Gold Butte Road

Gold Butte Road begins nine miles west of Bunkerville, Nevada. Eventually it wends its way to an old mining community of the same name. The townsite is now a ghost town, which is not surprising in a place such as this. Those who settled there must have been hardy individuals, as would anyone who lives in an area as rugged as the Mojave Desert.

The first several miles along Gold Butte Road follow the Virgin River. About a mile-and-a-half into the drive, I see a large ply-wood sign painted yellow, with the inscription, “Bundy Melons” brushed across the front and an American flag waving off to the side. It's too bad that we're here in February because a juicy watermelon would taste really good. The climate seems perfect for raising melons.

The sign, however, reminds me of something else. We are in Bundyland! The melon patch, which is well-known locally, is owned by none other than Cliven and Carol Bundy. Their grand-kids help with the family business. Now days, Cliven is more famous for his stand-off with the Federal Government over the grazing rights of his cattle. The battle made big national news. Even though I can't pinpoint the exact location, I remember from the television clips that the scuffle took place somewhere close to here.

The drive along the riparian area of the river is green with several large ranches. A stop along the top of a butte reveals the the twisty and sinuous nature of the Virgin River. From here it travels south toward Lake Mead. No major roads follow the river here, which is a sign that this area is very remote and desolate.

The route that we travel would be considered a very unmaintained paved road. Along some sections, the surface is gentle and pleasant. Most of it, however, is missing the smooth layers and is very bumpy. Some of the lower sections along the river are covered in sand.

After several miles, the road leaves the company of the river and bends inland toward the desert. Moving away from the river and reaching slightly higher elevations, it is fascinating to watch the flora of the Mojave Desert in action. Creosote bushes are everywhere. This scrubby little tree wont win any beauty pageants, but it still amazes me how it can flourish in such a hot and arid place like the Mojave.

Next, I notice the cholla cactus creeping into the scene. Then come the tall California barrel cactus that sometimes have a red or pink tint to them. Finally, there are the Joshua trees. These are my favorite. These Gumby-like trees fill the landscape like a field full of scarecrows. Instead of leaves, the branches of these trees have sharp projections like the yucca plant. Right now they are beginning to bloom.

Juanita Springs

Roughly five miles from the point where the road leaves the Virgin River, a surprising oasis comes into view. This section is fenced off as private property, and is known locally as Juanita Springs. The palm trees and other lush vegetation that grow here stand out from the creosote bushes and cholla cactus. I don't see any water that gushes from beneath the earth, but the underground aquifer must be close enough to the surface to enhance the plant growth. An oasis is quite a site to see in this arid country. As the road climbs a hill, with the oasis on the right-hand side, there is a lone palm tree to the left. A mailbox sits in front of the premise, suggesting that someone still lives here. 

After traversing another small hill and entering another drainage area, we are rewarded with a distant glimpse of Lake Mead. A dirt road forks to the right and leads toward the water. Even though the shore is about twelve miles away, the combination of water and desert always fascinate me.

It is here that the Joshua trees are very prevalent. Juxtaposed with the barrel cactus, this Mojave landscape is blossoming like the rose. The barren mountains and the tooth-like Virgin Peak pose majestically as a backdrop.

We come to tall cluster of Navajo Sandstone. This is the perfect place to let the dogs out and eat some lunch. The kids immediately flee to the rocks and begin climbing all around the boulders. This cluster of rocks is interesting because it creates an island in the middle of the desert, about the area of a baseball field, and several stories high.

My two youngest, Jenna and Savanah, find the ideal venue to eat lunch: a large alcove that provides shade from the beating sun with a sandstone floor that furnishes a spot to sit and eat.

Our two schnauzers are having fun walking through the rocks and bushes and sniffing things out. Moqui is the mother and she is gray with silver streaks. Her black-furred little puppy, Lovey, is only a few months old and finding this experience as a novel idea. She nibbles at a small ball of cactus and quickly learns that it's a little pokey. Jenelle puts out a Tupperware of dog food and water next to the Trailblazer.

Next thing I know, Jordan is at the highest pinnacle of this rock formation yelling out, “Hey Mom! Look at me!” – He sure knows how to quickly find the top of anything. He's standing way too close to the edge and waving his arms. The drop-off right there is far enough that it would probably kill him if he fell.

