Writers, Readers, and Chocolate: a Sweet Relationship, St. Augustine, FL Chocolate Factory Tour

Hello and welcome to the Books We Love Insiders blog. My name is J.Q. Rose, author of the recently released romantic suspense, Dangerous Sanctuary.

Dangerous Sanctuary by J.Q. Rose
Romantic suspense
Available at amazon

In December 2014, we visited St. Augustine, Florida, the oldest European continuously occupied city in the USA. We fell in love with the beautiful city founded 452 years ago. The history, cultures, waterways, the Christmas lights, and music all blended into a great get-away.

Writers and readers love snacking on chocolate,so today I'm taking you on a tour of the Whetstone Chocolate Factory. According to their website. the story of the establishment of this chocolate company is a story of a dream fulfilled for a hard-working, dedicated couple, Henry and Esther Whetstone. They first opened their small ice cream store on St. George Street in the historic business district of St. Augustine in 1966. Henry and Esther entered the chocolate market when they created a home-made fudge recipe in the family’s kitchen.The kitchen was the original Whetstone Chocolate factory and they were the only workers. You can read more about their amazing growth at the Whetstone Chocolate website.

The tour costs $8.00 and is worth every penny of it, especially when Ty was our guide. He was an elementary school teacher for 36 years!  He brings all the energy and enthusiasm he used to teach kids to the tour presentation. Kudos to Ty for his fun tour of the factory. (Of course, how can you NOT have fun when eating samples of delicious chocolate?? We were pretty wired by the end of the tour!!)

Ty begins the tour on the factory floor. Information on the fine ingredients in this artisanal chocolate and the method used to turn cocoa beans into heavenly flavors of chocolate were explained in an adjoining room.

The factory. Yes, I was expecting conveyor belts, clanging bells, a frenzy of machinery, and lots of workers. But no, only about three people working at quiet machines that you will see below.

Ty introduced us to Miss Nan (forgive me if I don't have her name correct). She is bagging their delicious foil-wrapped candy shells and placing them in the boxes.

The machine is making white chocolate. Stirring is an important aspect of making delicious candy. I learned white chocolate does not have cocoa powder as an ingredient, but does contain the cocoa butter.

Milk chocolate machine. The difference between Whetstone's fine chocolates and the Over the Counter kind, as Ty referred to the cheaper manufactured chocolate, is the amount of lecithin, an emulsifier. Cheaper chocolates use none or less lecithin in the product.

Dark chocolate.
Yes, they push the health benefits of eating DARK chocolate.

Ty demonstrates how the hollow chocolate football is made. A measured amount of chocolate is added to the plastic mold he is holding.
A worker continually turns the liquid chocolate leaving a thin layer on the mold. In order to make it evenly shaped, it takes 35 minutes of hand turning to do it right!

The mold and the finished product, a hollow football complete with white chocolate laces!
Beautiful! No,Ty didn't make this one....

Miss Nan revs up the machine that wraps foil around the chocolate shells.

Miss Nan loads the shells into the machine. Ty explained the path the candy took through the gears and belts with a patter that a rap star couldn't have done better! 

Success! Look at the parade of red foil-wrapped candy which Miss Nan will bag later.

Yes, we re-enacted the candy wrapping scene from the I Love Lucy Show.
You can't tell I have the candy stuffed in my mouth and down my bra, just like Lucy. LOL!!

The chocolate factory scene from the I Love Lucy Show.
The real actors in I Love Lucy. Have you seen this episode? It's a classic.

Hope you enjoyed the tour. Are you hungry for chocolate now? Do you like dark chocolate?

I bet with the holidays upon us, you'll get many chocolate treats whether candy or desserts. Take time to really taste them and feel the joy this small morsel can bring to us.
Photos by J.Q. Rose

Poinsettia--the traditional Christmas flower

Wishing you joy, peace, hope, and love this Christmas season 

and for the New Year 2017!

About J.Q. Rose

After writing feature articles in magazines, newspapers, and online magazines for over fifteen years, J.Q. Rose entered the world of fiction. Her published mysteries are Deadly Undertaking  and Dangerous Sanctuary released by Books We Love Publishing. Blogging, photography, Pegs and Jokers board games, and travel are the things that keep her out of trouble. She spends winters in Florida and summers up north camping and hunting toads, frogs, and salamanders with her four grandsons and granddaughter.

