North America Travel

Tales of the Yukon

The International Storytelling Festival in Whitehorse

by John O’Reilly

After two long hours thumbing for a ride outside the small Alaskan town of Skagway while holding a large cardboard flap reading “Whitehorse”, a small dusty car pulled over. The very nice lady that drove me the next few hours all the way to her native Whitehorse was my first introduction to the Yukon’s capital city.

She told me that Whitehorse was named from the White Horse Rapids on the Yukon River, which were said to look like the manes of charging white horses (the rapids are actually gone now because of the hydroelectric dam which was built in 1958). She stopped at various points of outstanding beauty that were off the road and known only to a local. It was the first chapter of my trip to Whitehorse’s annual and nineteenth Yukon storytelling festival.

It was August and the reds and oranges were beginning to seep into the wild Yukon landscape. As the sun set I erected my tent in a campsite about two kilometers outside of Whitehorse. While I walked around the large site on the banks of the mighty Yukon River a group of silhouettes cooking food around a big roaring fire noticed me and invited me over to join them. They were European and North American solo travelers who had collected over the last few days from their mutual curiosity of this exotic and friendly part of our planet. I was immediately welcomed in as their latest addition with a huge burger accompanied by a generous choice of yummy toppings and a beer to wash it all down. I was introduced to everyone whom I gratefully remained with until the early hours of a chilly morning.

The group dissolved over the next few days as everyone went on with their respective routes. I was alone again, but the first day of the festival kicked off to keep me occupied. Just outside the town centre were many tents and stalls of various colors and sizes containing all kinds of foodstuffs and storytellers. I was digesting an elk burger as I listened to the first story.

There were performers from many cultures and countries. There was an hilarious Irishman named Billy Teare who asked if he could describe his background. And so he turned around and described the wall behind him. There was a Jamacian man who got the crowd to rhyme the chorus of his poetry. A young Inuit man related hunting stories revolving around his father’s remarkable sled dogs. I found his style the most natural. He didn’t need melodramatic stress to amplify atmosphere or tension and so freed the realism, simply because they were real and extremely compelling stories.

But the biggest impact on me was an eighty-nine year-old veteran of the Spanish civil war. In spite of many Western governments forbidding their citizens to enlist in the Spanish international brigades, he fought in a Canadian Battalion of what were around 1,500 men.

He recalled once while charging, his friend running along side him was shot but he had to continue. Another time he was lined up in a firing squad after being captured by the fascists. He tried to describe how he and his comrades felt while they waited to be shot. Just then a passing limousine escorted by motorbikes stopped and a commander within inquired what was happening. The firing squad officer replied that they were internationals about to be executed. The commander told him to hold off, as they wanted to round up internationals to exchange for Italian fascists captured by the left. He then spent the next year in a concentration camp where he celebrated his most memorable Christmas with P.O.W.s from all around the world. He said different nations performed various songs and skits. The final song was a hundred strong choir of Austrians and Germans. He said they poured their soul out from the surrounding inhumanity. It was so moving that at the end all the guard’s and prisoners cheered “Oles” and hugged each other, losing themselves in that moment of joy.

When he was finished telling his story, the audience were silent for a few moments before giving their most heart felt applause. Deeply moved after listening to his story, I left and went out for a walk under the slow Northern sunset.

I spent my last two nights in the cozy Beez Neez hostel in downtown, one of the most relaxing and clean hostels I have ever stayed in. The warm, unique character of a place like this is rarely found in hotels. A huge window in the main living area bathes the guest in light that feels like a massage. Here, I again met many friendly travelers and seven of us sat down together for an amazing dinner made by a French guest. After our dinner that night we climbed a small hill overlooking Whitehorse to gaze at the northern lights.

A ticket for the last night of the festival included a huge meal in a club hall. I ate Arctic Char fish, Caribou meatballs and Mountain Sheep. I sat with the Spanish war veteran, his daughter and some local people including a lady in her seventies who had the flame of a thirty year old.

The performances began after dinner. First, we listened to an Indian trio containing a tabla player, a sitarist and a dancer. The drummer vocalized the rhythms before playing them. The sitar was dreamy, like aural opium. I looked around to find half of the crowd with their eyes closed.

