We're visiting Concetta's family in Mogadore, Ohio. Except for the pretty lady in the yellow who is Concetta's sister, Phyl, the rest of these ladies are Concetta's high school chums.
Saturday, June 11, 2016
Thursday, June 9, 2016
Day 62 -- Shippenville, Pennsylvania to Mogadore, Ohio -- 115 Miles
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Although we been visiting relatives for the past couple of days, I thought I'd post this shot of "Brady's Bend" on the Clarion River in Pennsylvania. Traveling the little-used back roads of Pennsylvania truly exposed us to some beautiful scenery.
Wednesday, June 8, 2016
Day 61 -- Gaines to Shippenville, Pennsylvania -- 135 Miles
Concetta and I have come to the conclusion that Route 6, which crosses Pennsylvania just below its border with New York State, has some of the most beautiful scenery that we've ever seen. Around nearly every curve you see vast forests laid out before you to the horizon. Fittingly for two people who like to take it slow, we have meandered along Route 6 as it wanders through the hollows and up over the mountain ridges, never keeping to one elevation, never seeking to get you anywhere very fast.
And every few miles you must slow and cruise the length of some tiny town that has somehow managed to retain much of its 19th century commercial district, as well as long rows of lovely Victorian houses. No, it's not the Interstate. We avoid those "blue roads" like the proverbial plague. We are always looking for the America of a century ago and we often find it.
Last night it rained some more and the rain hadn't finished by the time we pulled out of camp this morning. In fact, we thought the stormy skies would probably follow us all day long. So when we saw a sign for the "Pennsylvania Lumber Museum," we wheeled into the empty parking lot and boldly took a spot right next to the building. We had never heard of the museum, but the sign out front proclaimed that they opened at 9:00 a.m. and, since it was 9:15, we decided it might make a very nice indoor, rainy-day diversion.
According to the Museum's web site, "The Pennsylvania Lumber Museum educates the public about the Commonwealth’s rich lumber history and the ongoing care, management, and recreational use of its forests. Visitors are encouraged to explore the museum’s working historic saw mill, recreated lumber camp, exhibits, public programs and collections to discover the relevance of history in their lives. The Pennsylvania Lumber Museum is administered by the Pennsylvania Historical and Museum Commission and is actively supported by the Pennsylvania Lumber Museum Associates which is a non-profit community-based organization."
"The Museum is open to the public year-round, Wednesday through Sunday from 9:00 AM to 5:00 PM. The museum is closed all Federal holidays except Memorial Day, Independence Day, and Labor Day. Located in scenic Potter County along U.S. Route 6 at mile marker 188 between Galeton and Coudersport, the Museum is nestled in the densely forested Allegheny high plateau."
"The museum visitor center and exhibits are all new after a three-year-long renovation and expansion project that concluded in May, 2015. The expansion added 7,000 square feet, nearly doubling the size of the building. The new core exhibit, “Challenges and Choices in Pennsylvania’s Forests,” explores the growth of Pennsylvania’s lumber industry, the devastation and revival of the state’s forests, and current public and private efforts to maintain a 'working forest.'"
"A rustic log cabin built by the Civilian Conservation Corps in 1936 showcases the talents and craftsmanship of these dedicated citizens. Other exhibits include a steam-powered sawmill and log pond, a 1945 Brookville tannery switch engine, and a Sustainable Forestry Trail that loops through forty acres of forest surrounding Commissioner’s Run."
"The museum’s Bark Peelers’ Festival, held annually over the July 4th holiday weekend, treats thousands of visitors to lively special events, contests, and demonstrations; all celebrating 'woodhick' skills. Unique food and craft vendors provide guests with ample shopping and culinary opportunities. There is live music throughout the weekend, crafts and games at the Kids Korner, an operating steam-powered circular sawmill and birch still, blacksmithing, chainsaw carving, and door prizes. Visitors are encouraged to compete in the greased pole, log rolling, cross-cut saw, and birling competitions to earn the title “Grand Champion Woodhick” and the associated cash prize."
Okay, so probably more information than you need, but take it from me, the museum is REALLY worth a visit. As we've discovered on our sojourn across American, the "new" generation of museums are coming into the 21st century as far as letting patrons become more personally involved with the museum exhibits. Many of the museums we've visited have begun to include "touch this" exhibits along with the more delicate displays behind glass walls. This allows visitors, who may never have even seen some type of early implement, the opportunity to touch and even use the implement. There is no better way, in our opinion, to foster an interest in history than to let the visitor touch that history.
So it was with the Lumber Museum today. Nearly every exhibit had something the visitor could interact with. I wasn't so good with the axe-swinging exhibit, but Concetta showed a great deal of mastery with her repeated slices into the tree. Of course, if you really wanted to interact with the "down-and-dirty" parts of the exhibit, you had to venture outside to where the mock-ups of a lumber camp operation were set up. Here you could touch everything from a sled used to haul logs in winter, to a Shay locomotive and vintage log-hauling rail car. Though there was no one around to let you touch things, we especially liked the blacksmith operation. Unfortunately, the saw mill was not open to visitors today, but we would really have loved seeing that.
