CALIFORNIA OR BUST: Celebrating the 14th Anniversary of The Intrepid Tourist

The Scheaffer family at the Continental Divide, Colorado, August 1958.

It was fourteen years ago, in April 2011, that I launched The Intrepid Tourist as a platform for my travel writing. Since then I have put up a new post once a week, usually on a Monday. At first, the posts were articles based on my own travel. Over the years the blog has expanded to include posts from family and friends and currently totals more than 700 posts, seen by more than a half a million readers. In honor of this fourteenth anniversary I am posting a chapter from my memoir, Settlement House Girl, about my family’s cross-country trip in 1958 from Minneapolis to California and back. It was the most exciting trip we had ever taken and whetted my appetite to see more of the world.

California or Bust

T

he summer that I am fourteen (1958), our family embarks on an ambitious five week camping trip, packing the six of us into our 1954 Chevrolet Belair sedan for the journey from Minneapolis to California and back.  While my father has a long summer vacation, we don’t have the money to afford expensive trips--staying in hotels and eating in restaurants. The solution is car camping--staying at public campgrounds and cooking our own food.  Prior to that summer my mother had resisted going camping, insisting that it is too much work and not a vacation. But in 1958, my brother Tom is eight and Peter nine and old enough to help out. Steve and I have learned camping skills at overnights and cookouts as campers at Camp Bovey.

We buy two tents, sleeping bags, a camp stove, kerosene lantern, and set of nesting kettles. To prepare for the trip, we practice setting up camp in the backyard, much to our neighbors’ amusement as they watch from the other side of the fence. We each have a role. Keeping time with a stopwatch, my father directs the action: unfolding and spreading out the tent, pounding the stakes, erecting the umbrella support poles, propping up the rain flap. By the end of July we have the routine down pat and are ready to go.

Never before have any of us seen mountains, deserts, or the ocean. We feel like ancient explorers ready to discover a new land. Leaving Minneapolis and the rolling farmland of southern Minnesota behind, we cross the South Dakota prairie (with an obligatory stop at Wall Drug for photos and souvenirs), to our first campsite in the Black Hills, where we marvel at the giant heads on Mount Rushmore and the herds of shaggy bison roaming the plains.

Our next stop is Rocky Mountain National Park in Colorado, pitching our tents in the thin Alpine air. We hike along the mountain trails and get caught in a sudden snowstorm, amazed to encounter snow in summer.  We spot plump pikas harvesting grass to sun dry before they store it in underground burrows for winter. We watch water ouzels forage at the bottom of icy streams fed by melting mountain snow. I sit on a rock and stick my bare toes in the rushing water, but they quickly turn numb--which makes me wonder how the birds stay warm.

Caroline and her brothers at Mesa Verde.

From Rocky Mountain National Park we drive across the Continental Divide to the town of Montrose in western Colorado for a family reunion with my cousins.  From there we go to Mesa Verde National Park, pitching our tent at the edge of the mesa and, like the ancient cliff dwellers, cook our food over an open fire. It is easy to imagine our campsite as a place where the Anasazi might have tilled the ground to plant corn and beans or hunted deer and wild turkeys with bows and arrows. As we gaze into the canyon below we see a complex of square buildings built into the cliff wall a thousand years ago. My brothers and I delight in scrambling up and down the ladders of the cliff dwellings and investigating the open rooms. Protected from wind and weather by the overhanging rocks, the basic structure has changed little over time.

Inside the museum I peer at fine baskets, intricately decorated pots, carved stone and bone tools and other artifacts, and wonder about the ancient Americans who made them and why around 1300 AD they abandoned their homes. In the museum shop, I buy a small painting of a dancing figure by Navajo artist Harrison Begay. Outside, on the patio, a Native American man is constructing an elaborate sand painting, pouring colored grains to make tiny figures and geometric designs. We leave before the “painting” is complete, knowing that it is temporary, meant for tourists to see the artist at work. I learn that according to Navajo tradition, such paintings are part of healing ceremonies, destroyed after the ceremony is over.  

From Mesa Verde we head to Southern California to visit our cousins in a Los Angeles suburb. Our car has no air conditioning, so we cross the desert at night. Stars sparkle overhead in the clear, dry air as we speed down the highway. I can't imagine that anything could possibly live in such a barren, alien land. We arrive at my cousins’ house long past midnight and pitch our tents in their backyard. 

In Southern California I have my first view of the ocean and of waves taller than I am. Although I have been to Lake Michigan, a body of water so big that one can’t see to the other side, the Pacific is almost incomprehensible in its vastness. In tide pools along the shore I discover sea urchins, tiny crabs, and bright red sea stars. When I venture into the water to swim, a wave catches me by surprise and knocks me over. I can taste the salt on my tongue.

At the Minnesota state line.

On our return trip to Minneapolis we take a more northern route, stopping at the Grand Canyon; Salt Lake City; and Yellowstone National Park. It is one thing to read about ancient rock formations, the Mormon Temple, boiling rock pools and giant geysers, and another to see them in real life. This trip gives us all a taste of the infinite variety of our world and whets my appetite to see more of it.

