Going Gypsy

by David James

  ROCK CREEK LODGE, CLINTON, MT

  TESTICLE FESTIVAL

  WORLD FAMOUS FESTIVAL—COME HAVE A BALL

  Veronica and I have goaded each other into sampling new, interesting, or even downright weird foods since we met. It’s one of our things, and traveling really brings out the daredevil in us. Neither of us can abide backing down from a challenge.

  This attitude has led us to some interesting epicurean escapades including seeking the previously mentioned donkey to devour in Sardinia, sampling a guinea pig in Peru, and tasting silkworms in China. These experiences are always accompanied by laughter, camaraderie, and a deep immersion into a local lifestyle. It’s tough to beat.

  Now it was Montana’s turn to join the ranks of our questionable culinary challenges. Having spent most of my childhood summers in the Rocky Mountains, I had heard the lore of the alpine oyster, but never had the balls to try one. That was about to change. Veronica already had that I-dare-you grin spreading across her face.

  At the next exit, Clinton appeared to consist of one lonesome run-down building that was quite possibly abandoned. But in the wide-open spaces of Montana, a gathering of two or more people can qualify as a town.

  “Should we check it out?” I asked, knowing there was no way we were going to miss this.

  Without waiting for an answer, I took the exit. All of a sudden it felt like we were traveling through another dimension. A dimension not only of sight and sound, but of mind. A journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination, deep fryers, Idaho, and Canada. Wait, there’s a signpost up ahead, our next stop: The Testicle Zone!

  But as we pulled into the lot of the seemingly uninhabited building, another sign informed us that we had missed the notorious Testy Festy by a couple of weeks. Probably a good thing since, from the looks of the place, a biker New Year’s Eve party would’ve been tame by comparison. Even after a fortnight, evidence of the carnage was notably apparent. A dilapidated, falling-down stage, trash and beverage bottles strewn about, muddy ruts every which way, and a few banners clinging askew to the walls were a testament to the testicular bash.

  However, luck was on our side that day. The roadhouse was not vacant. There were inhabitants in the Rock Creek Lodge, and they did not need a special occasion to have a ball serving up Rocky Mountain oysters, a.k.a. cowboy caviar, prairie oysters, or Montana tendergroin. They are the special every day.

  I was pretty sure Veronica was only vaguely familiar with the concept of Rocky Mountain oysters, and might not fully grasp what we were about to consume, so I asked, “Do you know what we’re doing?”

  “I think I caught the drift from the signs and stuff.”

  She had seen several images of cartoon bulls with pained expressions, clutching their crotches where some glands used to be hanging around. Wait, is it possible to clutch with hooves?

  “And from the looks of them, I guess they’re using, um, you know, cows?”

  “Generally a bull would be necessary, honey, but I always thought they snipped sheep back in Colorado.”

  Just thinking about the procedure had started a process down in my nether regions that involved certain parts of my anatomy retracting like the landing gear on a jumbo jet. Then it hit me—Veronica knew what was happening. She was very aware that this particular gastronomic undertaking was going to be much harder on me than her.

  “Wipe that grin off your face—just for that, you have to go first.”

  We ordered at the bar, figuring several ice-cold malt beverages might be needed to wash down our snack, and were informed by the bartender that the Rock Creek Lodge testicles are indeed from unlucky bulls, are thinly sliced, breaded, spiced, deep-fried, and served with a zesty cocktail sauce.

  “Try not to think about it and just pop ’em down,” he advised.

  So we did. Contrary to what everyone always says, Rocky Mountain oysters do not taste anything like chicken—or oysters for that matter. Actually, all we could taste was highly spiced batter supersaturated in as much grease and cocktail sauce as it could hold. Just as well.

  We did our best, but there was no way we were finishing what was in that basket. I was greatly relieved when they were removed from our presence. Seeing my relief, Veronica upped the ante by asking the bartender for a peek at a precooked, presliced testicle. He burst out laughing. We weren’t the first to make this request, and he was more than happy to oblige.

  “Follow me.” He nodded, heading into the kitchen.

