Space Between My Skis

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Souzz is on the Alumni Board for her college, St.Michael’s, near Burlington, Vermont, and there was a board meeting this past weekend…so of course I tagged along to enjoy the winter fun. Afterwards, we were able to squeeze in a day of skiing at Stowe—a place that I hadn’t visited in forty years (!).

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I’ve enjoyed downhill skiing for a long time, as I was taught to ski by my dad at age seven (my age, not his) in the Black Hills of South Dakota. When we lived in Rapid City, we had season tickets to nearby Terry Peak, and the whole family had a chance to learn the sport, pretty special (thanks, dad!).

My dad playing ski instructor with me at age 7
My sister Meg and her friend Leanne
My brother and his friend Dave, looking down Kussy, the main run
That’s me with our friend Dave and my brother Tim

My Stowe history began in 1979, when my high school ski club came up to Vermont from Virginia on a four-day bus trip. Back then, I had bushy hair, Stowe’s lift tickets were $16, the mountain had 34 trails, and skiing was my main passion. In the present day, my hair looks best under a helmet, lift tickets are $147, and Stowe has more than a hundred trails…but I still have a passion for skiing.

1979. Rime ice looks the same regardless of era
That’s my high school friend Chris, before he rescued me on Hayride
Candidate for the Rushmore of bad skiers?
1979
1979 Trail Map. Courtesy of vermontskihistory.com
The Stowe trail system today

Souzz spent a lot of time during college in the 1980s gazing out at Mount Mansfield–the highest point in the state of Vermont, and one of the two mountains that form Stowe (Spruce Peak is the other). She didn’t downhill ski back then, only recently having found the sport, so she welcomed the chance to appreciate the view from the other direction.

Souz with her cousin Maureen during college
That’s Souzz out front, with her sister Marcia

There is a lot of history to this place. Stowe started as a lumber camp in the late 1700s, and skiing here likely began in the 1800s. The first known recreational skiing was in 1914, when a Dartmouth librarian skied down a trail now called the “Toll Road.”

Photo credit: Burlington Free Press

During the Great Depression, the Civilian Conservation Corps built a road to Stowe for automobiles, and the US Ski Patrol was started at Stowe in 1934. The resort fully opened for business in 1936, and lift tickets were a dollar (still a hefty sum during the Depression).

CCC trail crew. Photo courtesy of Burlington Free Press
Photo courtesy of newenglandskihistory.com

Stowe felt the impact of World War II in a lot of ways. For starters, the Stowe ski patrol had a big hand in training the US Army’s 10th Mountain Division (specializing in winter warfare, often on skis). And in the midst of the war, Stowe’s only chairlift had to operate on a limited schedule due to fuel rationing.

1940. Photo courtesy of newenglandskihistory.com
1950. Photo courtesy of newenglandskihistory.com
Photo courtesy of newenglandskihistory.com
1960. Photo courtesy of newenglandskihistory.com
1960. Photo courtesy of newenglandskihistory.com
1963. Photo courtesy of newenglandskihistory.com
Gondola in 1968. Photo courtesy of newenglandskihistory.com

Today Stowe is big business, with a lot of fancy lifts and services, and an entire village at the base of Spruce Peak (some call the village the Vail of the East).

A fancy moving walkway eases you on to the quad
At Spruce Peak
The village at Spruce Peak
Mansfield from the village
Not the cafeteria that I remembered
Another view of the village at the base of Spruce Peak

Still, in some ways, the mountains are just as they have always been.

Mansfield from a 1902 postcard
Mansfield from St. Mike’s campus, 1984

Another thing that is unchanged about Stowe is the cold. On that 1979 trip, I remember that the lift operator on the single chair handed me a pancho-style wool blanket before I got on the lift. At the top, I handed my blanket back to an attendant who then stacked it onto a pile of blankets that rode down on returning chairs. This practice continued until the single chair was replaced with a faster four-person chair in 1986.

The single chair, and a rider wearing a blanket. Photo courtesy of newenglandskihistory.com.
Blankets on chairs. Photo courtesy of newenglandskihistory.com.

As a teenager, I also remember aggressive runs down steep trails with huge moguls, as well as a big wipeout on a trail called Hayride. I’ve had a lot of falls over the years, but that one was particularly memorable because I knocked the wind out of myself on my thermos (tucked neatly inside the chest pocket of my anorak). Gasping for air after a faceplant is no way to look cool in front of your high school buddies.

1979
2019

It was also at Stowe that my high school idol, Tye, broke a ski binding in the middle of a trail called Goat (part of Stowe’s fabled “Front Four”) and then promptly one-skied the rest of the way down (clearly a cooler move than doing the Heimlich on yourself with a thermos). I had been trying hard to keep up with Tye on that trip, but it always felt like he was trying to lose me (well, maybe he was).

My return trip to Stowe this year was marked by a more conservative approach, but there was still some nice skiing, including a bunch of trails recommended by Souzz’s friend George. I even got back onto Hayride (sans faceplant)–and I love that George calls Hayride a “cruiser” (see his note below). It occurs to me that George might be a better skier than I am.

Here’s George’s set list…pretty cool to have a local’s recommendations!
Souzz and her fellow ski school students
National
Some easier terrain
Not exactly monster moguls
Looking over to Mansfield

I’m no expert skier, but I’ve had the chance to travel and ski a fair amount—and Stowe remains my absolute favorite. The conditions have been great on my trips, the terrain is super interesting, and the mountain has a great vibe.

