Day 60 - Harrisville, West Virginia to Mineral Springs Lake, Ohio

Serendipity is a marvelous thing. It's what makes traveling these United States so much fun. Last night, quite unexpectedly, we stumbled over one of the nicest camps we've yet found on this vacation. This morning, when we left that pretty little camp, we turned the wrong way and moments later we stumbled over a meet for antique engine enthusiasts. This afternoon, while basically off course and lost in southern Ohio, we stumbled over Ohio's famous serpentine mound park just eight miles off the highway. And just a few minutes ago, after searching in vain amongst our guidebooks for a suitable camp for tonight near the southern Ohio border, we stumbled over a fabulous camp with full hook-ups just a couple of miles off the highway. It's not just good fortune, it's serendipity.

The only problem with the nice camp last night was you had to use a "dump station" on your way out in the morning. There were no sewer connections at your site. "No problem," I told Concetta. "Ten minute job."

Well, you know what they say about saying famous last words. The first thing I discovered when we pulled up to the dump station this morning was that the fresh water input hose for flushing the sewer tank after the dump procedure had a female end, unlike every other flush hose I'd ever seen in our travels. That meant I couldn't attach my hose, which meant I couldn't do a proper job of flushing the tank. So, I dragged out all my water-related gear and studied the lot. I had a female-to-female adapter, which was no help. I hadn't used the FF adapter during the course of our three trips and could never understand what you might do with such an item. But try as I might, I could find no male-to-male adapter.

So, it was time to improvise. Noting that my "Y" connector had two male ends, I connected one to the flush station female water supply, and one to my own hose that was connected to our rig. This left me with an open female end. Digging in the pile of water gear again, I came up with a male plug used to force air into the water line to evacuate the lines for winter. This I screwed into the open female end of the "Y" connector. But this fitting had a small orifice where you normally inserted the air gun. When I turned the water on, as you might expect, the pressure on the small orifice shot water twenty feet in the air. Then, on inspiration, I dug a nickle out of my pocket, removed the male fitting from the "Y", and put the nickle against the rubber washer. Then I re-tightened the male fitting and turned on the water. Presto! I was in business.

The next thing that went wrong resulted in one of the best mornings of the trip. It happened because I turned right when I should have turned left when we exited the campground. You may remember this problem from the day before. I don't know, maybe the sun has been missing for so many days in the southeast, my sense of direction is bollixed up. Anyway, after traveling a couple of miles from camp and encountering nothing that looked remotely familiar, we chanced upon a place to turn the rig around, not an easy task when you have thirty feet of rig to maneuver on some two-lane road. Coincidentally, the convenient place to turn the rig was a big open field just full of antique gasoline engine enthusiasts. I pulled in, turned around, and parked next to some other vehicles. "I'll just go over and ask those fellows for directions," I said to Concetta.

Well, long story short, it took me an hour to get the directions and return to the rig. I had such a good time talking with all the guys about their hobby and shooting photos of everything, I just couldn't tear myself away. By the time I left, I'd given my business card to one guy, and received a business card from another. I'd spent at least twenty minutes chatting with an old man who brought two tables of obscure tools that he challenged passersby to identify. Although I'm good with antique tools, more than three quarters of his tools completely baffled me. On the way out, I met a lady who had re-restored her father's antique Ford truck and it was a peach. Brashly, I asked her why she had the wrong horn on the rig. She told me that original Model A horns were just too expensive. I didn't tell her at the time, but I intend to surprise her when I get home and send her the dusty old Model A horn that's been inhabiting my garage attic for the last couple of decades.

So the day got off to a good start after all. Sewer tank dumped. Lots of new friends made. And a few photos taken for the benefit of you readers.

Using the directions that I so laboriously obtained at the antique engine meet, we soon found our way back down the twisty road, and through the dense forest, to Route 50. Nothing to it. Before long we were cruising the nearly empty Interstate and listening to our latest book, "The Lost World," by Michael Crichton. Yes, I know there's a movie, but the book is always so much better. The sun was shining -- a rare occasion lately -- and everything was right with the world.

Our next route change came when we exited Interstate 50 and headed south on Ohio Route 124. Route 124 hugs the western bank of the Ohio River all the way down to the bottom of the State of Ohio. I thought it would be a grand ride and we'd get some terrific photos since the sun was finally out. At that point the skies clouded over and the sun went away. Oh, well, I tried.

Still, we got to see some really charming communities and lots of vintage houses on our route. We did stop at a couple of points to photograph the river, but the resultant photos are not too impressive. For lunch we stopped at a local park in Reedsville, right next to the Belleville Lock and Dam. Here the sun came out for a time and I snapped a photo.

During our lunch spot, it would have been a good idea to consult the map just to make sure we were on track, but we didn't. So naturally we didn't notice that in order to keep running south along the west bank of the Ohio you had to transition from Route 124 to Route 7. When the turnoff came, we just kept driving on Route 124, which headed out into central Ohio. Naturally, when it had been an hour or more since we'd caught sight of the River, I began to get an uneasy feeling. Then, as we passed towns and crossroads, I told Concetta to find those places on the map and let me know where we were. But the towns and crossroads eluded her since she was looking along the Ohio River.

Finally, as we were rolling through the super tiny town of Idaho, Ohio, I'd had enough. At the next crossroads I pulled into a service station and together we began to carefully study the maps. That's when I noticed that we should have turned on Route 7 if we wanted to hug the Ohio going south. As it was, we were now within 75 miles of Cincinatti and, to paraphrase Michael Douglas in "Romancing the Stone," we were way the Hell and gone from the Ohio River. In fact, our own private Idaho, a few miles behind us, probably saved us from what would have been miles and miles of backtracking. As it was, we only had to backtrack a couple of miles, waving to Idaho as we passed, and were soon on Route 32 which promised to take us further to the south and west than we had been going.

You'll remember that serendipity is the theme of this blog post. Well, we were, at first, much happier on Route 32 as it was a divided highway and, in our minds, it held the promise of more camping opportunities. But as we rolled along, many minutes passed and we had not seen any references to camping. Then, as we came within a couple of miles of the town of Peebles, Ohio, a roadside brown sign leaped out at us. The unexpected sign announced that we were within eight miles of the famous Ohio Serpentine Mound that was constructed by Native Americans over a thousand years ago.