Amazingly enough, when we got around to leaving the building for our foray around the grounds, it had stopped raining and the sun had reappeared. It was dazzling after hours of rain! After touring the logging camp, we spent the last part of our visit with the Civilian Conservation Corp cabin that had been erected in 1937. Concetta got her photo taken with the rugged CCC guy, whom she insisted on calling Paul Bunyan.
"I thought I'd look up the facts on the CCC in case you'd be interested. Here's what CCClegacy.org has to say: "The 1932 Presidential election was more a desperate cry for help than it was an election. Accepting the Presidential nomination on July 1, 1932, New York Governor Franklin D. Roosevelt planned to fight against soil erosion and declining timber resources by utilizing unemployed young men from large urban areas."
"In what would later be called “The Hundred Days,” President Roosevelt revitalized the faith of the nation by setting in motion a “New Deal” for America. One of these New Deal programs was the Emergency Conservation Work (EWC) Act, more commonly known as the Civilian Conservation Corps. With this action, he brought together two wasted resources: young men and land."
"The President wasted no time. He called the 73rd Congress into Emergency Session on March 9, 1933, to hear and authorize the program. He proposed to recruit thousands of unemployed young men, enroll them in a peacetime army, and send them into battle against destruction and erosion of our natural resources. Before the CCC ended, over three million young men engaged in a massive salvage operation described as the most popular experiment of the New Deal."
"President Roosevelt promised if granted emergency powers he would have 250,000 men in camps by the end of July, 1933. The speed with which the plan moved through proposal, authorization, implementation and operation was a miracle of cooperation among all branches and agencies of the federal government. It was a mobilization of men, material and transportation on a scale never before known in time of peace. From FDR’s inauguration on March 4, 1933, to the induction of the first enrollee on April 7, only 37 days had elapsed."
"Senate Bill S. 598 was introduced on March 27, passed both houses of Congress and was on the President’s desk to be signed on March 31, 1933"
There was a part of the museum experience today that I really, really liked: the photos of the timber or log rafting workers. As you may remember reading in this blog, my great, great grandfather was a timber raft man on or near the Ohio River back in the 1830s. Try as I might, I have discovered very little information on this early vocation in frontier America. Though not a lot of information was displayed about the life of rafters, I enjoyed the photographs and the dioramas immensely.
The balance of the day we just drove as we're now trying to adhere to a schedule so that Concetta's relatives in Ohio will know when to expect us. So our stops are less frequent, and our mileage is more extensive then we would normally like. But once we leave Ohio, we will resume our more leisurely mode of travel. So stick with us and we'll try and keep it interesting. And as you hit the highways and byways of America this summer, we wish you Happy Travels!
Day 60 -- Honesdale to Gaines, Pennsylvania -- 215 Miles
Monday night it rained again. That was a surprise as the sky looked harmless when we went to bed at the KOA in Honesdale, Pennsylvania. Concetta had even done some of the dirty clothes, sure that only the laundry would be getting wet.
But Tuesday morning I awoke suddenly to the light drumming of pitter-pattered rain drops. Then, as I lay there listening, the pitter-patter turned into a loud pelting on the aluminum skin of the RV. I don’t think it lasted long as I soon drifted off to sleep and didn’t wake up until 6:30 a.m.
At breakfast we listened to the weather folks describe how the entire state of Pennsylvania would be getting wet throughout the day. Though the sun was shining as we left camp, we didn’t have high hopes for a good day of driving.
Things almost immediately went wrong, though it wasn’t the fault of the rain. It was the fault of my stubborn refusal to use the GPS to direct us to nearby Route 6 on which we intended to drive from one side of Pennsylvania to the other. I had initially programmed in my requested route, but when Jezebel didn’t display the route I thought was correct, I turned her off. At that point I decided to use the map provided by the KOA, which turned out to be very misleading.
The upshot was I started driving in the opposite direction that I needed to go which, we caught onto after traveling six or eight miles north and east when we should have gone south and west, or something like that. Next came a precarious reversal of direction that involved blocking both lanes of traffic on a hilltop, and backing the rig down a narrow lane. I held my breath hoping that any oncoming traffic in either direction would not surprise us in such a vulnerable position. Thankfully no cars appeared.
Once traveling in the right direction, it was a piece of cake to find our intended highway for the day, Pennsylvania Route 6. Once found, we thought we were “home free” as Pennsylvania seemed to be providing sufficient signage for us to follow, and the road was lightly traveled. This is where I should have relented and plugged in Jezebel.
We traveled Route 6 all morning with only the occasional difficulty of one-way traffic due to bridge construction. About 10:30 a.m. we neared the city of Scranton, Pennsylvania. I knew we had to be extra vigilant as a number of roads converged on Scranton, several of which were Interstates.
