H.B. could not wait to leave The Orchard forty years ago and did not want to return. He had no choice. The Orchard is the true story of escapes to beautiful parts of the world, to help ease the regret of ending up in the place from where he started.
West took solace in the traditions he established with his friends over the years. Holiday dinners continued in Georgia, with plantation quail hunts and trips to Panama City Beach. He developed a love interest and spent a winter at the beach. The reader goes along on adventures to Costa Rico, Mexico, and exciting trips in Alaska. A month-long road trip across the United States and Canada. A fun road trip with his dog to hunt wild pheasants in North Dakota.
This may be his last time to venture out alone. The prospect of walking the C2C Path and the Highlands for Atlantic Salmon beckoned. A chance for lunch with the unforgettable Ms. Sam. You will enjoy the memorable characters, the great food, and better whiskey. The loves lost and found.
Tales from The Orchard is an articulate accounting of surviving emotional loss, financial setback, and living life to its fullest.
H.B. could not wait to leave The Orchard forty years ago and did not want to return. He had no choice. The Orchard is the true story of escapes to beautiful parts of the world, to help ease the regret of ending up in the place from where he started.
West took solace in the traditions he established with his friends over the years. Holiday dinners continued in Georgia, with plantation quail hunts and trips to Panama City Beach. He developed a love interest and spent a winter at the beach. The reader goes along on adventures to Costa Rico, Mexico, and exciting trips in Alaska. A month-long road trip across the United States and Canada. A fun road trip with his dog to hunt wild pheasants in North Dakota.
This may be his last time to venture out alone. The prospect of walking the C2C Path and the Highlands for Atlantic Salmon beckoned. A chance for lunch with the unforgettable Ms. Sam. You will enjoy the memorable characters, the great food, and better whiskey. The loves lost and found.
Tales from The Orchard is an articulate accounting of surviving emotional loss, financial setback, and living life to its fullest.
DECEMBER 15, 2007
THE ORCHARD, MARYLAND
Despite the many fond memories of this place, I would rather be some place else. Nowhere specific, most anywhere else. I could not wait to leave here forty couple years ago, and now I'm back. Seems like a waste.
Almost ten months ago now, I moved to The Orchard with my dog, Jack. It is our first Christmas here. It is also our first Christmas alone.
Jack is happy here. He has his door to a large fenced-in yard, which various critters pass through from time to time. He does not realize we are stuck here. The necessary restoration to the house has left me cash poor. With that thought, I put another log on the fire and pour another round over the ice.
A blast of winter from the north wind rumbles in the chimney. The large fireplace built for cooking has cinnamon-flavored water simmering in the iron kettle. It's hissing, popping, and crackling as embers jump to the red leather wingback chair. A flick of the wrist sends the hot embers to the brick floor. There is a tinkle of ice in a crystal snifter covered over by Tennessee whiskey. It was not the first one tonight—wood fires and good whiskey a perfect end to a good day.
Jack is curled up on his dark green, round bed in front of the roaring fire, with flames well up the chimney. It is not a small, cuddly, romantic fire. It is ablaze, fitting of two hunters’ home from the hills. We had hunted pheasants in the afternoon. Jack and I flushed and retrieved four for the freezer. Jack is a joy to behold, intelligent, fast, biddable, yet he is a Springer. Not in his make-up to be perfect, pretty much his own self, just beautiful and fun to watch work. This Christmas, it is just the two of us as all my friends have families and are busy with their plans. Tonight, Jack and I are tired, warm, and at peace with the world. We do not need company. Not that anyone would just stop by for a nice whiskey. We are far too distant for that. The whiskey tastes as it was meant to when enjoying a good cigar.
The memories that hang on the walls and by the fireplace have been with me all my life. My great-grandfather’s Sharps musket hangs under the mantel. His Union cavalryman’s sword is on the right sideboard. It is all that remains from his time. My Grandfather’s dozen or so paintings hang on the walls.
I have hung his still-life oil of fruit and a wine jug over the wine rack. The watermelon pastel is over the butler's sink. A Scottish Highlander's staghorn walking stick hangs to the left of the hearth. That stick is full of memories for me; it is the spur to get me out of The Orchard and live life to the fullest.
I have never lived here without a dog. Jinx filled that role in my childhood.
