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A Little Explanation

I am assuming that — to quote Richard Nixon’s “My fellow Americans— that those who live in Walla Walla, or Kalamazo-ooooo, will bypass this text. They might click on Oregon without knowing how to pronounce it as “Ore-GUN,” but they already understand that this Pacific Northwest state of mind is an out of the way gentle place, when compared to the hip-hop pace of a Hollywood, and the blatant chauvinism of New York City news “professionals” and so called comedic personalities.

Our experience in building this site, started with Alaska, where the whole population of “The Great Land,” the largest state in our Union, is only 1/10th that of New York City. My home in “Nowhere” is 3,500 miles away from the Mojave Desert where we are working on California Travel Magazine, which I feel is definitely worth visiting to somehow connect with a mysterious rock out of the Precambrian Era still on the move —though nobody had filmed that happening, yet— at a place called “the racetrack,” in Death Valley National Park.

We also know from our Internet logs that more than half of our readers are from “overseas.” We are working on providing reliable travel information without the slant of chamber of commerce visitor centers all shouting “Me, me, me,” and the bureaucratic dictates (as Washington State Tourism) funded by state hotel/motel taxes.

I was born into a frontier family of free Scots, Irish, French Huguenot, and highland Swiss that immigrated to the Carolinas in 1714, and kept going over the mountains to Tennessee, and Texas, and Oregon, Hawaii, and finally ran out of a “new world” at the Big Hurrah Mine, just outside of None, Alaska, I also can add to my linage, the “King of America.” This happened when Grandmother Pocahontas, the “Princess” daughter of Powhatten, was seated “above the salt,” when traveling to London to visit the Court of Saint James.

We also paid a price for democracy having fought the Revolutionary War at Kings Mountain, and Cowpens, the War of 1812, at New Orleans, and establishing the Republic of Texas. This is how it happened that I have two long gone cousins who were among the first Texas Rangers, and grandchildren of Mexicans who escaped the tyranny of Santa Ana by living in across the alley from the Alamo in San Antonio, Texas.

Roberta Dianne, my life mate, otherwise known as Bobby, and to my professional photographer grandsons as “Bobby Magee,” is a full quarter Saponi (or Eastern Sioux) and the great something granddaughter of German scientist Robert Koch. Ryan and Ty have DNA markers for Welsh, Russian, and Italian.

My point is, I think we can get away with pointing out that vacationing in America is in ways a sentimental journey “home” for citizens of the world. As we are a nation of immigrants I personally guarantee you, no matter where you are from that you have some sort of ethnic or religious connection to a distant cousin American. Remember our President is a, “Son of Africa, and Ireland.”  I can even direct people from India where to find a curry on an “Indian” Reservation — though I much prefer our natives being called American-Americans.

My personal regional objective as a native son of the Golden West in culturally sharing “this land, as your land,” beyond geographical icons, is to correct a mistaken concept that cowboys who have actually “earned their spurs,” are frightening bi-polar psychotic monsters of blood-and-guts film fame. As a 70-year old horse packer I hung up my authentic spurs — a misunderstood communication device between friends— for the comfort of a motorhome we called, Charlie Horse.

So, if you happen to be visiting “Nowhere” (a desert campground among Organ Pipe Cactus in Arizona, a bayou in Cajun Country, a quaking aspen forest in Montana, or an alligator filled cypress swap in Florida) and see our USATravelMagazines banner flying — well then, “hello the cabin,” to share a glass of the best cardboard-boxed wine money can buy.

Barry Murray

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