Sherrill and I visited more than 60 countries and most of the United States during our 52-year marriage. This is the last of a series of posts about our lives and travels, true stories of two people discovering the world, each other, and themselves through five decades of traveling together, however the Archives contains all of the posts about our lives and travels, starting with when we were married in 1964 on the way to Mexico. To start at the beginning of our marriage and travels look at the Archives list in the sidebar and start with May, 2017--then scroll down to the first post. Enjoy!
Sherrill on the Spring Wild Flower Express, 2016 The 2015 trip visiting the gardens of England was a triumph for Sherrill after the difficult time she'd had the year before—and the cancellation because of her illness of our long-anticipated trip to Norway. She had recovered well enough to manage fine as we walked through the gardens in both the countryside and London.
The following spring, we joined a garden club trip visiting Bay Area gardens and nurseries and later our daughter and son-in-law took us on a North Bay trip riding a restored old train through sea-like fields of wild flowers, their blossoms tossing on waves of wind-blown grasses. Sherrill enjoyed those excursions, but insisted that she wasn't finished exploring the larger world.
The following spring, we joined a garden club trip visiting Bay Area gardens and nurseries and later our daughter and son-in-law took us on a North Bay trip riding a restored old train through sea-like fields of wild flowers, their blossoms tossing on waves of wind-blown grasses. Sherrill enjoyed those excursions, but insisted that she wasn't finished exploring the larger world.
Sherrill on Garden Club tour She often had surprised people with her adventurous spirit. She'd driven across deserts and through mountains and on crazy foreign freeways. She'd wanted to experience an erupting volcano, see whatever was above the Arctic circle, get up close to both Victoria and Iguassu Falls, explore behind the Iron Curtain, travel on every waterway possible. She'd collected files and boxes and drawers and cupboards of photographs and clippings and brochures and notes about places on the planet that she wanted to see, experience, get to know. Sooner or later, she often had said, we'd get to all of them.
We weren't traveling, now, but we still were seeing family and friends and occasionally went out to a play. When she felt like it, we worked together in her garden.
"Look," she said, one evening, after several months, "I want to go someplace."
We weren't traveling, now, but we still were seeing family and friends and occasionally went out to a play. When she felt like it, we worked together in her garden.
"Look," she said, one evening, after several months, "I want to go someplace."
That someplace turned out to be a nine-day September trip to the Southwest that she had found. She'd loved desert country since she was a child, when she'd lived on the Nevada-California border with her mother, step-father, and step-brother. Over the years, we'd seen quite a lot of the southwest corner of United States, but had missed some major sites. More than that, this trip would keep us busy exploring beautiful places and meeting interesting people. And it would be easy. Everything would be taken care of for us.
The tour began in Phoenix, the desert city named after the beautiful bird that never died, that forever flew ahead, scanning the horizon, exploring distant worlds, the bird that symbolized our ability to extend our lives by opening up to the world around us—and even beyond.
The tour began in Phoenix, the desert city named after the beautiful bird that never died, that forever flew ahead, scanning the horizon, exploring distant worlds, the bird that symbolized our ability to extend our lives by opening up to the world around us—and even beyond.
We were excited to be letting part of the world reveal itself to us again. We'd been doing it for fifty-two years and weren't ready to quit. At the heart of every trip we took was the shared passion to plunge into a new adventure, a new place, a new way of looking at life, and we hadn't lost it. After a night in Phoenix, we joined the group, then drove beside the evocative shape of Camelback Mountain and through Scottsdale. The town had been much smaller when Sherrill and I drove through the area on our way to Mexico in 1964 and stopped briefly to visit Frank Lloyd Wright's winter home and school, Taliesin West.
"Nothing stays the same," I commented.
"Not even us, sweetie."
"Nothing stays the same," I commented.
"Not even us, sweetie."
Montezuma's Castle, Arizona The high-altitude desertscape of dry hills, cacti, and rust-hued rock formations led us to the 12th and 13th century sandstone cliff dwellings known as Montezuma's Castle, although they weren't a castle and had nothing to do with the Aztec emperor. Teddy Roosevelt, nevertheless, dedicated to preserving both nature and history, had made the area a National Monument. It was here that Sherrill and I established a routine that carried us through the trip: we'd walk to a point where we could see and enjoy the site together, then we'd find a place for her to sit and rest, while I explored a little more.
"I don't want to spoil it for you," she told me.
"Don't worry, you're not."