Then the storytellers got up. Billy Teare, the Irishman, got his partner to sing an old Irish song. She sang beautifully in Gaelic about a mermaid.

It was an inspiration to hear all those storytellers and their huge range of styles. There was no one-way to tell a story or develop an outlet. The atmosphere was so warm and the performers were so grateful to their hosts. At the after show dinner the cosmopolitan audience and guests exchanged their own stories across the table with the same creative media of language and humor. When I returned home to Ireland, I was able to provide my friends with new stories of my own.

More Information:

BY AIR: Whitehorse International Airport is about two kilometers outside the city. It has scheduled service to Vancouver, Calgary, Edmonton, Fairbanks, Toronto, and Frankfurt, Germany (summer months).
BY SEA: You can travel by sea via the Alaska Marine Highway (famous inside passage). When you arrive in Skagway or Haines (both in Alaska), you will need surface transportation to Whitehorse. Bus service from Skagway is available from Yukon Alaska Tours. Part of the journey (from Skagway to the Canadian border) can be made on the scenic Whitepass and Yukon Route Railway.
BY ROAD: For public bus, Whitehorse has a Greyhound terminus. The international Alaska Highway connects the Yukon with the Alaska, British Columbia, and Alberta highway networks.

Where to Stay:
Beez Neez Hostel: 408 Hoge Street Phone: (867) 456-2333
Robert Service Campground: Is open from mid-May to end of September, 7:30 am to 11:00 pm. Equipped with hot showers, clean bathrooms, drinking water and firewood, and a full coffee bar including fresh baked goods and ice cream.

Yukon Tours Now Available:

Arctic Day: Yukon Wildlife and Hot Springs Tour
Sled Dog Adventure and Pan for Gold in the Yukon
Half-Day Yukon Snowshoeing Adventure
Yukon Summer Dream – Active Summer Adventure
Yukon Sightseeing Adventure by Hummer

UPDATE AUGUST, 2020: The Yukon International Storytelling Festival is currently on hiatus. There is no longer Greyhound bus service available in Yukon.

Photo credits:
Downtown Whitehorse by US Mission Canada / CC BY
All other photos are by John O’Reilly.

About the author:
Born in Dublin, Ireland, John O’Reilly is an artist and interested in everything. He began writing from traveling around the world and his native city. He recently exhibited his first solo show of paintings. He is currently living in Dublin among a huge cluster of friends, family, artists and musicians. His website is: www.jorgallery.com

Following Washington Irving Through the Catskills

Legendary Location: Sleepy Hollow, Upstate New York

by Steve Sears

Literature fans who call New York State home are fortunate. Our country’s first internationally known author “wrote” his legacy in two of Gotham’s most lush spots: the Hudson Valley and the Catskill Mountains. Washington Irving (1783 – 1859) authored two of the most renowned tales in ALL of literature. Who dares step foot inside Sleepy Hollow on Halloween night for fear that the Headless Horseman may next choose they to toss his cranium at their head, as he did the feeble schoolmaster, Ichabod Crane, in The Legend of Sleepy Hollow? Or, head up to Greene County and you may hear, as Rip Van Winkle did, Henry Hudson’s men playing a game of nine-pins, and readily agree to a mug of their tasty lager, and be likewise subject to a mountainside snooze of twenty years as well.

Legends aside, both areas are a lovely visit, and within driving distance of one another.

Consider Hunter in Greene County. About a ½ hour drive from Route 87 North’s Exit 20, follow Route 32 to Route 32A, then to Route 23A. Here you’ll reach serious peak elevations of close to 3,500 hundred feet, and any spot – especially Haines Falls, and Palenville, “The Home of Rip Van Winkle” – is an apropos place to nap. Haines Falls leads you into the tiny town of Tannersville, then into Hunter, the location of Stefania Jozic’s Washington Irving Inn. Originally a private home, the building was converted into the Washington Irving Hotel in the 1940s, and Jozic, who bought the hotel with her late husband Mirko in 1986, turned it into a Bed & Breakfast. A morning breakfast and tea is offered, and there is much to do in the area. When returning home to rest, a nice in-ground swimming pool and afternoon tea await you.

