Arrival
The M.V. Frances Barkley nudges the pier on the west side of Bamfield. Its famous boardwalk twists along the inlet, cottages perch alongside, docks sprout into the waterway. The red and white buildings of the Coast Guard station alongside the dock gleam, and through my binoculars I can see the proprietor of the tiny boardwalk store hanging out a sign: closed for freight receiving.

Our binoculars have never been far from our eyes during this three-hour voyage up Alberni Inlet from Port Alberni to Barkley Sound. We’ve spotted eagles, inched by rainbows, chugged in and out of mists, rainstorms and occasional splatters of sun, and passed a wilderness that goes on and on. The passenger freighter’s crew of five is casual and friendly, and the captain, John Adams, who retired as captain from B.C. Ferries but just couldn’t stay home, has pointed  out interesting spots along the way – like Kildonan, for example. In 1914, it was a thriving cannery and 500 people lived there. Now it’s home to only a few summer cottagers and fewer still full timers, who gather at the dock. In the season, the Frances Barkley also stops at the old Sechart whaling station just outside the Pacific Rim National Park Reserve; it’s now a lodge catering to kayakers. The Norwegian built ship can carry 200 passengers and 100 tons of cargo, and it makes stops wherever it’s needed: fish farms, small settlements, and even float homes.

We’re met by Don Kapalka from the Imperial Eagle Lodge in his cherry red Ranger. There’s only room in the ATV for two plus luggage, so I get to ride along the steep and rocky track while the others head to the lodge along the boardwalk. Don fills me in en route.The Kapalkas bought the property last October and have been busy adding kitchenettes to their five cabins, renovating, and gardening on their one acre property. They’ve also completed a new and larger dock for guests arriving by boat. Luckily, Don is a handyman.

Previously from Alberta, the couple lived in Nanaimo for three years before arriving in Bamfield and deciding this was the perfect place for Don to pursue his dream of having a fishing lodge. “I like the water, and I love keeping busy. We looked at Tofino and Port Renfrew but couldn’t find anything, and Dianne didn’t want to live in northern Manitoba or Saskatchewan.”

This is starting to remind me of the wild Long Beach I used to know, the rough dirt road through to the Pacific Rim from Port Alberni and that feeling of being at the very edge of the world, before the area got “tamed”, the developers moved in, and the prices moved up. Bamfield, after all, is very close to Long Beach’s southern extremity at Ucluelet, as crows fly and boats churn.

Five minutes later I’m at the Imperial Eagle and treated to a beautiful, comfortable cottage and a warm welcome by Dianne, who tells me she fell in love with Bamfield the moment they arrived.

My partner, David, and our friends, Pat and Gerry, soon join me, and within the hour we slog out in the rain, anxious to explore and find the popular Brady’s Beach. The track undulates, the rain tumbles, but it smells so darn good and it’s so quiet, we care not a bit. Somehow we are not even surprised when the sun bullies its way out and establishes itself firmly in the sky precisely at the moment we step unto the beach.

Yes, this really IS like the Long Beach we used to roam 35 years ago, collecting giant mussels for dinner, exploring tide pools, and clambering around huge stacks while monster rollers tossed up fountains of spray.

East Side, West Side
It’s interesting how the inlet splits Bamfield into two communities, each with its own character. East Bamfield has twice the population and most of the amenities: the well-known Bamfield Marine Sciences Centre, dedicated to education and research related to coastal marine biology is here, along with the pub, motel, restaurant, marine shop, and majority of the residents. The West Side boasts that sparkling, historic Canadian Coast Guard Lifeboat station, which celebrated its 100th anniversary in 2008. Used as a training centre for coastal search and rescue volunteers, the large station is one of the province’s oldest.

If you live in West Bamfield, getting home is definitely more of a challenge. There’s an inlet in the way, and no bridge. Roads are more like trails and not too many vehicles other than ATVs can handle the rough terrain. However, West Bamfielders seem to like it that way. Dianne Kapalka feels the seclusion is part of its appeal:

“You don’t just drive up to your door with a load of groceries. You have to unload them, take them across the inlet, unload them, and pack them on to the ATV, drive them up the hill, and unpack again. And you have to really plan ahead because you can’t just jump into your car and drive to Safeway or Costco. But I love the peace, and we’re surrounded by nature. It’s a great community here too.”

Next Day
After a blissful sleep, we wake to sunshine and head down to the docks to begin the day’s adventure.

