Midland and More in da Moonlight

Midland in da Moonlight: view of the Tridge at the confluence of the Chippewa and Tittabawassee Rivers

A week with Kimberly in her home state of Michigan — from Midland to Clare to Mt. Pleasant to Munising to Marquette to Whitefish Point — and what an enthralling trip it was for me. This entry is pretty much my own personal chronicle, but if you feel inclined to read on, then by all means, please do. I'm loading this sucker up with some photos (click on them to enlarge); be advised there may be scary folks among them. Proceed at your own risk.

Prior to leaving last week, Ms. B. prefaced our trip by showing me the 2001 Jeff Daniels movie, Escanaba in da Moonlight, which is about as authentic a filmic excursion one might experience into Michigan's upper peninsula (a.k.a. da UP, which is populated by Yoopers). On Friday, 9/26, we flew out of Raleigh/Durham bound for Flint, MI, and ultimately to Kimberly's hometown of Midland, which is located just about the middle of the mitten — known to Yoopers as the Land of the Trolls, since they live "under the (Mackinac) bridge." I've been to many places in the United States, especially during the 80s, when I had to travel all over the country for business, but I had never made it into Michigan before. For me, this trip was a first.

Midland is a beautiful, relatively small town, quite prosperous, the Dow chemical corporation being its primary employer. On their numerous visits to NC, Kimberly's folks, Del and Fern, had welcomed me into their family with open arms, and they were better than perfect hosts during our few days' stay with them. I'm pretty sure Fern would as soon die as see anyone in her home with an even slightly empty stomach, so there was good food aplenty, available most any time of day. That first evening, Kimberly drove me around Midland to visit some of her old stomping grounds, such as the local Center for the Arts, where she had performed in numerous shows, including The Rocky Horror Picture Show and The Pirates of Penzance. Much to my satisfaction, there was a geocache on the premises, so my moniker soon adorned its logsheet. In fact, Midland is a veritable goldmine for cachers, and over the course of our trip, between the upper and lower peninsulas, I managed to claim over 50; not too shabby for a trip for which geocaching wasn't really its primary purpose.

The next morning, we set out on Kimberly's parents' bicycles for a riding tour around the neighborhood, including the nearby Plymouth Park (caches). The fall foliage was just reaching its peak, and since Midland has largely and wisely decided to eschew the horrid clear-cutting of forests and planting of generic subdivisions that so dominate our area in NC, the settings for our ride were nothing short of stunning. Michigan is loaded with birches, ironwoods, and maples, interspersed with more blue spruce and hemlock than I've ever seen anywhere (hemlocks in the south have gone virtually extinct because of the Asian Woody Adelgid parasite). If you're not looking for too strenuous a workout, the terrain in Midland is perfect for bicycling — though that one grade near Chateau Brugger that reached an incline of about 0.005 degrees damn near did me in. One of the most entertaining things I discovered was that many of the squirrels that call Midland home are black. Solid, shiny black. I'd only once before ever seen a black squirrel, and I quite enjoyed watching them play in the Bruggers' backyard.

That evening, we visited Midland's attractive downtown area; had drinks at Cafe Zinc, a classy little establishment at the Hotel H; and took a nighttime stroll down to the Tridge, a three-span footbridge at the confluence of the Chippewa and Tittabawassee rivers (see the photo at the top of the page).

Ms. B. beneath a massive weeping willow at Dow Gardens

A spot of caching followed. Next day, we returned to the Tridge; hiked along the Chippewa; and visited Dow Gardens, an extensive and quite beautiful nature center with numerous trails, streams, and colorful trees. We then went up north of town a ways to visit Midland's city forest, another sizable preserve that's home to quite a number of caches. I claimed a handful of them. Afterward, we discovered a charming little bistro called Whine, whose selection of wine, cocktails, and tapas is varied and very appealing. We tried their tray of goat cheese, baked pita wedges, and olive tapenade, which sent both of us just about over the moon. One of their best drink features is a series of wine flights, each from a different country. They also make a pretty mean vodka martini. In fact, I discovered that most of the restaurants and bars in this good north state make fine non-frou-frou martinis, both gin and vodka, something I've found sorely lacking at too many places here in the south land. We paid Whine a couple of visits, and I do so look forward to returning on some future trip to the mitten.