Arriving home in Minneapolis.

SETTLEMENT HOUSE GIRL: Growing Up in the 1950s at North East Neighborhood House, Minnepolis, Minnesota is available at Amazon (paperback or ebook) or to order at your favorite bookstore. ISBN 9798864903285

HAPPY HOLIDAYS from THE INTREPID TOURIST

Scheaffer family in apartment at NENH, 1950.

"On Christmas Eve, after my brothers and I are asleep, my parents arrange “Santa’s” gifts under the tree. On Christmas morning, after everyone is awake, my father turns on the tree lights and gives the signal to enter. We rush in, each going straight to our own pile. Santa’s gifts are unwrapped and it is obvious who they are for—a doll for me, a train for Steve, stacking blocks for Peter, a stuffed toy for Tom."  

From Chapter 7: Family Christmas at NENH, SETTLEMENT HOUSE GIRL: Growing Up in the 1950s at North East Neighborhood House, Minneapolis, Minnesota.

 I have fond memories of celebrating Christmas when I was a child. Now, many years later, from my home in California, I send best wishes to you and all my faithful readers.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS

2024

 

TRAVELING THE WORLD WITH STAMPS: The Joy of Stamp Collecting

Stamps from Chile.

From the time I was small I loved collecting postage stamps, following in the steps of my father who often spent his evenings sorting, choosing, and mounting stamps in his album. The foreign names, currencies and images introduced me to a wider world and made me want to travel to those far-off places. It wasn’t until I grew up that I had the chance to travel abroad, but as I sorted my stamps and put them into albums I dreamed of going to those countries one day. I write about my childhood stamp collecting in my memoir, SETTLEMENT HOUSEGIRL: Growing Up in the 1950s at North East Neighborhood House, Minneapolis,Minnesota. Here are some excerpts from the book:

Snowy Egret, by John James Audubon.

The decorations in my father’s office at North East Neighborhood House reflect two of his favorite hobbies—bird watching and stamp collecting.  On one wall, in a framed Audubon print, a snowy egret displays elegant white plumes. On another wall of my father’s office hangs a framed map of the United States filled with stamps commemorating notable historic events. On one stamp, tiny engraved images of men on horseback mark the arrival of the Kearny Expedition in New Mexico in 1846. On another, miniature boats brave a stormy sea to honor the Coast Guard. A stamp with the Iowa state flag flanked by two elegant stalks of corn honors the state’s 100^th birthday.

Iowa Statehood commemorative stamp in my father's album.

I share my father’s love of stamps and have my own album. I love the exotic country names printed on each stamp—Magyar, Sverig, Republique Ivoire—and locating them on the maps in our atlas.  I learn more about geography and history from those colorful paper rectangles than from my books at school.

Christmas always yields a bumper crop of stamps for my collection–from the envelopes of cards and letters to blocks of stamps cut from the brown paper wrapped packages from out-of-town. Staff and foreign students who are residents at NENH save the stamps from their mail and give them to me as well.  I tear off the stamped corners of the envelopes and put them into bowls of warm water to soak.  As the water dissolves the glue, the stamps float off their backing. I fish them out and put them between paper towels, pressing with a heavy book to keep them flat. 

How to apply hinges to your stamps.

Once the stamps are dry, I sort them into glassine envelopes.  I keep the stamps in cigar boxes and catalogue them alphabetically by country for foreign stamps, and numerically by denomination for US stamps, with a separate section for commemoratives. I select the best for my album, attaching each stamp with a folded paper hinge.

At the back of my album I have special pages for blocks—groups of four stamps torn from the 100 stamp sheets printed by the Post Office. Some of my blocks are in mint condition. These I slip into protective acetate holders. Unlike the used stamps, sullied by postmark ink and without glue on the back, these stamps can still be used for postage. The best mint blocks include the serial number for the sheet. Even more prized is a whole sheet of 100 stamps.

From the time I was born, my father routinely bought a sheet of each new commemorative at the time it was issued—three dollars a sheet—with the plan that they would grow in value over time. It was meant to be an investment to help fund my college education. Thirty years later, after I am grown, my father gives me his collection of mint sheets. They come with this note:

 

THE STAMP FANTASY

Buy one sheet of every new commemorative stamp for 18 years, 1944-1962.

Sell stamps in 1962 at their increased value, some at fantastic profit.

Result: Big Money  Equals: College education for Caroline

Reality: Missed many issues after 1948. Plus, couldn’t afford to keep it up, as cost of stamps increased from 3 cents to 4 cents to 10 cents, etc.

Value of stamps in collectors market in 1979:  3 cent stamp  =  3 cents cash

Therefore: Merry Christmas, 1979. Enjoy the stamps and use them for postage. Five 3 cent stamps = today’s postage.

Hope your envelopes are large enough!

