Whether Weather Matters

June 12, 2013

Morning Report: (Portland, Indiana) A relaxing morning, biding time at the Holiday Express and enjoying their ample breakfast before heading back to Fort Recovery. The museum doesn't open until 12-noon so there's no hurry to get the day started. Although, according to the weather channel, it might behoove me to hasten the end of any excursions today due to severe thunderstorms predicted for later, probably this evening; strong wind and hail is on the menu. 

Return To Fort Recovery: I rode east under an increasingly cloudy sky, arriving a short time later across the state line at Fort Recovery to continue my exploration of St Clair's Defeat. I noticed Ohio's gasoline price is 3.89 per gallon while Indiana it is around 4.20, at least in Portland. According to Indiana news the temporary spike has to do with refinery issues. Whatever. I filled up in Ohio.

The State Line
 
13 Miles To Fort Recovery



Video
I spent a few hours touring the museum, the fort and the brick-streeted town.

See All About It: (Click the links)

THE TOWN

THE MUSEUM

THE MUSEUM BASEMENT

THE FORT

THE MONUMENT 



Fort Recovery Museum
The Fort

The sky was a little darker on the ride back; the wind a little gusty. Mindful of  tonight's predicted storm, I parked the Harley up close to a large maintenance shed at the corner of the back lot, within view of my window. It is handily positioned to block the wind and might also deflect any hail if it falls at a wind-directed-angle. I put the cover on the bike and stretched bungee cords underneath, cinching it down. That should do it.

Later: There was time to do laundry before supper. I obtained soap and dryer sheets at the front desk and entered the one-machine laundry room as a man was finishing up, hanging on hangers what appeared to be utility uniforms and clearing the dryer of the last of his clothes as he helpfully explained the controls to me. 

I completed my laundry and walked to the Buffalo Wings And Rings restaurant across the parking lot where I'd eaten last night. They make a very good gyro sandwich and I figured to have another. I did. Ate on the covered patio, listening to the rumble of distant thunder while watching the sky grow darker. Occasionally, grape-sized rain drops exploded on the adjacent sidewalk and I chewed a little faster, thinking I should have brought my hooded rain jacket for the walk back. I was far from being drenched but scurried quickly, head down, into the turbulent wind.

Northwest Corner of Portland, Indiana


It was near dark when I peered out the window of my first-floor room to check on the Harley, its cover billowing upward like a parachute. Things might hold if the storm gets no worse, I thought, closing the curtains and focusing on the evening project -- transferring/cataloging photos and working on blog videos.

Time passed. Background chatter from the weather channel caught my attention. Tornadoes were breaking out all around Chicago as several thunderstorms joined forces on a southeastward path. Ummm? Chicago is a long way from here, 212 miles according to Google Earth, and I'm right comfortable in my well-insulated room. Wouldn't even know a storm was brewing unless I looked outside, which I did and .... MAN OH MAN! .....  Lightening flashes revealed "white caps" in the parking lot. Somewhere in the darkness was the Harley but I couldn't see it. It was on its own. Wouldn't be surprised if the cover was sailing somewhere over Cincinnati by now.

An emergency alert sounded, drawing my attention back to the TV where I saw the scrolling words ... TORNADO WARNING ! And they weren't talking about Chicago anymore. Nope ... Jay County, wherever that is. I checked Google Earth and discovered it's RIGHT HERE!  Instructions were to take shelter; stay away from windows. 

I noted the time -- 11:30 p.m. and wondered if anyone else was still up? I stepped into the hallway and saw silent, trance-faced guests wandering about, reminiscent of the scene in the movie, Titanic, when confused passengers, in like manner, wandered the listing passageways of the doomed ship.

I recognized the guy from the laundry standing at the laundry door. He was down from the 2nd floor on orders from the desk clerk who was calling everyone on the upper floors to come to ground level, the safest place if we get hit by a tornado. He figured the windowless laundry room was a good place to hide.

The man was from Cookeville, Tennessee, here on business; working on commercialized air-conditioning units. I told him I'd done time in Cookeville, at the Harley shop a couple of weeks back, making us practically neighbors. We quickly bonded and he shared with me some updated knowledge from a weather "AP" on his smart phone. He pointed to three red triangles, saying each represented a tornado and the one on the bottom was 5 to 8 miles away traveling toward us at 16 mph. According to lighter shades of red fanning from the triangles, showing their projected path, the bottom one had us in mind. Not Good! 

