24 Hours in Newport, Rhode Island

In the course of researching an upcoming article, I came across a location that piqued my interest: Belcourt Castle. This Newport, Rhode Island, mansion stands out from its stodgy neighbors by virtue of its rebellious history -- and its reputed hauntings. I'd never been to Newport, let alone Belcourt, So I took a little six-hour drive up I-95 to visit the Ocean State -- my first time actually stopping and not just driving through on the way to Boston -- and checked out the quaint little island burg that was recently named one of America's Prettiest Towns by ForbesTraveler.com.

Although I had less than a day to spend in town -- whose colonial buildings are remarkably well preserved, thanks mainly to the foresight of philanthropist/heiress/scandal queen Doris Duke -- I was determined to see the highlights, most notably the castle that had originally drawn me here.

But as I'd arrived less than an hour before Belcourt closed, the castle would have to wait until the next day. First I was off to the Cliff Walk, the three-and-a-half-mile oceanfront path that guides visitors along the lawn perimeters of some of the most magnificent homes ever built on American soil. I managed to arrive about an hour before sunset, and I bragged to a friend on the other end of my phone about the sights I was passing as he sat shackled to his cube on the opposite coast. "Ooh, there's The Breakers. You should see Chateau-la-Mer!" Sometimes it's fun to rub a little salt water in the working-man's wound.

I made it back to the Bowen's Wharf area just in time for the magic hour, which once again left me pondering, Why is it that sunset photos never look half splendid as they do in real life? At least I got a few decent twilight shots of the darling colonial-era shops and restaurants that line the waterfront. It felt someone like Disneyland, only without the impending air of falsehood or soul-numbing Stepfordness. After a splendid dinner at One Bellevue -- featuring the best butternut squash soup I've ever had in my entire butternut squash soup-loving life -- I got some much-needed shuteye at the Hotel Viking, a historic 1926 hotel whose mission seems to be not to skimp on pillows. (Where the heck are you supposed to put them at night, anyway?)

The next day, I awoke refreshed and ready to tackle the ludicrous eight-hour agenda I'd set forth for myself: sailing, a visit to the Norman Bird Sanctuary and Hanging Rock, and, of course, a firsthand view of the castle that had drawn me to America's Society Capital (also aka the Queen of the Sea and the Queen of Summer Resorts) in the first place. Surprisingly, I haven't been able to discover a sailing nickname for Newport, or perhaps they've opted not to have one, still smarting from the loss of the America's Cup back in 1983. My sailing guide from Sail Newport was a wealth of information about the sport, answering every question I had as if he'd studied for an oral exam. He regaled me with tales of the cup, the story behind the naming of the Rose Island Lighthouse (the island is said to resemble a stemmed rose when the water is at low tide), and the remarkable tenacity of Clingstone, the unsheltered "House on the Rocks" that has somehow managed to weather storms that have obliterated more protected landmarks.

After a delightful morning on the water, I realized that if I were going to keep on schedule and leave by sundown, I would have to skip my hike to Hanging Rock and head straight to Belcourt. I didn't want to be rushed, and I certainly wouldn't have missed this stop.

Owner Harle Tinney was kind enough to give me a private tour through her home, which, unlike most of Newport's other mansions, was still a functioning household rather than just a museum. She pointed out where she herself had spotted ghosts and provided her own personal take on some of the artifacts, most notably the coronation carriage, which she had assisted her husband in building. Tinney can point to a carving and recall just how many hours, days, or weeks it had taken to finish it. The carriage itself is quite an artistic achievement, with the sort of craftsmanship and attention to detail usually found only in works of centuries past.

The rest of the house is an eclectic wonderment of treasures that the Tinney family collected from around the globe. Before a stained-glass window sat a hand-carved four-poster bed from India, which Tinney said would have taken four men twenty years to carve. (Imagine the back order on those.) A jewelry box made for royalty stood nearly twice as tall as Tinney herself. Vases, chairs, and paintings originally owned by some of history's grandest names filled every area of the castle, which at times actually felt medieval due to the abundance of suits of armor, vaulted ceilings, and stained glass.

I won't go into the details of the home's history, which is laid out in great detail elsewhere on the web, but suffice it to say that Belcourt's pedigree is unusual, just the way original owner and maverick Oliver Belmont wanted it. The love the staff feels for the house is evident, especially from Tinney herself. One of her employees even took off a year of school in Canada to work at Belcourt, so obsessed he's been since he first learned about the castle as a kid. It seems that most anyone, myself included, who visits Belcourt finds a special attachment to it, and I found myself jumping at Harle Tinney's offer to use her office to finish the assignment that was due in mere hours.

When I finally, and reluctantly, left Belcourt after sunset, Ms. Tinney was leaving for a birthday extravaganza at one of the other historic manses, and she had just finished wrapping a lovely antique vase for her guest. She was decked out in her finery, evoking images of the social butterfly Alva Belmont, whose presence, if not her spirit, could still be felt throughout the darkened halls of Belcourt. I followed her a few blocks down the road to the party and then, as I rolled off back towards the modern world on I-95 and she down a long white gravel driveway, spotted a last glimpse of Ms. Tinney, a tux-tailed valet, and a bygone era.

View more Newport, Rhode Island photos

Return to Fire Island

Every once in a while, I have a wonderfully peaceful sleep in which I dream I'm strolling the wooded lanes of a tranquil island. There are no cars, only little red wagons and the occasional golf cart. Surf roars onto a beach as fine as white powder, and my feet look sugar-coated after only a short stroll, during which I'm greeted by deer who've all but lost their fear of humans. In the distance blinks a lighthouse.

During my years of living on the East Coast, I visited Fire Island roughly a dozen times, including a long weekend spent with a close friend in lieu of attending prom. On each of my visits, I usually managed to drag along at least one or two newbies, friends who had yet to experience the island's charm. On the return ferry ride after one such trip, my friend Zi turned to me, a contented smile on her face, and remarked, "How have I lived on Long Island all my life and never visited here?"

I've often wondered the same thing, but I've also been glad that Fire Island has remained somewhat unknown, somehow forgotten, and often avoided by the less open-minded due to its reputation as a haven for alternative lifestyles. These factors, plus the half-hour ferry ride that separates the island from the "mainland" of Long Island, have kept it less crowded than it might otherwise be. And after 10 years of being away from one of my favorite spots on the planet, I finally returned this weekend.


