10 Pleasant Surprises in Madrid

My second visit to Madrid was just a pass-by.  We had just flown to Barajas Airport and would be catching the train to Córdoba.  After what felt like a ten-mile taxi on the runway, we finally disembarked and made the long underground walk to the metro-station, towing our luggage. I wore mine over my back, while Jenelle wheeled her's behind.  

I was excited to ride the subway.  The whiz of the train and the hum of the wheels on the rails and the echo in the tunnels, all brought back nostalgia of Spain.  I felt that we had left behind the tourists of the airport and were now mingling with Madrileños on the metro.  Castilian was the preferred language here. 

We rode the pink-line to its terminus at Nuevos Ministerios, then caught the circular route for one stop and transferred to the blue-line at Cuarto Caminos.  From here, our journey to the Atocha train station moved relatively quickly.   

A subway ride is a good time to watch people.  Spaniards, in general, dress very nicely. This Wednesday morning was no exception.  Whether they were off to work, or off to the University, they wore nice dress shirts, slacks, dress-shoes, and scarfs - no jeans or t-shirts.  Most of those whom we saw that morning were younger, under age forty.  The riders sat patiently in the seats of the subway car, and when there was no room, they held to the pole near the door, or the railing that runs above the seats.

What surprised me, however, was how these Madrileños passed their time.  They didn't pull out their cell phones and begin to text or play games.  Instead, they read the morning newspaper, or they read a book. There were a few who were on their phones, but that was the minority. I was pleasantly surprised.

Madrid, like any other place in the world, is full of hidden experiences that are unique to the traveler.  Some are subtle, while others are bold.  Here are ten pleasant surprises that I discovered while wandering the streets of Madrid.

1. Elegance. Madrid reminded me a lot of Paris: balconies with cast-iron railings, Romanesque statues, and alabaster-colored palaces. No where is this more apparent than the area around Plaza de Cibeles and the Gran Vía.

The fountain of Cibeles, located in the center of a roundabout, contains the statue of the Roman goddess, Cybele, riding a chariot, being pulled by two lions. Across the street is the Palace of Cibeles, a large ornate building that once housed the Post Office. Now there is a high-end restaurant inside and tourists can pay money to view the panorama from the top.

Just up the street, forking off from the Calle de Alcalá, is the Gran Vía. Rising high between the intersection of these two streets is the Metropolis Building, crowned by a statue of the winged goddess, Victoria. The rest of the street is lined with lavishly ornate buildings, large movie theaters, hotels, and plenty of places to shop. For me, the treat was just in the watching; strolling down the street and admiring what lay in front and above me.

2. Lavapiés. On our way to visit a museum, we decided to walk through the neighborhood known as Lavapiés. This is the old Jewish Quarter and is now home to many immigrants. Devoid of the elegance of the Gran Vía , Lavapiés has a flavor all its own.

We stop in a small plaza and watch two boys from India. One boy, in a white t-shirt and baggy blue jeans, pitches a tennis ball to his friend, who hits it with a flat wooden cricket bat. This is the first time that I've ever seen anyone play cricket. After a swing and a miss, the boy pitches (or bowls) it to him again, and this time he drills it to the corner of the plaza. The boy from India, completely unaware that we are watching him, runs over to retrieve the tennis ball.

Across the plaza at a playground, two boys from Middle-Eastern decent, play ping-pong with large, yellow paddles. This is their world and their playground.

Moving further up the street, we find a curious pastry shop. We step inside and find that it is a Pakistani shop. The pastries are all foreign and look nothing like typical Spanish confectioneries. One in particular grabs our attention: it is flaky green, rolled up and sliced, with something white sprinkled over the top. They say it is made of pistachios. We buy a little selection and vow to return before our trip is over.

3. Protest in Puerta del Sol. A protest is always exciting to happen upon. This was no exception. When we entered the Puerta del Sol for the first time on our second trip, the place was shoulder to shoulder with people.

Madrid is the geographical center of Spain, and the Puerta del Sol is the geographical center of Madrid. Even without the protest, it would have been a happening place. Families were out for the nightly paseo, everyone dressed in coats and scarfs and other neat attire.

This protest attracted both Spanish and Muslim people. A man with a microphone spoke briefly to the people, then chanted a song in what appeared to be Arabic. Although still somewhat befuddled to the true purpose of the protest, I believe it had something to do with 9-11 and 3-11 (the terrorist attacks on the trains in Madrid), and getting down to the truth of who was involved. A multitude of signs waved on sticks: Democracy in Morocco; Tunisia and Egypt, free people!; Stop the murderer [accompanied with bloody pictures of dead people and a Muslim leader].