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I shared a chair with these fine folks. Is it still 1979?

Lastly, my Stowe advice: leave the thermos at home, skip Hayride, and don’t try to keep up with anybody named Tye.

My brother Tim on the left
My first and best teacher, my dad

Pegman Meets Viking

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We just wrapped up a trip to the Oregon Coast, ostensibly to Newport and Cannon Beach, in an adventure that came together by way of Pegman. If you aren’t familiar with Pegman, that’s the name of the little guy on Google Maps that you can drag around to get a street view (I learned that little tidbit of information through Google, of course).

Image by Google
Image by Google
Gif by Google

So here’s the backstory: a few weeks ahead of our trip, we were surfing the net to scope out different driving routes on the coast. At some point, we dragged Pegman down to a totally random spot…and he just happened to land on the stunning view from the Nordic Oceanfront Inn, in the small coastal town of Lincoln City.

The Google Street View shot that caught our eye. Image by Google Maps
Image by Google Maps
Image by Google Maps
The Viking out front of the Nordic Oceanfront Inn

So who chooses a destination by way of Pegman? Well, I guess we do. I’d never heard of Lincoln City (or Pegman) myself, which seems like how a good adventure might begin. And on top of the opportunity to discover a new town, the Nordic Oceanfront Inn looked like a fun destination itself. It’s locally owned and slightly quirky, with a giant wooden Viking out front, and oceanfront rooms with massive windows.

Great windows and great hot tub!
Pretty non-descript from the outside
The Nordic Oceanfront Inn
Souzz, mesmerized by the crashing waves
Souzz and antipasto
Looking north from the beach out front
Looking up at the hotel from the beach
The deck in the morning

Lincoln City was founded in 1965 by combining seven adjacent communities, and it was named through a contest with local school children. I remember the 1960s as the heyday of a child’s toy called Lincoln Logs–so I was sure that was the inspiration for the name. Souzz suggested that the name could also be because the town is in Lincoln County (but I’m sticking with the Lincoln Log thing).

Lincoln City is maybe 20 minutes north of Newport and about two hours from Portland, and Wikipedia tells us that about 8,000 people live there now.  It has a lot of attractions and services for tourists, but it struck us as a local kind of place. The shops seem oriented more towards year-round business, and we didn’t hear a lot of Virginia accents. I got the sense that there weren’t too many Portland accents, either, at least not this time of year.

Downtown Lincoln City
Lincoln City

The dinner scene in Lincoln City was pretty memorable, too, as there were lots of folks on a first-name basis with the friendly staff at Pier 101 Restaurant. I also really like places where the chairs don’t all match perfectly, the décor varies from rustic to contemporary in the space of a single booth, and the food is simple, well-prepared, and fresh (our catch came up from Newport just the day before).

In contrast, Newport had more of a tourist vibe, and Cannon Beach felt like a weekend destination for Portland (albeit a very worthy one).  While Newport and Cannon Beach are clearly great destinations–with a beautiful harbor in Newport and a classic rocky beach at Cannon–they just felt a little more discovered.

One of the classic restaurants in Newport
You don’t see signs like this in many places
Cannon Beach and Haystack Rock in the evening glow
Cannon Beach, morning light on Haystack Rock, the gift that keeps giving
Hearty plants living on the shore
Main street in Cannon Beach
Souzz is always making friends
Not a bad view from our hotel room
The sunset seemed to last a full hour
Newport is home to a lot of sea lions
Souzz basking in the Pacific sun
Natural beach art at its finest
So many different lights to capture at Cannon Beach

And as expected, our entire drive north up the coast was beautiful.

“Where’s my bottle of Finalnet?”
Yaquina Head Lighthouse

This was a short trip for us–wedged in the middle of a long solo return trip from Alaska for me–but we got the most out of it. We walked on the beach, ate Dungeness Crab, drank Oregon wine and local craft beer, and sampled Tillamook cheese right at the factory (is cheese made in a factory? ok, creamery).

Busy place
Love that the High School teams are the Cheesemakers

We also enjoyed amazing Pacific sunsets from a hot tub…and all because of Pegman. Where should we go next, Pegman?

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Cooking Old School In The New Year

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Souzz and I often spend New Year’s Eve in the backcountry or in a cabin, and we traditionally make risotto (along with some other fancy dish). The standard bearer of New Year’s absurdity was probably the year that we made risotto with lobster in a five burner kitchen while camping in the snow. We didn’t quite reach that level of absurdity this year, but we at least thought about it.

 

Lobsters in the snow
Souzz and our friend Sara

Anyway, with cold rain in the 2019 forecast, we decided to head to the Potomac Appalachian Trail Club’s Dawson Cabin in Pennsylvania, about two hours drive from our home in Virginia. Dawson is one of the lesser visited cabins in the PATC system, maybe because the hike to the cabin is straight uphill. But the hike is short, and Dawson is a hidden gem that is worth the visit! The cabin is well appointed and very well maintained, and it has southern exposure and a beautiful view.