I wander through the rocks, intending to explore, but then I see Kaitlyn following Jordan up to the very top. She is fourteen and very much a Tomboy. A very steep crevice leads to the top and Kaitlyn is almost there, attempting the trek in her cowboy boots. That worries me since I know that sometimes the tread on cowboys boots isn't so good.

As the protective father, I follow Kaitlyn to the top. The climb is very tricky. Small hollow rings in the sandstone become ideal hand-grips. I manage to find narrow niches to place my feet, and within a few minutes I am at the top.

I will admit that one of my objectives in climbing to the top to join my kids is to make sure they're safe. “Get away from the edge!” I repeat over and over. I confess that I am terrified of heights. I wish that Jordan suffered from at least a smidgen of acrophobia, but he is dauntless when near death's edge. I snap a couple of pictures to prove we were at the top, then I order the kids to climb back down. (The decent always looks steeper and scarier than the climb up.) I am grateful that we all make it down with no broken bones.

Nearby is an unmarked road that leads away in a perpendicular direction. We all load into the vehicle and drive along this rocky pathway, maneuvering around large rocks and taking it slow. We arrive at a place to park where we climb out of the vehicle and begin to walk along a trail that winds through sandstone boulders and Joshua trees.

The trail leads to a rock-face with a short three-foot gap in the rock. Above the gap on the rock wall are Indian petroglyphs of a cornstalk and some zigzagged lines. I crouch down to my knees and crawl through the window and enter into similar world of sandstone hilltops and rocky ledges. I look high and to my left and I see that Jordan has found the highest pinnacle again. He sits there, nonchalantly as if he was just magically poofed there.

The girls immediately find a group of faint petroglyphs of three big-horned sheep on a varnished rock. They admire the rock art for only moments before racing off to find another adventure. Then they find a small, but deep collection-pool of dark, murky water. They kneel down at the water's edge, press their faces down to the surface, and search for pollywogs.

I move in a different direction. Within minutes I find a large rock-face with well over a hundred glyphs etched onto the surface. This isn't the only place that I find petroglyphs. They seem to be everywhere! There are more around the corner, some high on the cliff-face, and others in the next canyon over . This must have been a major crossroads.

I look at the petroglyphs and wonder of their meaning. I see zigzags, footprints, multi-layered circles, sheep, scary-looking stick men, rainbows, combs, and corn. One glyph that catches my attention, that I don't recall seeing at other sites, is a simple cone with a loop on top. There are many ways you could describe it: a magnifying glass with a short stubby handle, an ice cream cone, a lollipop, or a stumpy spoon. But what could it be to the Paiutes who probably drew them? Perhaps a basket, although some are placed upside down. It could be a moccasin. One of the glyphs has a knob on top and is connected to a three-ringed chain. Could it represent a ceremonial pendant that was worn on a necklace, or a concho belt? In two other places I see the three-ringed chains by themselves. I see the “basket-looking” glyph multiple times and in various locations. It has to have some significance and can't be just random doodling.

Reluctantly, I know that it is time to collect the kids and the wife and the dogs and return the way we came. The shadows cast from the Joshua trees are now growing in size and I know that we have a good little drive ahead of us. Although I have found several different panels, I would want at least a full day to search every nook and cranny here and find all the glyphs I missed.

On the way out, we walk up a perfect crevice in the cliff and reach the upper level of the rocks and toward the gap that punctures through the rock-face. It is here that I make one last search for a petroglyph that I couldn't find earlier.

Then I see it. Exactly above my head about three feet, but directly below the pinnacle where Jordan climbed to earlier, there is stick-man, arms out wide and legs bent upward, and turned side-ward as if falling swiftly to the ground. Looking back up at the steepness of the cliff, I have no doubt that the Indian who chiseled this picture into the rock was recording history.   

Tuweep

The inner reaches of the Grand Canyon have always fascinated me. I once hiked to the bottom from the South Rim with my grandpa, and although that was an unforgettable experience, there are thousands of people every year that explore that same trail.

I've often wondered what kind of marvels exist in the canyon, especially where humans have not yet trod. I would have to think that there are many places that have rarely, if ever, had human foot step upon it. The trail system in the park covers just a scintilla of what is actually there. I am sure that there are huge sections of land that are completely inaccessible to man, and therefore, insufficiently explored.