  Next thing I knew we were face-to-face with a frozen football-sized, vein-riddled monstrosity. When Veronica asked how it was primed for slicing, I knew I had to leave. As I headed for the bathroom, their discussion trailed off out of my hearing range.

  “. . . then it’s defrosted, and this skin here has to be peeled back. After that we can take a knife . . .”

  Trust me, talk like that can make a man jittery.

  Sampling local delicacies gives us another layer of understanding when exploring a new neck of the woods. It’s a great way to experience the idiosyncrasies of an area and its culture. These peculiarities usually have roots dating back centuries, and stem from rituals and mores that serve to define a people.

  Recipes and dishes get passed down for generations and reflect traditions that have become an integral part of the society. These often have stories that have been woven into the fabric of family celebrations, religious observances, and holiday gatherings, and help make a region stand out from the surrounding areas.

  The ingredients usually have a tale to tell too, whether from long-held practice or newfound availability, that provides a perspective into the history of a population.

  For example, Acadians didn’t eat crawfish before they were run out of Canada 250 years ago, but when they settled in south Louisiana and became known as Cajuns, the prevalence of the little mudbugs made them a staple.

  Sadly, a great deal of this diversity is being homogenized out of our modern lives. We live in a world where we are never very far from the nearest mass-produced, paper-wrapped hamburger, but all in all, I’d rather eat Sardinian ass. Just because something seems strange to us doesn’t mean it can’t be delicious.

  We certainly found that to be true of the bone marrow pudding with tongue in cheek marmalade we had in San Antonio, or fiery hot quahog beachside in Rhode Island, or turtle soup in New Orleans.

  What may strike a visitor as odd is perfectly normal to the locals, like those crawdads in Louisiana, poutine in Canada, or fatballs in Holland—Michigan, that is. Yes, we consumed something called a fatball.

  After we arrived in Generic Midwestern College Town, we took a little side trip to the town of Holland for their Tulip Time festival. Walking through the displays and vendors of the flower fest, we came upon a huge line at one of the food stands and had to check it out. What on earth could be so popular? The sign said it all:

  OLDE WORLD DELI FATBALLS

  What in the hell? We had to try one—after all, they’re both “Olde World” and “Deli.”

  Known by many names back in the old country, oliebollen, vet ballen, smoutebollen, or oliekoecken, these Dutch treats are grapefruit-sized globs of deep-fried dough (in this case sharing a deep fryer with corn dogs and french fries), split open, slathered with pie filling, and served in an oil-absorbing paper cone. Now that’s good eatin’.

  This is no light snack. They are closer in density to a dumbbell than a doughnut. Devouring a fatball can give the biceps, as well as some more central parts of the anatomy, a workout.

  Personally, I think they should be called fat bombs, because they lay like a land mine in the stomach. But as far as our experience of greasy gut explosive devices goes, the fatball falls well short of the ultimate weapon of mass (in)digestion.

  That distinction would have to go to the Triple D Burger at Joe’s Gizzard City. The Triple D is a huge patty of ground cow, topped with onions, pickles, tomatoes, and American cheese, dipped in batter and deep-fried, bun and all.

  If
that terrifying tower isn’t quite enough of a belly bunker buster, the fine chefs at Gizzard City will be happy to batter up and toss into boiling oil anything from appetizers like chicken gizzards, meatballs, pickles, or olives to desserts like cheesecake, Oreos, ice cream, or Twinkies. A MASH unit is on standby outside.

  Once we put Montana in our rearview mirror and ventured into the Pacific Northwest, the salmon were running upstream in their insane, unstoppable quest to spawn. The horniest teenager ever to have a hormone surge is but a timid prude compared to these naiant sex fiends. This fortunate timing meant that two of our favorite things could coalesce: seafood and festivals.

  In the Seattle suburb of Issaquah, thousands of cohos and chinooks were fighting their way up Issaquah Creek, desperate to return to the Washington State Fish Hatchery from whence they came. This fascinating annual phenomenon has spawned the beloved Salmon Fest. As fests go, this is a big one. For forty years, hundreds of thousands of people have come to celebrate the return of the salmon. Scores of artists hawking their wares, five stages with all-day music, and dozens of food vendors make for a good time for all.

