Yellowstone National Park - rotten eggs, life and death

The bison are not the only thing in Yellowstone National Park that smells bad. This park has the dubious distinction of having the worst pong of anywhere I’ve visited so far in the USA … including Las Vegas (where a strong whiff of sewage wafted up from major construction sites on the strip).

Yellowstone is famous for its hot springs and geysers. Naturally, I expected a certain amount of stink from these high quality tourist attractions, but the experience considerably exceeded my expectations. I was not prepared to be feeling quite so light-headed by the time I’d finished my lap of the hot springs boardwalk.

The park lulls you into a false sense of security. The historic north entrance gate doesn’t emit any unpleasant odour, but travellers fairly quickly reach the in-park town of Mammoth Hot Springs. It starts here and continues throughout the park. Signs warn that “Toxic gases exist in Yellowstone.” Trust me, we noticed.

“Dangerous levels of hydrogen sulphide, carbon dioxide, and carbon monoxide have been measured in some hydrothermal areas. If you feel sick, leave the location immediately.” No advice is offered on how to tell the difference between feeling sick because you’re being poisoned by toxic gas and feeling sick because the stink alone is turning your stomach.

At Mammoth Hot Springs, many helpful signs remind visitors not to stray from the wooden boardwalk because this “Thin crust area” is apparently “dynamic” and several people have been “scalded to death.” Doesn’t that sound like a nasty, nasty way to die? It’s possibly slightly less horrible than being scraped to death with a vegetable peeler, but not by much. Suitably terrified, I kept carefully to the centre of the boardwalk at all times, no matter how alluring the water looked.


It wasn’t easy. The hot springs are incredibly beautiful. The water almost glows with implausible colours. Some of the water is so blue that it makes that toilet cleaning stuff look natural. The spring steams gently and invitingly, despite the incredible heat of the day. I really wanted to touch it, regardless of the smell, and the looming possibility of a horrible death by scalding.


Some of the springs are hotter than others. This one boiled steadily and the steam tumbled in thick clouds right across the boardwalk. Intimidated by the possibility of a fatal steaming I considered turning back, but eventually managed to convince myself that if I walked briskly it should be no worse than a smelly sauna.

This plateau was a weird, crusty wetland of pools, creeks, short waterfalls and gleaming white travertine, the rock that forms the terraces of Mammoth Hot Springs. The colours in the water come from thermophiles, the heat-loving micro-organisms that thrive in the springs. Different colours indicate different temperatures, and are thus a guide to how quickly scalding would be fatal. Colourless and yellow thermophiles grow in the hottest water, like this.


Orange, brown and green thermophiles thrive in cooler waters.


As inhospitable as it smells, the water is clearly incredibly fertile and teems with life. Dense mats of bacteria form in some of the waterways. These simple organisms are reminders of the beginnings of life. A few cells, endlessly replicating themselves are such humble beginnings.


Because of the “dynamic” (and potentially deadly) active crust, these springs and the colonies they support can vanish quickly, or resume suddenly as small earthquakes redirect the flow of water and volcanic heat below the surface.


I remained suspicious of even the most benign seeming bodies of water. Yellowstone is the only National Park in which I never got my feet wet.

Yellowstone National Park - critters

So far, all of my National Park visits have involved at least one encounter with the local wildlife. Usually, as loyal readers will know, I pause to take photographs and, if the critters are particularly cute and furry, I’ll hang around in the hope that they’ll do something particularly blogworthy like begging for tips, or eating an oreo.

In Yellowstone National Park I broke with tradition and didn’t take any pictures of the bison or elk that were roaming around the road. Having only too recently experienced the Cream Puff's runaway animal magnetism, I wasn’t going to risk exposing its recent nose job to any possibility of contact with any animal that was in a higher weight class than the car.

Instead, I slowed to Bison Speed (approximately equivalent to Bambi Speed, which is almost, but not quite, as fast as I could push the car) and rode the adrenalin high. Actually, the chemical rush might have been caused by the smell of ripe bison that wafted in through the sun roof. These guys smell so bad that I later avoided getting too close to the tiny fluffy toy bison on sale in the souvenir store, just in case.

Ice Hockey - guys falling down

The ice hockey game was a rather informal affair. Basically, a bunch of guys chipped in to rent the ice and play pretend hockey as a prelude to the season. Most of the players knew each other from the local amateur league so, even without referees or much structure, there was an understanding that there would be no rough play.

I thought this all sounded rather jolly, but the players were quick to do some expectation management. What had initially been described as a hockey game (never match) was rapidly downgraded to "scrimmage" when I produced my camera. The promotional language reached rock bottom when one player decided that scrimmage was too good a word and described the planned activity as "guys falling down."

There was surprisingly little falling down, despite the rusty players and dull skates. Overall, I was impressed with the level of skill. It doesn't look easy, but it does look like fun.

