Headed for Mark Twain's Home Town

This morning, after the obligatory fuel stop, we jumped on Illinois I255 and headed north to the site of the ancient Native American city of Cahokia. Since we chose our camp site last night based on its proximity to Cahokia, it only took us fifteen or twenty minutes to find it. We pulled into the parking lot hoping, as we always do, that there wouldn't be so many cars in the way that we'd have a problem locating enough space for the motor home.

But we had at least half the parking lot all to ourselves and chose a nice spot beneath a spreading maple full of fall colors. Our plan was to spend lunchtime in the RV in the shade of that tree before we headed north and west to our final destination for the day, Hannibal, Missouri.

Let me just say that Cahokia is immense. How big? Try 2200 acres. Naturally, we didn't intend to prowl the whole property, but we fully intended to do some walking so we disembarked from the coach with our day pack, water bottles, camera, and suitable hats intending to spend at least several hours pursuing one of Concetta's favorite subjects, that of paleo-Indians.

Just inside the door of the interpretive center we were invited to view a 17 minute film that would acquaint us with the site and make our visit more rewarding. After the film we spent the next two hours trying to absorb as much as possible of what life was like in the Mississippi River valley between 700 and 1400 A.D. Unbelievably, this civilization, at its peak about a thousand years ago, counted as many as 20,000 citizens, the largest city north of the Aztec's Mexico City. Not until Philadelphia of the 1830s did North America have a city as large.

Now paleo-Indian cultures are not normally my favorite subjects of study. But these people were so industrious I was enthralled. If you've Googled the subject you know that the specialty of these early Mississippian Americans was digging large holes near their villages and putting the dirt in a central location. The biggest mound, which Concetta and I climbed, took 300 years and no less than 15 million trips to the top with a 50 to 60 pound basket of dirt to complete. Try getting your teenagers to take on a project like that.

Once up there, you could see why the rulers wanted to put their central government houses on top of these giant mounds. There's no doubt who's in charge when you have to look skyward to see your head guy. One sign I saw said that the chief's "hut" was about 50 feet by 100 feet in size. Can you imagine how much time, effort, and materials went into such a project? It wasn't the pyramids of Giza, but it sure must have taken as much coordination to pull off.

My favorite part of the museum involved the process called "flint-napping." Flint-napping is chipping away chert material to get things like arrowheads, spear points, hoes, war clubs, and scrapers. I always get lost in watching somebody do that. Using things like bones and antlers, these Indians patiently (I don't normally have a lot of that) flake off one bit of chert at a time until they finish with a splendidly crafted point. Beats me how they're able to do such a fine job though I've watched it done numerous times. I watched the video at the museum twice, but I think I'd still need some hands on to ever try it myself.

This particular civilization did not fail because of the coming of the Europeans. Amazingly enough, Cahokia had ceased to exist around 1400 A.D., before even the Spanish had begun their explorations of the new world. What did them in? It was their Success! The civilization's farming techniques were so successful that it encouraged a population explosion. One statistic we saw recounted that Cahokia had 4,000 persons per square mile at the height of their civilization. Nowadays, we here in America believe that a population density of 250 persons per square mile is about tops for an urban setting. Even though they were experts in growing corn, squash, beans, and a variety of salad greens, 20,000 humans is a lot of people to feed on a daily basis. They were also adept at foraging for natural foodstuffs like nuts, berries, and root tubers, as well as the usual compliment of native animals and fish.

Experts think that their success at nation building may have caused their ultimate failure. Too much food needed. Too many trees burned for firewood. Too little sanitation for a population that size. Any one or all of these things may have ultimately caused these early Americans to move away from Cahokia and allow the city to die. Whatever the reason, they left behind some truly fascinating clues to what life was like in their time. Concetta and I very much recommend you try and see it when next you travel this way.

