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Contributing writer Jim Conaway sends a dispatch from Scottsdale, Arizona where he spent this past weekend at the Travels Classics writers' conference.

Okay, so you don't do spiked saddle oxfords and are dismayed at the sight of kelly-green links spouting water in the Sonoran desert. I won't say get over it but I will urge scrambling over some rocks anyway, for a broader view of one of the most spectacular, physically challenging landscapes in America and a better understanding of the bounty of, and challenges to, the aridly sublime. And if you can afford a traveler's respite in considerable style, well, there's no better place than The Boulders, a saguaro, palo verde and ocotillo-strewn former bit of nowhere in the scantier reaches of Scottsdale, Arizona.
   
Golf widowers and the aroma therapy-averse can easily put together a day of hiking, swimming, rock climbing, and biking (mountain and road), with a reflexology foot massage tossed in after to aid your weary bones. Your iron man of a guide is Rico Riley, all 165 pounds of him in rip-stop trail shirt and yellow cap bearing the logo of Sawyer Adventures, commissioned by the resort to take you on gentle and not-so-gentle perambulations. The easiest, through what was once known as the Carefree Rockpile, has been known to feature coyotes, javalina, and even bobcat, as well as tactile evidence of earlier civilizations, like depressions in the granite where Indians ground corn for subsistence survival in the third century.

Traveler writer Andy Isaacson is just back from Tristan da Cunha on assignment for the magazine. Below, he offers a peek into what it's like to visit the most remote island in the world.

Reaching the world's most remote inhabited island is, and probably has always been, an awesome moment. From Cape Town, I sailed west across the Atlantic for six days on a South African polar research vessel, covering nearly 1,700 miles, or the equivalent trip from NYC to Denver. Every day the horizon was flat, unbroken. On the seventh day, at 6 a.m., I walked onto the deck and looked up to an enormous volcano, capped by snow, towering over the sea. This is how I arrived at the island of Tristan da Cunha, and its tiny settlement, the romantically named, "Edinburgh of the Seven Seas."

How did I get here? One afternoon last spring, I was curious about how it felt to live on the fringe of the planet, and a bit of online searching turned up Tristan, located 1,450 from the nearest inhabited settlement of St. Helena (the distance from Chicago to Miami). I'm spending three weeks here on assignment for the magazine. In recent years, many changes have come to this formerly isolated outpost. Now, in ways, this UK territory, inhabited by 270 descendants of British soldiers, Dutch sailors, American whalers, and (two) Italian castaways, resembles a Scottish fishing village: one general store and pub (The Albatross), and the community meeting place, Prince Philip Hall, which holds Saturday night dances and the mail call when ships arrive every 4-6 weeks. The landscape is a mix of potato plots and sheep fences, and tiny single-story houses with corrugated roofs that have the Internet and British TV piped into their living rooms.

Working here has had its challenges. Over the years, journalists have visited Tristan, only to write or air inaccurate, superficial or somehow offensive things, resulting in a justifiable weariness. (Every visitor, in fact, must be appeal to the Island Council to land here - for real, you can be voted on or off this island.) I've warmed up to the locals by helping plant potatoes and dancing a decent waltz, but I haven't managed to warm the weather any. It's been mostly gusty and overcast; there have only been three sunny days in three weeks, which has confined my movement. Everything is determined by the weather, Tristanians will say, and that also depends on which way the wind blows. Today it's an easterly, and as my host here said: "East is the Beast."

Andy Isaacson has written for the New York Times, Afar magazine, and National Geographic Traveler. Check out his most recent article about an ocean engineer, a famed aviator, and their secret project to reach the bottom of the planet in National Geographic Adventure magazine. Learn more about Andy on his website or by following him on Twitter.

National Geographic Digital Media staffer Jo Dickison was in Albuquerque last week to watch the annual Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta.  She shares a few tips for travelers planning to make the trip.