Here is Ducati Kevin in full "guys falling down" kit. He told me at the soccer game that he only plays soccer for something to do during the summer while he's waiting for hockey to start. He obviously meant it. He really likes hockey.

Just look at that smile. He also turned out to be quite the amateur league star.

Here we see Ducati Kevin attempting to jam a puck through the goalie with a combination of bodyweight and sheer determination.

In this one, a member of the other team is forcibly pulling him away from the puck and the goalie. Kevin's a strong-willed little Robocop, but he couldn't quite get the puck over the line that time.

He got it in the next time. The photograph above is, unfortunately, an example of a particular type of happy snap that captures the moment fractionally after something interesting happens. A heartbeat before this picture was taken, Kevin scored and the goalie spectacularly failed to block. The photo, taken just milliseconds later, shows everyone kind of standing around afterwards.

I did get a few cool action shots, like this one of flying ice. Snow cone anyone?

This was a nice puck chase in the corner. The corners are fun because the puck ricochets so quickly around the edge of the rink, and because there's a fair chance one or both players will crash, deliberately or accidentally. I try not to pass judgement.

Ice hockey is a fast moving sport characterised by rapid changeover of players. They went back onto the bench maybe every 2 to 5 minutes in this friendly game. Ducati Kevin assures me that in professional games it is often even less. They skate very hard for a short period, then break to catch their breath. In between their bursts of activity, these hockey stars rested and drank beer from enormous cans called tallboys. Each tallboy is the size of two regular cans stacked on top of each other. I suppose an ice hockey arena is the perfect setting for this kind of thing. Even if it goes flat, the beer will still be cold.

The goalie didn't have an opportunity to rest except when he was lying on top of the puck. I thought on a few occasions that perhaps he laid there a little longer than was strictly necessary before releasing the puck back into play.

I almost became an unwitting part of the action myself at one point. I had been helpfully installed on a ladder from which I could take photographs over the barriers onto the action below. This is the ladder in question. You can see the barrier behind it. I remember having the fleeting thought that this precarious position might actually be dangerous, but I comforted myself with the knowledge that this was an amateur game. How hard and high could the puck stray?

As it turns out, it could stray plenty hard enough to hurt and high enough to take my head off my shoulders and my entire body off the ladder. As the rogue puck rushed towards me I swayed nimbly backwards out of its path, to the echoing sound of Ducati Kevin's hockey friends urgently saying "Ooooh."

Ducati Kevin was on the bench when it happened, but he told me later that his friends seemed fairly amazed when they told him that a puck nearly killed his friend.

It all ended well enough. The puck wound up lying non-threateningly near some garbage bins while my head lived to peer over barriers another day.

Thank you to Ducati Kevin and all his friends for making me feel so welcome, for providing such high quality entertainment and for not killing me. I'm grateful. Honestly.

Ice Hockey - getting dressed

Having been present for the purchase of an important piece of ice hockey armour, I was overjoyed with the opportunity to witness an ice hockey game. Like many Australians and other readers from nations where ice is found almost exclusively in drinks, I was entirely ignorant about the equipment used for playing ice hockey. For the edification of these readers, I present the following photographic essay on the subject.

Hockey equipment can be divided loosely into two categories. First there is the "safety equipment," which includes assorted types of armour and padding designed to prevent injury to the player. Then there is the "danger equipment," which includes assorted types of weapons like sticks and blades designed to cause injury to other players. There are some pieces of equipment, like the helmet, that can be considered to fit into both categories, because it can legitimately be used both to cause injury to others and to minimise injury to the self, frequently in the same maneuver (e.g. the headbutt).



Before donning his armour the Ice Hockey player looks deceptively petite. Note the simple T-shirt and bare feet. At this point the only protective gear is the newly acquired boxer/cup combo. Note the colour coordination of the grey T-shirt and shorts. Even though none of this will be visible when the rest of the equipment is added to the ensemble, the player demonstrates a commitment to harmony in all layers.



Step 1: Socks and Lower Leg Armour. This high-tech padding has a solid shell on the outside that, despite the articulation at the knee, still makes players move a little bit like Robocop.



Step 2: Serious Socks. These go on over the Robocop leg armour. Note the holes from previous friction between ice and armour shell. Socks without holes are apparently a little bit girly ... like walking past sewing machines.



Step 3: Padded Shorts. Exactly what they sound like. These are shorts with generous padding everywhere except the butt cheeks. I'm not sure why the buttocks are deemed not to require additional protection. I imagine that landing butt first on the ice is a fairly bracing experience. Perhaps bum padding is also a bit girly.



Step 4: Skates and Sticky Tape. The skates feature a specialised design of two distinct edges separated by a U-shaped groove. Twin edges apparently increase stability, as well as doubling the chances of cutting someone. The serious socks are each wrapped with two tight bands of sticky tape. Tape apparently helps to keep the lower leg armour in place. Ducati Kevin told me the horror story of the one time he skipped step 4 and ended up with a broken kneecap. Kids, if you're trying this at home, Step 4 is really important.



