I’ve been a loyal member of the Society of American Travel Writers for nigh on 50 years, but also one of its principal kvetches. Professional travel writers, it should come as no surprise, like to eat high off the hog. Why not? Someone is always trying to convince us to write flowery descriptions of their properties or means of transport — jetliners, cruise ships, schooners, et al. — so they go out of their way to ply us with the best cuisine they can conjure, nectar of the gods.
But every now and again I’ve balked. When it came to food before attractions, I dug in my heels and said, “Call the chef and tell him to keep the grub in a warmer and I will be there in time to consume every last dollop.�
u u u
I was reminded of this aspect of my otherwise sweet and understanding nature this past week when we watched Ken Burns’ extraordinary story of America’s national parks.
Yosemite was heaven on earth to the pioneer naturalist, John Muir, and a favorite with Ken Burns. But I had no inkling we would ever be close to it, so I made no reservation for park lodging before a trip we took out to the West years ago. Six months in advance is recommended.
But lo, our son, Adam, was graduating from Stanford University, so we flew to the West Coast, 10 days in advance, so we could tour the Gold Rush Trail and pop into the cabin where Mark Twain wrote the short story about the jumping frog that made him famous.
In our son’s Isuzu pickup truck we headed for the start of the trail, which veered close to Yosemite. So why not try for some unexpected good luck? We were 40 miles from the park entrance. I decided to call and ask if perchance they had a cancellation and a room for the night for us and by a fortunate stroke of serendipity, they did have some unlucky tourists cancel, and they bid us come and enjoy.
And so we veered off the Gold Rush Trail and checked into a comfortable little hut almost at the base of the iconic Yosemite Falls. As we were unlocking the door a little fawn jumped the string fence and started grazing in our front yard.
u u u
My wife, Dolores, and I made an incredible trip around the world in 1952 and saw many of its wonders, but our four days in Yosemite were among the most memorable. One night we gathered on the ground and listened to a talk by a park ranger. In those days I meddled with watercolors and one morning I wandered into Yosemite Valley, as beautiful a spot as you could wish for, and sketched and made four paintings. On another day we wandered around in the Mariposa Grove of Giant Sequoias. If ever there was a Cathedral of Trees, this was it.
We took our meals in the cafeteria of the big welcome center and didn’t mind a bit that on our vacation we weren’t dining in one of Wolfgang Puck’s California eating shrines.
u u u
A few years later I made it alone to another jewel in the National Parks crown, the Grand Canyon. I stood at the rim and looked down and was speechless. Standing next to me was a woman from Holland. After a few long moments, she summed up the way we all must feel: “It is not to be believed.�
Then came the day when, with a group of fellow writers, I was to tour wondrous Yellowstone Park with its steaming ponds of mud and its geysers, big and small. I liked small geysers but I couldn’t wait until I stood before Old Faithful and said: “Okay, big boy, do your stuff.�
We got there after it had spouted, and according to our tightly fashioned schedule, that meant we might miss it because our guide had a message for us:
“We’re expected for a fancy lunch at such and such restaurant about 40 minutes away.�
“Are you saying we leave now in order to eat, and no Old Faithful?� I asked, churlishly.
“Sorry, that’s it,� said our guide.
I dug my heels in. “You all go ahead and eat. I’ll wait for Old Faithful’s next show, and I’ll eat at the lodge and hitchhike to Jackson Hole.�
Yeah, yeah, everyone chimed in. Old Faithful first, eat later. “Call and tell the chef, etc., etc.,� I said.
So he did, and we did. And to Old Faithful, I say to you, “You were faithful to us, and we were faithful to you!�
Freelance writer Barnett Laschever, the curmudgeon of Goshen, is a world traveler who has written five children’s books and co-authored a guide to Connecticut.