My thoughts drift back to a slower time. Then, Jinx and I hunted the springs and coverts of Cool Spring Farm, where the Union Army camped before going to Gettysburg. I find myself wishing Jack and I could do the same tomorrow, but they are no more. Gone to private property, no trespassing, no dogs, no guns.
Faintly, the wale of sirens disturbs my reminiscing. There was more than one. I gave it little thought, eyes closed, head nodding, fancying Jinx, flushing quail to reality. The sirens were closer now, at the top of the hill by the Union Meeting House.
The flashing red lights came splashing through my front windows, bouncing off the fireplace, jolting me back to the here and now. The sirens had stopped, but the red lights had not. They did not pass by. Panic filled every fiber of my being. Could sparks from my fire have set my house on fire, worse my neighbor’s? My imagination was running wild. I had five or more Jack Daniels than I needed.
Someone was banging the brass knocker on the front door. I staggered toward the door. Jack got there ahead of me, barking and jumping. The century-old lock did not want to unlock. I cussed it; the door opened.
The volunteer fireman hands me a candy cane, "Merry Christmas," with a smile.
ONE LAST JOB
C.S. "Hunley" Johnson's call found me enjoying Happy Hour at the Tasting Room in Frederick, which would make it a Friday—faithfully observing a long-standing tradition. This one was the Friday before Memorial Day 2006.
Against my better judgment, it is the weekend.
“Wassup?”
"I hired three new guys, good men. I've known them for years."
"That's cool. Send me their info so I can get them paid."
"We could use a couple more. So why don't you come out? We can make you billable."
“I don’t know,” finishing my whiskey.
“Fly out Monday; I'll get you into the hotel and pick you up at the airport.”
“Hold on, Hunley… Let me think on it… Billy. May I have another one, please?" "Give me a minute, Hunley” . In less than a minute, he has a fresh whiskey in front of me.
I've known Hunley for some years now, and I should have known better. There is always one more question I should have asked. Hunley and I worked together at one of the world's largest engineering/construction firms. We worked well together and built a business from nothing into something when a merger left us looking for something else to do. Neither of us was good at corporate politics. But we knew how to get business, and we did. Commissioning and validation had become one of the most expensive line items in building a pharmaceutical plant. So, I transformed my old engineering company into a company that performed commissioning and validation. Somehow or another, we landed a project in a burb of Seattle. Magic.
Memorial Day found me in the First-Class cabin of Northwest Airlines from Dulles to Seattle. Hunley picked me up, and about 40 minutes later, we arrived at an unknown extended stay place. It could be described as semi-comfortable, with a lovely outdoor pool.
"We need to be at the job site at 6:00. I'll drive. Meet me in the lobby at 5:30. We can get your Hertz car after work." after work was twelve hours later.
The hotel didn’t serve breakfast until 6:00 am, and we were on the job site at 6:00 am. Six guys were staying in this place for five months, and they could not adjust their hours. No, breakfast is not good. I'm not worth much without breakfast.
I’m jet-lagged and tired.
I stayed that way all summer.
We needed more people on the job. I called C.J. Smith. An engineer by education, he would be anal enough to be good at this job. He arrived in early June. He fit in very well, a duck to water.
The hotel is within walking distance of a respectable bar that served food. It turned out to be a local meet market for the over-forty crowd. One night there, I was late, and when I arrived, C.J., who had been chatting up a semi over-served fortyish attractive lady, invited me to join them. The fortyish lovely lady excused herself and headed to the restroom. Staggering and stumbling as she did so.
Upon her return, still staggering, I gave her an inquiring look.
“I can hold my liquor.”
“How, by the ears?” She thought about that for a moment; humor escaped her. She hurried out the door.
I flew home over the 4th of July to incarcerate my mother in an assisted living place, long overdue. She failed the initial interview at a nice place in Westminster, an attitude problem. So, I logged her into a home in Middleburg, where most everyone she knew went there to die. I guess if you know you're going to a place to die, it might as well be a place where you know people.
The real significance of this is that the family home of almost a hundred years is now vacant. It needs work.
A routine of sorts settled in, twelve-hour days Monday through Friday, Saturday offered a break from the drudgery. We only worked six hours and then, oh joy, I got to play golf with our client and Hunley in the afternoon. Sunday was fun day. The damn hotel did not provide breakfast on weekends. C.J. and I would start early searching out local wineries. Chateau St. Michel was five minutes away. The ferry to Whidbey Island was a short drive. We would have needed a month of Sundays to cover all the wineries adequately. We discovered Whidbey’s American Port; we bought the entire vintage. By the end of summer, we had amassed eight cases of wine that we had not yet consumed. I was way too tired, not feeling at all well. Not that long ago, the cardiologist diagnosed coronary artery disease. I was feeling my age, only a few months from Medicare.