I wondered at what point I should go hide in my bathtub? Meanwhile, we strolled down the center hallway toward the front desk, observing others who shared our concern.  Some folks were watching TV in the lounge where the word Tornado still scrolled. A band of young men, standing too close to the sliding glass entry doors, causing them to open and close automatically, whooped and hollered, daring one another to run outside and back whenever a burst of marble-sized hail hammered the breezeway. They were ordered to stay away from the door by the outnumbered desk clerk who was doing her best to minimize anxiety among the guests. Most stood about making small talk, a form of denial I suppose, for none seemed any too interested in the triviality of the conversations. All we could do was wait, hope and pray.

At the stroke of midnight the desk clerk (who was in apparent contact with local emergency services) gave us the "all clear" announcement, saying the upper floor guests could return to their rooms. But according to that guy's smart phone the red triangle was still headed our way? He left before I knew what became of us. I guess we're okay.


Weather Report (Video)

Fort Recovery, Ohio

June 11, 2013

In the fall of 1791, gout-suffering General Arthur St Clair led an under-trained and poorly-equipped army of soldiers into the northwestern frontier, under orders from President George Washington, to suppress ongoing Indian hostilities against white settlers in that region ceded by the British at the end of the American Revolution. The Indians, most of whom were confederates of the British during the war, were considered by President Washington in violation of the Treaty of Paris, the document marking an end to the war and relinquishing all formerly held British land east of the Mississippi River to the new nation, The United States of America. Of course the Indians disagreed. They hadn't been represented at the Treaty of Paris and had signed nothing. To them, the unwanted settlers were intruders, as was any army sent to protect them.

Plagued by desertion and illness during the month-long march from Fort Washington to the intended destination near present day Fort Wayne, Indiana, St Clair's army of 600 regulars, 800 six-month conscripts and 600 poorly disciplined militia had dwindled from 2,000 to 1,486. They were massacred by a confederation of Indian tribes in early morning (Nov 4th) before they could break camp. Only 48 survived uninjured and only by running for their lives. The human loss is said to have been 3 times greater than the Custer slaughter 85 years later. 

The 4-hour battle would come to be known as St. Clair's Defeat, though its official name would be Battle of The Wabash for its location at the headwaters of the Wabash River.  Among the 39 officers killed was 32-year-old Inslee Anderson, a veteran of the Battles of Brandywine and Germantown during the American Revolution. He is listed among the dead only as "Adjutant Anderson." He left behind two orphaned sons, their mother having died 5 years earlier. The boys would be raised by Inslee's brother, Joseph Inslee Anderson, who  became the 4th state senator in the newly formed state of Tennessee and, later, the first Comptroller of the U.S. Treasury. One of the boys, also named Joseph Anderson, would grow up and have descendants of his own, one of whom is my wife, Sherry. Adjutant Anderson was her 5th great grandfather.

Three years after St. Clair's Defeat a better prepared army, commanded by General Anthony Wayne, waged a victorious fight against the Indians and built a fort on the site of the original battle, aptly naming it "Fort Recovery". The village that later formed retains the name and maintains a replica of the original fort that has long since weathered away.

And so it is, I have personal reasons for visiting the little known town of Fort Recovery, Ohio. Because it's apparently too small to have a motel I'm staying 13 miles west in Portland, Indiana at the Holiday Express where I've booked two nights.

Today was beautiful riding weather, all 255 miles of the ride. Though I could have shaved off an hour, and 50 miles, by traveling the direct route through Indianapolis, I chose to meander the numerous two lane highways that weave a diagonal path across the state. The GPS was on her best behavior. Led me through mazes all day with nary a glitch. Highlights from today's ride are shown in the video below:

Smugmug


After off-loading my gear at the motel, I decided to spend what was left of this bright and clear afternoon at Fort Recovery, a short distance away. Standing in the city park, and visible from most areas of town, is a tall obelisk, a monument commemorating the victims of St. Clair's Defeat erected in 1913 atop the mass grave where their remains are buried. Though all soldiers are not listed, names of the officers are engraved on the walls at the base of the monument.