One of the corners of the canyon that is accessible, but lightly visited is Toroweap, or Tuweep, as the locals call it. This may be the only place in the park where you drive to a point and see the Colorado River straight below you. The look-off point doesn't draw very many people, largely because to get there, you have to drive over sixty miles on a dirt road across the very desolate Arizona Strip. This made it all the more desirable for me to go there, and I was elated recently when a friend invited me to go there.

My friend, Billy, comes from a true cowboy family. We spent the night at his folk's home in Moccasin where we ate fresh beef roast, corn from the garden, mashed potatoes and gravy, huge slices of homemade bread slathered in butter, and large glasses of milk. His family ran cattle on the Arizona Strip, a huge parcel of isolated terrain that is detached from the rest of the state by the Grand Canyon.

West of Fredonia there is a brown sign that reads Toroweap 61 and the arrow points south toward a dirt road. All the brochures and travel web sites warn you about this road. Bring a spare tire and a high-clearance vehicle, they all advise. Also, bring plenty of extra water and food in case you get stranded, and don't plan on anyone coming to your rescue, possibly for a long time. And just to scare you even more, they state that a tow in this remote area could cost up to a thousand dollars! 

The first dozen miles from the highway were very lackluster. Not even any trees. Only small scrub brush stretching for miles and miles. Red cliffs became visible in the distance as well Mount Trumbull, bulging prominently in the direction that we were driving.

Gradually, a juniper tree here and there began to sparsely dot the landscape and the road began to gently heave up and down. We spotted a couple small herds of antelope, all distant, their white rumps being the most salient, and their backs the colors of red clay.

There is a spot just off the road where there is a huge hole. Not a sink hole, but more like a crevice in the rocks and all the rocks other than where the hole exists are covered by ground dirt. The hole is very deep, but the bottom can be seen by shining a flashlight into it. At its nether parts, there are the bones of a horse. As the story goes, there was snow on the ground when the cowboy's horse didn't see the opening and fell right in.

Along the way we saw a blow snake cross the road. Other two-track roads occasionally jutted off from either side. A barren, volcanic hill loomed in the near distance.

As we approached the flanks of Mt. Trumbull, pinyon pine mingled with the juniper and a large patch of snow was visible high atop the slopes of the mountain. But soon we were past Mt. Trumbull and slowly descending into Toroweap Valley. Prickly pear cacti became more abundant, as well as the “jumping” kind that are in the shape of sausage links.

Approaching us in the distance was the chasm of the Colorado River, or the inner depths of the Grand Canyon. We could only see the upper flatland of the mesas, their steep flanks only slightly suggesting that a gorge of monstrous proportions existed there.

The final several miles were very rocky and required high-clearance. Cacti, heavy in bloom, flourished as did other flora. Puddles of water sat as ponds on the sandstone floor.

We drove to a little parking spot at the rim of the gorge. Only a twenty second walk and we were at the brink. No hand-rails and no fence. Only flat sandstone rock on the ledge and a perpendicular cliff that drops three thousand feet to the river below.

From the level where the truck was parked, there is another level that steps down about four feet and that is as far as you can go and still stay alive. This escarpment is wide enough to walk along, but I always hugged the safer side. To get a good look at the river, it is best to get onto your hands and knees and inch toward the drop-off. Even then my head gets a little bit dizzy.

The river runs from east to west and from our view high above it looks like a wide ribbon. For the most part it is serene, but in a few places the white-water is visible. The churning of Lava Flow Rapids to our west is noticeable. A faint rumbling echoes through the canyon.

We looked for rafters floating down the river but saw none. They would be mere specks, but nonetheless visible. 

Springtime was very apparent as it seemed that a small veneer of grass covered much of the ground within the gorge. On the sides of the river, larger amounts of green growth flourished.

Vegetation on the rim thrived also. Red blossoms crowned the tops of the prickly pear cactus. The shorter agave plants, as well as the taller yuccas abounded. Brigham tea, Indian paintbrush, and other flowers, both gold and scarlet in color, painted the landscape all the way to the edge of the cliff.

We walked to another look-off point that gave much of the same view, but from a slightly different angle. Billy told the story of a horse that almost backed off the ledge. They were lined up for a picture and instead of stopping when they pulled the reins, the horse backed up, his hind legs slipping beyond the edge, and the horse hunching down and the cowboys pulling on the reins and the horse scraping his hooves on the rock to regain sure footing.

