travel – might be baloney

Paris 9/4/26: Still good people in the world

October 22, 2026October 22, 2026 Bill PikeLeave a comment

With the travel across the Atlantic Ocean, my internal clock is a mess, but I did sleep soundly on Thursday evening.

Yet, on the morning of Friday, September 4, we were again up early. We had breakfast at the hotel, regrouped, and headed for the Metro station.

We had tickets for entering the Louvre at 9 a.m. From there, Jardine des Tuileries, followed by Musee de I’Orangeria.

Our arrival at the Louvre had no hiccups.

The museum is massive. The tourist count for entering the building is massive. The art work is as advertised.

Yes, I saw all the famous stuff—Mona Lisa, the arm less statue of Venus de Milo, and on and on and on.
Idiot that I am, at 9:34 a.m. I was captured by some magnificent ceiling art. I can only begin to imagine what it must have been like for those artists and craftsmen who created this wonder.

A few minutes later, I was drawn to The Entombment of Christ by Titian. This is an emotional painting. The faces and eyes of those in the presence of the fallen Christ show their anguish.

The Entombment of Christ by Titian (Photo Bill Pike)

Yes, I admired the artwork throughout the museum. Yet for some reason, I continued to be drawn and impressed by the building itself. I would not want to be responsible for its upkeep. No matter where my eyes and feet take me, I continue to find architectural fetes.

The Jardine des Tuileries was a nice contrast to The Louvre. These gardens date back to 1564 and the Tuileries Palace. Their creation is linked to Catherine de Medici.

Clearly, this space is embraced by Parisians and tourist for its beauty and openness.

Additionally, your eyes can’t miss the La Vasque, the Cauldron, from the 2024 Olympic Games held in Paris.

At the Musee de I’Orangeria, there are multiple painting by a diverse group of French artists. However, there is no doubt that the most stunning work in the museum comes from murals by Claude Monet.

One of Monet’s Water Lilly panels (Photo Bill Pike)

Clearly, I was drawn to the size of these wall covering murals. The murals are appropriately named Water Lillies. As you might expect from Monet, the work is stunning. Tourists spend lots of time dreaming and staring into the beauty captured in the eight pieces.

Working through the museum, I came across the quote from Apollinaire in 1913: “Painting…… a remarkable art whose light is boundless.”

Apollinaire’s fitting quote (Photo Bill Pike)

Just in our brief two-day blitz through some of the most famous museums in the world, Apollinaire’s quote rings true. How the artist treat the impact of light is the heart and soul of their work. Their real time capturing of light in the paintings is remarkable.

With time moving quickly, we need to depart Musee de I’Orangeria, and work our way to the closest Metro station.

Once again, our fearless brain trust led us to the Metro. We entered without hassle, patiently waited for our train, boarded when it arrived, and rapidly departed.

Tourists that we were, Butch, Dan, and I at different times had physical encounters with the quick closing Metro doors. We weren’t left hanging by our pinkies outside the train as it sped off, but we each felt the abrupt jolt of being pummeled by those doors—so much for being gentlemen.

But this afternoon, we were not jolted by fast closing doors. No the jolt was to be different.

Several stops into the route, the Metro train came to a startling stop. The interior of the car where we were seated went quiet. The lights inside the train went out for a few seconds.

We were bewildered.

In less than a minute, we learned that an un-attended package had been spotted. Not sure if that was on our train or a platform nearby, but this train wasn’t going any further until that un-attended package was solved.

We were directed to exit the train. Our brain trust did its best to head us in the right direction to catch a different train that would drop us near our hotel.

Fortunately for us, a very observant Parisian, who spoke English, stopped to help us. Dan explained our challenge, stated our destination, and in under three minutes, this kindhearted soul had us heading to the train we needed to board.

That encounter was the first of many cordial and helpful interactions we had with the people of France.

Back at the hotel, we had a bit of quiet time before our next excursion.

We would be leaving at seven to attend a French Cabaret dinner and show.

Once again, our Grand Circle guide, Matt, was at his best.

Like clockwork, we were chauffeured to the venue. For this evening, our tables were directly in front of the stage. Scrunched tight in our seats, like vacuum packed blocks of cheese, there was no way that our aging eyes were going to miss any part of the show.

We were nicely wined and dined. Additionally, we started to learn a little bit about our fellow passengers who were crunched around the tables with us. We would all be boarding the ship on Saturday morning.

Our show was named Paradis Latin. From start to finish the script, the choreography, the music, the athletic skills of the dancers, and the humor keep us attentive.

Ad for our cabaret show (Photo Bill Pike)

For sure, bare breasts and a bit of naughtiness were woven into the performance. If that was your sole purpose for attending, my guess is you left satisfied.

But the cabaret is so much more.

I could only begin to imagine the amount of practice that it takes to put the show together. To me the performance seemed flawless.

But each performer, whether a dancer, vocal soloist, a singular cello player, or master/mistress of ceremony were skilled with an unbelievable sense of timing.

Backstage, the coordination of costume changes, the lighting, and the thoughtful preparation it takes to support all kinds visual effects is impressive.

And all of this comes together night after night.

At the conclusion, the audience expressed its appreciation to the performers with heartfelt applause. No matter their role, each was an integral part of the success of Paradis Latin.

After the show, our drivers returned safely back to the hotel, but we soon realized we had another challenge.

Grand Circle personnel had consistently warned us to be vigilant about pick pockets. While hoping that he hadn’t fallen prey to a pick pocket, Butch noted that his wallet was missing. He wondered if it had fallen out inside the van we rode, or if it had fallen out during the show.

Either way, our guide, Matt, made the proper contacts with the drivers and the management at the theater. Miraculously, the next day, Matt was notified that the wallet had been found at the theater, and turned into management.

Matt coordinated the return of the wallet to Butch, and when checked by Butch all of the contents of the wallet were present. Another example that there are still good people in this world.

Paris, nine miles

October 9, 2026 Bill Pike2 Comments

Thursday, September 3, 2026, we walked nine miles on our first full day in Paris.

Yes, we had some weary moments, but we saw a lot in those nine miles.

To walk nine miles, a group needs a good navigator. In this case, Dan was our lead, with reliable assistance from Betsy and Butch.

We made it from the metro station by our hotel to the metro station that dropped us near the Eiffel Tower.