By the time I finished with pictures and pondering the history, the nearby fort and museum were closed. Not a problem in that I fully intend to return tomorrow.



Entering The Small Town of Fort Recovery, Ohio
Monument Commemorating The Victims of St. Clair's Defeat







Officer Names



Only Last Names Are Listed


MORE PICTURES


For Magnification Click HERE Then Click Again


Washington, Indiana To Portland, Indiana (255 Miles)



On Tour With Jim

June 7, 2013

Jim picked me up at my room about 10 a.m. this morning and we met Terri and two grandsons (9-year-old Ashton and his younger brother, Alton) at a nearby restaurant.  Mannerly boys, they joined the breakfast conversation and eagerly recounted their hunting and fishing exploits. Ashton told of his recent success on a turkey hunt with their father and Alton shared his experience of catching a 7-pound catfish.

Having lived his whole life in and around Washington, Jim knows the countryside like the back of his hand and is happy to drive me around, showing me the sights. Given my fascination with Amish culture, he humored me with an excursion along the backroads east of town where the sect is most prominent, all the while with me wielding two cameras in an attempt to capture the moment through the windshield.




Video

Women, dressed in their Amish attire were working in various yards we passed. I saw more than one operating gas-powered weed-eaters, dust and rocks flying up around their bare legs. Two others were rolling down a driveway on a full-sized tractor. Jim shared his knowledge, saying you never see the men doing yard work, just the women. As for the modern conveniences, he says it depends on whether they are "new order" or "old order" Amish, the "new order" being more in tune with modern living. Seemingly a dying breed, there are fewer and fewer "old order" Amish left. Also, it's hard to tell the Amish and Mennonites apart. Both are prominent in the area, the latter being much more progressive. Chuckling at the irony, Jim says though Amish reject electricity, many keep food in the freezers of their English friends/neighbors and depend on them for automobile transportation from time to time. 

The distinguishing characteristic of the Amish --- the horse and buggy --- is still a common sight in the area, so much so, says Jim, the buggy wheels and horse shoes, especially because cleats are added for traversing icy roads in winter, wear ruts in the asphalt. He pointed to lengthy road patches and said there has been talk of creating special off road paths for the Amish but that's as far as it's gotten, just the talking stage.

PICTURES

The day went quickly and it was nearing appointment time for the big interview. We met with Terri, Britney and the newspaper reporter at Britney's and made it through the interview with minimal pain. Here it is:

Larger Image in Smugmug

I told the reporter of my Smugmug site from where she later selected the Tonkin Gulf sunrise picture of Jim and me in 1971. An interesting coincidence is ball-cap wearing Jim standing with nearly an identical pose in both pictures, with his left forearm at a 45 degree angle.


 
Me-n-Jim
Britney, Jim, Terri and Lucy


June 8, 2013
After a deli sandwich at "The Amish Kountry Korner" we headed west about 20 miles to  Vincennes, a fair-sized city on the banks of the Wabash River, which serves as the south border between Indiana and Illinois. In addition to being the hometown of the late comedian, Red Skelton, Vincennes is famous for its historic affiliation with famed frontier leader George Rogers Clark who wrested the area from the British during the American Revolution.  A memorial, honoring Clark, stands next to the river on the west side of town.  After a visit to the memorial, where, in the adjacent park, a pioneer re-enactment was just finishing up, Jim and I stumbled upon a Vietnam-era Army Display at the Military Museum in town. Although it was, by then, after 5 p.m. and the building was closed, the outside event was still open to the public. 



Had Lunch at The Amish Kountry Korner
Vincennes, Indiana




Frontier Re-en-actors, Vincennes, Indiana

Black Powder Shooting Explanation
George Rogers Clark Memorial


George Rogers Clark Memorial

Military Museum, Vincennes, Indiana
Jim On The .50 Caliber

MORE PICTURES

"Boy, we hit the jackpot today," Jim mused on the drive back to Washington, reflecting on our day of touristic overload. We were home in time to catch grandson Alton's T-Ball game at a nearby ball-field.