 

Approaching the cabin
Lots of windows across the front, so nice light
Nice site!
Roomy and bright
Very well maintained and supplied
Lots of supplies
All of the bedding needs to be caged when the cabin isn’t being used
It was too rainy for us to use this, but in nicer weather it’d be great
Looking back from the bunks
A concrete foundation and nice outdoor space
puzzles for a rainy day

For our planned risotto and filet mignon feast, we hauled in a lot of cookware, as well as a five pound canister of propane and a two-burner camp stove. Utility wagons are a great tool for getting bulky gear into walk-in PATC cabins—but dragging them uphill through the mud and over tree roots in the rain might be an acquired taste.

 

The start of the trail
Arriving at the cabin as the rain stopped!

When we reached the cabin, we discovered that there was a problem with the regulator on the camp stove, so the stove and propane were basically flammable barbells. The issue was clearly beyond what I could field-repair, and fiddling with high-pressure gas connections is exciting in any circumstance–but especially so in a remote wood-framed structure. I’m also kind of fond of my eyebrows.

As a consolation, at least we had some good appetizers.

Appetizers were easy, though! This is olives, feta, lemon peel, olive oil, garlic
Prosciutto…oh, and beer!

With appetizers gone and still five hours to New Year’s, we had a new twist: how to make risotto without a modern camp stove. But there was a perfectly serviceable wood stove sitting right at our feet, so how hard could this be?

Tending a wood stove is always important in a PATC cabin in winter, although the goal is usually just heating the place. But now we had to figure out a way to keep the heat somewhat constant.

Chopping onions, nothing special
Sauteeing onions in olive oil
Mixing in rosemary
Coating the arborio rice
Wood stoves used to be the only stoves we had, right?
Adding broth
Looking very holiday
Starting to shape up

Ok, so I get that wood stoves have been around for generations, and my friends in bush Alaska are probably rolling their eyes by now (well, at least Ruby is…but in my defense, I don’t remember seeing a lot of risotto on “Life Below Zero“).

It took a little fiddling to maintain the level of heat on the cooktop, and there were times when we had to cool things off by lifting the pan onto a hastily made wire trivet (using a piece from a broken dartboard that we found in the cabin).

 

And more broth…

But we figured it out, and the risotto was quite good. And the keys to good risotto are the same whether on a modern range or on a wood stove: using homemade stock (way less salty), heating the stock quite a bit before adding, and cooking the risotto at high heat (ideally enough heat to finish the job in less than 20 minutes). With too little heat, things take a long time and the risotto gets sticky.

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We paired the risotto with filet mignon, which we grilled over wood fire coals. And note Souzz’s thumb print in the steak. I guess that’s how real chefs figure out if it’s done.

Lastly, our stove challenge gave us the chance to puzzle over why we go to primitive cabins and then haul in hundreds of pounds of fancy gear. That seems about as logical as getting the turbo option when you buy a Ford Fiesta. So maybe simplifying things should be our New Year’s Resolution? Well, that and preserving my eyebrows.

 

Souzz’s Christmas gift was an inflatable chair (she got me an Apple watch, whoops).
2019 resolution: never grow up!

A Recipe To Remember

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Back in 2005, we had the opportunity to travel to Italy with my parents and sister and brother-in-law on a pleasure trip that was also a mission of sorts. We went in part to visit Tuscany, but our primary purpose was to visit the site of a World War II memorial near the northern Italian city of Mantova.

My brother-in-law and sister
That’s me on the right, younger and thinner!
My sister with Souzz and my mom

In October of 1944, four aviators from my dad’s unit, the 319th Bomb Group, were lost on a mission to take out a rail bridge in Mantova. Two of those lost, Don Treadwell and Joe Prebil, were close friends of my dad, who was a pilot in another B26 bomber on that mission. My dad was able to return to his base in Corsica that day, but that mission clearly was a defining moment in his life.

Don Treadwell. Photo courtesy of Donald Treadwell Robertson
Joe Prebil. Photo courtesy of Claudio Mischi
Don Treadwell’s crew
B26s over Italy
B26s over Italy
Looking back in a tight formation. Photo courtesy of Claudio Mischi
One of the rail bridges in Mantova
The Mantova East Rail Bridge, from a mission the next day
The 319th took off six planes abreast, which saved a lot of fuel
Mantova Causeway
Tail #88 was Don Treadwell’s plane

The idea of our 2005 trip started when I learned about the memorial that the village of Redondesco had recently built to the four lost aviators. I’d learned about it by chance through my brother-in-law—a history professor fluent in Italian who had read about it in the Mantova newspaper. I was only half-serious when I announced later at a family gathering that I was going to visit. My dad surprised me when he immediately asked “can I come with you?”

A few months later, my parents, Souzz, me, my sister and her husband headed off to northern Italy on a trip that we’d never even imagined. We set things up entirely through email using web-based language translation programs (I think this internet fad might be here to stay).

screen shot 2019-01-10 at 10.47.32 pm

Once in Mantova, we were met by the Mayor of Redondesco along with a very knowledgeable Mantova historian and a volunteer translator from Redondesco. The three of them proceeded to take us on a guided tour of targets and crash sites, a tour that was simply amazing.

Claudio, Carlo, John
That’s the (rebuilt) bridge behind us
Guido (who witnessed the crash), Ivano, Claudio, my dad, and Carlo

During our tour, we met a local farmer that witnessed the 1944 crash as a young boy, and he shared his emotional story as if it had happened yesterday. Later we were joined at the memorial by a huge group from the village of Redondesco—a group that waited for us for quite some time, undeterred by steady rain. We then closed our visit with a remarkable meal at the Mayor’s family farmhouse.