The Wednesday before Labor Day Weekend, I bought Hunley dinner.
“I’m firing myself.”
"Hang in. We’ll finish up by Thanksgiving."
"Sorry, but I'm tired, and I think sick. I'm going home this weekend."
Shaking his head, “Is C.J. going with you?”
“No, he’ll stay to the end.” I had already had a seance with C.J., and we worked out a plan to get our wine back to Maryland.
“Suppose I buy a truck and drive it home.”
“What kind of truck are you thinking about?”
“I’ve always wanted a Range Rover.”
On the Sunday of Labor Day Weekend, we loaded eight cases of wine, golf clubs, and a couple of Sage fly rods into the cargo area of a brand spanking new Range Rover. On Labor Day itself, I headed my brand spanking new Range Rover west out of Seattle. Found myself a cabin overlooking Puget Sound, hired a fly-fishing guide, fished for steelhead in the morning, played golf at Meadowmeer Golf Club in the afternoon, and treated myself to dinner at the best restaurants I could find. There was no shortage of great places to eat. Didn’t like the guide, fired him on the second day, slept in for a couple of days, gave up golf, continued enjoying fabulous dinners at The Oyster & Thistle, with good whiskey and great local wine.
The end of each day found me perched on a stool, in a small neighborhood bar, at the short end of the bar’s elbow, my back to a PBR neon sign, charming a leggy blond barkeep, with dark brown roots, who wore her shirt unbuttoned enough to encourage an extra tip or two. A waspy waist and long shapely legs that did not need to be propped up on a pillow. She was a few years short of meeting the Hemingway standard.
The first rule of road tripping is: If you think you might want or need something, bring it with you.
Despite all this fun, I still didn’t feel up to snuff. The prescription became clear over a nightcap with the leggy blond barkeep with dark brown roots. I had gotten to know her some, didn't smoke; her hair smelled like wild lavender. I told her I have always wanted to visit the San Juan Islands. She said a ferry nearby can get you there, not us. She was almost persuaded—something about the band of gold on my left hand.
Friday Harbor did not disappoint.
Charming, rustic, the harbor filled with the tall masts of sailing yachts, shops, restaurants, and bars line the street, and if you're not careful, you might drive right through it without knowing it. However, it is a town for exploring on foot. I found a delightful inn on the outskirts, parked the truck, and set out on foot to find the bar I drove past that overlooked the harbor.
I felt this place was different as I walked toward the harbor. It looked comfortable, with a lot of charm. The warm air tasted of a hint of salt and heavy on my skin. I was excited to be here. Downriggers became my go-to place on those days that I could not walk past the Cask & Schooner.
I've ever tasted the best oysters, petite, sweet, on the half shell, served with Chateau St. Michel chardonnay. A warm sun blessing the patio, sailboats gently rolling in the blue water, wonderful wine, fighting off thoughts of regret that the leggy blond barkeep with dark brown roots was not here.
Not to take anything away from Chesapeake Bay oysters, but these were exceptional. I don’t know if they were Samish Bay, Olympias, or Kumamoto’s, as I was too busy enjoying them to ask. I tried other places to eat, but I somehow managed to come back here at least once a day. I remember, I varied from the half-shell menu and tried Westcott Bay Oysters, baked as a prelude to fresh pan-seared halibut.
Leggy blond barkeep with dark brown roots would have enjoyed this. I had bought a couple of cheap aluminum lawn chairs at a hardware store in Oak Harbor with hopeful thoughts that did not pan out. So instead, touring the island occupied most days, looking for a perfect place to relax and breathe in the scenery. There was no golf, no fishing, even though I kept an eye out for a likely stream while driving around but didn't find any appealing. I can say the same about the pickings at the local bars.
I parked the truck on the side of a narrow road, no evidence of civilization in sight. No tourists, no locals, no evidence that humankind existed, only a Magpie fussing about for company. Unfolded a chair, set it up on the shoulder of a grassy hill with wild lavender running toward the water's edge, a patch of poppies here and there, with Mount Rainier filling in the distant horizon. A pod of Orca's played a few yards offshore. It could have been three or four. I awoke as the sun was falling behind the hill, setting the sky on fire. A chill had set in. I enjoyed more wine, and oysters were at Downriggers.