The protest was mostly peaceful. A police van parked on one side of the plaza and I saw a man sitting inside wearing handcuffs. On the other side of the plaza, a mariachi band from Mexico serenaded a small crowd.

4. Sky-tram. Near the Manzanaras River on the west side of town, there is an attraction that not many tourists know about. We found it quite by accident. It is a sky-tram that takes the rider across the railroad tracks, across the river, and over the cypress trees at the Casa de Campo. A ticket for 7 € buys a round-trip ticket.

From here we saw the skyscrapers of modern Madrid. It also gives a unique perspective of the Royal Palace, and the situation of the city on a hill. Most of the ride, however, is spent above the Casa de Campo.  It used to be the hunting grounds of the royal family. Although there is an amusement park and a zoo, the Casa de Campo appears to me much as it was several hundred years ago.

5. Thunderstorm. While wandering through the streets one evening, it began to rain. We pulled out our umbrellas, which sufficed for a moment, but soon the water came down in droves. The pelting drops came down at an angle so that we had to hold the umbrellas diagonally in front of us, attempting to maneuver the narrow walkway between the parked cars and the walls of the buildings. We could not see where we were going. Small streams began to form in the streets. Vehicles, with their headlights blaring, sped past, spewing a spray of water on us.

At last we found shelter in the entryway of a building, beneath a stone doorway. Others found this shelter with us as we all watched the storm outside. Rain roared and thunder bellowed in the near distance. We glimpsed flashes of light, but could not see the lightning bolts. A moped hurried along the cobblestone road, surely in panicked misery.

6. Petanca. Away from the Madrid found in guide books, we came across a game of petanca. Anytime you find a court with old men wearing beret's and tossing metal balls, you know that you're mingling with the locals. Petanca, closely related to the French game of boules, is popular throughout Spain. I think of it as their version of horseshoes. Although I've observed the game, I still struggle to grasp the rules. Each man has a hollow metal ball. With the concentration of a golfer, they hold the ball, palm down, and with a gentle swing of the arm, they toss it down-court, attempting to get as close as possible to a small red ball, or else to knock their opponents ball out of the way.

Watching a Petanca game is slightly awkward. They know that you are watching them. Most are old men who tend to shy away, while others are visitor-friendly. Each player has a little leather bag to hold their equipment. We found their bags hanging on nails pounded into a tree.

7. Singing Trio. While leaving El Rastro, the largest street market in Madrid, we happened across a very cute trio, ensconced on a street corner, singing music for the crowd. The old husband sat on the end, wearing a black leather jacket and playing an accordion. His head was round, eyes were round, and skin looked well-tanned with that nice Spanish complexion. His receding hairline left a swath of short gray hair that circled about his head.

His wife, very portly in figure, sat in the middle.  She wore a scarlet scarf atop her head, and a red sweater, lip stick, and carnation in her hair, that were all of the same bright color. Her hair was even dyed a purplish-red.

It must have been a son who sat on the left, he being the tocador, or guitar player. The family had a look of gypsy in them, but I wasn't completely sure. It was their singing that made them stand out. They didn't sing a single word, but instead, hummed the entire tune, like a child would who doesn't know the lyrics. Father played the accordion and son strummed the guitar. They looked at each other during the entire song with endearing gestures, chanting their song with passion. When they were done, the crowd gave them an applause, some gave money, and they moved on their way.

8. Catholic Mass. Sunday morning, we happened to pass the church of San Isidro. We observed a few people entering this 15^th century building and soon learned that mass was in session. As a curious student of all religions, I was excited to sit along-side the votaries and observe. It had been years since I had attended a Catholic Mass.

There was a lot during the mass that I didn't understand. Someone would swing a holder of smoking incense before saying a prayer, and they would intermittently sing hymns. At one point, most of the people stood up and recited a prayer.

The mass was very uplifting. Most of the people there were not tourists. Jesus Christ and his resurrection were mentioned several times. We were surrounded on all sides by images and statues of Christ and his life. The organ was beautiful and occasionally the congregation would sing. Most of those who attended were elderly, but there were some youth also.