My friends had, for various reasons, flaked, but I decided to go anyway. I'd missed out on visiting the island too many times in the past, and I wasn't about to let this opportunity escape as well. After so many years, I not only remembered driving directions to the ferry, but I also recalled my frugal parking secrets (opt for the free lots on Gibson and share a $4 cab to the ferry, in lieu of the $14/day parking at the terminal). Once the ferry had docked and I'd set foot back in the main town of Ocean Beach, the layout of the terrain came back to me as well.

There was Rachel's Bakery, where I'd learned not to be afraid of vegetables in desserts via the utterly decadent carrot cake. Across the way was The Albatross, which used to serve comforting warm bread and a decadent garlic butter as a freebie appetizer, but has, according to another Fire Island friend/aficionado (who just shot a music video here), since stopped. The community house that doubles as the island's only movie theater announced screenings of WALL-E on hand-written posters, while some budding entrepreneurs begged passersby to buy their hand-painted shells and rocks.

Despite the hubbub of the arriving ferry crowd and a few off-leash children, the island was relatively silent on the bay side. After contenting myself that the old-school arcade was still there, I set my sights on the ocean side, roughly half a mile away. Strolling the island's many walkways has always been one of my favorite island pastimes, and I planned to spend a good portion of my day wandering the trails like an aimless deer (minus the pit stops to feast in unlocked trash cans). Hiking would commence, however, after I got in my beach time.

When I reached the surf, I watched as a gaggle of teenage lifeguards hauled ashore a girl who'd been caught in the riptides. Some people may not realize it, but there's nothing due south of Long Island until you reach the Caribbean. Sure, a trade current will most likely drift you ashore, but why leave your fate in the hands of the Oxy Squad? I've experienced Long Island riptides in the past -- one in Amagansett was what I consider my first brush with death -- so I wasn't about to chance it again. Thus was the reason I ditched my swimming plans in favor of flopping onto my borrowed Tweety Bird towel to read my National Geographic Adventure magazine. Oh, and the Arctic-like water also played a small role in my decision.

Before diving into my sand-dune-sized pile of reading material, I slathered myself with SPF 45. As many fond memories as I have of Fire Island, I also recall it as the site of My Worst Sunburn Ever, a burn so severe that the pressure of cold shower water on my skin caused me pain, so long-lasting that the burn lines were visible nearly six years later. So sunscreen I applied. And applied. And applied some more.

After flirting with skin cancer long enough, I set off for my stroll, heading down through the smaller town of Seaview and over as far as Ocean Bay Park, where Flynn's was a-jumping with Sunday-night reggae. I popped in for the half-price Corona special, then set back to Ocean Beach to see when the next ferry would be. I'd had my fill of house-gazing, for the time being, and I'd suddenly remembered one of the many attractions that I needed to visit before sunset.

The Fire Island Lighthouse is four miles from Ocean Beach, which was too far for me to hike before the light had gone. So back to Bay Shore I'd have to journey, where I'd pick up Eartha KITT in time to cross the many bridges of the Robert Moses Causeway to the lighthouse. I made it just in time to hike the extra mile or so from the parking lot, snapped my shots, and, reluctantly, left.

But I'll be back.

View more Fire Island photos.

Don't Make Me Go! (Hawaii, Day 8)

Feeling depressed on the last day of a vacation is not uncommon. But this was the first time I actually felt tears welling up as I loaded my bags into the cursed Sebring then walked to the office to check out. I don't know why my emotions were running so strong. Perhaps it was the thought of leaving so much undone, or returning to the tedium of everyday life. Whatever it was, I played out my last few hours on the Big Island in a state of mourning, begrudgingly following the necessary departure routine.

My plane left early in the afternoon, so I didn't have time to travel very far. After a subpar breakfast at the restaurant at the King Kamehameha Hotel that left me more than a little unsatisfied, I strolled the grounds near Ahuena Heiau, located incongruously near all the hustle and bustle of the tourism of the Kona waterfront. The grounds of the hotel are in dire need of updating. Considering the place has such prime real estate and a significant historical landmark, the proprietors have really let it go. The interior looks as if it hasn't been refurbished since Esquivel's heyday, and I almost expected to hear his "space-age bachelor pad music" piped through the faux wood corridors. Even the air seemed stagnant and old, the strong whiff of retirement home permeating every corner. It was a depressing place to spend my final day.

With less than a half hour before I'd have to hit the road, I ventured into town for a quick peek at the Mokuaikaua Church, listed as the first Christian church of the Hawaiian islands. Quaint as it was, it was less than remarkable, and much less picturesque than either of the smaller churches I'd visited over the previous week. A few snaps there, then it was time to hit the road -- with a quick pitstop at Ba-Le to pick up my beloved lemongrass tofu baguette for the plane ride.

After a brief disagreement with the Dollar clerk regarding the problems I'd experienced with the Sebring From Hell, I found myself at the end of an interminable and unmoving line at the Kona airport. I've been through airport chaos, including during holiday season, but the inefficiency was just deplorable. How many times did I have to have my bags scanned? Why did it take the skycap 20 minutes to serve the one person ahead of me? Why were only two counter clerks around to check the three plane loads of passengers who were hoping against hope that they wouldn't miss their planes? Note to Kona airport managers: Hawaii is not a developing nation. Get your act together. You don't want your economy-fueling tourists having this melee be their last memory of an otherwise relaxing vacation.

Even with all the inconvenience, it was far preferable to being in a cube. That was when I realized the cause of the tears welling behind my eyes.

Day 1: Escape From Cube Life
Day 2: Manta Heaven
Day 3: Paddling to My Death
Day 4: The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States
Day 5: Somewhere Over Polulu
Day 6: Grounded in Hilo
Day 7: To Fly or Not to Fly
Day 8: Don't Make Me Go!

To Fly or Not to Fly (Hawaii, Day 7)

I'm not a morning person. Anyone who even slightly knows me that I just don't function in the a.m. hours, no matter what the time zone. So for me to wake at 5:30 a.m. -- during my vacation, no less -- you know I meant business. And business on this, my last full day on the island, was to get on an aircraft and see some friggin' lava.

I drove the two-plus hours back to Hilo, through rain, wind, fog, and multiple inefficient traffic stops, to be at the airstrip by 9 a.m. After getting somewhat lost and being assured by the airline operator that the pilot would be waiting for me, I arrived 10 minutes early to find an empty airstrip. No one. Nada. Pas d'avion. After staying on the line with the operator a while longer, I was assured that my flight would not take off without me. A member of the grounds maintenance staff confirmed that my ride would be back shortly, from what I understood through the thick Hawaiian accent and noise of the airport. Shortly after the plane emerged in the low-ceilinged sky 15 minutes later, I learned that my flight was, again, canceled due to inclement weather. Dammit.