Mass Happiness has begun. The 2009 Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta kicked off on Saturday with the spectacular mass ascension of 600-plus hot air balloons, dancing a delicate rainbow ballet in the air. The "mass happiness" theme is apt - it's hard not to smile at the sight of these balloons gently lifting into the sky. The annual Fiesta, which runs through October 11, includes a full roster of activities, but here are a few of the highlights.

Each day of the festival begins with the Dawn Patrol, where 12 balloons ascend to test the wind speed and direction for the mass lift-off at dawn. Saturday's Mass Ascension came off beautifully, with hundreds of balloons participating and excellent weather. Aside from the some 500 regular hot air balloons this year, there are an additional 80 or so "special shape" balloons of cartoon characters that are perennial favorites with kids. Look out for a flying pink pig, a floating Pepsi can and the Two Bees, which turns up every year. In the evenings there is usually a Glow Show at dusk when the balloons on the field are inflated and lit with burners, creating a lovely glow across the field. The glows are followed by a fireworks display, bringing the day's festivities to a close around 9 p.m. each night.

The Albuquerque festival is billed as the largest balloon festival in the world, and is unique in that visitors on the field can watch every step in the process as the crews prepare, inflate and launch the balloons. Festival Launch Directors, known as Zebras for the black-and-white shirts they wear, are in charge of air traffic control and launch procedures.

Contributing editor James Conaway is also our resident art buff, so we've asked him to review some of the best exhibits he visits in his travels. Today he contrasts two exhibits currently on display at the Corcoran Gallery in D.C.

Washington, D.C.'s prestigious Corcoran Gallery of Art currently has two oddly complementary exhibits of special interest to visitors and residents alike. The first is Oil, by the Canadian photographer Edward Burtynsky, which opened this past weekend. It's a heroic display of wall-size photographs taken over a decade that document the influence of the world's most ubiquitous, dwindling resource upon our environment and upon ourselves. The second, Sargent and the Sea, is an antiphonal, painterly alternative to this reality by the 19th-century artist, John Singer Sargent, whose early drawings and paintings depict a still pristine, unhydro-carbonated, impossibly naive world.

Burtynsky's odyssey to some of the least lovely assemblages of post-industrial detritus can best be described as dreadfully gorgeous. "Industrial sublime" is the phrase used by the curators, and that works, although the word sublime was intended for natural phenomena of such grandeur and power that the beholder is transported to a nether space somewhere between fear and ecstasy. Well, when you're confronted with the derriere-end products and landscapes of a century of unbridled internal combustion, you too will be both afraid and aesthetically moved.

Senior Researcher Marilyn Terrell is just back from a trip through the Yukon Territory, and she's thrilling all of us with stories from her trip. You can read her previous entries about her Yukon adventure here and here.

The ultimate destination on my Yukon River trip two weeks ago was Dawson City, just as it had been for the Klondike gold prospectors streaming down the river 112 years ago. To learn more about the Gold Rush, I picked up a wonderfully informative history by Pierre Berton, "Klondike: The Last Great Gold Rush", from Mac's Fireweed Books in Whitehorse to read during the trip.

For the prospectors, the journey started with an arduous slog over the Coast Mountains along the Chilkoot Trail from the port at Skagway, Alaska. Each prospector had to make numerous trips in order to haul 1,000 pounds of equipment and supplies down to Lake Bennett, where the Yukon River begins. The North West Mounted Police were patrolling the Yukon when the Klondike gold rush began 1897, and would not permit any ill-equipped miner lacking the requisite 1,000-lb. "outfit" to start the journey, because there were no grocery stores along the Yukon River or even in Dawson City itself. You had to bring enough canned food with you to survive on for a year, until the next riverboat might bring supplies.

Some hasty prospectors raced to Dawson City in the fall of 1896, traveling light without supplies before the main rush began, and they were congratulating themselves on getting a jump on the competition when a messenger appeared in a canoe from downriver in Whitehorse. Instead of the news they were expecting, that a steamboat was on its way with food for the winter, the early birds got the grim word: no more riverboats would be forthcoming that year, and unless they wanted to starve they'd have to leave immediately, as the river was already beginning to freeze up.