Old dude marring the view at Dow Gardens

Hanging with The Family, near the Tridge

Monday, Kimberly and I hit the road and visited Clare, about a half-hour west of Midland, where she was born. A very small, rather quaint community with a few caches and a renowned bakery called Cops and Doughnuts, where — I shit you not — one can find some of the best doughnuts and baked goods anywhere in the free world. The shop has been in constant operation since 1896, though in more recent years, it was on the verge of going out of business. Rather than let that happen, members of the local police department bought the place, and it exploded in popularity. The place is not only big with the locals; I think a fair portion of the state's population was there at the same time we were. Indeed, you can find billboards advertising the shop just about anywhere you go in the Land the Trolls. From there, we hit Farwell, another tiny, quaint town where Kimberly's family has a lot of history. There, we visited her grandparents' graves in the old, historic cemetery (her grandmother died just a few years ago at the age of 100). Then it was back on the road to Mt. Pleasant, the home of Central Michigan University, where young Kimberly spent more years than is customary for the average human at an educational institution. Yes, there were caches, and there was also Samuel Mancino's Italian Eatery, which specializes in grinders, a type of sandwich similar to a sub or hoagie, but freaking huge, with delicious, toasted bread — very crispy on the outside, warm and soft on the inside. They're a northern thing, these sandwiches, very different from any I've ever found here in the south or even in Chicago, where I lived in the 1980s.

Come Tuesday, it was time to depart Midland and head for the UP. It's about a three-hour but very easy drive up I-75, and the foliage in the mostly rural part of the mitten was beyond brilliant. Caches, yes. Then we came to the Mackinac Bridge — at five miles long, the longest suspension bridge in the western hemisphere. Lengthy, very high bridges occasionally bring on a mild case of acrophobia, usually if they're very narrow, but the Mackinac didn't faze me at all, and it hardly seemed like a five-mile trip across the strait where Lake Michigan and Lake Huron come together. Once actually in the UP, on Highway 2 heading west, we stopped for a picnic lunch at a little overlook from which we had a gorgeous view of the bridge. A couple of hours later, we took a side trip up Lake Manistique Road, to an area that used to be a resort where Kimberly and her family vacationed regularly back in her checkered youth. It's now private property, the resort long-since closed. From there, though, we did get a nice view of one of the three scenic Manistique lakes.

Our final destination for the day was Munising, a little community on the UP's northern coast along Lake Superior. Munising, I swear to god, is Michigan's answer to Twin Peaks — a picturesque, forested area into which the little town is carved out, with a tiny business district; a paper mill; a handful of shops, restaurants, and motels; and some possibly eccentric if personable locals who were a joy to meet. Our lodgings were at the rustic little Terrace Motel, whose proprietor — a friendly, slightly garrulous fellow named Larry — gave us a most helpful introduction to Munising's landmarks and amenities. The nearby Falling Rock Cafe and Bookstore proved to be our go-to place for breakfast and coffee each morning. I can tell you their toasted English muffins and cinnamon rolls can't be beat. That first night, we went to Muldoon's for pasties (pronounced with a short a), a regular UP staple. They're baked pastries filled with beef or chicken, diced potatoes, rutabagas, carrots, and onions — kind of like pot pies to folks in other areas. Surprisingly, I preferred the chicken to the beef, as it had a more intense savory flavor. Over the next few days, we tried a couple of the other restaurants in town, which were decent enough: Sydney's, a seafood place with, of all things, an Australian theme, where I enjoyed the golden fried Lake Superior whitefish, another of the area's most notable specialties; and Dogpatch, whose Lil Abner theme was almost too overwhelming to take. Their burgers pretty well rocked, though. We ended our first evening by taking a late-night walk along Lake Superior near Sand Point, a few miles northeast of Munising. Well, we had to, didn't we? There was a cache out there.

"Yes!" to the Terrace Motel in Munising

Still life with wine at the Terrace Motel. Yes, it's art.

Glow-in-the-dark Damned Rodan and some driftwood along the Lake Superior shoreline near Sand Point

Waterfalls. That's what you'll find in the UP. Many, many waterfalls, some small, some gigantic, all spectacular in their way. Our most physically active day was Wednesday, when we undertook a six-plus-mile hike into the forest in the Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore. Here, we made our way out to Chapel Falls and Chapel Rock, the latter being a natural formation right along the Lake Superior shoreline, where a solitary pine tree grows on a tall pillar of rock, its roots stretching thirty feet to connect with the mainland. On the beach near the formation, we had another nice picnic lunch, then hiked back to the parking area. Straight away, we headed back toward Munising and a couple of nearby falls — MNA Memorial and Tannery Falls, which are tucked in the woods behind a residential area. Memorial Falls, in particular, was striking, in that the terrain forms a huge, circular gorge, into which the water streams from above. You're hiking down a gradual decline, only to suddenly reach a sheer drop of at least a hundred feet (I'm thinking that roaming around back here at night would be a bad idea). From there, a trail winds down the cliff face so you can actually go into the gorge beneath the falls. Directly adjacent to this is another, almost identical gorge, this one absent any flowing water. Nearby but up a very steep, rugged incline — at least on the route we took — you'll come upon Tannery Falls, similar in size and formation to its nearby neighbor. By the time we returned to the Terrace Motel, we were pretty well exhausted, and so we hit the sack relatively early.