Christmas Toy Shopping Disastrophy by Stuart R. West

Hola and happy holidays, everyone. 

Tensions are high, people on edge, fights and riots breaking out everywhere. Oh, and then there’s the political situation. But I was talking about Christmas shopping.

Talk about madness. Say what you will about Amazon (like politics, everyone has a highly volatile opinion of them), I’m thankful for Amazon at Christmas time. My wife and I pretty much get most of our shopping done without ever leaving the sofa.

But things weren’t always like that.

I’m thinking the infamous year of the “Water Baby.” 

I made the parental mistake of asking my then eight year old daughter what she’d like for Christmas. 

“A Water Baby.”

“A what?”

“A Water Baby. Melissa and Brianne have one.”

“Oh. Well, if Melissa and Brianne have one, they’ve gotta’ be something special.”

I had no idea what a “Water Baby” was, yet pretended to. Because dads know everything, right? After researching, I discovered Water Babies were special dolls you fill with water to give them that “realistic” feeling. Well… First, gross. Second, why are eight year old girls wanting to feel a real baby?  Stupid Melissa and Brianne.

But the hunt was on! 

Instead of eating during my work lunch-breaks, I scoured the stores and malls of the Greater Kansas City metropolitan area. I called stores, pleaded my case for the stupid, highly elusive Water Baby doll. I enlisted my parents into high-stepping action. I offered to buy the doll at twice the price, to any takers, just please don’t let my daughter down this Christmas! Alas, Water Babies were sold out everywhere. 

I came close a few times. My mom found one at a Kmart. Excited, I asked her how much I owed her for the gift. 

My mom said, “Well, I didn’t get it because the doll was black.”

“Gah! Mom! My daughter won’t care! No one cares but you! Please, please, PLEASE go back and get it! Never mind. I’ll do it!”

Off I went! I bolted through my company’s door (“Not feeling good!”), sped and zipped in and out of highway lanes like Steve McQueen on a bender. I slammed open the Kmart doors, raced down the toy aisle. 

And found an empty shelf. 

A forlorn looking mother stood next to me, equally numb. 

“Water Baby?” I asked, shorthand for every parent who’d been fighting the battle.

She nodded, dead to the world.

I dropped to my knees, raised my hands and screamed to the uncaring toy manufacturers, the greedy corporate marketing strategists, and mostly to that insidious duo of little girls, Melissa and Brianne, “Damn you, Melissa and Brianne! Curse you foul demonic Water Babies, you ugly looking, jiggly, creepy hunks of stupid plastic!”

Then a stock-boy strolled out. His name tag identified him as “Chet.” To this day, I identify Chet as the boy who saved Christmas. In all his slacker, acne-ridden glory.

“Hey,” he says, oh so nonchalantly, just teasing us, “you looking for Water Babies?”

“Yeah. Please, dear God, tell me you have some!” I nearly took Chet by his blue lapels and shook him down.

“Nah. Not here. But our store in Gladstone's got a couple.”

“Thanks, Chet! Love you!”

Out through the store I hurtled. A dead tie with the other grieving parent. I considered shoving her into the sock aisle to gain an advantage. (Hey, all’s fair during Christmas toy shopping.) But I didn’t need to. Once I slammed open the doors, I broke into a full-on, manic sprint through the parking lot. Another breathless race through the streets of KC. I screeched to a halt in the Gladstone Kmart parking lot.

The store loomed in front of me, large and foreboding. Conqueror and creator of Christmas happiness: Kmart.

This was it. My last chance to bring Christmas joy to my daughter.

I shoved past people--certain they’d understand--and scuttled down the toy aisle.

Celestial trumpets! Glory hallelujah! 

There in all their grotesquely manufactured glory, sat two of the ugliest lumps of plastic Mankind had ever created. I snatched one doll up (hoped my competitor would get the other), locked it under my arm, thrust a hand out like a running back and slammed my way to the check-out aisle. 

A true Christmas miracle.

Of course the dumb Water Baby’s novelty wore off after a couple of hours. Soon enough, my daughter discarded the grotesque mannequin to the bin of unwanted toys.

Still, it was all worth it to see my daughter light up like a Christmas tree upon opening that gift. (No way did I let Santa grab the glory for that one, either. My heroic efforts as a dad demanded to be rewarded).

