‘This Is The Place Death Delights To Help The Living’

by Melanie Renzulli on




The horrors of war and the medical techniques used on the wounded in the battlefield are incomprehensible to those of us who have never donned a soldier’s uniform. The National Museum of Health and Medicine, also known as the Army Medical Museum, puts these realities into context.

Founded during the Civil War as a center for medical study of gunshot wounds, amputations and other physical maladies, the museum was tucked away on the grounds of the Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington, D.C., from 1971 until 2011. When the Walter Reed Center outgrew its facilities, a new building was built for the National Museum of Health and Medicine next to the Silver Spring, Maryland, annex of Fort Detrick. Its official opening was May 21, 2012.

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(Warning: Some readers may find the images in this gallery quite gruesome. View at your own risk!)While this medical museum is small, housing only three galleries, its exhibits on skeletons, brain damage, disease and military medicine from the Civil War era to the present day are engaging, if not disconcerting. There are displays of baby skeletons; cross sections of parts of bodies to expose muscle tissue; a leg and a scrotum affected by elephantiasis; stillborn conjoined twins preserved in formaldehyde; a complete brain and spinal column, also preserved in a liquid solution; remains plucked from the battlefields of Antietam, Manassas, and Fredericksburg; and numerous bullets and bits of shrapnel. There are more than 500 bullets and pieces of shrapnel in the Civil War collection alone.

There are famous, or infamous, exhibits here, most notably the bullet that John Wilkes Booth used to kill Abraham Lincoln and the steamer trunk used by Dorothea Dix, who supervised the Union nurses during the Civil War. A recent addition to the collection is Trauma Bay II, the concrete slab that was the “primary resuscitation bay in the Emergency Department of the U.S. Air Force Balad Theater Hospital” in Iraq.

Although the displays that reference known historical figures do put these exhibits into context, it is the everyday soldier, who was injured, maimed, or died in war, whose sacrifices helped advance military medicine as we know it today. As stated in one of the displays, “This is the place death delights to help the living.”


Airport Toys With New Idea To Reduce Parking Problems

by Chris Owen on

At Boston’s Logan International, airport parking is a problem. Laws prevent building more parking facilities. To discourage overflow at existing lots, parking fees were raised sky high. Still, the demand is there and something had to be done about it.

“Logan has tried various ways to curb parking demand and wean passengers from driving to the airport,” said David Mackey of Massport, the state agency that operates the airport, reports MSNBC.

In March, transport officials tried raising airport parking fees to an all-time high of $27 per day while cutting fees to $7 a day at suburban lots that provide direct bus service to the airport. That had little effect.

Building more parking is not an option; the airport is barred from building new parking garages by environmental laws. Still, annual passenger traffic has risen 15.1 million in 1980 to 28.9 million last year and something had to be done.In a three-month pilot program that starts Wednesday, Boston Logan will become the first major airport in the United States to offer free transportation to and from downtown. It is an effort to cut cars both on the road and in parking lots at the fourth-busiest passenger hub in the Northeast.

“We don’t know of any other place where you can travel for free on the transit system coming from the airport to downtown,” said Virginia Miller, a spokeswoman for the American Public Transportation Association.

During the pilot program, the city will waive the $2 fare on the Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority’s Silver Line buses that take passengers from the airport to South Station in central Boston.

That’s good news for everyone really; compared with private vehicles, public transportation produces on average 95 percent less carbon monoxide per passenger mile.


[Flickr photo by by carrotmadman6]

Alcatraz Marks 50th Anniversary Of Famous Escape

by Sean McLachlan on


They said Alcatraz was escape-proof, but 50 years ago yesterday, three prisoners made an ingenious break out, paddled out into the cold waters of San Francisco Bay and disappeared.

On June 11, 1962, Frank Morris and brothers Clarence and John Anglin were ready to bust out of prison. Over the past year they had patiently chipped away at the air vents in their respective cells with spoons. At night they’d replace the vents and cover the expanding tunnels with pieces of colored cardboard.