Chapel Falls, seen from the trail in the Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore forest

Hemlock roots on the cliffside along the trail to Chapel Rock

Ms. B. at Chapel Rock with Lake Superior in the background

From our picnic area: Chapel Rock in the distance, the mouth of Chapel Creek in the foreground

A very small person in the gorge beneath MNA Memorial Falls

For our last full day in the UP, we went down to Laughing Whitefish Falls, southwest of Munising, which was one of the longest falls I've ever seen. At the top, the stream makes a spectacular plunge into space and then cascades several hundred feet down a long flight of steep, rocky stair steps. You're not allowed to climb out on the rocks, but it was about all I could do to keep Ms. B. from vaulting the fences and venturing up the cascade to provide a sense of scale for a photo op. Impetuous youth, I tell you. In the end, she broke no laws or any bones, but she did have to console herself by sharing a bottle of wine with me. There have been worse endings. But I jump ahead of myself. After the falls, we moved on to the town of Marquette, a relatively small community, though the largest town in the UP. It's one of Lake Superior's major ports, and along the lakefront there are both functioning and retired iron-ore docks, which are massive structures that extend far into the lake with chutes along each side for transfering ore into the holds of freighters. We enjoyed a decent lunch at a cozy little restaurant called The Vierling before making our way out to Presque Isle Park, a peninsula on the town's north end, and the Black Rocks, an expansive formation of volcanic rock, including some high cliffs, that extends far into the lake. Caches? Yes. We finished our day in Marquette with a visit to L'Attitude, a classy bistro with excellent drinks, service, and ambiance.

Laughing Whitefish Falls seen from the bottom. Alas, there's no Brugger in the picture
to provide a sense of scale. It's big. BIG.

Laughing Whitefish Falls seen from the top. It's a loooong way down.

Old iron ore dock in Marquette

Upper Tahquamenon Falls

Friday, unfortunately, was a day of nonstop frigid rain. I had picked up a little cold along the way, and I wasn't feeling top-notch, so we didn't spend much time exposed to the elements. We did, with the utmost sadness, check out of our home away from home in Munising and head toward Whitefish Point, some distance to the east, stopping along the way at the upper Tahquamenon Falls for some photos and a cache. Then we continued on to Whitefish Point and lunch at Brown Fisheries' Fish House, where they catch the Lake Superior whitefish in the morning and serve it to you for lunch. Oh, my lord, this is what fish is all about. While the whitefish at Sydney's in Munising was damned good, Brown's was phenomenal stuff, as flavorful and "non-fishy" as fish gets, with homemade tartar sauce, lemon, and malt vinegar. They don't skimp on the servings, either, so one really can't walk out of there wanting, barring some misguided personal volition.

Bell from the Edmund Fitzgerald, raised
from the wreck in 1995

My most sobering experience came at the Shipwreck Museum at Whitefish Point. It has on display myriads of artifacts from the literally hundreds of shipwrecks from the nearby Great Lakes, including the bell from the S.S. Edmund Fitzgerald, which went down in Lake Superior 15 miles north of Whitefish Point, November 10, 1975. Needless to say, the Gordon Lightfoot song went running nonstop through my head all day, but the museum's in-depth narrative of that event, along with so many others from the area, made a real emotional impact on me. The lighthouse at the point, built in 1861, still functions and remains a crucial beacon for ships in this frigid, storm-racked location. Over 200 ships lie at the bottom of the lake within just a few miles of Whitefish Point, dating back to the early 1800s.

At last, it was time to leave the UP and return to the Land of the Trolls — not that this was much of a source of pain for either Kimberly or I. We got back to Midland early in the evening and spent a last enjoyable night with Del and Fern, who I really hope do not end up catching my cold (it may be too late for Kimberly, alas). Then it was up bright and early on Saturday morning to catch our flight(s) back to the south land — Raleigh/Durham via Atlanta. A long layover and a slight delay leaving Atlanta made for a full, tiring day of travel, but eventually, we got back home to Greensboro. I have to thank my good friend Suzy Albanese for house-sitting and looking after the catses while dad was away — that was a major load off my mind while on the biggest trip away from home I've taken in many, many years. The welcoming committee was ferocious, enthusiastic, and relentless. I haven't had a moment in the last 18 hours without a cat on top of me. And today I even got the predawn good-morning-welcome-back urp to let me know how greatly I had been missed.