Step 5: Body Armour. This layer serves multiple purposes. It is "safety equipment" designed to offer the player some protection from the many potential impacts they may experience during any given game. It is also "danger equipment" used to ram other players, preferably into walls, ice, or still other players. Additional Robocop armour is fitted to the lower arm.



Step 6: Jersey and Beer. The jersey actually contributes very little to the functioning of the outfit except provide some further insulation, however it is immensely psychologically significant. The jersey covers up the armour layers below, creating an illusion that the player is much larger than he actually is. This is similar to the way cats puff out their fur to look bigger and more threatening to potential adversaries. Beer is technically not a part of Step 5, but a free floating step that should be added at multiple points throughout the pre, during and post game activities.



Step 7: Head Protection. This includes a mouth guard to protect any remaining teeth and a helmet to protect any remaining brains.

The player is now dressed and ready to hit the ice ... with any part of his anatomy. Once he has put on his enormous padded gloves and picked up his whacking stick he is ready to kick butt (the only unpadded part of his opponents' bodies).

Missoula - athletic cups, high fashion and green fields

Puff Lite and I rolled back into Missoula 6,000 miles and many adventures older and closer than we were when we rolled out. I patted her steering wheel in thanks, admired the layer of road grime and dead bugs that we had acquired together, then unloaded all my stuff and reloaded it into the restored Cream Puff.

A close inspection of the Cream Puff's new nose revealed no evidence of impact with Bambi, except that it was considerably cleaner than when I abandoned it in the custody of the dodgy tow truck company. All was apparently right with the world. I paid the bill. My credit card was not rejected. I walked out to the car. I did not fall off the curb and break my ankle. I climbed back behind the wheel, adjusted my seat and mirrors and drove off the repairer's lot. I did not immediately get T-boned by a semi-trailer. Everything seemed to be going just fine.

This positive outcome left me feeling slightly disoriented. I had allocated a three day weekend to the task of picking up the Cream Puff, just in case the saga of repair disasters picked up where it left off. With everything working out exactly according to plan, I now had three days with nothing to do except enjoy myself. What a strange situation!

Fortunately Team Missoula were standing by to ensure that I had a thoroughly marvellous time in their funky little city. Ducati Kevin, Soccer Stan and the Lovely Lucy saw to my entertainment and welfare 24 hours a day and then managed to look convincingly disappointed when I said goodbye. That is an impressive feat of hospitality and a lesson to us all, as was their seemingly inexhaustible ability to find blogworthy things to do.

In keeping with his habit of exposing me to new experiences, Ducati Kevin launched my cultural exploration by taking me with him to Bob's Hockey Shop to purchase a new athletic cup. No man has ever taken me shopping for groin protection before, and certainly never on the strength of such a short acquaintaince. I was slightly surprised by how businesslike the exchange was. The staff cheerfully discussed size and fit and the amount of padding around the rim of the cup at normal volume as if I wasn't even there. It was about as erotically charged as shopping for a toothbrush.

The shop is fascinating. It's set up in the tiny basement of a store that sells and services sewing machines and vacuum cleaners. It's an interesting commercial juxtaposition. Upstairs it's doilies and dust busters. Downstairs it's sticks and blades and groin protection packed in from floor to ceiling. Apparently the environment causes image problems for some members of Missoula's amateur hockey league. One of the guys working in the store told me that some players refuse to go in there because they don't want to walk past the sewing machines. "What kind of wusses are these guys?" He said it, but we were all thinking it. Occasionally one of these wusses manages to sneak in under cover of a vacuum cleaner repair, but otherwise they're forced to miss out on the gloriously hockified clutter of the basement hockey shop.

Ducati Kevin having acquired appropriate safety equipment for the upcoming hockey season, we ended up wandering around until we found a street party. The road was blocked off for stalls and pedestrians. It was the usual sort of thing. Food, beer, face painting and sundry local products on display. A highlight for me was the fashion show, featuring clothing from a local fashion house and the catwalk stylings of the retail crew and their families. The fact that the price tags were still dangling from the clothes was a particularly quaint touch.

Show your true colours with this divine Last Supper hoodie.

Turn heads on the slopes this season with our winter ensemble of colours that don't appear in nature.

For the real nature buff, get in touch with your wild side and stalk that buck in our sexy boxers and deerstalker range.

Having seen Missoula up close and personal, I leapt at the chance to see it from a distance when Ducati Kevin offered to take me, and his dog Max, for a hike up a Missoula mountain. The most prominent feature of the view was the only large green patch in lovely yellow brown Missoula: the golf course.

The Sundance Kid - Wyoming

Driving West again I entered Wyoming and made a brief detour to visit the Devils Tower National Monument, famous for its appearance in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. I didn't meet any benign aliens or experience anything even remotely creepy, but it was a pleasant visit.



