Escape from Reality.

In 12 days we are making one of our great escapes, off to Shawnee State Park in Southern Ohio. Small cabins nestled in the woods of southern Ohio. Despite being so close to each other the cabins seem isolated and alone. You can feel like the only people on the planet if you just use your imagination. And, I never feel too alone when I am with my wife. 

The internet is almost non-existent, phone service is spotty and the television is more like a snowy, flashing display, you can make out the shapes and decipher some sounds, but it is more of a challenge than I want. So, even if it is turned on we don’t really pay much attention. In the fall we were in a cabin during football season and it could have been tennis or baseball. So we turned it off and went kayaking. From there we drove over to Midnight at Moonville. Where we walked through the haunted tunnel, finally found the Moonville cemetery, listened to some very talented local musicians and had a good time. 

Afterward, we went back to the cabin, discovered we didn’t have a corkscrew (since then we added one to our “go box”), drank a few beers, grilled some steaks, and relaxed in the comfort of seclusion. After dinner we built a fire in the fire pit.  There is something cathartic in watching a fire roar on a chilly evening, the crack, pop and sizzle as the orange, blue, yellow and white consume the logs. The smell of conversion as wood is transformed into light, heat and smoke. A perfect chemical reaction, nothing wasted, fuel turned to energy, smoke and light, but you can forgive me if I forget the science and enjoy the warmth, the pleasant heat of the fire, the intoxicating touch of my wife’s hand cradled in mine. 

This spring we are going to someplace new. A park with two lakes, hiking trails, and not far from Portsmouth, Ohio. In Portsmouth there is a bakery (Heaven Scent, I think) with donuts are supposed to be almost unbelievably good. I will let you know, in detail. Lake Hope is one of the most beautiful, magic, haunted places I have ever been.  It’s black water captures the sun, the surrounding woods, the hills that climb from it’s shores in stark, clean portraits. It is almost terrible in it’s magnificence. But, we have high hopes for Shawnee State Park, tucked away in the wooded hills just north of Kentucky. Primitive and deep, they hold thousands of years in every foot, every step, every moment. 

And, that is why we are going. The moments. I have always believed life is best lived by the minute. Simple snapshots that define what you hold important. It is easy to forget what makes you happy when you think about an hour, there are too many minutes, too much to process. But in those minutes where everything has stopped, the world is waiting for you and you’re with the person you love it is easy to understand what really matters. 

Welcoming Winter with a Little Good Luck.

Yesterday was a good day. Street Fair is our fall kickoff event. We welcome the coming winter with a trip to Yellow Springs. Of course, as far as traditions go it is in its infancy. Just two years old, but, traditions have to start somewhere, right?

It is also an accidental tradition. Last year we planned to go to Yellow Springs just to wander through town, in and out of the little shops, having an appetizer, some coffee, maybe a drink. It is our kind of place, filled with small specialty shops, book stores, little restaurants, and bars. All uniquely Yellow Springs, all uniquely exotic and off beat. Somehow, by some stroke of good luck, we happened to plan our trip the very day they were having Street Fair. Now it is on our calendar, and if you are anywhere around central Ohio in the middle of October you should go. There is a charm and frantic energy to Yellow Springs and Street Fair is the outlet for all the accumulated passion of such an enchanted place. 

We talked to an artist in Marquette, MI last summer, we stumbled in to her shop wandering around waiting for the frieghter to dock and load. She struck up a conversation with us, we have walked through places like hers before and it could be as cold and silent as a tomb. Not there, though, she was so friendly. She had several awards tacked onto her walls and signs explaining her teaching schedule in Michigan and Florida. She was clearly a talented person. She was also an outgoing person, polite, and funny. I looked at a series of paintings, an industrial time lapse capsule captured in stark colors, straight lines and harsh, unforgiving geometry. Without lifting her head from her work in progress she explained the definition of the series. The birth, growth and decay of an industry, building or business. In those few sentences she opened my eyes to the value of a painting, the story and meaning behind the oil and canvas. Somehow I thought she would be at home in Yellow Springs.