Concetta has wanted for years to visit this singular archaeological and cultural site, but we'd never quite gotten this far south in Ohio. We thought first about cruising over there to see if they had any camping available, but decided against it when it was not mentioned on the web. While mulling over the serpentine mound, we took the opportunity to pour over our camp books looking for likely camps nearby, but found none.

So we once again headed west on Route 32. The only campgrounds we had found were at least fifty miles away. I had just resigned myself to another hour of driving, when we rounded a bend and there was a sign for camping. All we had to do was hang a left, drive about a mile, and presto! We were set for the night (see photo left). The only problem with this camp, called Mineral Springs Lake, is that there are over 300 rigs here, many of them permanent. And I think that each and every campsite has its attendant ATV. These ATVs race back and fourth, accomplishing some unknown secret missions, and the rumble of their motors just never stops. The noise is annoying, but another hour of driving would have been worse, I think, so I'm not going to complain, well, too much.

And that's about it. Tomorrow we're head back to the serpentine mound to learn what we can learn. After that, we're headed southwest from here to visit the city of Louisville, Kentucky. My mother's father's ancestors, the Jones family, were living in Louisville at the time of the revolution. I'd really like to visit a library or someplace that might help me trace them back further. But whether or not we get to do that, it will be our first visit to Kentucky and we're sure it will be exciting.

More adventures to come. Keep on traveling!

Day 59 - Gettysburg Pennsylvania to Harrisville West Virginia

It all started today when I wanted to leave camp at the Gettysburg, Pennsylvania KOA and head west. I had a choice when I got to the park entrance: left or right? I couldn't remember just which way I had been going when I turned into the camp the previous afternoon. The right turn demanded an almost immediate left turn a hundred feet later. The left turn was simpler, just a left and go. I chose the left.

Dear reader, the scenery that came with the left turn choice was magnificent. The tiny rural road meandered like a young school boy taking his time coming home to do his homework. Twists and turns, up hill and down, the road was taking its merry old time getting us back to central Gettysburg, which is where I hoped it was taking us.

So much for that idea. As we crested a small hill and started down the other side, the tiny paved road turned into an even tinier unpaved road. Darn! Time to back up into the nearest driveway. Concetta offered the opinion that the neighbor adjacent to the road's end probably got really tired watching lost RVs turning around on their property. Never mind, turn around we did.

Once again in front of the KOA entrace we chose door number two and turned right and then left onto Knox street. Now I was sure I was headed in the right direction, though I wasn't exactly sure what direction that was. I knew I would have to make another turn in order to head toward Gettysburg, as I remembered making the turn the previous day. My plan was to access Hwy 30, the old Lincoln Highway, which I knew runs right through the middle of Gettysburg. Piece of cake.

But when we got to the "T" intersection where I knew I had to turn left for Gettysburg, we encountered a sign. The sign said, basically, left for Gettysburg, but right for Route 30, the Lincoln Highway. Now I was really confused. Should I go left or right? I knew left was basically correct. Had to be. But could the Lincoln Highway be in BOTH directions? Would a right turn make my life easier and take me directly to Route 30 without navigating the narrow streets of Gettysburg? My intuition told me to take the left, but my brain told me to go right. I followed the brain.

We passed a myriad of signs promising that we were headed for Route 30 and finally Route 30 appeared -- along with a choice. Without any indication of east or west, we got two arrows. We could turn right or left, each choice produced the same effect: you'd end up on Route 30. Since the sky had become overcast as we drove this morning, I was not able to consult the sun to see just which direction was correct. My compass was back in the coach. I decided to take a chance and follow my intuition. I turned right figuring that right just had to be west, my desired direction.

Wrong! Not a mile down the road we encountered our first road sign which said, "U.S. Route 30 East." This called for yet another U-turn, but this time we were fortunate to be passing an abandoned gas station at the time. The station had loads of blacktop on which to maneuver and soon we were headed back in the proper direction. At one point we could have taken the Route 30 business turnoff and motored through Gettysburg, but by then the thrill was gone. We kept moving.

Not counting a stop for gas and a stop at Wally World for groceries, we spent most of the morning traveling down Route 30, The Lincoln Highway, occasionally moving off the more modern stretches of America's first transcontinental road to explore earlier, bypassed sections. My plan, formulated last night while Concetta was taking her shower, was to follow the Lincoln Highway west to the town of Bedford, Pennsylvania, then grab Route 220 south into Maryland and West Virginia.

By the time we hit Bedford, Pennsylvania, it was time for lunch. We pulled off the highway and into a sort of fairgrounds with plenty of parking space for the RV. On the very corner of the property we couldn't help but notice a giant coffee pot, painted a sort of gaudy silver and red. "Was that on the Lincoln Highway," Concetta asked.

"Well," I said, "there was a coffee pot restaurant, just like that one, at one time right on Bedford's main street. But it was painted white. This is probably a replica."

Replica or not, I decided to grab the camera and go photograph it while Concetta made our sandwiches. I had only stepped out of the rig when a gentleman approached. "Are you here for the coffeepot or the races," he asked.

"Ah, coffee pot yes, races no," I told him. "We just stopped to have lunch and I thought I'd photograph it. I know that there used to be one just like this on on main street."

"This is it," the man said. "We moved it here to preserve it. We determined after some research that silver was the original color in case you're wondering why it's not white," he continued.

The Lincoln Highway came officially into being in 1913. It stretched from Times Square in New York City, to Lincoln Park in San Francisco. Not much in the way of road building took place in those early years. The Lincoln Highway was more of a set of directions on how to get from one place to another using existing roads, be they good or terrible. But as time went on road sections were built and lots of others were improved until the Lincoln Highway really came to stand for a certain excellence, at least in the east and mid-west, when you traveled the LH route across the country.

Around 1926, Federal Highways began to be numbered and all named highways, including the Lincoln, ceased to exist. In Pennsylvania where we traveled today, the Lincoln has become Highway 30. In other states it has acquired other number designations. It's fun to try and ferret out chunks of the old road as you travel. Usually, the old sections meander through the countryside and squeeze their way through tiny little towns that date back well before paved highways existed.

We turned off Highway 30, the Lincoln, at Bedford and headed south. My plan was to wander down into West Virginia until we encountered Highway 50 west, then move toward the state of Kentucky. All the country through which we traveled today was wonderful and green and we just rolled along enjoying it.