We drove a few miles to another area, this one called Lava Flows. This is the only place in the area where one can hike all the way to the river. But the warnings are there: Do not hike this in the summer as temperatures can get as high as 120 degrees. Do not hike unless you have plenty of water. Be aware that there is no trail, it is very steep and exposure is great. In other words, be very careful or you might die.

To our left was the very prominent, but dormant volcano called Vulcan's Throne. At one time this volcano spewed enough lava down the hillside to now make a hike to the river feasible, although still very difficult. 

We hiked down a little ways, but only on the relatively easy part. The thing that impressed me the most, however, is how the flora in the canyon seemed to change with every level that we dropped. The road from Tuweep descended about 500 feet in elevation and as we hiked, we probably dropped another 500 feet. The cacti grew more abundant, but now, large barrel cacti of several varieties mingled with the prickly pear. We also saw a plant that looked like a cousin to the yucca plant, but lighter in it's shade of green and with black tips on the blades. Honestly, it looked like a plant that belonged on a coral reef in the ocean.

The hike down was steep, but mostly it was the small, loose lava rock that made it difficult. From our spot where we turned around, only a small section of the river could be seen. Across the gorge on the south side of the canyon, a dirt road could be seen that streaked across the plateau. Looking down at the river I could see a small trail along its banks. I wondered if it was a game trail and if possibly there was a trail that connected it with the dirt road above. More than likely it was a path made by rafters who had a camp nearby.  

Snowshoeing

We have no choice but to ascend the steep slope for the first three hundred feet. I step forward with the snowshoe, letting the metal crampon beneath the shoe grip the crusty snow. Then I grab the branch of a spruce tree and pull myself upward. The scent of resin flies through the air.

But there isn't always a branch or a sapling to grab onto. And sometimes the slope appears too steep to crawl up and I worry that if I slip I will slide far down and crash into a tree. So then I step sideways and move the other direction, until I find another tree to clutch onto.

Sometimes the snowshoes will hold my weight above the surface of the snow, but sometimes, especially near the trunk of a tree where dead logs and unseen saplings grow beneath the surface of the snow, the white powder will give and my leg will puncture the snow and I will be up to my thigh in slushy, icy powder. My hand will pierce the snow also, and it is during these times that I wish that I had my gloves. But they are in my backpack, which I carry on my shoulders.

We finally arrive at the top of the hill where the slope becomes more gentle and snowshoeing isn't so bad. We rest for several minutes and let the flow of blood in our heads wind down to a slower pulse. I take a couple swigs of Powerade from my pack.

This is the first time in my life that I have put on a snowshoe. Believe it or not, I have never skied either. I just haven't done much with winter sports, period.  

My friend, Jordan, has been trying for years to have me go snowshoeing with him. He is much taller than I am, and was a heck of an athlete in his youth. He still is amazing, but like all of us, age has taken its toll.

We drove up the mountain and parked the truck just off the highway about an hour ago. At 10,000 feet in elevation, we began our hike, not knowing exactly where we would end up.

Now, we trek along the top of the hill, mostly among Engelmann Spruce. I am learning to walk with the snowshoes. Mine are more modern and made of aluminum. It isn't difficult. The flatter you can place the shoe, the more likely it will hold you up on the snow. If I accidentally step with the toe pointed downward, perhaps when the surface of the ground isn't so even, then sometimes my leg falls through the snow.

Jordan's shoes are more traditional in appearance. They have the lattice-work on bottom and look like tennis rackets. He has to stop several times to adjust the binding on the shoes.

I see a Golden Eagle soaring above the the treetops. I recognize the white spots on the eagle's belly. I am curious to find out what other animals live so high during the winter months and hope to see elk, but suspect that they have moved down lower.

This year has been very mild. Here on the top of the mountain there is probably only two feet of snow. We are now in mid-March. There should be at least five feet of snow.

We skirt the rim of the mountain. To our right, the slope moves rapidly downhill and into Deep Creek. Our expansive view allows us to see an extensive drainage system of canyons that eventually merge into the deep red gorges of Zion National Park.