This year we have decided to add an event to our warm welcome to the chill of winter. Midnight at Moonville. Moonville is an abandoned mining town in southeastern Ohio. There are rumors of a Moonville Ghost. A man was killed in the raiload tunnel, appropriately known as the Moonville Tunnel, and has been stuck in the area, wandering, lost and alone ever since. I’m not really sure what Midnight at Moonville is all about but the poster says enough for us.

It was another thing we kind of stumbled on. We rented a cabin at Lake Hope not far from the Moonville Tunnel, and since we are who we are we had to go looking for Moonville, and the Moonville Cemetery. We didn’t find them, nor did we find the Moonville Ghost. We decided to go back, an internet map in hand and find town and the graveyard, and maybe the ghost. Though there is no map for that. He is supposed to hang around in the tunnel, showing up occasionally.  Through the wonders of Facebook and the ability to follow and like things Midnight at Moonville showed up on my Facebook page. 

There were no cabins available so we decided to drive down and back. But, good fortune popped up again, someone cancelled and we snapped it up. Now, all of the sudden we are welcoming Old Man Winter with Yellow Springs Street Fair, a long weekend, a kayak excursion, a visit to Taco John’s, Moonville, possibly the real Moonville, and one of the best brunch buffets known to man. 

So winter be damned, we are going into the season with a smile, a nice tan, maybe, and full stomach and a story. Stay tuned.

A Trip from A Different Time, last week

It has been a week since we came back from Lake Hope. One week ago today we were exploring the Moonville Tunnel. Walking the dark, brick lined passage through the hill. Looking for a ghost. I am almost glad we didn't find one, imagine that conversation. I thought about getting an app for my phone to locate spirits, but decided against it. Probably just as well, since there was no service, no phone, no data, nothing, it probably wouldn't have done any good. 

The cabin we stayed in didn't have an alarm clock, and my wife needs to know what time it is when she wakes up in the night. An odd personality quirk, but considering who she is married to it seems almost like a virtue. So, I downloaded an App on my phone while we were enjoying tacos and potato oles at Taco John's (free wifi, potato oles and a spicy green sauce so tasty exporting it to Mexico was the driving force behind NAFTA). Unfortunately, there wasn't enough connection at the cabin to make the app work. So she had to guess, and we had to look for ghosts the old fashioned way, with our senses. It didn't work, the Moonville Ghost eluded us this time, but we will be back, armed with apps (if they don't require data, or phone connection), nets, and a renewed dedication. 

We also went looking for Moonville, but came up empty. We did find a string of poles, like the one on the left. Silent, decaying guides to the heart of Moonville. Many so close to the path you could almost touch them, but almost hidden in the dense green of the southern Ohio forest. We followed them, each one calling us, "follow me, I know the way." A haunted, lonely relic of a time long ago, I don't know if they carried electric lines, telegraph signals, telephone, but I do know they stood, most of them (a few had fallen), proud, solitary, and defiant. Daring time and decay to topple them. 

Unfortunately, we ran into a stream, it wasn't deep, it wasn't rapid, but we were not dressed for an amphibious landing. We turned back. Next time we will find the abandoned town, what is left of it. And the cemetary, and we will offer our respect and sorrow. We will take a few bags with us to pick up the trash left by the careless or the indifferent. Knowing full well it will only make a small difference. Saddened by the fact that we have to do it at all. 

We also went to the Hope Furnace. It is an abandoned icon of the distant past. A time when industry ruled the area. Now it is a tourist attraction. A remnant of a forgotten era. A giant, indecipherable rune that once transformed iron into bullets. Testifying to the hearty people who toiled here. I hope it will stand forever.

It was an amazing building. The stones were cut with such precision. Huge boulders, chipped away, and made to fit into place by hand, it had to be intensive, tortuous labor performed by hand. I salute the men who built it. 