Guido was 12 when the crash occured. He remembers it vividly and shared his emotional story
Guido tells his story like it was yesterday
Looking at a textbook about that day
At the memorial with Carlo, Claudio, John, and Franca (the head of the local cultural association)
Claudio tells of one of the landmarks while my folks look on
Ivano explains some of the history
Rain was not a deterrent for the people of Redondesco
Guido describes the scene of the crash. We try to understand what it must have felt like to see that as a young boy.

Calling our experience at the farmhouse a “meal” understates things quite a bit, as it was more like a commemoration and a celebration of friendship–and it was also the most amazing cultural experience that I’ve ever had. Lunch lasted five full hours, and there were seven courses, all hand-prepared over the previous two full days. Wave after wave of food came out while gregarious townspeople chatted away in Italian. Several times, our new friends did their best (in English) to thank my dad and the US for helping to bring Italy its freedom in World War II (and “their best” was pretty great, just perfect).

Gregarious and friendly townspeople. What language barrier?!
A fun group to share a table with
Carlo’s mother along with my mom
The village had parts of the plane, which prompted some very intense discussion
Quite the feast!
My dad and Carlo share their thanks to each other
The Mayor presents my father with an inscribed Italian flag, while our translator looks on
My brother-in-law and sister look on
The Mayor presents a beautiful engraved vase to my dad

At the center of the meal was a regional favorite called tortelli di zucca, a pumpkin-stuffed pasta that is a Mantova specialty.

After we returned home to Virginia, our new friend Ivano (our translator on the trip, one of several new friends with whom we are still in touch, some 14 years later) generously shared his tortelli recipe. Since then, tortelli has become one of our favorite dishes. We’ve made it twice in just the last few months, and it’s always a crowd pleaser. And perhaps best of all, it is both a meal and a story.

 

Squash or pumpkin, either works
Ivano’s original recipe
Amaretta cookies and parm, key ingredients
Making the filling
Mixing cheese into the filling
Pasta dough in the making
A pasta roller is key
Assembling the tortelli
Boil them until they float, only about a minute
The finished product (note Souzz’s Mantova apron)

Like any food experience, the memories of our meal in Redondesco are shaped by the context―the people, the situation and the emotions involved. Lunch that day in 2005 offered us a chance to connect with people from another country and to acknowledge a sacrifice that should never be forgotten—and we had the opportunity to share that experience with my parents and my sister and brother-in-law, pretty special.

And through my dad’s stories, our trip also offered a glimpse into what our troops did for us in 1944–and what they continue to do for us today.

My dad on the left, his flight engineer on the right

Each time we make tortelli di zucca, we raise a glass to Don and Joe, and to all of the others that never made it home. As I’ve learned time and again, food can be a meal, an experience, a memory, a connector, or even a tribute. Sometimes it’s all five.

Carlo, Guido, Claudio, John, and Franca
The Italian flag hangs every day in our house
The inscription says it all

 

A Multi-Layered Place

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A formula for at least some of our trips goes like this: never been there before + don’t know anybody that’s been there = adventure. In the case of our recent trip to Smith Island, there was an added multiplier: we had never heard of it until a few days before.

We stumbled upon Smith Island as a potential destination while we were looking into a possible trip to Tangier Island, which is Smith’s neighbor to the south. Once we “discovered” Smith and researched a bit, it looked to be quaint, off the beaten path (in the middle of the Chesapeake Bay), and somewhat unknown to us—in other words, a perfect weekend adventure.

Smith Island is worth knowing about! The island is a collection of small watermen’s communities that aren’t really set up for tourists, but that’s part of what makes this place so charming. Services are limited, but there are a handful of B&Bs and there is regular ferry service from Crisfield, Maryland. And getting to Smith is part of the adventure. It was about four hours door-to-door from Northern Virginia (including the ferry ride).

At the dock in Crisfield
Our Captain
En route to Smith
The Capt Jason was great, right on time and a beautiful ride

We were joined on the ferry by Smith residents that were bringing in groceries, supplies, and building materials, as pretty much everything but seafood and cake generally comes from the mainland (more about cake later). We mirrored the locals and brought along picnic-style meals ourselves (although there is a restaurant in-season that is generally open for lunch).

I’d always heard that bananas were bad luck on boats
Crazy sky as we approach Smith

The island was first charted by Captain John Smith in 1608 and later named after Henry Smith, an early landowner. It was settled in the late 1600s by English farmers John Evans and John Tyler, and the 250 or so current residents live across three communities: Ewell, Rhodes Point, and Tylerton. Tradition runs deep here, as crabbing, fishing, and harvesting oysters have been a way of life for generations.

PH1143SmithIsland1945
A crabber keeps his live catch in a wooden crab float, 1945. Photo credit: The Mariners’ Museum and Park

Families on Smith today still appear to share a lot of connections (the names Evans and Tyler remain heavily represented on the island). Smith Islanders also share a dialect, sometimes called a Tidewater or Elizabethan accent, which was different enough to make us listen closely at times.