That Christmas morning, I finally relaxed. Job well done. After all, I had 364 more days until I had to worry about it again. (Next year was even worse: Furbies.)

I gripe about the Toy Wars. But, to tell you the truth, I kinda’ miss it. My daughter’s long grown up, at the stage where money’s her favorite gift. As are my nieces, nephews, all the children in our family. It’s boring. There’s no challenge or joy in tossing around cash. 

Maybe I’ll go back to giving everyone toys no matter their age. 

Happy holidays, merry Christmas, happy Hanukkah, cool Kwanza, super Solstice, beautiful Boxing Day, and to those parents still in the trenches and fighting the good fight: good luck.

Click the cover for a preview.

Beginnings and Endings by Nancy M Bell

It's that time of year again. Another old year is almost over and a new one set to begin. Christmas is almost upon us and this year I find myself reflecting on years gone by. My own children are grown with children of their own and yet I still feel like a kid myself sometimes. This year is a bit of a milestone. I turn sixty on December 20th. It doesn't seem possible, but there it is, the numbers don't lie. I thought I'd share a bit of Christmas history with you and take a walk down memory lane, full of candy canes and snowmen.

Our Christmas Eve was always a variatiohn of the same theme. My parents would pack up my sister and myself and later my brother and set off in the car to visit my dad's sisters who lived in various parts of Toronto and the outlying area. Aunt Ola and Uncle Bunny lived near Whitevale, Ontario on a farm with the most amazing white farm house. The floors were always polished mirror bright and I loved the huge kitchen. We'd play hand off our gifts and receive the ones to go under our tree when we got home. Then it was off to Aunt Joy and Uncle Norm's and a houseful of cousins in Mississauga. There was always lots to do at Auntie Joy's, games to play and outside fun. The food was always great and my cousins had all the latest games and toys to play with. Presents were exchanged we were off again.
Aunt Gloria and Uncle Tommy used to live in Caladar, near North Bay when we were really young and we visited them on New Year's Day, but later they moved into New Toronto not far from Aunt Loral and Uncle Bob. We added them to our Christmas Eve jaunt. Dad's other sister, Aunt Irma lived near Ottawa so we saw them less frequently.
My grandparents used to winter with Aunt Gloria so we got to see them as well. Grandma and Grandpa Rafter owned a store on a lake near Norland, Ontario and spent the summers there, but when the weather turned they would come to Toronto and stay with my aunt.
Aunt Loral had a small house, but the coolest tree topper. It was multi-coloured and rotated like a disco ball, although this was long before disco balls were the norm. There were a million of those little Wade figurines out of the Red Rose Tea boxes lined up on the slim ledge of the door frames in her kitchen.

Photo taken in Banff Alberta

When we were young we lived in a two bedroom house with my mom's parents. Grandma and Grandpa Pritchard made the dining room into their bedroom, my older sister had one bedroom and my sister and I slept in bunkbeds in my parent's room. One Christmas Eve we were just getting home and as Dad parked the car in the drive who should we see coming down the neighbour's drive? SANTA CLAUS!!! We were both pretty young because my little brother wasn't born yet, so we were maybe 5 and 6 years old. We screamed and raced out of the car, up the step and leaped into bed with our coats and boots still on. Both of us refused to get up or take anything off for fear Santa would show up and not leave us any presents. True story.

Okay enough reminiscing. The faces at the table have changed over the years, as young ones are added older ones pass on. But at Christmas everyone, past and present, are with us as we celebrate the joy of the season.

The third book in A Longview Romance series is now available in paperback and as an added bonus the novella A Longview Christmas in included. Peace, Joy and Happiness be yours.

Remembrance of Christmas Past - Who Took The Chocolate Ornaments

We all have Christmas memories and I was thinking about some I remember from the past years is when the ornaments disappeared from the tree. The tale begins with Robespierre, not the French cleric, but a Maine Coon cat with strange tastes.


I found these wonderful ornaments. Wrapped in colorful foils, shaped like bells and ornaments. Wouldn't they look wonderful on the tree. I bought them, took them home, hid them from the children. When the children were tucked tight in their beds, my husband and I decorated the tree. The cat stayed in the family room. He seemed to be asleep.


Once this was completed and the presents were under the tree and the stockings hung on the bottom of their beds, I felt my job was done. Robespierre still slept, curled on the hearth. My husband and I went to bed.