The famous tower is as advertised.

I like the grounds around the tower. Lots of room, simply landscaped, and our team’s pre-planning made accessing the tower seamless.

Eiffel Tower personnel were good at managing people and ensuring that we made it up the tower safely and with ample time to move around and explore.

The tower is impressive. The structure of connecting all that metal framing together from top to bottom is quite a sight.

However, I love the views from the top. No matter the direction I look, I see a pretty city.

Paris from the Eiffel Tower (Photo Bill Pike)

From the tower, we took in one of the spectacular bridges in Paris—Pont de Birhakiem. This a two-level steel bridge. The building of this bridge began in 1903. The bridge is just as beautiful today as when it was completed in 1905. And yes, the Seine River is magical as it weaves its way through the city.

A section of the bridge (Photo Bill Pike)

We worked our way to the Arc de Triomphe. Dating back to 1806, the Arc carries lots of French history.

A piece of its history that resonated with me is the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. An eternal flame is used to honor unidentified French soldiers who died in World War I.

With lunch time arriving, we had a short wait for an outside table at the Cafe de Paris. My French onion soup was delicious.

From the restaurant, we explored and walked the famous boulevard, the Champs-Elysees.

Our next stop was Petit Palais. This art museum was constructed as one of the showcases for the 1900 Universal Exhibition. The exterior design of the museum is stunning.

Many beautiful paintings are displayed in the museum. One of my favorites is a painting by Léon Lhermitte. This painting is of an open air market. Several sources noted the work of Lhermitte captured “working class people with dignity.”

Painting by Leon Lhermitte (Photo Bill Pike)

Since Petit Palais is located on Avenue Winston-Churchill, it is appropriate that a magnificent statue of Churchill is on the front grounds of the museum. The sculptor clearly captured Mr. Churchill’s features and demeanor. At the base of the statue are these words: “We shall never surrender.” Thank the good Lord they didn’t.

Another bridge awaited our exploration—Pont Alexandre III. Again, the bridge has an exceptional design and presence on the Seine. Without question, my eyes were drawn to the four gilt bronze statues of Fames. These statues keep a close eye on the bridge and all of its users.

One of the statues at the bridge (Photo Bill Pike)

Parched and needing a restroom break, we found another nice cafe. Sitting outside, I was able to order and enjoy an original French beer from the Pelforth Brewery. Dating back to 1921, the label on the bottle still showcases a pelican. Sadly, Pelforth is now owned by Heineken.

Refreshed, we gathered ourselves for our final stop of the day—Musee d’Orsay.

Musee d’Orsay is another massive art museum. The museum’s location is on the Left Bank of the Seine in a building that was originally a railway station.

The converted railway station (Photo Bill Pike)

No matter where you walk— up, down, left, right, your are going to enjoy a wide range of artwork.

I loved the Monet painting of turkeys, and the Degas painting The Parade which features horses warming up before a race.

But since I once had a summer job working in the hardwood floor business run by my Aunt Mildred and her husband, Garland, I was drawn to a painting by Gustave Caillebotte named The Floor Scrapers. The workers in the painting are removing by hand the existing finish on the floor.

Gustave Caillebotte painting (Photo Bill Pike)

We had allotted ourselves an ample amount of time to explore the museum. That also included a designated spot to meet by a certain time.

With the hustle of the day and jet lag starting to hover over us, we all made it to our meeting spot on time.

The last challenge of the day was making our way to a metro station that would bring us within easy walking distance of our hotel. Luckily, our brain trust was able to guide us to the proper location to make that happen.

Back at the hotel, collapsing in our rooms sounded like a good idea, but we managed to take a short walk in the neighborhood to Cafe Eugene. This comfy place had been recommended by our guide, and he directed us to a good place.

Even though it was near the end of the evening, our waiter was energetic with a good balance of humor and patience with some drained Americans.

We ordered our drinks. Then a bowl of olives arrived. The olives were delicious. We couldn’t stop reaching for them.

My Grimbergen beer, originally from Belgium, also hit the spot.

Summer was still hovering over Paris, and while it might have seemed out of place at a French restaurant, Betsy and I ordered bowls of gazpacho.

The freshness of the summer vegetables was in every spoonful. Quite simply, the gazpacho was delicious. It was just what we needed to cap off a glorious day of exploring Paris.

We made the walk back to our hotel.

In the lobby, we agreed on our Friday morning meeting and departure time, and then we collapsed in our rooms.

October: snakeskin, deer, fish belly yellow

October 7, 2026 Bill Pike2 Comments

On Thursday, October 1, I was determined to work on the grounds of our church.

My friends, the weeds had been quite busy when I was away.

A small border, at the base of a wooden fence that hides two big air conditioning chillers looked shabby. This area is across from the playground used by our Preschool. That shabbiness needed to go away. It sees lots of foot traffic.

Some weeds were intruding beyond the fence line.

I grabbed a few hand tools and the weedeater. I started my attack.

I made good progress. Eventually, I needed to enter the area where the chillers live.

I unlocked the padlock. Once inside, I noted that weeds were trying to take hold in any open concrete seam.

Against one wall, we have a long, heavy duty extension ladder. This ladder is used to access the Trinity Hall roof. The roof is home to two more large pieces of HVAC equipment.

To be able to remove the troublesome weeds behind the ladder, I needed to lift it up and move it away from the wall.

When I lifted up the ladder, I saw a snakeskin. I was thankful that the snake was long gone. I would have died if the snake was still present.

I thought that the Preschool students and teachers might like to see the snakeskin. So, I draped it across the top of a boxwood shrub.

Yes, there was some interest. But the main thing I heard from the teachers was this question— where did you find it? They were relieved when I told them not on the playground.

The thing that amazed me with the snakeskin is I could see where the snake’s eye had been.

On the morning of Saturday, October 3, we were in Summerfield, North Carolina. I was returning from putting gas into our car.

As I was driving back into the neighborhood where our daughter and her family reside, a couple of deer passed in front of my car.

Further down the hill, I paused in front of a house. On the front lawn, looking calm and unassuming were six deer. I rolled down my window and took a picture.

One deer continued to munch on the lawn. A couple kept their eyes on me. The others stared into the distance. It was if they were saying— ok, old guy, hurry up and take your pictures, we are late for our second course of breakfast in another yard.