Approaching Ewell on the ferry
Crab pots on the main dock
The Bayside Inn restaurant
One of the main streets in Ewell
The church at the center of Ewell

During our visit, we rode bikes, checked out the marshes and bird life, visited the Bayside Inn restaurant (great seafood, no surprise), and stopped by the local art gallery in Ewell. We also had a lovely chat with the friendly caretaker at the Smith Island Cultural Center. A lot has happened—and is happening—at Smith, ranging from Revolutionary War history to the current threat posed by erosion (the island has lost 1200 acres over the past 100 years).

Good place for a bike ride
Souzz with one of the island bikes
Smith Island Cultural Center, during a higher than normal tide
Not sure who Hayden is, but I hope he doesn’t mind my borrowing his bike
one of the streets near the dock
near the main dock
Looking out at the main harbor
Lots of history here
higher than normal tides

We closed out the day back at our lovely B&B, the Smith Island Inn, where we watched a sunset that seemed to take a full hour.

The Smith Island Inn B&B
Our room at the Inn
Lots of windows and a view of the channel

What struck me the most about our visit was the evening quiet. Maybe it’s because watermen’s communities are ‘early to bed’ kinds of places—or maybe I’m imagining that—but the stunning quiet was something I was glad I got to hear (can you hear quiet?).

Lounging around in front of our B&B

There are clearly a lot of layers to Smith, with history and nature mixed in with a dash of tourism—all on a working watermen’s island. A friend from the Eastern Shore told us recently that Smith Islanders look forward to getting their first skiff at age 14 or so, much like city kids might look forward to cars and drivers licenses. That makes sense when you are in a place where a trip to school involves a boat ride. Life clearly revolves around the bay when you are living in the middle of the bay.

Crab pots on the main dock
Leaving the main dock

And speaking of layers, we also took the opportunity to enjoy Smith’s trademark dish, Smith Island Cake. It’s typically a yellow cake with eight or more thin layers of fudge frosting that is an island specialty. Smith Island Cake dates to at least the 1800s, when it was made to take along on the autumn oyster harvest.

When we got back home, we of course were inspired to make our own version of Smith Island Cake, complete with a taste test against the real thing (by our visiting niece, who was a good sport!). I’m not sure what I’m going to do with the eight cake pans that I bought just for this recipe, but souvenirs are a part of the travel experience, right?

ok, so that’s a lot of pans
ready for the oven
out of the oven
a skinny layer
frosting step one
frosting step two
first layer
not as pretty as what the Islanders make
Our version
To the right is the real cake.

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Our niece was a good sport and did a taste test…and the real Smith Island Cake won, of course!

 

Getting Closer

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We just visited the Upper Peninsula of Michigan—commonly called “the U.P.” by all but the most uninformed tourists—and absolutely loved everything about it. Our U.P. trip was a short one, but we crammed in quite a few adventures. We kayaked at Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore on Lake Superior, mountain biked on Grand Island, and stopped by Mackinac Island for an overnight on the way home.

Beautiful scene at Painted Rocks
The colors are amazing
Fat tire bikes on Grand Island
Lost (again)
Looking down on the George Spencer, which sank in 1905
Lake Superior selfie
Thanks to Uncle Ducky’s Paddling Michigan for an awesome trip! http://www.paddlingmichigan.com
Photo by Mark Massey
Souzz right before she ran me over
on Lake Superior
Photo by Mark Massey

Mackinac (pronounced “Makinaw”) is a tiny little island (two miles long) out in Lake Huron, and visiting is like time travel—no cars, lots of horse-drawn carriages, and buildings and hotels dating to the 1800s.

The Grand Hotel, built in 1886
The Star Line ferry in St. Ignace
You don’t see this many places
Main Street
Beautiful hotels near the ferry
After biking around the entire island…in 45 minutes
We weren’t sure if this sign was real or not…but we think it was
Another stunning property in Mackinac
Mackinac Bridge, built in 1957, connects the U.P. to the rest of Michigan

The U.P. seems largely about the fantastic (ok, Great) lakes and the beautiful northern forests, but it’s also about the food—and you tend to see and hear a lot about pasties, perhaps the most well-known regional treat.

A pastie (pronounced pass-tee), which is basically a pot pie without the pot

But there’s so much more to food in the U.P., in particular the seafood. Coming from the East Coast, I didn’t really associate seafood with Michigan, and yet there is amazing fresh Great Lakes seafood all over the U.P..

On our trip, we fell in love with the local market in the town of Munising, VanLandschoot and Sons. It’s been around for more than 100 years, and it has an amazing selection of whitefish, salmon, trout, fish dip, and smoked fish.

Photo courtesy of VanLandschoot and Sons
Photo courtesy of VanLandschoot and Sons

Like a lot of U.P. businesses, VanLandschoot and Sons is a family affair. It was founded in 1914 by a Belgian immigrant named Philip VanLandschoot who initially set up shop on the shores of Lake Michigan. In 1942, he and his family shifted operations to Munising, a town of about 2,500 on Lake Superior. He fished all summer by boat, and then ice-fished all winter—moving his gear around by horse and sleigh. Those were no doubt different times.