The charm of the fifteen room Washington Irving Inn sets it apart. Irving never stayed here (the home was built in the 1890s), but upon entering into the front parlor of the Inn, you expect to see him seated there or wandering. The library of the 2007 New York State Hospitality & Tourism Association’s Bed & Breakfast of Distinction winner features back to back chimneys, an original mantle bookcase made of pinewood, and a round table right out of Irving’s era (1860). Hanging on the walls are photos and portraits of Irving and his “literary friends,” creations done during his lifetime. In the first room beyond the entrance foyer, on the bar, is a display case holding a variety of Irving authored books.

While at the Inn, be sure and ask Stefania Jozic for a pamphlet describing “The Washington Irving History Trail” and see how many spots of the eleven you can visit during your stay in the area.

In wintertime, Hunter is the place to be. Hunter Mountain is perhaps the most popular skiing resort on the east coast. However, if spring or summer call you, visit the nearby Mountain Top Arboretum. 2,500 feet above sea level in the rugged high peaks region of New York’s Catskill Mountains, it is a refreshing reprieve to a busy tourism day. Dining out? Nothing beats the Village Bistro in neighboring Tannersville. Comfortable, cozy, welcoming – and the food’s pretty good too. The dining room isn’t big, but doesn’t need to be. The service and food are excellent.

Sleepy Hollow, which hugs the Hudson River in Westchester County, is the spot that Irving called home from 1835 until his death in 1859. But the area had truly always been familiar to Irving who, as a young boy, visited the woods, hunting and daydreaming, all along gathering ideas for his wonderful tales; “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” yes, but there were others. My personal favorite, “The Birds of Spring,” was a piece which appeared in his 1855 offering, Woolfert’s Roost, describing the birds around his home, and the nesting habits of many under his front porch. It is a charming work.

Sunnyside, Irving’s snookery of a home is maintained by Historic Hudson Valley, and certainly an imperative stop. Tour guides dressed in period garb walk you through the tiny home, first starting with Irving’s study, which is graced by a huge desk, a gift from his publisher, G.P. Putnam, and Irving’s original collection of books. Visitors also have the opportunity to visit Irving’s bedroom, the spot he breathed his last.

After touring Sunnyside, wander the grounds, visit Irving’s man made “Little Mediterranean,” the lake below the parking lot, and extensive gift shop. Snacks are available at the in-season café in the courtyard.

There are some other spots in Sleepy Hollow that warrant a sojourn as well. Sleepy Hollow Cemetery off of Broadway (Route 9) is a must. It’s about a five minute drive from Sunnyside, and traffic often beckons in town and crawls due to the road’s thinness. Irving walked and ponied up and down Broadway while alive, and you can just imagine the spot in his day, devoid of all the buildings that are there now. At the cemetery, Irving and his family members are buried in a private plot on Crane Way. (Photo above) Have fun searching the graveyard for characters from Irving’s tales.

When in town, also visit Christ Episcopal Church. Inside this ancient house of worship, where Irving served as a vestryman, a special library room houses his first editions and handwritten notes. Also, on display in the church itself is the pew Irving called his own during weekly services, a plaque honoring his memory upon his death, and an altar he brought back to the United States from Luxembourg.

There’s nothing quite like dining next to the Hudson River. A recommended spot is Sunset Cove at the Washington Irving Boat Club. With indoor and outdoor dining, as well as a separate outdoor barbecue dining deck, there are offerings for everyone. Try the Maryland Crab Cake or Cracklin’ Calamari appetizer, and then top it off with a Fresh Wild Salmon or Beef Short Rib entrée. Yes, enjoy the cuisine, but most of all, take in the view of the Hudson, and the neighboring, grand Tappan Zee Bridge, which appears to be reaching for the heavens.

In town, there is no better haven for writers better than Horsefeathers. This happening pub is a jewel to literary fans, as bookshelves lined with books, and a huge mural depicting F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Edger Allan Poe and more, dominate the main dining room.

It’s the best of ALL worlds: the Catskills, the Hudson, and Washington Irving. Plan that trip!