Once back at the house, I shared the deer photo. Our two grandchildren, Caroline and Hudson, couldn’t believe that there were six deer in one yard. That might be a neighborhood record.

After breakfast, our grandson asked if we could go fishing. My answer was yes.

Hudson presented his fishing rod to me. A new hook needed to be tied on to the line. Inside his tackle box, he found a hook. We worked to tie it on the end of the line.

Next we added a couple of on-line weights, and re-positioned the bright colored bobber(indicator).

Then we grabbed a shovel and an empty Gatorade bottle from the recycling bin and started digging for earthworms. Being that it was Saturday morning, the earthworms were sleeping late. It took us several minutes before we found a few.

With gray skies and rain in the forecast, we found our rain coats, changed our shoes, and started the walk to the neighborhood lake.

As we made the final turn toward the lake, we could hear the yakking of ducks. Sure enough, there was a small gathering along the bank closest to the road. They were collectively marching in a disorderly single file.

Our grandson, Hudson, is a lefty. When his timing is correct, his cast is a sight to behold. The line streams out in a natural arch with the baited hook, weights, and bobber gently land on the lake’s surface.

He had a couple of early hits, but the fish twisted off the hook. After a few minutes, Hudson relocated toward the center of the lake. That turned out to be a wise move.

Within minutes, he caught three fish in a row. A fourth fish, a fighter, managed to free the hook in the shallows of the shoreline.

With our last worm gone and our time limit up, we walked back to the house.

On the way back, we talked about catching three in a row, a record for Hudson. We both comment about the yellow coloring along the belly of one of the fish.

I wonder if Crayola or Sherwin Williams could replicate Mother Nature’s work? Maybe they could name the color fish belly yellow.

Try as they might, there is nothing like the touch and colors of Mother Nature.

I could see this touch in the intricacies of the snake skin, the human sensory systems of the deer and their seasonal tan coats, and of course, the yellow in that fish.

On the evening of Wednesday, September 30, my wife and I attended the 39th annual Weinstein-Rosenthal Forum at the University of Richmond. The forum is grounded in “faith, ethics, and a global society.”

The keynote speaker this year was Dr. Francis Collins. Dr. Collins is a physician-geneticist. He led the Human Genome Project. Additionally, Dr. Collins was the Director of the National Institutes of Health.

For forty-five non-stop minutes, Dr. Collins talked about his life, education, career, and science. Then, he took presubmitted questions from University of Richmond students.

Raised in Staunton, Virginia, Dr. Collins attributed his affection for science to a tenth grade chemistry teacher.

While I’m not going to be able to quote Dr. Collins directly from his comments, he did reference taking the time to pay attention to the beauty of the nature around us. I agree. All around us nature is present.

To tell you the truth, October is my favorite month. I love nature’s presence in October.

I think the sky is more blue.

The air seems fresher.

Tree leaves shift from summer green into a palette of autumn colors.

I’m not into the commercial trapping of Halloween. I’m drawn to the vivid richness in the colors of pumpkins and gourds on the steps and front porches throughout our neighborhood.

Had he not been tragically shot and murdered in December 1980, John Lennon would turn 86 on October 9.

I love the Beatles’ song, “And Your Bird Can Sing.” This is a Lennon driven song.

The repetitive guitar riff is memorable. Subtle handclaps are buried in the mix. The drums and bass frame a steady drive from start to finish, and on key verses there is the unmistakable harmony of John and Paul.

A lot is packed into this two minutes and one second burst of toe tapping energy.

Yet, I’m drawn to this line in the lyrics: “When your prized possessions start to weigh you down, look in my direction, I’ll be around, I’ll be around.”

My guess is that we all have many prized possessions.

Here’s my question to me, and you—do those prized possessions ever weigh us down?

Do they keep you, me, we, us from really seeing life and nature?

When is the last time that you, me, we, us slowed down and took the time to really see the intricate beauty of nature?

Dr. Collins is 76. He shared with the audience that he is undergoing radiation treatments for prostrate cancer.

Dr. Collins understands the speed of life.

Time zooms by me everyday.

I need to slow that zooming of time.

I think slowing that zooming of time is impossible.

However, in that zooming, we need to find those moments because nature has more for us to see.

Those prized possessions can weigh me down, and I see less of what surrounds me.

With every day I have left on this earth, I shouldn’t be weighed down admiring my prized possessions.

How about you?

Nature, take the time.

Not Paris, Texas, nor London, Kentucky

September 29, 2026 Bill PikeLeave a comment

I am not a good traveler.

My wife, the Commander Supreme, can confirm this for you.

She knows that if it wasn’t for her, I couldn’t travel.

I’d never make it on to the plane.

This trip was not about Paris, Texas, or London, Kentucky.

No, this trip was about Paris, France, a cruise down the Seine River, Normandy, and London, England.

I recall the exact moment when this trip was pitched, discussed, and booked.

In October 2025, we were in Greensboro for our 50th college reunion. We were invited to breakfast at the home of my college roommate and his wife, Butch and Marian Sherrill. Our friends, Dan and Judy Callow were there too.

After breakfast, the ambush occurred. The trip was pitched. I thought wait a second, a few months ago we all returned from our trip to Alaska. Now, my pals are pitching another trip. Where is the economic recovery from that trip in your thinking?

Things started moving faster than a Frenchman swallowing a snail.

Next thing I knew, a call to Grand Circle was taking place.

Next thing I knew, we were signed up for this trip.

My wife and our cherished friends were all smiles—mission accomplished.
The morale of this story— be wary of a simple breakfast invitation with beloved friends.

From September 1 thru September 19, we were in constant motion. I find that you endure that constant movement because of your traveling partners.

In our case that meant the Callows and Sherrills. I don’t know how or why, but in our mental makeups, there is a tolerance, a patience, a give and take, humor, and wisdom that gets us through these journeys. Even in nerve plucking moments, our hearts guide.

For this trip, we worked with Grand Circle. The Callows and Sherrills have traveled multiple times with this company. This was our first trip with Grand Circle.

In my limited travel experiences with cruise lines, it all boils down to their personnel. Do they have the right people working behind the scenes, and do they have the right people in public? Fortunately for us on this trip, Grand Circle did.

For this trip, I selfishly had three goals—make it to Normandy and the D-Day beaches, the Churchill War Room, and the famous crosswalk where the cover for the Beatles’ album Abbey Road was photographed.