  But in an odd quirk, almost none of the available vittles contained any salmon whatsoever. Where were all the salmon steaks, sandwiches, salads, and sushi? Not here. All we could find was one booth selling packaged smoked salmon and a couple of cubicles with questionable fried cakes.

  We were hoping for better luck at the Dungeness Crab & Seafood Festival in Port Angeles, on the northern coast of Washington. Nestled between the Olympic Mountains and the Strait of Juan de Fuca, scenic beauty and ginormous trees define this area. We felt confident that this was the place to be for any decapod-desiring seafood lover.

  Crab Fest turned out to be a bit of a pipsqueak compared to Salmon Fest, but what it lacked in size, it more than made up for in crustacean crackin’ tastiness. We even got the chance to catch our own grub, trying our hands at crabbing in the Grab-a-Crab Derby on the pier. For twelve dollars we were handed a little contraption with snares made from loops of fishing line, and pointed toward an oversized tank full of crabs. The promise that they’d cook up our catch was included in the bargain.

  If it had been left up to me, we would have starved. I couldn’t snag one of the claw-footed buggers to save my life, but Veronica snatched them out of the water like an old salt. She snared six of them, squealing with delight each time.

  After choosing the tastiest-looking two for the steamer, we released the others back into the wilds of the tank. Our fresh Dungeness dinner was served up with corn, coleslaw, music, and beer. What’s not to like? Plus, there’s nothing more satisfying than enjoying a meal you caught yourself. Or that your wife caught for you.

  25

  50 @ 50

  While we were in Washington, I couldn’t help but think about the major milestone waiting for me below the border. I did my best to conceal my giddy excitement, but I was more than ready to head south and mark off my fiftieth state, Oregon.

  This seemed like a pretty big achievement to me, so I set out to do a little investigating. Just how rare is it for a person to have set foot in all fifty states?

  According to the websites that came up when I searched “visit all fifty states,” many people would like to do it, and quite a few have succeeded. I found out that Richard Nixon was the first president to travel to all fifty states. Several since then, including our current commander in chief, have also accomplished the feat.

  Digging deeper, I discovered several stories about individuals trying to make it more challenging by introducing quirky twists. On a motorcycle, all in one year, while backpacking, or all by themselves. I personally would give huge laurels to the first person to do it alphabetically. Now that would be a feat. Just making the Alabama–Alaska–Arizona and Georgia–Hawaii–Idaho jumps without touching any states in between should seal a spot in the travel hall of fame.

  But the Internet in all its omnipotent glory could not seem to provide me with a credible figure as to how many people have actually managed to make it to every state. How extraordinary was I about to become?

  Asking the cyber swami, “What percentage of Americans have been to all 50 states?” produced a couple of answers, with absolutely no references, that I’m pretty sure were way off.

  One site said 37 percent—no way—another had 9 percent, which still seemed a little high and had no corroboration whatsoever. Yet another said 14 percent, but also claimed that Texas is the largest state in the union, making me more than a tad suspicious of its accuracy.

  I continued my investigation by attempting several variations of my inquiry. But try as I might, I simply could not find an exit off the information superhighway that had a definitive answer. Ten percent of Americans? I think not. Five? Maybe. One percent? More? Less? I don’t know, and the data didn’t seem to be available.

  It’s not often that the World Wide Web doesn’t have an answer, so I took that to mean it’s a fairly rare feat indeed. Makes a guy feel kinda special.

  Following Highway 101 down the coast—with the wiper blades clearing the spray of the Pacific Ocean surf off the windshield—we saw the Columbia River bridge, connecting Washington with the final star on my flag. The bridge is a massive structure of nearly four miles, spanning the broad waterway where Lewis and Clark completed their westward expedition. A fitting border crossing to usher in my stint as a Fifty Stater, I thought.

  Once we cleared the bridge, and rolled onto terra firma in Oregon, Veronica asked if I wanted to kiss the ground. I didn’t really feel compelled to pull a Pope’s arrival imitation, even though I was duly proud of my accomplishment.