About 4:00 p.m.we started thinking about where to camp. We really hadn't seen much in the way of available camping noted on Route 50, so we really started looking in earnest.

One false alarm occurred when we saw the little blue travel trailer sign that normally alerts you to an upcoming camping opportunity. We took the turnoff, and then wandered up a steep and winding back road for a mile. The only camp we saw looked like it had space for six RVs and every space was filled. With difficulty, we backed the rig into an intersecting (tiny) street, and headed back to Highway 50.

The next blue trailer sign we saw led us up a side road and ultimately to a rather rough and tumble-looking collection of RVs, most of which appeared to have been dropped out of helicopters from ten feet off the ground. Every rig was sort of dilapidated and tired-looking and the site was full of pot holes and rutted roads. I pulled in anyway. It was a tight turn, but we made it and we jiggled and lurched our way along until I saw a couple of characters outside a sort of sad-looking travel trailer. I stopped, got out, and went over.

At first the two men ignored me, so I just stood there quietly until they finished their conversation and turned to look at me. "I didn't see an office," I said. "Can anyone have space here?"

The bigger man who was closest to me and dressed head to foot in camouflage, sort of winced. He was a head taller than me and quite a bit heavier. He had a sort of roundish, puffy-looking face that made him look unhealthy, and he sported a wispy black mustache. "Maybe if you were an oil worker," he said.

"Oh," I said. "So you have to be an oil worker to rent a space here?

Camouflage man hesitated for a moment. "Well, no," he said slowly, "I'm retired and I live here.

I thought he looked way too young to be retired, but at that point he decided to change the subject. "Where ya from, anyway?"

Thinking perhaps he was warming up to me, I told him Nevada and that really perked him up. "You folks settle that argument over them cows?" he asked, a big smile spreading over his face.

I realized right away I probably was talking to the commander of the local Minute Man chapter. "You know," I said, playing it safe, "I'm not sure who might be right in that argument."

Camouflage man nodded. He lifted the bottom of his camouflage sweat shirt and showed me the 9mm handgun he had on his belt. "We'd have no trouble settling it here in West Virginia," he said.

I had no intention of disputing that point. I nodded. "I saw the Special Forces ID on your hat," I said, hoping to play into his Minute Man bravado, even though I was certain that he'd been no closer to the Special Forces in his life than his big screen TV.

"Long time ago," he said, and grinned again. "That was back in the days when my baby brother -- he indicated the other man sitting about five feet away at a rustic picnic table -- was actually a bit lighter than me. Now I expect he's got a pound or two on me." Both men smiled broadly at me, and I figured I was probably safe enough in their company, at least for awhile.

"So," I said. "I saw a sign back on the highway for a state camp. You guys know anything about that?"

"Sure do," camouflage man said. "Pretty darn nice. Ya gotta drive lots a twisty roads to get there, but it's nice."

"How far you come?" Baby Brother asked.

"We've come over 7,000 miles to get here," I said.

"Well, then," Baby brother said with a grin. "I don't reckon you'll mind a few more twists and turns."

"You're right," I said. "I'll go take a look. And thanks for your help."

At that point I beat a hasty retreat to the rig. Then, with a little back and forth maneuvering to get out of the oil workers camp, we were soon back on the highway and headed for the state camp.

The state camp turned out to be wonderful and had lots of open spaces, a very genial camp host named Joann, and just wonderful surroundings so quiet the chirping of birds is our only distraction. Incredibly, the state camp had only opened earlier this morning. We were among the very first RVers of the season to find our way here.

And that's how the day went. Lots of twists and turns and false starts. But in the end, everything came out fine. Tomorrow, well, I honestly don't know where we're going tomorrow, but if it's as interesting as today, it's going to be a blast!

Day 58 - Harpers Ferry, West Virginia to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

What can you say, and how do you act, when you finally get to visit what is arguably the most sacred battlefield site in America? From the time I was just a little kid, and my 7th grade math teacher introduced me to the Civil War, I have dreamed about coming to gaze out at the rocks and fields and orchards surrounding the town of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. There are over 5,989 acres of land within the protection of the Gettysburg National Military Park. Hundreds more acres are protected around the park by historical covenants which prevent development and maintain the 1863 appearance. The place is just an amateur historian's dream come true.

Once, when I was about 21 years old, I got close to coming to Gettysburg. I was stationed for a short time during my tenure in the U.S. Naval Air Corp at a place called NAS Willow Grove here in Pennsylvania. The NAS stood for Naval Air Station. I had been assigned to NAS Willow Grove to complete my military training in aviation antisubmarine warfare. I think there were perhaps twenty of us in my incoming class.

I remember that some of the sailors in the outgoing class had managed to pool their money and purchase a 1953 or 1954 Cadillac sedan that they used to tour the surrounding countryside in their free time. Preparing to leave and go on active duty, the group asked several of us if we'd like to buy the car from them when they graduated, which would allow us to have transportation as well. I actually had my own car at the time, but I had dropped it in New York State, where my brother was living, so that he could do some body work on it. He had given me an old beater station wagon to drive that I didn't want to trust too far away from civilization.

There were about four of us as I remember it, who went in on that Cadillac, and boy did we have some high times traveling all over the Pennsylvania countryside on our off times. I remember that I had tried to convince the guys to ride over to Gettysburg and tour the battlefield, but they opted instead for touring Valley Forge. Valley Forge was interesting, of course, but it wasn't Gettysburg.

The next time I got close to Gettysburg was the time I attended the conference for the newly formed Lincoln Highway Association that was holding it's very first conference in central Pennsylvania about twenty years ago. The tour buses traveled right through Gettysburg as we traced the old route of the Lincoln Highway, now Pennsylvania Route 30. I got to watch the front gate sail right by my window and quickly disappear from sight. Since I had no transportation other than the tour bus, I could not return to visit very easily, and besides I was on a pretty strict time allowance from my job, and probably wouldn't have been able to spare the extra day.

Which brings us to today. We almost didn't make it to Gettysburg this time, either. After inflicting quite a few Civil War sites on Concetta, I was ready to give up coming as far north as Pennsylvania and we discussed instead the idea of begining our westward journey back to Nevada from Virginia. At the time we had visited Appomattox Court House, the battlefield site dedicated to the surrender of General Lee to General Grant. I told her then that she wouldn't have to endure any more battlefields and I would be content to visit Gettysburg on another trip.