If you are lucky enough to visit the Hope Furnace do everybody a favor and throw a few dollars in the steel pole that serves as an offering plate.

On the way home we stopped at the Nelsonville Brick Factory. Just three buildings losing their battle with the inexorable grip of Mother Nature. Nelsonville somehow survived the collapse of its Industrial Age, unlike Moonville and Hope, but the melancholy may be more profound because of the continued existence. No real effort is being made to preserve the odd, inconsistent beauty of the rough, slightly irregular buildings that had been the lifeblood of so many. Eventually the plants will tear the buildings to pieces, the bricks will crumble and nobody will even notice. "For you are dust and to dust ye shall return."

In one last insult to the forgotten labor and pride of the people who had made their living here someone had hung laundry to dry in one of the buildings. Two lines of rope spread from one wall the other covered with underwear. It was the oddest sight of the whole trip. I found it slightly unsettling, disturbing.

It was a great trip, and we had a wonderful time. It has been a long post and I haven't even talked about the kayaking around the lake. Oh, that lake, the primitive beauty of that lake. The way the shore shoots almost straight up out of the lake. Tree covered hills climbing from the lillypads and fallen logs that cling to the edges. The inky black water reflecting the clouds, sun in a stark, supernatural way, if you believe in God you will see his artistry here. If you don't this might convert you. If you are not moved to a sense of greater purpose of some kind by the vistas of this lake you are made of sterner stuff than I. But, that is another post. 

 

Time, the Enemy of Reason.

Tomorrow is the Day. Today is the day before the Day. Yesterday, of course was the day before today, but that doesn't really matter for the sake of this post. One thing that should be pointed out, though, is yesterday was Tuesday. Since Monday was Labor Day (Labour Day if you live in New Zealand, thanks for the information, Trina) Tuesday seemed an awful lot like Monday. Which makes today, which is Wednesday, have the general texture of Tuesday. Having Monday as a holiday is fine, great in fact, Monday as a blessing, but having Tuesday turn into Monday and throw the rest of the week into chaos is just not acceptable.

To make matters worse, if that is at all possible, I am leaving at 11:00 AM sharp tomorrow for Lake Hope, just my wife, our kayaks, and me, and a bottle of Pinot Noir, and possibly a bottle of Malbec. Not because of any great attraction to these two wines, but we happen to have a bottle of each on hand. Not that the wine really has anything to do with this post.

Let's recap, since we seem to have taken a wrong turn somewhere.

Monday was a holiday, which forced an atmosphere of Monday onto Tuesday. This, of course, pressed hard into Wednesday, making it feel frighteningly similar to Tuesday. I am taking a day off on Friday, making Thursday my de-facto Friday, and since it has to serve as Wednesday, and try to pull off some semblance of Thursday as well, and it will have to do it in 4 hours, since I am only working half of a day.

You can see my problem. I am dealing with a week shortened on both ends, and the chaos of trying to cram a weeks worth of obsessing about the passage of time in 2 1/2 days. The pressure is almost unbearable. I don't want you worrying about this, though, it is my job. Just go about business as normal, and I will get this straightened out.

Have a nice Wednesday, or Tuesday, or Thursday, or whatever the hell day it is. It should be a nice day, the weather in Fairbanks AK is mid sixties with a slight chance of rain. If you don't live in Fairbanks let me know, I always thought you looked like a person from Fairbanks. It's a small world.

Since we are going kayaking and I could not find any good kayaking poetry here is a nautical poem, short, sweet and full of imagery.

Sea Fever

BY JOHN MASEFIELD

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;

And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,

And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

 

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; 

And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,

And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

 

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,

To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,

And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

A Day to Remember. Again

Yesterday we went to the Johnstown Swapper's Day meet. It is always entertaining. Always eye opening. Always the same, but always different. It had rained most of the night Friday, not torrential, no downpour, just a constant, light drizzle, and the day was cloudy, and cool. With a chance of rain in the forecast for the afternoon we decided to risk the trip and head to the the sale. It was a lot more crowded than we thought it would be. 