To kill the few hours before my horseback ride in the Waipi'o Valley shortly after noon, I stopped in at Ken's House of Pancakes in Hilo, a local joint with an enormous menu to rival even that of a New York diner. From there I headed straight to the Valley, driving through a town that looked like the Old West relocated to a tropical isle. Our main guide, Keone (who told us his name was Hawaiian for "John") liked to crack jokes and make us smell rancid fruit (in this case, the noni, which has a scent reminiscent of a monkey's butt crack and resembles a bloated wart), took us down the steep incline into the valley, picking up a wayward bodyboarder along the way. (How he hung onto the back of the bucking van I'll never know.) Less than an hour later, we were saddled up and cantering into a valley of waterfalls, hippies, and mist-covered taro fields.

My riding companions -- most much more skilled at horseback than I -- were a motley crew of tourists from throughout the continental U.S., the loudest of who insisted on leading the pack and hootin' and hollerin' about every aspect of her life so that she almost scared off one of the wild horses who roamed Waipi'o. The haze lifted so that we didn't need the rain gear we'd brought, and our band made its merry way past the leased homes and squatters (an "inordinate amount" of which are named Dave, per The Book and seconded by Keone). I snapped almost as many shots as I had at Pololu, but few were as spectacular, given the fickle lighting and constant movement of my ride. Although I didn't get to ride over a volcano, this excursion made up for the flight in terms of shear spectacle. The perfectly ripe avocados, hand picked as we trotted along, made for a delightfully delicious end of the day, for both me and my trusty steed.

Day 1: Escape From Cube Life
Day 2: Manta Heaven
Day 3: Paddling to My Death
Day 4: The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States
Day 5: Somewhere Over Polulu
Day 6: Grounded in Hilo
Day 7: To Fly or Not to Fly
Day 8: Don't Make Me Go!

Grounded in Hilo (Hawaii, Day 6)

I awoke with grand visions of lava-spewing vistas still dancing in my head. Today was the day I'd scheduled my biplane ride over volcanoes, a trip I'd planned toward the end of my vacation knowing that my diving would prohibit me from flying on certain days. The flight was one of the "must-do" activities I'd planned for my trip -- sister or no -- and I'd set aside a certain amount of vacation allowance for the event. I might not be able to light a stick on fire while walking on a lava flow -- as I'd seen on the Big Island's visitor channel -- but I could at least experience the volcanic wonders from the air. I hopped into my untrustworthy Sebring and headed for the far side of the Big Island.

Thus far, I'd seen only the "dry" side of the island -- from the brown stone fields of the Kohala coast to the cloud-obscured vistas just up the road from Kona. Rain had already canceled plans on one of my dry-side days, so I should have been prepared for massive amounts of precipitation in the rainiest city in the U.S. But that would mean I was being rational.

Living in LA for ten years has all but absolved me from having to know how to handle rain. I'm used to doubling my commute time at the mere whisper from a "weatherman" of approaching precipitation, but I've never lost my confidence in handling slick-surfaced pavement. My drive to Hilo almost made me feel like a native Angeleno. At one point, the rain pelted my windshield so hard that I was forced -- for the first time in my life -- to pull to the side of the road until I could see the road again. This from a driver who's bested the black ice of Michigan winters.

As I drove from one side of the island to the next, the landscape grew ever more lush, the green seeming to meld with the black pavement, which was interrupted more often than not by one-lane stop signals required by ongoing construction or road maintenance. To go the roughly 80 miles from my condo to Akaka Falls took almost as long as it would have in LA rush-hour traffic -- sans scenic overlooks. I could at least thank Lono that the view at Akaka was unobstructed by rain.


I killed the next few hours having sub-par pasta at Pescatore (seriously, how hard is it to make sauce for noodles, people?) and perusing the lackluster exhibits at the Pacific Tsunami Museum, where the docents were kind enough to let me recharge my camera batteries in anticipation of my afternoon volcano flight. When I learned my flight was canceled due to weather, I switched to Plan B, exploring the area's attractions, rain be damned. A cursory cruise around Banyan Drive and the Queen Liliuokalani Gardens made me wish for blue skies more worthy of photographing. Then north of Hilo I went, in search of the botanical gardens so many people had told me were worth the seemingly steep $15 admission.

I wasn't disappointed. The Hawaii Tropical Botanic Gardens merit the price, even in inclement weather. I took more photos here than I'd shot my entire vacation. I'm not usually a sucker for orchids, but I found myself in macro mode more often than not, so unusual were the blooms. Even though I spent less than two hours on the grounds -- in damp clothing, for the most part -- I found the gardens, and the scenic drive to get there, a high point of my trip. Rainbow Falls and the Boiling Pots, located just outside of Hilo, paled in comparison to the verdant dips and vales of the botanic paradise, as spotty as the signposts were.

When the day's rain finally let up on my return trip to Kona, I stopped in at Daniel Thiebaut, a posh eatery in Waimea, where I ensconced myself at the bar. (Note to local I met that night: My trip to Portland was cancelled, so I won't have any recommendations for your son. Sorry!) I then trudged back to Kona, intent on getting a good night's sleep for my return trip the next day. There'd be sun this time, right?

Day 1: Escape From Cube Life
Day 2: Manta Heaven
Day 3: Paddling to My Death
Day 4: The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States
Day 5: Somewhere Over Polulu
Day 6: Grounded in Hilo
Day 7: To Fly or Not to Fly
Day 8: Don't Make Me Go!

Somewhere Over Pololu (Hawaii, Day 5)

It’s not often I get to dive. Yes, I live in SoCal, but the water there is downright frigid, so I haven’t been since my beginner certification many moons ago. My volcano flight wasn’t until the next late afternoon, so I booked myself on a morning dive with Kona Honu Divers once again. This time out, we hit Koloko Arches, which had wonderful arch and tunnel formations that made me wish I’d sprung for that underwater camera. We spotted a host of critters, including a crown of thorns starfish and several eels.

After my dive, I headed north up the Kohala coast in search of the Puako petroglyphs and ran into a band of scavenger hunters. I so badly wanted to crash their party and join in, especially when I learned it was part of an Internet conference, but I let the nerds be.

Next stop: Hapuna beach, the oft-named “finest beach in the country.” Yes, it was pretty and the sand was powder white, but beyond that, I didn’t get why it receives so many accolades. I found Oahu’s Kailua far more picturesque and inviting. To each his own.

Café Pesto turned out to be a bit of a letdown. For all the hype this Italian restaurant receives, it didn’t do much for me, and you can’t blame it on the vegetarianism since the waiter recommended my pizza before I’d explained my dietary restrictions. I think I might have been able to teach the chef a thing or two about Italian cuisine.

