Day 50 -- Cooperstown, New York to Lake Bomoseen, Vermont -- 176 Miles

This morning we awoke from one of the best night’s sleep that we’ve had on this trip. It was so quiet all night, that we didn’t hear a thing but the occasional goose honking in some far off piece of sky. The camp might have been a little neglected, but the location was just the very best. Our nearest neighbor even offered to score some cinnamon rolls for us when they made a morning dash into the village.

On the other hand, we are now ensconced in an overcrowded, lakeside camp in western Vermont that you might describe as any RVers worst nightmare. It’s literally packed from wall to wall with hordes of weekenders who are intent on celebrating Memorial Day to the fullest, regardless of the commotion they make.

There are ATVs zipping around like bothersome horseflies, there are miniature dogs barking at everyone else’s miniature dogs, and there are enough wood fires burning in the middle of this 91 degree heat to gladden the heart of your average blacksmith.

Those, of course, are the bad things. The good things are we succeeded in finding a camp that would take us on short notice. I only called them at noon today. The first camp I called, a KOA in Glen Falls, Vermont, didn’t have even one space left. The state park we called in that same area didn’t even bother to return our call.

So when the camp host here at Lake Bomoseen, Vermont, said they’d take us, we were pretty elated. That makes three out of the four Memorial holiday nights we got lucky, even though we fully expected that we’d be living in a Walmart Parking lot for the whole long weekend. Of course we still have Monday night to deal with, but we remain hopeful that with the Memorial Day weekend tapering off, maybe we'll get lucky again.

Before leaving Cooperstown this morning, we wanted to visit a number of things. There was an exhibit of Ansel Adams original prints at the local art gallery. In addition, the gallery was also hosting some absolutely fabulous sketches and color posters by the famous artist, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.

Right across the street from the art gallery was a fabulous pioneer farm and village that looked inviting. Like Colonial Williamsburg, the village promised craftsmen and women demonstrating their handiwork, which is an activity that we just love and almost always learn from.

Then, for the sports-minded, there was the baseball hall of fame. We knew if we wanted to keep a couple of our readers happy, we probably should make time to learn about baseball. Personally, the last time I enjoyed baseball I was playing sandlot ball in my old neighborhood when I was a pre-teen. I also collected baseball cards. But since those heady days of the 1950s I haven't given baseball much thought. I suspect that Concetta felt the same.

Lastly, the town of Coorperstown itself was just ultra cute, festooned from border to border with gorgeous Victorian houses that were just begging to be photographed. Unlike many, many tired and sad neighborhoods we've driven past in the last two months, the residents of Cooperstown really take pride in their vintage and historic homes.

What to do? Fortunately we had at our disposal a wonderful way to make the decision. Cooperstown provides a trolley that scoots from one end of town to the other and back again every twenty minutes. The trolley is just as cute as the town, looking much like a rubber-tired version of a San Francisco cable car. We already knew where to find the parking lot for the trolley, so that was our first stop after leaving camp.

Fortunately, the parking lot was only about half full when we arrived and it was an easy matter to go clear to the back and park the rig in the shade of some giant trees. Twenty minutes later, we had paid our two bucks apiece and were off on a very pleasant ride through town, fully narrated by our driver.

Having ridden clear to the southern trolley terminus and back to the middle of town, Concetta and I disembarked and started walking. The town was in a very festive mood as some sort of long-distance race was in progress. Every few minutes a numbered man or woman or child would dash by and disappear down the street. taking place concurrently was some sort of law enforcement celebration, as one entire parking lot was cordoned off for all the police vehicles.

But the runners and the cops weren't the most noticeable visitors on the main street of town. No, it was the baseball fans. They came in all shapes, sizes, sexes, age groups, and degrees of celebratory inclination. Many, many of the baseball fanatics were dressed in baseball jerseys, hats, and, in some cases, entire uniforms. The only thing we didn't see was fans carrying balls, bats, and gloves -- well, maybe one or two!

So it was that after walking Cooperstown's main street in two directions, on both sides of the street, we landed in the courtyard of the Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum. We looked at each other and sighed. It appeared that come what may in the way of baseball fan abuse, we were not going to be able to convince ourselves to pony up the fifteen bucks a head to visit that most sacred place to baseball fans. We hope at least our sons will forgive us.

After that decision, it was much easier to decide on our next steps. Right on cue the trolley stopped opposite the Hall of Fame, we got on, and within minutes we were deposited upon the front steps of the art museum. In the interim -- since Concetta and I were the only passengers for that leg -- we got quite a dissertation from the driver on what it was like to live in Cooperstown, and how nice it was that every resident seemed to get into the spirit of maintaining the town's image. That is to say, the residents maintain their property in an exemplary fashion, which serves to make the town look more prosperous and inviting. When the town looks more inviting, tourists visit. And when tourists visit, the townsfolk make more money. It's such a simple idea that you wonder why more towns and villages don't seem to get it.

Anyway, though we could only devote an hour to our art museum visit, we thoroughly enjoyed fantastic exhibits on Ansel Adams earliest works, as well as some wonderful works, both early and later, by Toulouse-Lautrec . There was lots more to see at the museum, and we did partake of the American Indian permanent displays, but we still had to visit across the street to the Pioneer Village before lunchtime.

All it took was a brief walk across the street, and the Pioneer Village was at our fingertips. The Village, actually called the "Farmer's Museum," was done in such an astoundingly professional manner that you just couldn't help but be awed by the effort it must have taken. The entrance point is in the west end of a HUGE barn that has been completely refurbished into a museum.

The museum's lower floor is made up of individual booths wherein various farm crafts are displayed and explained. I liked the one on cider making, for instance. Concetta spent much time on that floor and learned about everything from Hops and Beer-making, to chicken ranching and dairy farming.

While Concetta was absorbed in the home crafts displays, I dashed upstairs to the hayloft where the more manly-man stuff was displayed and explained. I ventured up there because the sign on the lower floor promised that an extensive tool collection was to be seen up there. Goodness, was the sign ever right! They had every sort of tool you could imagine, all grouped into job types.

They had plumber's tools, and blacksmith's tools, and barrel-maker's tools, and carpenter's tools, and a dozen other job types. Each tool collection was so extensive that I just had to photograph each booth so I would have a record for future reference when I ran across a weird and wonderful tool that I could not identify.

Once we were out of the barn, we joined forces and walked over to the small village. There we found blacksmiths plying their craft, a printer, a dry-goods store owner, a man making barrels, and a half dozen other buildings that we never got to see. We spent the most time at the barrel maker, as he turned out to be so very informative and clear about the craft. For the first time I think we actually came away with a thorough understanding of the process.