Imagine our shocked expressions in the morning when we saw bits of foil with a little chocolate on the floor and some of the shredded ornaments still on the tree. There sat Robespierre looking a bit like the Cheshire cat. I know chocolate isn't good for cats and worried. The cat seemed to have no problems. There were times when he thought of himself as a human.


The children missed tasting the chocolate ornaments and learned one lesson. When they had chocolate milk or some chocolate flavored cereal, they had to guard the glass or bowl. Robespierre always sat and stared waiting for a spill or an absence.


Next year perhaps I'll share another memory.

Time and the unfolding unkindness of body parts

The Twisted Climb

There was a time, not very long ago, when my body parts scoffed at age. Pah! Who's getting old? Not me!

And then I began to hear a sound. Muffled but steady. At first, I couldn't tell what it was. But over time my hearing became wiser (I like to say), and, in direct contrast to my eyes focusing only if the object was at the end of my extended arm, I got it. The sound, that is. The source of that clicking sound.

Now I'm not talking about regular clicking, like a clock clicks, or water drips, or the sound a bird-brained cardinal makes when he's attacking himself on the window pane. I'm talking about clicks. Body clicks. Ahh, now do you get it?

I've been fighting it for a long time - the source of the clicks. Sometimes it's from a knee joint, sometimes a toe knuckle, even the back of the neck. That neck sound is a deep, cavernous click. Makes me shiver in response. But that doesn't bother me so much. It's the clicks and clacks and tearing sounds from my shoulder that jolts me. These aren't the sounds of a young person. Nay nay. These are, um, it's hard to put into words and thus give them credence, but these sounds are from an old person.

What happened?

Wasn't it just last month when I sang my babies to sleep and wasn't it only a few weeks ago when I played ball hockey in the Provincials, and really, wasn't it just last week when I held my first grand child?

Time, thou travels much too quickly. And I respectfully request that you slow down. Because if you don't, my legs won't - can't keep pace and I'm afraid that the cricks and clicks in my body will take over my brain.

My age and time are not always friends. I'm trying to make them be friends but my body is not being nice and keeps getting in the way. My age is just a number, I tell myself. I like to repeat that to my body. Age is just a number. To that, my body looks pensively in the distance, as if willing my body to reflect the age I really, really want to be. 39 seems like a good age. Or 49.

For now, I'm going to ignore the clicks and clacks from my innards. Especially my shoulder. Yes, that I'll ignore until the sound is too loud and the pain too strong. Then, and only then, will I say 'yes' to age and yes again to Advil. Or wine.

In the spirit of Christmas, I would like to wish you all a joyous and loving season and a year of prosperity and adventure in 2017.

My first grandchild, Kealii, October 2009

Kickboxing Orange belt 2016

Shoveling 200 ft of driveway, November 2016. That's crazy.

Grateful to have age and time as my friends.
Joanie
aka J.C. Kavanagh
The Twisted Climb
A novel for teens, young adults and adults young at heart.
www.Facebook.com/J.C.Kavanagh
Amazon.com/author/jckavanagh
Twitter: @JCKavanagh1

Christmas and Non-Christians

PURCHASE FROM AMAZON

Christmas, though by definition a Christian holiday observing the birth of Jesus Christ, is surprisingly celebrated by a vast majority of non-Christians in North America as well. According to an article in the Voice of America[1], nine in ten Americans, including eighty-one percent of non-Christians, celebrate this holiday.

Several religious holidays that fall around Christmas time—Hannukah, Kwanzaa and the Winter Solstice—have their own rituals. Followers of other religions in Canada and America—Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs and others—have adopted some of the basic Christmas traditions, such as having a Christmas tree in their homes.

Christmas, while being a joyful season, can sometimes be confusing to newcomers. There is always a desire to “fit in” yet, for many, the question arises as to which of the local traditions to embrace. The answer seems to be: whatever one feels comfortable with. One of the most common is the Christmas tree. A 2013 survey[2] by the Pew Research Center states that about three-fourths of Asian American Hindus and Buddhists, as well as one-third of American Jews report having a Christmas tree in their homes.

Gift giving is a part of all cultures: during Eid for Muslims or Diwali for Hindus, for example. This practice, already familiar, has become widely taken up during Christmas as well.

Christmas trees and gift-giving are easily adaptable due to their non-religious connotations. Sometimes, however, the exchange goes deeper. Christmas becomes an occasion to reach out to various communities.