The highlight of the day came while driving the final stretch of route 270, through picturesque Hawi and its Old West storefronts. At the end of the road sits the Pololu Valley, a majestic swath of green that tumbles down to a black-sand beach rimmed by steep emerald cliffs. The view from the top was wonderful, but The Book declared the 20-minute trek to the bottom even more photogenic, so down I went, a fine mist acting as natural coolant. About halfway down I began to ponder the return trip upwards and so confirmed the validity of The Book’s decree via a passing Aussie before continuing the descent.

I wouldn’t say it’s that much prettier at the bottom, at least not when it’s misting/raining, but I am glad I spent extra time in the valley. The beach was the first I’d stood on that was an usual color, and I found it interesting that my camera had such a difficult time reconciling this contrast, especially when challenged with a composite of just my pasty white legs and black sand. I think that shot almost fried the processors. In spite of the superstition against taking lava rocks, I scooped a spoonful of sand for my grandmother, who for some reason has begun a collection of soil from around the world, then began the climb back up the six or so switchbacks.

It was at this point that I noticed the most vibrant rainbow I’d ever set eyes on, an unbroken, iridescent arc that spanned from the valley’s green cliffs clear across the water, as if hoping to reach the Maui shore. I must have taken 20 photos of the rainbow, which appeared to glow against the gray mist, like a piece of Oz breaking back into Kansas. Perhaps one day I’ll get around to threading all the shots together.

Day 1: Escape From Cube Life
Day 2: Manta Heaven
Day 3: Paddling to My Death
Day 4: The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States
Day 5: Somewhere Over Pololu
Day 6: Grounded in Hilo
Day 7: To Fly or Not to Fly
Day 8: Don't Make Me Go!

The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States (Hawaii, Day 4)

My elderly, Big Isle-loving neighbors had raved about Place of Refuge, and The Book lauded the adjacent Honaunau reef, so I made that my first stop the next day. The reef delivered as promised, with tons of fish and even a lollygagging sea turtle who saw fit to trail me within yards of the heiau on the opposite shore. Easy entry meant that even scuba divers converge on the place, where they take advantage of the "two step," a naturally formed stair of lava rock that allows you to slide right into the water without getting too cut up or bashed by waves.

After only 20 minutes or so of snorkeling, I realized, thanks to the slight sting of salt water, that I'd forgotten to lather my pasty back in sunscreen and that I'd be feeling repercussions the next day if I didn't two-step it back on land.

Several people had described Place of Refuge (Pu'uhonua o Honaunau) as tranquil, serene, and emiting a calming effect over the body. Yes, there's something rather peaceful about a turquoise lagoon fringed with waves crashing on lava rock while palm trees sway overhead. But ain't that most of Hawaii, brah? I strolled among the staged tikis and examples of heiaus and longboats, but lingered over the replica of a konane game, which looked strikingly similar to Chinese checkers, minus the star pattern. If the gift shop manager is listening, you should get this game in stock, ASAP. I was surprised not to find it among the other ubiquitous souvenirs.

From Honaunau, I headed south, by now used to the feel of dried salt on my skin for most of the day. My ultimate destination was Volcanoes National Park, but The Book declared South Point -- the true southernmost point in the United States, contrary to Key West's claim -- a "Not to Be Missed!" locale, so I took the 12-mile, crumbling-road detour past some cows and windmills to see what would be seen. I didn't have time to hike the additional two miles to the green sand beach, but I knew that would only be a waste of time for me, as I've learned I just don't have the slightest desire to sunbathe or sit still when I'm on vacation. There's just too much to be seen.

This is the first time the book or any of volume of its series has steered me wrong. There ain't nothing at South Point, and it was perhaps the most polluted beach I've seen in all the Hawaiian islands. After driving some 20 minutes out of my way -- and wasting valuable daylight to do so -- I didn't even get a damn plaque to commemorate the occasion of my presence. I hightailed it out of the there, not wanting to waste another precious second at such a pointless, unphotogenic spot. Stupid South Point.

I did, however, find it necessary to make a pit stop for lunch. After snorkeling, walking, and driving way the hell out of my way, I needed a little something in the belly to keep me going, but something fast so I could enjoy the volcanoes as much as I could. I’d already scheduled my plane flight for Thursday morning, since the actual lava flow was currently visible only by aerial tour, but I still wanted to get in some precious ground time and to see such sights as the acclaimed Thurston lava tube. But that would have to wait until I snacked.

The Book declared Desert Rose Café as “probably the best food in this part of the island,” which wasn’t saying much considering I spotted only one other eatery (mini-mart notwithstanding). I opted for a veggie burger with cream cheese and mango – I hadn’t found many other healthful choices – and scarfed it down. I have to say, the combo was quite interesting, and I’d try it again, only without so much dang cream cheese. After filling up my gas tank – and spending 20 minutes on hold to verify with Dollar that I didn’t have to use ethanol, as the label on my gas tank declared, and that the brake light that kept flashing intermittently was nothing to worry about – I was on my way. Again.

I arrived at Hawaii Volcanoes National Park a little before four o’clock, leaving me with just over two hours to drive Crater Rim . It was enough to do that and only that, although I would have preferred longer to explore the many trails in the more lush, rainforest portion of the park. My camera couldn’t capture the beauty and vastness of the craters, and on the computer screen, the steam vents seem like little more than the smoke of a latent campfire, but trust me, the park is well worth visiting, even when the lava flow isn’t visible by land. If nothing else, the Thurston lava tube and the surrounding flora are worth the visit. If my condo’s flashlight had been working, I would have explored the unadulterated portion of the tube, but I wasn’t about to venture in there in pitch blackness.

Now, scientists, listen up: One of you needs to create a device that captures smell. We have cameras and audio recording devices, but nothing quite captures the spirit of a place or triggers a memory like the sense of smell. I’ll never forget the sulfurous odor of the craters, that acrid, nose-tingly scent that doesn’t quite offend but isn’t something you wanted a candle scented after. I did, however, want to bottle the smell and take it home to supplement my slideshow so they could get an all-sensory feel of the place.

The sun set not long after I left the park’s gate, and by the time I hit the road back north, I was pretty tired. I had roughly 100 miles to go, on a road that disallowed a speed of more than 65 – both legally and practically – and all I wanted was to get back to my condo and sleep. I gave the bird to the South Point turnoff as I passed and whizzed northward. In the gloam, a sign blazed off to my left, one that I’d failed to notice on my daylight cruise southward. This time, I not only noticed but read the sign, and by the time it clicked, I’d already flown past. A quick U-ie fixed that, and moments later I was parked at the bar of Shaka, the southernmost bar in the United States. (Take that, lying Southernmost House Grand Hotel!)