I spent another day in Washington, touring the area and visiting with Jim and his many family members and friends. Having listened to my GPS tales of losing myself in America, Jim sent me off with a spare road atlas for back up and, as a reminder of my visit to Indiana, a red-hooded sweatshirt emblazoned with his state's name and university logo.  I will treasure the memories of our enjoyable visit and look forward to the next one, which will hopefully be sooner than 41 years.


On To Indiana



Video 
June 6, 2013

The drizzling rain I woke to made me want to call in sick today. Not an inviting thought to ride 150 miles in the rain but I told my old friend, Jim, I'd be in his town of Washington, Indiana on this day. We've put off this visit for 41 years and time is running out. Better saddle up.

Due to road spray, riding even in light rain means getting drenched from the knees down. Loose-legged rain pants don't quite solve the problem, which is why I strap on gators and connect them to my gortex lined boots. Once going through the preparation it is actually frustrating if the rain quits. And it did just that by the time I reached Interstate 65 for the short jaunt south to a stretch of highway leading to Radcliff. The road dried but clouds still threatened. Rather than having to go through the rain preparation again I stayed suited, locked in humid warmth, only tolerable if I kept moving. 

I've heard about Fort Knox all my life but never thought I'd be there. And I wasn't. But according to road signs I was passing right by it, somewhere. Never saw a speck of gold. Another item of interest I passed right by and might have stopped to look at if more convenient was the General George Patton Museum.

By the time I reached the town of Brandenburg the fact I hadn't eaten breakfast gave rise to the mental debate on whether to stop and un-suit for a restaurant stop, only to have to re-suit for more rain down the road. I compromised, stopping in a spot of shade and wolfing down a granola bar, chased by a few swigs from my water bottle. I motored on sweat free.

My chosen route took me through lots towns and every hoped for green light was red. I wondered if my decision to avoid Interstates was such a wise choice. Soon however, I crossed the Ohio River and a few miles farther north was a left turn onto 75-mph Interstate 64. The miles flew by.

I've never been to Indiana but always imagined it flat as a pancake and low in elevation. I was surprised when the GPS told me the hills I was rolling through were averaging 600 to 800 feet and some might have topped 1000 feet. The terrain did start to drop and flatten out by the time I took the Ferdinand exit and stopped for lunch at a handy, crowd-free Wendy's. From there it was 42 miles to Washington on the farm-bordered two-lane leading through Ferdinand, Jasper and Otwell.

I checked into Theroff's Motel on the east side of Washington and gave Jim Dant a call. Soon afterward he was knocking on the door of my room and, after 41 years, we were once again in face to face conversation. Though we'd already become reacquainted via telephone over the past few months, it was a monumental moment to finally meet once again. The years had erased the skinny kid images we projected when we were 22 years old but the personalities and voice inflections hadn't changed much and it wasn't long until we felt we'd never been apart.

Jim took me to his home where I met his wife, Terri, and daughter Britney who'd stopped by with grandbaby Lucy to accompany us to dinner at the town's favored Mexican Restaurant where we all enjoyed a "get acquainted" conversation and Jim and I made plans for tomorrow's excursion in the nearby countryside. 

Terri reminded Jim we needed to be at Britney's home by 3 p.m. for an arranged newspaper interview regarding the momentous occasion of our being reunited after 41 years. It was a chore neither Jim nor I looked forward to but, given the importance Terri and Britney affixed to it, we played along.


Bardstown, Kentucky to Washington, Indiana (155 Miles)









Kentucky Roots

Before Bardstown, Kentucky became an official town in 1788, the surrounding region was already filling with pioneers traversing the Wilderness Road blazed by Daniel Boone ten years before. Among those early settlers was Thomas Newman who migrated from Botetourt County, Virginia and settled west of Bardstown on 400 acres he was awarded in 1783 for his service during America's Revolutionary War. Thomas and his wife, Mary, arrived in 1785 with 6 children and doubled that count with the birth of their last child in 1791. Their land acquisitions also increased and by the time of Thomas' death in 1820 he owned at least 900 acres along Lick Creek, 12 miles west of Bardstown. It is the graves of Thomas and Mary Newman that I've come here to find. They were my 5th great grandparents.