Philip VanLandschoot. Photo courtesy of VanLandschoot and Sons
Photo courtesy of VanLandschoot and Sons
Paul VanLandschoot, Skippy Ghroel, Philip and Joe VanLandschoot in the 1950s. Photo courtesy of VanLandschoot and Sons
Jerome VanLandschoot, 1987. Photo courtesy of VanLandschoot and Sons
A fish market in Duluth, across the lake. Commercial fishing on Lake Superior dates to 1834. Photo courtesy of Duluth Public Library

In addition to running a high quality market, VanLandschoot and Sons has also been at the forefront of sustainable fishing practices. In the 1960s, they pioneered the use of trapnets, which are a more responsible way to fish than gillnets. With a trapnet, fish are caught live and any fish that are not being targeted (“bycatch”) can be released. In contrast, gillnets typically kill anything that they catch. The use of trapnets are one of many innovations over the years that have help maintain Lake Superior as a very health commercial fishery.

A diagram of a trapnet
The fleet
Photo courtesy of VanLandschoot and Sons
Photo courtesy of VanLandschoot and Sons
Photo courtesy of VanLandschoot and Sons
Trapnets in action. Photo courtesy of Tim Trombley, GreatLakesPhotography.net
Photo courtesy of Tim Trombley, GreatLakesPhotography.net
Photo courtesy of Tim Trombley, GreatLakesPhotography.net
Photo courtesy of Tim Trombley, GreatLakesPhotography.net
Photo courtesy of VanLandschoot and Sons
Photo courtesy of Tim Trombley, GreatLakesPhotography.net
Photo courtesy of Tim Trombley, GreatLakesPhotography.net

Whitefish are one of 88 species of fish in Lake Superior. They are near the lake bottom in terms of habitat, but are clearly near the top in terms of popularity—comprising almost 90% of the commercial harvest. Whitefish owes its popularity in part to its mild flavor, which means that even people who don’t like fish seem to like whitefish (illogical much?).

 

Photo courtesy of Tim Trombley, GreatLakesPhotography.net

VanLandschoot and Sons is located in a building next to their docks on the edge of town, and there’s nothing fancy about it. But you can see the boats when you are standing in front of their cold case, so I’m thinking you are getting pretty fresh stuff. They also process, filet and smoke everything right on site, with a friendly staff and prices that would make Whole Foods blush.

Photo courtesy of VanLandschoot and Sons

Back at our spacious and lovely AirBnB rental in Munising (we splurged a bit), we pan-fried our whitefish with a little paprika, olive oil, pepper, and lemon juice, and we also made a smoked whitefish dip with green onions and cream cheese. That’s a lot of whitefish, but it was definitely a Superior meal.

It’s funny to think that time spent together in the kitchen was one of the highlights of our vacation. But there’s something special about supporting a local (and responsible) business, eating what’s in season, preparing your meals from the freshest of ingredients, and doing it right near the source. A lot of people go on vacation to get away, but sometimes it’s fun to get closer.

Sweet Memories

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A few weeks ago, I asked my 94-year-old dad if he had a favorite drink–thinking he might say something like a Manhattan or a Whiskey Sour. He looked skyward for what seemed like a long time, and then he finally announced, “probably cane juice.”

Huh? Cane juice? I guess I’m still learning things about my dad—and learning things from my dad, too. This lesson was about a great memory from his childhood in Savannah, Georgia, which was apparently overflowing with a sugary natural drink that I’d never even heard of.

 

Poppy enjoying some cane juice
Poppy in 1938
The real thing
pasteurized cane juice, pretty good stuff

Cane juice is made by crushing sugarcane stalks, and it is quite popular across the South, as well as throughout Latin America and in Southeast Asia. People have been enjoying this stuff for generations wherever sugarcane is grown (who knew?). Oh, and cane juice can also be aged to make rum (patience is an even greater virtue than I thought).

 

Extracting cane juice. Photo by Panther
Cane juice in Indonesia. Photo by Gunawan Kartapranata

Whenever my dad had money in his pocket as a kid, he would stop for cane juice at roadside stands in and around Savannah. He also shared that there were a lot of stands in nearby Guyton, where his Aunt Beth lived on what we’d nowadays probably call a farm (she kept chickens and pigs out back). In the old days, the juice was sometimes made by mules that walked in a circle to power a cane crusher.

 

That’s Johnny third from left
A mule turns a cane grinder, old school style! Photo by Margie Love, courtesy of Liberty County Convention & Visitors Bureau
Right around when my dad got his first bike
Before there were bikes, there were sheep-drawn carriages?
Running around the back yard at Aunt Beth’s in Guyton. Photo from Anne Brown
Aunt Beth’s house is still standing today (although it needs a little work)

Fresh cane juice had to either be consumed or refrigerated right away, which wasn’t a hard choice for a thirsty kid (and there wasn’t much refrigeration in those days, anyway).

 

A stand in 1935. Photo by Russell Froelich Collection
A roadside stand from back in the day. Photo by blizzardofjj.tumblr.com

With my dad’s re-kindled interest in cane juice, my sister found a place close to where he lives in Florida that serves it in much the same way as the stands across Savannah in the 1930s. The community of Bokeelia, on Pine Island, is only about 40 minutes from my folks’ home in Fort Myers, but it feels lost in time. Pine Island still has general stores, motels that advertise in-room color TV, endless fruit groves–and a place called Fruitscapes that sells amazing fruit as well as fresh-pressed cane juice.