As soon as bartender Cyboy (real name: he’d kill me if I told you) had poured me an ice-cold pint of red ale, I whipped out my cell to call my pal Marilyn and tell her of my achievement. Moments later, after writing a few postcards and talking to amiable son Bubba (real name: forgotten), I walked out to my car to take a shot of the exterior, now all aglow in the afterthought of sunset. My Sebring didn’t respond to the first dozen punches of the key fob, so I let myself into my car the old-fashioned way, with a key. I tossed the keys on the driver seat, grabbed my camera, shut the door, and posed my camera on the car roof so that I could get a crystal-clear shot. As I pushed the button, my possessed car honked and all I got was a fuzzy neon blur. The next one came out all nice like.

When I went to open my car, I found it locked. There on the seat sat my keys, glinting up at me in mockery. Apparently my key fob had a several-minute delay, and had locked me out of my rented vehicle. After telling Cyboy the story, I plopped myself down on my still-warm barstool and once again called Dollar. After several calls, I was told that I’d have to pay for the locksmith myself, as I’d declined roadside assistance (which I didn’t recall ever being offered to me), and that the cost would be around $35. No sweat. Plus $1.50 mileage. From Captain Cook. Both ways. That amounted to just over $200, and it would take the locksmith at least an hour to rescue me. As I argued with the Dollar representative on the phone, Cyboy came outside to tell me that his buddy up the hill was on his way and would be arriving in five minutes. I hung up on Dollar and awaited my knight in shining armor.

Or flannel PJs, I wasn’t being picky. Cyboy was in hysterics as he watched the pajama’d Sean at work, and moments later, I once again had my keys in hand. As Sean went to go back into his truck, his handle wouldn’t move. “I locked myself out.” I almost burst into hysterics before he let on that he was just joking. I have a feeling he loves pulling that over on customers.
I finished the free pint of beer that Cyboy had offered me for having survived the experience, then headed back up to Kona. I couldn’t even look the Sebring in the face. I always name my cars – even rentals – but this one didn’t deserve a name. All it deserved was a kick good night.

Day 1: Escape From Cube Life
Day 2: Manta Heaven
Day 3: Paddling to My Death
Day 4: The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States
Day 5: Somewhere Over Polulu
Day 6: Grounded in Hilo
Day 7: To Fly or Not to Fly
Day 8: Don't Make Me Go!

Paddling to My Death (Hawaii, Day 3)

Just because I'm traveling solo doesn't mean I'm going to slow down... much. Sure, I take my time getting ready in the morning, usually heading out the door an hour later than I'd intended. But it's a vacation, what do you want from me?

My trusty guide book informed me that the best way to visit the Captain Cook monument in Kealakekua Bay is by kayak, and a kayak being one of my preferred modes of transportation, I decided to heed The Book's advice, even though I'd be without a paddling partner. I rented my trusty craft from Adventures in Paradise, a home-based business that looked every bit the part. As I squinted to read the day's weather forecast posted on the wall of the tin-roofed patio, the proprietor stepped out to greet me, as did a red-speckled gecko even larger than the one who'd hitched a ride on my rearview mirror the day before. Sunny skies and warm waters told me it was okay to go ahead with my plan.

As Karin helped me load my sit-atop on the roof of my car, I wondered how in Pele’s name I’d be able to unload it myself. She informed me that the parking lot at the bay was full of able-bodied boys looking for a $5 tip in exchange for easing me of my burden. When I explained that I deal in virtual cash and thus had little more than a pocketful of coins and some lint, she told me not to worry.

She was right on all counts. Before I’d even opened the car door, a Bud-sipping young’un tapped on my windshield to ask if I needed help. When I explained my lack of hard currency, he shrugged. “I’ve got nothing else to do,” my knight explained, and began unloading my Sebring of its cargo. Moments later, I was packed into my kayak, Amancio waving to me with one hand and sipping another Bud with the other.

It’s only a half mile or so across the bay to the beach where Captain Cook was killed, but by kayak – solo – it seems much longer. I took my time, alternating between snapping shots with my camera (safely tucked into its housing) and sprinting to make up for how much the tide had shoved me since I’d last stopped. The tide seemed to be moving against me, which, I reasoned, was a good thing since it’d be working in my favor on the way back.

I paddled on at a leisurely pace, watching the green-furred cliff walls drift by and marveling at the blueness of the water. I didn’t recall the ocean being so stunningly cobalt in Oahu, and I remembered that this, the westerly side of the Big Island, was known for its clear waters due to the lack of runoff from rivers and the lava rock. As I mused about the little Hawaiian geology I know and tried to keep my kayak steady for another shot, I realized the sounds of breaking waves had grown louder. When I turned to see how close I was to shore, I realized I was about to be turned over by a large wave – and pushed headlong into a crag of unfriendly-looking lava rocks, which could stand the beating surf much better than I could. I paddled frantically, timing the boat so that I just barely managed to ride a wave in rather than being pummeled by it.

A second wave almost knocked me from my seat, and when I saw that I could stand, I jumped out and began leading my boat to shore. But I wasn’t out of danger yet. The waves still forced their way in, threatening to crush me between my kayak and the rocks, and several times I just managed to push the boat out of the way before it gave me a broken nose. Coughing and trying to remain nonchalant as I dragged ass ashore, I waved to the older couple who had watched me nearly drown, the husband half-amped as if he were about to save me, then realized, “Eh, I don’t know her.”

I allowed myself a few moments’ rest before strolling down the white sandy beach to explore, rust-colored mongooses darting out from underfoot. After seeing the white obelisk and snapping shots of the sea from land, I was ready for some snorkeling, which I’d heard was some of the best on the whole island.

It was like swimming in an aquarium. There were so many fish – yellow tangs, puffers, whitemouth eels, teardrop butterfly fish – that I could hardly keep track. I hung out and rode the surf with a school of yellow tangs that I had spotted from the shore, the surge pushing me in and out of their lemon bodies so often that they seemed to get used to me – at least, as long as I didn’t try to take a picture. (Perhaps tangs are Amish.)

When I’d had my fill, I paddled back, amazed to find that the tide was once again working against me, insisting that the nose of my boat face the completely opposite direction I wanted. By the time I reached the boat launch, I was exhausted, and terribly happy – and surprised – to see Amancio waiting for me some three hours later. “I wasn’t sure you were coming back,” he said as he reached down to help me out of the kayak. Moments later, the Sebring was all packed up to go, and Amancio was waving me off on my next adventure.