June 1, 2013
I exited the Blue Grass Parkway two miles shy of Bardstown under a darkening sky and imminent threat of rain.  The  "America's Inn" motel seemed a convenient choice, especially because the expected deluge commenced as soon as I released the last bungee cord from my pack and hefted it to the covered walkway outside my room. Convenient except for food. I stood under the overhang watching the thunderous downpour, debating whether to snorkel my way to town for dinner or visit the gas station/convenience store across the highway where I might find a cellophane-wrapped sandwich. Either option would be quite a swim, albeit the latter was shorter. I waited for a break in the storm and made a run for it, returning with a sack full of nutrition-lacking snacks.

June 2, 2013
Next morning the weather hadn't changed much. More rain. But I had plenty of computer work to occupy my time as the afternoon drizzled on. Eventually, the clouds broke and sunshine steamed a dry path to town.

I entered Bardstown from the south on Hwy 31, passing a couple of odd looking warehouses --- Huge, 6-story structures, black with red-trimmed windows. I would later learn these are called "rack houses" where aging barrels of bourbon are stored and that Bardstown is considered the bourbon capital of Kentucky, home to several distilleries, including the granddaddy of them all, Jim Beam, whose ancestor, Jacob Beam, started the industry in these part back in 1795.

Immediately captivated by Bardstown's historic ambiance, I was soon wandering the streets, camera in hand, capturing photos of old stone buildings brightly lit by late afternoon sun. At the city hub, circled by a roundabout, is the impressive 1892 courthouse, now serving as the Bardstown Visitor Center. Among signs of historical interest is one announcing Bardstown's 2012 status as The Most Beautiful Small Town in America.     PICTURES

Across from the visitor center the Old Talbott Tavern has been in continuous operation, offering lodging, food and drink to travelers since it was built in 1779. Of course it wasn't always called the Talbott Tavern. It has been called  Hynes House, Bardstown Hotel, Chapman's House, Shady Bower Hotel, The Newman House (Interesting), Talbott Hotel, Talbott Tavern and Old Stone Tavern, Inc. (Reference: Nelson County Genealogical Roundtable, Pages 89 and 90, Nelson County Library.) History lists Daniel Boone among its early guests as well as the 2-child family of Thomas and Nancy Lincoln who stayed there in 1815 during a court battle over ownership of their farm near Hodgenville, about 20 miles south of Bardstown. The court ruled against Thomas Lincoln who, the following year, moved his family to Indiana. His son, Abraham, was then seven years old.

An interesting side note regarding the Old Talbott Tavern is my discovery that it was previously known as the "Newman House" before the proprietor, Thomas Newman, sold it to his in-laws, Ben and George Talbott in 1885. Obviously, this could not be "my" Thomas Newman who died in 1820. Nor could it be his son, also named Thomas, who died in 1828 at age 50. But the younger Thomas also had a son named Thomas who could have been living in 1885 or perhaps also passed on the name Thomas to the next generation. I wonder if one of them was the Thomas Newman in question?

Having accumulated a camera full of photos from a lengthy walk around town I looked forward to my first sit down dinner in several days, choosing a Mexican restaurant in the historic district. I was seated near a biker foursome, a family on a day ride from Louisville, 30-or-so miles north. We shared riding stories and they seemed downright interested in hearing about my lengthy journey but questioned the sanity of doing it alone. Didn't I get lonely? Well, I am too busy for loneliness and it probably helps that I'm not much of a talker anyway. This was the first actual conversation I'd had with anyone in over a week, maybe more.


Looking South on North 3rd Street
Bardstown Visitor Center Was Built in 1892 as The Nelson County Courthouse.
The flag at half mast is in honor of a Bardstown Police Officer who was 
shot and killed by ambush a week earlier.     Read about it  Here

The Visitor Center From Another Angle

The Old Talbot Tavern Was Built in 1779

Had Dinner Here


June 3, 2013
Top of the list on today's agenda was to find a laundromat and recycle my dirty clothes. I inquired at the office and the East Indian lady who, along with her husband, manages the small motel said for $7 per load she would do it. I was more than pleased with such convenience and was able to change plans, which included a visit to the Bardstown library to peruse the area history and perhaps find additional information on my ancestor, Thomas Newman.

I already have information that gravestones for Thomas and Mary no longer exist and that they are buried in what is called the Harned-Newman Cemetery at the intersection of Old Boston Road (Hwy 62) and Road 733 (Bellwood Road) about 12 miles west of Bardstown. I also knew, like many of the cemeteries in this part of the country, the graves are on private property. But I was unsure what corner of the intersection was the correct property and I wondered if the owner actually lived there? 