The electrical storm stayed with me in spurts and I drove with the hiss of tyres on the wet road for company. Low clouds and mist gave the area a surreal appearance much in keeping with the UFO fixation of the movie featuring this mysterious geological formation. There are a number of competing theories about its origins that may perhaps never be resolved.



The site is definitely worth a visit, especially since it will give you an opportunity to pass by Sundance in Crook County, Wyoming. The town is named for the Sun Dance ceremony practiced by several North American Indian Nations, but is more famous for the jail that gave legendary gunslinger Harry Longabaugh his nickname: The Sundance Kid. I tried out a little swagger while I was walking around, but it just felt silly without a moustache and a gunbelt. If only I still had the props from my Wild (Mid)West photo shoot.

This drive back across Wyoming was also noteworthy for my first sighting of a real live prairie dog, and my first sighting of a real dead prairie dog. The prairie dog isn't actually anything like a dog, but a big burrowing rodent. They're pretty cute, but I still like squirrels better.

It was also in Wyoming that I perfected my Bambi avoidance technique for fast trips in deer crossing country at night, or at dawn or dusk. I call it the pilot fish method. As soon as the hour approaches I start scouting around for a suitable fish. This is the vehicle to which I will parasitically attach myself and use as a shield against deer. The best fish are large vehicles, like full-size trucks or SUVs that know the road well and drive as quickly, or almost as quickly, as I would want to without the threat of deer attack. With Puff Lite's superior handling, it's easy to follow them closely and feel much more relaxed than I do on Bambi high alert driving without a fish. I am so hypersensitised to the silhouette of a deer that I have been known to jump on the brakes because I glimpsed deer statues in people's front yards.

As a brief aside, I'd like to say to all the people who have those things in front of their houses: I hate you.

Mt Rushmore and Deadwood

It would be unacceptable to drive around the United States without visiting the famous Mt Rushmore, where the giant heads of four dead Presidents are carved into a mountainside. This granite pronouncement of monumental patriotism was definitely a must see attraction.

Before I go any further, I should make it clear that I am not good at nationalism. Not only am I not a good patriot, but I don't even understand the energy behind it. I like Australia and lots of things about it. I eat Vegemite and think rock wallabies are extremely cute. Yet for all that I like about my native land, I still find it hard to convince myself that my country is the best place in the universe simply because I was born there. There are other things about Australia that I don't get at all, like opals. It's probably treason to admit it, but opals just don't do it for me.

In addition to having a defective patriotism gene, I also have a chronic suspicion of those who do feel moved to extreme declarations of patriotic fervour. I have a lot of trouble keeping a straight face when people get sniffly while singing the national anthem or use their national flag as an article of clothing, except at international sporting events where such behaviour is quite proper.

Because of my peculiar prejudices, I am perhaps not representative of Mt Rushmore's target audience. The intended beneficiaries of Mt Rushmore's symbolic power are, of course, Americans, a people who are compelled to pledge allegiance to their flag before they can spell "allegiance," or even "flag." Americans also appear to practice ancestor worship of some past Presidents, an honour reserved in Australia for genuine cultural deities like Sir Donald Bradman.

Many Americans I have met here have internalised their concept of the nation to an extraordinary degree. The sense of self and the sense of the nation become fused, so that any critique of the nation or its symbols is experienced as a personal attack. Consider the oft repeated argument that it is unAmerican for Democrats to suggest that America should withdraw forces from Iraq. The accusation is that these filthy Democrats are 1) invested in America's defeat and 2) encouraging criticism of America, a sacred nation that is practically perfect in every way. To advocate stifling policy debate on the grounds that dissenting opinion is treason is curious in a nation supposedly committed to personal freedoms, including freedom of speech.

To all the deeply patriotic Americans who love their dead Presidents, their flag, their mother's apple pie, and their giant Presidential stone heads, I humbly suggest that you skip to the next post. You are more than welcome to attribute my attitude to exactly the kind of thing you'd expect from a foreign barbarian.

As you may have gathered, I was disappointed with Mt Rushmore. It's an impressive feat of engineering, certainly. It's very big. It's just a bit odd. We have the ability, at massive cost, to make mountains resemble men, and this is what we're doing with that power? The resources and effort that went into constructing this thing was far more monumental than the finished product appeared to me. Somehow the whole is less than its parts.

Of course, there has been a lot of controversy about Mt Rushmore and the land on which the sculpture was chiseled and blasted. Having been stolen from the traditional inhabitants in the traditional way, the land was then granted back to them as an act of token compensation, then snatched back again to mine gold and eventually, to build a few really, really big heads. Now, apparently, there is talk of building a similar (but even bigger) monument to an Indian chief.