I am not sure what they do at the Sportsman Association when they're not having Swappers Day, but it is a huge place, asphalt paths big enough for a car run through the property. It is 190 acres according to the website. As numbers go that is a big one, but as a reference it is meaningless to a person raised on measurements in blocks. And I coldn't tell you how many blocks could be laid end to end in the area, because we wander from place to place, stopping, looking, backtracking, looking again.  We walked over 9,000 steps as measured by iPhone.

It always surprises me how many people are carrying guns. I think they are trying to sell them, or maybe just bought them. There was an older couple, maybe late sixties, or early seventies pushing an umbrella stroller that had two rifles, a compound bow, and some pistols. I don't know how many, staring at people with enough weaponry to outfit an infantry squad seems foolish. And the Amish people carrying rifles, hunting rifles, rifles that seemed, to my limited knowledge, to fall into the "assault weapon" classification. Pacifism no more. Spend a little time walking the rows and paths of Swapper's Day and you quickly understand "excuse me" is no longer a popular notion. It has been replaced by the silent push, and press. 

In the time I have been there, three years in a row, I have only seen one potential sale take place. Yesterday, a man said "hey, are you trying to sell those?" Pointing to a pair of wicked looking revolvers. I waited for the "or are you just happy to see me?" Which never came. The comic potential destroyed I walked away before the dealing began.

As we rounded the curving, slightly erratic line of vendor's tents was the rotor blade of a helicopter. My wife said she had stopped by to look at it last year. It was UH-1 Huey from Bell Helicopter. It was a display that traveled to various places. I asked why she didn't take me.

"You had probably wandered off somewhere." She said, then she relayed a conversation she had with our youngest son.

"Why do you let him do that?" He had asked. "Just let him wander off like that?" I was a little insulted, but as a five year old he made me hold his hand in parking lots so I wouldn't get run over. At the time I thought he did it as a joke, maybe not, though.

We went and looked at the helicopter. It was from the Vietnam war, it was one of the early models, a UH1-A, I think he said. It was a profound moment. It was so small, there were seats for seven including the pilot. Flimsy looking nylon benches were supported by what looked like aluminum tubing, it looked so finite, skimpy. The shell was thin, almost fragile. One of the exhibitors took me around and showed the patches where bullets had torn through the beer can skin. I said "it looks so small." He explained the letter suffix designation, and how the machine had stretched and changed over time to carry more soldiers and door gunners. But, this was one of the early ones. 

I remembered the lines from Apocalypse Now in an exchange between Martin Sheen and Robert Duvall. Duvall's character said, "Air Cav, son, Airmobile." And Sheen's narration explained how the cavalry had "traded in their horses for choppers and went tear assin' around Nam looking for the shit." And they had done it in something so oddly beautiful, so awkwardly graceful, so tragically insignificant as the small machine sitting in front of me. 

I remembered the book Dispatches by Micheal Herr, and his description of the terror he felt the first time the helicopter he was in took fire. Someone hammering on the side of a helicopter flying at 2,000 feet.¹ It was striking to stand so close to something that had carried so many terrified men into a jungle screaming with anger, fear and death. I couldn't help but think of the words of Isaiah Berlin "liberty for wolves is death to the lambs." 

It had been deployed between 1967 and 1971, a time of vicious fighting, fear, pain and death. The time of Khe Shan, the Tet Offensive. Long after any illusion of guerilla warfare had drained away. I don't know where this little helicopter had been stationed, I didn't ask, but it had seen some action, the patches served as ample proof.

It was a great day, we had a good time, had some good food, and did not get rained on, even a little.. Life can be tough, and sometimes working and living require so much time you overlook the important things. Like how oddly right my wife and I are for each other. Wandering through a huge yard sale, looking at the tables filled with the flotsam of life, I was reminded how close we are. There were times it seemed as if we were the only people there, she was the only thing I could see.