When we rolled out of Cahokia I told Concetta that our next destination, Hannibal, Missouri, ought to be a piece of cake. As Billy Crystal would say, "Never say famous last words." All we had to do was jump back on Interstate 255 north, change almost immediately to Interstate 70 west, and, when the opportunity arose, catch state route 79 north to Hannibal. At least, that's what it said in the playbook. And at first things went well. We found I255. We exited promptly onto I70. But then we started getting hit with all manner of choices of freeways coming in rapid fire one after the other. Before we knew it we were blazing through St. Louis, trying to keep our eyes on the road while the St. Louis arch, in all it's early afternoon resplendent glory, beckoned out our passenger-side window. But we trucked on hoping that at some point we'd see a sign for state route 79 and we could get off the Mad Hatter's Tea Party of St. Louis' freeway megalopolis. On we trekked without seeing it when I was just certain we'd way overshot our mark and we're going to end up somewhere in central Missouri, hundreds of miles from our intended destination. Meanwhile, I'm yelling at Concetta to find our location on the map and tell me where in the hell we were.

Well, long story short, I finally exited the freeway and found myself an abandoned gas station to rest and consult the map before I had a meltdown. Naturally, it only took seconds to see if I'd just stayed on the I70 where I had been, my turnoff was just a mile or two further along. Yup, it was a tad hair-raising, but in the end we found our route and were headed north along the "Scenic River Route" on the west bank of the Mississippi.

Then, for the next sixty or seventy miles, things were wonderful. The sky over Illinois and eastern Missouri was more beautiful today than we've seen it anywhere for the past month. The randomly-spaced clouds were ultra fluffy looking, the sky's hues were all pastels of blues and purples and reds, and the overall effect was like an oil painting. It was something to see. Concetta and I rolled along, listening to our book on tape, and just let the Tioga eat up the miles.

And then Billy Crystal intervened again, darn him. There we were, out in the middle of who knows where on this twisty, curvy, mountainous road, when we rounded a corner and found a big orange sign blocking the entire highway. I looked at Concetta and back at the big orange sign. It said, simply, "Road Closed." That's it. No other information. No, "gee, sorry traveler, but an atomic bomb exploded just ahead and you'll have to go back to St. Louis until we clean it up." Or, "go back pilgrim, urban terrorists have taken over Hannibal and you don't EVEN want to go there now." No, it just said, "Road Closed" and let us decide what course of action to pursue.

Off to our right was this lonely-looking dirt road that crested a nearby hill and disappeared into the surrounding croplands. Well, we certainly didn't want to go THERE. But, we didn't want to go back either. So, finally, we backed up, put her in gear, and rolled into what we fully expected to be a future episode of the Twilight Zone.

Naturally, the entry of this thirty-foot behemoth onto this damn wash-boarded, dusty road did nothing for the RV or any of its rather loose-knit contents. Things were rattling and banging and, we felt certain, tearing themselves loose from their chintzy moorings and scattering themselves across the floor. Dust began to fill the coach immediately. Thankfully, turning the air conditioner to full blast cut the dust a bit.

Presently we came to a "Detour Sign." "Wow," I said to Concetta. "That would have been usefull out on the highway." But before long more detour signs began to show themselves, almost as if they'd been tacked up as an afterthought. They were faded and dog-eared and sad looking. It appeared to me as though no one really cared if you figured out how to choose the proper set of roads amongst all the different fields full of dead corn stalks or not. If you got lost, they'd just establish a cargo cult of some sort and strip your errant rig of whatever valuables they could turn up.

After about fifteen minutes we got to a "T" intersection containing no signs at all. One road went left, one right. We finally decided that left was sort of in the direction we had been traveling out on the highway and turned that way. Soon, we reached one of the sad, faded detour signs confirming our choice and minutes after that, the highway. Once we reached the camp grounds the manager told me that the road had been torn up for TWO YEARS! Now that's progress.

So, here we are, just a stone's throw from Mark Twain's boyhood home (he was born elsewhere you know). Fortunately, this is the one time that I called ahead to secure a spot in a camp. Every other night we've taken pot luck and made out just fine. But something told me that Hannibal's only campground was going to be above-average in popularity. My hunch proved right. When we got here we found that several travel clubs, made up of people driving those $100,000 bus-sized coaches, had made reservations, too. We got one of the few remaining spots.

