chinatown.

The Sushi Boat Restaurant offers authentic Japanese cuisine and sushi, which is served in miniature boats floating around the chef’s table. Not being a sushi eater, I simply ordered beers. Liz occasionaly saw a boat float by that offered a small plate of something she either liked, recognized, or was willing to try. Our Australian mate not only loved sushi but was removing the boats cargo quite often and he had accumulated a rather high stack of little plates. Patrons downstream viewed him as a 20th century pirate. Slowly floating towards them comes a little treasure of some rice and fish blob, and they watched in horror as time after time Wayne’s arm reaches out and steals the bounty before it reaches them. I realized the farther you sit at the end of the line, the less options or longer wait you have before something floats by that you want. The servings are quite small, maybe typical for most sushi dishes – but it may be awhile before your ship sails in. A tip to those interested – the water flows in one direction – sit close to where the chef places the boats into the stream. And what about the little river??? Anyone ever do a test of these waters, don’t think I’d want to know the results. “You not rike Sushi?“, “No, not hungry thanks, I’ll have another Asahi though, please.“

Giant Sombrero Bar

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Never been there and probably does not exist today. Located in Santiago, Mexico (although which one, I don’t know). There are two Santiagos, not too far apart from each other, Northeast of Mexico City, one appears to be a city and the other a town. At any rate, one of them was home to the Giant Sombrero Bar, which certainly would have been my bar of choice.

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Fort Ross

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1979: Say What?

Local law enforcement officials turn over to the FBI a printed note found next to the body of Roy William Dale, who died of an apparent suicide in a 1974 Chevy Camaro parked at a Fort Ross Road turnout. The cryptic note implicates Dale in the 1963 assassination of President Kennedy, stating that the hit had been conducted under the command of “the Big H” and alludes to a connection between the fatal 1968 shooting of Sen. Robert Kennedy and a plan to kill his brother Edward (“Two down, one to go”). Strangely, Dale’s hands and feet were tied. A hose from the car exhaust ran into the interior of the vehicle, and (even stranger) the windows were taped tight-inside and outside.

Yep, suicide. Very similar to Texas Law Enforcement officials who determined that the man laying in the field, shot five times in the chest by a single action .22 calibur rifle found near the body, was indeed a suicide. If you’ve ever fired a single action .22 calibur rifle, as I did often as a youngster hunting in Oklahoma, you know that you must draw back the bolt, insert the bullett (one only), close the bolt, but seeing how you are intending to shoot yourself…you must position the barrel against your chest and somehow reach the trigger located way down at the other end of the rifle. The rifle is over 43 inches long and the trigger would be nearly a 36 inch reach. The impact would certainly knock you down, but in the case of this particular man, he gets up, picks up the fallen rifle, and repeats the process four more times until he has successfully shot himself dead.

Texas State Trooper: “Yep, suicide. Case closed, let’s go get us some lunch Buford.”

Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shoppe

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A historic bar at the quiet end of Bourbon. From the outside Lafitte’s looked like it was the home of the first pig and the wolf just hadn’t blown it down yet. In fact it looks like a good breeze could blow it down. From the inside, it offered the perfect view of Bourbon Street as horse carriages would routinely pull up and order drinks to go, not for the horses, but the tourists taking the comfortable tour around town. Hurricanes were the drinks of choice, but after experiencing a few across the local bars, I’d rate Lafitte’s at about a category 3. Lafitte’s did however provide the most friendliest bartender I’ve ever met and probably will ever meet. Genesha [spelling? I have enough trouble trying to pronounce it let alone spell it], we nicknamed her ‘Smilely’. Smilely could tell you the worst possible news, but would speak through a constant smile in such a way that somehow whatever she said would just sound pleasant. Not that she had bad news for us, other than our bar tab, but I wondered if she ever got annoyed by anything, or if she was to get really mad did she go from a smile to a grin? Even her cat getting run over by a car came out from behind a smile. If her words could be seen, like on screen where you could sing along, they’d all be in the treble clef, no bass notes, and butterfly’s or hummingbirds flying around them. They’d be colored light blue, not black, maybe even flourescent.

Built before 1772, Lafitte’s is one of the oldest if not the oldest building in the Mississippi valley. It survived the devastating New Orleans fires of 1788 and 1794 and shows the architecture common in the original French trading post before the Spanish rebuilt the city in Creole style. Jean Lafitte and his brother operated the blacksmith shop as a front for their various illegitimate enterprises.

Lafitte’s, on the corner of Bourbon and St Phillip Street is couple block stagger from the hustle and bustle of the majority of the nightlife in the French Quarter, but for an establishment at this end of Bourbon, it pulls in a large crowd. New Orleans gives you the opportunity of a short stumble from one pub to the next, more than many other places on earth, but Lafitte’s stands alone, away from all, so order one for take out. If they question you, which they won’t, just tell ’em “it’s for the horse”.