Our view from the rim over the rolling forest surrounding Deep Creek is perfect to spot elk. If I would have brought binoculars, I could spend twenty minutes glassing below and searching for a herd of bulls bedded down, basking in the sun on the southern slopes. Of course, their antlers wouldn't be too long now, as they probably just lost them last month. But they grow back quickly. We scan the area below with our naked eyes and see nothing.

We walk parallel with the rim of the slope. When we are not talking, the only sound we can hear is the crushing of snow beneath the shoes. Occasionally we hear the engine of a snowmobile far away. Below us in Deep Creek, a woodpecker hammers on a tree and unseen birds squawk back and forth from the treetops.

Tracks from several animals cut our path. We find footprints of both rabbit and coyote. At one spot we find the two tracks converge at a muddy wallow in the snow. I'm sure the coyote won that battle. We also find a small burrow beneath the bough of a pine tree where the coyote must have bedded down.

We see another set of prints that are slightly bigger and look like they might have a heel. I wish now that I were better at identifying tracks. I don't think that these are big enough to be a bear or a mountain lion, but they are certainly bigger than the coyote tracks. I remember now that I didn't bring my little pistol and certainly hope that there isn't a mountain lion in the area. Even though I have never seen a cougar in the wild, Jordan reminds me, “I'll bet that they've seen you.”

We find another set of tracks. These are definitely cat tracks, and they are light enough that they stay on top of the crust of snow, without breaking through. These are probably bobcat.

We encounter a patch on the west slope that faces Deep Creek where the snow has melted away. We remove our packs and unbind the snowshoes from our feet. It feels good to have the burden released from our shoulders and to be able to walk normal again, without the clumsy companion of the snowshoes. The breeze picks up a little stronger here on the bare slope.

From the dead branches that litter the ground, we gather twigs and break them off into sections about the length of a hand. After building a little mound about the size of an ant pile, Jordan places a trioxane bar beneath it. Then he takes a match and strikes it on the box and ignites the trioxane bar, which in turn, sets fire to the kindle of twigs. Soon, the entire mound is in flames and we find bigger branches to keep the fire going.

Jordan finds a flat-faced rock and places it next to the fire and cuts open a package of five frozen brats and lays them on the rock to thaw. When the mound of twigs has burned down to coals, we place three green limbs over the coals and lay the brats atop the limbs. There they slowly roast over the heat and begin to brown and sizzle.

For nearly two hours we warm our hands over the fire and eat bratwurst. We talk of religion, raising kids, cowboy caves, and survival in the Peruvian jungle.

Once again, we strap on the snowshoes and continue in the same direction as before. The snow is softer now and the shoes are sinking a little further into the powder. But we are still able to stay atop the snow and walking is easy.

As we walk we are alone. Occasionally we cross with snowmobile tracks, and once with those of a cross-country skier, but never do we see another person. The thought comes to me that someday I would like to snowshoe about ten miles into the middle of nowhere and there I could build a snow-fort and camp out for a few days. That would be nice.

But then I wonder if the snowshoes could support the heavier weight that would come from a backpack. Then I worry of the danger that I would be in if a storm unexpectedly moved in and dropped four feet of new snow on me while I was camped out. That would still be fun to do someday.

Instead of returning the way we came, we decide to make a loop and walk further away from the rim. The shadows from the trees are now casting longer impressions onto the snow. At one time I wished to come unexpectedly upon an animal, but now, most of our time is spent conversing back and forth, so the chances of sneaking upon a coyote or eagle is pretty slim.

Coming across and open flat, we see the pink cliffs of Bryce Canyon in the far distance. I soon realize that I am quickly becoming very tired. Not much longer and we will be returning to the truck.

At last we arrive at the final downhill of the trek. It is near the same 300 foot slope that we had to ascend earlier. This time we descend in baby steps. Jordan chooses to angle diagonally, directly toward the truck. I decide to move straight down, then cut across once I reach the bottom. This slope is steep enough that there is a small fear of avalanche.

I reach the bottom and begin cutting toward the truck, which is at least another half-mile. By now, my legs are exhausted and every step forward is laborious. I stop momentarily to notice a weather station that has been hidden among the trees.

Finally, we arrive at the truck and are happy to know that we will be home before dark. I find my Powerade that I have hidden in the snow and begin guzzling it down. It feels nice to finally sit in a soft seat without those clunky shoes strapped to my feet. But on the other hand, I kind of wish I were still out there shoeing.  

