On our last family road trip to the Pacific Northwest, my wife and I drove a big loop with our daughter, then 6. We hit Seattle and the Canadian provinces of British Columbia and Alberta. On the way south toward Portland, we stopped at Walla Walla in southeastern Washington. Nice people, pleasant wineries.
This just may be America's sexiest city - a symphony of sand, surf and sherbet-colored sunrises set to a sassy salsa beat. It is palm trees and pulsating nightlife; torpid days and tropical nights; shimmering pools and shimmying revelers.
"Nuclear weapon" is a broad term for any weapon involving a reaction among atomic nuclei. An atomic bomb is one kind of nuclear bomb; a hydrogen (or thermonuclear) bomb is another kind that's more powerful.
On a spring morning in high, dry southern Washington, a bright yellow bus rumbled to a stop in a lot at the Hanford Site near the Columbia River. The fourth-graders of Orchard Elementary School in nearby Richland, Wash., were about to see one of this nation's newest historical parks, surrounded by a valley filled with sagebrush, eagles and elk.
Aspen, Colo., conjures images of luxury and uber-wealth. Movie stars, oil sheiks and hedge-fund big boys have homes here, and Prada, Louis Vuitton and Gucci cater to those who don't need to check price tags.
When Beth Moody saw a recent ad on Facebook that the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum was asking "citizen historians" to crowdsource articles about the Holocaust from 1933 to 1945 from local newspapers, she didn't hesitate.
Thomas Jefferson would most likely flip his wig over the current state of politics, but it's safe to assume he'd be pleased with the condition of Charlottesville, Va., which served as both his home and artistic playpen.
Most of the boat is asleep when we pass through Ballard Locks in Seattle shortly before midnight. Blotchy, heavy clouds are stacked like anvils above a purple horizon. Stars wink here and there, a promise of a clearer night. Salmon still run freely between the fresh water of Lake Washington and the salt water of Puget Sound, through a fish ladder integrated within the locks.
In my 50-year-old, banged-up Grumman 17-foot aluminum canoe (do they even make these anymore?), we were floating through the Class I riffles near the headwaters of the Rappahannock River, 60 miles west of Washington, when the idea of paddling something more challenging occurred: “What about rafting the Grand Canyon?” said my friend Ann from the bow.
A lone coyote darts through a snowy meadow, disappearing into the mist enshrouding a grove of cedars. Icicles sparkle from the mossy trunks of massive pine trees. Snow drifts and waterfalls tumble down the faces of majestic granite monoliths.