9. Francisco de Goya. The Prado Museum is one of the greatest in the world. Of all the great artists whose work lie within its wall, those of Francisco de Goya were the most impressionable. The Third of May 1808 is a painting that depicts the Spanish resistance to Napoleon's army. With the dead piling on the ground, a man dressed in a white shirt, glowing in appearance, stands in surrender with his arms to the air while the French army points their bayonets at him.

But it is Goya's Black Paintings that stood out the most to me. These are a group of fourteen pictures that he painted during the darkest period of his life. These paintings portray haunting themes. Saturn Devouring His Son depicts an insane man with long gray hair biting off the body of a naked corpse. For me, a great painting is one that makes an impression that doesn't leave my mind. Most of Goya's works did just that. Before visiting the museum, Goya's name was one that had scarcely sounded familiar. Now, it is one that demands respect and awe, and a name that I will never forget.

As a side-note, Goya is also buried in Madrid. His remains abide in the Royal Chapel of St. Anthony of the Florida, a structure on the Manzanares River. When we traveled there to pay tribute, the chapel was closed. We had to be satisfied with a statue outside the chapel that commemorates the artist.

10. Train to Seville. High speed trains in Europe have had the ability to drastically shrink travel times between cities. The AVE, from Madrid to the southern charm of Seville, will take two and a half hours. If you wanted to make a day-trip out of it (which I would not recommend because Seville has too much to do in just one day), you could certainly do it. There are twenty-three trains every day that leave the Atocha Station, our one-way ticket costing 84 € each. Inside, the coaches are spacious, smooth, and comfortable. The scenery along the way isn't superb, but that doesn't matter because once you are in Seville, the scenery is amazing. According to my rough calculations, a 330 mile trip to Seville, lasting two and a half hours, not even including the one or two stops in between, would put the train traveling at least 132 mph.

First NFL Game

When I learned that I would be attending my first NFL game, I asked around about what to expect. “Lots of drinking and swearing,” one friend said, who had lived near San Diego most of his life. “And make sure you're there at least two hours early and bring a cooler with a lunch and eat it in the parking lot. - Who do they play?”

“The Raiders.”

His eyes became wide while he gave one more bit of advice. “Expect lots of fights. The Chargers and Raiders are big rivals and a lot of fans buy tickets and drive down from Oakland. Expect to see half the crowd be Raider fans.”

That sounded exciting enough for me.

Last summer, we attended our first Major League baseball game and had a very enjoyable time. Now, we might as well step it up a notch and move into the realm of the NFL.

The Chargers were on a three game skid, and the Raiders hadn't won a game all year. But the quality of the teams was less important to me than was the opportunity to attend a professional football game and to witness the atmosphere.

Game day arrived, and we drove into the parking lot at Qualcomm Stadium. I was aghast! I felt like we were entering Tent City in Saudi Arabia. Blue and white canopies draped everywhere, all around the stadium. Smoke floated into the air and the smell of grilled beef soon drifted inside our vehicle. I quickly wondered how we would ever find a parking spot.

We were ushered to a side-lot, that was really a practice field, complete with grass. One by one, the cars filed onto the grass where they parked and let down the tail-gates and pulled out the charcoal and grills.  On one side, Tim McGraw blasted from someone's truck, while on the other, rap music took the honors. The people in the truck next to us grilled steak and fried up vegetables in a pan. The fans in front of us played beer pong. The sandwiches they ate were massive.

Sheepishly, we lifted the hatch on our Trailblazer and pulled out a blue cooler. I removed sliced bread from a bag and proceeded to make sandwiches for my family.

Yes, we felt out of place. Not only because of our puny meal, but because it felt like we were the only people there not wearing Charger or Raider memorabilia.

We wrapped up our lunch and made the long walk to the stadium. Yes, it felt long. We walked through the practice field and across the crowded parking stalls with fans still pulling their steaks off the grill and shoveling large plates of food into their mouths.

A large amount of fans wore team jersey's with their favorite player's name on the back: Rivers, Carr, Weddle, Tomlinson, McFadden. The Raider fans, especially, wore large gaudy necklaces. They seemed to fit the gangster stereotype of sunglasses and a sideways hat. Some wore skeleton masks.

We checked our bags, showed our tickets, and rode up the tall, steep escalator that conveyed fans to the upper sections. Our seats were on the opposite side from where we entered, so we had to circumvent the entire stadium. We might as well have walked around the moon, it was so far to get around.