At this point we're not sure just what activities we'll pursue tomorrow. We do know that by tomorrow afternoon we'll be headed toward the town that many of our ancestors in their covered wagons considered the "jumping off place" for the trails to California and Oregon, St. Joseph, Missouri. I expect there's going to be lots and lots of history to be found along the way. Until then, we wish you good food, good wine, and, above all, exciting destinations.

Ciao.

Middle America Muses

Today, with the sky looking like rain and the weatherman reporting more of the same, we broke camp in Terre Haute and headed west on Highway 40, the National Road, first proposed to the U.S. Congress by President Thomas Jefferson. Our destination for the day was East St. Louis, somewhere near the town of Cahokia. Our goal was to visit the ancient Indian mound site of Cahokia wherein lie the ruins of the largest prehistoric city north of the Aztec city of Mexico. The area is also a United Nations World Heritage site.

For now, we’re sitting in an absolutely “sold out” camp site where we only got a space because a particular camper’s reservation has them showing up tomorrow after we’ve left and no one else before us wanted a single night’s stay. After so many nearly empty camps as we head into fall, finding one this popular was a surprise – well it was until my next door neighbor mentioned that he’s here for the ball game. Not sure which ball game since I don’t follow such things, but we feel very lucky that we got here at 3:00 p.m. and decided not to visit the Indian site this afternoon. Had we come later, well, we’d have been in a tough spot.


Anyway, the drive here this afternoon was just a joy. Highway 40 is a 1950s, pre-Interstate sort of road with one lane in each direction. You run with your lights on to avoid collisions and, most importantly, you take it easy. I drive between fifty or fifty-five and keep my eyes peeled for interesting photo opportunities, though most of what you see is gently rolling hillocks full of dried corn stalks and yellowing soy bean plants. The whole landscape is like a soft watercolor painting with only the occasional bright red or green tractor or dazzlingly white farmhouse to break the sweep of the fall colors that flow uninterrupted toward the cornflower blue of the sky on the distant horizon.

The gentle pace is far easier on the engine, probably gets us a mile or two extra in fuel consumption, and serves to lower my blood pressure immeasurably since we’re out on the Interstate not being blown around by 18-wheelers flying past.

Our journey didn’t involve much stopping today. Oh, we passed a myriad of antiques stores in which I would have loved to spend an hour. But I don’t really have much room to haul any extra “cargo” so I have thus far avoided the temptation to stop and explore. Perhaps our favorite stop was for the Cumberland County covered bridge, which, though it was a reconstruction of the original bridge, was a fully working replica that serves to carry traffic, though not for the main road. Probably all of you have explored a covered bridge in your life and know that few things are as quaint and wonderful as these timber-framed gems.

We chanced upon the perfect lunch spot today nestled at the edge of a farmer’s field full of soy beans, bordered by a white rail fence. The sun was behind us and the view across the golden yellow field filled us with awe that we could be privy to so much beauty.

The most entertaining stop today was for groceries. Some of the grocery stores we’ve chanced upon on this trip rival, and sometimes surpass, the finest stores we’ve visited anywhere. However today the store was right out of Mayberry, RFD. Concetta and I had been pretty successful in finding all the items on our list until we got to the last two which we decided to split. I took the vitamins and Concetta took the dried dates. Since I had no firm layout of the store memorized even though we had already wandered throughout much of it, I began at the first aisle and began to walk up and down each one. Finally, when I had found no vitamins, I headed for the nearest check stand to verify that I had just been unobservant and would need to retrace my steps. When I presented my question to the tall, slender woman behind the register she looked at me for a long moment. Figuring that she was just trying to decipher my accent, I repeated, “Do you happen to know on what aisle I might find the vitamins?”

With that she said, “If we have any, they’ll be on aisle seven.”

I turned and looked back down the long aisle that I had so recently thoroughly explored. No sense going back there. What kind of grocery store doesn’t have vitamins I wondered? I looked back at her. “Okay, thanks,” I said, and headed off to see how Concetta had done on her quest for dates. Good thing I wasn’t looking for Tai food or Greek yogurt or something like that, I thought.