Consulting a book listing the area cemeteries I learned an actual address and that the Harned-Newman Cemetery was next to another small cemetery called "Sprigg Cemetery". Both had the same address. In viewing the interments I noted Sprigg was the married name of Hannah Harned, daughter of Jonathan and Catherine Harned who are said to be buried next to Thomas and Mary Newman. I suspect the Newmans are related to the Harneds and Spriggs but have yet to discover that connection.

Thomas Newman started with 400 acres on Lick Creek where it intersects the Beech Fork of the Rolling Fork of the Salt River. That location is pinpointed at the bottom left of the blue shaded area on the map below. It should be noted the shaded areas are complete speculation, merely connecting to Lick Creek and not necessarily placed on the correct "side" of Lick Creek. (As of this writing, two moths later, I kick myself for not attempting a verification of land boundaries by a records search at the Nelson County Courthouse in Bardstown.)

Thomas Newman purchased an additional 350 acres on Lick Creek in 1792 and another 160 acres in 1819, again on Lick Creek. The colored area on the map below is not to scale but shows the general vicinity of the properties.

Lick Creek, upstream from where it dumps into the "The Rolling Fork," comprises the left border of all properties. Lick Creek also runs along the northern border of the amber-shaded section. From there, it is approximately 1 mile to the grave of Thomas Newman, which would negate my assumption he was buried on his own property ..... unless that property, which is said to border Lick Creek, was on the north side of the creek and the 160 acre boundary was narrow enough to extend that far north? 

Estimated Vicinity of Thomas Newman's Land




June 4, 2013
Having procrastinated long enough, today's mission was to find Thomas Newman's grave. But knowing the gravestone had crumbled away years ago, it would be an imaginary viewing only. Actually, I didn't expect to find any markers at all, whether they be Harned, Sprigg or Newman. Nevertheless, I felt compelled to see and photograph the area.

Only the southeast corner of Old Boston Road and County Road 733 had trees and bushes capable of hiding a small cemetery. That and the fact the adjacent brick home had large numbers on the front matching the address listed in the library's cemetery book, I knew it was the correct spot. All I needed was permission to enter the property. But it didn't appear anyone was home.  Suddenly, as if meant to be, a car appeared from behind the house, coming down the gravel drive straight toward me.

I intercepted the young man behind the wheel and declared my affiliation with the cemetery, asking permission to view the graves. As if used to such requests he said I was certainly welcome to do so and that it had been recently mowed. I would have liked to talk to him more but, though congenial, he seemed disinterested in furthering the conversation, perhaps in a hurry to get to where he'd started for. I did learn that he has only owned the property for about a year and a half and knows no history of the graves there, but seems agreeable to their preservation, probably at the behest of a local cemetery association.

Even though my ancestors weren't among them I found the old stones fascinating. Jonathan Harned is also a veteran of The American Revolution. I noted he was 10 years younger and died 12 years after Thomas. Just the two men and their wives are listed as buried there. Jonathan's stone is barely discernible and has had a modern plaque placed at the bottom of it. The other stone, said to be Jonathan's wife, Catherine, has no discernible markings. Two oddly shaped, horizontal stones flank the standing stones but appear too thick to be toppled gravestones.  I'm curious as to their purpose, and even more curious as to the connection between the Harneds and Newmans? 

Some researchers have said Mary Newman's maiden name was Harned but most say it was Cockrane? As far as I know, no evidence has been discovered to prove either one. The modern marker for Jonathan Harned, plus the artificial flowers, indicate living descendants are tending his grave and perhaps live nearby. (I have since found leads to follow up on.)
Jonathan and Catherine Harned

Modern Marker For Jonathan Harned

Newman-Harned Cemetery Consists of Four Graves


After spending ample time photographing the area and capturing every conceivable angle of the Harned stones and those in the nearby Sprigg Cemetery, I looped south along Bellwood Road, a scenic country two-lane void of traffic, rolling by silo-dotted farms and grazing cattle, the highlights of which appear in the video below. My day ended at the Old Talbott Tavern for an early supper and historical pondering of life in these parts those many years ago.