Before arriving at our seats, the kids and I walked into an alleyway that enters the interior of the stadium, and once again, we were blown away! Four levels of blue seating, all stacked steep, with a deep, clear view down to the field; 70,000 seats in all.

We found our seats, completely on the opposite side, in section sixty, row twenty-three. In common jargon, that's the nose-bleed section. Just a few more rows higher and we would have been at the top of the world. For nose-bleed seats, our view of the field was impressive and didn't feel extremely distant. Our seats faced the sun. We didn't know yet if that would be to our advantage or not. As of now, the weather was a perfect seventy degrees.

Thirty minutes later, the teams were running onto the field, the Chargers getting a firework show and the Raiders getting booed. It wasn't all boos. There was a healthy amount of cheering also. At least half the crowd were Oakland fans. Right then you could feel a reverberating rivalry echo through the stadium.

Airman First Class, Michelle Doolittle, sang the National Anthem, followed by three Air Force jets that screamed over the stadium. It was time for the opening kickoff.

As far as a summary of the game, it can be done with just the first few plays. Oakland fumbled the snap on the first play of the game. Two downs later, San Diego quarterback, Phillip Rivers threw a perfect pass at the edge of the end zone to a receiver, who was leaping, stretching, and reaching, able to grasp and hold to the ball, pulling it into his arms for the touchdown.

That was the only touchdown of the game. The rest of the contest featured four field goals and only a handful of breathtaking plays.

But a lackluster game did not diminish the grandeur of the experience. The stadium was full of pure energy, bordering on chaos.

The lady behind us must have been drunk when she entered the arena. She was a Raiders fan. She spewed a line of obscenities at the young female Chargers fan that walked up the stairs. “You don't look at me like that you mother obscenity little witch! You think you can just walk in front of me with those ugly skinny legs? You get the obscenity away from me!” - The funny thing is that the young innocent female wearing the Chargers jersey was no where near the intoxicated lady.

Midway through the second quarter, three men in Raider's jersey's walked up the steep stairs and halted at our row. They looked at their tickets, then looked at us, then looked at the number on the row, then looked at their tickets again. They inched their way into our row, squeezing past our knees, and splashing their cups of beer as they shuffled. “It looks like we may have a problem here,” one of them mumbled five inches from my face. I smelt the fresh alcohol on his breath. “But that's all right. We'll work things out if it becomes a problem.” On our right were three vacant seats and they sat down. The last of the three men wore a mask with a skull painted on the front.

The man with the backwards hat sat down next to me and immediately I pulled out my ticket and compared it with his. “This is section 60,” I said. “You're ticket is section 59.”

“You're right,” he said. “Fifty-nine must be over there.” He pointed to the next section over, where a lady in black was standing up, waving at him. “My apologies,” he said as he got to his feet.

They shuffled back the way they came. “I like your Angels hat,” one of them said. “But you know that this is a football game, not baseball. But I truly like the Angels. They are my favorite team. But they are not playing here.” Another of the men commented on my daughter's mismatched socks. All three left spatters of beer on the cement behind them.

We spotted a few yelling matches during the game. Most of the fans, however, were civil with each other. Several friends with opposing preferences sat side-by-side.

I watched the game, hoping for an eighty yard run or a big interception or a hail-mary into the end-zone. I found none of that. Deep inside, there was a part of me that secretly wanted the Raiders to win, to pull off the upset. It was certainly within their reach. Boy, that would create some fights!

With only four minutes left in the game, the first blood was drawn. I couldn't see what happened, but very quickly the entire upper section was on their feet and craning to gain a view. A man in a Chargers jersey was on his feet and yelling and cursing at someone a few rows up whom I couldn't see. Soon there were two security guards pulling him down the stairs with his left arm pulled behind his back in a chicken-wing. I later saw this bearded man in the hall and his nose was cut and bleeding. I don't know what the scuffle was all about.

The game ended 13 – 3, Chargers taking the victory.

As we walked through the parking lot back to our vehicle, the tailgate parties appeared to resume. Not many appeared to be in a hurry to get out. They shoveled left-over plates of food into their mouths and some reignited the flames on their grills.

What was my final impression of my first NFL game? Chaos. From our entry into the parking lot, until our exit onto the freeway. Pure chaos! Was it an impressionable experience that I will never forget? Certainly! Was it worth $700 to bring my family here? Maybe. Was it the quintessential activity that I would love to do every Sunday? Absolutely not! Maybe once every few years. Sure.