About 250 full timers call Bamfield home, and because they are people who came, fell in love with it, and stayed, the energy is all positive. Take Sheryl and John Mass, for example. They’ve been operating Broken Islands Adventure Tours since they moved here in 1995.

“We asked ourselves why were we living in Vancouver when most weekends we pursued outdoor activities outside of the city,” Sheryl Mass tells us. “So we put together a long list of possible communities on both sides of Vancouver Island and the Sunshine Coast and systematically began to check them off over a two year period. Eventually Bamfield was the only one left on the list.” “The two criteria for us were good scuba diving and a good community.” John adds. “Bamfield had them both. When we came here we had just enough money for groceries and rent for a year. It was a gamble for sure.”

They began modestly with a small scuba diving business and a bed and breakfast. Soon, however, they found themselves expanding into wildlife and scenic tours, kayak rentals, water taxiing and sailing. They both agree that it was a gamble worth taking.

Now we head out into Barkley Sound to explore the Broken Islands, see some of the coastal communities, and try to spot bears, whales and sea lions.

After a tour that was scheduled for 3 hours but stretched into 4 as we happily watched two humpback whales loll and lunge after herring, and lazily idled while snapping photos of sea lions, we return to the docks, buzzed on the great morning and on Sheryl’s cookies.

What’s to Love?
Apart from salt-water scented air so sweet you feel it right down to your toes, what is there to do in Bamfield? They’re still bringing up salmon and halibut in these waters, and when visited in May, the locals were also successfully prawning. Don can’t wait to finish up his handyman duties and get his guests out there fishing. He’s got the boats to do it.

This is an outdoor enthusiast’s paradise. If you love beachcombing, Brady’s beach is nearby. If you’re a kayaker, it’s even better; the famous Broken Island group is a paddle’s throw away. These 100+ uninhabited islands in Barkley Sound are also in mostly sheltered waters. The traditional territory of the Nuu-chah-nulth people for thousands of years, the islands harbour many special archaeological sites and middens, a few off limits. If you love hiking, never forget this is where the famed West Coast Trail ends.

The village may feel very isolated, but most services are available including Internet, hydro, telephone (although not all cell phones work). And while clean air is something most of us take for granted at the cottage, abundant clean water – especially for those of us on the Canadian Gulf Islands – is not. Bamfield has both. And – did I mention – these are the friendliest people on the planet.

Aboard the Frances Barkley again
The day stretches on like spandex, the sun is out, and we make several extra stops but mind not a bit that it makes the return trip two hours longer. We’ve seen a bear cub and sow cautiously exploring a rocky ledge near one of our stops, and we’ve experienced life on the coast the way it was once lived.

All in all, if you want to experience a friendly and safe community, play in a chunk of the Pacific Rim under a big sky, experience a wild ocean by kayaking, fishing, or a wildlife nature tour, and get in touch with a much younger world,  Bamfield is a great place to do it.

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Getting there:  

• For ferry schedules to Vancouver Island.
• In Port Alberni stop at the visitor centre
  You have a choice of either driving on an active logging road for 76 kilometres, or taking the leisurely, scenic route via The Frances Barkley operated by Lady Rose Marine.
•  If you have 4-wheel drive you can also get to Bamfield from Lake Cowichan on another logging road (120 kilometres) but check conditions first with the Bamfield Road Safety Association.
• Overnighting in Port Alberni. The Somass Motel is clean, quiet and reasonable.

Adventuring:

For whale watching and nature trips, tours to the Broken Islands, diving, and kayaking adventures Broken Island Adventures provides a good boat, great people, and flexible itineraries.

Real estate:
If you’re blown away by Bamfield you’ll be happy to hear what Carolyn Shearer of Coast Realty Group in Port Alberni has to say :

“The real estate market has become a buyer’s market. Financing for secondary recreational property has become more difficult in the past few years, so sales in the recreational market have been very slow since 2008. There are currently 13 homes listed on MLS and 3 bare land listings, totaling 50 acres.”

An acre of open ocean waterfront is valued at $300,000.

By Anne Gordon

At the “launch pad”, a brief bus ride from Churchill in northern Canada, tundra buggies, like over-sized moon vehicles, await the day’s explorers.
On arrival our driver warns us to stay seated while he checks the dark space beneath the pad for opportunistic polar bears. This elevated platform now used for boarding the buggies was named for the rockets that were launched from here in the 1950s to study the Northern Lights.