Thanks to my wife and our pals that mission was accomplished.

Trips like this don’t happen without brains better than mine doing lots of planning.

On Thursday, June 25, the Sherrills drove from Greensboro to Richmond. They spent the night with us. On Friday morning we drove to Maryland where the Callows live.

Outside of Frederick, Maryland, we had a delightful lunch and visit with the Callows son and his family.

After lunch, we drove to Highland where Dan and Judy reside. For the remainder of Friday and a good portion of Saturday, the Callow’s dining room became our “war room.”

Months ago, our reservations had been confirmed and secured with Grand Circle. This planning was figuring out our three days in Paris prior to boarding the ship, and our three nights in London after leaving the ship.

Previous traveling experiences, detailed lists, maps, computer apps, phone apps were all put to use to carve these days. I sat quietly and watched.

A final session on Sunday morning confirmed assignments and deadlines. These were not assignments for slackers. Success in Paris and London depended upon making reservations and purchasing tickets when necessary.

During July and August, phone calls, text messages, emails, and an occasional Zoom molded and shaped the itinerary. By August 30, we questioned how our packing was going, and on August 31, we were in motion.

The Callows had a direct flight into Paris from BWI in Baltimore.

As we all know the pricing of airline tickets can go from very reasonable to outrageous. To avoid the outrageous, it was cheaper by $1,500 dollars for Betsy and me to drive to Greensboro to fly to Philadelphia to Paris than attempting to do that via Richmond.

So on August 31, we drove to Summerfield where our oldest daughter, Lauren and her family live. We left our car in their driveway, and Lauren drove us to the Greensboro airport—a short drive.

Arriving at the Greensboro airport (Photo Lauren Reinking)

The Sherrills live in Greensboro. One of their sons-in-law dropped them off, and once we checked in and cleared security, we met in the American Airline terminal and waited.

I’m impatient in waiting to board a plane. I don’t sit. I walk the terminal. I figure I’m going to be sitting on a plane a long, long time, so, I keep moving until the call to board is announced.

Our flight to Philadelphia kept getting delayed. Eventually the travel gods cooperated. The plane arrived, we boarded the EMB145, the pilot gave us an update, and we were off.

Coming into Philadelphia, thunderstorms were brewing. This line of storms didn’t impact our landing, but a storm did erupt over the airport. Fortunately, this line of weather moved quickly. Its impact on our departure was minimal.

Approach into Philadelphia (Photo Bill Pike)

No matter what airlines try, boarding a plane is a nightmare. The massive 787 was built to carry lots of passengers and their junk, but boarding is still a pain.

The Captain told us to expect a delay in departing. To his surprise air traffic controllers gave him the green light to go sooner than anticipated. With that he gunned the engines, and we were barreling down the rain-slicked runway bound for Paris.

I wonder what Charles Lindbergh might think about this big sheet metal monster compared to his Spirit of St. Louis.

Soon, the lights of Philadelphia and the east coast of America were gone. Darkness consumed this big bird in its flight path across the Atlantic.

On long flights, I never look at my watch or track the plane’s path. To me that only makes the anguish of the flight longer.

If the plane’s technology is working, I watch movies to escape the slow moving hands of time.

On this flight, none of the new move releases interested me. I watched Stand By Me, the first Toy Story, and a documentary about Lorne Michaels, the creator of Saturday Night Live. I know at times I dozed off. That dozing kept the clock moving.

Thank the good Lord for tailwinds. Those winds helped the pilot and crew to bring us into our approach for landing at Charles De Gaulle Airport sooner.

Departing the plane is more madness.

Once off, we regroup, get our bearings, find a restroom, and start working our way toward customs, luggage, and finding our Grand Circle representative.

With some luck, everything works, and soon Grand Circle personnel have us loaded with our luggage into a van.

We have a good driver who finds his way to our hotel without too much heartburn.

Check-in at the Hotel Le Bellune is seamless.

It is here that we meet our key Grand Circle contact person, our guide, Matt.

For the next fourteen days, Matt will be our pivot point. From France, Matt speaks impeccable English. More importantly, he knows how to work with people, all kinds of people, even wacky American tourist like us.

Later in the afternoon, we have a welcome, a briefing, and then a tour led by Matt of the neighborhood surrounding the hotel.

At the briefing, we are given our Metro passes, a listening device nicknamed “whisperer” and an overview of the game plan until we board the ship on Saturday.

With the tour of the neighborhood, our first lesson is about the bicycle lanes that run parallel to the sidewalks. Look both ways, lots of Parisians ride bikes.

Matt gives helpful hints about interacting with shopkeepers and restaurant staff. We see the locations for a grocery store, pharmacy, and a bank. Matt knows the neighborhood so he quietly points out places not to enter.

After the tour, we opt to have dinner in the hotel. We finalize our departure time for day one of exploring Paris, and then we head to our rooms and collapse.

Merci!

North Carolina Coast: Surf City On Topsail Island

September 23, 2026 Bill PikeLeave a comment

This was one of those rare moments with our summer calendar. Everyone in our family had the week of July 11-18 open. That meant we would be traveling to Surf City on Topsail Island.

Having grown up in Burlington, I remember as a kid traveling to the North Carolina Coast. Carolina Beach, Long Beach(now Oak Island) and Bogue Sound were visited.

Life was a lot simpler then. Ocean frontage and quiet sound vistas had not been fully developed.

After college, in 1975, I moved to Virginia. Yet after all these years, the North Carolina coast still pulls at my heart.

While my family and I haven’t explored every beach town on this coastline, I have determined that from the state lines of Virginia to South Carolina, the North Carolina coast is something unique, uncommon, a place worthy of our continuing respect.

More than anything, I respect the coastline’s endurance.

Somehow, no matter what mother nature and human beings cast upon this fragile shell, the land and water hang on.

At times, that might mean hanging on like washed out sea oats and on storm battered dunes. Regardless of that pounding, these barrier islands, narrow ribbons of sand survive.

Deep inside our souls, we know these barrier islands should not have carried the burden of being developed. But, we couldn’t resist. As much as I despise the journey down I-95 from Richmond, I can’t refuse an escape to your coast.

For this trek, we survived I-95, and the multiple state highways that lead us to the Surf City Bridge on a busy Saturday afternoon. Sunday morning, I took a run over the bridge.