St. Paddy's Day – Dublin

On St. Patrick's Day Eve we came across a mass of people on O'Connell Bridge in downtown Dublin. Most were schoolboys, dressed in black and white striped shirts and chanting the school anthem and fired in a frenzy. Some climbed onto lampposts and leaned from the posts with one foot, and a hand clutching on. Some waved a half black, half white flag in the air. Other passerby's had stopped also, some like us, just to see what the rage was all about.

I had to pull a schoolboy aside and inquire what was going on. Their team, Belvedere College, had just won the prestigious Leinster Senior Cup in rugby over their cross-town rivals, St. Mary's College. Belvedere College is an all-male secondary school that is equivalent to high school in the United States. This private Jesuit school produced such greats as Liam O'Flaherty and James Joyce.

Tradition decrees that the cup be walked over O'Connell Bridge from the south side (where St. Mary's College is situated), to the north side (the location of Belvedere College). We were lucky enough to be at the right place at the right time. The Leinster Senior Cup finals are held every year close to St. Patrick's Day.

Quite a crowd had gathered by now and the Garda (Irish police) were attempting to block off traffic to the bridge. The team was conveyed by bus to one side of the bridge, then let out with the trophy. Crazy schoolboys began to cheer and onlookers held their cameras up high to reach over the heads of the horde. When the team began to make their way forward, with the large silver cup in hand, their classmates rushed forward and mobbed them in celebration.

The rugby team wore black sport jackets and ties, and the boy carrying the cup was carried on shoulders. Others high-fived the crowd, and every rugby player had a permanent smile on his face. I vied for a position, along with everyone else, trying to gain any glimpse I could of the boys and their trophy.

The celebration slowly passed us and worked its way up O'Connell Street, past the statue of Jim Larkin and the Dublin Spire. There wasn't a better way to begin our St. Patrick's Day Eve than with a little serendipity.

Our subsequent wanderings took us past a street preacher on a soapbox and for a brief visit to the grounds of Trinity College. Then we happened upon the amusement rides at Merrion Square.

Hundreds of tickets littered the ground and all the rides of pleasure seemed to scream at a hundred miles an hour, their lights blaring and flashing. Every ride made me sick to my stomach just from watching. Some spun around in circles at NASCAR speeds, while others jolted the riders up and down like a hammer. Fast-pitched music boomed out of speakers. Juxtaposed behind the amusement rides was the calmness of the red-bricked Georgian buildings, with smoke wafting from the chimney stacks.

One of the rides, that spun patrons in vertical circles while twirling them like a wheel, was called American Trip. A drawing of the Hollywood Hills covered the backdrop, along with pictures of Marilyn Monroe, a football player, and Elvis.

These rides were on a street adjacent to Merrion Square. While walking through the square itself, which is a grass-filled park, we came across a large orange and pink domed tent with traditional folk music coming from inside. A few people danced on the grass outside, but the real action was in the tent.

We opened the flap and peeked inside and found three men and a lady playing instruments in front of a small crowd. I saw an accordion, xylophone, drum, and violin in action. One of the men wore a long white-sleeved shirt with a fancy scarlet vest, and a black hat. They sounded very good, and we quickly learned that they were Polish and playing music from their home country. Unfortunately, this was their last song and soon they were done for the night.

From Merrion Square we walked to Grafton Street, a quaint pedestrian road known for its high-end shopping. The sun had set by now and street lamps illuminated the walkway. Hundreds of people moved in each direction, some slowing to gawk in windows, others hand-in-hand with a lover, and some just anxious to arrive at their destination.

A lady with a fleece coat and black gloves sat next to a shoe store window and played Celtic music on her harp. Down the street we watched an Asian man in nylon warmups bounce a soccer ball on his head, his feet, and his knee, while standing, kneeling, and even lying down, looping it through his leg, and never letting it touch the ground.

Three men were blowing up skinny balloons and tying them in shapes of dogs and flowers. They seemed very friendly. While my wife was filming, one asked, in a deep Irish brogue, where we were from. After she responded to his question, he approached her camera and breathed deeply onto the lens. “Everybody in Utah,” he announced, “welcome to foggy Dublin!”