Before I left for my Yukon trip, I'd been following Ed Wardle's considerably more dangerous Yukon adventure "Alone In The Wild" on Twitter.  Ed received training in wilderness survival, medical emergencies, and firearms handling, then he was dropped into the Yukon wilderness with a load of supplies to carry on his back and expected to survive on his own for three months. He had a video camera that he used to film his daily dispatches from the wild, and these dispatches were collected and edited to make a reality TV show on the National Geographic Channel. He ended up lasting 50 days instead of the expected 90, and had to be emergency airlifted out of there. You can watch some of his videos here, and you can see him get progressively thinner as the weeks go by and he had to collect, catch or shoot his own food to survive. 

I didn't realized until I returned that my trip covered some of the same general area as Wardle's, but my experience could hardly have been more different. Instead of shivering in a tent, I lived in a series of rather luxurious heated cabins. Instead of carrying all my gear on my back, I simply zipped my suitcase and it was magically transported by boat, car or floatplane to my next destination. And instead of having to shoot my own food, I got to enjoy delicious cuisine expertly prepared and served in a rustic (but warm) dining room. But even in my comfortable surroundings, I was reminded of how dangerous the Yukon really is. We learned a hunter had died of hypothermia the day before we arrived at one of our cabins, and our guides had to carry guns to be ready for charging bears. Wardle may not have survived the full 90 days, but frankly, I'm impressed he made it as long as he did.

You can watch the latest episode of "Alone In The Wild" tonight at 9pm on the National Geographic Channel. Ed talks about his experience here.

Senior Researcher Marilyn Terrell is just back from a trip through the Yukon Territory, and she's thrilling all of us with stories from her trip. You can read her previous entry about her Yukon adventure here.

The first few times someone on my trip spotted a bald eagle, we all grabbed binoculars and cameras. But after three days of seeing very little birdlife besides bald eagles, trip member Roy dubbed them the "pigeons of the Yukon."

We've seen other species along this Great River Journey from Whitehorse to Dawson. At Lake Lebarge we heard loons on the water and spied fat grouse scratching in the underbrush. Around a bend on the Thirty Mile River we surprised a pair of trumpeter swans who took off, silently, flapping enormous white wings. At Pelly River Ranch, farmer Hugh Bradley pointed out some Yukon turkeys (sandhill cranes) in one of his fields and predicted we'd soon be seeing more. Sure enough, a squadron flew over our cabins next morning, gobbling noisily, heading south.

Contributing Editor Andrew Nelson is back from a visit to his former digs in West Texas, and uncovered a slate of fun new hotspots. You can follow all of Andrew's many travels on Twitter at @andrewnelson.

True to their contrarian nature, the isolated communities of Far West Texas--Marfa, Alpine, Sanderson and Marathon--seem to march in an opposite direction than the rest of the world. With parts of Texas and the Southwest crisping with drought, sweet rains have turned the Big Bend region's arroyos and mountains a rich sage. And as other places suffer a recessionary closure of myriad restaurants and galleries, the independent towns west of the Pecos are enjoying a bumper crop of new attractions and attention.

Outside magazine recently christened Alpine, the hub of the Big Bend and its biggest town, as one of the 10 best towns for outdoor sports in the nation, describing it as Austin's "mini-me." In Sanderson, local resident Terry "Tex" Tolerworks is spearheading an effort to promote an art drive along Highway 90--the lonely stretch of road that crosses the region and is filled with spectacular vistas and the occasional pronghorn or roadrunner. In Marfa, Wool and Hoop (pictured, left), a crewel embroidery store founded by artist Katherine Shaughnessy, sells pretty stitchwork while Cochineal, a restaurant started by two ex-pat New Yorkers, packs them in for dinner. Hint: If you can't get an evening reservation, breakfast beneath the trees for a lot less dosh but equally tasty fare - eggs backed in cream with bacon, spinach and fresh mixed herbs or maybe the migas with refried pinto beans and salsa. 

