Bastrop State Park

I was unhappy to learn over Labor Day weekend that much of Bastrop State Park has burned to the ground. The park is in Bastrop County, Texas, not far southeast of Austin. It isn't a large park, a little shy of 6,000 acres, but it is distinctive for its loblolly pines -- a patch of piney-green East Texas dropped into Central Texas.

I've been there more recently, but my fondest memories of Bastrop are of two camping trips to the park with high school friends in the spring and summer of 1979. If I pause for a moment, I can picture the campsite, the fire we tended late into the night, the sloping ground nearby blanketed by pine needles and rich in pine cones -- which we spent time throwing at each other. I can hear the voices of my friends, but not quite what we said during our many and varied conversations (we had no electronic entertainment, and were better for it). I can almost smell the pines, but I'd need to visit a stand of loblollies for the memory to return with any olfactory gusto.

Over the weekend, wildfires encouraged by the windy leftover of Hurricane Lee ravaged the drought-dried Bastrop SP and, unfortunately, hundreds of homes in the vicinity. I understand that loblolly pines grow back quickly, but still. It's a damned shame.

The Mudflats & Waterfalls of Wildcat Canyon

We've pretty much skipped spring and gone on to summer. I know that because after dark yesterday I could open my car windows while driving and enjoy the wind. Also, a little later, while taking out the trash, I saw the Summer Triangle. Not riding as high as it will be later, but still there in the eastern sky. Closer to home, junebugs are clinging to our window- and door screens. A lot of them, more than during any recent year. Maybe the cold spring energized them somehow.

Illinois is notoriously flat, so anyplace that's not-flat is going to get some attention. So it is with Starved Rock State Park, which despite flooding last weekend, had a lot of visitors, us included. In its pamphlet describing the park, the Illinois Department of Natural Resources says: "[There are] 18 canyons formed by glacial meltwater and stream erosion. They slice dramatically through tree-covered, sandstone bluffs for four miles... The park is best known for its rock formations, primarily St. Peter sandstone, laid down in a huge shallow inland sea more than 425 million years ago and later brought to the surface."

Ancient sea beds, in other words, acted upon by forces recent in geological terms -- glacial meltwater busting through moraines toward the end of the last Ice Age. Once the glaciers were gone, streams that still flow, fed by snowmelt and rainwater, took over the task of erosion. Did they ever flow while we were there, coursing through solid-looking canyons. But if I understand the lessons of Deep Time, the canyon walls are in motion too. The present shapes will not be there for distant posterity, if any; other, unpredictable shapes will be.

For the geological moment, anyway, what you get at Starved Rock are some fine waterfalls. Such as this one, which was actually one of two crashing down into Wildcat Canyon. The other fall was to the left of the one I photographed, exactly the same height but a little less volume.

The trail led from a boardwalk along the river back to an intensely muddy patch within view of the falls, but not close enough to satisfy the urge to stand (almost) under the falls. So we crossed the mud and came to the edge of the stream created by the falls. Surprisingly, the current wasn't so rapid that we couldn't wade across it to a pebbly flat much closer to the falls, as the knot of people in the photo had done just ahead of us.

The water was cold, but not icy. The mud was soft, but not gooey. The roar of the falls was distinct, but not deafening. Yep, summer's here, complete with mud on my toes and waterfall spray in my face.

Squishy Illinois

At the end of May 2011, the soil of northern Illinois is squishy. My main sample is my back yard, parts of which are still damp from previous weeks punctuated with days of rain, sometimes very heavy. But that's not my only sample. We visited Starved Rock State Park on Saturday, which hugs the southern banks of the Illinois River in LaSalle County, just beyond the pale of metro Chicago. Part of the park was inaccessible.

But mostly the trails were open. Down in Fox Canyon -- the park's "canyons" aren't very big, but they are steep -- the trail becomes a boardwalk that overlooks a bit of water. A bit more than usual, I'd say.

Most of the trails aren't boardwalk, but dirt, which meant a lot of mud. Enough to coat our shoes and the further reaches of our pants, and inspire some low comedy. That is, one or another of us nearly slipping and falling. I'd say that's the prehistoric, almost pre-human origin of comedy, watching fellow members of your clan slip and fall.

But at least the land was lush. A month ago, there would have barely been a green fuzz. A month from now (and probably sooner), the place will be swarming with mosquitoes, but only a few were active over Memorial Day weekend. This year's irritatingly cold May days might been responsible for that, in which case they weren't quite so irritating.

Chrome in the Park

The sun rose on Sunday and the day became a fine, summer-like event. Saturday wasn't bad, with temps in the 60s F., but on Sunday they shot right past 80°. (Today we were back down 20 degrees.) Just going outside yesterday was a pleasure. The wind kicked up sometimes, but it was a warm wind, visiting like an old friend you haven't seen in years.

The thing to do was go somewhere and walk around. We picked Moraine Hills State Park in McHenry County, Illinois, a section of land that's a relic of the last Ice Age, as the name suggests. A nature walk, as nature starts to awaken from winter.

In the parking lot of the visitors center, I spotted another relic of a bygone time. A manmade relic, in this case.

I didn't know what year this stylish machine had rolled off the lines. I'm not enough of an auto expert to have known that, standing there next to it. But I have a library on my desk, and using that and the photo I took, I tried to pinpoint it just now. Could it be that it isn't just an 50s-vintage Olds Super 88, but a '58?

Look at all that chrome. It looks just like this. Then again, Wiki is one thing, and I couldn't quite confirm it at a web site devoted exclusively to the '58 Olds. Still, how often do you see that much chrome in one place? A whole chapter in the imaginary coffee-table book my brother Jay dreamed up -- The Grandeur That Was Chrome -- could be devoted to the '58 Olds.

