Dead Fish: It’s a Wrap!

LA/XC-4 DAY THIRTY-ONE:  POSTING FROM WESTPORT, CT

Last-day mileage from Port Clinton, OH to Westport, Ct:  571

Total LA/XC-4 mileage:  8,710

Road Music:  Sirius cycle; Spurs-Clippers; Gretchen Wilson (Here For the Party); Little Big Town (Tornado, Pain Killer); Mets-Yanks

Weather leaving Port Clinton Sunday morning: 55 gorgeous, cloudless degrees

Weather arriving Westport Sunday night / Monday morning:  50 degrees, and dark (it’s well after midnight, for crying out loud!)

Last-day state tally:  5 (Ohio, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, Connecticut)

Gas money for LA/XC-4:  $794.22

Most enchanting road signs:  Barkeyville and Snowshoe (both PA)

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LA/XC-4 SUMMARY

Total state tally LA/XC-4:  25 (Connecticut, New York, Pennsylvania, Maryland, West Virginia, Virginia, Tennessee, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, California, Oregon, Washington, Idaho, Montana, North Dakota, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, Ohio, New Jersey); LA/XC-3 was 24

Total state tally, all four LA/XC trips combined: 41 (additional states from first three trips:  Alabama, Colorado, Delaware, Georgia, Iowa, Kansas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Missouri, Nebraska, Nevada, North Carolina, South Carolina, South Dakota, Utah, Wyoming)

Mileage Comparison:  LA/XC-4= 8,710 (most by far); LA/XC-3= 7,978; LA/XC-2 = 8,060; LA/XC-1 = 7,643

Total Mileage, all four trips:  32,391

Westbound mileage (LA/XC-4):  3,602

L.A.-area mileage (LA/XC-4):  524

North- and Eastbound mileage (LA/XC-4): 4,584

And maybe not part of the boldface, strictly statistical official tally, but a few other nuggets I’d like to note, largely for the purpose of having a complete record for The

Beagle Man Tours — The Book — which I plan to write and have published sometime before the year 3000:

Attractions that got short shrift because Matt kept rushing me and didn’t allow me the time for a single complete post during his entire time with me on the road:  (1.) Council Crest Park in the Portland West Hills, from which you get a

360-degree view that includes Mt. Hood, Mt. Ranier, Mt. Kilimanjaro, Mt. Everest, and the Matterhorn.  (Just testing to see if Matt and Greg are still awake and paying attention.  More about this later.  My friend Meg, who took me there, can tell you all the mountains you can really see.)  (2.)  Bell Street dog park in Seattle.  Not only did we see the Great Dane there that was bigger than an elephant (photo in my April 24 post) ; we also watched a lady do the entire Sunday crossword puzzle using her dog’s back as a desk! (above left)  (3.)  Vovito Espresso Gelato Bar, also in Seattle, on 4th Ave:  Not technically on the BeagleManTourDiet® (more about this later, also), but the chocolate and the coffee flavors were both pretty awesome.

Attractions I skipped on LA/XC-4 that I’d intended to see (though overall I still think I did a pretty damn good job): (1.) Crater Lake, Oregon:  Missed the bluest-of-blue lakes because I had to get to Portland to meet Meg for dinner and to pick Matt up at the aeropuerto; didn’t have time for the sidetrip; (2.) Kootenai Falls and The Swinging Bridge, Libby Montana:  In fairness to the

Beagle Man, this was not on my bucket list; in fact, Matt and I only just heard about it the night before during dinner and drinks at our Best Western motel/casino/restaurant in Bonners Ferry, Idaho, from Courtney, the very pretty supervisor who not only gave us directions, but showed us pix.  Apparently, though, Matt and I were vigorously debating the tunes on my Top 300 and blew right by the turn-off; (3.) Penn State: Meant to stop by on the final day, but soon you’ll read what a train wreck that day became, so you’ll understand.  Sorry, Maddy and Dylan, but after all, been there/done that; (4.) Glacier National Park: Well, I did see it.  Sort of.  Let’s kind of move away from that topic.

New states where the Beagle Man is wanted by the law:  Two!  Oregon:  Parking violation in Portland.  Chintzy.  I’ve already complained about that one.  And Wisconsin:  Parking again, this time for stopping in a truck zone in Madison, on the University of Wisconsin campus.  But — come on — lots of people refer to S.U.V.s as trucks!  Also was pulled over for speeding, but Kemba talked that one down from a ticket to a warning.

Pages read (not counting travel guides, travel brochures, and maps) during LA/XC-4:  Zero!  As in 0.0.  Amazingly, this is the exact same total I read on LA/XC-1, LA/XC-2, and LA/XC-3!  Yet still I bring books to read on this road trip!  This year, I was on page 238 of Merle’s Door (a dog book by Ted Kerasote that I highly recommend, mainly because the author favors my very own low-key, half-ass approach to dog training) when I left . . . and was still on page 238 when I returned.  But just in case I finished, I’d also brought along H Is for Hawk (at the recommendation of the New York Times), and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (at the recommendation of Colin O’Shea, Kemba’s logo artist).  You never want to be without a book to read.

Tennis balls returned with:  One!  This was actually kind of amazing.  Before I left, I’d run out of my own lifetime supply of beat-up tennis balls, and borrowed 16 from our friend Inge.  She said, you sure you don’t want more?  But I couldn’t imagine losing that many tennis balls.  Managed to come pretty damn close, though.