I'd hate to do it to the cats, but I do believe I'd return to Michigan for another extended stay at the drop of a hat. I'll be anxiously awaiting the opportunity.

Courting Disaster

There's been mighty little time for blogging these past few weeks, as I've been hustling and hustling to meet a couple of very tight deadlines. Done and done, so it's time to take a brief breather. Happily, the results of some of the more recent labors are beginning to manifest themselves. World War Cthulhu, featuring my story, "The Game Changers," is now in release. And just on the horizon, from Celaeno Press, In the Court of the Yellow King, featuring "Masque of the Queen," a tale I'm rather proud of. As of last night, I've just completed two new short tales — both on the longer side, actually, near 8,000 words — and submitted them to their respective editors. Tentacles and other appendages are all crossed.

On the home front, Droolie and his compadres, Chester and Frazier, have also been working overtime. I wish I'd had the presence of mind to take a photo or two this morning, but I was entirely too busy swearing a blue streak and cleaning the kitchen after a spectacular crockpot demolition. It certainly would have made a dynamic entry in the Designs by Droolie® line, and it has necessitated an altering of dinner plans. Fortunately, Ms. Brugger is quick on the draw when it comes to dinner arrangements.

An evening of wine and good company lies ahead, providing the cats haven't demolished the house when I get home this evening. Cash bets only, please.

Nothing Says "Boo" Like "Booe"!

"Booe!"

Saw it once, and I figured it might be a typo on a gravestone. Saw it twice, and I figured it was definitely deliberate. While out geocaching, Rob, Robbin, and I decided to visit the Joppa Cemetery, a little graveyard outside Mocksville, NC, whose most famous inhabitants are surely Daniel Boone's parents, Squire Boone and Sarah Jarman Morgan. A beautiful, serene setting; densely wooded; well-maintained for a relatively old graveyard. But the stones in question read Booe, not Boone. There was even a Daniel Booe. Apparently, the Booe family was fairly prominent in Davie County over a span of many years. The graves of Daniel Boone's parents, sure enough, were not far away, but happening upon the Booes was a little startling.

We did find the cache at the cemetery, then moved on to a portion of the relatively new, cache-rich Carolina Thread Trail, a few miles to the northwest. This trail is part of a regional series of trails and greenways that are intended to eventually link together, forming a network that will allow access to locations throughout central North Carolina. This ambitious project is well underway, with dozens of completed trails and many more currently in progress. Great stuff for hikers and cyclists — not to mention geocachers. We picked up 16 caches along a 2.2-mile length of trail along the South Yadkin River (Girl Scouts, Hornets' Nest Council Trail), and ended up running into several other geocachers, including our friends Christopher (Ranger Fox), Diana (half of David & Diana), and Phyllis (Liber) from the Piedmont Triad. A fine day of it, indeed.

Booe! Scared you, didn't I?

Coupla old farts: Robgso and Rtmlee, each with one foot in the grave

Mr. Lee wonders what's cooking with the dead folks

Long view of Joppa Cemetery

Big honking wasp nest on the sign at the Girl Scouts' Hornet's Nest Council trailhead

Rtmlee, Global Grandma, Pink Rabbit, Damned Rodan

A Random Godzilla Story

If you're an old monster movie buff like me, you might remember the daikaiju movie, Yog — Monster From Space (a.k.a. Space Amoeba) periodically showing up at drive-in theaters in the early 70s, usually on a double feature with Destroy All Monsters or Godzilla vs. the Smog Monster.

Sure enough, summer of 1971, Destroy All Monsters and Yog were coming to the local drive-in (the Castle, may it R.I.P., in Collinsville, VA), and while my parents didn't mind occasionally taking me and some friends to see monster movies, they inevitably ruled that the second feature came on too late for us to stay up. Well, I wanted to see Destroy All Monsters because it was a Godzilla movie; I knew nothing and cared nothing about Yog. Naturally, according to the published schedule, Yog was to be the first feature. So I called the drive-in, hoping to convince them to run Destroy All Monsters first. No way, they told me; the projector was set up to run Yog first, and that was that.

Well, young Mark is distressed. So for a couple of evenings, I called the drive-in relentlessly, disguising my voice, even getting my best friend Frank to call them, hoping to persuade them to run Destroy All Monsters first. Each call was answered with the inevitable "No way." Well, come the weekend, my Dad takes us out there, we stop at the ticket booth, ask which show comes on first, and we're told "Yog, Monster From Space." (The lady pronounced it like "Yoga.") So Dad says, "Sorry boys," and figures we'll want to leave. But no; we put on the pressure and get him to drive us on in, just to see if maybe the ticket lady had made a mistake. Well, since we didn't pay, the manager comes to pay us a visit, and Dad tells him, "We just figured we'd stay for a few minutes to see which movie came on first." The manager bends down and gives Frank and me a very hard stare. "You must be those youngsters who've been calling nonstop for the last two days." We admit that we are. The manager sighs and says, "Well, we've decided to run Destroy All Monsters first."