If You Go:

Rip Van Winkle Country
Greene County Tourism – 800-355-2287
Washington Irving Inn – Route 23A, Box 675, Hunter, NY
Mountain Top Arboretum – Route 23C and Maude Adams Road, P.O.Box 379, Tannersville
Village Bistro – 6033 Main Street, Tannersville

Headless Horseman Country
Westchester County Tourism
Tarrytown
Sunnyside – West Sunnyside Lane, Tarrytown
Christ Episcopal Church – 43 South Broadway, Tarrytown, NY 10591 Open daily, 9 AM – 12 Noon (Call if you wish a guided tour)
Sleepy Hollow Cemetery – (914) 631-0081
Sunset Cove at the Washington Irving Boat Club 238 Green Street Tarrytown, NY
Horsefeathers – 94 North Broadway, Tarrytown

Catskills Tours Now Available:
Heart of The Catskills
Full-Day Ski Trip to Catskills Hunter Mountain from New York City

For More Information:
The Literature Network: Washington Irving

About the author:
Steve Sears is a freelance writer living in Bloomfield, New Jersey. He has been married for twenty years to his lovely wife, Lucille, and they have a 17 year old daughter and fellow writer named Stefanie. Visit Steve’s website for details about his corporate writing services.

Photo credits:
Headless Horseman Pursuing Ichabod Crane by John Quidor / Public domain
Washington Irving portrait by: Copy daguerreotype by Mathew Brady, reverse of original by John Plumbe. / Public domain
All other photos are by Steve Sears

San Patricio – Melaque: One of Mexico’s Best Kept Secrets

by Janey Volden

Oscar bound the hind legs of a long-horned Brahma cow, poured 100%-proof sugarcane alcohol and Ibarra Mexican chocolate into a tin mug, shoved it under the cow’s teat and began milking. Offering us a round of steaming frothy mixture, the farmer chuckled and said: “Good latte! Si?”

From that moment, I knew our vacation would be memorable. My husband Bruce and I had many discussions over a bottle of tequila with our friends Ken and Lee about San Patricio – Melaque, the little place in Mexico where they had spent the last several winters.

“But if you’re looking for a Five-star hotel in Melaque, you’ll be disappointed,” they warned us.

Taking up the challenge, we left behind the frigid chill of British Columbia, and landed at Manzanillo airport, delighted that Lee and Ken—with a sticker on his forehead marked “HEAVY BAGGAGE”—were there to welcome us.

After an hour’s ride north, we arrived at the quiet little village of Melaque (San Patricio), where the streets were mostly cobblestones. Like excited kids, we ran down the beach and threw ourselves into the warm Pacific Ocean, yelping when small fish bumped against our legs.

We found many great Mexican restaurants during our stay there, but our favourite meal was a toss-up between the acidic and piquant flavours of fresh-caught Dorado fish fried in garlic and cilantro, doused with tangy mango salsa, and the unforgettable Chicken Alcatraz baked in a lava-rock bowl.

“Muy caliente! Very hot!” warned the waiter. He was right – I watched it bubble for 30 minutes.

The next morning, searching for a place to eat our breakfast, we watched the local people eating food they cooked on little stoves. A smiling Mexican woman offered delicious fajitas oozing with “pulled” pork, and a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. Further along the street, we noticed shop owners hosing the street down in order to settle the dust before pushing up metal garage doors, revealing shelves of beach attire and touristy trinkets.

Wednesday’s tianguis (indigenous people’s market) offered hand-made pottery, silver jewelry, myriad padded bras, and brilliant coloured purses and blankets made by Highland Maya Indians. I was captivated by a boy who poked his head out between the Mexican blankets that were on display to hear his father playing the saxophone. Then I saw it: A gleaming silver bicycle, straight out of Star Wars, wrapped from handlebar to spoke in tin foil, with room at the back for spare tire, and a small passenger. I just had to ride it.

Later, Ray, our unforgettable tour guide, took us on a short drive north of Melaque. After telling us what fascinating fish we expected to see while snorkeling around the coral reef at Tenacatita’s Playa Mora, he pulled a straw hat over his head and snored under a shady palapa. Attracted by a steep hill nearby, I scrambled up a rough track between agave and organ-pipe cacti and was rewarded with a view of whales in the open Pacific Ocean, and a turkey vulture soaring above me.

I joined the “March of the Gringos,” as we linked arms and walked down the sandy road to a fresh seafood restaurant in Tenacatita. We wiggled our toes in soft sand, as we enjoyed margaritas and octopus salad. Then we heard loud honking outside, and gulped down our octopi and continued the tour to Boca de Iguanas where Ray taught us how to boogie-board.