I don't remember how many days I was in Friday's Harbor, only that it was not enough. At some point, I decided I needed to visit Victoria, British Columbia. I leave Friday Harbor with an empty feeling. It would have been better if she had come along.
There is a ferry, and there are customs, and there are hefty tariffs on wine, and I have eight cases.
Customs Station Inspector at the ferry terminal, “May I see your passport and driver’s license.”
"Yes, sir."
The officer peers into the cargo area of the brand spanking new Range Rover. Taking my documents with him, he strolls to the rear of the truck and opens the tailgate. Carefully, he surveys the eight cases of wine, golf clubs, and the two Sage fly rods still strung up. He paid little attention to my luggage.
“Mr. West, do you have any business in Canada?”
"No, sir, I'm just touring before heading home." I heard myself say this.
“Mr. West, do you have anything in this vehicle that you plan to leave in Canada?”
"Well, officer, there may be a golf ball or two that gets left behind, but nothing else."
“Have a nice day.”
"Yes, sir." Right foot hits the floor.
I checked into the famous Fairmont Empress and set out to explore the beautiful
Capital District and harbor area. Gardeners meticulously cared for the flower beds, not a wilted blossom in sight. There is no litter. There is no graffiti. The architecture is stunning.
I discovered Murchie's, a local landmark, for a fabulous lunch and a much-needed place to sit down and rest my feet. After that, more urban trekking around the harbor, into Old Town, found a bookstore, bought a map Back Roads of British Columbia, then over to Chinatown and back to the Empress, named for Queen Victoria, Empress of India.
I found my way into the Bengal Lounge tucked away in a far corner off the main lobby.
Plush.
British Raj. Elegant.
Gunga Din is here somewhere.
Maharaja, Ranjit Singh, holds forth over a cadre of hangers-on in a private corner, far from the lobby. Rudyard Kipling is sipping a cup of tea, head buried in the latest edition of The Northern Star.
Peachy and Danny, legs crossed, pith helmets dangling from the toes of their knee-high leather boots, full dress uniforms, plotting some nefarious adventure. Comfortable in tufted red leather sofas tucked in the corner with two lovely ladies draped in flowing sari, be-jeweled foreheads. Servers in starched white Nehru jackets, creased black trousers bring Bengal Tiger martinis, stirred, not shaken. Dark hardwood floors littered with oriental carpets. Floor to ceiling columns encased in polished teak with brass sconces with a single candle, soft, romantic.
Slumped in an oversized leather sofa by the glowing fireplace, PH Jim Corbett, whisky in hand, chatting with "Papa," whose whisky was half gone. He gestured at the full stretched out skin and growling head of the man-eating tigress of Champawat, mounted above the hearth, mantel to ceiling. Champawat had claimed 436 victims before Corbett killed her after a harrowing stalk with two shots from his old black powder Martini Henry. Corbett specialized in only hunting tigers and leopards that were man-eaters and always alone. There were, occasionally, innocent victims. "Papa" gave a slow, knowing smile and raised his glass in salute, emptied it, ordered another one.
A statue of a life-size black panther stands guard by the entrance, a Raja Ravi Varma mural of sumptuous lakeside India hangs over the bar. Most of the half dozen comfortable bar stools were unoccupied, those that were spilled an aroma of exotic curries and Bombay Stingers—driving my nostrils to delusions. There are no unattached ladies.
I don't like curry; nobody interesting at the bar have had too much fish and needed a steak. I left the Empress, found a steak house with a friendly bar and bourbon. Struck up some chatter with the locals, still no unattached ladies, learned the road to Whistler is one of the most scenic in the world.
The road to Whistler is a narrow two-lane mountain trail bordering crystal blue lakes, reflecting snowcapped mountains, and was under construction to accommodate traffic for the upcoming Winter Olympics. I wished for a designated driver. The scenery is distracting my driving. I wanted a designated driver. The summer, people had gone home or back to school, and the winter crew had not yet arrived. The shops, restaurants, and bars had already jacked up their prices. I found the golf course, got paired with a guy and his girlfriend and a timber baron to round out the foursome. A lonesome coyote looking for a meal joined us on the sixth tee. He went about his business unhurried by our presence. I enjoyed a couple of beers with the timber baron, got a call from C.J. Smith, said I needed to sign some papers, and would meet me in Vancouver in two days. He had been home to Maryland and went by my house to pick up waders, vest, and other fly-fishing essentials. He brought them along.