"Well, I don't want to," she insisted, tugging at the hairs on the back of my neck. "And you need to use your razor back here."
We could see why the five-story complex of 20 rooms wedged into a niche in the massive cliff face seemed wondrous to the Europeans who discovered it. Even to our eyes, with the early afternoon sun glinting off the wind-and-storm-shaped golden stone, it seemed almost miraculous.
"I don't want to spoil it for you," she told me.
"Don't worry, you're not."
"Well, I don't want to," she insisted, tugging at the hairs on the back of my neck. "And you need to use your razor back here."
We could see why the five-story complex of 20 rooms wedged into a niche in the massive cliff face seemed wondrous to the Europeans who discovered it. Even to our eyes, with the early afternoon sun glinting off the wind-and-storm-shaped golden stone, it seemed almost miraculous.
Grand Canyon National Park The tour continued to the artist colony of Sedona, surrounded by towers of red rock, rugged buttes, steep canyon walls, and scattered pine forests.
"I love this," Sherrill murmured, as we watched light moving across the landscape, changing color from shades of orange to red.
We glanced into a few of the art galleries and shops that lined Sedona's streets and bought lunch in a restaurant with a view of the precipitous sandstone cliffs. Then we rejoined the group and drove through the deep gorge of Oak Creek Canyon, continuing to its much bigger cousin, the Grand Canyon. Back in 1967, on our way home to California from the Expo '67 World's Fair in Montreal, we'd stopped at the Grand Canyon for a couple of days, but hadn't been back since. This time, we stayed in a modern section of the lodge on the canyon's south rim, with our meals in historic El Tovar, a short walk along the rim.
The seven-thousand foot altitude made it difficult for Sherrill to explore for very long at once, but we did it in stages, resting whenever we felt like it. As the sun moved, changing the views of the canyons and rock formations in front of us, it almost seemed as if we were hiking along the rim, ourselves. We had the next day to explore on our own, taking a shuttle bus to specific lookout points.
"I love this," Sherrill murmured, as we watched light moving across the landscape, changing color from shades of orange to red.
We glanced into a few of the art galleries and shops that lined Sedona's streets and bought lunch in a restaurant with a view of the precipitous sandstone cliffs. Then we rejoined the group and drove through the deep gorge of Oak Creek Canyon, continuing to its much bigger cousin, the Grand Canyon. Back in 1967, on our way home to California from the Expo '67 World's Fair in Montreal, we'd stopped at the Grand Canyon for a couple of days, but hadn't been back since. This time, we stayed in a modern section of the lodge on the canyon's south rim, with our meals in historic El Tovar, a short walk along the rim.
The seven-thousand foot altitude made it difficult for Sherrill to explore for very long at once, but we did it in stages, resting whenever we felt like it. As the sun moved, changing the views of the canyons and rock formations in front of us, it almost seemed as if we were hiking along the rim, ourselves. We had the next day to explore on our own, taking a shuttle bus to specific lookout points.
Sometimes, Sherrill sat on a bench looking out to orange cliffs tiled with patterns of erosion and history while I hiked further afield. Often, I sat next to her for a while.
"You don't have to stay," she'd tell me.
"I know."
Occasionally, when I returned from a walk I brought something to eat from one of the cafes or restaurants nearby. Best of all, we watched two Grand Canyon sunsets and two sunrises.
"You don't have to stay," she'd tell me.
"I know."
Occasionally, when I returned from a walk I brought something to eat from one of the cafes or restaurants nearby. Best of all, we watched two Grand Canyon sunsets and two sunrises.
Monument Valley, Utah/Arizona Sherrill was pleased to see a pair of exhibits in the Bright Angel History Room of the Lodge that focused on the thousands of young women who over the years worked in the Fred Harvey hotels and restaurants — the famous Harvey Girls — and the architectural pioneer Mary Colter, who designed, decorated, and furnished his buildings in parks across the west, including the Grand Canyon, beginning in 1901.
Monument Valley, where John Ford filmed many now-classic western films, starting with Stagecoach in 1939, had long been high on our list of places to see. At last, we got there. Navajo guides took us in jeeps into the restricted backcountry of the Valley, now a Navajo Tribal Park, among the buttes, arches, and dramatic red sandstone formations. We'd brought masks to cover our noses and mouths, because the jeeps stirred up thick waves of orange dust as we careened over the meandering dirt roads. Even through a fine curtain of dust, the scene around us was more spectacular than we'd expected. This wasn't the first time that we felt as if we'd wandered into an old movie, but it was one of the most memorable.