That was our Sunday in Dublin, the precursor to the biggest festival of the year in Ireland, and a day that is celebrated world-wide. As we rode the tram back to our hotel room, while watching the city lights as we crossed the River Liffey, I couldn't help but to be excited for what we would experience the next day. If our St. Paddy's Day Eve was this good, then who knew what we'd find on the festival day itself.

St. Patrick's Day is a curiosity in Ireland. While Boston and New York City both began their parades in the 1700's, Dublin didn't celebrate the holiday like they do now until the mid-1990's. St. Patrick's Day was originally a religious holiday in Ireland. Citizens celebrated it by attending church and perhaps serving a special dinner in the home.

When Irish began immigrating across the Atlantic, they chose to celebrate on March 17th to remember the country they came from. From those roots, the festivities grew into what they are today in much of the United States.

As for Ireland, it was the very last of the twentieth century when the holiday morphed from religious to secular. The Irish government made the move in part to showcase their culture and promote tourism. I learned from reading the local newspaper that the St. Patrick Day holiday is still debated by the Irish. I will include excerpts from the two contrasting points of views:

Against St. Patrick's Day - “St. Patrick's Day shames me. It is the only day of the year where I wish I wasn't Irish. Each time March 17 comes around I have tried to overlook my disgust at the way our national holiday is 'celebrated.'  Each year I vow not to venture onto streets festooned with litter and people that act like they are auditioning for a part in the next Night Of The Living Dead movie. It usually starts positively enough with a mass turnout for the parade – a ritualistic procession that's improved in content over the years, particularly in Dublin where the organisation has injected some international glamour into the event. But once that's out of the way, Ireland turns ugly . . . . the vomit on the streets will attest to that come tomorrow.” - John Meagher

In favour of St. Patrick's Day - “Paddy's Day . . . manages to retain an ability to express the unique genius of the Irish people . . . . Despite all the corny corporatisation of the event, and the fact that the whole thing was foisted on us by Americans, Paddy's Day remains a place to conspire against wholesomeness and sobriety. Instead of screaming 'won't somebody please think of the children,' we should get over it and realise children are a lot more resilient than we give them credit for.” - Alan O'Riordan

In spite of the debate, Jenelle and I were all for St. Paddy's Day in Dublin. On the morning of March 17^th, we arose and ate the full Irish breakfast, buffet-style. For anyone that doesn't know about the full Irish breakfast, it consists of rashers, sausages, fried tomatoes, fried mushrooms, and a fried egg. Sometimes it is served with baked beans or blood sausage, known locally as white or black pudding. Brown soda bread and marmalade also come with the meal. It is very filling and satiates well into the afternoon.

To our surprise, eating with us in the hotel cafeteria, was a marching band from Youngstown, Pennsylvania. They would be marching in the parade. These kids were in high school, and I would imagine that this would be the experience of a lifetime.

We didn't know what to expect with the parade, so we took the tram into downtown Dublin and arrived two and a half hours early. We had staked out a spot right across the street from Christ Church Cathedral and decided it was the perfect place to watch.

Yes, we had arrived with plenty of time to spare. The barricades separating the the parade route from the spectators had been set up, but only a few people were loitering around to ensure a front-row spot. We watched the Garda mingled among themselves and engaged in lighthearted chat. A potato chip truck stopped nearby and handed out bags of “crisps.”

It didn't take long, however, for the crowds to began their way to the barricades. They dressed in long green ties, tall emerald hats, and long carrot-red beards. They waved Irish flags and painted shamrocks on their faces. The atmosphere of the festival was now beginning to emerge.

All we had to do now to secure our front-row spot was wait another hour or so in the cold. And when I say cold, I mean frigid. For the first time on our little trip, we saw patches of blue sky. But those blue skies were very misleading. The night before when we watched the weather report, they showed the jet stream moving directly from the north, and from the cold Atlantic waters west of Scandinavia. We wore our green stocking caps and knit gloves to mask the arctic chill.

At last the parade began. The mayor of Dublin led the parade, riding in a chariot that looked like it was made for Cinderella. What followed for the next hour and a half was the most amazing parade that I have ever seen!

All the music was fast-beat and catchy, and the pace of the parade never stopped. The costumes were bizarre and colorful, and most lack description of what they really were – something from another planet. The parade-goers danced, interacted with the crowd, walked on stilts, and juggled fire. They dressed as aliens and insects, fairies and acrobats.