In Alpine, Talgar's, a restaurant specializing in Oaxacan fare makes a delectable fish tacos. Next door, the Murphy Street Raspa Company--a sweets and gifts emporium--sells hipster T-shirts, plus backcountry Mexican finds like peasant blouses for $26 and Mexican bingo cards. Be sure to sample the Mexican ices called "raspas"--try the tamarind with fresh-squeezed lime juice. (Here, owner Vic Noriega demonstrates how to make one.) Too full to waddle anywhere else? For accommodations head for the Alpine Guest Lofts. Their hip "El Concierge" service will get you almost anything: "engine parts for your Harley, or tickets to one of our off-off-off-off-off Broadway plays, or to stable your polo ponies." Relax in their soaking tubs, or lounge under the pecan tree, which provides cool shade for all.

Photo: Wool and Hoop

National Geographic photographer Bob Krist is on assignment in Slovenia, and sends us another peek through his viewfinder (you can find his first one here). Visit his blog for more tips, or get them in person at our upcoming Traveler Photo Seminar in Denver, Colorado on September 27.

My assignment has taken me from one end of Slovenia to the other, which isn't really saying much considering the country's small size, but it has afforded me some more great sights and photo ops.

For this high angle view of the coastal town of Piran, I climbed a church tower and shot down using a 16-85mm VR lens with a polarizing filter to make the most of the incredible colors. It was the last bit of the sun I'd see for a while. Whenever I hit a new town, I look for high places to shoot from to give my pictures a sense of place.

For a glimpse at underground Slovenia and some other cool snaps, hit the jump.

Thanks to all those of you who offered up suggestions for my Labor Day trip down to Charleston, South Carolina. Here are some of the highlights from my visit:

Cruising through Charleston with the dog in the front seat. That's me in the mirror, taking the picture.

There is perhaps no better way to see Charleston then from the seat of a maroon 1974 Buick LeSabre convertible. That's how I got my first glimpse of the city, thanks to my friend Abby, whose fine ride was passed down to her by her grandmother (and, thanks to the new engine she installed a few years ago, will probably outlive us all). I didn't have big plans for my Labor Day weekend, but I did manage to take some of your tips and, more importantly, relax. Because things move slower in the South, and there wouldn't really be any other way to do it.

You've helped plan my Kenya trip and been with me through the paperwork, vaccines, and packing. You were even with me as I blogged my way through the trip itself, sharing my thoughts on designing a trip with teens in mind, the conundrum of the Masai Mara, and the questions raised when visiting the slums.

Now, you can see an online gallery of photos, on National Geographic Traveler's website. Click through to see a couple of my favorite images. Click here to see the whole slideshow.

Traveler alumnus and Travel Telegraph blogger Emily Haile is spending the next several months in Taiwan, and she sent us a note from her new home.

Before I left home, I looked on Flickr for some photos of Taiwan and was immediately captivated by the photographs of John&Fish.

When I arrived in the city, I sent them a message through Flickr. A few days later, they were driving me to their home overlooking the Waishuangxi River (sometime written Waishuangsi). Fish set out a feast of sushi and sashimi that was entirely vegetarian. They are devout buddhists, and will not eat any kind of flesh. Between bites, they told me about their adventures bird watching in Taiwan.

By day, they work for a software programming company; every weekend they turn into avid birdwatchers, driving around the island and into the mountains in search of kingfishers, grebes, terns, and egrets. John shows me his camera. The lens looks about as long as an elephant's trunk.

Traveler Contributing Editor James Conaway is inspired by the New England's fall foliage, and goes looking for other inspirational art at two local museums.