Whoever goes to Kealakekua Bay next, please tip him. Or at least bring him a few beers.

On my way back to return the kayak, I stopped at the Painted Church, which sits high up in the hills of Captain Cook. The church is small, but quite charming -- well worth the slightly out of the way drive. I could have gotten off some amazing shots had it not poured the whole time I was there. I can only imagine how land developers must envy the view that the dearly departed have but will never again enjoy.

I’d planned to head to Honaunau next, but the weather had other thoughts in mind, so I instead heading back north to Kailua Town, where I explored the Hulihe’e “palace” (a large home that supposedly once had grand furniture but was now under renovation) and the Kailua Pier, where several fishermen were hoisting in their final catches of the day. Honaunau and Place of Refuge would have to wait for the next day.

Day 1: Escape From Cube Life
Day 2: Manta Heaven
Day 3: Paddling to My Death
Day 4: The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States
Day 5: Somewhere Over Pololu
Day 6: Grounded in Hilo
Day 7: To Fly or Not to Fly
Day 8: Don't Make Me Go!

Manta Heaven (Hawaii, Day 2)

When I made my to-do list for my Big Isle trip, I had one item at the very tip-top of the list: dive with manta rays. I've read oodles about this dive, with may sources declaring it a dive of a lifetime, the pinnacle of underwater adventures, and other superlatives. After diving with great whites, I thought that swimming with plankton eaters would be rather anti-climatic. I was greatly mistaken.

We started our diving day at Garden Eel Cove, a sandy-bottomed locale with numerous pencil-thin eels who sway in the surge like sea grass. A coral reef flocked with critters surrounded the cove, which counted for less than a few minutes of the entire dive, and we spotted several other eel relatives in the craggy nooks that were only yards away from the man-made ring of stones that would act as the focus of the night dive ahead.

After downing some sandwiches (mine was a lemon grass tofu baguette from Ba-Le, of course), during which we watched the sun fade into the ocean, we prepared for the main event. A cluster of other water crafts had invaded our mooring site, and as we donned our gear, we spotted one of our visual prey gliding through the water just yards from the line shining beneath our boat. When the first two divers into the water shouted back that there was "a big 'un right below us!" I long-strided in and immediately sank my face downwards, my flashlight bobbing about for the 14-footer they'd spotted.

I didn't have to look far. Rising from the midnight blue depths -- headed straight towards me and the diver bobbing on my right -- came the manta, his eyes seemingly intent on looking me face on. When he as at my knees, he opened his maw so that my beacon shown straight into his ribbed cavern of a mouth, his wings still propelling him towards me as if he meant to suck me in like a Hoover. He stopped, hovering, just inches from my mask, taking in both my features and the multitude of plankton that had flocked to my flashlight's beam like microscopic moths. I managed to snap a few photos with my "can't go deeper than 10 feet" camera, but I only got off one shot where you can almost make out the manta shape.

As we flippered over to the designated manta meeting grounds, an unearthly blue glow loomed up ahead, causing images of James Cameron's aquatic aliens to float through my head. As we drew nearer, we realized we weren't the first arrivals at manta central: at least three other dive boats had claimed their places around the ring. Their flashlight beams formed pillars of light that appeared to hold up the water's surface, where snorkelers splashed about, gazing down upon the underwater Druid ceremony below them. At the center of the ring lay a large milk crate stuffed with high-powered beams that created a stationery Klieg light in which a school of plankton-hungry fish darted about. In the divers' beams, silvery bubbles rose to the surface. Ring within ring within ring we awaited the guests of honor.

And waited. And waited.

After about 10 minutes of shivering on the ocean floor, Bo switched to plan B, and we and the other diver reluctantly swam off. Just when we were almost out of sight of the blue glow, in swooped the enormo manta who'd tried to make out with me earlier, followed by another a foot or so smaller. They slid through the water over our heads, sometimes tapping us with their wings as they passed, their ever-searching mouths widened to take in as much miniscule matter as possible. One diver, who'd brought along a high-powered light for his cumbersome camera, attracted them most, so I quickly made my way to his side for a ringside view. The surge grew stronger, so I wrapped my legs around a large rock anchored to the sea bed and took in the mantas, who were know somersaulting before us to grab as much food as possible.

For the first few minutes back on the boat, few of us could speak, although our ear-to-ear grins spoke volumes. Then slowly the chatter started, and we returned to our chatty selves, several of the older female divers donning red glowsticks as earrings in celebration. What could possibly top an experience like that?

Second best experience of the day: Kona Brewing Company's strawberry and spinach salad. Ever since having it on Oahu last year, I've been craving its tangy sweetness. Washed down with their pale ale, it's second only to the manta experience. And a far second at that.

Day 1: Escape From Cube Life
Day 2: Manta Heaven
Day 3: Paddling to My Death
Day 4: The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States
Day 5: Somewhere Over Pololu
Day 6: Grounded in Hilo
Day 7: To Fly or Not to Fly
Day 8: Don't Make Me Go!

Escape From Cube Life (Hawaii, Day 1)

I know, I know -- I've been slacking about getting my Hawaii vacation up on site. I've actually been working on it on my Yahoo! Travel page, but I might as well serialize it here -- where most of you look -- as well. So now, without further delay, is the first day of my trip.

Yes, this first day doesn't sound as if it were worth the 2,000+-mile flight, but stick around. It gets better.

Most everyone who knows me knew how much I needed this trip. When my sister canceled on me, I searched frantically for a travel companion. Then, when three volunteers stepped forward just days before I left, I decided I wanted to go solo. I needed to go solo. After a long night mostly spent packing and making my home somewhat presentable to the most wonderful kitten-sitter ever, I was on my way, headed to the most remote islands on the planet for some much-needed R&R.

I wasn't prepared for what I saw out my plane window. The barren, lava-rock landscape was not what I'd had in mind when I'd pictured my tropical island getaway. "It looks like Mordor," the gay husband had told me, but I ignored him, knowing his penchant for exaggeration. He was right. (One of the few times I'll admit this.) But I also remembered that the Big Island is famous for its varied terrain and climatic (not climactic, as one guide book had led me to believe) zones, so I knew that lush landscapes still awaited.

After dealing with the interminable line at the rental car company (note to Dollar: Hire more staff, please), I hopped into my Sebring, cursing the lack of amenities I was used to in Eartha KITT, my beloved Prius, and tore off for my timeshare condo on Ali'i Drive. When I learned my room wouldn't be ready for another four hours, I peeled out again, heading south on Ali'i, the Big Island version of the guide books I'd come to trust on Oahu in hand.