A giant St. Patrick, with a long red beard and a faulty left eye, rode a large three-wheeled motorcycle, powered by several busy feet beneath the float, Flintstones style. We had seen this same float the night before in Merrion Square.

I was impressed with the large number of marching bands. With the exception of at least one, they were all from the United States. We even saw our breakfast buddies from Youngstown, Pennsylvania. I get the impression that the Irish are proud of their American cousins.

[As a side-note, I asked a local about the tradition we have in the States where we get to pinch somebody if they're not wearing green. They replied that they had never heard of this tradition, and I got the impression that they thought it was a little silly.]

A bagpipe band, dressed in kilts, played “The Final Countdown” by Europe. A girl's school from Hiroshima, Japan danced. Giant balloons in the shape of owls and dragons, floated and bobbed over the crowd, touching off screams when they hovered too close.

By the time the parade was over, we were thoroughly impressed and excited for the rest of the day. I will admit that we had no concrete plans. My only strategy was to roam around the streets, and surely something would come along.

Our first move was to find a bite to eat. I envisioned coming across a grassy park, much like I find in my own hometown, where booths would be set up, selling all the local Irish food: stew, shepherd's pie, coddle, and maybe even corned beef and cabbage (although I knew it was an American invention). We couldn't find anything. Only lots of people roaming the streets, acting like hooligan's.

Maybe we were in the wrong part of town, but we weren't even finding but a few pubs. And the pubs we did find looked either too crowded or too overpriced. I cringe to say where we ate lunch that day . . . at Quiznos. Yes, we traveled all the way across the Atlantic for St. Paddy's day to eat a sandwich at the Powerscourt shopping center in Dublin. It was the first time I had ever eaten at a Quiznos, despite the fact that there is one in my hometown!

The next five hours seem like a blur when I think back on them. Nothing very memorable happened. We returned to Grafton Street. No buskers this time. Only wall-to-wall people. We tried sneaking into Burger King to use the restroom, but were denied.

Someone referred us to side-street off O'Connell. By the time we walked there, the vendors were cleaning up. At this point, our St. Paddy's day had shifted from excellent, to very anticlimactic. Perhaps John Meagher was correct in his analysis of the holiday.

We had just passed the line of statues on O'Connell Street and the trees of Parnell Square. Dusk was setting in, and silhouetted against a dimming sky, an old church with a very tall steeple caught our attention. (We later learned that this was the Abbey Presbyterian Church, and it was nearly 150 years old.) It sat on the corner and we walked to get a closer look. Then Jenelle noticed the poster: St. Patrick's Day Ceili at Abbey Church. We stood there contemplating the sign, obviously stumped by the word ceili, trying to figure out what it meant, when a young lady passing by invited us in. “Would you like to come in and watch the dancing? It is free. You should come in!”

We passed through a wooden door and descended narrow steps to the basement of this old stone church. A very sweet old man and his wife were teaching a room-full of kids some traditional Irish dancing. A band played an accordion, guitar, fiddle, and flute. Balloons and streamers festooned the room. A table in the corner served refreshments.

Although we were the obvious intruders, the people there treated us very kindly and didn't mind our observing. The old man with silvered hair looked dignified in his tweed jacket and striped tie. He held the microphone close to his lips, and step by step taught the kids how to move around the floor.

“Ladies cross . . . now gents cross. Now in, two, three; in, two, three; back, two, three; back, two, three. Take your partner and swing them 'round.”

As he taught, his wife, dressed in black pants and a knit sweater, with a perfectly permed head of hair, watched studiously at the students and corrected any mistake they may have made.

After several minutes of instruction, the band began to play, and at once, the room became a festive dance hall. Dancers skipped and pranced around, taking their partners by the hand and hopping to the beat. All the kids grinned and laughed as they danced. Many knew the jig well and moved their feet with great skill. Others were just happy to be there and rolled with the flow.

We left the basement of that church, feeling satisfied that we had salvaged any disappointment that we had experienced on St. Patrick's Day. By the time we had returned to O'Connell Street, the night had completely set in.

We had one more stop that to make. I had to buy a t-shirt to prove that I was in Dublin on St. Paddy's Day. We found a gift shop that seemed to have all that I needed. We also bought a copy of the Irish Independent. On the cover was a large photo of a Belvedere rugby player raising the Leinster Cup.