The car was in such good shape I that I suspected that Doc Brown had fitted it with a flux capacitor and driven here from the late '50s. That or a serious enthusiast owns the thing, and takes it out for drives on summer-like days. The owner wasn't around, or I could have asked him about the car. I'm sure he would have told me, maybe in loving detail.

Across the parking I saw another relic of the past. I had to take a picture of it, too. One of these days, maybe in my lifetime, the only public phones in this country are going to be displays at the Smithsonian and the Henry Ford Museum.

Illinois Beach State Park

No more posting until about August 22. There's much to do in the days ahead, and who knows, I might even see something worth posting about later. It's been known to happen.

We spent some time last Friday under a hot afternoon sun at Illinois Beach State Park. Besides beach, there's a lodge and some forested areas, but we went to the beach. It wasn't very crowded, which suits me. This is the beach looking north, toward the Zion Nuclear Power Station.

The plant generated electricity from the early '70s to the late '90s, but has been permanently dark in more recent years because of the risk of spawning Godzilla-like creatures to wreak havoc on Chicago... I mean, because the operator couldn't run it profitably any more. Plans now call for tearing the power station down, which is going to be one exacting brownfield reclamation project (especially if the workers uncover Godzilla-like creatures breeding in the spent-fuel pool).

The girls frolicked on the lakeshore.

I thought it was too hot to be at the beach, but I have unusual ideas about the best times to be at a beach. Mainly, when it's not hot or cold. Cloudy, no more than 75 degrees, and stiff wind blowing from offshore are more to my liking. But I managed to entertain myself even in this hotter setting. At one point, I found a pile of rocks near the edge of the land, a random jumble, and gave it a little order.

I called it BeachHenge.

Niagara Falls Syndrome

When we visited Lilacia Park in Lombard, Ill., on Saturday I was reminded of something an old friend put in a letter to me some years ago. In a previous letter I’d described to Stephanie, my old friend and correspondent after I moved away from Nashville, how my students at the time, all Japanese, were familiar with Niagara Falls as a destination. A number of them, in fact, had been there.

Ah, for the long-gone days – the early 1990s in this case -- when I had several regular correspondents on paper. Stephanie wrote back and said:

“You know, it’s sad that half of your students have taken the trouble and spent the money to come to Niagara Falls. All those foreigners wanting just one representatively American sight to remember always – if only someone would tell them they’re about a hundred years too late. I don’t know, maybe I was there on a bad day, but to me it was about as exciting as a municipal water-purification plant. Nothing was attractive or awesome about it, I guess because of the encroaching concrete and cars and because someone had told me the durn thing is artificial now anyhow: The water flows and rushes and falls mechanically. Big hairy deal, Niagara Falls. Now Foster Falls, that’s something. Fall Creek Falls, that’s worth a trip. Maybe they’d be ruined, too, by fame and high traffic.

“That’s the problem with most world travel. Most of it probably a real bad investment and a huge waste of time, because no one knows how to find out where to go. No Japanese person is going to fly to Nashville, rent a car and drive to Chester County, rent a cabin on the lake at Chickasaw State Park, and wake up every morning to gaze from his deck upon the cattails and the glassy lake… I’m convinced that most world travel – and much domestic travel – suffers from the Niagara Falls syndrome.”

I don’t entirely agree with all that, but there’s more than a little truth to it even now, in the Internet age (Stephanie was writing pre-Internet) with all its pots and cans of information available instantly. No one from very far away would seek out Lilacia Park in May, a few amazingly lush acres in the western suburbs of Chicago adorned with not only dozens and dozens of varieties of lilacs, but also many other flowers and bushes in their glory. By the look of things on Saturday afternoon, when the weather was flawlessly warm, not many people from nearby were there either.

When far from home, I still think it’s good to seek out famed places – I was impressed enough by Niagara, though I’ve seen more obscure falls that are impressive, too, including Tennessee’s Fall Creek Falls. But it’s also important to pay attention for the opportunity to run across an obscure gem. Sometimes it’s as easy as a slight variation from the beaten path.

Small Travels

A road with some contour, even hills, but no hairpin turns; lush springtime greenery by the roadside mixed with newly planted fields occasionally; views of a river nearby, fading in and out of sght; and little traffic. Such is the stretch of Illinois 26 through Marshall and Woodford counties I drove, especially on Sunday.

I found myself driving that road because we’d acquired a tent this winter, larger than my bachelor tent, and determined recently to test it in actual campground conditions. I was responsible for destination selection, so I looked around with a number of things in mind. It had to be someplace that probably wouldn’t be full up by Friday night, since we wouldn’t get there until Saturday—and not early on Saturday, since it’s nearly impossible to get out the door for anything early on Saturday.

Also, I’d prefer somewhere new, both as a campsite and near a new destination. And it couldn’t be a long drive: no more than about four hours away. Three or so would be even better.

I settled on the Marshall State Fish & Wildlife Area, a unit of the Illinois Department of Natural Resources, for an overnight destination. It straddles the Illinois River in Marshall County, roughly 30 miles north of greater Peoria, with the campgrounds near the road but also near the river. I’d visited other parts of the Illinois River a number of times, especially in LaSalle and Grundy counties, closer to Chicago, but never so close to Peoria.

Moreover, I’d never visited Peoria itself, for all the time I’ve lived in northern Illinois. Just never got around to it, even though it's only 170 miles away, according to my Rand-McNally mileage table. So we made the trip, only one night in a tent this time, two adults and two kids sleeping on the ground; and we saw Peoria and a handful of smaller places. Not an epic, but merely one of the little trips that I hope will conflate with others to form some pleasant memories, especially for Lilly.