No electric lighting to help you find your beer, no ugly wiring to spoil the wooden beam ceiling, tea lights instead provide the only indication of the position of rickety tables as you navigate the bar area, and the place takes on more of a rustic than a condemned air. According to some award advertised at the bar, this is the “most romantic bar” in New Orleans. That fact, I believe, is from the combination of alcohol and low lighting. The lyrics from a couple songs come to mind; “…she’s looking better every beer…”, and “dim lights, thick smoke,…”. You might be led to believe that in the quest for authenticity, they haven’t even bothered with electricity yet, were it not for the air-conditioning generating an authentic dank.

Mel’s Bar

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There are Mel’s Bars all across the country. A Mel’s Bar in Denver is a multi-award winning restaurant and bar, but that’s a far cry from the Mel’s in Santa Barbara of which this post is about. We’ve known Mel’s since we were in our early twenties, (we being in particular myself, and friends Chris and Sandy) although Sandy was underage at the time. There actually was once a Mel, Mel Price, but that was way back in the sixties, we first arrived sometime in the 70’s, I think. Mel opened Mel’s after ending his partnership in another bar named Pal’s, located across the street where today the Banana Republic stands. Little had changed inside over nearly 40 years, or at least it wasn’t obvious to me. Mel’s does seem to attract a younger crowd, but after 20+ years of stepping inside the same bar, there comes a time when you yourself have become the old fart at the bar… Even after the Spanish style Paseo Nuevo was built around Mel’s, the retro signage (which wasn’t retro in 1963) still remains out front. Maybe as a familiar beacon for those arriving early, Mel’s used to serve a breakfast menu of Bloody Mary’s starting at 7:30am, but I can’t say what time they open now, I just know what time they close. Only in the last year did it appear that Mel’s interior had undergone a makeover. Although still a dive, it just didn’t seem right to see some of the improvements that had been made.

Don’t fix it if it ain’t broke, maybe it’s karma…but I recently learned that Mel’s had lost its lease. Yes, I remember long ago that Woolworth’s on State and Anapamu had posted gigantic window signs that they too had lost their lease…and it seemed that for the next two years whenever I passed the store, there were the signs. I wondered at the time if they were ever going to leave. But Mel’s… as I’m sure it is considered the canker sore of SB’s beautiful shopping mall, appears to be headed further down State, and I’m sure that the only ones sad to see it move are those of us who remember it way back when. The one thing to remember is that Joe’s moved too, and if you think that brought on major changes – just have a drink or two at the bar… somethings just don’t change. [Okay no more mooosehead, but trust me you wouldn’t have wanted to eat a meal seated underneath it].

Hot Creek Road

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I first visited Hot Creek back sometime in the 70’s. It was not the place to take the family back then, but a “hot” spot for party goers. Swimsuits were optional, but rare, and there was not much in the way of advertising its location to visitors. I went back years later and although the creek is much the same, the National Park Service, or maybe the Forest Service now maintains the area, and it ratings have gone from ‘AO’ adult only to ‘G’ General Audiences, all ages admitted.

Finding Hot Creek is much easier now also. Hot Creek is 25 miles south of Lake Mono, near Mammoth Lakes. It’s located two miles south of the Mammoth Lakes turnoff from route 395, turn left onto Hot Creek Airport Road and follow the signs for about three miles. There are two bathing areas, one at the bottom of the trail that leads down from the parking lot. Continue along the trail and you will arrive at the second, just slightly less popular, but just as good.

The waters are unique as the hot water bubbles up from the bottom of the creek, where the waters are heated by magma three miles below the surface. This hot water mixes with the cold creek water, and with a few adjustments, you can find the perfect mix.

If the creek is crowded, there are also a number of natural and man-assisted hot tubs in the valley below Mammoth. Most all are well-known — almost all of the tubs are described in a guide book, so if you find one that doesn’t have someone sitting in it already, it’s not that you’ve discovered anything rare, you’re just lucky. Most are small, so when 50 people show up it’s time to drive back down route 395 and head for Grumpy’s Bar or the Whiskey Creek Mountain Bistro.

King’s Canyon

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It wasn’t that we didn’t want Barbie to come, we were more concerned about her health, she wasn’t ready to make a walk around the block let alone the 5 day backpacking trip we were going to go on. Shelley, her sister, wasn’t ready either, but she was Stan’s wife and he knew if we didn’t let her come along, than five days from now when we got back his life would be miserable. The next 5 days might not be easy, but after weighing the two options, he figured not bringing her weighed alot more than leaving her behind. The night before was preparation and packing. Five days out created some pretty heavy packs and it was understood that although Becky and Shelley carried less, everyone needed to carry their load.

