For most of the past 10 days, there was at least 100 degrees difference in the temperature where I was eating, sleeping and playing and the temperature in my backyard in Bismarck. The colors are different, too. White where I came from, green where I am now. That’s the reason Lillian and I came to the Caribbean in the dead of North Dakota winter. It doesn’t ever get cold in Puerto Rico or the Virgin Islands. And it stays green.
The older I get, the less tolerant I have become of the cold. Now I know why all those old people go to Florida, Texas and Arizona for the winter. (Are you paying attention, Darrell, Jeff, Wayne, Mylo, et al. … I’m talking about you older people.)
Hey, Jim, it’s the weather, stupid. They come, and now I come, for the weather. So, most mornings here in the Caribbean, when Lillian asks what I want to do today, I say, “Not much” or “Nothing.”
Oh, we do some things — Lillian more than I — but mostly, I want the beach, a late breakfast with an occasional Bloody Maria, the beach, a book, an afternoon Margarita, the beach, a seafood supper, a glass or two of wine, the beach and the most incredible display of stars I have ever seen in my long life.
If there’s one thing I have learned on this hiatus, it is that there are more stars in the Virgin Islands than on the North Dakota prairie. Way more. And they are WAY brighter. I can’t explain this phenomenon, but it is real. The night sky here on St. John, where we are staying most of this week in Virgin Islands National Park, just has me transfixed. I find it hard to go to bed. I want to just sit in my wooden beach chair in front of my cabin and stare at them — Orion, Cassiopeia (I hope I spelled that right, I’ve never typed it before), Arturus, Spica, Regulus and all the rest. I’m pretty sure there are a million.
“Jim! Are you ever coming to bed?”
Virgin Islands National Park. Who knew? Well, we read about it, and now it is our 52nd national park. Actually, sort of 53rd for Lillian because she went to Indiana Dunes before it was a national park, when it was Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore. It became a national park in 2019. I’m going to go there next summer on a trip to see grandson, Thomas, and his wife, Adair, and their kids, the two GREAT-Grandchildren Xander and Mira. Right after we do a trip to Isle Royale in Lake Superior.
And when I have done that, I will have been to every National Park in the Lower 48 and Hawaii. Fifty-four of them.
There are 63 national parks. So, for Lillian and me, that just leaves Alaska, which has eight. We’re going there next summer, too. And last, and maybe least, of all places, National Park of American Samoa, somewhere halfway around the world, by Australia, I think. How the hell did that happen? I’m not going there. Ever. Period.
I’m not getting any younger. If I’m going to do as many national parks as a man my age can do — 58 of the 63 — this is the year. I’ll report back in August. By the end of this year, I will have done the last four, in Alaska, (the other four are fly-in only. I’m not going to do them).
But let me tell you a little bit about this one I’m at now. And this trip. And let me say at the outset I don’t take any credit for the planning it took to make this happen. I’m married to a librarian. Librarians make great travel agents.
We started with a flight to Miami, where we spent two nights. On one of the days, we did a boat tour of Biscayne National Park, the only park in the southeast corner of the country we had missed on an earlier winter trip here a dozen or so years ago. It’s a “watery wonderland,” and our boat tour gave us a good glimpse of what we’re doing to preserve the natural ocean landscapes, seascapes and wildlife here.
Then we hopped into the Caribbean to Puerto Rico, a couple of days and nights in this Spanish enclave of a U.S. Territory, which we both thought would make a nicer 51st state than Canada. We stayed in old San Juan and will again on our way home. We like it.
But the Virgin Islands were our ultimate destination, and we hopped on over to St. Thomas, the largest and most modern, I think, of the islands (we will do four islands on this trip — I’ll report back on that, too), where we spent three days and nights in Margaritaville, an oceanside resort where we drank — well, you guessed it — and ate until we nearly burst. We did some touring of the island, but mostly stayed by the beach, and listened to — well, you can guess that, too.
But here on St. John, we’ve found our little piece of paradise. For four days and nights, we’re staying in a beachfront cabin. Literally, a cabin. It has an open room with a table and a refrigerator. And a bedroom with a bed. And that’s it. Electricity but no running water. A gallon water thermos provided by our host concessionaire here in the park. Refillable at the bathroom, which is a hundred yards away. We fill water bottles and keep them in the fridge alongside the beer for chasing down our morning and evening meds. The beer is for washing down snacks.
In the morning, we jump in the ocean — about 50 yards from our cabin — to wake up, then stop in the bathroom on our way to the outdoor cafe for coffee, a quarter mile away. It’s there, under the awning, we find sporadic wi-fi and cell phone service, where I’m typing away at this and will send it soon, hopefully, if the signal lasts.
Today, our last here before we head across channels to Tortola in the British Virgin Islands, Lillian took a taxi into town to do some exploring. My tired old legs just said they wanted to do “nothing” today, so that’s what I’m doing. In a little while, I’ll swim, then nap, then eat and drink until it’s time to look at stars. In the morning, a ferry to the BVI, as they call it here, where I hope the British stars are as spectacular as the U.S. stars. I think Lillian has arranged for a VRBO there with full amenities. Three more days. Then an airplane trip to St. Croix, the last of the U.S. Virgin Islands for a few days. Then a flight back to Puerto Rico. After a couple of days there, we fly to Atlanta, then Minneapolis, then Bismarck. Think of that. Puerto Rico to Bismarck, all in one day.
I can see by the weatherman that it’s gotten considerably nicer at home than when we left. That happens in North Dakota. It’s why we stay there most of the year. Our spectacularly white back yard will have turned from white to brown again. Sigh. But it will be March, and that’s when spring happens, and when we celebrate our 21 years of marriage, and when we start firming up plans for our summer and fall travels. And when, hopefully, walleye fishing season starts on the Missouri.
We’re halfway through this winter odyssey, and my old bones are tired by the end of the day. The bed feels good at night, when the clouds move in on the stars, or over my eyes. The sounds of the surf are calming and reassuring. The ocean awakens me in the morning.
Better, I said to Lillian last night, to be old, than dead. Amen.
Here are some photos.