Pronounced safe …we disembark and board a massive vehicle, one of only 19 designed and built specifically for polar bear sightseers. Huge rubber wheels, almost five feet high, elevate the buggy cab sufficiently to avert a polar bear invasion. It’s cozy inside the 40-seat spacious interior.

Jarrett, our driver, reads us the Riot Act before we set out:

Don’t whistle at the bears. Nobody seems to have found the right tune anyway. The washroom is at the back of the buggy and you’ll notice the water is blue. If you don’t want a blue bum don’t use it while we’re in transit.” I understand his warning as soon as we hit the trail.

Old military tracks are our road. In an advanced state of disrepair, and presumably untouched since the withdrawal of the occupying military presence, we lurch, bump and roll across the tundra, like a ship on a storm-tossed sea. I pop a Gravol tablet to keep a heaving stomach under control. Negotiating a track where the hump in the middle resembles a mini mountain with deep water-filled gullies on either side, I wonder about our progress. But, like a determined elephant, our buggy trundles onward across a vast and lonely landscape.

All eyes except for mine scan the horizon for bears. As a photographer, mine are, for the moment, drawn to more simple pleasures; scrubby low willow, golden grasses, brilliant emerald colored moss, pale Reindeer lichen, burnt umber, ochre and orange lichens interspersed with bayberry in stunning shades of rose. I find this earthy palette of plants and striated glacial rock particularly beautiful.

Moving along we pass bonsai-like arrangements of stunted tamarack and black spruce. Each tree has a minimal flounced skirt of evergreen close to the ground, topped with a sparse flagpole trunk no higher than six feet. The skirt protects the vulnerable tree from winter snow, leaving the exposed trunk to battle the Arctic winds. These trees could be up to 300 years old; wind and weather ensuring that they never reach the height of their relatives in warmer southern climes.

All around us late migrating sandpipers and plovers skim across vast watery sloughs. Ptarmigan, not the brightest of birds we are told, scurry around in the willow scrub. Perfectly adapted for this environment, they have a heavy concentration of feathers just above the ankle.

We have arrived in October at just the right time. Any day now there could be a heavy snowfall and then the ptarmigan’s winter plumage will blend with the background making the birds almost invisible. Apart from the gigantic polar bears, there is abundant life here in the northern isolation of Manitoba. Arctic hare, arctic fox, snowshoe hare, wolves, moose, caribou and many other creatures roam the tundra in search of food in the coldest months.

The first sighting of a bear – probably about a mile distant – prods us into action. Windows crash down. Cameras are readied. One of our binocular-wielding companions assures us that it is a mother bear with a cub lying on her back. As more bear sightings occur – all much closer – we become blasé. In two days touring we will see in total 62 bears, one so close that I could feel its breath on my face.

I notice that many bears have scraped out ‘day beds’ in the dense spongy kelp on the Hudson Bay shoreline. Just a brief period of sparring where two bears play-fight in the process of toning their bodies and reflexes for a harsh life on the sea ice, causes them to overheat. Thus, on a bed of kelp they prostrate themselves, tummies close to the permafrost in an effort to keep cool.
Polar bears are curious creatures. Venturing closer they stand on their hind legs and stretch at full length against the buggy.

At the back of the buggy on the viewing platform, I have a nose-to-nose encounter with a massive male. Just feet apart, my camera trained on his face, I look into a pair of dangerously intelligent eyes. They are dark brown edged with a milky halo. He hisses softly as he watches me. As I look back at him through my lens I feel almost hypnotized. He is what Jarrett calls “a real pretty bear”, but the truth is that this huge, cuddly-looking animal with its gentle dog-like face could and would, given the opportunity, crush a human head with its powerful jaws in seconds.

A representative from Polar Bears International shows us exactly how, in a demonstration with Jerratt acting as polar bear lunch. Using a bear skull to illustrate the bear’s modus operandi, she opens the jaws fully, then clamps it over Jarrett’s head.

Moving on, we approach Polar Bear Point where one of the local touring companies operates the Tundra Buggy Lodge, comprising a row of trailers hitched together. Up to twenty wildlife enthusiasts and professional photographers occupy these rustic accommodations for what is likely to be an uninterrupted 24/7 photographic bonanza.