Fortunately for me, our tour of the Appomattox Court House grounds, and the nearby Confederate Museum in the town of Appomattox, were both extremely interesting and exciting. Concetta was moved to concede that just maybe one more battlefield wouldn't be the straw that broke the camel's back.

So we started north from Virginia with my avowed promise to turn west after Gettysburg and not try to slip any more Civil War, like the camel's nose under the tent flap, into the schedule when she wasn't looking. Of course, I did accidentally choose a route that just happened to deposit us in the neighborhood of Harpers Ferry, West Virginia, by day's end yesterday. But what the heck, you do need to stretch your legs after a long day of driving in the rain, don't you?

During the course of this vacation we found that there are a tremendous number of things wrong with Civil War museums, no matter what state of the Union in which you find them. And ALL of those things are called children. For some reason, it is now SOP to give fourth graders a check-off sheet of Civil War facts that they must find in the museum in order to get a good grade for their field trip. That is, of course, wonderful if you're trying to foster an interest in the

Civil War in at least one or two of the little creatures. But that's where the word wonderful ends. The kids run from exhibit to exhibit, shouting at each other with unrestrained glee, and pay not the slightest attention to the older folks who are trying to comprehend the various displays. The noise level borders on deafening. The commotion is completely distracting. If you search the room for the chaperones, they appear to be either shell-shocked into insensibility, or they have tuned out the whole thing and are texting their boyfriends or girlfriends with not a thought of where their charges are or who they might be terrorizing.

This situation was repeated at the Gettysburg Museum today. Thank goodness, we had budgeted our time primarily in other directions and we were willing to retreat until the invaders had withdrawn. The best thing we did today was sign up for the battlefield tour handled, in our case, by a retired army officer who, we could tell, just lived and breathed the battle of Gettysburg. Tour guides must go through a period of rigorous training and testing before they are turned loose on the public. Let's just say that this guy, with the unlikely name of Kavin Coughenour, could have done no better job explaining the three-day battle than if he had participated in the event himself. He was, in short, absolutely wonderful.

Kavin shepherded us around the battlefield, stopping at significant points to explain the the day's events for July 1, 2 & 3, 1863. We learned how the battle started against the expressed orders of Robert E. Lee, but came about because one General decided to visit Gettysburg for supplies. We learned about Generals who made disastrous blunders that resulted in the deaths of thousands. General Daniel Sickles earned this distinction when he advanced his 8,500 troops too far in advance of his left and right flank and lost half of his men before reinforcements could reach him. We learned about heros like Joshua Chamberlain who was charged with defending the Union left flank, and whom, when his men ran completely out of ammunition after repeated rebel attacks, ordered them to fix bayonets and charge the enemy force that hugely outnumbered them. Astoundingly, Chamberlain was successful in pushing the Confederate forces back, saving the Union flank, and perhaps the battle. He was later awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor.

Those are only two stories we heard today, and in truth they came faster than we could remember them all. But just being able to stand in the woods where the Confederates grouped to charge the Union center on the morning of July 3rd, 1863 was totally humbling. Famously known as Pickett's charge, this is the event that scholars believe marked the high water mark of the Confederacy. Roughly 13,000 troops marched across the fields in front of where we stood today and were mowed down by not only thousands of rifles, but dozens of cannons, loaded like giant shotguns, with canisters full of iron spheres the size of golf balls.

In the end, only 400 Confederate soldiers made it to the Union line, and they were quickly killed or captured. When our bus tour moved on from the Confederate staging area, our guide took us to the other end of "Pickett's Charge" and we got to see the terminus of the failed Confederate advance. We could easily see what a terrible distance those Confederates had been in the open and suffered that murderous fire.

We were also taken to Little Round Top, where Joshua Chamberlain famously withstood those repeated rebel attacks, and looked out at the whole battlefield. I would never have guessed that you could see over so wide an area from up there. It was like looking at a giant game board where you could almost SEE the various units and players as described to you by the guide.

There were lots of other descriptions and discussions on our ride, but you get the idea. I have never been anywhere that comes so close to capturing the feeling of the Civil War. Everything is laid out just as it was. They're even planting peach trees in the old peach orchard that existed in 1863. Most of the houses in Gettysburg that were around during the three-day battle are still there. The Park Service has arranged over 400 cannons where the two sides had their cannons arranged. Most impressive, there are over 1700 monuments to virtually every important aspect of the battle. If you were able to spend a few days walking the battlefield, I think you could really gain an understanding of what those boys in blue and gray were faced with. Maybe next time.

Gettysburg is the place you have to come if you love the Civil War, or any aspect of it. The museum is top notch. The narrated coach tours are fantastic. They have a cyclorama on the second floor which gives you a 360 degree look at the battle in progress (see photo above left). This feature alone cost them millions of dollars, much of it from privately raised monies. The movie that they encourage you to see before you do anything else is so sobering and moving that almost everyone left with tears in their eyes. You can also tour the battlefield by yourself using maps, or using their narrated tour on CD that you can insert in your car CD player and that is available in the bookstore.

Anyway, that's it for the Civil War for now. We've visited each and every one of the sites on my long-time "must visit" list. From Harpers Ferry where John Brown tried to force a Civil War in 1859, to Fort Sumter where the first shots were fired, to Appomattox where Lee's Army of Northern Virginia finally gave up. We've walked the heights near Fredericksburg, Virginia, where one of the worst military disasters for the Union occurred, and traveled the road near Chancellorsville where the great Stonewall Jackson was shot by his own troops. We've been from one end of the Civil War to the other. Thanks to my understanding wife, all my goals have been met. Well, maybe not all my goals.....

I've been thinking about buying one of those blue suits like the guy at right. Now I didn't have any direct ancestors in the Civil War. The Davis family didn't arrive from England and Wales until 1873, and I think all my mother's folks were Mormons and Quakers and non-violent folks. But I did have two distant uncles who fought for the 61st Illinois Volunteer Infantry. Guess that should qualify me for a re-inactor's birth somewhere. What do you think?

Day 57 - Madison, Virginia to Harpers Ferry, West Virgina

If you've been watching the national weather news lately, you already know that the skies have opened up in the southeast and the creeks are rising fast. Everywhere you look there are pools of standing water or small streams where normally such aquatic features don't exist.