La Jolla

The sand at La Jolla Shores is no different than any other beach. Kids use it to build sand castles and adults use it to walk on, letting the soft grit squish between their toes. I slipped off my shoes, my socks, and stepped into the undulation of the water and felt the whooshing sand across my feet.

The beach is a novelty for my family. We live two states away from the coast and where we live, water is scarce and palm trees are non-existent.

The three girls put on their swimming suits and played in the waves, while Jordan rode his long board to the pier and back, fulfilling a desire for that quintessential California experience. Jenelle reclined on a blanket and enjoyed watching the kids play in the water.

A beach is always a good place to watch people: surfers trudging into the water, board tucked beneath their arm and leash strapped to their ankle; a little boy playing with shovel and bucket; teenage girls snapping pictures with a phone; and lovers walking hand-in-hand along the washed-up water. I also spotted para-gliders and a blimp.

I've always wanted to eat a picnic lunch on the beach. With this in mind, we brought a cooler full of food. I sat on the blanket and pulled two slices of bread out of the bag, spread mayo on both sides and placed a slice of salami and a slice of cheese and a few shreds of lettuce onto one side of the bread, then folded the two slices back together. I also opened a bag of chips and another of cookies.

We began to notice a large flock of seagulls hovering around us. Some circled overhead and others paced toward us on the sand. Kaitlyn tried waving them away to no avail. They were after our lunch.

The first sandwich made I gave to Kaitlyn. She paced nervously away from the birds, holding her sandwich against her belly. They persisted to follow. I began making another sandwich, keeping the bread low near my knees on the blanket. During this process, Kaitlyn came running and screaming, chased by a flock of birds, throwing her uneaten sandwich to the ground, and running away. Within seconds, a gull swooped down and devoured it with her strong bill.

Savanah, my eight year-old, took the second sandwich. We advised her to keep the sandwich low and in front of her, and not to do anything that would draw attention to the sandwich. This strategy worked well for two minutes until another gull dove in, not only stealing her sandwich, but pecking her shoulder, leaving a bright red mark. She cried for the next five minutes while my wife held her in her arms.

Now it was my turn to eat a sandwich. I felt the best strategy would be to leave the area near the blanket and clandestinely eat my food somewhere else. I moved twenty yards away and felt good about how I was doing things. I would take a bite of sandwich, then hold it close to my right hip. I watched the seagulls swirl around our blanket, while they all seemed oblivious of me. I had finished half of my sandwich, when from behind me, a bird swooped down and stole my sandwich from my hand! He nipped my thumb during the process. A slice of salami fell to the ground. I shook my head in disgust.

After having managed to eat lunch, I opened my backpack and pulled out a yellow Frisbee. This yellow disc traveled five hundred miles just for this purpose. Like the picnic, I have always wanted to play Frisbee on the beach, and hadn't ever done it.

Kaitlyn and I played together, just tossing it back and forth. It was a little tricky with other people in the same area. Our first several throws were really off-target, tending to turn side-ward and veer off to the right. Any time that a person walked near us, we learned that it was best to wait and let them pass.

Finally, we got the swing of things and were catching most of the throws made to us. My favorite throws were those involving a running catch. We began playing on the dry sand, not far from the water, but soon we were intentionally throwing toward the water so that we would have to run and splash into the current to catch the Frisbee. Sometimes we would accidentally throw well off-course and the Frisbee would land in the waves. But it always washed back to shore. Kaitlyn and I had a lot of fun playing together.

The sun was making its way toward the western horizon on this short November day, and we knew that it was time to move on if we were to make it to Seal Rock. We had spent our day on the long beach that is called La Jolla Shores. This section is extensive and straight. The coast continues south where the flat beaches give way to steep cliffs as the coast curves to the west. Beyond that curve is Seal Rock, where the seals hang out. My friend from San Diego told me that he thought there was a walking path between La Jolla Shores and Seal Rock, the distance between the two being a little over a mile.

We set out on a journey to see the seals: two parents, two teenagers, two kids, and several feet wearing flip-flops. We followed the beach south, hoping to find a foot-path soon. A brick fence crossed the beach, perpendicular to the water, but not reaching the water. I didn't see a sign that prohibited us from crossing this point, so we continued.