“Stand in racer’s position, left foot back, right foot forward. Hold board to waist. Wait; let wave take you. And no hop like bunny!”

“Crocodile-hunting” at La Manzanilla was next on the itinerary. Ray, producing a plastic bag of leftovers he had scrounged from his fridge, threw the contents into the sun-dappled river. A pair of mean-looking croc eyes scrutinized as pieces of Tandoori chicken flew through the air over the wire netting into the water. Obviously it wasn’t hungry, and ignored the appetizers as it floated off downstream. Ray made a wry comment about a smorgasbord of pooches that had mysteriously disappeared from the nearby trailer park.

Sunday was Day Seven of our two-week holiday. Mexican families, happy to be away from the City, carried chairs to the shore to wait for sunrise. Meanwhile waves pounded onto the beach as fishermen dragged in their homemade nets filled with tuna and silver fish. A young boy stood in the water up to his waist, hauling in an eight-inch Toro fish with his weighted nylon line and hook. He wound the line around a plastic bottle, flashed a smile at me, and threw the fish into a bucket with the rest of his morning’s catch.

When Ken jabbed his finger excitedly toward the ocean, I finally understood what he meant by “The Boil.” Frigate birds hovered over a bubbling mass of silver fish that leapt in the air, jostling underwater to escape the tuna, Pacific Sierra and Toro fish that “herded” them into shore. Droves of pelicans, reminiscent of old sea planes, left their resting rock and flew to where the fishermen had thrown out their nets. Scanning the shore line, they dove like synchronized swimmers intent on filling their fish-tank bills. A couple of bold pelicans flapped clumsily into the fishermen’s boat, snapping at the nets as the fish jumped with the Toro. When the fishing frenzy was over, a flotilla of well-fed pelicans and frigate birds rode the crest of an enormous wave, while timid egrets and herons tip-toed along the water’s edge in search of pickings.

I stopped for a snack and Antonio, the beaming fruit vendor peeled a mango for me, cutting the fruit at angles for ease of eating, hammered a stick through the bottom, adding cayenne pepper and a squeeze of lime. Antonio had been up since dawn, digging holes in the sand and dragging chairs out for hotel guests. He shoved an umbrella pole into each hole, while his son Freddy filled the holes with sand, firmly securing the poles. When Freddy raced off with his backpack for afternoon school, his younger sister Anna arrived for “beach duty.” Her job was to arrange mangos on a stick, wedges of watermelon, pineapple, coconut and cucumber onto a tray. Balancing it carefully on her head, she walked down the beach toward her regular customers. Her dog, Princessa, dug a hole, climbed in, curled up and went to sleep.

The crescent-shaped beach stretches five kilometers from Melaque to Barra de Navidad; to the west lays Punta Melaque, an outcrop of lava rock that shelters the bay and many visiting yachts from the open sea. I learned how adept Mexican fishermen were when, walking in the direction of the rocky point, I stumbled upon a home-made three-wheeler tricycle that held a can of gas, nets, fishing rods, Evinrude engine, water bottles and spare tire.

I splashed through an ankle-deep stream that had a sign sticking out of the sand: “BEWARE OF CROCS” and watched a green heron and snowy egret admiring their reflections, as Monarch butterflies sipped nectar from fragrant orange flowers. Hundreds of black frigate birds slept in the trees beside the national reserve park. As I climbed to the mirador, lookout point, I spotted a spiny-tailed iguana basking on a rock, and a white-tailed coatimundi (raccoon) hiding in the bushes. Climbing carefully over curious-shaped rocks, I found a Mexican gentleman meditating beside a white cross and wreath of flowers on top of a lava island. Out of respect I left him to his Sunday prayer.

When I returned to our condo later that day, I realized it was the end of what had been a long day for the little Mexican girl, Anna. She had done well, selling all the fruit except for one lone piece, which she had saved especially for me. It was a rewarding experience to sit on the beach with my mango on a stick and judge an “Olympian” display of a pelican’s prowess in the Diving Event. Wings tight, head tucked: “TEN! A PERFECT SCORE!”