Right now we happen to be in Harpers Ferry, West Virginia, a tiny town of some 200 residents. The residents there are used to the rising rivers claiming the downtown streets every couple of decades. When that happens, portions of the town inevitably end up in another state. Harpers Ferry is the town where the Shenandoah and the Potomac Rivers come together to form the larger Potomac that flows by Washington D.C., around sixty-five miles from here.

Last night we plunked down our cash for a campsite in the RV establishment known as Madison/Shenandoah Hills. Since we weren't staying more than a day, I think they gave us the least desirable spot they could think of, one that was located right at the top of a long hill and was purported to be "a nice level spot." Well, when I got over chuckling about that bit of inaccuracy, I went ahead and slogged around in the mud getting the rig up on blocks to level it. Then, I set up the water and sewer connections. All the while I was casting a wary eye on the amount of water that was flowing over the site from "up stream" in the camp.

Well, I needn't have worried about the puny rivulets of water that accompanied my setup last night. When I got up this morning the campsite was literally under water, or so it seemed. When I got outside to pack all the various cords and hoses back into the RV, I found that we might be in danger of being washed into the nearby creek. There was so much water flowing over the site, that there was nowhere I could put my Croc-clad feet where they weren't submerged.

But we survived and were soon out on the highway headed in the wrong direction. I say "wrong" because we really needed to go north towards Gettysburg. But we also wanted to drive the Shenandoah Parkway, a fifty some odd mile long picturesque romp through the forest that is actually a National Park. The drive is so beautiful that the National Parks folks charge you money to venture there, or at least they do if you don't have the necessary parks pass that we carry.

To access the Shenandoah Parkway we had to drive south on Route 29 from our camp in Madison to catch Route 33. This meant we had to drive south for thirty or so miles in order to drive north. But it was worth it. Well, it would have been worth it if it hadn't been raining like crazy. Still, it was easy to see that in nicer weather the Parkway would be just a joy to drive. The road is winding and slow, maximum speed limit thirty-five. There are 75 pullouts along the way, as well as several places to buy groceries, get gas, or picnic if that's your bent. I wanted to try and take photos of the wintry-looking forest on both sides of us, but every time I saw a nice scene and stopped, the rain began pelting us like machine gun fire and I feared for the camera's safety.

Once we cleared the Parkway we got onto Virgina Route 340 and rode it all the way into West Virginia and our camp at the KOA here in Harpers Ferry. We picked this camp because it's right next door to the Harpers Ferry visitors Center. At the visitors center you can get a shuttle down to Harpers Ferry itself and do your sightseeing. Then you can hop back on the shuttle and return to your vehicle. Since we rolled into the park about 2:30 p.m., we had plenty of time to stroll through the historic city, visit all the interactive museum displays, and even hang out at the Park Service book store as the rain picked up outside. The book store had more Civil War-related literature per square foot than any such book store I've seen yet. It was marvelous and I picked up a couple of tomes that looked interesting, including one on a journalist's interviews with slaves.

After returning to the visitor center around 5:00 p.m., we drove the short distance to the KOA camp office and went in to solidify the reservation we'd made earlier. Here's where we ran into trouble. I told the clerk that I wanted a space as near to the laundry building as I could get as that's how we intended to spend the next hour or so -- doing our laundry. Rather than grant my request, the young teenage girl behind the counter lied to me and said that there were no 30amp hookups in that portion of the camp nearest the laundry and I would have to take one three times further away. When further investigation proved this fabrication to be a lie, I drafted the following letter which will go out to the KOA main office in the morning:

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Our stay the Harper’s Ferry KOA will never be repeated. Nor will we recommend the park. Here’s why: When we arrived and presented ourselves at the check-in counter, I asked the clerk, a young blond girl of about 18 years, for a space closest to the laundry facility because we wanted to accomplish that task before we left. I pointed to a number of empty spaces adjacent to the laundry building and said, “something over there would be great.” At that time the portion of the park closest to the laundry was about half full.

The blond girl said, “I can’t put you over there, it’s only 50amp and you asked for 30amp. If you want 30amp I have to put you quite a bit further away.” She indicated spaces that were at least three times as far to walk with a basket of heavy laundry as the closer ones I desired.

Since it was raining, it didn’t make me happy that we would have to carry the finished, dry clothes such a long distance, but I said okay and set up our rig in the more distant spot. Later, while the laundry was spinning, I decided to check out the girl’s story by randomly selecting an electrical connection in the more desirable location and lifting the electrical connection lid. You can guess what I found. The girl had lied to me as there were both 30amp and 50amp connections on the post.

But just to double check, I walked up and talked to one of the guests who was parked nearby. He told me that he had both amperage connections on his power post as well, not just 50 amps as the clerk had led me to believe.

So, there you have it. When you’re paying $47.00 to park, you expect the best treatment possible. We didn’t get it.

Furthermore, after doing the laundry, my wife told me, in a disgusted tone of voice, that the facility was dirty and she had to use her disinfectant wipes on everything she touched.

We don't think the Harpers Ferry KOA meets your standards and should be scrutinized for protocol compliance.

Thanks for the opportunity to help you rectify this situation. _____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I wrote the above letter, to have it ready, because KOA always contacts me after we have stayed somewhere to ask how I enjoyed my stay. I don't want to be at a loss for words when that happens this time. In the mean time, I suggest if you're traveling to Harpers Ferry, you visit the town as we did, but choose a different camp in which to park your rig.

Day 56 - Williamsburg to Madison Virginia

Today was one of continuous rain, not that we cared a whole lot about the weather since our intention was to drive all day and not stop for any particular points of interest. Now and again, as we headed northwest out of Williamsburg, we saw the odd Civil War battlefield site or historic byway, but none that we felt like touring in the monsoon type precipitaton we were experiencing. We just kept driving, well, except for when we pulled up in the yard of a closed plantation farm to have lunch.

About mid afternoon we found ourselves inside the Ford Motor Company garage in Madison, Virgina. Nothing was wrong with the rig. It's just that we've been stopping at Ford dealership garages ever since we arrived in Florida a couple of weeks ago. Each time we see one, in every town we happen to be traveling through, I pull over and walk into the service department. And each time the service manager tells me that there's no way that they could possibly work us into their schedule "today." Since I was looking for not only "today," but more or less right that minute, I always nodded and walked back to the RV.