Of course I just had to visit the print shop. I just can't stay away. Here the printer demonstrated using a press from the year 1820, which rested beside an 1840 model that was down for parts. They also had a early "clam-shell" press just like one we had at Sierra Nevada Printing back in the 1970s when I worked there. The model was slightly smaller, but essentially the same design.

We also had a very nice visit with the head blacksmith as he worked on fixing an antique flintlock pistol. Though I had not given it any thought, apparently blacksmiths could be called upon to fix mechanisms much smaller and more delicate than your average wagon part or plow. This particular blacksmith, though retired now from active blacksmithing, told me that he now spends most of his time fixing antique guns for folks.

At that point in time it was 12:00 noon and we had to retreat to the nearby parking lot where we had left the rig, have our lunch, and get on the road if we wanted to make any miles today. While we were having lunch we called several numbers to try and find a place to camp for the evening. When we finally found the one at Bomoseen Lake, Vermont, it became mandatory that we saddle up and get out of town. I have to tell you, however, if you ever get to Cooperstown, New York, try and spend a couple of days at least. You won't be sorry.

There was only one additional thing we had to do before leaving New York: we had to visit my long-time buddy, Jan Benson, who moved from Carson City to upstate New York probably twenty years ago. He owns a Victorian house in the tiny town of Worcester, New York, and is, as Concetta puts it, one of my more "eccentric" friends. He's an avid historian and train collector and all-around quirky guy of whom I've always been quite fond.

Once upon a time, when I had first landed in Carson City, Jan took me under his wing and introduced me to his buddies who were fanatical about anything and everything related to railroads. Actually, what he did was entice me down to the rail fan club house one night, and before I left I had been elected secretary, a job which I held for several years. Later, I would put out the club newsletter, serve as their program chairman, and spend (according to Concetta) way too much of my life thinking (and writing) about trains.

So, once we had finished lunch we dashed down Route 28 from Cooperstown, jumped on Interstate 88 north, and within a very short time we were pulling up in front of his house. More accurately, we pulled up in front of his next door neighbor's house and parked our behemoth of a vehicle on her parking strip. I got out, waved to the two ladies sitting on the nearby porch, asked if they minded me parking there, and when they didn't, I set off to find Jan's front door. When that didn't turn out to be possible, I went back to talk to the ladies on the porch.

"Do either of you know where to find the front door next door?" I asked.

The ladies looked at each other and chuckled. Then the lady in purple said, "He's not home anyway you know. He's at work. He drives a bus from here to Cooperstown."

"Ah," I said, or something equally intelligent, thinking we had probably passed him on the road at some point.

"He won't be home until late," the purple lady continued.

Now that the ice had been broken, I and the two ladies had a brisk conversation that ran from what life was like in Nevada, to how many times Jan had been married (I think the purple lady was sort of sweet on Jan if I had to guess). We talked about the weather. We talked about what a nice rig we had in front of her house. We talked about how I was going to get the nice rig off her parking strip and back on main street when we left. At the end of that conversation I knew just about as much as I knew when I arrived, but I did grow to like the purple lady and her friend. They were feisty as heck.

So, what might have been an hour-long visit with Jan, turned into a ten-minute visit with the neighbor, then we were off on the road again. We finished the run up Interstate 88 until we hit Schenectady, then we switched over to Interstate 87. After that of myriad of roads that shunted us by Saratoga Springs, past Glens Falls, and into Vermont, was followed by our ultimate arrival at party city here in Lake Bomoseen, Vermont. By the way, I had no trouble navigating the neighbor's tiny neighborhood streets and back onto Main Street out of Worcester. Piece of cake.

All day we kept an eagle eye out for a grocery store. We were running dangerously low on a bunch of different supplies, but to our disappointment we saw no stores. We did occasionally pass a mini-mart in combination with a gas station, but we wanted a store of substance. For some reason we have not seen a single Walmart in the last several days. We're not sure if they've been banned in the northeast, or whether we've just taken the road less traveled by the Walmart folks. But by the end of the day today, we were pretty much resigned to eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner and God knows what for breakfast, as we haven't passed anything that looked remotely like a grocery store.

But just a few miles before we arrived at Lake Bomoseen, we came upon a roadside stand, much as you might see in California, where one could obtain plants and flowers, but where one could also obtain groceries. Well, the small, amply-supplied shop carried everything from a wonderful array of vegetables and fruit and pastries of all sorts, to homemade jams and jellies, locally-grown honey, and that magical elixir known as maple syrup. We picked up berries, oranges and apples, lettuce, potatoes, bananas (probably not locally-grown), and a few other goodies. We still need to find a real grocery store soon, as we're almost out of a number of other things. Still, we probably won't starve anytime soon.

And that's just about it for now. Next door there's an irritating chap who thinks he can play the bongo drums, and a woman who insists on singing "Blowing in the Wind" over and over again in some sort of key not normally used for that song. Still, I'm hoping that eventually they will fall asleep next to their bonfire and quiet down a bit. All things considered, if I'm not forced to get a brick and kill the bongo player, I think we'll have a reasonably peaceful night. At least I haven't seen the ATV rider with the mounted red and yellow lights in the last twenty minutes. I DO wish he'd quit blowing that fog horn.

Anyway, until we meet again, we wish you Happy Travels.

Day 49 -- Blairstown, New Jersey to Cooperstown, New York -- 200 Miles

We had high hopes for today's sojourn, since last night I carefully laid out the driving directions, turnoffs, and distances on paper and knew just where we needed to go. But things began to go wrong almost immediately. Since the camp was located in such a tangle of tiny village roads, we trusted Her Highness, the GPS, to lead us to the main road. She did her job admirably and soon we were coursing down Route 94 toward the town of Columbia, the Berg that I had chosen for it's proximity to the route on which we wanted to travel north. This meant a slightly southwesterly vector for about 15 miles or so.

But as we got close to where we thought Columbia would be found, the GPS suddenly ordered us to turn left off Rote 94, cross a tiny, narrow bridge allowing no more than 10 tons, and climb into the trees on an equally narrow road. Of course after yesterday alarm bells were immediately ringing in my head, but we went on hoping that Her Highness knew what she was doing. This sentiment didn't last long.

After we had climbed the mountain goat trail for about ten minutes I finally decided to turn off the GPS and head back to Route 94. There was no way, I told Concetta, that the town we sought was going to be located at the top of the world. Fortunately, we just then came abreast of a "T" intersection and were able to turn around and retreat. This time when we approached the tiny truss bridge that was wide enough for us alone, I didn't even bat an eye, but just charged right across.

Once down at the bottom of Route 94, the thing that I had feared would happen happened. We ran smack dab into the Turnpike. Turnpikes are almost always bad news. Limited access. High costs. Lots of toll booths. Nothing to see but other cars and trucks.