“It would be typical of mosques to have a sermon on Jesus at this time of year, praising him as one of the great prophets but distinguishing Muslim belief from Christian belief,” says Ihsan Bagby,[3] an Islamic Studies professor at the University of Kentucky who researches American mosques.

In the temple I attend (I’m a Hindu) religious services are organized on Christmas day, mostly because congregants have the day off. These observances have now become a tradition. While the ceremonies are Hindu, mention is always made of Jesus Christ and his message, and it is not at all uncommon for worshippers to wish each other Merry Christmas. An aura of holiness pervades the day.

In the end, what distinguishes Christmas celebrations, in both Christian and non-Christain communities, are themes familiar to all: sacredness, family, love and friendship.

---

[1] http://blogs.voanews.com/all-about-america/2015/12/23/vast-majority-of-us-non-christians-celebrate-christmas/

[2] http://www.pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2013/12/23/christmas-also-celebrated-by-many-non-christians/

[3] http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/12/17/muslim-christmas-celebrations_n_1154229.html

Chocolate and Oranges...by Sheila Claydon

No, I'm not talking about Christmas, although I certainly hope to enjoy my fair share of chocolate plus an orange or two over the festive season. Instead I am following through on  last month's blog A letter to remind us, which is about WW2 and how much we owe to everyone who lived through it.

Thanks to an conversation I had earlier today, I unexpectedly found myself thinking about my very early childhood. I was born in Southampton, England, at the very end of the war. It was, and still is, a very busy Port which, during the 1940s, was a starting point for troop ships, supply convoys and destroyers. Consequently it was regularly bombed throughout the war, and although the devastation of people's ruined lives had been cleared away long before I was old enough to be conscious of it, I can clearly remember the gaps, like missing teeth, in row upon row of houses. I remember, too, the 'wreck', a large grassy field with a huge dip in its centre that my friends and I used to slip and side down, shrieking with laughter and covering ourselves with a reddish dust, never for a moment realising our playground was the result of an exploded bomb, and that there had once been houses on our 'field.'

I didn't know either, that the wood yard opposite my grandmother's house was a yard only because a bomb had flattened all the houses that had once stood there, at the same time it had blown all the windows our of my grandmother's house. I even thought the dark cupboard under her stairs was exciting and liked to crawl inside, never knowing until much later that she and my mother, then a teenager, had spent many terrifying nights sleeping there when all the men of the house were away fighting.

I guess it is understandable that a war torn generation doesn't want to remember the horrors they have been through or talk about them to their children. Instead they need to create new memories and look forward, so my early childhood memories are mostly good ones, and among them are some real treasures. One of the best involves chocolate and oranges...which is where we came in!

Although my maternal grandfather had a terrible war sailing backwards and forwards across the Atlantic in supply convoys until his ship was eventually torpedoed, to me, as a little girl, he was neither a hero nor someone with dreadful memories. Instead he was a smiley, white-haired granddad, who put on a smart uniform every Thursday morning and went to the Port to help organize a ship's turnaround. I loved trying on his peaked cap and looking at his shiny medals, but by far the most important part of the day was when he came home. On Thursdays, instead of using his key he always knocked the door, and it was my job to open it. (I'm sure he must have unlocked it and clicked it open before he knocked because at only three or four years old I was far too small to do it by myself). Then, before he stepped into the house, I had to choose which of his pockets held a surprise. I never got it wrong...a small bar of chocolate, an orange, a banana.  The excitement is with me still and of course I was too young to realise that every pocket was a winner! Nor did I know how lucky I was to have a grandfather whose semi-retired job meant he was able to bring home such treats. I didn't know that chocolate and those oranges had travelled thousands of miles across the sea or that few other children would taste them for several more years.  

There are other memories too. One is of being sent to the shop next door to buy a bag of broken biscuits. This was much better than choosing one particular sort. Instead there was the joy of dipping into the bag and never being sure what would come out. Half a custard cream, a chipped ginger snap, or, if I was lucky, something with chocolate on it. The cakes were delicious too, despite rations being short. My grandmother always cooked from scratch and there was never enough sugar for icing, but even so I've never again tasted a Victoria sponge as good as hers.

I didn't know shelling peas was a chore either, or picking gooseberries, or pulling carrots. I thought they were just things  I did because I loved how my mother cooked them, the same as I thought going to the library every week was because I liked to read, not because there was no spare money to buy books except at Christmas or birthday.