There has also been controversy about the artist Gutzon Borglum, himself famous for having a really, really big head, on which he sometimes liked to wear a big pointy hat. There was also controversy about the choice of Presidents for the monument, which Borglum made himself to represent 150 years of American History according to his personal taste.

Perhaps some of my disappointment had to do with the weather. It was freezing cold and had been raining for much of the day, so the heads were all a bit soggy. Washington looked like someone had thrown egg on his face, and Jefferson appeared to have something unfortunate coming out of his nose.

I decided to sit around and eavesdrop on American tourists until the nightly "lighting ceremony" took place. Before they switched on the lights I was treated to half an hour or so of rousing marching band music being piped through the speakers. I happened to be talking to an American for part of this episode and he, much to my amusement, expressed some outrage that such frivolous "fairground" music was being played at such an important site. He went on to express his bitter disappointment that Mt Rushmore was not all he had imagined it to be: "I thought it would be more majestic." When I expressed amusement at the idea that sculpture demands somber music he explained his distress: "But they're carved into a mountain." I wondered how that was really very different from a bust on a mantelpiece. The conversation went back and forth for a while, but the gist seemed to be that "majesty" in patriotic symbols covaries directly with size. This guy was from Texas though, so I might need to expand my sample before attempting to generalise my findings.

Finally, almost an hour after the advertised time for the ceremony, by which time I was perilously close to freezing into a solid monument myself, they turned on the lights. I took a photograph and sprinted for the Cream Puff.

I drove to Deadwood where I was spending the night at a campground. It was dark when I rolled through town. Still, the only obvious signs of its lawless past were the large number of casinos, which are no longer illegal and signs pointing to the graves of Calamity Jane and Wild Bill Hickok. Since the only things I knew about either of these two characters was gleaned from the 1953 movie Calamity Jane, my excitement at seeing their names was entirely ridiculous.

In the morning, I made an early start to the unforgettable view of the sun rising in the Black Hills. The deep reds and browns in the soil, the bleached timber and fire blackened stumps of trees, all seemed strangely familiar. It was only later that I realised how Australian this palette of colours really was. As the orange sun pressed down onto the hills, I drove west, away from the dawn and into the heavy black cloud of an electrical storm. The air tingled and I rolled down the windows to be a part of it, despite the beginnings of rain. The land was wild, and beautiful and seemingly untouched. It was what Mt Rushmore must have been before it became a national monument. It was perfect.

Drive-by Touring in South Dakota

The sprint back towards Missoula to be reunited with the Cream Puff was considerably less leisurely than my trip east. There were many interesting attractions advertised by the side of the road that, had I been less pressed for time, I would certainly have stopped to see.

The Corn Palace in Mitchell, South Dakota was particularly tempting. I came very close to leaving the Interstate for the promised pleasure of distinctive "earchitcture." Honestly, the things I'll almost do for a corny pun. Once I'd had a look at the website I was really kicking myself. Not only do they have very enticing billboards, but the management of the Corn Palace are even good at promoting online. Check out the Corn Palace Webcam. I just can't believe I drove past this!

I also drove past 1880 town. This attraction features 30 carefully maintained buildings furnished with authentic relics, including some props used in the movie Dances with Wolves. Unlike the mysterious minarets of the Corn Palace, 1880 town is visible from the freeway. It is, like all such period towns, remarkably small. In the age of big cities it's easy to forget just how small a normal community once was.

The prize for the most billboards and other roadside promotions goes unquestionably to Wall Drug. Prompted by all this propaganda I even vaguely recalled seeing a bumper sticker in California that read "Where in the heck is Wall Drug?" The truth is that the bumper sticker was all I'd ever heard of Wall Drug, but that just shows how ignorant I am. The billboards assured me that Wall Drug has been extensively reviewed by such august critical authorities as Time Magazine and Goodmorning America. A later perusal of the Wikipedia entry clarified the situation. Wall Drug is a shopping complex including assorted Americana, a drug store, Dinosaur World, an art gallery, restaurant and a whole bunch of other stuff. This major tourist attraction is chiefly famous for its successful billboard promotions.

Having to rush right past these curiosities of South Dakota was a little annoying. Driving around the outside instead of through the middle of Badlands National Park just about brought tears to my eyes. It's still too painful to talk about. Just look at the photos at the bottom of the Wikipedia entry. Can you believe I gave this up so I could get to Mount Rushmore?

Mark Twain - Hannibal, Missouri

Hannibal, Missouri was the boyhood home of Samuel Clemens, better known as Mark Twain. Mr Twain was that most rare and delightful of creatures who is both a great writer and a great character. Like Oscar Wilde, another of the type, we remember him as much for the cool things he said and did as for the stories he wrote.