By 1979, the cost of a first class stamp was 15 cents.

My father passed on his enthusiasm for stamp collecting to his grandson, my son Matt. When Matt was growing up, they spent hours together choosing stamps to put in his album.

Matt and my father, Les Scheaffer. 1984

"The postage stamps of a nation are a picture gallery of its glories. They depict in miniature its famous men and women, the great events of its history, its organizations, its industries, its natural wonders...No one can pursue this hobby without developing a greater knowledge of their national heritage." Arthur E. Summerfield, Postmaster General 1953-1961

SETTLEMENT HOUSE GIRL is available at Amazon in both a paperback and ebook edition. 

 

THE ROAD TO CAMP BOVEY: From Minneapolis to Northern Wisconsin, Recollections from Childhood

Camp Bovey sign, 1961.

Seventy-five years ago, under the direction of my father, Les Scheaffer, North East Neighborhood House, a settlement house in Minneapolis, founded Camp Bovey near Solon Springs, Wisconsin. It was a place where children and families of Northeast Minneapolis could enjoy nature and the outdoors, learn camping skills, and have fun together. My first trip to Camp Bovey (then called Camp Hodag) was when I was four years old. Over the next seventeen years I went there many times--with my family, as a camper, and as a staff member for the summer sessions when I was in college. No matter how many times I made the trip, I always felt the excitement of going to Camp.

The four Scheaffer children at Camp Bovey, 1951.

I write about Camp Bovey in four chapters of my new memoir, SETTLEMENT HOUSE GIRL: GrowingUp in the 1950s at North East Neighborhood House, Minneapolis, Minnesota. Here is an excerpt, describing the trip to Camp as I knew it as a child.

Camp Bovey. View of the lodge from across the lake, 2022.

The trip to Camp Bovey from northeast Minneapolis is 150 miles. I know all the stops and landmarks by heart, and no matter how many times I take the trip, the excitement of going to Camp never fades. If you don’t stop, you can make it in about three hours. But for our family the trip always takes longer, with stops along the way for gas, groceries, toilets, a picnic lunch, and if we are lucky, wildlife viewing--perhaps a deer, bald eagle, or in spring, a patch of trilliums.

We always aim to get an early start, but never do, and by the time we reach Taylor’s Falls on the Minnesota side of the St. Croix River, everyone is hungry. St. Croix State Park, across the bridge on the Wisconsin side of the river, is a favorite lunch spot with its scenic view, rocks to climb, and space for my brothers and me to use up some energy before getting back into the car.

After lunch we head east to Turtle Lake, where we turn north on Highway 63 toward Cumberland, home of the Tower House Restaurant, named for the turret on the Victorian house in which it is located. When I am thirteen I taste an exotic foreign food for the first time at the Tower House—pizza! It is delicious.

Cumberland is on an isthmus between two lakes. In winter, the Chamber of Commerce drives an old car onto the frozen lake and raises money by taking bets on when the ice will melt and the car will sink. In 1960, we pass through town in early April and the car is still sitting on the ice. We are on the way to Camp to celebrate my brother Tom’s tenth birthday. By the time we go by again, on our way to Camp for a Memorial Day work weekend, the car is gone. We never find out how long it took for the ice to melt that year.

After Cumberland, the next major town is Spooner. We sometimes stop for a light meal at the Buckhorn Inn on Spooner’s main street. My brothers and I love sitting on the high bar stools. We are allowed to order anything under a dollar. As we wait for our food we ponder the heads of deer and other animals mounted on the wall and wonder if the bizarre two-headed calf is real. It is. Outside Spooner, Highways 53 and 63 merge, and we continue north, going through the tiny towns of Minong and Wascott before arriving at our turnoff at Gordon. To the left is the fire tower on top of the hill above Lake St. Croix. We turn right onto County Road Y.

At Gordon, we are ten miles from Camp and almost there. The first five miles out of town are on a two-lane blacktop. When we reach Flamang Road, we turn left onto a graded sand road. We drive for another five miles, crossing Ox Creek and passing a few cabins. A sign for Camp Bovey, across from a cluster of tumble-down log buildings that we call the haunted farm, marks the last leg of the trip, a narrow rutted road winding through jack pine forest. It isn’t long before we get the first glimpse of Lake Metzger glimmering through the trees, and then, after passing the three “boys” cabins, pull into a parking place at the back of the lodge. We have arrived at Camp.

Flagpole. Dedication to Lester Scheaffer, founder of Camp Bovey, 1949.

Today’s trip to Camp Bovey bypasses Taylor’s Falls and follows the Interstate toward Duluth, cutting over to Highway 53 at Spooner. But the thrill of going to Camp never fades.

Camp Bovey is celebrating its 75^th Anniversary this year, 2024. It is still a place for children and families to enjoy the out-of-doors. For more about Camp Bovey and anniversary events, go to the Camp Bovey Facebook page or the ESNS website. (North East Neighborhood House became East Side Neighborhood Services (ESNS) in 1963.)