On the night of the breakout they squirmed through the tunnels into an unused service corridor and made their way to the roof. To keep the guards from noticing they were gone, they left behind dummy heads in their beds made of paper maché and real hair gathered from the prison barbershop.

From the roof they climbed the barbed wire fence and floated away on a raft made of rubber raincoats. They were never seen again. Fragments of their raft and plywood paddles were found on Angel Island, two miles away from Alcatraz. Footprints led away from the raft and a car was stolen that night.

A fourth man, Allen West, didn’t make it to the rendezvous in time and was left behind.

Did the three men escape? Despite many rumors, none of them were ever found. A ship’s captain said he spotted a body floating in the bay wearing a prison uniform. The body wasn’t recovered. Their files remain open.

%Gallery-158021%According to legend, they would return to Alcatraz for a visit on the 50th anniversary. As unlikely as that sounds, US Marshal Michael Dyke spent yesterday on Alcatraz hoping to catch the aged fugitives. He left at the end of the day disappointed.

Alcatraz, also known as “The Rock,” started life as a fort. During the Civil War, local Confederate sympathizers and privateers were imprisoned there. It continued as a military prison through World War I, when it housed conscientious objectors. Alcatraz became a Federal prison in 1933 and was used to keep the most troublesome prisoners. Its guests included such model citizens as Al Capone and “Machine Gun” Kelly. It was closed in 1963.

Now Alcatraz is a National Park and open to the public. Visitors can see the prisoners’ cells and other areas, as well as the escape route of Morris and the Anglin brothers. All access to the island is via the private ferry company Alcatraz Cruises from Pier 33. Check out the gallery for some views of the prison, as well an intriguing shots of the escape route.

[Photo courtesy Bruce C. Cooper]

Vagabond Tales: Racing In The Baja 500 … In A Volvo Station Wagon

by Kyle Ellison on

One of the world’s most well-known and revered off-road racing events, the Baja 500 runs for approximately 440 miles through the deserts of Mexico’s Baja peninsula. Why it isn’t called the Baja 440 I don’t know, but then again, I just write on these sorts of things, not organize them.

A loop-course beginning and ending in the city of Ensenada, thousands of race participants and accompanying pit crews descend on the peninsula each June for a chance at calling themselves the fastest and dirtiest desert dogs on the entire peninsula. Over the course of the 42-year-old event some really big names with some really big money have gotten involved. Red Bull, Ford, Ducati – those sorts of guys.

The cash prizes can number over $300,000. There have been races with over 100,000 spectators. In case my point isn’t being made – this race is a big freaking deal.

With divisions ranging from motorcycles to trucks to ATV’s, professional teams backed with professional money descend on northern Baja towing trailers full of spare tires and some insanely rugged rides.

Surfers, on the other hand, do not usually drive tricked out off-road vehicles backed by thousands of dollars of corporate sponsorships. They drive whatever they can find. True, a lot of Baja surfers will invest in a sturdy 4×4 desert vehicle that has some high clearance and can power through the infamous Mexican moon dust, but nothing that can plow through 440 miles of dirt road washboard in 12 hours or less.

This is why it was so strange to find myself amongst a thunderous cloud of rally cars racing in the Baja 500 in a Volvo station wagon better suited for suburbia.Fresh off of a surf pilgrimage to southern Baja’s Scorpion Bay, our haggard troupe of Tecate-swilling, wave-hunting twenty-somethings opted to camp out for the night on a stretch of Baja coastline popular with American surfers. Not far from the fabled breaks of Punta Cabra and Punta San Jose, unbeknownst to us this stretch of coastline was also situated on the racecourse of the Baja 500.

And, of course, as it would just so happen, we found ourselves there on race day.

Strapped down with surfboards and sporting a clearance best suited for navigating suburban speedbumps, the silver Volvo station wagon was a far cry from your usual Baja vehicle. Laden with empty beer cans and with windows obscured by clouds of Mexican dirt, I haphazardly navigated the Volvo towards that night’s intended camp spot along the Pacific coast.