Video of My Countryside Ride and Visit of Thomas Newman's Grave


Loop Ride Shown in Video Above




June 5, 2013
I planned on a narrated tour of Bardstown via the $5 trolley I learned about at the visitor center but abandoned the idea when my picture-taking walk to the starting point was taking much longer than anticipated. It was "iffy" if I'd make it in time for the top of the hour departure. So, I decided instead on lunch at the Circa Restaurant   , a converted stone home of 1780.

From the reasonably priced menu I ordered a BLGT sandwich, which is bacon, lettuce and “fried green” tomato. It was delicious and came with a uniquely flavored potato salad on a lettuce leaf garnished with grapes, cantaloupe, watermelon and slice of orange. I finished with a piece of Key Lime Pie and a cup of coffee while discussing with the waitress a wall-hung painting of "My Old Kentucky Home" located just a few blocks away, she said. I learned the waitress was not only the owner of the "live-in" restaurant but the artist of the painting. I made a mental note to visit "My Old Kentucky Home" as soon as I returned from my planned tour of the Jim Beam Distillery, 15 miles north of town at Clermont.
The Circa Restaurant is The Bardstown's Oldest Stone Home, Built in 1780

Owners of The Restaurant Live Upstairs

Inside Dining
Key Lime Pie


Jim Beam Distillery at Clermont, KY

Booker Noe, Grandson of Jim Beam, was "Master Distiller" (CEO) of the distillery 
from 1965 to 1995. He died in 2004 at age 74.


Aged at least 4 years, barrels of Jim Beam Bourbon are stored in "Rack Houses"



The Jim Beam Distillery has been in continuous operation since prohibition ended in 1932. The Beam family, however, started making bourbon in the area in 1795. The tour took longer than I anticipated and it was 5:15 p.m. by the time I returned to Bardstown, closing time for "My Old Kentucky Home." Needless to say, I missed the last tour. Though I could have easily spent a couple more days exploring Nelson County, Kentucky I was committed to a June 6th arrival in Washington, Indiana to visit my old Navy Buddy, Jim.

CLICK FOR JIM BEAM TOUR PICTURES











Tennessee / Kentucky Backroads

June 1, 2013
Somewhere east of Cookeville, Tennessee the interstate expediently moves the motoring horde north. But for me, the Harley and the GPS, what really spins our spokes is the solitude and serenity of country roads less traveled, which is precisely what we mapped out for today's 150-mile jaunt to Bardstown, Kentucky, the historic town of my 18th century ancestry where I plan to spend a few days before moving on to Indiana.

Backroads do have their set backs --- long, exhausting days without getting very far. Add to that the threat of rain and it causes one to wonder if ignoring the efficiency of the mile-busting interstate is a wise decision. Nevertheless, I was confident Tennessee and Kentucky have some decent secondary highways, ones with centerlines and road shoulders. Why is it then the GPS couldn't find any?

I have to admit the first mistake was mine. I was too busy ogling rivers, rolling hills, scare-crow guarded fields, and old barns, and failed to notice the GPS display directing me onto State Route 135 in the vicinity of Whitleyville, an unincorporated burg I never did see except when retracing my digital steps on Google Earth.

Not to worry, said the GPS as she recalculated and showed a right turn ahead promising it was an alternate route back to Hwy 135. Trust me, she said. But I was dubious.  Names like "Crabtree Creek Road" and "Pine Lick Road" never find their way to the Road Atlas Hall of Fame. Sure enough, we hadn't gone a quarter mile before the centerline disappeared and the narrowing asphalt devolved into a bed of tire-bruising ruts. Crabtree Creek Road looked like it might in fact turn into a creek bed. Tire swings and car bodies decorated some of the yards we passed and I wondered if, at any moment, a frothing Cujo-style dog might burst forth in levi-chomping frenzy, his backup a double-barreled-yankee-hating redneck. 

There I go again, letting my stereotypical imagination run wild. None of that happened. In fact we saw no sign of 4-legged or 2-legged life as we meandered peacefully for a couple of miles to a one-lane bridge with what appeared to be a dirt road on the other side.  The GPS finally admitted defeat, agreeing to back track to where I missed the turn onto Hwy 135.