The brick fence must have indicated a point of demarcation, because now the beach was nearly empty and the sand had recently been raked. A long rustic building, in the same color of the brick fence, sat at the beach's edge and a table with white linen, wine glasses and utensils wrapped in white napkins with a pink bow tied around them sat outside one of the rooms of the building. At the far end of this exclusive beach, the sandy shore abruptly ended and the steep cliffs began. No foot path here. We definitely felt like we were in the wrong place and found a door to enter the building where we could quickly exit the other side. (We later learned that this was the private La Jolla Beach and Tennis Club.)

Instead of navigating a sandy path, we now found ourselves guessing which La Jolla street would be the best to take. All led uphill. We walked along Spindrift Drive up to Torrey Pines Road. The distant cliffs were now out of site and the sun was inching ever closer to the horizon. Jenelle was complaining that we would never get there in time, and she had good reason to do so. Cars zoomed past us at speeds that forced us to keep all our kids to the far right of the narrow sidewalk.

We knew we were close to the ocean, but all the houses on our right side blocked the view. I knew that the view they had out their back windows must have been amazing.

The next street sign we came to read Coast Walk. This was certainly our best bet. We followed the narrow paved road down a short hill where it ended and a foot-path began. Hallelujah!

The trail ran along the edge of a high cliff. Far below us the crest of the waves crashed into black rocks at the foot of the cliff. The pier and the shore that we just came from were visible across the vast corner of ocean.

To our left, literally just off the trail, were the backyards of large homes. Ahead of us, perched along the crevices of the cliff that bent inward, hundreds of black cormorants dotted the face. Where they overflowed to the top of the cliff, we watched them up close, only steps away from the trail. Not only were there cormorants, but also seagulls and pelicans. Splats of white guano stained much of the cliff-side.

The view from this vantage point was amazing. But with the sun already dipping below the horizon, I knew that Seal Rock would be difficult to reach with any kind of suitable light.

We enjoyed what we could, which at the moment was plenty. Below us, a rocky promontory with a wide tunnel or arch stood defiant in the water. Waves beat against it and water moved freely through the tunnel. The passageway was short, I knowing that because I could sense the light from the other side. A lone man with a swimming suit sat at the tunnels edge, hanging his feet in the water. The maps name this promontory as Goldfish Point.

We walked around a bend in the trail and found exactly what we were looking for: seals. This wasn't Seal Rock, but whatever its name was [La Jolla Cove], it was full of them.

A low wooden fence separated the trail from the seals, or sea lions, and a little gate allowed access to join them on the other side with plenty of signs warning tourists not to get too close. And there were plenty of tourists, mingling, but not too close, with seals and cormorants.

Most of the seals lolled on the rocks, occasionally rolling around and barking. They reminded me of a wailing corpse in a horror movie, with no arms and no legs. When one decided to move a considerable distance of a few feet, he raised his on his back flippers and waddled up the rock.

They were used to the human crowd, and didn't appear to shy way from anyone. I watched one sea lion raise his head and spew air at a young teenager. The startled boy jumped back. I think the seal was only playing with him. Several of us smiled.

Other sea lions dropped into the choppy water to take an evening swim. The blue water, now taking on a shade of darkness, tossed them like a washing machine would toss a shirt. The water appeared cold to me, but I am sure that the seals were content and completely within their realm.

Anxious tourists took advantage of the final minutes of light that their cameras would allow and snapped portraits of themselves with the seals.

As for us, it was time that we started making the journey back to our vehicle. The lights around La Jolla were now illuminating and some reflected far into the ocean. The last hue of sunset rested over the city. Even in the darker light, the white-capped waves could still be seen twirling toward the bay.

Thompson Springs

The first thing that one notices when they drive through Thompson Springs is the abundance of single-wide trailers and junk. The vacated buildings certainly outnumber the inhabited ones. I was surprised to see one house, probably built in the thirties and hadn't seen a paint-job since, with new curtains in the window and a vase holding a fresh rose.

I drive a long Bogart Avenue, one of the main roads, yet it only lasts a block or two. On one side there are single-wide trailers, one with an old picket fence that is falling down. Other trailers are obviously vacant, the yard and garden and dog-house next to them out of use for years. The opposite side of the road looks like a storage lot for equipment and old vehicles.

The town has certainly seen better days. Honestly, when I came here, I wasn't expecting to find anyone. I was surprised to see a gas station and a handful of dwellings that were inhabited. I knew that a scene from the movie Thelma and Louise was filmed here: the bar scene. I think they may have revamped one of the old cafe's in town.