Surf City Bridge in distance (Photo Bill Pike)

From that view, I could see the wide Intracoastal Waterway and the nooks and crannies of the marshlands. Those marshlands are such a critical part of preserving the tidal ecosystems.

Walking on the beach, I admired the preservation of a turtle’s nest. I appreciate the time and dedication of the volunteers from the Topsail Turtle Project who monitor these sites.

One day, I chatted with a life guard about his work. A community college student, he described his training and the challenges he and his peers face. Keeping an eye on the public with the whims of the ocean is no easy task.

From our rental, we had a short walk into the heart of Surf City. One afternoon, our grandkids enjoyed a visit to the Topsail Aquarium. Even in a small space, there was lots for our grandkids to see, touch, and learn.

That same afternoon, I had the opportunity to learn from a loyal employee at a gift store that is connected to the IGA grocery store.

Thirty two years ago, the gift shop employee and her husband moved to Topsail. We talked about how the island had changed.

She recalled quiet early mornings at their home. Sipping her first cup of coffee, she watched deer in a small forest of trees.

Those deer are gone, along with the trees, replaced by housing. She lamented, “they call that progress.”

I understand her sentiment. It seems like every square inch of the south side of the island has been developed.

And that is why I respect when communities preserve a piece of land for a park. The boardwalk at the Kenneth D. Batts Park is perfect for taking in the tidal salt marsh, and its made even better when your grandson catches a fish from the pier at the end.

At 73, I have no idea how many more trips to this stunning coast I’ll be able to make.

But, I’m really not thinking about me.

It’s about our grandkids.

I hope North Carolina will cherish, respect, and protect this treasured coastline.

That way our grandkids, and maybe their children can watch the sun rise over the Atlantic, chase minnows in tidal pools, and daydream as pelicans gracefully glide over the crest of a wave.

North Carolina don’t let them down.

A run over the Surf City Bridge

August 4, 2026 Bill PikeLeave a comment

Day Two Sunday, July 12, 2026

I was up early this morning. Rarely, rarely am I not up early. My body’s internal clock must be locked to civil twilight.

Initially, I didn’t see the sunrise. I saw the power of its early predawn light casting shades of orange and pink into scattered clouds.

Predawn colors starting to show (Photo Bill Pike)

Over the next fifteen minutes, the sun kept slowly rising, and gradually, the familiar orange ball peered over the Atlantic Ocean.

As the sun is waking, I do some exploring on the beach.

I notice the lightweight pattern of a bird’s feet or a crab’s scrabble leaving an imprint on the sand.

Someone has been here. (Photo Bill Pike)

With help of the wind, in some sections, the sand is shaped and rippled.

And there is nothing better than discovering a protected location for a sea turtle nest.

A well marked sea turtle nest (Photo Bill Pike)

Since our rental house was close to the center of Surf City, I opted to go for a run—a run that would take me across the massive Surf City Bridge.

I don’t know how much longer my old body will take me out for a morning run, but I secretly hope— forever.

In working my way toward the bridge, the road is flat and straight as it parallels the beach front. Earlier this morning, our son had run across the bridge. He gave me a few pointers for accessing it.

Careful to abide by pedestrian crosswalks, and early morning traffic merging into the roundabout, I found my way to the bridge.

The flatness of the road surface disappeared. Eventually, my legs were working me up an incline were the arch of the bridge construction peaks. This incline is gradual as the bridge sits 65 feet above the water.

Planners were thoughtful with the design. The bridge not only features stunning views of the tidal areas along the Intracoastal Waterway, but a bike lane and a wide walkway for walkers and runners.
I have ample room to run, but I am mindful of other runners, walkers, and bicycle riders. We all appear to be mindful of each other.

The view no matter where I look is remarkable.

I can only begin to imagine what accessing the island was like before any type of bridge was in place. My guess is that Topsail Island enjoyed its solitude.

I know this—I will cherish this 36:59 run for many years.

By midday, our oldest daughter and her family had arrived. Unfortunately due to work commitments, our son-in-law would only be with us until Wednesday.

The energy level in the house picked up as our four grandchildren enjoyed their beach time and an assortment in-house activities.

In the pre-trip planning, a meal schedule was worked out. Culinary skills would be showcased and tested, but this was no Food Network contest. Nope, just an opportunity to feed twelve hungry beach lovers at the end of the day.

After dinner, the four cousins converge on the deck. They watch storm clouds starting to roll in over the ocean.

Cousins checking out the weather (Photo Elizabeth Cates)

My mind thinks back to our ride through the tiny coastal plain communities we saw yesterday. That apparent poverty is such a contrast to the real estate wealth on the island.

We design and build a $54 million dollar bridge, but we appear to be incapable solving our poverty in America.

Why is that?

If we have the will to build a $54 million dollar bridge, shouldn’t we have the will to solve poverty?

More importantly, what am I doing with my will toward helping to solve that poverty?

Getting Away: Surf City On Topsail Island, North Carolina

July 27, 2026 Bill PikeLeave a comment

Day One Saturday, July 11, 2026

The goal was to be on the road by 10 a.m. By 9:45, we were pulling out of our Richmond driveway.

Earlier that morning, I commiserated with our next door neighbor whose family was heading to Atlantic Beach, North Carolina. While our destination was Topsail Island, North Carolina, we both would be at the whims of I-95.

From Maine to Florida, I-95, America’s east coast interstate, eagerly awaited us.

No matter how many attempts designers and engineers with expertise in road construction and traffic control have made to improve this connector of cities and states, in a blink I-95 can become a nightmare.

We did pretty well until 12 noon. That’s when my Commander Supreme’s phone turned bright red.

Slowed traffic on I-95 (Photo Bill Pike)

It wasn’t long before both southbound lanes began a slow crawl down the overheated road surface. We heard no sirens from emergency vehicles. Saw no flashing blue lights from state troopers rushing along the breakdown lane. No flashing signs telling drivers to move into the left lane. No tow truck drivers with yellow lights flashing following the state troopers.

No, what caused this two lane backup was a broken down tractor trailer in the travel lane. Apparently, the truck decided to die in such a way that the driver was not able to coax the monster into the breakdown lane.

Eventually, we worked our way off the interstate to a maze of North Carolina highways that with the correct turns would lead us on to Topsail Island. I can tell you this—I wouldn’t recommend making this drive in the dark of night.