When I reached Concetta, I said, “Well, did you find the dates?”

She shook her head. “When I asked one of the clerks where the dates were located the woman just looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language. I told her, you know, DATES.”

“And she didn’t understand?” I asked.

“Nope. Told me she didn’t know what I was talking about.”

“You should have described the palm trees they grow on. She might have seen pictures somewhere.”

Concetta just shrugged. “I think the woman thought I was crazy.”

We did try a little date sleuthing on our own since, on sudden inspiration, I figured they’d be kept wherever the raisins and dried fruit were kept. But alas, when we located the raisins they didn’t prove to be keeping company with the dates. Personally, I love dates in my oatmeal so, if asked, I’ll have to inform the good citizens of Vandalia, Illinois, that I won’t be moving there anytime soon.

Tomorrow? Well, after our communion with the ghosts of all those long-dead native Americans, we're headed northwest toward yet another of our bucket list destinations: Hannibal, Missouri. There's talk of exploring "Injun Joe's" cave or maybe taking a stern-wheeler ride on the Mississippi. Mark Twain is calling and we can't wait to answer!!!

Until then, we wish you good food, good wine, and, above all, exciting travel!

Ciao.

Exploring Indianapolis in 1836

Today we decided to do a little exploring around Indianapolis before we resumed our journey west. From the KOA map that the camp hosts gave us last night when we arrived, we discovered that just a few miles north of our location on I70 was something identified as "Conner Prairie." From what we could tell, Conner Prairie was a largely outdoor interactive museum where various aspects of life in the 1800s are portrayed by museum docents.

It didn't take long for us to discover that this was going to be a museum trip unlike anything we'd experienced before. From our very first activity where I was invited to throw a Delaware Indian tomahawk at a slice of tree trunk thirty feet away (sorry, no photo of me), to our final experience nearly three hours later where we were invited to join the Union army to fight the rebs, we were totally immersed in the history of Indiana of nearly two centuries ago. Just as an aside, I was the only one in the group who buried the tomahawk in the tree. Of course, my competitors were in the sixty grade, but hey, they're more used to throwing things than I am.

Naturally, Concetta and I did not originally intend to spend nearly the whole day at Conner Prairie, but once we began wandering in and out of all the various commercial and agricultural buildings we just couldn't bear to tear ourselves away. All the docents played their parts wonderfully, remained in character, and taught us a lot about a dozen different vocations.

Just to be a smart ass, I even tested the blacksmith to see if he was a real blacksmith or just someone banging on an anvil with a big heavy hammer. I pointed to a special tool hanging on the wall, a copy of which I have in my collection, and said to the young blacksmith, "So, do you know what that tool is?"

"Yes, of course," he said. "That's a Traveler."

He was right, it WAS a Traveler which not one person in a thousand would know about today. The tool was used to measure the circumference of a wagon wheel so that a metal "tire" could be cut to the right length, welded together, and placed over the wooden wheel to hold the whole thing together and insulate the wood from the rocky roads. Looking much like a modern accident-scene wheel device on a handle, the Traveler would be rolled around the wooden wheel establishing a measurement, then rolled along a flat piece of iron for an identical number of revolutions. The iron would then be cut at the appropriate point.

Early wheelwrights would put the completed iron tire on a large fire until it heated enough to expand. Then several people would pick up the red-hot tire with tongs, carry it over to where the wooden wheel was laying on the ground, and then drop the tire over the wheel. Of course the red-hot tire would immediately set the wooden wheel on fire. But when the wheelwright would dump buckets of water on the wheel it would not only put the fire out but shrink the iron tire, causing it to grip the wooden wheel in a vice-like embrace. Absolutely fascinating to watch if you ever get the chance.

So, the blacksmith proved his mettle and put me in my place. All the other docents proved equally knowledgeable. I especially liked the dying and spinning cottage where the process of cloth manufacturing was thoroughly explained to us. They had dozens of different colors they had used to dye the wool made from a huge variety of natural plant extracts. At least most of them were plant extracts. The one that fascinated me the most was the tiny parasitic insect that is found only on the prickly pear cactus that, when harvested, yields a bright red dye. They told us that folks in the Old World were very, very excited about the discovery of this little bug since until that time they couldn't have cloth in brilliant red.