The foliage factor's just beginning to radically alter the New England landscape. I wanted something thoughtful to add to the palette of fiery reds and yellows of just-turning maples as I was driving through Massachusetts, and so headed for the northwest corner, where I found what are probably the two antithetical, if captivating, art venues in the state: "The Clark," in Williamstown, and MASS MoCA in nearby North Adams.

The undeclared war between traditional, painterly views of nature, and those portraying the physical world as an unrelenting grapple with the forces of destruction and anomie, rages. You'd never know it from the air of decorum reigning at both institutions. Yet the vast arc of western artistic interpretation links them and provides the traveler with a riveting contrast, the Clark being the essence of tradition, and MASS MoCA a descent into the post-apocalyptic present. Both are provocative and, yes, fun.

The Sterling and Francine Clark Art Institute sits at the foot of the gentle Taconic Mountains and includes in its stunning collection some iconic New England paintings, among them Winslow Homer's Undertow, which shows ocean survivors once described as the wettest-looking people in American art. There are scads of Impressionists, among them many Renoirs, Pissarros, and Monets, some too pretty for real nature to ever equal. The collection is deep and varied, however, and can easily take up a day, particularly with the addition of Through the Seasons: Japanese Art in Nature, at the new Stone Hill Center, with Edo screens on loan from the Metropolitan Museum in New York and stunning examples of contemporary Japanese ceramics.

Victoria, B.C. might be known for its gardens and English charm, but it also has a bursting foodie scene, especially when it comes to seafood. Two of my top picks are Chandlers Seafood and the Wharfside Eatery, both located just a few steps away from the inner harbor.

Wharfside Eatery's inner harbor location admittedly makes it a bit touristy, but the food is nothing but local. Try favorites like the Oysters Rockefeller (oysters sauteed with Italian bacon, garlic, and spinach), Alaskan Jumbo Scallops (wrapped in bacon with a smoky tomato cream sauce), or classics like king crab legs or citrus cilantro rubbed ahi tuna. My top picks are the calamari, hand-dipped in cracked wheat and served in an edible rice bowl, and the the smoked salmon and mango chutney wrap, served with crispy sweet potato fries (above). On a warm Victoria evening, eat outside on the dock and watch the sun set on the harbor. 1208 Wharf Street.

Chandlers Seafood is located a few blocks away from the inner harbor, making it less enticing to cruise ship tourists and more appealing to locals (who dubbed its seafood the best in Victoria). There's no outside seating at Chandlers, but the dark wood paneling and maritime decor make it feel as if you're dining with a sea captain. The seafood is fresh (as one would expect from a port town) and the chef focuses on local fare, like red Coho salmon, halibut, and Alberta steaks. If you're there for a small meal, try the seafood chowder (made with wild Spring salmon, halibut, and shellfish) or the shrimp-stuffed mushrooms--two delicious appetizers. Chandlers also serves larger "feasts for two," like the "Menu Tour" (shrimp-stuffed mushrooms, New Brunswick lobster tails, garlic prawns, wild halibut fillet, and wild Spring salmon fillet) or "King Crab Feast" (shrimp-stuffed mushrooms plus one pound of garlic king crab shanks with two fillets of wild Spring salmon), all served with Caesar salad, basmati organic rice, baked potato, and warm bread with the chef's signature olive tapenade. 1250 Wharf Street.

No matter where you eat for lunch or dinner, make sure to save room for dessert at Rogers' Chocolates. This Victoria staple (the original store has been open since 1891 and serves fine gourmet chocolates) opened an old-fashioned soda shoppe right across from the Fairmont Empress. The shoppe has marble counters, retro bar stools, a restored soda fountain, and serves ice cream (try unique flavors like raspberry, raisin rum, or ginger snap) made fresh from the Rogers' Chocolates factory in Victoria. 801 Government Street.