You could hear us whoopin' and hollerin' over in the next county (which was actually just a stone's throw away). So it was a wonderful night for monsters. But had I known Yog was a fun little Toho film, I would have been just as happy to see it, since I'd already seen Destroy All Monsters once before (this goes to show you the value of research first). But, as luck would have it, Yog showed up at the downtown movie theater a few months later, all by its lonesome, so I went and checked it out.

It was a blast then, and by gummy it still is.

Seven Souvenirs

"The Socializer" event in Reidsville — geocachers a-plenty!

What does a geocacher do on a long weekend? Go caching like there's no tomorrow, of course. Actually, most of last week I was hard at it on the geocaching trail, taking on several tough and/or otherwise invigorating hides, including a couple of mentally challenging puzzles (for some of us lacking mathematical prowess, "difficult" might be a more apt term), one way up in a great big tree, and a caching event held in Reidsville, hosted by 3Newsomes, a.k.a. Shannon. On Sunday, Robgso (a.k.a Rob) and I cleaned up in Mebane, and, yesterday, Suntigres (a.k.a. Bridget) and Rtmlee (a.k.a. Robbin) made short work of a geoart series called Final Approach, the geoart being the shape of an airplane formed by cache icons on the geocaching.com map.

It may be a stretch to call them "perks" from Geocaching.com, but parent company Groundspeak awards virtual tokens, called souvenirs, to geocachers for various accomplishments in the field. For example, last August, you received a souvenir for each day of the month you went caching, and if you logged finds on all 31 days, you received a special "31 Days of Geocaching" souvenir. This year, during the month of August, you received a souvenir for logging the various types of geocaches — i.e., an "Explorer" souvenir for finding a traditional cache, a "Sightseer" souvenir for find a multi-stage cache, a "Nature-Lover" souvenir for attending a cache-in, trash-out event or finding an Earthcache, and so forth and so on. If you logged all six specified types over the course of the month, you received a special "Seven Souvenirs of August" souvenir. Yes, I managed to accomplish this perhaps not-so-astounding feat, but hey, it made for a fun little personal geocaching goal. Kimberly says it does enhance my status as a geek, so I guess I'll just go with that.

But, apart from caching, what's a long weekend without a couple of hot dates with Ms. B. and some wine to go with it? No worries! On Saturday, Kimberly and I joined up with our friends Terry and Beth Nelson to visit a few wineries out in the Yadkin Valley. The weather was hot, muggy, and downright uncomfortable, but since there was wine involved — some of it quite good indeed — we forced ourselves to make the best of it. On Sunday, after the geocaching event, several of us went to The Celtic Fringe, a superb little pub in Reidsville. And for afters, Peter Jackson's Bad Taste was on the menu, and it's really bad, but in the best possible way.

On top of it all, I managed to finish up my most recent work of short fiction, titled "Red Rage," so it's ready to go off to the editor of the anthology who requested it. So now it's back to the grind, and boy, there's some serious grinding going on.

Be sweet!

A rough gang at Raffaldini Vineyards

Throw them into the cooler! The women chillin' at Raffaldini.

Wicked Weddings, Pants-Down Races, and More

Detail from the awful mob scene pictured below

Over a decade ago, at a singularly infamous, unnameable Necon event in Bristol, Rhode Island, our good friend, the well-known hack writer Elizabeth Massie, stumbled over this particularly fascinating, very sad, and very mean artist named Cortney Skinner. The two of them caught each other's interest and apparently wound up rolling through a darkened duct tape factory because it wasn't long before they had become quite inseparable. Before anyone understood what was actually happening, this nefarious pair was cohabitating, living in sin, doing devilish deeds by day and by night. Based on their frequent, frightening appearances together in public, whispers began to circulate that the two of them had murdered each other in their sleep. Then, back in June, all these years of abominable abnormality culminated, when the perverted pair, in full silly hat regalia, tied the marital knot — in the common vernacular, up and got hitched.

Finally, unable to limit the practicing of their devilish whims to only themselves, the despicable duo decided to throw a big-ass bash to showcase their disgusting deviance, even inviting people they actually knew and disrespected — including the lovely Ms. B. and me. Unable to overcome our fascination with public perversion, we accepted. So, just this weekend, yesterday through today, we found ourselves subjected to a degree of depravity that, until now, we never could have guessed existed on this planet.