I did find a wide brimmed, floppy hat for kayaking for $5.00. And since I am such a compulsive, uncontrollable, easily influenced sort I bought a small tackle box for $1.00. It was a little broken, and needs some work, similar to life, I suppose, but it was my first step toward the lofty position of  Kayak Fisherman, a big, inexpensive first step. I am that much closer. 

Adventures are everywhere, stories wait at every turn. Next week, 2 1/2 days, we are off to Lake Hope, and a new adventure, on kayaks, at the Moonville Tunnel, in Athens, OH, just the two of us, our two kayaks, and the threat of a guest appearance by our sons, we had better take some extra food. Just a coming attractions.

¹ I don't really remember the height. Just the terror he felt, and the dread he described.

Good Times Ahead if I live that long.

Today I have good news. And I have bad news.

The good news.

I am only 6 days away from a three day weekend. A three day weekend complete with our annual trip to the Swapper's Day extravaganza in Johnstown, OH. Home of the Johnstown Johnnies.

Unless you are from Johnstown you probably don't care too much about the Johnnies, that is the mascot and namesake of the high school sports teams. I just think it is a great name for a team. So, I gave them a mention. If you read this blog send an email to the school saying "Go Johnnies!" and reference my blog. They won't have any idea what you are going on about, but they will appreciate the sentiment and they might read my blog. It is what sales people call a "win-win scenario." Everybody loves a winner, right.

Swapper's Day is fantastic, it is a huge sale, almost a yard sale in a yard the size of pasture, with hundreds of different "yard sale vendors" (if that is the right term). There is something for everybody. Fishermen, hunters, collectors, people who are obsessed with knives, oh there are knives, bayonets, machetes, swords. Crafts and arts, clothing, and crowds.

Not from Swapper's Day, Just a picture to add
texture and visual appeal.

Popup covers run down long lanes radiating from a central point. Spokes of a giant wheel, and on the edge, where the business part of the wheel would be, runs the biggest tents of all, the booths of the gun sales people. It is serious out there. RVs sit behind tables and racks loaded with guns. People talk about guns, bicker over the price of guns, discuss the distance at which a certain gun is no longer accurate, occasionally they will bicker about that, too. Displays of guns by kits to clean guns next to books about guns. There are boxes of straps and handles and accessories to carry guns. One trip to Swapper's Day and you will never worry about the well being of the second amendment again.

And at the hub of the wheel is one of my favorite parts, the food vendors. Most of the time we dine on the cuisine of a local organization for youth. Sometimes the PTA will have a booth, or the 4H selling chicken and noodles or pulled pork, maybe street tacos. Volunteers sweating in the cramped, hot shacks hawking the value of their work and the taste of their food. Often they will have several children employed cleaning tables, handing out napkins, or just smiling and saying hello. Who could refuse?

As long as we started with good news;* In two weeks I will spend three and a half days at Lake Lifestyles of the lower middle class and unpopular airs again. This time the cabin is a little more appropriately sized for two, not as luxurious, or well equipped. And the lake is smaller, farther away and probably pretty forgiving when compared to Gitche Gumee. It probably has very few deaths, and will gladly give them back. Just a bit of boating, grilling, a little wine, a little relaxing and enjoying life. It is the stuff of paradise. Just my wife, our  kayaks and me.

Lake Hope lies in the middle of Southeastern Ohio. An area that was once a thriving hub of iron mining, iron smelting and munitions manufacturing for the civil war. Bricks, tiles were made by the thousands, trains steamed across the region. Now, it is mostly just forested hills cut through by lonely highways going places mostly forgotten. Two lane roads that wind through dark, dense woods eventually taking you to Washington Courthouse, or Nelsonville where you can jump on a real road. Multi lane, controlled access expressway, with bypasses so you don't have to waste your time watching the small parts of America dry up and die. You can hurry to the coast, or the mountains or, in my case, the lake.

And that's the good news, in a depressing way.

Now for the bad news. I have to get through today, tomorrow and all of next week. Somehow I have to find a way to claw, fight and will my way through the next six, or so, days. Then a long weekend After three days off it will be the desperate struggle to get through two and a half days to reach three and half days off. Give me strength.