So, the first thing we did was stop for gas. In New Jersey, for some reason, a chap is always on hand to pump your gas for you. I decided to ask him the proper way to head north and avoid the toll road. I could see on the map that there was such a road, but I just needed help to find it.

"Well," he said, "you take the last exit before the toll both and there's a narrow road that heads north next to the river. There's a camp up there.

We didn't want to camp, but it would tell me something if others had taken RVs up the road. "Could I get this rig up there," I asked him.

I should have gotten a clue when he paused for many seconds, looked the rig up and down, took his ballcap off and scratched his head, and said, "Well, I've seen guys pull trailers up there."

"Okay," I said, "and thanks for the advice." The tank filled we headed out onto the Turnpike, found the turnoff just prior to the toll booth, and exited. Within moments we found ourselves on yet another narrow "goat track" that looked like it might be a good place to ride your mountain bike. But take a 31-foot RV up there? Most people would have begged off.

Not me, of course. I rolled right on up the road.

"Did you see that red traffic light?" Concetta asked, when we'd gone about a hundred feet.

Actually, I had briefly focused on it, but I wasn't sure what it signified so decided to ignore it. I stopped the truck and turned to her. "What do you think?" I asked. "Maybe we should wait for a green? Like maybe it's red sometimes and green other times? Like maybe it's only a one-way road and you have to wait your turn?"

Concetta shrugged and that simple shrug caused me to lose my nerve. I put the rig in reverse, back around in as tight of a turn as I could without slamming the bumper into the bank on the uphill side of the road, then put it into drive and approached the edge of the cliff where you could see the river fifty feet below.

I could feel Concetta holding her breath as over and over again, much as we had done in Blacksburg, Virginia, we inched forward a couple of feet to the the edge of the cliff, then reversed a couple of feet until the rear bumper was up against the hillside, then do it again. Little by little we got the rig turned around, then headed back the way we had come. Before long we had headed back east, crossed over at the gas station where I'd gotten the advice, then got back on the Turnpike. Moments later we were rolling up to a toll booth.

"That will be six dollars and fifty cents," the toll booth lady said when I handed her a dollar.

"But your sign says a dollar," I said. "There's just two axles on this rig."

Looking rather humorless, the toll booth lady proceeded to inform us that motor homes paid a higher rate. She didn't seem to be inviting further discussion on the subject, so I launched into a different tack.

Is it easy to see the road that heads north from the Turnpike," I asked her.

"Yes," she said. Just take the Route 611 off-ramp and it will take you north." She held out her hand for the six fifty and I obliged by handing her a twenty. She grimaced almost imperceptibly, but proceeded to count up my change and hand it to me. "Have a nice day," she said, though I sincerely doubted she meant it.

"Okay," I told Concetta, "we can relax. All we have to do is look for Route 611 and we're in business." At that point I really should have double-checked the toll booth lady's advice, but I didn't. When we came to Route 611, we exited the Turnpike and headed in what we expected would be a northerly direction. Our goal, other than to just travel toward New York State, was to enjoy the Delaware Water Gap, which I had seen in old postcards, but had never before visited.

But moments later, as we hit our first village along Route 611, a roadside sign announced that to see the Delaware Water Gap you had to turn right HERE right NOW and take Route 209. At first we sailed right by that left-turn opportunity, but with some difficulty, that involved tying up both lanes of traffic while I made a torturous U-Turn, we made it to Route 209.

To my horror, almost immediately Route 209 dumped us back onto the Turnpike. "No. No. NOOOOOOO," I said, though not to the GPS. I had left her off since she had betrayed us earlier that morning. With some difficulty we managed to get off the Turnpike, travel back east, get off, get back on, and then take the route 611 exit for a second time, feeling just as foolish as you might expect we'd feel.

Anyway, for the remainder of the morning we berated the designers of Route 611 for their parsimonious natures when it came to placing directional signs. At one point we sailed right on through an intersection and out of town only to be faced with the certainty of being dumped right back on the turnpike. "This just isn't right," I told Concetta, and we turned around and went back a few miles to the town where we'd lost the "scent." Sure enough, as we approached this particular town from the opposite direction, there was a very prominent sign indicating that a left turn was needed. We should have turned right coming from the other direction, but there was no sign to tell us that.

Still our short journey on Route 611, which turned out to be routed through the heart of the Poconos, was quite interesting and pleasant. Most of it is posted at very low speeds so you have plenty of time to see everything (like the photo of the building at left that we found on Route 723 off 611). By the way, we never did get to see the Water Gap.

The only problem was that Route 611 didn't really go in a northerly direction, but mostly in a westerly direction. Since I hadn't checked the map, we only belatedly discovered that we had been getting further and further away from our intended route north. After that discovery, we branched off on Route 723 and headed in a more northerly direction.

Later that morning, when we had finally reached east/west-running Interstate 84 near the northern border of Pennsylvania, we came upon a roadside rest where we could walk a bit and have lunch. Then we set out for our evening's destination of Cooperstown, New York. It was time to get down to business and put some miles on the rig.

Though we've always downplayed the need to be anywhere at any specific time, the 27th of May finds us in our 49th day of travel. We HAD hoped to have reached the state of Maine somewhere around our 45th day, so we could start for home and use about the same number of days returning as we had spent coming. That would bring us home after about three months on the road. Obviously, we had to pick up the pace if we wanted to get our lobster rolls in Maine before summer was over.

Once on the road we plugged in our somewhat UN-trust-worthy electronic navigator and let her lead us to our evening camp. This she did without complaint or mistake, which encourages me to forgive her -- at least until she screws up again.

We WERE hampered for about an hour this afternoon when we ran into a colossal screw-up I'm sure PennDOT was identifying as "crucial road construction." The engineers had decided to tear up a solitary bridge in the slow lane of Interstate 81, and then leave on an extended Memorial Day holiday. While the construction guys were gone, the huge influx of interstate traffic was forced to funnel down to a single lane without any PennDOT presence to keep things orderly. I'm sure it could have been handled in a much more elegant way. Consequently, we crept along at five miles an hour for a solid hour.

But once that tribulation was behind us, we made pretty good time and arrived at the Cooperstown camp about a quarter to five. I was surprised to find that no one was home, but by 5:00 p.m. the owners had come in from working in one of the nearby cabins and checked us in. The camp is really a little rough around the edges, and most everything should be upgraded and/or replaced. Still, the owners are very personable and the camp is remote and pretty and, best of all, quiet.

This afternoon, after we had set up and I had started on the blog, a rather ferocious rain storm blew in and dosed us with a considerable amount of rain. While that was going on, lightening must have struck the park electrical system, as our power instantly went out. Fortunately, the RV surge protector that I had purchased way back in Springfield, Illinois, came to our rescue. While protecting the RV circuitry, the surge protector recycled automatically in two minutes and came back on line. No fuss, no muss, and money well spent.