It started out innocently enough. Kimberly and I visited the beautiful Barren Ridge winery just outside of Waynesboro, enjoyed some wine, grabbed a few geocaches, and then — admittedly with some trepidation — headed over to the hellish homestead. There were reunions with old friends, such as Jeff Osier; his wife, Cathy Van Patten; and her brother, John, with whom I had attended college a few years back. But these fair moments were not to last, for then the games began. Hideous, horrendous games, based on torture and humiliation. Things like "Pants-Down Races," in which even Ms. Massie's own daughter participated. To my shock, Kimberly was drawn into the evil circle, and I could only watch in despair as she, and numerous other inductees into this Satanic coven, raced around a blazing fire, pants down, tripping and falling and screaming and wailing. Never was there a more apt time for Jesus to appear and set things right. But he didn't, and so the heathens frollicked on.

Brugger was forced to walk the plank.

Next up, there were songs. And they drew me into it — me! Before I knew it, we were in a songwriting/singing competition, in which we had to compose canticles actually commemorating this demon pair's unholy union. I found myself singing along on a tune called "Bugle Whoo!" right smack in front of the couple, who looked down upon us from their camping chairs on high, nodding their heads in approval. And Lord, if that didn't sting. Except that... in a weird way... I almost enjoyed it!

Somehow, sometime later, Kimberly and I managed to escape. I'll never forget the sounds of agonized screaming, which — fortunately — receded quickly as we made our way into the night, seeking the nearest geocache with my trusty GPS.

The story would have ended there, except that, to our chagrin, we also accepted an invitation to breakfast with a select few of the coven, including the married couple. I should describe the beastly behavior during this smaller but no less traumatic event, but I doubt that repeating it would do my sanity — or yours — any favors. Suffice it to say that I am home now, writing this little missive, and constantly looking over my shoulder.

Should something happen to me, at least you know the truth.

A perfectly pastoral scene at Barren Ridge Vineyards, offering no hint of the trauma soon to follow.

Ms. B. and ye old writer, drinking away our cares before we even realized we had any.

Let the games begin. Grand marshall Cortney instructs participants in the rules of "Pants-Down Races."

Many celebrants, including this corrupt conquistador, crowded into the house to escape a brief rainstorm.

Hapless subjects serenade the vicious vizier and his bride, who look on with approval

After the party: Destined to walk the land of the dead.

Confusion on the Bigfoot Trail

Several years ago, geocaching took me out to what I call the Bigfoot Trail — a scenic and secluded hiking trail through the marshes along Long Branch, a few miles north of Greensboro (see "Return to Bigfoot Country," "Bigfoot's Libary," "The Great Blue Heron Nursery"). When I came upon the trail for the first time, it was undeveloped — not much more than a deer path through the woods, and human beings, other than the occasional geocacher, were happily never present. More recently, this extensive area of land has been made into the Richardson-Taylor Nature Preserve, and the old Bigfoot trail has been extended by a couple of miles and augmented by a bike trail that roughly parallels and occasionally intersects it. The preserve encompasses one of the most primitive, undeveloped areas in Guilford County, and since it is one of Greensboro's vital watershed areas, I am glad it has been acquired by an organization that will preserve it rather than rape it. All too nearby, acres upon acres of pristine woodland have recently been clear-cut to make way for yet more hellishly ugly, overpriced, cookie-cutter houses in poorly planned subdivisions that are steadily destroying the very resources that allow Greensboro to maintain adequate water supplies. The dreaded urban sprawl, don't you know. I hate it beyond words.

For now, while the trail is still unfinished, there is plenty of nature to be seen out there with virtually no sign of human intrusion. Near the trailhead, there are the remains of several old tobacco barns, for this area along Plainfield Road, which runs east-west near Greensboro's northernmost city limits, was not all that long ago completely rural, the forests broken only by a few farms and tobacco fields. The geocaching is good out here, and I was lucky to have been able to experience this unspoiled area before the inevitable influx of less environmentally conscious hordes. Today's hike was after a new, well-conceived multistage cache that required solving a novel field puzzle that involved dynamos and circuit boards (GC5B09K; "The Box of Confusion — I Wonder"). Mr. Rob "Robgso" Isenhour and I put in a nice three-mile hike and were able to log geocaching smileys after solving the puzzle and finding the final stage.

Yeah, Bigfoot is still out there, and I hear he's kind of pissed that the trail is now called the Bill Craft Trail, which may be fitting enough, but for crying out loud, how could any sensible soul not call it "The Bigfoot Trail"? Well, whatever its official name, to some of us, it's always going to be the Bigfoot Trail, and that will be that.

Old Rodan and old tobacco barn near the trailhead

They have these newfangled bridges out on the trail now. Not back in the good ol' days; you just got your feet wet.