Thompson has been at the crossroads for some time now. A few miles up the canyon, Ute, Fremont, and Barrier Canyon Indians have left their markings on the rocks. In 1870, E.W. Thompson was the first white man to establish a residence at the springs. The Denver Rio Grand Rail Company built a rail station here in the 1890's, which became a key to Thompson's early success.

The railroad still runs through Thompson, but no longer stops. The rail station was moved twenty-one miles away in Green River. As I cross the tracks on the north side of Main Street, a kid on a custom-built bike with an extended front wheel passes me going the other way. It is a reminder that people actually live here, and the kids have got to find things to do.

Have I said how remote Thompson is? The nearest town is Green River, population 929. Moab is 35 miles to the south, Price is 90 miles to the west-north-west, and Grand Junction is 77 miles to the east. Any civilization to the north in inaccessible.

As I drive down Main Street, I realize that Thompson was a much more thriving place than it is now. I pass a motel, grocery store, cafe, and several houses, all in disrepair and vacated for quite some time. The townsfolk probably have to drive to Moab for groceries now. There is one hotel, or more likely a bed and breakfast, that looks like it has been restored to its former glory.

A small kiosk on the corner provides some useful information on the town. I was about to peruse the sign when the kid on the bike pulls next to me and asks, “Do you want to ride my chopper?”

The first thought that came to my mind: is this town so lonely that you stop strangers on the side of the road and ask them if they want to ride your bike? On the other hand, I was flattered that the thought would even cross his mind. I was far too sore to ride and odd-shaped bike, but it did lead to a good conversation with this fifteen year old kid, Brandon.

He was very excited to tell me all about his bike. “I got the parts from three different bikes. My friend put it together for me.”

“So they call that a chopper?” I asked, feeling a little bit stupid.

“Yeah,” he said, pulling a goat head out of his tire. “I hate these things. I've already had to pump my tire up once today. Check out these new add-ons.” He unscrewed the cap on the stem of his tire and handed it to me. A shiny new skull.

“Nice,” I said, examining it with my fingers. “So, how many people live in Thompson?”

“Twenty-seven.”

The answer was much lower than I expected. Just then, a girl in a white car passed the intersection. (This was the only vehicle to pass during our conversation.) “That's my sister,” he said. “She's a crazy driver. She got up to one hundred and eighty on the highway!”

“Are you related to the whole town?”

“No, but we know everyone.”

“So, where does everyone work,” I asked. “Do they work in the coal mines?”

“No. They work at the gas station.”

Before I left, Brandon asked me if I'd like to take his picture. I was glad to do it. It is a reminder to me of the living aspect of a town that is mostly dead. We shook hands and then he continued on, peddling on his one-speed chopper through ghostly streets.

On my way out of town, I passed the gas station, and as I was about to enter the freeway, I noticed the train coming from the west and about to enter town. I pulled over to look at it. The bright yellow engines moved distinctly across the desert, with the palisades of the Book Cliffs behind them. The horn of the engine blew several times, loud enough for me to hear. The clanking of wheels on the rails thumped swiftly. But I knew that this train would not be stopping at Thompson Springs. No, those day have long been over.   

Thompson and Sego Canyons

From the mouth of Thompson Canyon you can hear the horn of the train and the power of the engine from three miles away. The railroad, which now completely bypasses the little town of Thompson Springs, once was at the heart of Sego Canyon. Until the 1950's, a spur of the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad began at Thompson Springs and went up Thompson Canyon and into Sego Canyon where it loaded up on coal from the mines. At that time, Sego was a thriving little town of several hundred people. Now, no one lives in the town of Sego, except for the wild animals and ghosts of the past.

I spent the night in Thompson Canyon, listening to the sounds of the wind and trains. I drove up the canyon soon after first light and was immediately surprised when a small herd of deer crossed the road in front of me, a nice four-point buck with them. This reminded me that I was in big buck country. Absolutely no one was in the canyon that morning, so I didn't hesitate to stop in the road to take pictures.

The buck seemed oblivious that I was there. He was just chasing the doe wherever she went; in and out of the sage brush, up the hill, around the trees, and across the road. This was November, and the rut was well on its way. Several other does were there also, but he only had his eye on the one.

A little further up the canyon I arrived at my first destination. High on the canyon wall, in three separate but proximate locations, are petroglyphs from three different Indian groups: Barrier Canyon, Fremont, and Ute.