Driving due west late in the afternoon into a fiery and exceptionally bright sunset, the fourth-inch cloud of dust which had accumulated on the windshield reduced visibility to virtually zero.

In a move pulled directly out of the pages of “Ace Ventura: Pet Detective,” I strained to keep my right foot on the gas pedal while arching my head and neck out of driver’s side window in an effort to navigate the Volvo sans the use of the windshield. With a top speed of no more than 20 mph, this wasn’t exactly a NASCAR level performance.

Head now arched out the window with the grace of a slightly inebriated ostrich, it was during this time that we first became aware of the crowds of people beginning to populate the rural dirt road.

“Sure are a lot of people randomly standing on the road,” we deftly noticed. “Maybe there is some sort of festival going on.”

Although the Baja 500 draws tens of thousands of spectators and is staffed by hordes of support and pit crews, the rural stretch of road we happened to find ourselves upon wasn’t exactly close to either. Most of the spectators were gathering at the finish line towards Ensenada, and all of the pit crews were waiting at the nearest highway intersection.

Here on this stretch of rural coastline, however, there was only the race course, some local spectators and some unfathomably naive and unlucky surfers who were unknowingly driving down the main thoroughfare of the Baja 500 in an unbelievably pedestrian station wagon.

The scene was officially set for disaster.

As I navigated the Volvo with my head out the window there were an increased number of shouts coming in our direction.

“Cuidado!” shouted a Mexican woman in a flowing floral skirt. “Muevate!” demanded another, who simultaneously was operating a tamale stand for hungry residents and spectators.

Still monumentally aloof as to what was happening (having been in Mexico for two weeks and not having seen any pit crews, we were still utterly unaware that the Baja 500 was even happening), it came as a curious surprise as to why the local people were so hellbent on telling us to be careful driving and demanding that we pull off to the side of the road.

Intrigued but undeterred, I continued to navigate the Volvo around the dirt potholes and patches of dry sand with my head craned out the window in the hopes of reaching the campsite before nightfall.

That’s when the first Honda dirt bike came ripping from behind and passed within about three feet from my head.

Before the shock of the near-accident could even be analyzed, a tricked-out dunebuggy swerved around us to the left and enveloped the Volvo in a cloud of dust.

Between the flashing headlights in the rearview mirror and the chaotic screams of the spectators being chanted in our direction, the reality that something was entirely amiss was quickly becoming apparent.

Finally, the absurdity of the situation caught up with us.

“Oh my God,” offered my friend Jason. “We’re on the race course for the Baja 500. We’re in the middle of the race!”

The realization, however, was too little too late.

With local Mexicans screaming and the sound of mufflers resonating through the air the lead pack of trucks, motorcycles, dune buggies and ATV’s all started to swarm around our vehicle. There is big money in this race, and these racers would be damned if a poorly situated surfer’s station wagon would get in the way of their race progress.

With hearts racing and clouds of dust swirling amidst the vehicle, the option of pulling off on the side of the road had long since disappeared. Stopping entirely would likewise be a poor decision as it would make us a sitting duck for a rear-end, high-speed crash.

“Go!” the drunken passengers in the backseat would scream. “Drive! Drive! Holy…”

The off-road vehicles enveloped us with a vengeance as my foot depressed the Volvo to as fast as it could handle. Forward was seemingly our only option and there was literally no turning back.

The next seven to ten minutes were spent with me driving with my head out the side of a Volvo unable to see if there were little children crossing the road in front of us and getting honked at and flashed at by professional off-road drivers while hoping that we didn’t simply slam into the side of a hugely lifted truck.

With the red and orange sun slowly dipping below the Pacific horizon, the only thing left to do was simply hold on and pray.

Ten months later we would crash the Volvo into a stationary rock in southern Baja and be stranded in the middle of the desert with no cash, too many beers, and be forced to pay off both mechanics and the local military with old copies of nudist magazines.

That, however, is a different Vagabond Tale for a decidedly different time…

Want more travel stories? Read the rest of the “Vagabond Tales“ over here.