  I had visited all fifty states. And it only took me fifty years. That’s right, my quest had been completed in the same year that I turned the calendar from my forty-ninth to my fiftieth year.

  With that goal realized, we turned our attention back to the original concept for our journey. Veronica had several segments of extended family down in Southern California, her childhood home, that we hadn’t seen in ages. We were on a mission to work our way down there in time to spend Thanksgiving with the lot of them. As an added bonus, the route we had chosen would take us through the Redwoods, Yosemite, and Big Sur.

  We had seen some pretty freakin’ big trees along the coasts of Washington and Oregon, but nothing like what we were seeing as we entered California. We knew we must be getting close to the Redwoods, but weren’t very sure where they officially started or where the best groves might be. We assumed (and everyone knows what happens when you do that) that the biggest and best redwoods would be in Redwoods National Park, a couple of hours’ drive to the south. Wrong. Because of their late entry into the save-the-redwoods movement, the National Park Service comes up short to several California State Parks in the preserving big, fat, tall trees department.

  One of the best of those state-run preserves is Jedediah Smith State Park, a place we fortuitously stumbled upon simply because it was getting late and we needed a place to park BAMF for the night. What a parking spot we found! We tucked our weary little rolling house between two towering trees with trunks the size of Donald Trump’s ego.

  In the morning we wandered through the forest in complete awe of some of nature’s largest and oldest living things. Pretty soon their phenomenal size had our perspective turned all askew, and we began to feel like we were in an alien world.

  It turns out that in a way we were. We were hiking through the area in which the Star Wars Return of the Jedi chase scene on the flying motorbike speeder thingies was filmed, and felt transported to the Forest Moon of the planet Endor, home to those adorable little teddy bear tough guys, the Ewoks. Pretty groovy, and a blast to talk about while gawking up at the surreal trees.

  Back on Earth, we drove and walked through stand after stand of the world’s most monumental trees and noticed two things happening to us. Our necks were killing us from constantly looking up while straining to see the tops of the behemoths, and we began to feel miniature.

>   So we felt like giants once we left the Redwoods and drove through forests of normal, everyday, run-of-the-mill big trees. But soon enough the ginormous mountain peaks and sheer cliffs of Yosemite had us feeling like pipsqueaks again.

  Like most of our generation, we first heard of Yosemite from Looney Tunes. On childhood Saturday mornings Yosemite Sam bellerin’ “Reach fer the sky, fragnabbit!” introduced us to the name, but he had nothing to do with the venerable National Park. Looney Tunes director Friz Freleng just liked the plumb Western sound of California’s premier park for his sourdough, loudmouthed, going-off-all-half-cocked, six-shootin’ little fella. A couple thousand Saturday mornings later, yer flea-bitten, GypsyNestin’ varmints finally met up with Sam’s namesake as we entered the park from the west, and the iconic valley spread out before us in a dazzling panorama.

  Ancient glaciers carved the Yosemite Valley nearly half a mile deep, leaving behind stark rock faces that climbers flock to for the ultimate challenge. There would be no cliff climbing for us though; we draw the fear conquering line well below two thousand feet of vertical granite. Instead we spent our day on the valley floor hiking and biking to waterfalls and magnificent vistas.

  We made it back to our campsite just in time to watch a full moon rise over the Half Dome mountain. Later, basking in the moonglow and campfire, we heard something stirring in the woods. What could it be? It was Halloween, so maybe ghosts? Goblins? Sam? It was certainly something that goes bump in the night.

  The lunar lumination revealed a large, black furry creature lumbering through the camps. Whatever it was it must have been hungry, because it nearly took out the tent on the next site over from us, then headed right past us and straight toward a large group enjoying a late dinner.

  Just when we were thinking best costume ever, the moonlight and trail of nostril-searing odor exuding from the beast opened our eyes. Great gallopin’ horny-toads! That ornery fur-bearin’ critter must be one of them thar bears we’d constantly been warned about throughout the park. Confound it, they’re genuine, and more than a bit scary in real life.