The further east we drove into the coastal plain the deeper you move away from what I take for granted in Richmond.

Way out here, drugstores and storage units are not on every corner. There is no sprawl.

Much of what drivers see in these tiny communities are single, stand alone businesses— a Family Dollar store, a service station at an intersection, and an occasional non-chain restaurant.

Interestingly, we did pass multiple churches, sometimes a school, lots of trailers, and large plots of farmland with corn, soybeans, tobacco, and cotton. It was clear that North Carolina like Virginia is in the midst of a significant drought.

The impact of the drought was most notable with the corn. The corn was parched, stunted by the lack of rain. The corn’s normal lush green has been baked by the sun squeezing out its internal moisture and fading the green.

Hopefully, the drought will gradually resolve itself without too much hurt to farmers and consumers.

On the last miles before the beach, the real challenge for me is trying to figure out why we have been unable to solve and stop the generational cycles of poverty.

All along this route, I see weary looking house trailers. Abandoned, overgrown, houses dot the landscape too. I wonder how many families on either side of the road are barely hanging on? Do they feel any betrayal from the politicians they have supported over the years? Why can’t we break these cycles?

As we approach Surf City on Topsail Island, the traffic lights are blinking red. Trained volunteers are placed at these critical intersections. The volunteers had the challenge of directing all of us crazed tourists before we crossed the intercostal waterway on the Surf City Bridge.

Once over the bridge, we worked our way around the traffic circle to our exit. We drove a short distance before we hooked a left on Raleigh Avenue followed by a quick right on to South Shore Drive. A few more feet, and we arrived at our home for the week—Sitting In The Sand.

Hot, humid air greeted us. Unloading cars started.

Members of our family who were scheduled to arrive on Saturday made it safely.

As we settled in, plans were made to visit the beach and order pizza for dinner.

The house appears to be perfect for our needs. The restless Atlantic Ocean will be in our sight lines all week.

And, I’ll have lots of time to ponder my generational poverty question.

Memorial Day at the Virginia War Memorial: “Say Their Name Marathon”

May 25, 2026 Bill PikeLeave a comment

My friend, Mike Cross, is a United States Marine Corps veteran.

Sgt. Cross served America during the Vietnam War.

Sgt. Cross rarely speaks about his tour of duty in Vietnam. As you might well know, all wars are tough, disquieting duty.

Sgt. Cross is also a docent at the Virginia War Memorial—an excellent docent.

In the Spring of 2025, I learned from Sgt. Cross about a new program that the Virginia War Memorial was initiating for Memorial Day. The program is called “Say Their Names.”

“Say Their Names” is simply a reading of the names of “Virginia’s fallen heroes” from America’s wars. The reading of the names “ensures that their names and memories will not be forgotten.”

I was able to sign up on-line for two slots.

On Memorial Day afternoon in 2025, I drove to the Virginia War Memorial. Readers were asked to arrive thirty minutes prior to their designated start time.

Arriving early gave me the chance to read through my list of names. In that silent practice, War Memorial staff were available to answer any questions about pronunciation. Additionally, the staff made sure that your pacing for the reading of the names would not be too quick or too slow.

My first slot was at 4:09 p.m. My next one was at 4:12 p.m.

As the reading time approaches, War Memorial staff lead the readers outside into the Shrine Of Memory.

Readers also receive simple instructions about the cue for approaching the podium. There is no sprint to the podium, but no second is lost in keeping to the scripted timing.

Luckily for both of my assigned time slots, my pace was good, and most importantly, I did not mispronounce the names.

While waiting, I sat and listened to the reader at the podium saying the names from their list.

In the background, the whirring of car tires could be heard from out on Belvidere Street and an occasional gentle toot of a train horn from a freight train ambling along the tracks by the James River would roll up from the bluffs below.

But nothing disrupted the quiet, respectful dignity of the cadence of the names being read as that singular voice at the podium filled the Shrine of Memory.

Of course, these “fallen heroes” deserved every second of that solemnity.

I can only begin to imagine the harshness of the environments in which many of them perished.

During my first four years of teaching, I was hired as a Title VII Remedial Reading teacher at the Martinsville Junior High School in Martinsville, Virginia. Martinsville is located in Henry County, Virginia.

Some of the names I read were from Henry County. As I read, I recalled a few familiar last names that came from the last names of former students. I wondered if the hero might be a relative.

One thing is clear, we have lost too many Americans in our wars. In the Shrine of Memory, there are close to
12,000 names inscribed on the glass and stone walls.

These sacrifices in combat start with World War II and include every war and conflict where America has deployed our troops since then.

If this inaugural “Say Their Names” event is offered next year, I will attempt to sign up again as a reader.

Today, part of me feels that America is more interested in Memorial Day as a holiday weekend and the retail sales events that are linked to this unofficial start of summer.

Taking Memorial Day for granted isn’t good thinking.

In the last chapter of Tom Brokaw’s book, The Greatest Generation, he describes a Memorial Day in South Dakota. Mr. Brokaw was visiting his father’s brother, John, a World War II veteran.

On this Memorial Day, his uncle asked Mr. Brokaw to go with him to the Bristol cemetery. For years, John Brokaw had been the person who placed a small American flag on the graves of veterans.

John Brokaw had handed off this responsibility to a veteran from the Korean War, but John worried that his friend might not know the exact location of the graves of the veterans. So, on this day, he was still helping out and guiding his friend.

Watching these two veterans placing the flags on the appropriate graves, Tom Brokaw wrote: “It was a ceremony of honor, remembrance, and renewal played out in countless other cemeteries across the land by members of a generation that gave so much and asked so little in return.”

When it comes to Memorial Day, America and its citizens can’t afford to be distracted by a three day weekend and massive retail sales.

We need to be remembering those women and men “who gave so much and asked so little in return.”

After all, their sacrifices are the reason America continues to exist.

As we move into the future, we can never fail to honor and remember those “who gave so much.”

It is the least we can do for their now silent, humble hearts as they “asked so little in return” from us.

I pray my selfish soul will never forget.

Fairbanks+Minneapolis+Raleigh=home

April 21, 2026 Bill PikeLeave a comment

On the morning of July 10, 2025, the Fairbanks International Airport reported overcast skies, 53 degree temperature, calm winds, 93% humidity, 51 degree dew point, and ten mile visibility.