Today I finally decided that I would have to stop at an auto parts store and buy the appropriate oil filter so that I wouldn't need a Ford dealer for parts, but could stop anywhere that I saw a semi-empty auto fix-it shop capable of changing oil. Then, even if they didn't have the appropriate filter, they could still do the job with my filter.

The reason that this project is getting more important is because we've now put 7,000 miles on the rig and I'd truly like to get the oil changed before we head west. It's probably not critical, but it IS important. I could, of course, do the job myself in about fifteen minutes, but it's getting rid of the old oil that would stymie me. I didn't want to be put in the position of illegally disposing of motor oil. The EPA would probably shadow me the rest of my life.

So it was fortuitous that shortly after I bought the filter I came upon a two-bay auto fix-it shop with one lone car on the lift in the left-hand bay, and the other bay totally empty. Only a light drizzle was falling so I thought, hey, anybody can whip off a filter, drain the old oil, put in the new oil, and be done in fifteen minutes. Even if they had to do it outside, they would have been done long before they got wet.

We pulled up in front of the shop and I got out. One of the two employees inside caught sight of me and sauntered over to see what in the world I could be wanting. He was a round-faced, friendly-looking blond kid about twenty-five years old. He said, "How can I help you?" and looked at me expectantly.

"Hi," I said. "Do you suppose you'd have time to change the oil in this rig?"

The blond kid immediately went to shaking his head. "No way," he said. "I can't lift something this big off the ground."

"Don't need to lift it," I said. "I carry a couple of drive-up blocks. We could put the truck on the blocks and that would lift it six or seven inches off the ground. The filter is easy to get at then."

The blond kid hadn't stopped shaking his head. "Nope," he said, "just can't do it."

We were standing facing each other and I was looking into his pale blue eyes. For some reason I expected him to say, "well, you see it's raining and, well, I'm pretty lazy. And shucks, I really don't want to have to work that hard today, anyway."

I looked at him for another long moment, thinking maybe he'd suddenly come to his senses since he obviously didn't have much business at the shop, but no good. He just shrugged and said, "Sorry!"

"Okay," I said, and couldn't help but think if he were my employee, he and his pale blue eyes would be scanning the 'Help Wanted' ads right about now. I turned and got back in the rig, and soon after we were back on the rain-swept highway.

Fortunately, we hadn't driven very far and we stumbled over the Madison, Virginia Ford dealer where, much to my surprise, the service manager said he would squeeze us in, AND that he'd get someone on the job within the next fifteen or twenty minutes. True to his word, that's precisely what he did. Though I held my breath as they squeezed the RV into the garage with about an inch on each side of the mirrors to spare, they easily jacked up the front of the rig, changed the oil, checked the belts and the brakes, gave the rig a clean bill of health, and had us standing at the payment counter in less than a half hour. Total cost? Under $50.00.

Here's the funny part, when I asked the dealership oil change guy if he had any trouble, he said, "Nah! Just threw a jack under the front end and lifted it just a bit. Filter is easy to get to. It was no trouble at all."

I thought back to the good lookin' kid with the faded blue eyes at the half empty fix-it shop. I already knew his future. He's the type who thinks that luck will determine whether he's successful or not. But luck is virtually never involved when someone is successful. Success in this life depends on a person MAKING their own luck. The blue-eyed kid made a small part of his own luck today, and it wasn't good. He'll probably go right on making that sort of bad luck until some point in the future, maybe fifty years from now, when he'll sit telling his grandkids that he might have made it big in the business world if he'd only been lucky, and the nasty old rich people had treated him right. Yup, I can hear it now.

After getting the oil changed we sought out the nearest camp, which happened to be an X-KOA, now Good Sam establishment. Naturally, I couldn't find my Good Sam card (it had stuck to another card in my wallet and I didn't see it) and the woman wouldn't take the credit card that I was carrying. This necessitated going back to the rig to get another card and spending ten minutes looking for the Good Sam card which wasn't actually missing. Then, as the rain fell with renewed vigor, we sloshed our way to the top of the hill and found space #28, which I was assured was level. It wasn't. That meant I had to get out and slog around in the mud putting the rig on blocks. Fortunately, the rain let up while I got everything else connected and now I'm sitting in a nice warm coach taking it easy and talking to you.

Even though we didn't get to do anything exciting today, we were listening to a good Richard Patterson book on the CD called "Trial" which I think is well done. I don't usually like Patterson for his tendency to use the omniscient view point, but this book is told in the first person, which I always like better.

Outside our cab windows, the Virginia countryside, though pretty water logged, was beautiful as we motored along at our sedate pace of 55mph. Coming out of Williamsburg, we ignored Interstate 64 and set off on Route 30, then 33, and finally 17 as we moved toward Fredericksburg. Though we'd been to Fredericksburg recently, my plan was to skirt by the town and head on over to the Blue Ridge Parkway which runs up the Shenandoah Valley. All that came about perfectly, though we found ourselves on a slew of other small roads to get here to camp this evening. Still, the traffic was light and we were, at times, almost alone on some of our rural routes today.

And that's about it for now. Life may not always be controllable or predictable, but to paraphrase Louis Pasteur, "Fortune favors the prepared mind." Be prepared, and the rest is easy.

Keep on Traveling....like the people in the photos above.

Day 55 - All day in Colonial Williamsburg, Virginia

You've heard the old saying, "When life hands you lemons, make lemonade." Well, today we were faced with doing precisely that. While yesterday's weather was gorgeous beyond all expectation, today was decidedly less than gorgeous. We woke this morning to skies that were overcast and threatening, which was too bad since we were headed for the much anticipated Colonial Williamsburg right after breakfast.

John Fogarty's, "Looks like we were in for nasty weather," came to mind as I went outside to pack all the hoses and electrical cords before our departure. Even though I knew that we'd be spending most of the day indoors watching artisans and craftsmen and women plying their various skills, I also knew that we'd be walking outdoors a good bit as we moved from building to building. If it rained, we were almost certainly going to get wet.

By the time we arrived in the largely deserted RV parking lot at the Williamsburg visitor center, the weather outlook for the day had not improved. This was confirmed at check-in when I asked the receptionist what the weather prognoses was for the day and she said, "Rain. Rain today and rain for the rest of the week."