 

Pretty non-descript from the road, easy to miss
The sign says it all
I don’t even know what these are
The grove out back
Picking the perfect one!
Persimmons
Pomelos
More and more pomelos, a little riper
Inside a pomelo, like a sweeter grapefruit

We stopped into Fruitscapes for a visit this week, and were delighted to find fresh juice—along with pomelos, bananas, persimmons, dried mangos, and a super friendly staff. During our visit, our new friend Cecelia gave us a little education along with a glass of the prized juice. Just as in the old days, she threaded several stalks of sugarcane through a press, and then folded the partially flattened canes in half and did it again. The whole press contraption looked like it was made in 1930, so maybe that’s why the juice tasted so familiar to my dad.

 

Sugar cane
Threading cane through the juicer
threading it a second time
Johnny watching the show and sharing stories
a crushing view
The freshly squeezed cane comes out of this spigot

So, for four dollars, we got a demonstration, a drink, and a chance to hear stories about Savannah in the 1930s. I’m not sure I’d say that I like cane juice better than a Manhattan. But you probably have to drink six Manhattans to take a trip through time, and it only takes one cup of cane juice.

Awesome Sauce

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So what’s a camping trip without a mole? And by mole, I mean the pepper-based sauce from Mexico and not the burrowing beady-eyed critter. Mole (pronounced mo-lay) tastes amazing over fish, chicken, or basically any kind of meat (except over mole meat, which is disgusting).

By Thelmadatter

Mole is an ancient Spanish word that loosely translates to “mix.” The recipe has its roots in the Mexican town of Oaxaca, about 200 miles southeast of Mexico City. Popular legend has it that nuns were rushing to prepare for a visit from the archbishop and they just made up a sauce out of what they had on hand.

Catedral Metropolitana de Nuestra Señora de la Asunción (Cathedral of our Lady of the Assumption), dating to the 1500s
Catedral Metropolitana de Nuestra Señora de la Asunción
Catedral Metropolitana de Nuestra Señora de la Asunción
Cuilapan de Guerro, a former monastery dating to the 1500s

Souzz visited Oaxaca last month on a business trip, and she managed to squeeze in a mole-making class during her visit (I guess the margarita-chugging class was fully booked).

At the local market
Chef Jose Manuel Baños, at his restaurant, Pitiona
Looking local?
Chia seeds
Chef Jose Manuel Baños flanked by a few students
shopping for ingredients
At the local market, the peppers used for mole
The produce was amazing
Lots of great choices at the local market
Plaza de Santa Domingo
Monte Albán ruins, 500-100 BC
Oaxaca countryside garden
Monte Albán ruins, 500-100 BC
Cuilapan de Guerro archway

Souzz raved about her class (and her trip) when she got home. So when we started planning a menu for a backpacking trip with our good friends Lou and Kay, mole-making became an obvious choice (with margarita chugging as a backup). Our destination was Racer Camp Hollow, a favorite of ours in the Blue Ridge mountains near Wardensville, West Virginia.

Rock-hopping along the way
Walking the plank
The view from our camp, not bad
Racer Camp Hollow
Looking down into camp, Racer Camp Hollow

We made a mole verde that used tomatillos, which are smallish green Mexican tomatoes. Our mole recipe also used pumpkin seeds, jalapenos, onions, garlic, cilantro, parsley, and a little bit of chicken stock.

Tomatillos in their husks
After peeling the husk

The whole trick to backcountry mole–besides a penchant for cooking the absurd–is to carry a hand-crank food processor. Our new little toy worked out great, and it weighed less than a pound.

After browning the veggies
Adding the cilantro
Kay provides power to the mixer

It turns out there are actually several makes and models of hand-crank food processors, which had me wondering how many lunatic foodie backpackers there could possibly be? Or maybe people want to cook fancy during power outages? But mostly I wondered if this thing could be used to make margaritas.

Jalapenos
The basis for the sauce
Pre-processor
browning sauce ingredients
Chugging Margs?

The absurdity of our meal planning came into sharper focus when we decided to include fresh doughnuts for breakfast. We always use a paper bag to shake and coat the doughnuts, which naturally prompted a text exchange ahead of the trip about cow pies.

Here’s the text exchange when I needed paper bags to dust the doughnuts
Have another doughnut!

In any case, dinner was delightful, and we served the mole over rice and some fresh grouper that we had hand-carried from Florida a few weeks back. We followed the main course with Kay’s apple tart for dessert, which made for a pretty elegant backcountry meal.

Florida grouper, vacuum sealed and still frozen
Grouper frying away in the frybake
The finished product – grouper with mole over rice
Kay’s apple tart, fabulous!

Camping with Lou and Kay is a lot of fun under any circumstance, but in particular when you team up for a five star meal at a five star campsite. It’s great to be with folks that know both the outdoors and food…and it’s a total bonus when they also know Heather Locklear trivia (don’t ask).

Could be the album cover?

 

DSCN4332-2

A Grape Idea

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I was driving north last week towards Canandaigua, in the Finger Lakes Region of New York State, when a purple awning caught my eye. The awning belonged to the storefront of Monica’s Pies, a shop where just about everything is purple—awnings, signs, milk jugs, jars, t-shirts, carpets, flower pots…even the port-a-potty out back. Monica’s Pies is in Naples, a town of 2,500 that claims to be the grape pie capital of the world.