C.J. found me at the Harborside Marriott at happy hour on the second day. Said I looked tired. Told him I didn’t feel well but could not put my finger on why. After a couple of drinks, we headed out of the Marriott. As we climbed up the hill on Alberni Street, we passed a two-story Chinese restaurant. On the ground level, the cooks were making noodles by hand. C.J. insisted this was the place for dinner. We climbed the stairs to the mezzanine level and entered the restaurant proper.
We each ordered a whiskey to recuperate from walking up the hill and bide some time while surveying the menu. Again, C.J. insisted we have the smoked tea duck and a delightful chardonnay. Our server, an attractive Asian girl, told me she was spoken for and did I like my duck. I did indeed. To this day, C.J. says it was the best meal he has ever had. This from a man who traveled the Far East, lavishly, at our government's expense. It was memorable. I don’t think either of us has ordered smoked tea duck anywhere else, knowing it would not measure up.
The next day must have been a Sunday. C.J. headed back to work with the signed papers, and I headed north to the backcountry with my fly-fishing gear.
Merritt is the Country Music Capital of Canada; a few miles southeast is Corbett Lake Lodge. It was a lovely three-hour drive to the Lodge. The lake and Lodge are world-renowned as fabulous fly-fishing destinations. It is well with stocked Kamloops trout tipping the scales between twelve and eighteen pounds. They are why I came here.
The Lodge sits on three hundred acres of ponderosa pine, spruce, aspen, and expansive wildflower meadows. There are no neighbors in sight. The rustic log lodge provides a panoramic view of Corbett Lake from the dining room and the lounge.
I arrived at the Lodge midafternoon, booked in for several days, settled into my room. I noticed a pier at the bottom of the hill stretching out into the lake. There were jonboats docked on both sides. It would be possible to cast a fly off the dock, except for other guests tossing bits of food to several colossal trout. Disappointed and disgusted, I headed for the bar.
Instead of fishing the next day, I drove into Merritt. The town was quiet, with no traffic, a few native Americans lounging on porches. The annual rodeo was last week. I found a pharmacist, described my symptoms, told him as a child growing up in The Orchard; I was susceptible to hay fever at this time of the year. This sickness did not feel precisely like The Orchard's hay fever, which sometimes developed into asthma, but it was close. I walked out with a dozen pills of what, I don’t know.
I stayed one more night at the Lodge. Did not make any friends, did not even strike up an interesting conversation with any other guests or staff. The pills helped some; could sleep all night. There was not a good way to fish the lake, didn’t feel well enough to cope with a boat A guide service did not exist, moved on. The Lodge disappointed me.
The decision not to go to Banff was hard fought. I figured it would be like Friday Harbor, one of those places you need to be with someone special. So, I headed southeast, heading to the Elk River in Fernie, western slope cutthroat trout. I passed through some of the most spectacular scenery in the world, complete with sighting grizzly bears lounging in a meadow. There are not a lot of roads leading in this direction. The one I was on took me to Kelowna, which, unbeknownst to me, was the home of some great wine. It was a total surprise and quickly put my miseries on the back burner. I think it is one of the most beautiful towns I've ever seen—a big blue lake surrounded by towering mountains with vineyards running downhill to the lake.
Here, the country is enormous, young, bold colors, rugged, and reaches out slaps you, saying," I am beautiful, love me." The countryside at home is older, softer, gentle shades of purple and green. It is subtle. It sneaks up on you, seduces your senses into a love affair.
I knew nothing of British Columbia wines. The architecture of Mission Hill Winery reached out and drew me in, stunning archway entrance, and so are their wines. Pinot Noir is a favorite, with Merlot as their backup. Their restaurant was not open, but I managed several rounds of tastings and ended up spending more time and money here than I expected. I could not determine my favorite, so I bought two cases of each. Now I have twelve cases of wine in the boot.
There were still several hours of daylight remaining as I headed across the bridge out of town. Still, two days to Fernie passed through Penticton, Osoyoos, several inviting wineries, did not stop. Made it to Castlegar, stopped for the night, impressed with the cleanliness of all the towns and villages. There is no graffiti, no litter; everything is clean and well maintained.