Polar Bear Point is directly en route for the bears as they make their way north across the tundra towards Churchill and the sea ice. Since the melting of the ice in July, the bears have spent the entire summer in groups of sometimes15 males wandering the coastline of Cape Churchill. Their diet has been minimal: berries, kelp and grasses. They have not had a taste of a seal for nearly three months and they are ravenous. We have been warned not to feed them.

After our lunch – steaming bean soup, turkey, tuna and egg salad sandwiches followed by Danish pastries served picnic style, we settle to bear-watch. Bears teasing each other, others rolling around on their backs in the patchy snow like fluffy blond Orangutans, the curious visiting with us at the tundra buggy, and in the distance traveling bears advancing slowly but steadily across rock and kelp.

Anxiety mounts as we catch sight of three large males stalking a mother bear with her two cubs. Like lions and crocodiles, these powerful carnivores have no sentimental feelings about their progeny. Their own cubs or others are fair game for a meal, especially when the pursuer hasn’t eaten for three months.

The only one who seems to care about the defenseless cubs is the mother. They could not ask for a more vigilant protector. She tolerates just so much from the pesky stalkers, then lashes out in a furious charge sending them all scurrying for safety. Although weighing a mere 550 pounds compared with males that can stand up to 10 feet tall and weigh up to 1500 pounds, the mothers will defend their cubs to the death, inflicting terrible damage on any male that ventures close enough to snatch one.

Thinking back on those incredible days on Canada’s Arctic tundra I couldn’t help fear for the future of these magnificent beasts.

The polar bear population has dwindled to around 25,000 and the alarm bell is tolling for their survival. Because of global warming, the sea ice is forming later each year. The bears are fasting up to three weeks longer. Spending less time on the ice means the bears are unable to hunt and build up the body reserves necessary for the summer months on land. There is a danger according to Lara Hansen, a scientist with the World Wildlife fund, “that bears could become so thin by 2012 they may no longer be able to reproduce.” Without a determined effort to control this mounting problem this could be the century that polar bears become a memory, a tragic loss for humanity.

My journey to the far northern climes of Canada to see polar bears was as fascinating to me as any journey I had ever made – to see lions in Africa, tigers in India, or kangaroos in Australia. I am reminded of G.K. Chesterton’s words:

The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one’s own country as a foreign land”.

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Anne Gordon is a freelance travel writer and photographer based in Canada. For more of her world travels, visit Anne’s blog

By Rob Ashford

British Columbia, the Klondike and Yukon territories can give a wonderful and awful feeling of isolation in winter. Long thin empty roads stretch endlessly into the distance. This place makes you feel vulnerable. On one memorable morning, in the early light, glowing in bright neon, was a sign outside the motel reading “minus 18 degrees C”. Looking around, it appeared through my sleepy vision that a cruel phantom had breathed a cloud of ice and snow throughout the landscape and I wondered to myself, “what the hell am I doing here!” At that time in my life, I had never before experienced such traumatic cold.

If ever a highway should be experienced, the Alcan is it. Built due to the threat of a Japanese invasion in 1942 by the US military, it runs for 1378 miles from Dawson Creek BC to Delta Junction AK. During the summer months, big rigs and heavy tourist traffic really churn the highway up, and road construction is constant. In winter, seeing the road is the issue.

Other than snowplows, semi-trailers and the occasional traveler or two, traffic was scarce. Remember this is not I-5 up the West Coast, this is the Alcan, the Klondike and Yukon territories, and cell phones rarely work here. Not including survival gear can, in certain situations, be very costly. Our arsenal consisted of flares, extra food and water, glacier goggles, blankets, shovels, a stove with fuel and matches, and The Milepost. This publication is invaluable and documents practically every town, motel, tourist activity, and sightseeing adventure along the northern routes in Canada and Alaska. What we did not have was a block heater. I was informed later that a block heater heats the engine in really cold weather to avoid it from freezing. Who would know? In the Yukon, we almost paid the price.

From BC onwards, parades of icy swirls snaked across the road surface as though alive, buffeting the vehicle from side to side constantly. The occasional headlight in the rearview mirror or taillight ahead delivered a degree of imagined security to us. On several occasions, when arriving in a small town, with knees crossed and expectations of a lonely gas station attendant waiting eagerly for our business, all we found was a “closed for the winter” sign, or a shut-down-forever appearance. It’s best to be practical in winter, especially in winter. If the gas station is open, fill up and get coffee, and do not pass up the opportunity of an indoor toilet. Trust me, trying to pee in wind chill of minus 25 degrees takes some serious dedication.