Senior Researcher Marilyn Terrell is in the Yukon Territory for this week, and she's blogging, and of course, tweeting, whenever she can. She sent along this dispatch:

I spent ten hours yesterday walking the streets and trails of Whitehorse, (pop. 24,000) the capital of the Yukon Territory (pop. 40,000 people, plus 30,000 bears). Ate breakfast at Baked aka Bakerei Kaffeehaus (+1 867 633 6291) where the blueberry scones are wholegrain, the latte foam artfully swirled, and toddlers saute plastic vegetables in tiny pans in the wooden play kitchen.

Down by the Yukon River waterfront at Rotary Peace Park, '60s classics blared and crowds cheered the anchor-leg runners of the 110-mile Klondike International Road Relay as they approached the finish line. The race began at midnight in Skagway, Alaska, and runners carried flashlights over the Coast Mountains through White Pass along the Chilkoot Trail, which originally brought the goldminers in the stampede of 1898. The race officials announced the names of the runners and their teams: the Skinny Ravens from Anchorage, Sole Train from Juneau, CrowsFeet, an all-female masters team from Anchorage, the Chocolate Claim Runners from Whitehorse, the Smokin' Old Geezers, Team Run Amok, Blood Sweat & Beers, Twisted Blistered Sisters, the Molten Lava Tigers of Doom, The Fast and the Delirious. There were 1,200 runners, 700 women, and many junior teams.

Senior editor Norie Quintos, just back from a weekend in Virginia's Northern Neck, filed this report.

Originally, I was supposed to go camping on the beach in Delaware with my friend Scott, but work piled up and we seriously needed Wi-Fi. Serendipitously, friends offered us their vacation home in Irvington, Virginia. Even better, we could bring the dog.

A few hours' drive southeast of Washington, D.C., Virginia's Northern Neck is the oft-overlooked sister of Maryland's more famous Eastern Shore. Many Washingtonians have no idea what or where it is (it's a peninsula and the surrounds between the Potomac and Rappahannock Rivers that spills into the Chesapeake Bay), though that has been changing as Eastern Shore properties have risen in price.

A few Northern Neck villages, such as Irvington, have been "discovered," and are developing rapidly. A longtime family-run resort, the Tides Inn, was purchased and overhauled in 2001 and turned into a member in good standing of Leading Hotels of the World. Plans are underway for a waterside condo development. Local entrepreneur/wheeler-dealer Bill Westbrook came on the scene and (with various partners) turned an old Victorian schoolhouse into the charming Hope and Glory Inn, and opened the hip restaurant Trick Dog Café, and a vineyard/winery called White Fences. These upgraded amenities have lured a different demographic, including the last-kid-in-college-now-I've-got-time-and-money set from Richmond (an hour away) and Washington, D.C. (three hours away).

Some urbanites have bought in to the weekend-in-the-country lifestyle through another of Westbrook's ventures, the Tents at Vineyard Grove, overlooking the White Fences winery. This is where our friends have their vacation home. The 19 tents are not of the Coleman variety but are deluxe painted wood versions of revival tents put up during 19th-century Pentecostalist preacher gatherings common in this area. The air-conditioned three-bedroom/two-bath Carpenter Gothic houses have covered decks, full kitchens, living/dining room with fireplace, and outdoor shower. Most are privately owned and some are rentable through Hope and Glory Inn or through vacation home rental websites.

This summer I spent a long weekend with friends in Middle-of-Nowhere Maine, somewhere north of the Where-the-Heck-R-We Campground. (OK, so the town we stayed in wasn't called "Middle-of-Nowhere," but the campground does exist.) We had planned on eating at different places to try out the regional cuisine, and whenever we asked anyone for a good breakfast joint, the response was always: "You must try the Front Porch Cafe." Never dismissing the locals' advice on good eats, we headed to Dixfield and ate there the first morning... and every morning thereafter.