I wasn't the only one to choose the Hawaii Revealed series as my guide book of choice. As I strolled past the parked cars lining Ali'i near Pahoehoe Beach Park, I saw numerous pairs of pedicured feet sticking out of windows, their owners reading the familiar light blue tomes describing all the insider knowledge they'd need for their trip to the largest of the Hawaiian islands. A quick dip in the surf and a visit to the adjacent Little Blue Church (formally known as St. Peter's and described by Hawaii Revealed as the most photographed church in the island chain) and I was on my way, this time to the terraced cliffs that contain the graves of numerous Hawaiians after an inter-island battle.

Before leaving LA, I'd researched some of the more popular restaurants of the island, and one in particular stuck out: Ba-Le, which several readers had described as having a wide array of vegetarian options. I happened upon it while looking for a local supermarket where I could stock up on provisions and soon found myself back in my timeshare eating an enormous amount of pho, the first vegetarian version of the popular Vietnamese soup I'd ever found. If you're in the islands, you must hunt down the nearest location. During my week in Hawaii, I ate there at least five times, including a well-planned pre-airport excursion for food to replace my in-flight meal.

Up route 180 I went, ascending to an elevation of 1000 feet as I explored the mountainside towns of Captain Cook, Holualoa, and several other burgs that blended together as I swerved and curved through rolling greenery, not far below the local cloud forest. Then back down to my temporary hale of Sea Village I went, exhausted already from my lack of rest, but intent on getting an early start on the next day. I hadn't yet ticked off many items on my to-do list, but the week was still young.

Also visited on Day 1:
Big Island Grill

Day 1: Escape From Cube Life
Day 2: Manta Heaven
Day 3: Paddling to My Death
Day 4: The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States
Day 5: Somewhere Over Pololu
Day 6: Grounded in Hilo
Day 7: To Fly or Not to Fly
Day 8: Don't Make Me Go!

Big Island, Here I Come... Solo

So, my sister flaked on me for our trip this upcoming week, but I'm not about to let that get in the way of having a killer time on the Big Island. On the to-do list:

• Night dive with manta rays
  
• Helicopter ride over volcanoes
  
• Kayak sea caves (with, hopefully, no floaty dead things)
  
• Stroll a black-sand beach
  
• Stroll a green-sand beach
  
• Stroll a plaid-sand beach
  

I'm open to suggestions. Anyone know some stellar spots to recommend on the Big Island? Oh, and anyone (who's not lame) wanna come? You buy your flight and pay for incidentals, the hotel and car are for free!

Farewell, Friday Harbor (San Juan Islands, Day 3)

Sunday morning in Friday Harbor is about as laidback as any other day in the sleepy burg, with few of the shops shuttering for the day in the hopes that weekend tourists will bring along more business. Since checkout was 11AM, I dragged my new "no-weight" (yeah, right) suitcase down Spring Street then over to First, where I finally made it to the Whale Museum, which, unlike other museums with a form of "whale" in their name, actually promotes the conservation of the mammals, not the commercial whaling industry. The museum itself is small, befitting its island location, but is packed with lots of eco-friendly facts and specific information on the pods that roam the Salish Sea, which I learned to call this pocket of the Puget Sound.

I spent roughly an hour wandering the museum and taking in bits of info about individuals in the pods, then strolled over to Pelindaba Lavender, where I'd spent my first morning with Robin. With me I lugged my suitcase, which had weighed just over 20 pounds before I boarded the seaplane at Lake Union, but was now a tad heavier that I had an autographed copy of Patricia Schultz's best-selling and oft-copied 1,000 Places to See in the U.S.A. & Canada Before You Die, which Robin had gotten for me the night before when the author made an appearance at a Spring Street bookstore. The San Juans, of course, made it into Schultz's book, and the whole lot of her vetted places made for quite a heavy tome. I wondered if my suitcase would pass the test on the return flight.

At Pelindaba, I purchased some lavender pepper -- bringing the number of varieties of pepper in my kitchen up to seven (lemon, cayenne, white, black, red pepper flakes, chipotle, and my newbie) and ordered the same delicious flaky mushroom pie and ginger soda I'd enjoyed when I first landed. Then it was off to the docks to await my flight. I watched as a family who had chartered a plane to themselves tried to unload their gangly, lop-eared mutt onto to the dock, then waited another 45 minutes before my plane arrived. (I was still in denial that I could arrive just a quarter hour before I was to leave and had left plenty of buffer time, during which I caught up in my journal.)

All too soon I was back in the air, soaring over small islets and then landing next to the houseboats on Lake Union. When I landed, I realized I'd forgotten to heed the advice of the proprietor of the metaphysical shop where I'd purchased a replacement purse: "Take a rock with you when you leave. It'll call to you to return to the islands."I'd forgotten to pocket a rock, but as I scrolled through my camera at the photos I'd taken, I knew it wouldn't be necessary.

Day 1: Escape From "Civilization"
Day 2: Water, Water Everywhere
Day 3: Farewell, Friday Harbor

Water, Water Everywhere (San Juan Islands, Day 2)

After a rather restful sleep in my comfy bed at Elements Hotel & Spa, a few short blocks from downtown Friday Harbor, I boarded the 46-foot Western Prince in search of J- and K-Pods, who had eluded me the day before at Lime Kiln Point and had headed farther north than usual. Owner/captain Ivan told me how he'd come to own his business, after relocating from sunny San Diego to the rain shadow of the San Juans. (I also learned that the Weather Channel had recently visited to discuss this weather phenomenon with San Juan residents.) As we chatted on the bridge, Ivan took us past a small islet -- little more than a sandbar with a large piece of driftwood, really -- where a bald eagle perched majestically, as if posing for the tourists aboard, and a harbor seal bobbed in and out of the water in the foreground. Ivan displayed his facility for multi-tasking by manning both the radio and his cell phone in order to find the whereabouts of the pod, and moments later six-foot fins could be spotted in the distance.

Ruffles, the patriarch of J-Pod, led the way, along with Granny, believed to be either his mother or grandmother. We watched the pod make their way back toward San Juan Island, the bursts of their breathing still very audible even from the maritime-law-imposed distance of 100 yards (Ivan normally gave them berth of even more than that, just to be sure). My little point-and-shoot digital couldn't sufficiently capture their grace from that distance, but the memory remains.