Visually the scenery throughout western Canada is stunning. Huge deep blue ice formations, thirty or so feet in height, streamed down rock faces at the roadside. Moose and caribou would stray onto the highway to lick salt from the road surface.  Christmas card landscapes dotted with small herds of caribou exploded like firework displays around seemingly mundane corners in the road. Occasionally the sun scorched a golden shimmer over an icy forest in the distance, giving the illusion of a giant footpath through a wheat field. It also offers jaw-crunching tortuous drives, down timelessly long steep slick and windy roads, past sharp corners and low barriers, overlooking steep drops with ice encrusted iron bridges over the River at the bottom. The motel manager in Fort St John informed us later that this hill was known locally as ‘Suicide Hill’ due to the number of vehicle crash fatalities on it. Although rare, this became a constant reminder of the hazards this trip presented.

One of the pleasures of driving in winter after a long day was the comforting sight of warm golden light streaming from the windows of our overnight home in the snow-lit darkness ahead. Toad River Lodge had this appeal. Outside, all was crisp and clear with a deep mesmerizing blue tint filtering through everything. The snow glisten like diamonds and the northern lights pulsed green overhead. The fish and chips weren’t bad either.

Just north of Toad River is Laird Hotsprings and if you do nothing else on your winter journey but stop here, it will not be a wasted trip: spectacular, magnificent and awesome. The springs are located about a quarter mile beyond the parking area along a thin walkway leading into a silent frozen forest. Steam rises through the ice-encrusted branches and the freezing air tries to strangle you. Changing rooms are basic and were covered in thick ice, as was the wooden deck. Clutching my shivering body as I plunged into the sulphury 108-degree water was indescribable. Hot pockets where the water reached up to 126 degrees can cause a burning pins-and-needles effect to erupt over the skin and makes you feel like you are being boiled alive. In summer, I am told the springs are very popular. In winter, the place was practically empty.

The Yukon is block-heater country. At Watson Lake, 33 degrees below greeted us. A week earlier it had been 42 below. It was the only time on our trip where the car had trouble starting the next day. Each breath of the freezing morning air would dry my throat and make me cough as if I had asthma. Try standing holding a metal gas pump nozzle in minus 35 degrees – even my hands changed color to a shade of orange blue and the tips of my fingers ached. Now this was cold.

A little further on from the Canada-Alaska border is Tok. For whatever reason, I liked Tok. Maybe because this was the first stopover in Alaska, maybe it was the food (very good pizza at Fast Eddy’s) or just a warm bed. Something about the place made the stay enjoyable. Tok was our final stop along the Alcan. From there we headed past the Wrangell mountains, the Matanuska glacier in the Chugach mountains and on, straight into the frost-heaved damaged roads of Anchorage.

Wandering down 4th street in Anchorage on the day of the dog sled races during the Fur Rondy, an annual Alaskan festival, I heard whispers of the latest earthquake, a 5.5. The excited frenzied eyes of the race dogs were hypnotic. People were wrapped in clothing that could have represented more than a century’s evolution in winter fabrics. Hats made from an entire wolf head to modern fleece, and brown leather outfits, which could have come from a sepia-toned gold rush photograph.

Traveling along the Alcan, through BC, the remote beauty of the Yukon and Klondike, and into Alaska has reawakened something within me that had for a time grown weary. The gold rush may be over, but a spell-binding fervor still permeates from the silent abandoned mines, within the rivers and mountains, offering us all a piece of the fabled pioneering spirit of adventure. A spirit that may be buried inside, but one for which we all still desperately yearn.

Find out more:
The Milepost The All North Travel Guide. Pub William S Morris III

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Robert Ashford is a freelance travel writer based in the United Kingdom. This is his first article published in The Traveler

Go to the main section of town. The centerpiece is the Market Square, with its indoor market: fresh produce, meats, souvenirs, etc. The market was particularly crowded because the cruise ship Serenade of the Sea was docked in the harbor. You could tell the cruise passengers. All of the women carried single red roses. From there travel the interior pedway through the Brunswick Square shopping mall to the visitor’s center, where you can get valuable information about walking tours of the city.