Here's where I thought, "Oh, oh. Time for leomonade making." From past experience here in the south and southeast, I know that rain seems to hold off for most of the day, but clobbers you around mid afternoon, or just about the time you are enjoying yourself, whichever comes first. Studying the map, I decided that the visitor center shuttle can drop you just inside Williamsburg and you can then spend the rest of the day getting farther and farther away. OR, you can ride the shuttle all the way around the park to the far side, then get off and then spend the rest of the day walking back toward the visitor center. The second choice would probably be best if the rain held off until the usual mid afternoon time.

And that's what we did. We rode around and got off at the Capitol building, took the tour there, then headed down Duke of Gloucester Street, back toward the visitor center, intending to just visit each and every shop that offered a colonial shopkeeper or artisan who would explain to us their trade. Believe me, there are lots and lots of these shops and you probably don't have a hope of doing all of them in any six or eight hour period. So we just wandered and visited whatever took our fancy.

Our first shop we entered catered to the wig-buying public (photo above right). Serendipity was in play here as we had tried to visit the apothecary shop and had been told that we had to wait until the current group of visitors had left. So, we crossed the street and entered the wig shop. Now, you'd probably be accurate if you predicted that wigs might interest neither Concetta nor me. But surprisingly, we found the entire discussion with the master wig maker fascinating and wonderfully informative. Who knew that hair for wigs came from all over the world, even in the 18th century? Who knew that wealthier women often had their heads shaved of their real hair so they could wear a styled wig? Who, in fact, knew that Pomade hair dressing was sheep fat mixed with oil lavender or similar scents? Who knew that aside from human hair, wigs were made of flax (a plant) and horsehair? Anyway, you get the drift. We learned a lot about a subject we heretofore knew nothing about.

Our next visit was to the silver shop (photo left). I didn't learn a lot there since I was so enthralled with photographing their workshop, but it was fascinating watching the craftswoman beating a flat piece of pewter into a bowl shape. I imagine that their hearing probably suffers, but their work is so good it's sold in the gift shop next door once they're done.

After the silver shop we dropped into the Milliner's shop. Here, once again, I didn't expect to get too excited over the topic, but was I wrong. The first thing the Milliner told us was how the Milliner's trade got it's name. He said that the word is derived from the French word for "thousand," which at the time meant that you could buy a thousand different things at a Milliner's shop. Now a quick search on the web produced the explanation that the word Milliner actually came from the Italian city of Milan, and was synonymous with finery of all kinds. Wherever the truth lies, the Milliner's shop was once the place to buy virtually everything you needed if you wanted to dress well, both for men and for women. A Milliner might make a suit coat for you if you were a man. Or he might make a corset for you if you were a woman.

The Milliner would not, however, make you a dress as that was the job of the Mantua. A Milliner performed three services: He/she was a tailor, a hat maker, and a maker of ladies accoutrements. The most interesting thing he told us was that the Americans sold flax to the English, who resold it to the Irish, who then wove it into linen, and then sold it to the Americans for making into clothes. This in the late 1700s. Incredible!

Our next port of call, so to speak, was to a tavern. Now before you jump to conclusions, we definitely did not get to sample any of the tavern's wares. But we did get to learn some interesting facts. Certain prices were regulated in the late 1700s for taverns that provided not only drinks and food, but lodging. The Colonial government set prices for what were called public sleeping rooms so that travelers coming to the Capital wouldn't be gouged by innkeepers. Of course that meant you might find yourself sleeping in a room with a half dozen other people, perhaps even two strangers in the same bed. There might be two beds in a room (photo below left for one), and then the floor space would be taken up by late-comers. Now the particular tavern we were visiting, called Weatherburn's, also had what they called "private" rooms where you could be alone, but the prices were not regulated on those rooms. They might come with single occupancy beds, wash stands, chairs, and the like, but you were definitely going to pay for all that.

Concetta and I went in split directions for our next educational adventure. I wanted to do the blacksmith shop, and Concetta headed right for the outdoor baking oven. I have always been fascinated by blacksmithing, and have even accumulated some of the blacksmith's tools over the years. One of the tools I have is a heavy duty, floor standing vise. These are somewhat rare and I would like to someday properly install my vise, but I've never been able to figure out how the darn thing attaches to a workbench. As I discovered today, I'm actually missing a key component of the attachment hardware. But the blacksmith was so accommodating, he volunteered to disassemble his vise so I could see (and photograph) the attachment piece so I could someday build my own. (photo below right) Just wow!

After Concetta learned all she could learn from the baker, and I soaked up as much information as I could from the blacksmith, we both resumed our walk down Duke of Gloucester Street. It was at this point that we stumbled upon the local book bindery shop and what would turn out to be our most fascinating discussion of the day. Naturally, having spent a decade of my life as a printer, the subject of book binding has always been one that I wanted to know more about. If you've ever seen one of those leather bound ancient books with the hand-tied pages, you know what an incredible work of art they are. Covers made of calf skin. Pages made of rag paper. Hand marbled end pages. Every letter hand set and maybe printed one page at a time. Gives me goosebumps just thinking of it.

Well, though we had trouble seeing the shop when we first arrived due to the crush of other fascinated viewers, our competition soon cleared out and left us alone with Master Bookbinder, Bruce B Plumley. This gentleman, who hales from a part of England once called home by my Dad's maternal grandmother, has spent fifty-seven years as a bookbinder. He has plied his trade, not only in England, but in Germany and Italy as well. AND, he now pursues his amazing craft in Colonial Williamsburg at the singular and expressed invitation of the private foundation that operates Colonial Williamsburg itself! Help, my head is spinning.

We had so much fun interviewing Bruce that we completely missed the printer exhibition right across the alley. Oh, well, on to the next adventure.....which, in this case, happened to be in the spinning and weaving building. Here a young lady was running one of those spinning wheels that you see in darned near every antique store in the country. But did we learn a lot of things at this demonstration. We learned that at this period in history making clothes and other cloth items out of cotton was just prohibitively expensive due to the labor costs of separating the cotton bolls from the plant parts. It was far cheaper to import cotton from India if you had to have it. Things could be made more cheaply out of wool because sheep were plentiful and wool could be dyed, spun, and woven easily. Wool was fine for winter, but when it came to clothing in the hot,

muggy south, folks mostly wanted to wear linen since it was even cooler to wear than cotton. Here the young lady demonstrated how the flax plant was "combed" down to get the inner part of the plant stem and those inner parts were then made into linen. Though, as I pointed out earlier, flax could be more economically sent across the ocean to England and Ireland than it could be processed and woven in America at the time.