So now the rain has stopped, the air has become cool and less muggy, and we've turned off the air conditioner. The sun is just setting over the surrounding hills and forests, and everything appears to be right with the world. So until tomorrow, we wish you Happy Travels!

Note: Since we didn't have much opportunity to shoot photos today, all these photos save the one of the rock school house are of our camp tonight.

Day 48 -- Coatesville, Pennsylvania to Blairstown, New Jersey -- 190 Miles

Today was one of the highest mileage days we've had on this trip, and one of the craziest. We left Coatesville, Pennsylvania early and, of all things, headed south not north toward the state of Maine. My original intention was to stay away from Philadelphia as much as possible, since we had "endured" rush-hour traffic there yesterday. Last night, I spent at least an hour pouring over the maps trying to find a way around Philly, but one that wouldn't meander too much and eat up a large portion of our travel day.

At the end of that study session, I determined that dropping south into Wilmington, Delaware, crossing the Delaware River, then catching the turnpike north into New Jersey might just accomplish both those ends. That turned out to be a perfect idea, or at least it would have been had I chosen a GPS coordinate ACROSS the Delaware River and closer to the turnpike.

Most of the morning went smoothly, and, as we approached Wilmington, I had completely forgotten that I had told the GPS to take us to Wilmington. So when the Magic Brain told us to exit Interstate 95 and enter the city, I didn't even question it. But seconds later I realized that we had not wanted to exit, and had really wanted to bypass Wilmington.

If you've ever tried to maneuver a 31-foot rig through the antiquated, narrow streets of a city laid out in the 19th century, you will sympathize with what happened next. Once we had plunged into the waterfront area of the city of Wilmington, we immediately recognized our mistake and hastened to reprogram the GPS to get us the heck out of there. This was our second mistake.

There are probably people who believe that a GPS is correct most of the time. Personally, I would dispute that in any court of law. I would agree that it "tends" to know what it's talking about, but when it tells you to turn left at the "VERY NEXT STREET," and then it tries to navigate you off what is really the wrong street, things can go horribly wrong right away.

Wilmington, Delaware is one of those old cities where, in their infinite wisdom, the city fathers have created a spaghetti bowl of one-way streets that they don't mark very well. This can be no problem if you're driving a VW Beetle. But if you have a great deal of length as well as width, you can end up trying to put your rig where nothing that large should ever be put.

So, once the Magic Brain asked us to turn south and we turned a street too soon, it then asked us to turn west to correct that action. That's when we found ourselves on a tiny, one-way side street that was lined for the entire block with bumper-to-bumper cars on both sides. The gap between the cars, where thru traffic was meant to pass, looked just wide enough for perhaps a standard sized sedan; no wider than that.

If you've ever seen that wonderful submarine movie, "Down Periscope," with Kelsey Grammer, where Diving Officer, Lieutenant Emily Lake (Lauren Holly), has to steer the submarine between the closely-spaced, lethally-spinning propellers of a huge ship overhead, you know how we felt "squeezing" between the parked cars for that tortuous block.

I was watching the mirrors on both sides as we crept up the street, each one just clearing the windows of the parked cars on both sides. With each foot we moved, I held my breath, waiting for something to begin scraping the paint off the side of the rig. As we passed by one house, an old black man sat on his front steps watching us. The expression on his face, I thought, would be exactly the same if we had just rolled by after landing in the Delorean from "Back to the Future."

Well, the GPS did get us out of Wilmington finally, but little did we know that she intended to have more fun with us later in the day. Fortunately, we got to breathe normally for awhile as we rolled east into Delaware, then chose Interstate 295 North and set the cruise control. We had our choice of two routes, actually. We could have taken the New Jersey Turnpike, which I have driven. The scenery on the Turnpike is beautiful and verdant, but I couldn't remember whether they charge a toll nowadays or not. So we took the "free" Interstate, and it turned out to be pretty nice as well.

My original plan, as we motored north toward Trenton, New Jersey, was to jump onto Route 1 that ran north off Route 295, then jog over to north-running Route 206 near Princeton, New Jersey. I felt that if we did that we would avoid most of the traffic generated by the city of Trenton. At this time we were not trusting the GPS, and I have to take full blame for what happened next.

As we approached Trenton, I saw a sign for Route 206 North. Well, I thought, why not skip Route 1 north and just jump on Route 206 north since that's where I wanted to head anyway. Little did I know that I had just chosen a route that would lead us through some of the poorest, most run-down sections of Trenton. I felt like Chevy Chase in National Lampoon's movie, "Vacation," when he and the Griswalds get lost while motoring through St. Louis.

In addition, the signs for Route 206 were so infrequent and confusing that it was everything we could do to pay close enough attention to maintain our course. Finally, we thought we had put the Griswald's adventure behind us. We hadn't lost our hubcaps, and we had made it out of the city alive.

But here's where the GPS decided to get in on the action. Once we "thought" we were actually headed for Princeton, Concetta programmed the Magic Device to make sure we ended up there. The next thing we knew we were crossing the Delaware River again and a sign was welcoming us to Pennsylvania. If you could only imagine the looks on our faces. When I had calmed down a trifle, and had tapered off in my condemnation of the GPS, we navigated our return trip to New Jersey and once again set off for Princeton.

The rest of the afternoon went semi-predictably. We had our lunch. Later on we did a little grocery shopping. And then we programmed our thoroughly unreliable GPS to take us to our evening's camp at Blairstown, New Jersey. "Fine," the GPS intoned as we left the grocery store parking lot. "Which way does Jezebel want us to turn," I asked Concetta, as we arrived at the stop sign next to the store's parking lot.

Concetta told me that the "lady" was not divulging that information.

"Okay," I said. Knowing that Blairstown should be reachable by going north, I turned right and proceeded in that direction. The GPS seemed to think that was fine and merely mentioned that we needed to turn right in a couple of miles. "Right?" I said. "That doesn't make any sense. Blairstown is going to be a left."

"That's what she says," Concetta verified. And so up the hill we went going north.

But when we arrived at our "right" turn there was nothing there. No street. No parking lot. No place to put a rig that we could see.

I was so pissed by this time that I just drove on. But almost immediately we started hearing a persistent sound like something was dragging. With a sigh I pulled up, backed into a side street, and got out to take a look underneath. I didn't see anything. So I got back in the rig, entered Route 206 going south this time, hoping to see a place to turn in where Jezebel had originally told us to turn.

Again the dragging sound returned. So I pulled over onto the shoulder as far off the pavement as I could, then got out and climbed to the top of the roof. Remembering that we had severely tweaked the crank-up aerial back in Saltville, Virginia, I thought perhaps that the broken remnants had come lose where I had secured it with rope.