*Please note the semicolon, I was told never to use one, and then in a class I took on self editing (a practice I am still learning) the teacher said it was alright; the semicolon is back.

Kayaking, a natural experience

Life always seems a little sweeter in a kayak. The small boat rocking gently on the waves. Gently paddling from one place to the next, feeling the tension drain through the small scupper holes. You can almost see the troubles of the week sully and darken the water, and the next sweep of the paddle they are gone, the scenery has changed, and the whole world is a little nicer.

My first attempt was not a real success. Nervousness, tension, anxiety, pretty much trademarks of my life, and my first trip my wife said it was all there, in every sweep of the paddle. She said I looked angry, mad at the water. "You attacked kayaking," she said. Of course, she didn't tell me this until after my second trip. "Relax, just slow down, look around," she told me before I launched. Since she cares for me, and knows almost all of my shortcomings, has seen me at my worst, pulled me back from the brink of the abyss more than I like to remember I listened to her. And she was right, no blisters, no aching shoulders, no cramps in my lower back. It was smooth sailing, sort of.

In the movie Toy Story there is a scene where Buzz Lightyear the astronaut tells Woody the cowboy "now is no time to panic." 

"Now is the perfect time to panic." Woody says, with feeling.

That is my motto, almost all the time. Now is the perfect time to panic. 

Kayaking is different, though. There is the beauty of nature, the serene silence of the forest pushing to the edge of the water, sometimes even making it into the water. Trees bleached white, looking skeletal, haunting and beautiful. Turtles sit on the logs, frogs croak, sing in a noisy opera of natural harmony. Birds of prey float gently, effortlessly across the sky. 

Most of the places I kayak are too small for motor boats, so it is quiet, a few canoes, sometimes an epidemic of kayaks. I always thought I was joining an exclusive family of dedicated "sailors" standing against the internal combustion engine driven power boats zooming along the surface of lakes and rivers. Man, was I wrong. Most of the time kayakers outnumber everybody, maybe everything, in the few launches I have tried. But, that's ok. There is room for all of us. If you are thinking of buying a kayak you should, they are wonderful little devices to loosen up your muscles, let the heat out of your life for a while.

Our cabin on Lake Superior was so remote that we were the only ones visible on the lake. You could hear the power boats across the bay, but you couldn't see them. A suggestion of movement, no more.

Lake Hope will probably be pretty crowded, but that is ok. Gas motors are not allowed on the lake, and there are plenty of little bays to paddle around and disappear for a while. Plus, it is a last vacation for the summer, a farewell to the heat, humidity, and yard work, from a small cabin in the woods.

Kayak shopping, and the pain of math.

Today I am off on a fact finding mission. Kind of. Really it is more of a number finding expedition. In reality it is window shopping, plain and simple. If you can window shop inside a store. Probably it is more of a comparison and price finding trip. My wife and I have decided to double our kayak stable. Shooting from one all the way to two. For every action... and kayaking on Lake Superior made her realize she liked kayaking. I like kayaking, she likes kayaking and I like her, so the next step is a kayak for her. 

Today, I am going to find a kayak for her. It will be two, or three stores. And require a certain affinity for math, which could spell trouble, math involves numbers, numbers are difficult, and I can never remember the sequence. $749.00 could become $794.00 (not too bad) or $479.00 (much worse). She likes to know how much it will cost, precisely, because we can buy gift cards at Giant Eagle or Kroger and get points exchangeable for discounts on gasoline. Accuracy is important. If he doesn't come I will have to take careful notes.

Having two kayaks is important. We are one email away from a glorious weekend at Lake Hope. Kayaking, eating Mexican food from Taco John's and chasing ghosts. I emailed my boss this morning for the time off and the minute she responds I am making the reservation. Lake Hope is a fantastic little lake in southeastern Ohio, with reasonably priced cabins.