The glyphs are very impressive. The Fremont and Barrier Canyon drawings are high enough that a ladder would be needed to create them. Many of the figures are life-sized. Two Fremont figures depict what looks like warriors adorned in war or other ceremonial dress. Several Barrier Canyon figures look like a cross between a ghost and an alien. Wavy lines give the appearance of floating in the air. I wonder if they are depicting spirits of the deceased. It is also interesting that both the Fremont and Barrier Canyon use upside down triangles, or near triangles, to depict the body, even though the two groups never knew each other and lived hundreds, perhaps thousands, of years apart.

Ute.

Fremont. (Notice they are etched over the top of  Barrier Canyon petroglyphs.)

Barrier Canyon Style.

Another interesting observation is the comparison of the three styles of drawing. If this were an art gallery (which it is), and I were to rate the three based on the pleasing of the eye, I would have to rate the Barrier Canyon first, Fremont second, and Ute last. This is ironic because Barrier Canyon is the oldest, and Ute the newest (some of the Ute even depict horses). It is as if something had been lost over time.

Further up the road, the course splits and the right fork leads to Sego Canyon and the ghost town of Sego. The last major relic left standing, the general store, appears majestic, but out of place in this isolated canyon. The roof is gone, the insides are gone, but stone walls, two-stories high, remain standing.

Next to the store are the remains of the collapsed boarding house. The pictures I saw showed an impressive house, two-storied with many windows. I was expecting to find the house still intact. Instead, I found a house completely razed, either by human or natural forces. Much of the roof still retained its original shape. It was as if someone took a gigantic bat and whacked out the middle section, causing the roof to drop to the ground.

Both the store and the boarding house were built around 1910 by the American Fuel Company after they bought the property from Harry Ballard, the original owner. Thus, the name of the town changed from Ballard to Neslin, after Richard Neslin, the general manager of the new company. Five years later, when business wasn't going so well, Neslin was fired, and naturally, the name of the town changed again, this time to Sego, after the sego lily, which abounded in the canyon.

Remnants of a railroad spur have survived in the canyon, primarily at points where it would have crossed the wash. Wooden bridges still stand, fully erect, without the rails. They are reminders of livelier days when enough coal was mined in the canyon to be brought out on trains.

A dugout.

Further up the canyon are several dugouts. The majority of Sego's five hundred residents lived in these modest dwellings carved into the side of the hill.

Much further off the road I found another brick building built into the side of a hill, but this one was much larger than the dugouts. It may have been a storage building. Inside there is nothing but a dirt floor and a square room with ample space to walk around.

My guess is that this dugout was used to store machinery.

The road up Sego Canyon continues another seven miles or so until it hits the Ute Indian Reservation. It is a reminder, once again, that this land was used by another people.

I decided to turn around. On my way down the canyon, two more nice bucks crossed the road in front of me. The bigger one disappeared into the trees, while the other buck stuck around and chased a doe. I watched him as he moseyed down a hill and found a large growth of brush where he raked and scraped his antlers on the branches. At one point I thought he got them stuck in the tangle of branches, but he pulled them out a couple of minutes later.

My final stop was at the cemetery. No ghost town would be complete without one of these. A barbed-wire fence surrounds this picturesque burial ground at the junction of Sego and Thompson Canyons. The majority of the plots are marked, but unidentified. Crude wooden crosses and piles of rock make up most of the grave markers.

This was difficult for me to comprehend. Buried here are men and women and children who lived lives as real as the one you and I are living. They laughed, cried, and hurt. They bore children who continued to bear children and right now live somewhere in this great world. But their descendents may no longer remember them. And if they were to come here, they would never be able to find their ancestor's grave, because nothing is marked. It is as if the inhabitants of Sego never existed.

Some of the dwellers here immigrated from Italy. One of the few marked headstones identifies a Giovanni Ascani, from Frontone, Italy. He died in 1918. A slab of rock identifies he Stortini baby who died in 1926.

Where are the Ascani and Stortini's now? Do they know that their grandparents mined coal in Sego Canyon? Which of the dugouts belonged to them? Or did they have a larger home, that no longer exits? Did they buy goods in the general store? Were they curious about the ghost-like writings painted on the walls in Thompson Canyon? Did they have dealings with the Ute's? Baby Stortini, did he or she die from harsh conditions made worse by isolation?

So many questions on my mind as I drive on down the road toward Thompson Springs.

Graveyard near the confluence of Thompson and Sego Canyons