No go. There was nothing wrong on the roof. So we drove on some more, but again had to stop when the dragging sound returned. This time when I pulled over I found a skinny twig, about thirty inches long, had become lodged in the passenger-side running board. That fixed, we were on our way to see what other obstacles the GPS intended to throw at us.

As we approached the place where Jezebel had demanded we turn on our recent northward run, we saw once again that there was no place for us to go. We rolled on past. The GPS immediately responded that she wanted us to proceed about twenty miles straight south the way we had come originally, then jump on Interstate 80 going west.

Well, that was the last straw. I told Concetta to unplug the mutinous thing and we would navigate the old fashioned way -- with a map. I knew by now that we had to go north just a few miles to the town of Newton, then jog a few more miles to the southwest toward Blairstown. There was no way I was going to follow Jezebel's instructions.

Concetta actually left the GPS on while I performed the aforementioned maneuvers and it would sputter out spurious directions and commands every once in awhile, but in the end we only let her have her way once we had reached Blairstown and we needed her to sort out the myriad of tiny roads that you had to drive to actually reach the camp. This she did somewhat satisfactorily, though her spoken commands didn't seem to match the display directions most of the time.

We had a bit of a scare when we got to the Blairstown camp as they told us the entire park was sold out for the Memorial Day long weekend. But once all the resident workers had conferred, they determined that someone had recently called and said they'd not be arriving until tomorrow. So we got their spot for the night. As you know we almost never make reservations, but this upcoming holiday as put a bit of a negative spin on that mode of operation. So for tomorrow we called ahead to Cooperstown, New York, and made reservations, though the first place we called refused to take any. They were full as well.

And that's the story of our day. We didn't take any photos at all, which is unfortunate, but we spent the whole day driving and bickering with the GPS. Maybe I should take a photo of her!

Until we meet again, we wish you Happy Travels!

Day 47 -- All day in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania -- 90 Miles

To readers of the Happy Wanderers Blog, reception was so poor last night for some reason in camp that I couldn't upload any text, let alone photographs. I will attempt to post at a later date.

Day 46 -- All day at Longwood Gardens, Kennett, Pennsylvania

Concetta and I spent nearly the whole day in paradise, a place called Longwood Gardens in Kennett, Pennsylvania. The place was big -- REALLY BIG. To cover it, we walked over 14,000 steps and took dozens and dozens of photos. Before yesterday we had never heard of the place, but when our camp host told us that he wouldn't be running the van into Philadelphia until Wednesday for his advertised daily tour, we had to come up with something else to do today. That's when the camp host suggested the gardens, and the rest is history.

"Here's what Wikipedia says about the gardens: "Longwood Gardens has a long and varied history. For thousands of years, the native Lenni Lenape tribe fished its streams, hunted its forests, and planted its fields. Evidence of the tribe's existence is found in quartz spear points that have been discovered on and around the property and can be found on display in the Peirce-du Pont House on the Longwood Gardens property."

"In 1700, a Quaker farmer named George Peirce purchased 402 acres of this English-claimed land from William Penn’s commissioners. George’s son Joshua cleared and farmed the land and in 1730 he built the brick farmhouse that, enlarged, still stands today. In 1798, Joshua’s twin grandsons Samuel and Joshua, who had inherited the farm, actively pursued an interest in natural history and began planting an arboretum that eventually covered 15 acres. The collection included specimens that they collected from the wild as well as plants acquired from some of the region’s leading botanists."

"By 1850, the arboretum boasted one of the finest collections of trees in the nation and had become a place for the locals to gather outdoors – a new concept that was sweeping America at the time. Community picnics and socials were held at Peirce's Park in the mid to late 19th century."

"As the 19th century rolled into the 20th, the family’s heirs lost interest in the property and allowed the arboretum to deteriorate. The farm passed out of the family through several hands in quick succession, and a lumber mill operator was about to cut down the trees for timber in early 1906. This threat moved Pierre S. du Pont, American entrepreneur, businessman, philanthropist, and member of the prominent du Pont family to take action."

"The development of Longwood as a public garden began in the 1800s with the Peirce family’s arboretum. Joshua and Samuel Peirce collected many native and exotic trees, which they planted in straight rows on land east of their farmhouse. This area became known as Peirce’s Park toward the end of the 19th century. Visitors to Longwood Gardens today still enjoy Peirce’s Park, which is now punctuated by the Sylvan Fountain, added by Pierre S. du Pont in 1925-27."

"On July 20, 1906, 36-year-old du Pont purchased the farm primarily to preserve the trees. He wasn’t planning to create Longwood Gardens, but within a few years, his desire to make it a place where he could entertain his friends transformed a simple country farm into one of the country’s leading horticultural display gardens. After Pierre S. du Pont purchased the property, he began developing the outdoor gardens further, adding the 600-foot long Flower Garden Walk in 1907. The Flower Garden Walk features a pool known as the Round Fountain at the intersection of the main paths. Its simple jet of water was Longwood’s first fountain."

"In 1914, Pierre S. du Pont added the Open Air Theatre after visits to the Villa Gori in Siena, Italy, provided inspiration."

"From 1925-27 Pierre designed and constructed the Italian Water Garden on a site northeast of Longwood’s Large Lake, after gaining inspiration from a visit to the Villa Gamberaia, near Florence, Italy."

"In 1928, Pierre began adding fountains to a garden he had begun developing in 1921. This space, directly south of the Conservatory, would become Mr. du Pont’s most ambitious project—the 5-acre Main Fountain Garden. The Main Fountain Garden "combines Italianate ornamentation and French grandeur with World’s Fair showmanship. Like other great fountains, it is an engineering tour de force using the latest technology of the time. The Main Fountain Garden debuted to the public in 1931 and was the last major project in the Gardens during Pierre’s life."

"Longwood’s first conservatory was built in 1914 when Pierre S. du Pont added an L-shaped extension to the original Peirce farmhouse, doubling its size. A conservatory connected the old and new wings."

"Longwood's second and largest conservatory, opened in 1921, is one of the world's great greenhouse structures. The conservatory alone is home to 4,600 types of plants and trees. Since its original construction began in 1919, it has undergone expansions and renovations."

"The Gardens also has extensive educational programs including a tuition-free two-year school of professional horticulture, a graduate program, and extensive internships. It hosts hundreds of horticultural and performing arts events each year, from flower shows, gardening demonstrations, courses, and children's programs to concerts, organ and carillon recitals, musical theater, fountain shows, and fireworks displays. It also hosts an extensive Christmas light display during the holiday season."