Driving towards Canandaigua Lake (literally)
Canandaigua Lake
My kind of place
Canandaigua Lake
Flowers against the lake
Special parking just for me
Even the port-a-potty is color-coordinated
Monica’s Pies

I always thought that I knew a lot about purple—including preserves, juice, wine, Bubble Yum, Pez, and even the Williams College Purple Cow (thanks to my in-laws).

Souzz’s parents flanking a purple cow
At a Williams football game
Purple cows are pretty book-smart

But I’d never had a purple-flavored pie before (and if orange can be a color, then purple can certainly be a flavor).

Monica’s Pies dates back to 1983, and it is one of four shops in Naples that feature grape pies. Back in the day, owner Monica Schenk was looking for a way to use a surplus of Concord grapes—a style of grape that had fallen out of favor with local vintners–and she started making grape pies. She sold the pies only in the Fall season, and most of her sales were by the honor system (an unattended box of pies sat out front, along with a money slot).

Honor system pie sales. From wjbq.com.
A roadside honor stand for pies. From wjbq.com.

Then and now, her grape pies are very sweet, thick like jello, and come topped with a crumb crust that adds a lot of texture. Souzz said each bite was “like eating really good grape jelly, back when you were a kid.” Huh?

Nowadays, Monica’s Pies is open year round and offers a variety of pies, jams, baked goods, and other treats. The shop has been featured in the New York Times and on the Food Network, and her grape pie sales alone top more than 10,000 a year. There’s no reason to wine with sales like that.

When I got back home, I shared the story of my new discovery with my Williams-educated purple cow-loving brother-in-law Steve, who is quite the foodie. “I love those grape pies,” he said. “Concord grapes suck for wine, but grape pies rule.” Those Williams kids sure have a way with words.

That’s Steve on the left, with his sisters, and looking more like a college kid than a foodie
A family visit to the “purple valley,” as Williamstown is known. That’s Souzz 2nd from right, probably after eating some jelly.

A Swell Time

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Our recent trip to great state of Utah featured a lot of variety: a four day backpack on the historic Boulder Mail Trail, a day of canyoneering in Capitol Reef, downhill skiing at Brighton, and mountain biking in the central part of the state. We also caught up with our cousin Brian and our nephew Pat, so we got in some good family time, too.

With cousin Brian, backcountry tour guide extraordinnaire
Souzz with her nephew (and expert snowboarder) Pat, fresh off of a Naki concert
with cousin Brian above Escalante

Over the course of the week, we traveled by plane, bus, car, foot, rope, ski, and bike—not bad for a couple of flatlanders from the east. And we capped off the week with bear watching (ok, so the bear was the mascot at a Utah Grizzlies hockey game).

Souzz hanging below Cassidy Arch, Capitol Reef NP
At the trailhead of the Boulder Mail Trail, with Souzz’s cousin Brian
Mountain biking near Price
Souzz hanging out in Cassidy Canyon
The natural bridge in Mamie Creek, Escalante
Crossing the stream in Death Hollow
Capital Reef NP
Descending into Death Hollow, Escalante
Well, the blog is called souzzchef
Camp in Mamie Creek

Part of our trip was spent around the town of Price, a coal-mining community of about 8,000 that at first glance doesn’t look like much of an outdoor playground. But there are some great mountain bike trails on the plateau just outside of town, and friendly locals told us about a nearby must-see area called the Little Grand Canyon in “The Swell.” After getting some vague directions, we poured over our maps and found what they were talking about—a BLM recreation area in the heart the San Rafael Swell.

There’s pavement in a few places, mostly where the road washes over
Close to the Wedge
Headed down towards the river

To get to the Little Grand Canyon required about 20 miles of driving on a dirt road…but “it’s a good dirt road where you can go 60 miles an hour,” to quote one of our new friends in Price. We were a little slower than that, but the road was in great shape. There was a BLM visitor center kiosk along the way that provided some information as well as a few good area maps.

BLM visitor center and kiosk
Headed in towards the Wedge
Shade must be nice in summer
Lots of cattle gates
A great lunch spot on the rim of the canyon
A side canyon near the river
Nice interpretive signage
Those are antelope out there
A good sense of location

The locals were right that it’s a spectacular place, with cliffs and canyons as far as we could see. The Little Grand Canyon itself is not as grand as its larger namesake, but there are stunning vistas, petroglyphs, an old (1937) bridge, primitive campgrounds, and an abundance of hiking and biking trails. And what is plenty grand about this place is what’s missing: people, concessionaires, streams of vehicles, and the suffocating infrastructure that can be somewhat common in larger parks. This place is definitely a hidden gem.

Looking to the north
That’s the San Rafael River down there
I must be standing on a rock above Souzz
looking northeast
Selfie, little Grand Canyon style
Looking down canyon
Petroglyphs
A great hike or ride, but don’t stray too far right!
San Rafael Swell and I-70, photo credit Dennis Adams, National Scenic Byways Online – http://www.fhwa.dot.gov/byways/photos/51883
Bridge over the San Rafael River, built 1937. Photo by Greg Willis https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/deed.en

As we were leaving Price earlier in the day to head towards the Swell, the guy at the local convenience mart asked where we were going. “Aaaah, yes, the Swell, you’ll love it,” he said. “It’s exactly like the Grand Canyon, only way better. And who wants to drive all the way to Arizona anyway?”