So that's another debt I owe to my parents and grandparents, and I am sure there are many others who feel the same. I was allowed to grow up without any of their memories of those terrible years of war shadowing my childhood. To me, until I was much older, all I learned were the popular songs they had sung and the strange nicknames of the people they had once lived and worked with. And my favorite dress for a very long time was an Royal Airforce blue pinafore embroidered around the bib with bright pink chain stitch. To me it wasn't a remake of my mother's WRAF uniform skirt, it was a lovely dress, a Christmas present lovingly made...cut out by my father and sewn by my mother.

The ice-cream and the bread might have been rubbish in those early years after the war, and for years to come, but I barely noticed because I had the chocolate and the oranges as well as a whole lot of other things besides. So thank you Mum and Dad, and thank you all those other adults who made sure I and my friends had a shadow-free childhood. It's taken me until now to really understand.

Mending Jodie's Heart (pictured above) is the first book of my When Paths Meet trilogy and as well as a romance it is a story of the sacrifice and love that is needed to raise a child. Books 2 and 3 continue this theme although none of the heroines were as lucky as me. You can find them at:

Books We Love

Amazon

I  also have a website where I write an occasional blog and I can be found on facebook  and twitter

Road Tripping USA Part Twelve by Joan Donaldson-Yarmey

www.joandonaldsonyarmey.com

Author’s Note

I belong to Angels Abreast, a breast cancer survivor dragon boat race team in Nanaimo, British Columbia, Canada. Every four years the International Breast Cancer Paddlers Commission IBCPC) holds an international festival somewhere in the world. In the spring of 2013, my team received a notice that the IBCPC had chosen Sarasota, Florida, USA, to hold the next festival in October 2014.

     We decided to attend and while the other members were going to fly down, tour around some of the sites and head home I wanted to see more of the country and meet some of the people. My husband, Mike, and I drove from our small acreage at Port Alberni, British Columbia, on the Pacific Ocean, to Sarasota, Florida on the Atlantic Ocean.
     Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine the people I would meet nor the beautiful places I would see nor the adventures I would have on our ten week, 18,758km (11656 mile) journey. On the thirteenth day of every month in 2016 I will post a part of my trip that describes some of the excellent scenery, shows the generosity and friendliness of the people, and explains some of the history of the country. The people of the USA have much to be proud of.

 Road Tripping USA Part Twelve

After visiting my cousin, Betty, in Mayer for two days, our next destination was the Grand Canyon National Park, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. We stopped in the parking lot of the South Rim. Mike was able to make the short walk to the first of many viewpoints. I’d seen pictures and heard stories of how beautiful the canyon was but I wasn’t prepared for the absolute grandeur of the multi-coloured layers, the river far below, the rock formations. It was amazing to stand on the rim of the canyon and try to visualize the five million years it had taken the Colorado River to form it.