Arrived in Fernie late afternoon the next day. Checked into the Park Place Lodge, smack in the town center, a hop, skip, and jump from the Elk River Fly Shop. They provide guided float trips on the Elk River, native cutthroat on a dry fly, booked a half-day trip starting the following afternoon. Perfect, I'm still sick; get to sleep late. Brett Mason introduced himself as being my guide. He is a strapping young fellow, rugged good looks, and a devil-may-care attitude. Brett suggested some flies that might work and joined me for a beer at the hotel. He turns out to be a good guy, no toe ring, ski instructor in the winter, knows a bevy of local beauties.
After lunch, we met at the fly shop, loaded my gear into his pickup, guide boat in tow, and headed north for about an hour to the put-in ramp. The rain began halfway there—at last, a chance to use my new Sage 5#. Brett tied on a #6 Pink Lugger, barbless. It was cold, low forties, and windy. The Elk was dark and fast. There was no need to cast; just drop the fly on the water, and a cutthroat was on it like a New River smallmouth on cicadas. The action was fast and furious. The first one in the net was over twenty inches, fat, and fought hard, jumping and tail-walking, a great fish. Hooked three more before I landed my second fish, all fought hard, shaking off the barbless hook. Two black bears fishing along the riverbank took no notice. The rain had picked up; I was trembling and getting wet. After we netted a couple more, I lost count. “hey Brett, how much longer till we get home?”
“About two hours.”
"No way, put this thing in high gear; we're going home and drink some beer."
He did, and we did, and a couple of lovely local ladies joined us. I checked off the bucket list western slope cutthroat and possibly one other item. I am unsure of her age.
It took much of the next day to get to Sweet Grass, Montana. Enough time to reflect that I should have gone directly to Fernie from Victoria.
U.S. Customs inspector, after inspecting my papers, without checking the luggage area, “How long you been in Canada?”
“I don’t know, what day is it.”
“September 15.”
“About two weeks, I think.”
Now he’s looking at the golf clubs, strung up fly rods, twelve cases of wine.
“Did you spend five thousand dollars?”
“Oh, good lord, no.”
“Where you headed.”
“Home.” I heard myself say that again.
He walked to the front of the Range Rover and checked my license plate, Maryland.
Back at my rolled-down window, “Have a nice day.”
I exited Customs slowly, with style, grace, and grateful.
There were still three more days of hard driving to beautiful downtown Frederick, Maryland. I stopped by Mount Rushmore just because it was there.
Arrived just before happy hour, manually opened the garage door, backed the Range Rover into its new home, crossed the formal garden, and entered the house via the kitchen door.
“Hello, Luv.” Arms extended, looking for a welcome home hug or a kiss even.
“Yeah, well, I’m leaving you.”
I took a step back, “why the hell didn’t you tell me that four days ago while I was still in Montana.”
I walked two blocks to the Tasting Room; it is Friday. Jude will be there.
Tales from the Orchard by H.B. West is a thought-provoking tale of travel, traditions, and good food. The book starts in the year 2007 with H.B., a retired executive in engineering and construction, back in Orchard, Maryland, a place he'd left for good over 40 years ago. It's Christmas time and he and his dog Jack sit warmed by a fire, with H.B. drinking whiskey and looking at the wall over the hearth and all the memories hanging from it. First, he looks at his great-grandfather's Sharps musket, and then his Union Calvary man's sword. Of course, he can't forget the many pictures that belonged to his grandfather that bring back memories as well. As he sat with his dog, he'd never lived here without a dog, staring at a Scottish Highlander's walking stick, he thought, "it's just the thing, to get me out of Orchard and live life to its fullest." Suddenly, as H.B. sits reminiscing, red flashing lights and sirens can be heard. Jolted out of his seat, when he realizes they are in front of his house, he opens the door to an old friend. "Merry Christmas, One Last Job, his friend says." And by Memorial Day, H.B. was in a First-Class cabin on his way to Seattle, Washington.
Tales from the Orchard by H.B. West gives the reader an up- close and personal look at the author's life, travels, tastes in wine, whiskey, and women. As H.B. travels from Maryland to Seattle, to Florida, Georgia, North Carolina, and Costa Rica the reader will enjoy hearing where the best oysters and steak can be found, the best fishing spots, and all about the local hospitality of each place that H.B. travels. An intimate look at one man's travels, his love for his dogs, fishing, and search for peace, love, and true happiness. If you love to travel, then you'll love Tales from the Orchard by H.B. West.