Back home in Richmond before I go for a run, I always check the same data at the Richmond airport. Every morning is different, but there is usually one constant—visibility—ten miles.

This morning, I was determined to add Alaska to the places where I have run in my life. So, I left the Westmark Hotel, went down Noble Street, and found the River Walk.

Fairbanks was still waking up. A few raindrops were coming down. The sidewalks and streets were damp from the rain.

The river walk is not dissimilar to other river walks in different cities and states across America. Water no matter if it is an ocean, lake, or river seems to capture our attention.

This morning, the Chena River is calm. It’s quiet, steady current is occasionally broken by a hyper seagull. Maybe this seagull is trying to wake up Fairbanks.

Along my route, I come across a pretty fountain, an assortment of statues, and a couple of American standards—graffiti and a homeless encampment under a bridge.

Retracing my steps, I work my way back to the hotel with a time of 33:41. I might have completed three slow miles.

We had another early riser in our group, Dan, who would be taking a lesson on a float plane with a local pilot.

This would be a busy day for us. We wanted to explore Fairbanks, but we also had to prepare our bags for our return flights to our homes.

By late morning, we were circled up and ready to walk around Fairbanks.

We noted information about the Chena River flood that took place on August 15, 1967.

Here we also learned about the Gould Cabin one of the first of the mining camp cabins. The cabin dates back to 1910.

It features the use of milled lumber and logs available in that time frame. The Gould Cabin’s construction is notable for its ability survive the tough Alaska environment.

Close by, we came across the Interior Alaska Antler Arch.

The antlers were donated by hunters and collectors from around Alaska. Over 100 moose and caribou antlers were donated.

This display was woven together by Fairbanks artist, Sandy Jamieson. For Jamieson, the arch might also be called “an arch of stories.” As each set of antlers is attached to a person who experienced the wilderness of Alaska.

Next we came across a display about the 1913 Pioneer Ascent of Denali. The display clearly captured this historic event, but the focus is on one of the climbers—Walter Harper.

Next to the display is a marvelous statue capturing the essence of Harper on the climb and his outstretched “hand up.” Harper’s possessed the all-around skills for the climb, but he also possessed the essential human skills for his willingness to always extend his hand to help.

Walter Harper and his outstretched hand (Photo Bill Pike)

It is a short walk over to the Immaculate Conception Catholic Parish. Established in 1904, this is a pretty white framed building. The church overlooking the Chena River has quite a history. In 1976, the church was named to the Register of Historical sites.

From there, we ambled into downtown Fairbanks. My favorite stop was at Big Ray’s Classic Alaska Trading Company.

For lunch, we stopped at a local favorite, The Crepery. The food was good, and it matched the owner’s dream for the restaurant—“to serve good and quality food to the community.”

After lunch, Betsy, Dan, and I caught a ride to the University of Alaska Museum Of The North. If you are in Fairbanks, and you have the time, this museum is worth the stop.

From the museum’s website, please note “this is the only research and teaching museum in Alaska.” The museum is home to 2.5 million artifacts. These artifacts are broken down into ten disciplines of study. The museum also captures the northern culture and its history.

On this trip, we have learned how precious Alaska and its resources are. That’s why the museum serves as a valuable resource for research on climate change, genetics, contaminants, and other issues facing Alaska and the circumpolar North.

I enjoyed the exhibits about the Brown Bear, Pacific Halibut, Permafrost, and Alaskan Kayaks.

At some point, we made our way back to the hotel. Once there, we turned our attention to making sure our luggage was ready for the ride out to the airport.

Checking in at the airport went smoothly. We figured out ordering our dinner, and then we waited for our boarding call.

I roamed around the airport’s interior as much as I could. There are some nicely done photos in different places, and I even came across a historical display about aviation with an old wooden propeller.

Shortly before 10 p.m., we started boarding the Delta B73-900ER for our flight to Minneapolis.

We had said our goodbyes to Dan and Judy as they were on a different flight back into Baltimore. The Pikes and the Sherrills were on this flight that would after the connection in Minneapolis would take us back to Raleigh.

All I can tell you about the flight into Minneapolis is I don’t recall sleeping much. I watched the movie Oppenheimer. I recall looking out of my window several times, and I’m not sure that I ever saw total darkness.

At 6:40 a.m. on the approach coming into the airport, I’m almost certain that we flew over the Mississippi River.

Approach into Minneapolis (Photo Bill Pike)

We landed, and I immediately went into beer search mode. That’s correct— beer search mode.

As it turns out, the beer gods were working in my favor related to time.

Unfortunately, in Fairbanks, our red-eye flight was delayed. A passenger became ill before we departed the runway. The pilot had to taxi the plane back to the terminal so the passenger could be assisted.

Then when we landed in Minneapolis, we learned that our flight back to Raleigh was delayed.

These delays gave me the extra time needed to track down an August Schell beer. Located in New Ulm, Minnesota, August Schell is one of the oldest breweries in America.

My pre-trip research led me to Scott Hislop, the Senior Distributor Sales Manager, for the August Schell Brewing Company.

Scott informed me that in Terminal One of this massive airport was an establishment named the Stone Arch. Stone Arch had an August Schell light beer on tap.

At some point, in the middle of a corridor, I look into the distance and I saw the words Stone Arch. Being sleep deprived, I hope this wasn’t a mirage.

Stone Arch employees were busy with breakfast customers. It took a few minutes for me to flag down one of their employees who handled beverages.

Finally, a nice young man paused as I flagged him down. His hurried steps came to a halt. I explained what I was trying to accomplish. He could not have been nicer.

First, he confirmed that Schell’s Light an American lager was on tap. Additionally, he showed me two sixteen ounce cans that were available, but I opted for the draft.

A couple of minutes later, he returned with a perfectly poured glass of Schell Light. This clear, pale lager, was full of carbonation bubbles and a thin head of foam.

My August Schell light beer (Photo Bill Pike)

While I’m not a fan of light beers, this one hit the spot at 7:20 a.m. on Friday, July 11.

I was reminded of the song “Roadhouse Blues” from the Doors’ album Morrison Hotel: “Well, I woke up this morning and I got myself a beer, the future’s uncertain and the end is always near.”