I watched the woman running the loom for a time and learned a lot about that discipline. In the past I thought that you just moved the warp threads up or down after each pass of the weft thread on the shuttle. In reality, you have a number of warp pedals (this particular docent's loom had four) and you hit them in combination to open up a specific color combination for passing a specific color of weft. This allows for patterns in the cloth. The final product is called the "weave." Our ancestors were so darn inventive it just astounds me.

We learned about wood working and the preparation of logs for cabins. We learned about trapping and hide preparation for sale and trade. We learned about Irish stitching (a sort of needlepoint). We learned about doctors and the concocting of medicine in a small rural community. We learned about so many things that I probably should have recorded it all. The time went by so fast that 2:00 p.m. came and went and we suddenly realized that we had simply forgotten about lunch. We had to tear ourselves away and go find a quick sandwich and cup of coffee.

Finally, as the sun (or what we could see of it through the rain clouds) sank lower in the sky we decided that we just had to get on the road or we'd have to return to our previous KOA camp and stay the night again. So it was that we left Conner Prairie, found Highway 40, and headed west toward Terre Haute, Indiana. We're not sure what opportunities lie in wait for us here in Terre Haute, but our next big destination is the Cahokia Indian mounds near St. Louis. So if nothing distracts us in the morning, we'll be rolling toward the city that has been know since the emigrant wagon train days as "The Gateway to the West."

Until then, we wish you good food, good wine, and good traveling. Ciao.

Rollin' on toward Indianapolis

This morning, under the rainy skies of Ohio, Collin delivered me to the Moose Lodge where we had been parking the motor home for five dollars a day. Just ahead of a rain shower I disconnected the electric line and brought the coach back to sister-in-law, Phyllis' house where we loaded up our stuff, including clean laundry, and headed once again for the open road. We were trying to beat the rush hour traffic in Akron so we were rolling by 6:30 a.m., though yours truly had not had his breakfast or coffee yet.

Around 8:00 a.m. we spied a Bob Evans restaurant that looked interesting and, since the parking lot was fairly empty, I drove in and took up my usual eight parking spaces. I can't say the coffee was anything to write home about, but the breakfast was hot and the service great. Also on the plus side, our waitress saw that we had brought our Atlas in to lay out our route for the day and she proceeded to carry on a lively conversation with us about traveling and how her parents had just spent 3 1/2 months on a motor home tour that extended all the way to Alaska.

My first task of the day was to figure out how to fix the tail light on the RV that had suddenly decided to quit working. So it was that when we veered off route 77 south and started west on Route 36 I came across a Walley World and drove back to the service area to see if they might have the necessary part. The two twenty-something mechanics just scratched their heads when I showed them what I wanted and told me that they didn't have any such part. Of course my heart sank at that point since it looked like I might spend the rest of the morning trying to find a taillight for a 1996 Ford RV. "But," they quickly added, "just drive out the rear of the parking lot here, take a right, and go down a couple of blocks and you'll see a bus and truck repair place. Maybe they have one."

Not holding out much hope that a bus and truck repair place was going to do me any good, I nevertheless thanked them and set off to seek what I just knew was going to be the first in a long line of fix-it shops that I'd have to visit on our quest.

Moments later we pulled up in front of the repair shop and I walked over to where I saw a mechanic working on, of all things, a motor home. Of course, by then I had removed the old light and was holding it in my hand. When I got the mechanic's attention I held out my taillight and said, "I don't suppose you guys sell this model of light."

"Sure," the mechanic said. "Just go over to the Parts Department window and they'll fix you right up."

Scarcely able to believe it might be true, I set out for the aforementioned window and, when I got the attention of the chap behind the counter, I dangled my scruffy taillight in front of me and asked if he happened to have one.

"Sure do," he said. How many do you want?"

"I'll take two," I said, for I knew if both taillights were the same age they might just decide to burn out around the same time. The ol' bird was in the hand and the next time I needed one I just wanted to go to the storage locker to pull one out.