Hannibal was not only the setting for Mr Twain's boyhood, but also for two subsequent vicarious childhoods in his famous novels The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and the Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Hannibal has not forgotten this, and if you happened to pass through the town unawares it would be very difficult not to notice. There's the Mark Twain Boyhood Home and Museum, the Mark Twain Cave, Sawyers Creek Fun Park, the Mark Twain Family Restaurant (now proudly serving Starbucks coffee), the Mark Twain Lake, the Huckleberry Finn Diner, etc. Hannibal is a bit of a one trick pony. I'm glad I had an opportunity to visit before they change the name to Twaintown.

My favourite is the Hotel Mark Twain which, as far as I can tell, has nothing whatsoever to do with Mr Twain except that it happens to be in Hannibal.

There's even a Mark Twain Mississippi Riverboat.

There is a dinner cruise on the Riverboat that I was sorely tempted to take, in spite of the promise of live banjo music. Instead, I decided to see a stage show called Mark Twain Himself. It was the right choice.

Actor Richard Garey brings the great writer and wit back to life in a stage show that recreates the experience of one of Mark Twain's own lectures. Based on snippets from Mr Twain's books, letters and speeches, the performance is both charming and authentic. There is something of the real Mark Twain in the actor's performance, particularly in the humorous biographical stories. Richard Garey as Mark Twain tells of how he took up riding a bicycle (a pennyfarthing) comparatively late in life and was told by his friend and instructor that the hardest part of riding a bicycle is getting off it ... (pause for comic effect) ... "I did not find that to be the case."

This show was one of the highlights of my journey and I am immensely grateful to "himself" for patiently posing for photographs and autographing my book. Mine is almost certainly the only autographed 1957 edition of The Complete Short Stories of Mark Twain, particularly since the author died in 1910.

For the dedicated Twainophile, like me, Hannibal is well worth the visit. It is fascinating to visit the shared boyhood home of Mark Twain and Tom Sawyer and to see its famous whitewashed fence.

Right across the small street is the home of Becky Thatcher, the love of Tom Sawyer's young life.

Then there is the slow, calming presence of Mr Twain's beloved Mississippi River. This is the river he loved so much that he wanted to know all its secrets, to make his living as a river pilot for years, and to keep returning in fiction to the river he never really left. In a perfect Tom Sawyer touch, there was even a fish in the river when I looked down from the pier. If only I had a stick, line and hook!

I spent the night in a hotel that I will not name (it contains a Mark Twain reference, but that doesn't distinguish it in Hannibal). The occupants and neighbours were almost exclusively African American, perhaps descendants of Huck's friend Jim.

That got me thinking about the timeline. Slavery was abolished in Missouri on January 11, 1865, almost a year before the Thirteenth Amendment was enacted. My grandparents were born in the 1920s. Their grandparents were born in the 1870s. That means that the people at the hotel, most of whom are older than me, are maybe only 4 or 5 generations from slavery. Huckleberry Finn's moral angst about aiding a runaway slave was current affairs for Mark Twain, who was about my age when slavery was abolished. No wonder Mark Twain feels like a contemporary thinker despite his slightly antiquated language. It wasn't very long ago, in this place, that the great, great grandparents of the people next door would probably have been someone's property.

This is why controversy about whether young people should be allowed to read Huckleberry Finn, which contains naughty words like nigger, is preposterous. Everyone should read it as soon as they're old enough to count on their fingers the generations between then and now. That's the burden of modern history, which is all the more uncomfortable for being so close to living memory.

Sicko in South Bend, Indiana

I like Americans. I really do. Most of the people I have met here have been nothing short of delightful. However, there are some things that I don't like about America. Being here has made me more aware of some of my deeply held Australian values, like belief in a proper, taxpayer funded social welfare system. There are many problems with the Australian system and I have complained loudly about many of them over dinner with friends, but Australians still collectively believe in providing for the basic needs of all our citizens, including whatever health care they may require.

One of the things that amazes Australians about the United States is the absence of free universal health care. There are flaws in our system, certainly, but it is baffling to us that it is possible for a citizen to be denied much needed health care because they can’t afford to pay for it. Although I knew this was the case, it wasn’t until I saw Michael Moore’s documentary Sicko that I realised just how hideous the outcomes of such a system can be.

There is a scene in the documentary where a woman is shown being dumped out of a taxi outside a charitable refuge. She is plainly confused, staggering around in a daze, and dressed in a backless hospital gown. According to the management of the refuge, this happens quite often. People who are found to be unable to pay their hospital bills are summarily ejected from the building and dropped off outside a refuge, even if they’re still very sick or under the influence of strong painkillers.

It’s a powerful scene, but part of my mind had refused to accept it. After all, it’s a shockumentary, right? This is Michael Moore’s job and he’s good at it. He’s going to find the worst cases to make his point. Surely this isn’t actually something that happens routinely in a civilised country?

On my one night in Indiana I saw it first hand. I had decided, for sentimental reasons, to spend the night in South Bend, Indiana. It’s the home town of a dear friend of mine who now lives in Sydney and I thought it might be interesting to visit the place she left. After I’d had my up close and personal Sicko encounter I wanted to go straight back to Sydney myself.