Lake Hope is surrounded by woods. Trees that crowd the shoreline, and lean over the water. An ancient forest that has seen more than any of us can imagine, even those of us with active imaginations. Who knows what that lake has seen, all that has happened on those shores. There are many people who believe the calmness of the lake, a relaxed halo that envelopes paddlers and fisherman comes from an ancient power. In a land that was ravaged by a running war between settlers and natives here is a pocket, according to some, of beauty and peace. An aura of beauty and natural wonder lies on the still water. Maybe I am too optimistic.

Ancient beliefs hold nature as a diety, as almost all dieties. And the pictures of Lake Hope, and our recent trip to Big Bay in Michigan are testament to the power of the wild. Walking through the forest smelling the rot and mold of decay, and the pleasant fragrance of life mixed into a heady, beautiful, almost sickening fragrance describing the entire cycle of life. You can not help be moved by the pleasant, aromatic, colorful explosion of birth and the gruesome, inescapable grey grip of death. Maybe I am too deeply involved.

Either way, we will have two kayaks, a cabin, possibly our sons, and the joy of time off. It is another chance to find out what is really important. My family, and the pursuit of life.

Kayaks, Mexican Food and a Ghost, or Two.

My wife tried kayaking on Lake Superior. She did very well. She did so well we are thinking about getting her a kayak. Her kayaking success didn't really surprise me, she is very talented, and thoroughly stubborn. I have told her, several times, "just because it was your idea doesn't mean it will work." But, it almost always does. It is the maniacal optimism, and fanatical attention to detail that makes things work. I have never known anyone who can see things so clearly, but I have never known anyone who can look at something with such power and precision, such laser focus, sometimes it scares me.

Anyway, our trip, our date week, on the Upper Peninsula of Michigan was such a smashing success we have decided to recreate it. On a much smaller scale of course. Nobody can catch lightning in a bottle twice. But, a long weekend before the slog of the school year and the agony of holiday shopping madness is preventative medicine at its finest. Dr. Clark, and his All Star Medical Chorus.

We are going to try to take a long weekend in September and rent a cabin on Lake Hope in southeastern Ohio. My wife, two kayaks, a small, comfortable place to stay, and a three day weekend kayaking around a beautiful lake. Could it get any better?

Oddly enough, yes, it could. Lake Hope is less than a half hour from Athens, OH, home to the only Taco John's in Ohio. As far as I know the only Taco John's east of Iowa. Taco John's is the home of Potato Oles. Small, deep fried pillows of shredded potato covered in some sort of spicy seasoned salt. They are delicious. Burritos and tacos and taco bravos, and some of the spiciest green sauce in the fast food universe. A staple of our wasted youth in Colorado and Nebraska. Only a half hour away, could it possibly be any better?

Interestingly enough, yes it could. Turns out Lake Hope is only three and a half miles from the Moonville Tunnel. Wherein lives the Moonville Tunnel Ghost.  You might think the Moonville Ghost would live in what remains of Moonville, a ghost town. Just a few foundations sticking up from the ground, a scattering of forgotten artifacts of hurried construction and patient decay. He doesn't. Or in the Moonville Cemetery, a small patch of land just south and west of the tunnel, where the few remaining headstones mark the mostly forgotten passing of some resident and whose failing conditions mark the passing of time. He doesn't. Not according to legend, anyway

The Moonville Ghost lives in the railroad tunnel. It is said he (or she, depending on the legend, and I have always been an equal opportunity coward) was killed in a terrible accident in the tunnel. Or a malicious act of anger and jealousy. Once again, it depends on the rumor. Either way, it is the tunnel that is haunted, though some people have claimed to see odd things in the abandoned cemetery as well. So who knows, maybe more than one ghost, or just one ghost who likes to get out and boogie around a little, and that is ok with me.

Kayaks, tacos, ghosts, and my little maniacally stubborn, stubbornly optimistic angel. It should be a good time. Don't worry, I will tell you all about it. With pictures, and possibly a movie.