At my old age, I have never purposely abused my affection for beer. Out of respect for the beverage, I’ve worked to be doggedly rigid in my self-control when consuming beer, I’m basically—‘one and done.’

But, I will admit that for a long, long time lurking in the back of my mind were the lyrics from “Roadhouse Blues.”

So now, I can mark the drinking of an early morning beer off an unimportant bucket list.

Yet, there is a more important point, and that is Scott Hislop.

In our fast paced, impatient world, Scott took the time to respond to my original email. To me that is admirable.

After finishing my beer, we found our terminal and waited for the call to board our final flight into Raleigh.

At 8:06 a.m., we were on a Delta A320(OW) bound for Raleigh.

I think I dozed a bit on this flight.

Soon, we were on the ground in Raleigh.

We said our goodbyes to Butch and Marian. One of their daughters was picking them up from Greensboro.

Our future son-in-law picked us up.

He navigated exiting the airport. It wasn’t long before we were back at the condo where our car had been resting for the last fifteen days.

We took a few minutes to regroup at the condo with our daughter and her fiancé. Then we transferred to luggage into our car, said goodbye, and started our ride home to Richmond.

When I was growing up in North Carolina, I don’t recall dreaming about traveling. This trip from Vancouver into Alaska was one that will stay with me for a long, long time.

In Vancouver, Lynn Canyon Park was my favorite. And in Alaska, the color of the ice in the glaciers will never leave me. It is stunning.

I am so lucky to be able to travel with my wife and our dear friends.

Vancouver and Alaska offered us so much. Each place is precious and priceless with their uniqueness. I can only begin to imagine what the first settlers felt like as the embraced the wonder of these environments.

In closing, I simply say to you—if you have the opportunity— go.

You will not regret making the trip.

Denali to Fairbanks

April 9, 2026 Bill PikeLeave a comment

On the morning of Wednesday, July 9, 2025, we picked up a breakfast snack, rechecked our rooms again, and loaded on to the bus.

The drive to Fairbanks was in the two and half hour range. However, this could be extended as there was a wildfire along one section of the highway that had been a nuisance.

According to our bus driver, it was possible that our traffic flow could be disrupted. Firefighting officials might shutdown the highway with a one lane traffic feed that alternated travel in either direction.

As we approached this stretch of the highway, we knew instantly when we were within range of the fire. That familiar campfire aroma seeped into the interior of the bus. Soon we came upon charred forest with occasional plumes of lingering smoke.

We passed staging areas for the fire crews. We could see where bulldozers had plowed access roads and fire breaks. One fire truck was parked on the shoulder of the highway with its firehose stretched into the wilderness.

At some point, my old bladder needed a restroom break.

I was warned by the people sitting in the back of the bus near the restroom that the door didn’t latch properly.

Needless to say, this potty break was going to be an experience.

Securing the door, trying to keep my balance, and my aim on the target was challenging. Thankfully, the potty gods were kind to me—no errors with the door or hitting the target occurred.

In hindsight, I simply should have sat down on the toilet.

Despite a slight delay from the fire, we were ahead of schedule arriving into Fairbanks.

This meant the Holland America personnel had to do some quick thinking. So, we made an unscheduled stop at the visitors center.

The Morris Thompson Cultural Visitors Center isn’t your typical visitors center. Yes, employees can provide helpful information to travelers, but there is a nice store, an information center for national and state parks, a theater, and lots of cultural and historical displays about Fairbanks and the surrounding area.

We were greeted with this information at the visitors center (Photo Betsy Pike)

Morris Thompson was a prominent leader in Alaska.

From one of the center’s displays (Photo Bill Pike)

His work focused on matters related to Alaskan Natives. A businessman and a political appointee, Mr. Thompson was best known for his leadership and work at the Bureau of Indian Affairs. Sadly, Mr. Morris, his wife, and daughter were killed in the crash of Alaskan Airline Flight 261. (Multiple Sources)

Another fixture in the community was Episcopal Bishop William J. Gordon, Jr. Bishop Gordon at the very young age of 29 was elected as the Third Episcopal Bishop of Alaska.

In 1948 with his family in tow, he settled in Fairbanks. Realizing that riverboat travel limited his summer access to visiting clergy and their churches, Bishop Gordon learned to fly. A replica of the Piper PA-22 that he flew is on display at the museum.

Replica of the Bishop’s plane (Photo Bill Pike)

That’s one thing we learned about Alaska was how useful airplanes were in remote areas.

From the visitor’s center, we re-boarded the bus with our destination to Riverboat Discovery.

Once on site, we were directed to a large dining facility, where we enjoyed a family style lunch.

After lunch, we boarded the riverboat for a tour along the Chena River. Our guide was full of local information about the river, Fairbanks, and the entire surrounding area.

Despite seeing the devastation from the wildfire, I was amazed at how lush and green the landscape was along the banks of the river.

One of the highlights of the cruise for me, and probably for our friend, Dan, was the interaction with a bush pilot who landed his float plane on the river. The Captain of the riverboat and the pilot of the plane shared a lively conversation broadcast to the passengers.

Our special float plane guest (Photo Bill Pike)

Interestingly, our Dan, who also has his private pilot’s license had booked a training flight on a float plane. Turns out that Dan’s training flight was going to be in the same plane with the same pilot who was a part of the riverboat tour. In fact on Thursday, Dan landed with the pilot on the river with the riverboat’s first cruise of the morning.

After the plane, we learned about Trail Breaker Kennel and everything related to sled dogs and four time Iditarod champion, Susan Butcher. This facility is located along the river.

Another treat was seeing caribou on the shoreline.

A curious caribou checking out the riverboat (Photo Betsy Pike)

Before heading back to the dock, we had one last stop at Chena Village to learn more about the early lives of the Athabascan people.

Back at the dock, we unloaded for one last swoop through the shops at the center.

From there, we took the bus back into Fairbanks to our hotel for the evening.

In closing out this day, I’m drawn to the size of Alaska—it is massive. I’m privileged to see this snapshot in places where tourist typically tread.

Yet, I imagine there are many precious places throughout Alaska where tourist rarely venture. I hope those spaces can be quietly preserved, and that includes the stunning state and national parks that are currently protected. We can never let go of this cherished land.

Tomorrow, we would hustle to explore Fairbanks.

And then late on Thursday, we would be heading back home.