I was driving through town looking for the place I was staying, when I noticed an African American man staggering down the street. He was wearing those hospital scrub-style clothes that are made out of blue paper and dragging a plastic bag behind him on the pavement. I pulled over in the next block and watched him for a minute or two.

If I hadn’t recently seen Sicko, I confess I probably would have written him off as a drunk or drugged indigent, despite the hospital garb. You see a lot of homeless people in cities in the USA, more than I’m used to. Still, a closer inspection seemed to undermine that assumption. The plastic bag he was dragging was partly torn and I could see his normal clothes spilling out. They seemed clean and fairly new, white trousers with a leather belt and a shirt with a collar. It didn’t seem like the attire of a homeless man. His shoes were also in good condition. I’m sure it’s not easy to keep your running shoes white when you live on the street. I’m not homeless and mine have gone an unfortunate sort of yellow-grey. I could see tape on his fingers and chest where monitors had been hastily removed.

I jumped out of the car and walked up to him, just as another man crossed the street with his children to get them away from the man in scrubs.

“Hey man,” I said. “Are you okay?”

He looked surprised, although his eyes were unfocused. “Fine. I just got out of the hospital. I’m walking home.”

“That’s tough man,” I said. “Walking home from the hospital. Can I call someone to come and pick you up or something?”

“I’m fine,” he said, although clearly not fine. He wobbled over to a park bench and sat down. “I’m just walking home. No insurance.”

I took a closer look at him. Clean fingernails, neatly trimmed. Clean hair, recently cut. Clean teeth. Maybe early 40s. This guy doesn’t just have a home, he has a job. “Are you sure there’s nobody I can call for you?”

“Nah,” he said. “I’m just walking home.”

“Okay. Good luck man.” I walked away feeling bad on many levels. I felt bad that such a situation could exist. I felt bad that I couldn’t help because I’m too chicken to let a stranger into my car, even one who can’t walk or see straight. I felt bad because nobody else seemed likely to help.

Just then, a police car passed on the street ahead. I took off at full sprint and chased it down at the traffic lights. I suspect the two cops were slightly freaked out by the arrival of a panting Australian at their car window. They only opened it the tiniest crack. Such suspicion, and I wasn’t even wearing hospital clothes.

I told them about the guy on the park bench and explained that I was worried about him. I asked the officers if they would see that he got home okay. They said this kind of thing happens once in a while and they’d check on him.

The sick feeling stayed with me for several days. Election propaganda has already started to fly in this country and, in general, the left wing is promising to reform health care, while the right wing is insisting that America already has the best health care system in the world. I heard a right wing radio announcer exclaiming that the health care system is obviously fantastic because a Canadian friend of the Clintons’ came to the USA for surgery, and what will happen to all the Canadians who want to flee their socialised medicine for proper care in the USA? To that insane announcer and all the others who share her view, I say that the quality of health care should not be measured by the best care that lots of money can buy, but by the quality of care that is available to everyone. There is some government supplied health care in this country for people who are on welfare, but there are also clearly some big gaps in that system. In a country where the minimum wage is not enough to live on, a person can work hard as a casual employee and still not be able to afford health care.

A civilisation should not be judged by the status of the powerful, but by the status of the weakest citizens. The strong will flourish anywhere, under any system. That rich people from other countries come here for top quality treatment they can afford to pay for while your own citizens suffer is not a national achievement that anyone should be proud of.

I have heard smart Americans, nice people that I like, tell me that universal health care would not work in this country, despite the fact that it seems to muddle along tolerably well in most of the rest of the rich white world (and parts of the poor world too). There seems to be a widespread view here that nationalised health care will somehow instantly result in substandard treatment. All the Canadians, Australians, New Zealanders, British and European nations with universal health care who are alive and fairly healthy today would seem to suggest an alternative interpretation.

Amish Country - Indiana

My knowledge about the Amish community was quite limited. I've seen Witness, but that's about the extent of my research. I was very curious to have a look around Amish Country in northern Indiana.

Amish families from Pennsylvania arrived in the area in the mid 1800s, attracted by the rich soil and small population. They still speak a dialect known as Pennsylvania Dutch, although they are taught American English as well. I spoke with an Amish woman outside a store and her accent was typical Midwestern. If not for the apron, bonnet and horse-drawn buggy she could have been any woman I met in the middle northern states. This intensely private community lives a simple, traditional lifestyle and rejects modern technologies such as cars, telephones and electricity in their homes. My National Geographic book informs me, however, that more than half of the Amish heads of households here work in factories.

My National Geographic guide book directed me to a route from Elkhart to Lagrange. It's only a short drive, just 28 miles (45 kilometres), but there is a lot to look at in that short distance. The changes are visible almost immediately. Outside the Forks County Line store there are hitching posts for buggies in the parking lot.