Walk out to Loyalist Plaza, where thousands of Colonial non-revolutionaries from the Middle Atlantic Colonies arrived only to live in tents and makeshift dwellings until better accommodations could be found. On the square is the Balfour Store, a general store from the 1800s brought intact from the country and then restocked as a general store. One of the items they had was “Surprise Soap”. In every eighth bar was a coin. This was a way for the youngsters to get to wash themselves. Women, however, used their hat pins poking at the soap to find the coin.

Walk along Prince William Street, once the hub of financial and governmental activity. You pass by the former home of Benedict Arnold. He was as well liked in St. John as he was in the Colonies. The townspeople burnt his home to the ground, because they did not like his arrogant attitude. Once a jerk, always a jerk.

Drive to Fort Howe and the reconstructed Blockhouse, which offers a beautiful view of St. John and the harbor.  A volunteer guide is usually there to answer your questions.

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John Pelley is a Geriatric Gypsy. He is retired from the rat race of working. He is a full-time RVer, who ran away from home. He began our travels on the East Coast and, like the migrating birds, seek the warmth of the seasons He has discovered volunteering with the National Park System. He has a CD he has recorded of Native American flute music., A Day with Kokopelli. For pictures, links, and more information visit http://www.jmpelley.org.

Article Source:http://www.articlesbase.com/destinations-articles/st-john-new-brunswick-home-of-the-reversing-waterfalls-956216.html

The predominate fur being traded was the beaver, which was used to make hats for the gentry in every major city in Europe.  The beaver had been eradicated in Europe, but were plentiful in North America, especially in Northern Canada.  The Northwest Company’s largest competitor was The Hudson Bay Company.   They had the original British Royal Charter for trading fur since 1670, but were only a quarter of the size of the Northwest Company.  The company averaged over 90,000 beaver pelts per year for over ten years.  Simon McTavish and his partners became extremely wealthy.

In 1804 McTavish died and his nephew, William McGillivray, became the Chief Director of the company.  The distribution center took on his personality.  Whereas the Grand Portage location under the leadership McTavish consisted of approximately 17 Spartan buildings, the Kaministiquia River location boasted 42 various buildings.  Some of the buildings are painted white. They even had a fire engine in case of a dreaded fire.  This was a showcase for the entire world to see.

The original site was near the mouth of the Kaministiquia River and Lake Superior.  That is not longer there and is a switching yard for Canadian National Railroad.  Today a reproduction of the depot sits two-miles up river from the original site.

Prepare to spend a day visiting the site.  Guides in period clothing will take you around to the different buildings.  They use first person interpretation and represent different characters that were there in 1815.  Six years later, the company would be destroyed by The Hudson Bay Company and would merge with them in a hostile takeover.

Fort William Historic Park is a living history site.  Tradesmen, such as carpenters, canoe builders, black and tinsmiths, bakers, coopers, tailors, gunsmiths, etc., demonstrate their skills.  Visitors are invited to participate in their work, using the period tools of their trades.

Outside the walls is a working farm with Percheron horses, cattle, oxen, sheep, chickens and other farm animals.  Also outside is a replica of an Ojibwe village with people to help the visitor understand the culture of the Ojibwe Nation.

Back inside the stockade are a doctor’s residence, operating room and apothecary. A sea captain’s house, and various living quarters for the partners, clerks and tradesmen.  Not to be missed is the trading post where the Natives would bring furs, wild rice, maple sugar, and other commodities to be traded for the European goods: metal products, textiles, and other conveniences.  Go into the fur building and be overwhelmed by the variety and vastness of their fur collection.  Finally on the places to see is the Great Hall or mess hall.   This sits as the focal point of the depot.  Here meals were served to the gentlemen and business was conducted for the company.

Visiting Historic Fort Williams is quite an eye-opening experience.  Very few American know about what happened in Canada when their country was just a youth.  The story of the Northwest Fur Company mirrors business even today.  Only the names, commodities and locations have changed.

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John Pelley is a Geriatric Gypsy. He is retired from the rat race of working. He is a full-time RVer, who ran away from home. He began our travels on the East Coast and, like the migrating birds, seek the warmth of the seasons He has discovered volunteering with the National Park System. He has a CD he has recorded of Native American flute music., A Day with Kokopelli. For pictures, links, and more information visit http://www.jmpelley.org.

Article Source:http://www.articlesbase.com/destinations-articles/historic-fort-williama-trip-back-in-time-933589.html

Image credet: istargazer, courtesy flickr