World War Cthulhu Has Begun

I know you've seen and heard me carrying on about it for some time, but today is the day: the official launch of World War Cthulhu from Dark Regions. Of course I gotta shout about it, I just gotta, because I have a story in it — "The Game Changers," a Vietnam-era tale about Really Bad Things in the jungles of southeast Asia. Plus there are plenty great Lovecraftian war stories, ranging in time frames from the fall of Troy to the distant future, by Neil Baker, David Conyers, Tim Curran, Ed Erdelac, Cody Goodfellow, Ted Grau, C. J. Henderson, David Kernot, William Meikle, Christine Morgan, Edward Morris, Konstantin Paradias, Robert M. Price, W. H. Pugmire, Peter Rawlik, John Shirley, Darryl Schweitzer, Jeffrey Thomas, and Lee Zumpe. I just delved into it and read the first story, "Loyalty," by John Shirley. Fine stuff, it is!

But wait, there's more! You can get World War Cthulhu just about any way you want it — as an e-book, in trade paperback or hardback, with autographs by contributors or buck naked. Cover art is by Vincent Chong, and M. Wayne Miller contributes 22 full-color interior illustrations. The one reproduced here is to my story. Beauteous, no?

Here's the official description from Dark Regions: "The world is at war against things that slink and gibber in the darkness, and titans that stride from world to world, sewing madness and death. War has existed in one form or another since the dawn of human civilization, and before then, Elder terrors battled it out across this planet and this known universe in ways unimaginable.

"It has always been a losing battle for our side since time began. Incidents like the Innsmouth raid, chronicled by H.P. Lovecraft, mere blips of victory against an insurmountable foe. Still we fight, against these incredible odds, in an unending nightmare, we fight, and why? For victory, for land, for a political ideal? No, mankind fights for survival.

"Our authors have gathered here to share war stories from the eternal struggle against the darkness. This book chronicles these desperate battles from across the ages, including Roman Britain, The American Civil War, World War II, The Vietnam Conflict, and even the far future."

For everything you could want to know about World War Cthulhu, including ordering info for all available editions, visit Dark Regions Press.

In the Black at Binding Time

The disreputable contingent: ye old scary dude
with author/moviemaker James Wayland

Binding Time Café and Bookstore's 2014 Book Festival opened at 10:00 this morning to a fairly small crowd, but over the next couple of hours, business picked up with a steady flow of patrons coming and going, most leaving with a new book or several in hand. The majority of the authors in attendance brought works of local, regional, and general literary interest, but local writer and moviemaker James Wayland, author of Trailer Park Vampires and Dirty Southside Jam — not to mention writer/producer/director of the recent indie movie, Never Look Back Again — and I made for a shuddersome, thoroughly disreputable horror contingent. My table was set up next to Dr. Mary Helen Hensley, who has written a series of autobiographical volumes known as The Promised Trilogy (Promised, Circles of Light, and The Land Beyond the River), which details her near-death experience after a car accident in the 1991 as well as a children's book titled The Chakra Fairies. Her late father, Dick Hensley, was principal of Martinsville High School as well as head football coach when I was a student there (not quite a full half century ago). A few years back, Mary Helen published a little volume of her father's memorable sayings and wisdom, which range from entertaining to profound.

For a small town that fell into economic depression twenty-some years ago and has suffered seriously ever since, Martinsville, VA, does manage to retain an inviting, eclectic culture that has attracted and kept lots of creative individuals and small businesses reminiscent of its richer days in decades past. Binding Time proprietors John and Bonnie Hale do a bang-up job putting together these regular book festivals — and any time I attend such an event and leave in the black, then it's been a pretty good day. Like today.

Read, eat, drink, and be merry.

Authors and book dealers, start your engines!

Dr. Mary Helen Hensley, author of The Promised trilogy, The Chakra Fairies, and others.

Author Michael Howlett, channeling Mark Twain, with Binding Time proprietor John Hale

Binding Time's 2014 Book Festival

Ye author at Binding Time's 2013
spring book festival

For the past few years, I've been a regular at the Martinsville, VA, book festivals sponsored by Binding Time Café & Bookstore, and this year's festival takes place this weekend — Saturday, August 16, from 10:00 AM to 2:00 PM. I will have copies of The Monarchs, Blue Devil Island, Other Gods, The Gaki, Song of Cthulhu, and others available for purchase, and I'll be more than happy to devalue them with an autograph. See if I won't. I will also have a handful of CDs of the Dark Shadows audio dramas that I wrote for Big Finish Productions, which feature several members of the classic ABC-TV series, including David Selby, Lara Parker, Nancy Barrett, and Marie Wallace.