There is also a distinct slowing of the rate of traffic.

At one point I even saw a horse drawn semi trailer. Two double axle flat bed trailers were lashed together and being drawn by a single draft horse. These Amish horses are pretty tough.

The slower pace was welcome because it gave me more time to look out at the neat fields of corn, rye, hay and oats, and at horses grazing in green paddocks. The barns have gambrel roofs and trim and the houses have white frames, reminding me of the scene in Witness where the community gathers together to raise a barn.

The smallness of the distance and slowness of the pace are both connected with one of the key things I noticed about Amish Country. It's small. The farms are small, the towns are small. Unlike the huge rural landholdings common in Australia, where the nearest neighbours may be several hours away by car, these farmers can conveniently wave to their neighbours over the fence and chat while hanging out their washing. You could get the whole town together to raise a barn in fairly short order, on foot.

My first, literal, taste of Amish life was a traditional peach pie I bought at an Amish bakery. It was so good that I managed to eat more than half of it all by myself over the next 24 hours.

Just south of Shipshewana, an Amish market centre, I stopped by the Menno-Hof Amish-Mennonite Visitor's Centre. Although I learned a great deal about the history of the various types of Anabaptists, it was a somewhat depressing visit. It was a challenge to deal with the intense discomfort of the secular scientist surrounded by people who are talking about Biblical stories as historical fact. It is disquieting to come face to face with the fact that there are people who base their entire world view on the contents of one book and adjust or flatly reject all alternative evidence.

Like many religious stories, the story of the Anabaptists is weighted heavily towards misery, persecution and oppression. In the reproduction of a torture room (no, I'm not kidding) there are implements such as the Anabaptist Catcher below, and the tongue screw below that. The tour revels in the stories of good Anabaptists burned at the stake rather than renouncing their commitment to adult baptism and rejection of infant baptism. It was enough to make the peach pie sour in my mouth.

The horrors of the torture chamber were followed by the horrors of escape. We passed through a reproduction of a crowded and disease ridden ship that the Anabaptists took to escape to America. A recorded snippet from the story of one woman whose daughter died en route is played relentlessly as you pass through. The little girl dies telling her mother not to worry because they will soon both be free, the mother in the new country and the daughter in heaven (sniff, sniff, vomit).

Despite the oppressive doom and gloom there were some bright spots in the visit. There was a lot of talk about the charitable works done by modern Anabaptists, and even some glimpses of a sense of humour. John F Funk, a famous printer of bibles and doer of good works in his community drank several cups of coffee a day, despite the edict of his church that such stimulants are forbidden. When Funk was well into his 80s one of the devout young workers in his print shop came up and asked him if he didn't know that coffee was poison. Funk considered this for a moment and then replied, "Well, if it is, it must be a mighty slow one."

Do they still play the Blues in Chicago - Part 2

Yet another cool thing about Chicago is that it was the home of late singer, songwriter, musician, and Cubs fan Steve Goodman. He was not only a wonderful performer and composer, but also an interesting human being who left us too soon.

Steve Goodman was a card carrying member of the army of chronically disappointed but inexplicably devoted fans of the Chicago Cubs. During Goodman's, sadly short, lifetime (and at many other times) the Cubbies were almost terminally hopeless. He was so deeply affected by their pathos that he wrote one of my favourite humorous songs: 'A Dying Cubs Fan's Last Request.' You can listen to the song on his myspace page, but it would be far better to buy an album on his website.

In a posthumous twist that I'm sure would have amused Steve Goodman, the Cubs played their first post season game since 1945 only eleven days after his death.

I am totally ignorant about baseball, but I was on a Steve Goodman pilgrimage. Thus it was that I found myself visiting the home of the Chicago Cubs at 7am on a Tuesday morning.

This is the hallowed ground of Wrigley Field, a baseball stadium so famous it is well known even in non-baseballing Australia. What is it about this place that makes fans request that their ashes be scattered here, as some of Goodman's were? It looks, to my uninitiated eye, like any other sporting field, but there is some evidence that the fans take this one unusually seriously.

Look at these custom gateposts on the McDonalds across the road.

Check out the tribute pavers on the footpath outside the field. I can understand that every team has a few die hard followers, but this is ridiculous.

There are hundreds of them, possibly thousands. I walked over row upon row of tributes to a team that, let's face it, has never been very good at winning.

The stadium is surprisingly small considering the magnitude of its fame and the passion of its fans. Novel ways of adding seats have been found by building rooftop boxes on the buildings in surrounding streets.

The surrounding residential streets are affluent and leafy, and many wear their allegiance in banners from the front door. Here they are not flying American flags, but Cubs flags.

There was nobody around to ask about this strange phenomenon, so I simply accepted it as another mystery among the many of this strange land. I pressed my palm against the wall and sent a warm thought for Steve Goodman from Wrigley Field in Chicago out into the universe.