Leaving early a.m. we arrived at Sequoia in time to set out, or rather ‘up’ as our trail led uphill immediately. Problem #1 began with the car still visible not too far below us. Shelley was exhausted. She was actually a shade of pink that did give credence to her complaining that she needed to rest…but I can still see the car below…we’re headed three days in and we’ve only been hiking about 15 minutes! After a break, we struck out again only to make it another half hour before Shelley was complaining about the pack. It was too heavy, it hurt her shoulders, it was…Holy Shit, O.K. Shelley…we’ll pull out as much as we can and put it into Stan’s, Patrick’s, Beckys, and mine. O.K.??? Let’s go. That worked for nearly two hours until the climb got steeper and Shelley need to stop for the umteenth time complaining about the pack. Bloody Hell, Shelley…and we hooked the pack onto Stan’s other pack.

First night out – dinner time. The freeze dried dinners did not meet with Shelley’s standards and so she wouldn’t eat without the threat that we were going to leave her tomorrow on the trail. Just great.

Day two – Stan sprains his ankle, swells up bad. We try to empty his pack(s) into the three of ours to lessen the weight, but he was in pain. I think the pain in his ankle was replaced by the pain in his ears and alittle aggrevation as Shelley moaned and groaned with every step she took.

Second night out – we had been warned about bears and had hung the packs high up over a tree branch. We were sleeping along a large meadow, thinking about the bears, listening to the sounds around us that we thought might be bears, but turned out later to be nothing more than little creatures scampering about. We know that now because either later that night, or early in the a.m., we all woke to the crack of a log across the meadow. That was a bear.

Day three – The photos I took show reflections of the mountains in a lake so clear that it’s not easy at first to know whether the photo is right side up. We had brought fishing poles, broken down to fit in special backpacking tubes. Thinking that the advantage was all ours, we soon discovered that either no fish existed in this lake, or the lures we brought were worthless and we needed to find a bait that the fish dined on. There were alot of little frogs along the shore, and after drowning a couple without even a bite, another idea hit us that required we catch alot of them. The plan was to put them all in a pot, heat ’em up alittle to get them active, call Shelley over and ask her to take off the lid to the pot and ‘Hello little frogs’ – 30 to 50 of them jumping out as high and fast as they are able. With hot feet and a fear that we were French, they were trying to get out of that pot any way they could, through the lid if possible, so we had to put a stone on top to keep them all in for their ‘welcome’ to Shelley. At the last minute we thought that if she had a heart attack, we’d either have to pack her out, or bury her near the lake. Nobody willing to carry her, and no shovels to dig with, we decided to scap the idea which only added to our fustrations with Shelley. Just to put her on edge we told her of our plan. She seemed to complain less during the day, but I imagine she didn’t sleep too well, keeping one eye open, unsure whether we had a Plan”B” that we hadn’t mentioned.

Day four – We revisit the frogs in the pot idea. We wonder what we brought along that would dig a large hole.

Day five – Back down the mountain, back at the car. First priority to get a six-pack of beer from the store at the campground. With the station wagon back folded down, a cold beer in hand, looking up at the mountain we’d climbed over,…Shelley says “that was fun, when are we going to do this again?”.

If we don’t look happy, it’s only because after Shelley’s comment, Stan, Patrick and I were all thinking that maybe the frog idea was an opportunity now lost.

 

Cataract Gorge

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When the Olympic Games in 1956 where held in Melbourne, Australia, no map showed Tasmania, the black sheep state. I was once told by a Melbourne mate that Tasmania is the state where men are men and sheep are nervous…or was it that the women looked like men…but however he said it, I do remember the part of the sheep. He often referred to the people of Tasmania in a way which gave more credit to the sheep than the shepherd.

After having their 11th child, a Tasmanian couple decided that was enough, as they could not afford a larger bed. So the husband went to his doctor/veterinarian and told him that he and his wife/cousin didn’t want to have any more children. The doctor told him that there was a procedure called a vasectomy that could fix the problem but that it was expensive.

A less costly alternative, said the doctor, was to go home, get a firecracker, light it, put it in a beer can, then hold the can up to his ear and count to 10. The Tasmanian said to the doctor, “I may not be the smartest man in the world, but I don’t see how putting a firecracker in a beer can next to my ear is going to help me.” “Trust me,” said the doctor.

So the man went home, lit a firecracker and put it in a beer can. He held the can up to his ear and began to count:
“1”
“2”
“3”
“4”
“5”
at which point he paused, placed the beer can between his legs, and resumed counting on his other hand.

Enough said, I did add Cataract Gorge just outside Launceston to the must see list. That’s not really saying much as most of what I saw were sheep, a hell of a lot of sheep, four legged lawnmowers. There is also a casino I visited, but it ain’t mutton compared to Vegas.