"The Gardens have attracted more than 1 million visitors a year since 2012. Plans for growth and expansion for the next four decades began in 2010 with the hiring of West 8, a Dutch landscape architecture and urban planning firm with headquarters in Rotterdam and an office in New York City. The founder of West 8, Adriaan Geuze, stated their mission is: 'to celebrate Longwood, enjoy it, keep it, preserve it, while asking how it could function as a spectacular place for larger groups of people in the 21st century.'"

"The comprehensive Longwood plan is now complete and the first major project in the plan, the revitalization of the Main Fountain Garden, began in 2014 (see work ongoing photo right)."

We encountered only one mystery today that remains inexplicable. When we programmed the GPS to take us to Longwood this morning about 10:00 a.m. it took us in such a circuitous route that forty-five minutes had elapsed before we rolled into the parking lot, found a flat spot, and turned the key off. This afternoon, when we programmed the return trip it took us precisely fifteen minutes to come back!!!

We did get to see some very untamed and wild country on our outbound trip, including some narrow roads that had me breathing a sigh of relief when we didn't encounter any RVs coming the other way. But the inbound trip looked very much like a shortened version of yesterday's initial trip to the KOA camp.

Where the GPS came up with two different routes for the same trip will probably remain a mystery for all time, and goodness knows she's not talking.

So what, I'm sure you're thinking, is so good about 400 plus acres of gardens, greenhouses, and conservatories? Most people, you'll probably agree, would run out of energy long before they run out of things to see.

Well, it's like this. We been wanting to visit an arboretum or garden for this entire vacation. We've now been on the road for 46 days and at least half that time all we've seen are gray skies and sodden landscapes. Today, it was just such a pleasure to see brightly-colored flowers backed by azure blue skies, that it was simply intoxicating. It was just a PERFECT garden day!

In fact, by the end of the afternoon we found ourselves wishing that we lived locally so we could join the Friends of Longwood Gardens and spend some complacent hours exploring every nook and cranny of the grounds, or maybe even volunteering. There were definitely parts of the estate that we never saw today, though we really tried to walk as much of it as possible. The conservatories and green houses alone took up our entire afternoon.

The bottom line is this: if you ever get within a hundred miles of Longwood Gardens in Pennsylvania, make sure you drop what you're doing and go see it. Spend the entire day. They have food and drink available, so you don't need your own RV to survive. Walk the garden paths, smell the flowers, and find a nice shady bench and reflect on the beauty that still exists in this world. And while you're doing that, we wish you Happy Travels.

Day 45 -- Gettysburg to Coatesville, Pennsylvania -- 85 Miles

Our goal was simple today: drive Pennsylvania Route 30 from Gettysburg (photo left is our Gettysburg KOA camp) to Philadelphia and find a camp reasonably close to Philly so we could tour the city tomorrow. Our chosen route roughly corresponded to the old Lincoln Highway which, starting in 1913, ran from Times Square in New York City, to Lincoln Park in San Francisco. You may remember that we drove a short section of it west of Council Bluffs, Iowa, some weeks back.

Everything started out okay when we left our camp southwest of Gettysburg. A quick retracing of yesterday's route to our camp, and we were soon rolling through the narrow streets of that famous village where General Meade defeated General Lee and changed the course of the Civil War. We had no intention of visiting the battlefield this time, and we had decided at the last minute against dropping in at Dwight Eisenhower's home. All we had to do was take our time and follow the Lincoln Highway east for the next 150 miles or so.

But suddenly we realized that our beloved narrow lane road that ran through tiny villages and rolling farm fields had turned into four lanes of traffic nightmare. I wasn't sure just where we'd gone wrong as the road signs continued to proclaim that we were driving Route 30. Hoping for some future clue, we soldiered on.

It wasn't until we spied the famous "giant shoe" from the freeway that I realized what direction the REAL Lincoln Highway lay, and we took the very next opportunity to get off the freeway. Thinking I could navigate us back to the giant shoe fairly easily, I turned onto the first road we came across heading west, which turned out to be Pennsylvania Route 462, and we drove a couple of miles just scanning the treeline to catch sight of our quarry.

Now you're probably wondering what the heck I've been talking about when I say "Giant Shoe." During Lincoln Highway days (actually shortly after) it was a well-know tourist attraction in Pennsylvania. Here's what Wiki has to say about it:

"The Haines Shoe House is a shoe-shaped house in Hallam, Pennsylvania, along the Lincoln Highway. Modeled after a work boot, the house was built by shoe salesman Mahlon Haines in 1948 as a form of advertisement. Among his various companies, he owned one that liked to claim that they raised boots "hoof-to-hoof" because the company did the boot making process starting with raising the cattle."

"The house, which is 25 feet (7.6 m) tall and contains five stories, was once rented out to couples, and is now open for public tours. It is located on Shoe House Road."

"Haines had the building built by handing a work boot to an architect saying, 'Build me a house like this.' He lived in the shoe house for a short while but ended up moving into a house across the street. The renters were served by a maid and butler and then received free pairs of shoes when they left. A Shoe House vacation contest was held in 1950 and all expenses were paid by Mahlon Haines. Fire escapes were added to the house in the 1960s."

"The living room is located in the toe, the kitchen is located in the heel, two bedrooms are located in the ankle, and an ice cream shop is located in the instep. When Mahlon decided to sell the house, it started going to ruin until it was bought by his granddaughter Annie Haines Keller in 1987."

"The current owners are Jeff and Melanie Schmuck who bought the house in 2015. The house received a small renovation and new paint in 2007. There is also a stained glass panel that shows Mahlon holding a pair of shoes with a message below it that reads, "Haines the Shoe Wizard". During the 2004 opening after the Farabaughs bought the property, boy scouts ran Easter egg hunts there. Mahlon's family told stories about their relative and a local author sold copies of his book, 'The Life and Times of Mahlon Haines.'"

"The Shoe House was visited in the eighth season of the reality television series The Amazing Race, and was featured on HGTV's What's With That House?. The Farabaughs were happy about the publicity, though not permitted to talk about the house's appearance on The Amazing Race until two years later."

I first saw the shoe house around 1994 when the Lincoln Highway Association held its first nationally-attended conference in Bedford, Pennsylvania, and largely through a fluke I was able to learn about it and attend. I had chanced to catch a presentation on the Lincoln Highway that year at the Reno historical Society and was so jazzed I started researching the topic. As fate would have it, I stumbled over a chap named Brian Butko in my search for information, and he told me about the upcoming conference. It would be the association's first. I got to attend the conference, become a charter member, and have remained a member every since.

That conference year we sojourned by bus on the old highway and, once we reached the city of York, participants were invited to explore the shoe house from top to bottom, something Concetta and I were not able to do today since it was closed for the season. But back in 1994 conference attendees had a great time climbing the narrow staircase, checking out the "round rooms," and getting our complimentary ice cream cones.