     We took our time, walking from viewpoint to viewpoint taking pictures and just staring. The canyon is 277 miles (446km) long, up to 18 miles (29km) wide in places and can reach a depth of more than a mile. It is one of the seven natural wonders of the world. Grand Canyon National Park was formed in 1919.
     We drove the Desert View Highway and stopped at other viewpoints for a different view of the canyon and to take more pictures. At the Tusayan Ruin I walked around the small site. It is estimated that about twenty people lived in this pueblo or village. Nothing has been done to reconstruct it only to stabilize what remains of the walls, which are now only about two layers of rock high. I looked at the living quarters, the storage rooms, and the kiva. I took the short hike down to a clearing where they may have had a garden. They also used a lot of the trees and bush for medicinal purposes and for food.
     It is believed that the Peublo Indians built this site around 1185 and occupied it for about twenty years. Again, I was standing in a place constructed thousands of years ago. How thrilling. From the ruins I looked into the distance and saw Humphries Peak. At 12,633ft (3851m) it is the highest point in Arizona.
     Further along the highway we reached the Watchtower. Construction on this tall, circular tower on the rim of the Grand Canyon began in 1930. In order to give it an ancient look the weathered stones picked for it were left in their natural state.
     Inside is a visitor's center, a gift shop, and different Hopi drawings simulating what the early natives would have drawn, on the walls. I looked up the open shaft to the third floor ceiling, then climbed the circular staircase which ran along the outer walls. On each floor there are Hopi paintings. At the top are wide windows with an excellent view over the Grand Canyon and the Colorado River. Before descending I looked down the centre shaft to the bottom level.
     After the Watchtower we left the Grand Canyon National Park. As we neared Cameron we drove through miles and miles of the Painted Desert. The layers of the hillsides are made of siltstone, mudstone, and shale. These contain iron and manganese compounds that provide the pigments for the various colours. The layers are easily eroded and so the hills are a variety of reds, tans, pinks, blues, and grays.
     When we rose the next morning it was still overcast and raining. We continued our drive through the Painted Desert. The blacks, reds, plums, siennas, and grayish teal were all beautiful.
     We reached Marble Canyon, which is the beginning of the Grand Canyon and crossed the Colorado River Bridge. Beside it, also over the river, is the Navajo bridge, which was built in 1929. The old one is narrow and now used as a walkway.
     We were on the Vermilion Cliffs Highway and following the Vermilion Cliffs which lived up to their names. They are high and vermilion coloured and run for miles along the highway. We reached the Cliff Dwellings alongside the road. I walked over to look in what remained of the homes created under the large rocks
      Sign: Cliff Dwellings-People Who Live In Rock Houses. Erosion of sandstone formations leave a variety of crevices, caves and overhangs. Over time travellers and residents found creative ways to use these natural features as temporary or permanent shelter. Around 1927 Blanche Russell's car broke down as she travelled through this area. Forced to camp over night she decided she liked the scenery so well that she bought property and stayed. The stone buildings under these balanced rock were built shortly after that in the 1930s. Before 1930 a road trip up the east side of Kaibab Mountain was very steep. The early cars had a gravity feed gas pump. When climbing the mountain the vehicles could not get gas to the engine but they solved the problem by backing up the steepest parts.

 The scenery changed to mainly forest. We passed a road to the north rim of Grand Canyon which was closed for the winter. We climbed steadily to Jacob Lake. At the summit we descended to the Paria Plateau where we could see forever. We arrived at Freedonia, which was established in 1885. Just on the northern outskirts we entered the state of Utah and were in Kanab.

     Zion Canyon is 15 miles (24km) long and up to half a mile deep. The North Fork of the Virgin River cut the canyon through the red and tan colored Navajo Sandstone. At the Zion National Park it cost us $25.00 to enter the park and then because of our size we paid an extra $15.00 for a permit to go through the Zion-Mt. Carmel tunnel. There were many beautiful different colours and different slants to the layers of the rock walls as we drove. We were on a narrow winding road and drove through the first tunnel. When we reached the Zion-Mt. Carmel tunnel a ranger came out to check our permit. The tunnel was built in 1929. The highest point is 13'1" (4m) while at the curve it is 11'4" high. We waited for the oncoming traffic to clear and the last driver handed the ranger a flag. He, in turn, gave it to the last vehicle in our convoy.
     As instructed, we drove down the middle of the road through the very long tunnel. There were three spaces where an opening allowed us to see the scenery on the passenger's side. Once out of the tunnel we snaked downhill on steep switch backs into the canyon. We turned off the main road onto the Zion Canyon scenic drive. There are walking bridges across the Virgin River to get to trails on the other side. At the end of the drive there is a river hike that follows the river through the narrowing canyon. It is a two mile round trip but I didn’t have time to do it.
     I met a young woman from Australia. She and her boyfriend were touring for two months in a van borrowed from a friend.
     “We’re from Vancouver Island and we've been on the road for almost ten weeks,” I said.
     “Where on the island are you from?” she asked.
     “Port Alberni.”
     “Really? I worked at Mount Washington Ski Resort a few years ago and really liked it. I’d like to go back sometime.”
     Mount Washington Ski Resort is about a three hour drive from Port Alberni.
     It was December 4, Day 68 of our trip. We now had no schedule. Instead of being on a holiday we were on an adventure to make it home before running into snow. We looked at the map for the fastest, yet warmest route home. Over the next three days we drove northwest through Nevada, Oregon and Washington. We drove through fog, rain, and snow and reached Port Angeles on December 6^th. On December 7^th , we crossed the Juan de Fuca Strait and pulled into our driveway in the early afternoon. We’d driven 18,758km (11656 miles), travelled through two provinces and nineteen states and been gone ten weeks.
     What an experience.