That evening we found a lineup at the door of Ava’s Restaurant. Bruce said not only did they make the best burgers in Mexico, but it was a great hangout for Canadians to watch hockey and football on TV. The proprietor, was known as “Handless” Jack because he had been electrocuted in a hydro accident, resulting in the loss of both his arms. He raised funds for “Ayuda a Los Ninos” (Help the Kids) by holding dinner-dance events to pay for medical and educational needs of Costa Alegra’s Mexican children.

On the last morning of our amazing vacation, we walked to the Brahma corral, just to see if Oscar was still serving those special chocolate lattes. It was time to leave, and we vowed we would return to Melaque, one of the best-kept secret beach retreats on the Mexican Pacific.

If You Go:

Online guide to Melaque and Barra de Navidad

Barra de Navidad Tourism Office

Frommer’s Things to Do in Mexico

Lonely Planet Online Mexico Guide

Browse Puerto Vallarta Tours Now Available

San Patricio – Melaque, on the southern area of the Pacific Ocean between Manzanillo and Puerto Vallarta, shares the crescent-shaped Bay (Bahia de la Navidad) with Barra de Navidad. Melaque is 30 minutes north of Manzanillo’s international airport (100 km from downtown Manzanillo) by first class bus or taxi. Buses from Manzanillo frequently run up the coast along Hwy 200. It is an ideal winter vacation destination from November to April when there is little or no rain. (Low season is any time except Christmas and Easter weekends).

There are local 2nd and 3rd class buses that travel between Barra de Navidad and San Patricio – Melaque (20 minutes) every 15 minutes from 6 a.m. to 8:30 p.m.

The Tourism Office for both villages of San Patricio – Melaque and Barra de Navidad is at Jalisco 67, Barra.

Melaque (aka San Patricio) is a 5 km walk down the beach from Barra. Or take a local bus marked “Cihuatlan” (to Barra) from the Melaque bus station in the middle of town, a block from the beach.

The Tianguis (Indiginous People’s Market) is held every Wednesday, downtown Melaque.

About the author:
Janey Volden is a writer and avid photo-journalist. She grew up in Kenya, East Africa. Her love of travel, especially into the remote area of Northern Kenya, gave her the inspiration to write a young adult novel, “Gabbra’s Song” She resides with her husband Bruce in Okanagan Falls, British Columbia. She has two sons, Oliver and Casey. She has traveled to Costa Rica, Mexico, Britain, Italy (Tuscany), South Africa, Lesotho and Ethiopia.
www.janeyvolden.com
janeyvolden@shaw.ca

Photo Credits:
First San Patricio – Melaque photo by Alejandro Ags / CC BY
All other photos are by Janey Volden.

Secrets of Riverside, the Farnsley-Moremen Landing

Louisville, Kentucky

by Nellotie Porter Chastain

As I walk over the rise from the parking lot, I smell the damp scents from the deep waters of the Ohio River and my eyes feast on the beauty of the river and the far stretching field on the opposite side as it pushes into the mountain edge.

The beautiful Ohio flows past the perfect site for Riverside, the Farnsley-Moremen Landing, that was chosen in the early 1800s. The historic 300 acre farm and house is located along the banks of the Ohio River, in southwest Louisville, Kentucky.

The historic home, a red brick I-house with a two-story Greek Revival portico, was built in 1837 by Gabriel Farnsley. After Gabriel Farnsley purchased the property, he built the impressive home for his bride-to-be. Sadly, he was stood up at the altar, so he never married or had any offspring.

The Bitter Struggle

Farnsley died in 1849, leaving no will. His siblings, nieces and nephews fought for a dozen years over the estate. Twenty-one parties were involved in the bitter struggle.

In 1860, the Moremen family put down roots on the farm site when Alanson and Rachel Moremen and their seven children moved into the fine brick home. Their connection to the farm lasted for over 125 years.

The property served as a river transportation hub. The riverboat landing allowed travelers to stop and trade goods, pick up wood for fuel, or rest. The Moremen family nicknamed the landing “Soap Landing”, as they sold lye soap and other household and agricultural products there.

As I walk across the front lawn (the front of the house faces the river), I can almost feel and hear the swish of long skirts against deep-green grass and the sounds of children playing under the trees. On either the lower or upper portico, I watch the long, heavy-laden barges being pushed up river. I imagine the shadow of long-ago flat boats and sternwheelers hugging the shore allowing modern tug boats to churn the water muddy as they deliver their precious cargo to places north and south of the now commercially unused landing.