So the task that had promised to take most of the morning was completed in under an hour and we were back on the road. Since we were traveling on secondary roads, our scenery was beautiful. And even though the Ohio skies were overcast and gloomy we had our book on tape to pass the driving time. That's the good news.

The bad news is that the last two books to which we've been listening on the CD player have been by Stuart Woods, an author that obviously has no trouble getting into print, but an author that I personally wish had taken up bicycle repair or taxidermy or something instead of writing. His stories are just plain unbelievable and dull. He tries to spice up the plot with equally unbelievable sex scenes. And -- this is the worst part -- the guy who narrates these particular books should have found another line of work as well. His speaking voice is sing-songy and stupid-sounding. His ability to do different voices for different characters is nil. And his ethnic character voices are just downright insulting. Finally, all the women sound like men and all the men sound like wimps. Most of the time you hope that characters hurry up and get killed so you don't have to listen to them anymore.

Concetta insisted that we finish both books since we'd paid good money for them. Left up to me I'd have donated them to some unsuspecting library book return box and bid them a not so fond farewell. Fortunately, since I received a lot of books in trade from my buddy John we now have a fresh supply for the balance of the trip.

Today we made it to Indianapolis and we're staying in a KOA just east of town. Outside, the evening is so pleasant that we ate on the picnic table on the lawn outside the coach. Amazingly, we weren't bothered by bugs at all. For the time being we seem to have put the rain behind us.

In the morning we're headed a few miles north to take in a outdoor museum before we decide in which direction to drive. Concetta doesn't really want to go straight west which I suppose would take us through the cornfields of Nebraska and such. So the subject is still under discussion. What's happened in the past is that we'll run into someone tomorrow who will recommend a particular destination and that will decide the question. You know how I love serendipity.

Until tomorrow, then, I bid you good food, good wine, and best of all, good traveling.

A Chance Encounter

As most of you can tell by the absence of blog entries, Concetta and I have been spending several days with our relatives in Akron, Ohio. Mostly what we've been doing, if you want to know, has been eating. We just move from one house to another, one meal to another. In between we just visit and hang out. Consequently, there hasn't been much in the way of adventure going on that I could tell you about.

But two days ago I got a phone call from my buddy John telling me that he and his 70,000 pounds of "pot stickers" were going to be hanging out at a truck stop just a few miles north of Akron for the night and did I want to come up and, what else, have lunch or dinner? (John had been following our progress via our blog) John's a long-haul trucker for a Texas company and just happened to be hauling a load through our immediate area. Well, I jumped at the chance since I hadn't seen John in quite some time.

Fortunately, it was only lightly raining as I hiked the half mile to the Moose Lodge where we're storing the motor home and soon I was headed up I76 to where it joins with I80 north of Akron. I had a little trouble finding the truck stop and the rain changed from drizzle to full on showers, but everything went fine and soon I was parked next door to the truck stop.

Since I didn't know exactly when John was going to arrive, I fired up the motor home's generator, plugged in the computer, and was busily reading email when John called to tell me he had arrived. A few minutes later we had made our rendezvous and were headed south on route 21 for the nearest bistro for a little lunch. We soon found a really great sandwich shop called Brielle's on the west side of the street and spent the rainy afternoon catching up, eating some outstanding potato salad, and drinking hot tea.

Once back at John's truck, we traded our small supply of books on CD, visited some more, then I headed back down the road to Akron as the rain beat enthusiastically on the RV's roof. It had been great seeing John and an amazing coincidence that in all the U.S. our paths would cross here in Concetta's home town.

John and I go back to the 7th grade in Altadena, California, where we grew up in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains, spent much of junior high and high school days together, then spent a year aboard a sixty-foot yacht in the Mediterranean working as both boat crew and film crew for a filmmaker shooting a documentary.

Now John is on a different adventure, one that I hope will eventually turn into a book about trucking. He's a talented writer and if anyone can do it, I'm confident he can. If you're interested in reading about John's adventures on the road, type www.roadquill.wordpress.com into your browser and check him out.