The cafe's decor screams "country kitchen," and is adorned with cutesy knick-knacks, inspirational plaques, mismatching salt-and-pepper shakers, and homemade juice served in mason jars. Owners Clint Bailey and Sammie Angel will welcome you like family and chat with you as if you've lived in Dixfield your whole life. You can sit in one of the wood tables inside or watch the world go by at a table on the enclosed front porch (the cafe's namesake), but the highlight of the Front Porch is, without a doubt, the food.

Anything you order is delicious, like the "The Bullrock" pancakes ("just like Mama use to make"), and the over-easy eggs fresh from the chicken coop, but the cafe's most famous creation is the "H. W. Park"--two huge pieces of French toast stuffed with fresh berries and cream cheese. The cafe makes other seasonal variations, like banana walnut or apple cinnamon, which melts in your mouth like warm apple pie. They're open for lunch as well (when they serve a selection of sandwiches and homemade soups), but breakfast is served all day, making it hard to resist repeating the morning's delectable temptations.

How to get there: Dixfield is about two hours north of Portland on Route 2.

Front Porch Cafe: 6 Hall Hill Rd, Dixfield, Maine, 04224. +1 207 562 4646.

Ok, so we know this headline might be cause for debate. What's your favorite Maine breakfast joint?

Photos: Jeannette Kimmel

IT Editor Janelle Nanos is just back from an assignment in Alaska, and is posting some of the highlights from her trip. Check out her photo gallery after the jump.


No visit to Alaska can really be called complete unless you come face-to-face with a bear. Or at least that's how I rationalized my response to coming up close and personal with Scarface, a beat-up old brown bear who came lumbering toward me during my visit to Katmai National Park. While the rest of my group stood up to make themselves appear bigger and clapped their hands to make noise, I did exactly what my guide told us not to do: I froze. Then, I instinctively grabbed my camera, right as another, smaller bear ran past me, four feet to my right. Obscured by my viewfinder, I barely saw him. My father nearly had a heart attack.

Thankfully, Dad and I were in good hands: We'd signed up for a bear-viewing trip out of Kodiak, Alaska, with Sea Hawk Air. Our pilot, Roland Ruoss, is the owner of the company and has been flying his seaplane for over 20 years; his wife Jo Murphy, a Kodiak native, was our bear-viewing guide. We left the idyllic Trident Basin, just outside of downtown Kodiak (if you can call it such a thing) and within moments we were soaring over the island in the de Havilland Beaver floatplane. I was in the co-pilot seat.

Sydney Suissa, the executive VP of content for the National Geographic Channel, joined a group of European journalists last week as they visited the beaches of Normandy where the D-Day landings took place. September 2009 marks the 70th anniversary of the start of World War II and to commemorate the event, National Geographic Channel International is launching a new series on the history of the war entitled "Apocalypse". Click through to see his photo essay.

There are 22 of us on the bus from Caen. A Tower of Babel on wheels, we speak French, English, Spanish, Greek, Turkish, Portuguese, Dutch, Estonian, Norwegian, Romanian, and Polish. The road takes us through a vast plain of rich farmland that rolls down to the sea; corn waiting for harvest, fields of wheat stubble glowing under the sun of a big sky and white gulls following tractors to feed on worms. Red poppies, the emblems of the first World War immortalized by the Canadian poet John McCrae ("In Flanders Field the poppies blow/Between the crosses row on row"), sway in the breeze along stone fences and gardens of hydrangeas, cosmos, and orange trumpet vines.

On June 6, 1944, one hundred and thirty-five thousand Allied soldiers landed on five beaches along the Normandy coast. The war that started on September 1, 1939 with Germany's invasion of Poland was now entering the endgame. The Allied beachhead in Normandy was the first step in the campaign to liberate Europe and topple Berlin. This pastoral landscape we are driving through was razed, bloodied, and gouged beyond recognition. Hundreds of lovely cobbled towns and villages like Crepon, Meuvaines, Bayeux and Creully were destroyed by artillery shelling, the march of tanks, the relentless advance of the Allies and the fierce retreat of German forces.