Pounds lost by the Beagle Man during the 4+ weeks of LA/XC-4: Nine!  That’s what getting by on not much more than Muscle Milk, Clif bars, and apples will do for you — not to mention trying to keep up with a hyperactive 8-month-old Duck Dog.  For more details, see BeagleManTourDiet.com*

*  Not really

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Yeah, I know, kind of cheesy that I’m still using the LA/XC-4 logo to grab your attention, even though Kemba and I have been back home in Connecticut for six days now.  But I do still have that final Sunday to cover, and I still owe you the “happy recap,” as long-time Mets play-by-play broadcaster Bob Murphy used to call it.  And that final Sunday, as you may have gleaned from Monday’s post, was a doozy.

Even though I didn’t check out of my Quality Inn in Port Clinton, Ohio, till 11:40, and knew I had 570-some miles to go to make it home (you’ll recall I said at the end of my last post that I would only stay another night in a motel room over my dead body), I also knew I needed to knock my duck dog’s energy level down a few notches via our daily visit to a dog park, or, in this case, since we were on the shores of Lake Erie, via some tennis-ball fetch on the beach.  Which, at first, was going great, as it always does.  Until Kemba found a dead fish on one of his proud trips back to me with the tennis ball.  Tennis ball is dropped in sand.  Dead fish is picked up in jaws.  Of course, all I can think about is Amazing Grace the Bunny Killer from the day before — and what the dead fish is going to smell like in the car for almost 600 miles after Kemba regurgitates it, which he undoubtedly will.

So did I jump around like a cheerleader, to draw my dog’s attention and grab his collar, as I heroically did with Grace the day before?  Did I calmly offer one of the treats I always have in my pocket, to induce him to give up the dead fish?  No.  I screamed, “Drop it!” at the top of my lungs, and then chased him around like a stark, raving maniac — which as every dog owner knows, only makes the game of keep-away more fun.  When that didn’t work, I continued my pursuit, only this time brandishing a large stick I’d found on the beach.  Even more effective, of course.  When I finally caught up with him, there was nothing but the fish head left; he’d devoured the rest during the chase.  (Miraculously, he didn’t vomit.)

This fun little game didn’t do much for my driving schedule, but since I hadn’t had a chance to finish and file my post from the previous night, I decided to do it from the car (I’d equipped the Beagle-mobile with internet access) right there at the beach parking lot.  When it was all finished, I hit a key — apparently not a good key — and the entire post vanished, never to be seen again.  I thought maybe the internet in my car/office was the problem, so I tried a bit later from a Starbucks, but still no go.  Which is why the previous post was filed from WePo, rather than from Port Clinton, where it was composed.

As we all know, bad things come in threes.  (1.) Dead fish keep-away; (2.) The case of the vanishing blog post.  Number three became evident Monday morning when I emptied the car in the garage and found everything . . . except my brown LL Bean duffel.  The one that had come in and out of every motel room with me for 30 nights.  The one that had my glasses.  And my contact lenses.  And my pills.  And my checkbook.  And my passport.  Yeah, that duffel.  Happy ending, though:  I called Quality Inn, and the manager, now my favorite person on earth, said yes, I’d left the duffel propping open the door, and she’d UPS it to me overnight.  Had it back the next day.  Sent my favorite person some nice chocolate strawberries from Edible Delectables, and also sent a gushing letter of praise to Quality Inns corporate.

Btw, have been getting rave reviews on Matt’s pithy and clever “guest” posts.  Needless to say, I’m proud of Matt’s writing (1.) because he’s my son, and (2.) because, presumably, some of those witty genes came from me.  But while I’ve been praising his posts to the skies, I can’t say the reverse is true.  Two weeks ago, while driving through Montana, we were talking shop, and I mentioned a warning memoirist Annie Dillard gives to writers about over-sharing:  “You have to take pains . . . not to hang on the reader’s arm, like a drunk, and say, ‘And then I did this and it was so interesting.'”  “But you do that,” Matt said.

Silence.

“You tell every detail in your travel posts,” he continued.  “Greg and I can’t believe it.  We don’t even read them.”  (And God knows Robby doesn’t read any of my posts, unless they either feature a photo of Kemba, or are about him — Robby.  Preferably both.)  His critique, I’ll admit, stung a little, coming from my very own son, and an accomplished writer at that.  I, of course, turned it into a running gag:  “Matt, what was the name of that Rest Area?  I missed it, and I need it for my next post.”  But point taken.  I understand what he’s saying about his themed gems vs. my longish blow-by-blow reports.  All I can say in my defense is it’s easier to be Erin Andrews, the pretty-faced sideline reporter who dances on and off the screen, than it is to be the above-mentioned Bob Murphy, who’s responsible for keeping folks informed of what’s actually going on day-to-day.  Not that I’m being petty or immature or anything.

So . . . after 31 days on the road, did Kemba and I return to anything new and different in our home town?  I’d have to say it was same old, same old back in Winslow Park.  On our first visit, a red Coonhound had mounted a brown-and-white Springer Spaniel, and Kemba decided it would be a nice idea to pile on as the caboose, in a charming three-way.  Reminding me vividly for the third time in less than a week that dogs will be dogs.

And while we left WePo in the winter, we returned in the spring.  I can tell because for the 5th time in the last 10 years — or at least so it seems — the house across the street has new owners, and they’ve decided, of course, to tear it down to the frame and make it still more beautiful than any of its previous owners had.  Which means jack hammers every morning at 8AM — yet again.  I asked Carol if she’d had a chance to meet the new neighbors while I was away, but she said she hadn’t.  So she just refers to them as “the Tyveks.”

Good one, Carol.

I PLAN TO POST AS CLOSE TO DAILY AS POSSIBLE WHILE KEMBA AND I ARE ON THE ROAD.  BUT YOU KNOW WHAT THEY SAY:  MAN PLANS, GOD LAUGHS.    OH, AND BTW, YOU CAN ALSO FOLLOW ME ON FACEBOOK, TWITTER AND INSTAGRAM.