Visiting the restored Riverside home, one’s imagination congers up the aromas that would have emanated from the summer kitchen, which is located behind the house proper. Rocking the churn back and forth, my mouth waters as I think about the sweet butter that would have melted over home made baking power biscuits baked to perfection in the wood-fed oven.

Each room has been restored to perfection, allowing visitors to experience visions of life from long ago as children played and babies were rocked in front of warm fireplaces that adorn each room.

The dining room was not only a place for the family to eat, but visitors were always welcome. An upstairs room, whose only entrance was stairs leading from the dining room, was available for travelers who possibly stopped at night time. The family remained undisturbed when the traveler’s room was in use.

Rescued From The Great Flood

The home sat empty and in severe disrepair after the great flood of 1937 when Jefferson County, Kentucky, experienced the worst flooding in recorded history. Visitors are amazed to stand on the porch, far up the hill from the river’s edge, and imagine six feet of water inside the home.

The summer garden still produces vegetables and herbs. Excavation is ongoing as bits and pieces of history are uncovered each year.

Riverside, the Farnsley-Moremen Landing is a wonderfully historic place to visit. A visitor’s center, which houses an auditorium, museum exhibits, and a store, is situated on the property.

After a tour of the home and most of the property, I sat and rested as I enjoyed lunch in the picnic pavilion. Gazing back over the property surrounding the home, faint apparitions of the long-ago family can be seen drifting in and out of the house and gardens.

History is never lost when we experience places like Riverside. When you visit, let history surround you as you leisurely walk through each room of the home. Enjoy each moment of your walk over the grounds, the gardens, and the landing, allowing people and pieces of history to whisper to you what life was like long ago on the banks of the Ohio River at Riverside, the Farnsley-Moremen Landing in southwest Louisville, Kentucky.

If You Go:

Riverside, the Farnsley-Moremen Landing is located southwest of downtown Louisville, KY along the banks of the Ohio River. The address is 7410 Moorman Road, Louisville, Ky 40272. Phone number is: (502) 935-6809. Hours: Tuesday – Saturday, 10 am to 4:30 pm Sundays, 1 – 4:30 pm Tours begin at 10:30 am and occur every hour at half past the hour. Admissions is: $6/Adults; $5/Seniors (60+); $3/Children (ages 6-12); Children 5 and Under are Free. Family Rate: $15.00 (2 Adults and up to 3 children under age 18)

WHEN to go: Spring, summer, and fall are the most pleasant times to visit. Plan on a leisurely time so you won’t miss anything.

WHAT to do: Visit four archaeological sites where you can unearth parts of history from the barn, brick kiln, wash house, and slave/tenant house. During the months of July through October, visitors can board a riverboat at the landing and enjoy a leisurely cruise along the Ohio. Take advantage of the educational programs that are available.

OTHER sites to visit while you are in the Louisville area
Kentucky Derby Museum
Kentucky Bourbon Distilleries
Louisville Slugger Field
Louisville Slugger Museum and Factory
Belle of Louisville Riverboats

About the author:
Nellotie Porter Chastain, writer and published author, resides in Mitchell, Indiana, along with her husband and family. Of particular interest and enjoyment to Ms. Chastain are the many historical sites that are available where visitors have the opportunity to walk through history.
Contact: nellotie@verizon.net

Photographs:
All photos by Nellotie Porter Chastain.

BC First Nation History in Alert Bay

by Bev Lundahl

As my companion and I wound through the forest and mountains of Vancouver Island from Nanaimo up to Port MacNeil, my thoughts kept returning to the mystery of what lay ahead. I was nearing the end of my journey from the prairies to Alert Bay on Cormorant Island, a short ferry ride from Port McNeill, British Columbia. And I was bringing with me the crest from HMCS Quesnel, the corvette my father had served on in World War Two. This crest had embroidered on it the image of a thunderbird totem, a totem that I had discovered originated from a burial ground at Alert Bay, British Columbia. Some of the crew had snatched this grave marker while on shore the summer of 1942 and it had become their mascot until the end of the war.