Monument Valley, where John Ford filmed many now-classic western films, starting with Stagecoach in 1939, had long been high on our list of places to see. At last, we got there. Navajo guides took us in jeeps into the restricted backcountry of the Valley, now a Navajo Tribal Park, among the buttes, arches, and dramatic red sandstone formations. We'd brought masks to cover our noses and mouths, because the jeeps stirred up thick waves of orange dust as we careened over the meandering dirt roads. Even through a fine curtain of dust, the scene around us was more spectacular than we'd expected. This wasn't the first time that we felt as if we'd wandered into an old movie, but it was one of the most memorable.
Antelope Canyon, Lake Powell From the valley we drove to Lake Powell, created by the massive Glen Canyon Dam. If we'd been older and aware of what was happening back in the 1950s when the dam was built, we probably wouldn't have approved of flooding the deep sandstone gorges along the Colorado River. The resort hotel where we stayed sprawled at one corner of the lake. The views were beautiful, but the dining room was too far from our room for Sherrill to walk, so that evening I went out and brought food back to our room. The next morning, a hotel shuttle took us down to the dock area, where we boarded a boat for a cruise through Lake Powell's Antelope Canyon.
Variegated red sandstone cliffs rose on both sides as Sherrill and I peered down into the reflecting blue waters toward the bottom of the drowned canyon. As spectacular and beautiful as the canyon we could see was, we saw that it plunged much deeper below the water. Slowly, our boat navigated the hairpin turns, sometimes the jagged cliffs above us almost touching. Other times, sunlight streamed through places where it looked as if a gigantic hand had scooped away fistfuls of the rust-colored rock. Shadows sank deep into the water, at one point even the moving shadow of our boat.
Variegated red sandstone cliffs rose on both sides as Sherrill and I peered down into the reflecting blue waters toward the bottom of the drowned canyon. As spectacular and beautiful as the canyon we could see was, we saw that it plunged much deeper below the water. Slowly, our boat navigated the hairpin turns, sometimes the jagged cliffs above us almost touching. Other times, sunlight streamed through places where it looked as if a gigantic hand had scooped away fistfuls of the rust-colored rock. Shadows sank deep into the water, at one point even the moving shadow of our boat.
Bryce Canyon, Utah After breakfast the next morning, we followed the dusty road into Utah to the little town of Kanab, red sandstone outcroppings and gullies dotting the dry, sagebrush-strewn hills along the way. Although hardly more than a wide spot in the road, Kanab liked to call itself "Little Hollywood" because over the years more than a hundred western movies and television shows had been filmed there. We stopped at a funky little Hollywood museum and trading post crowded with souvenirs, memorabilia, and pieces of old movie sets. For some of us, the restrooms were the main reason for stopping, although the place did sell pretty good root beer floats.
Kanab's other claim to fame was as the gateway to Bryce Canyon National Park, which was spectacular in a different way than the Grand Canyon. Actually, we learned, Bryce Canyon was not a canyon, but a collection of giant natural amphitheaters stretching side by side for more than 20 miles. Each of the amphitheaters reached out for 8, 10, or more, up to 18, miles of variegated sedimentary rocks, all of them crowded with eroded rock columns known as "hoodoos" or "fairy chimneys" that stood elbow to elbow like commuters on a train. Some of the columns stood as much as 200 feet tall, flaunting their red, orange, white, and pink stripes. I'd been there with my family when I was young, but this all was new to Sherrill, although we'd seen hoodoos in the Cappadocia area of central Turkey.
Kanab's other claim to fame was as the gateway to Bryce Canyon National Park, which was spectacular in a different way than the Grand Canyon. Actually, we learned, Bryce Canyon was not a canyon, but a collection of giant natural amphitheaters stretching side by side for more than 20 miles. Each of the amphitheaters reached out for 8, 10, or more, up to 18, miles of variegated sedimentary rocks, all of them crowded with eroded rock columns known as "hoodoos" or "fairy chimneys" that stood elbow to elbow like commuters on a train. Some of the columns stood as much as 200 feet tall, flaunting their red, orange, white, and pink stripes. I'd been there with my family when I was young, but this all was new to Sherrill, although we'd seen hoodoos in the Cappadocia area of central Turkey.