After climbing several miles through deciduous forest, civilization appeared once again and I could see good road ahead, which is why I had issues when the GPS wanted me to ignore my lyin' eyes and turn onto another goat trail. Seems we couldn't go five miles before she wanted to turn again. In frustration, I pulled to the side of the road, dismounted, and removed from a zippered compartment a "real" Tennessee road map I paid more than $6 for in Andrews, North Carolina. I bought it for this very reason, the final word in my ever-increasing disagreements with the GPS. The bad news though was realizing we were a half-inch from Kentucky and this would be my first and last "final word" on Tennessee navigation. I needed to buy another map but was finding them a rare commodity in this age of technology.

I noticed on the paper map the goat trail suggested by the GPS was a short cut to Clementsville Road, the route we all agreed on. I gave her credit for accuracy but no points for logic. We took the good road, even though it was maybe a mile or two longer.

Back to her old tricks, the GPS insisted on turns at nearly every intersecting road. She was doing it for spite, I'm sure. But what could I say? Tennessee was fading behind us and I had no "real" map of Kentucky. The next town was Tompkinsville. I intended to stop there and have a serious discussion with the GPS as well as search for a no nonsense map.

I pulled into a parking lot under the watchful eye of two imposing churches, one emanating Godly music on its chimes. Such ambiance wasn't conducive for an argument with the GPS. Besides, I have to admit the GPS led me through that maze of country roads and I'm still on track. Besides, some of those roads don't even exist on a paper map. And as far as the scenery goes, the GPS really knows how to put on a show. 

Suddenly, I had an epiphany. In checking again the GPS navigational options I realized I had selected "shortest route" instead of "fastest route", which I mistakenly assumed would have sent us to the freeway. But, because under the "avoidance" options I'd selected to avoid freeways (which the GPS confusingly calls "highways"), the fastest route would then choose from fastest secondary roads, most often faster because the shorter ones are in bad repair and shaped like a spastic snake. Without hesitation I changed the selection, apologized to the GPS and rode on, completely forgetting to search for a paper map.

I'd been dodging thunder showers all day, luckily escaping downpours but seeing their left behind puddles quickly turn to steam on the hot, humid asphalt. Just north of Tompkinsville the sky looked serious enough to warrant rain gear. I stopped and suited up only to be out of the rain in a few miles and suffering the sauna effects of the rain gear. Stopped again to take it off. 

Passing through the tiny burg of Temple Hill, across from a tent-revival set up, I stopped at a convenience store, remembering my desire for a paper map. I didn't expect to find one but stopped anyhow because the store was, well, convenient.

"Kin I hep yew?" The plump lady behind the counter asked in Southern English while eying me with suspicion.

“Got any maps”? I asked, hopefully.

“Nope. Don’t have any maps”. The lady said. “Whereya tryin’ ta get tew”?

“Well, I know where I’m going now (an idle boast) but will be in Kentucky for a while and will need it later. My GPS keeps sending me down dirt roads. Can’t find anywhere to buy a real map.”


“I know”. The lady responded with a chuckle. “Not since they came out with cell phones.”

Sign of the times (even in Kentucky), I thought. Real maps are now rare as hen’s teeth …. to coin a country phrase.

More curvy, up and down roads led north to Glasgow, an old-brick-building town I’m sure is rich in stories of the past should one stop and ponder its history, which I didn’t have time to do. The sky was getting darker and darker, no doubt ready to cut loose again. At my request, the GPS led us the short distance to Interstate 65. There comes a time when you just have to say "no" to scenic tranquility if you want to put a quick end to a grueling day. You just have to jump in there and grab and growl with the rest of them, fighting for a suitable position in the fast moving herd. Soon, I was up to 70 mph and covering the remaining 62 miles to Bardstown pretty quickly, the last 20 or so on the “Blue Grass Parkway”.

As we review the day's ride on Google Earth, while listening to a thunder-laced downpour outside, the GPS wants me to mention that Crabtree Creek Road does in fact lead to Hwy 135, three miles further than I was willing to go. Yeah, right. So does the creek itself, which would probably make for a better road.

Below is a two-part video showing today's ride:




Cookeville, TN to Bardstown, KY

Missed Turn at Whitleyville

On To Bardstown