Once we had determined that Pennsylvania Route 462 was really the old Lincoln Highway for a good stretch, we were in business. In 1794, long before the Lincoln Highway, today's route of 462 was called the Philadelphia and Lancaster Turnpike. By 1796, the road ran from Philadelphia and across the Susquehanna River to York. The state took over the turnpike in the beginning of the 20th century. In 1913, the road between York and Lancaster was incorporated into the Lincoln Highway. In 1924 the Lincoln Highway through Pennsylvania became PA 1, then US Highway 30 west of Philadelphia in 1926. If you want to see what the travelers saw in the teens and 1920s, just look for Route 462 in Pennsylvania. You won't be sorry.

Of course, as you travel the narrow roads on the early Lincoln routes you have to be patient with sometimes potentially irritating traffic congestion and wait times. But if you like buildings that date to the mid nineteenth century and before, picturesque roundabouts, and wonderful roadside Americana, the Lincoln Highway is the way to experience those things.

Once we were back on the road headed east we just took our time, listened to our current CD detailing the Presidents' lives, and enjoyed the journey at 45 miles per hour. About 11:30 we started keeping an eye out for a scenic place to pull over and have our lunch. It was only a short time later that we came to a stop sign, and while sitting there saw a roadside sign proclaiming that the "National Toy Train Museum" was just two miles away. Well, I thought, that beats "The World's Second Biggest Ball of String Museum" any day of the week. Sounded to me as though we'd found our lunch stop.

Taking the next left, we motored happily out into the countryside and before long were pulling up beside a simply fabulous-looking, modern building on the edge of a myriad of farm fields. The building was so beautiful that I thought I'd better get out of the truck and go over and shoot it before the sun dashed under a cloud or something. All morning we had been enjoying a rare bit of sunshine in Pennsylvania.

After happily snapping a few photos, I turned to a vista just to the south that had caught my eye as soon as we'd pulled into the parking lot. Located just adjacent to the Toy Train Museum was a collection of Railroad Cabooses that seemed to go on forever. At the time I estimated that there were at least 50 units on the property, as well as a number of larger passenger-style cars. I wasn't sure what the caboose collection had to do with the train museum, but I thought I better snap a few photos of them, too, before I lost the sun.

Unfortunately, I had been in such a hurry to explore the caboose collection, that I failed to notice that the Toy Train Museum was only open on the weekends. Right out front there was a very large banner, placed there to inform anyone who cared to look that the place was CLOSED! Not realizing that I was ultimately going to be disappointed, I retraced my steps back to the rig, Concetta and I had our lunch, and then I told her that we should tour the caboose collection first while the sun was shining.

Turns out that the cabooses all belonged to a company called "The Red Caboose Motel." I borrowed the following from the LancasterPA.com web site:

"Sleep in a Real Caboose!"

"The Red Caboose Motel is just that – a motel where the guests actually spend the night sleeping in their own caboose. Imagine how much fun this could be! The kids would love it. Many of the units (an employee told us he thought they owned 38 of them) have multiple beds. Some have bunk beds. One even has a jacuzzi. Some of the units have their own private decks overlooking the Amish countryside. This motel is great for families, groups, even romantic getaways."

"The Red Caboose also has its own restaurant in a full-size railroad car, and the kitchen is a box car. The restaurant overlooks the tracks of the Strasburg Rail Road – you can watch the train pass by while you enjoy your meal. When Thomas the Tank Engine is in town, you might see him, too. The restaurant serves breakfast, lunch, and dinner."

"The Red Caboose Motel is just north of Route 741 and two miles from downtown Strasburg. From the motel you can look across the cornfields and see all the commotion at the Strasburg Railroad’s yards. The motel is right next door to the National Toy Train Museum and around the corner from the Choo Choo Barn and the Strasburg Train Shop."

"So, you and your family can pack in a whole bunch of train-related fun here in Strasburg, and then retire your own caboose to spend the night. Sweet dreams!"

We found out first hand that you can sit in the restaurant and watch the Strasburg Railroad trains go by. Concetta and I got to do just that, and we didn't even have to buy a meal. The train came by right when we were checking out the south end of the grounds

After we photographed the Cabooses, we headed for the Toy Train Museum next door. This is when we finally noticed the "closed" sign. I was tremendously disappointed, but since it's only open on weekends it just turned out to be bad luck. Had we been a day earlier we would have been fine.

I found the following information on the Toy Train Museum on Wikipedia:

"The National Toy Train Museum (NTTM), at 300 Paradise Lane, in Strasburg, Pennsylvania, USA, is focused on creating an interactive display of toy trains. Its collection dates from the early 1800s through current production. The building houses the Toy Train Reference Library and the National Business Office of the Train Collectors Association. It is located just around the corner from the Railroad Museum of Pennsylvania."

"The NTTM is owned and operated by the Train Collectors Association (TCA) and serves as its headquarters. The museum's mission is to promote train collecting and to preserve the heritage of toy trains. Founded in 1977, part of the museum's ongoing appeal is that it brings children and adults together. The museum features five working train layouts and a Toy Train Reference Library with reference and archival materials serving model railroaders. The nearby Choo Choo Barn 'features a more than 1,700-square-foot model train layout with 22 operating model trains and more than 150 animations'."

During lunch we had come to a decision on a campsite for the night. The KOA located in Coatesville, about 30 miles away from where we were sitting, offered van service to Philadelphia. For a semi-reasonable amount of money they take you into the city and give you a guided tour that lasts most of the day. That way you can leave your rig in the safety of the RV camp, and not have to try and find a place to put it while battling the congestion of the city.

The camp sounded wonderful, so we programed the GPS to get us there, and set off. Let me just tell you that finding the Coatesville camp exposed us to more of rural Pennsylvania than I think we had seen yet. Although I suspect there was a far less complicated route, the GPS had us wandering up hill and down dale, turning left and turning right, and even retracing some portions, until I thought that she might be just having fun with us. In fact, when she announced that we only had 2/10 of a mile to go before we were supposed to arrive, I could see NO evidence of a camp anywhere ahead.

But a camp there was, and soon we rounded the last curve and climbed a hill, and there it was (photo right). As it turns out, they are not doing a tour tomorrow, which really disappoints us. But when they offered to give us a free day if we'd hang around and go on Wednesday we could hardly turn that down. We're not sure just what we'll end up doing tomorrow. Supposedly there's a wonderful garden twenty minutes from here that can be toured if the rain doesn't return. It's already rained a few minutes since we arrived, but we're hopeful that tomorrow will be clear. If not, I guess it's laundry day and reading for us.