Binding Time is a great little cafe that features a decent selection of books for sale, many by local/regional authors. The shop started out as a bookstore that offered a nice little selection of food and drink items, but over time, the dining side of the business grew until it became more a café with a selection of books offered as a bonus. Still, owners John and Bonnie Hale are very much devoted to the literary side of things and go all out to promote working writers. About twenty authors are scheduled to participate on Saturday; you can find a complete roster here.

Binding Time is located at 1115 Spruce St., Martinsville, VA 24112 — in the Druid Hills Shopping Center, which is very easily accessible from all points around town. Please do stop in, check out some of my most pleasant works of endless, raging, grueling horror, and have a really good sandwich and a coffee or espresso, or perhaps another satisfying beverage.

Eat, drink, read, and be merry.

The Killer Cicadas Bash

The ultimate showdown between humans and giant, man-eating, killer cicadas took place last night at the Rives Theater in Martinsville, VA. The house was packed with folks eager to catch the latest from the delinquent Smith Brothers, Mat and Myron, whose previous effort, Young Blood: Evil Intentions, has just been novelized courtesy of ye old author dude. Earlier in the day, a strange-looking, upright cicada-type entity was reportedly seen around town advertising the movie. Ms. Kimberly, who has a small part as a mad professor's mistress, and I, who play the mad professor, arrived in town a couple of hours prior to showtime and had a very fine dinner at Rania's Restaurant in uptown Martinsville. When we got to the theater — which is where I saw the majority of my most beloved monster movies as a young'un — it was already just about filled up. Shortly, Mat and Myron were giving the audience a little introduction on what we were about to see, and then we were treated to a classic Betty Boop cartoon — which was, appropriately, all about a bunch of ornery bugs.

Invasion of the Killer Cicadas then rolled. It's a very short film — just under an hour long — and is all about the cheese. It's a genuinely funny comedy, with blatantly hokey special effects, lots of great quips from the characters, a wee bit of graphic gore, and some killer original music by The Directive, Smokey Miles, J.D. Hades and the Exterminators, Hyberborean Slumber, and others. The fun was infectious, and everyone in the audience looked to be having two and a half hoots. Ms. Kimberly and I certainly were.

After the show, most of the cast devalued lots of movie posters with our autographs, and then we headed over to Hugo's Bar & Grill for a few drinks and fun company. Quite the red carpet affair, this premiere!

Like Young Blood before it, Invasion of the Killer Cicadas will no doubt be making the rounds at other venues and eventually see release on DVD. Me, I can't wait. If your community is fortunate enough to be attacked by killer cicadas, I strongly recommend you don't miss them. Shoot first, question later.

Click here to watch the Jamie Walker Show about the movie from WYAT TV, which I participated in last week.

Meww Gomez and John Robert Price, stars of Invasion of the Killer Cicadas (photo by Rita Smith)

Writers, producers, directors, and Do-It-All Boys, Mat and Myron Smith (photo by Rita Smith)

After-party at Hugo's, featuring cast members Sarah Smith and Jenny Holmes

No mad scientist is complete without a beautiful mistress — even if she's looking a little blurry on camera.

The Directive: Invasion of the Killer Cicadas!

Hey, hey... The Killer Cicadas song by The Directive features Professor Doctor Werner Von Schwartztotten's maniacal monologue at the beginning. How awesome is that?

The Cicadas Invade... This Weekend!

Here they come! This Saturday night, August 9, at 7:00 PM, at the Rives Theater in Uptown Martinsville, VA. Invasion of the Killer Cicadas, made by brothers Mat & Myron Smith, and featuring ye old dude playing wacky mad scientist Professor Doctor Werner Von Schwartztotten. If you've not gotten tickets yet, they may be available at the door, but the show is likely to sell out. Guaranteed to be great fun....

In the same but different department, I've completed the novelization of the Smith Brothers' first movie, Young Blood: Evil Intentions and turned it in for approval. There will likely be some revisions before it's all said and done, but it's been a dynamite, mighty fun project.

And the show goes on.

Killer Cicadas Take the Airwaves

Thursday, July 31, at 5:30 PM, Mat and Myron Smith, along with special guests — including ye old man — from their movie, Invasion of the Killer Cicadas, will be airing on The Jamie Walker Show on Martinsville, VA's WYAT TV-40. People outside of the Martinsville area can now watch the show on YouTube.

The show will feature interviews, photos, video clips, and more from Invasion of the Killer Cicadas. The movie premieres at the Rives Theater in Martinsville on August 9 at 7:00 PM. Note: in southwestern VA, you can watch WYAT TV-40 on Channel 99 on Comcast Cable.