Just at that juncture was when the rain started pitter-pattering on the sidewalk outside the Spinning and Weaving shop. Having learned that the museum of art and antiques was just a two-minute walk away, Concetta and I made a dash for it and managed to get inside before the worst of the storm turned our lemons into a lemonade shower. The museum in Williamsburg is truly outstanding, and runs the gamut from antique firearms to fine china and furniture. We saw a collection of keyboard-type instruments, as well as viewed a display on the the reconstruction of one of the Williamsburg coffee houses. We also saw a very nice display on outdoor advertising.

You get the idea. They had something for everyone. But by now our feet were beginning to suffer, so we cut our visit short, first by a trip to the attached cafe for some hot coffee and tea, then by a dash to the park shuttle for our day's-end ride to the visitor center, which, because of our good planning, was only two minutes away. By now it was raining like it usually does in the south, like the biblical flood was no myth. So we weren't really sorry to be headed back to camp. We did get a little damp navigating the parking lot back to the RV (they always put the RV lot as far away from civilization as they can), but very quickly we were back at the RV park and I was getting our water, sewer, and electrical hooked up in record time.

Now, with the damp clothes hanging in every available quarter, we're just kicking back and planning our next move. We're not sure exactly what that will be. On the way to the visitor center, I asked the shuttle bus driver if there was a place on the east coast that WASN'T planning on having week-long rain, but he just shook his head. So, we'll just have to wing it. That's what we do best anyway. So, until next time, I bid you happy traveling.

Day 54 - All day in Jamestown and Yorktown, Virginia

What can I say about today? I know! IT WAS FREAKING FANTASTIC!!!! Oh, yeah! And that's probably an understatement.

The reason is that today, at long last, we finally made it to Jamestown. Jamestown where it all began. Jamestown where America got its kick start four hundred years ago. Jamestown that came within mere hours of ceasing to exist, as the final boatload of colonists, the handful that hadn't starved to death by then, boarded a ship and set sail down the James River for home, hoping, I'm sure, that they'd never see the rocky shores of America again.

But even before the starving and bone-tired remnants of what had once been several hundred pioneers reached the open sea, they ran into the long-awaited supply ship headed upriver on the James to save them. Fortunately for the future of America, for you and me, they turned around and went back. It was tough to survive in Jamestown, what with the lack of food, the hostile Native Americans, and the oftentimes severe weather. For the most part, it took more skill than those early colonists possessed.

In the beginning what they really lacked was skilled tradesmen and farmers. Many of the original colonists had been adventure seekers and little else. Some were even so called "gentlemen" who weren't used to doing manual labor. Others were soldiers. A few were women and children. A very large percentage of these people died, as many as 80% in the first few years. In all, between the years 1607 and 1624, six thousand colonists came ashore at Jamestown. Only about half managed to survive.

Today's excursion into the world of four hundred years ago included Jamestown Village, a sort of working re-creation of life in that famous colonial village. The village property contained a super nice museum and a couple of sailing ships similar to what would have delivered the colonists to America and later brought them supplies. We also visited a working Indian village and a replica fort enclosure where docents demonstrated period correct crafts that you would see in colonial times.

Though I like museums, I'm much more fond of docent recreations of vintage crafts and life ways. A matchlock weapon hanging in a display case is nice, but a matchlock weapon in the hands of a trained shooter is sublime (photo above).

In the Indian village, Concetta got to experience both rope-making using yucca fibers, and boat-making using fire and the sharp edges of oyster shells. You can't beat that hands-on stuff for really acquainting us with what the original artists had to go through in order to produce their crafts.

When we walked out to the sailing ships I really got a thrill. Having lived aboard an ocean-going vessel for a year of my life, I really like seeing how other sailors coped with life aboard ship. I was interested to see that the bunks aboard the vessel were roughly the same size as the one I slept in aboard the sixty-foot vessel where I lived. I guess things don't change all that much in four hundred years.

After our morning touring the Jamestown Village we had lunch in the RV then set off for the real Jamestown archaeological site. This is the part for which I and Concetta had long been waiting. Naturally I was hoping that we'd get to see some digging in progress, but alas we were disappointed.

Still, the talk by the resident ranger was very, very informative and the accompanying museum of archeological finds from the property was outstanding. We even got to see some facial reconstruction of a couple of the finds, which allowed us to go from the skull to a near perfect likeness of the person. Though no photographs were allowed in the museum, I can tell you that everything is displayed in a simple, straight-forward way and you don't get overloaded reading the background material.

At this point, even though the day was swiftly coming to an end, we decided to dash over and see the Yorktown exhibit if it were possible to do so. Unfortunately, we only caught the last forty-five minutes of the National Parks Yorktown Museum, though the background movie being shown was wonderful and gave us a good understanding of the surrender of the British there in 1781. As we were exiting we discovered that even though the Park Service visitor center and museum were closing, the grounds were not. Even better, we learned that the grounds included the actually original village of Yorktown which you could walk to from where our rig was parked.

So, as the last vestiges of the day filtered through the trees, Concetta and I walked the old village of Yorktown just appreciating the quaint old houses bathed in the most wonderful afternoon light and it was almost like a fairytale village. Being as it was a Sunday afternoon, there was almost no people around and very little traffic (people actually live there we found). It was just a great way to end the day.

With the help of our trusty, but sometimes cantakerous GPS, we swiftly found our way back to our camp ground and the space that we had reserved for three nights. Not counting the abundance of campfire smoke, the inexplicable over abundance of four-footed burglar alarms nearby, and ridiculous distance to the trash dumpsters, we really like this camp. It's called "American Heritage" of all things, and you can find us in space 47 near the woods. Concetta says that we're going to try and do some laundry while we're here, but I'm betting that I'll be keeping her much too busy for that chore since tomorrow we're bound for Colonial Williamsburg, yet another historic location we've been dying to see.

After that, who knows? I'm thinking Gettysburg, but you know that anything is possible.