From the lodge where the bus dropped us, we hiked slowly out to the rim, pausing once for Sherrill to rest on a log. Then, for a while, we sat on a bench facing the colorful panorama in front of us, Sherrill looking, I thought, quietly satisfied. From time to time, skinny lizards that seemed three-quarters tail skittered over and between the red rocks at our feet, vanishing so fast that I couldn't see where they'd gone.
Zion National Park, Utah "You don't need to stay with me," she told me. "I'm a grown up."
Finally, to show her that I wasn't worried about her, I left her on the bench, gazing at the riot of red and orange hoodoos and explored farther afield, among family groups and couples who were taking each others' photographs with the hoodoos, brightly lit by the afternoon sun, stiffly posed behind them. A few times, I was afraid that a tourist taking a "selfie" was going to back up right off the side of the cliff.
As often happened when we traveled with a group, Sherrill and I became friends with another couple during the tour, short as it was. Easy-going and fun to be with, they were from Oak Park, near Chicago, where Hemingway spent his youth. As it turned out, the wife also was a writer. After Sherrill and I returned home, I ordered her book, a tightly written historical novel that I enjoyed. When Sherrill felt up to socializing, the four of us had meals together. Other times, I ate with them and took food back to Sherrill in our room.
The Lodge where we stayed in Zion was perfectly located on the valley floor, surrounded by the massive ramparts of towering cliffs, and a short walk to the dining building. An elephant train took us around the valley, stopping at strategic points so that everyone, even those who didn't feel like hiking, could experience the spectacle of the enormous sandstone cliffs and rocky peaks. Later, while Sherrill rested in our room at the Lodge, I indulged in an independent walk, past the rock monoliths, cliffs, and streams.
Finally, to show her that I wasn't worried about her, I left her on the bench, gazing at the riot of red and orange hoodoos and explored farther afield, among family groups and couples who were taking each others' photographs with the hoodoos, brightly lit by the afternoon sun, stiffly posed behind them. A few times, I was afraid that a tourist taking a "selfie" was going to back up right off the side of the cliff.
As often happened when we traveled with a group, Sherrill and I became friends with another couple during the tour, short as it was. Easy-going and fun to be with, they were from Oak Park, near Chicago, where Hemingway spent his youth. As it turned out, the wife also was a writer. After Sherrill and I returned home, I ordered her book, a tightly written historical novel that I enjoyed. When Sherrill felt up to socializing, the four of us had meals together. Other times, I ate with them and took food back to Sherrill in our room.
The Lodge where we stayed in Zion was perfectly located on the valley floor, surrounded by the massive ramparts of towering cliffs, and a short walk to the dining building. An elephant train took us around the valley, stopping at strategic points so that everyone, even those who didn't feel like hiking, could experience the spectacle of the enormous sandstone cliffs and rocky peaks. Later, while Sherrill rested in our room at the Lodge, I indulged in an independent walk, past the rock monoliths, cliffs, and streams.
The day we drove from Zion to Las Vegas to fly home to the Bay Area was the 52nd anniversary of the day Sherrill and I were married in the Cupid Drive-In Wedding Chapel in Las Vegas. Although we'd returned a couple of times since, when the chapel still stood on the Strip, it was gone this time and the Strip was much larger and busier, lined with flashy new towers, including one with the name Trump in huge letters.
"The Trump Hotel," our guide told us, "is the only hotel in Las Vegas without a casino. They weren't allowed to put one in because Mr. Trump had filed for bankruptcy."
Although some of buildings looked familiar, many of them were new to us.
This was the last trip that Sherrill and took together, but we had fifty-two years of exploring the world behind us, fifty-two years of turning to each other and asking, "What do you think of that?" Fifty-two years of sharing everything.
Sherrill and Bruce, 1965
____________________________________
Now, I'm developing the 81 blog posts about our
travels and life together during the 52 years
of our marriage into a book. I'll let you know
when it is published.
_____________________________________
"The Trump Hotel," our guide told us, "is the only hotel in Las Vegas without a casino. They weren't allowed to put one in because Mr. Trump had filed for bankruptcy."
Although some of buildings looked familiar, many of them were new to us.
This was the last trip that Sherrill and took together, but we had fifty-two years of exploring the world behind us, fifty-two years of turning to each other and asking, "What do you think of that?" Fifty-two years of sharing everything.
Sherrill and Bruce, 1965
____________________________________
Now, I'm developing the 81 blog posts about our
travels and life together during the 52 years
of our marriage into a book. I'll let you know
when it is published.
_____________________________________
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