The ‘Namgis First Nation of the Kwakwaka’wakw people I was soon to meet were as mysterious to me as the symbolism of the thunderbird. To the veterans the totem was a lucky talisman but one of them thought it was a horned owl and another saw an eagle. An officer had wanted it removed from the ship because he considered it to be idol worship. When I mentioned its horns a friend suggested tufts was a better word because horns denoted evil. And finally the son of a Quesnel veteran writing about this badge described the image in part as a “multi-colored demon.” It seemed none of us really understood what the thunderbird represented.

Who were these people? Reading at the library of the First Nations University of Canada, I had learned that outsiders cannot decipher the markings on totem poles as if they were graphic or pictographic presentation of myth or history. They are visible expressions of a family history and of the possession of powers derived from their ancestors. The history had to be publicly recounted and witnessed and the erection of a pole was to be surrounded by ritual.

When we descended the ferry at Alert Bay I looked around with anticipation. An elaborate gateway (photo top) carved with “ ‘Namgis First Nation, Gilakas’la Welcome” greeted us. Down Front Street, which ran forever along the waterfront was the “Namgis Burial Grounds” (photo above) dotted with numerous totem poles interspersed with a few crosses to mark the graves.

Walking further along Front Street we passed houses with people sitting out on the verandas carving masks and totems. The U’mista Cultural Center (photo at bottom) at the far end was situated beside the derelict remains of a faded brick residential school, that had closed some thirty years earlier. The old shop in the basement of the school was used as a workroom for carvers. (Photo left of Sean Whonnock)

Inside the Cultural Center the history of the government’s banning of the potlatch was told in excerpts taken from Indian Affairs documents and displayed beside the ceremonial masks that had been confiscated by the authorities in the 1920’s and then returned over half a century later.

Up the hill in the Big House we learned more about their history and culture. There we watched the dancers (photo right) step to the beat of the music pounded out on a cedar log – dances that told of stories and legends through the use of masks and costume. It was a spectacular and moving sight, watching them circulate around a fire in the middle of the earthen floor.

On the other side of the island a boardwalk led us on the eco-walk through the trees and marsh. As one gazed upward at the old defoliated trees, interspersed throughout the forest it wasn’t hard to see beaks and faces and wings – the inspiration for the totems that have been carved by these people for thousands of years – long before European contact.

Before retiring that evening to the Lodge, which was an old United Church that had been converted to a hostel, we watched the sunset from the waterfront deck of the Nimpkish Pub. Could this have been the same pub the sailors of sixty years ago had frequented? The orange glow of the sinking sun created burning steel gray shadows against the silver water, water that reflected the black, mountains in the background. Such a calm peaceful scene!

Prior to leaving this village I spent some time with Andrea Sanborn, the director of the Cultural Center and felt her pain regarding the theft of the grave marker of an Alert Bay family sixty years ago. The Navy newspaper “The Trident” quotes her as saying, “These stories need to be brought out in public, because not enough people really understand the history of First Nations people in this country”. In a quote in another newspaper she says “We would say that his spirit has been disturbed and that he is not at rest until it (the grave marker) is replaced”

I did not learn the meaning of the markings on the thunderbird nor did I meet the family of Mr. Dutch, whose grave it had marked. I did learn something about our entangled histories but I believe this is only the surface. Because our country had a policy of segregation the mystery of this history can really only be learned through face to face contact and honest exchange. My trip to Alert Bay is only the beginning but it has opened my eyes and revealed another world out there. Alert Bay and the culture expressed there is beautiful but sadly the imprint of our intertwined history has left an indelible mark.

More Information:

U’mista Cultural Society
Village of Alert Bay, BC

To Get There:
Take the ferry from Tsawassen or Horseshoe Bay to Nanaimo B.C., then head up the Island Highway # 19 north from Nanaimo to Port McNeill. From there take the ferry to Alert Bay. Info: www.bcferries.com

About the author:
Bev Lundahl is a genealogist by nature thus most of her writing is historical, based on her research. She has been published in The Beaver magazine, Folklore Saskatchewan, The Heritage Gazette of Trent Valley (Ontario), Lifestyles (Estevan Sask.) and some of her research has been used on CBC Radio as well as in various Canadian newspapers. Bev lives in Regina, Saskatchewan.
Contact: bev.lundahl@accesscomm.ca.

Photo Credits:
All photos are by Bev Lundahl.