So, stay tuned to see what tomorrow brings. We wish you Happy Traveling!

Day 44 -- Front Royal, Virginia to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania -- 120 Miles

Okay, we've now decided to call this vacation an ocean voyage since we've been out of sight of "dry land" since we left home, and it wasn't entirely dry even there. We've even begun to see folks stroll by the rig carrying oars over their shoulders and no one seems to think it odd. So, either plate tectonics has begun to reclaim North America, or the nervous Nellies who call themselves climate-change authorities have actually been right, and sea levels are rising faster then predicted.

As you can see, the theme continues to be "it rained AGAIN today," or rather more to the point, it never ceased raining yesterday and it's still raining today. When I sloshed out to pack up the hoses and cords this morning I could see that the rig was slowly sinking into the soft, red mud of the campsite, and if we didn't leave fairly soon we might lose sight of it altogether.

Okay, enough about our sea voyage, let's talk about today's activities. We actually got our act on the road by 9:00 a.m. this morning, which is a first this whole week. We've been getting a little lazy I suppose and have been getting up closer to 7:30 than to 6:30, the time I like to be up and making coffee. But today we sprang into action and were able to hit the road early-ish toward our goal of being in Gettysbury by late afternoon.

To that end, we groped our way through the town of Front Royal in search of the proper highway north, and eventually stumbled onto Route 340. This we took until it intersected Interstate Route 66. Route 66 I recognized as running east/west and we jumped into a westbound lane until it intersected Interstate Route 81 going north, our target route of the day. Interstate 81 runs out of Virginia, crosses West Virginia and Maryland, then plunges into southern Pennsylvania.

I looked up on Wikipedia to find out how the village of Front Royal got its name. Included with less believable explanations was this one, which I consider more likely: "....in early decades of European settlement, the area was referred to in French as 'le front royal', meaning the British frontier. French settlers, trappers, and explorers in the Ohio Territory of the mid-18th century were referring to the land grant made by King Charles II, then in control of Thomas, Lord Fairfax, Baron of Cameron. In English, 'le front royal' is translated to the 'Royal Frontier'. The British themselves may have called the area 'Front Royal' after 1763, when they set the so-called Proclamation Line along the spine of the Alleghenies to demarcate the settled portion of the colonies from the Indian Reserve in the interior."

We didn't really have any plans for the day, especially since it continued to rain so hard. So, other than a quick stop at the Walmart in Martinsburg to watch THE SLOWEST humans we've ever seen try to perform their cash-register duties, we just motored north on Interstate 81. For entertainment we listened to our current book on CD, which discusses the lives of Presidents Ulysses S. Grant, George Washington, and Thomas Jefferson.

About lunchtime we were keeping an eye out for a likely spot to stop -- Concetta suggested a roadside rest -- when we came across one of the ubiquitous brown signs that informed us that the Civil War battleground of Antietam was just a short jaunt off the highway. Not wanting to pass up a great lunch site, we scooted up the ramp and were off into the soggy countryside in search of the year 1862.

Antietam is considered the bloodiest single day of the Civil War with 23,000 casualties, of which a combined total of 7,500 were killed. CivilWar.org tells us that: "The Army of the Potomac, under the command of George McClellan, mounted a series of powerful assaults against Robert E. Lee’s forces near Sharpsburg, Maryland, on September 17, 1862. The morning assault and vicious Confederate counterattacks swept back and forth through Miller’s Cornfield and the West Woods."

"Later, towards the center of the battlefield, Union assaults against the Sunken Road pierced the Confederate center after a terrible struggle. Late in the day, the third and final major assault by the Union army pushed over a bullet-strewn stone bridge at Antietam Creek. Just as the Federal forces began to collapse the Confederate right, the timely arrival of A.P. Hill’s division from Harpers Ferry helped to drive the Army of the Potomac back once more. The bloodiest single day in American military history ended in a draw, but the Confederate retreat gave Abraham Lincoln the 'victory' he desired before issuing the Emancipation Proclamation."

The museum at the site of the Antietam battle is a very nicely done. After lunch we braved the rain and dashed in to see what we could see. They have a very informative 23 minute film that gives you all the details of the conflict, expertly narrated by James Earl Jones. The museum proper is fairly small, but powerful. One of the things I found the most moving was a narrative by a Confederate soldier who came back to Antietam ten months later when General Lee sought to invade Pennsylvania and found many of his comrades had been left unburied on the battlefield. Note: Lee and his army were passing through Antietam on their way to a rendezvous with fate at the battle of Gettysburg.

There were lots of other human stories connected with the battle. Most of the townsfolk in Sharpsburg (only a mile away) had fled and were said to be hiding in caves. Many of the surrounding farms and fields were heavily damaged by the carnage. However, the only deliberate destruction of property during the battle was the burning of the Mumma farm. Confederate soldiers were or­dered to burn the family's home to pre­vent its use by Union sharpshooters. Fortunately, Samuel Mumma and his family had fled to safety before the battle. The Mumma family rebuilt the home in 1863.

There was one artifact displayed that I found particularly chilling. With 7,500 killed, the need to bury the dead quickly and efficiently was of paramount importance. The men detailed to deal with the thousands of bodies are thought to have invented a device that they could use to grab and pull a body into a newly-dug grave (photo below right). If you don't recognize it, the implement is a bayonet with the tip bent into a useful hook shape. It certainly brought home to me the magnitude of the waste of life that had taken place so very near where I stood.

In 1862 Matthew Brady exhibited a series of photographs taken by Alexander Gardner and James Gibson immediately after the Battle of Antietam. Gardner and Gibson, two of the many photographers Brady hired to document the war, produced at least 95 images at Antietam. Their images were the first to show dead bodies on the field. For the first time the American public were themselves realizing the magnitude of loss of their friends, neighbors and loved ones.

I read a book that I purchased on our last trip called "This Republic of Suffering, Death and the American Civil War." In that book I learned for the first time that grieving parents and grandparents would often travel to the battlefields and wander the tortured ground looking for any sign of their missing son. Usually they would have with them testimony from one of their loved one's mess mates which detailed approximately where the wounded boy fell during the fight. The image of such anguish makes you cry.

After our visit to the Antietam National Park and Museum, we resumed our trek north on Interstate 81. When we reached Chambersburg, Pennsylvania, we hit the offramp for Route 30, the Lincoln Highway, and cruised the last 30 miles of the day toward Gettysburg. Our intent was not to visit the battlefield in Gettysburg as we did a pretty thorough job back in 2014. However, in 2014 we did miss the Eisenhower farm which is just southwest of Gettysburg. After that visit, we'll continue our run across Pennsylvania on the Lincoln Highway with an ultimate destination of Philadelphia.

Until then, we wish you Happy Travels.