Since I'd only had a scone before my three-hour tour, I trekked back into Friday Harbor with a grumbling belly and satisfied it at the Front Street Ale House, the local brewmaker conveniently located just strides from the dock. After downing a decent veggie burger and two well crafted pints, I headed back to my bed for a cat nap (I was still recovering from the 6-day visit with the niblings), then awoke in time to be chauffeured to the island's north shore by my gracious host Robin, from the visitors' bureau. We made a pitstop at Lakedale Resort, which was in the midst of prepping for a lakeside wedding that evening and so was decked out in rustic splendor.

After our drop-in, we headed up to Roche Harbor, a favorite vacation spot of both Teddy Roosevelt and John Wayne. Roche Harbor is less resort and more "community," as the property manager explained it, and I'd agree -- not only because of his convincing stories but because of the palpable aura that surrounds the many conjoined properties. Families roam the grounds -- sculpture garden, marina, artists' bazaar, mausoleum trail -- as if it were part of their own estates, and indeed some may think it is, since they've been returning to the same vacation spot for decades -- the same week and cabin each year, next to the same family who does likewise.

After getting an abbreviated tour and history lesson (Note: Is this really the only privately owned Catholic chapel in the country?), I hopped into a San Juan Safaris kayak for a sunset tour around the island. I was paired with a high school student who, from what I could gather, had never traveled far from his Ohio hometown, based on his frequent remarks ("This is the first time I've seen a real crab." "I've never kayaked before." "Are those mountains real?"). When our path put me downwind, I endured the spray from his paddles, but cringed whenever he spat chaw over the side. He was friendly enough though, and obliged by taking over all paddling duties whenever the urge to take a photo struck.

Although we didn't have the colorful sunset we'd hoped -- we were, in fact, drizzled on -- we were rewarded with several wildlife encounters, including a close encounter with a harbor seal and her pup that brought us within feet of both. We had stopped paddling as soon as we realized they were in our path, and with the current at our backs, we soon drifted so close that when Mom opened her eyes, she quickly shooed her charge underwater and both disappeared. Not long later, we spotted not one but two bald eagles communing in a tree, bringing my baldy tally to five thus far on the trip.

The San Juans being the laidback place they are, not an eyebrow raised when I strolled into the romantically lit dining room of McMillin's with the bottoms of my khakis drenched. Sam, Robin's step-son and long-time employee of the Roche Harbor properties, laid out the fixin's, including a deliciously bold, local red wine and a cheese plate that made me rethink my aversion to blue cheeses. Mushrooms, raspberry salad, and veggie-filled lasagna stretched my stomach to its limits -- and dessert was still to come. Since Robin and I had opted for creme brulee the night before, we went all out this time with chocolate decadence. As she drove me back to my hotel, I was already falling into a food coma. From the little I'd sampled of Seattle cuisine, I have to say the San Juans beat the Northwest's metropolis hands down.

Day 1: Escape From "Civilization"
Day 2: Water, Water Everywhere
Day 3: Farewell, Friday Harbor

Escape From "Civilization" (San Juan Islands, Day 1)

I needed this getaway. Hell, I needed any getaway, but I was overly fortunate that the San Juans fell nicely into my itinerary, due to a business trip in Seattle. I'd had the islands on my travel to-do list for four years, so I didn't even mind waking at the butt-crack of dawn to catch a seaplane (my first) to Friday Harbor.
I'd fantasized about what this island chain would be like, but I was way off. It wasn't the romantically gloomy, fog-enshrouded archipelago my imagination had cobbled up, but the remote world I discovered was just as refreshing, and in some ways even more singular. Where else can you find a community so safe that residents don't even own keys to their homes? What other destination boasts a national park whose sole purpose is whale watching? Such peculiarities seem downright normal the moment you set foot on any one of the isles.

My trip began with a moped rental from Susie's, which brought back memories of my dearly departed Kymco scooter (I'd curse the bastards who stole it, but that would be against the islands' nature) as I tooled around the inner portion of San Juan, the most populated of the islands and the only one with an incorporated village (Friday Harbor). The darkly wooded interior I'd imagined was soon replaced with golden rolling fields reminiscent of Northern Europe, complete with neatly rolled bales of hay wafting warm scents in the afternoon sun. At the start of my jaunt, I was joined by a dragonfly of iridescent blue, who criss-crossed my moped's path in a game of chicken, as if mocking my measly 50cc horsepower. Before the buzz of his wings had even been swallowed by the breeze, a bald eagle soared mere yards over my helmet, and I swear his golden eye was checking me out. Then, as if on cue, a small private aircraft swooped down to land on the airstrip of the farm I was passing.

Down to Cattle Point Lighthouse I puttered, snapping photos of hay rolls, quaint farm steads, and the overly fragrant False Bay, where the deep salt scent lured me though the flies seemed to flee in swarms. At the park's visitors' center, I did as Susie suggested and asked the ranger about the eaglet that had recently been spotted. Sure enough, in the branches outside the building was a nest, stocked with one brown-feathered baby whom the rangers, an elderly couple who delighted in sharing their information of the park, had named "Lucky." I shared their binoculars with the other visitors of the moment, all of us taking turns to watch Lucky hop about the branches outside her aerie.

After strolling the rocky shores of Fourth of July and South beaches, I returned to the road and headed inland for Pelindaba Lavender Farms, which I smelled before even spotting the undulating fields of purple. I would have visited longer, but I had to return my scooter to Susie by 6PM or it would turn into a pumpkin, and I had yet to hit the main attraction: Lime Kiln Park, the aforementioned orca-viewing grounds. Alas, no orcas that day, although the view of my second lighthouse in less than three hours and the sparkling Haro Strait were sights unto themselves. A glance at my cellphone told me that I had less than an hour to make it clear across the island and, knowing my vehicle's aversion to inclines steeper than an anthill and not knowing just how far "clear across the island" actually was, I hightailed it back down Bailer Hill Road, with far fewer photo pitstops than on the way out. When I returned my two-wheeled steed to Susie, she was surprised that I was so early, and when I glanced at my cellphone again, I saw that I was a full hour ahead. Ah, those tricky cell towers! My phone had been picking up Canadian service on the west side of the island, and Canucks don't observe daylight savings.

The cellular mishap was actually a blessing in disguise, because I now had time for a catnap before my dinner at Duck Soup Inn, whose locally grown produce made my meal a standout, especially after the overpriced, overhyped dinner I'd had in Seattle the night before. I would have asked chef/owner Gretchen for the recipe for her simple but elegantly presented twice-baked corn souffle, but I know I would only have mangled it, so it's for the best.

When I finally put my head to the pillow, I was as far away from my life in Los Angeles as I could have dreamed.

Day 1: Escape From "Civilization"
Day 2: Water, Water Everywhere
Day 3: Farewell, Friday Harbor