But everything seemed to go smoothly, and we sailed right on through north Scranton, following Route 6 signs, and before long Scranton was behind us. At the time we were enjoying the biography of U. S Grant on the truck CD player and were busily discussing the various aspects of what we were learning. No doubt we should have been paying more attention.
The road was just wonderful, a divided highway, and all seemed to be going fine. Then, at just about 11:30 a.m., we passed a sign that proclaimed “Welcome to New York.” I had missed it, but Concetta told me about it.
”That’s funny,” I told Concetta. “I don’t think that Route 6 wanders anywhere near New York.”
At the time we were just approaching a roadside rest and Concetta suggested that we pull off, stretch our legs, and try and determine if we needed to worry about anything. I thought that sounded like a capital idea, and we pulled off and parked next to a fleet of 18-wheelers.
Before checking the map we decided to get out and stretch our legs, and maybe go and check the visitor center for information. The weird thing was, as we walked around the grounds we both got the distinct feeling that we’d been there before, perhaps even recently. Then, when we got up to the visitor center patio, we recognized the landscaping and several memorial markers to fallen highway department workers.
It was then we realized that we had stopped at this very roadside rest on our way from New Jersey to Upstate New York and Cooperstown. “We can’t be in the right place,” Concetta said.
”I think you’re right,” I told her. “Let’s go back to the rig and check our maps. Something has to be very wrong.”
Once back at our “map table,” we discovered that somehow, some way we had been shunted off Route 6 going west, and had ended up on Interstate 81 going north without either of us noticing. Though Route 6 ran very close to the Pennsylvania/New York border, it never crosses out of Pennsylvania. We had driven at least 50 miles in the wrong direction!!!!
Well, there was nothing for it but to turn around and head back south. I did come up with a plan to partially salvage the disaster. I found Route 706, a diagonal road that ran from Interstate 81, just south of the New York border, and intercepted Route 6 about fifty or sixty miles west of Scranton. That would save us at least an hour over going all the way back to Scranton to catch Route 6.
From there on it looked like smooth sailing. As an added bonus, just as we were intercepting Route 6 after a beautiful drive along Route 706, we encountered a historical site that looked interesting. It was perched on a ridgetop overlook with a gorgeous valley full of tiny farms far below us. The historical marker said that the valley had been settled by French Royalists fleeing the revolution in 1793. The Frenchmen hoped to be able to rescue Marie Anionette and bring her to the valley, presumably to save her life.
Preceding ever westward on Route six, we encountered a couple of wonderful pieces of roadside Americana. Of course I’m always watching for things like old gas stations, cabin courts, and the like. But today I got a wonderful surprise. While traveling through the city of Towanda, splashing through the rain-soaked streets, we rolled right on by a vintage diner!
I was so amazed, that I immediately pulled into a loading zone a block away, grabbed my camera, and raced back to get a couple of photos. I just couldn’t believe that after an entire day of not seeing much of anything interesting, this diner would appear.
Well, there I was, snapping photos like crazy, and the owner comes out on the entrance “porch” and invites me in. “Come have a cup of coffee,” he said.
I had to beg off. “My RV is parked illegally down the block,” I told him. “And my wife is sitting in there waiting for me.”
He shrugged. “So! Bring it around back. Plenty of parking back there.”
Again I had to decline as it was getting late in the afternoon and I had no idea where I was going to find a camp that afternoon.
”Okay,” he said, “but let me take your picture in front of the restaurant.”
This we did, then I took his, then he handed me a couple of business cards. “Come back and see me,” he said. “It’s the Rose Diner.” I promised to do that, we shook hands, then I ran back through the rain and climbed into the rig.
I threw the gear shift into drive, cut off a large dump truck driver who thought I was going to sit quietly in the loading zone while twenty cars went by, and went zooming out of town. I sure would have liked that cup of coffee and a nice chat about diners, but we had to find a camp before sundown.
The next surprise came when we traveled another thirty miles down Route 6 to a town where the Good Sam book said there was a camp. As we approached the corner where Route 6 made a right turn, again I spied a vintage diner. At that moment the sun took that rare opportunity to break through the clouds and illuminated the diner so that it shone like a new penny.
I turned to Concetta and said, “I have got to shoot this one too!” I wheeled up next to the curb in another no-parking zone, turned off the engine, and jumped out of my seat and went back in the RV to grab the camera. Then I raced out of the RV door and down the sidewalk where I spent many minutes photographing the cool old diner from every angle.
Once again no one seemed to pay us any mind in the no-parking zone, so I put the camera away, and we were once again off down the highway.
Here’s where things started to get weird again. Since the camp we had chosen in the Good Sam book lay off the highway a bit, we plugged in the GPs in hopes that she’d take us there. Well, she did fine at first. But after we left Route 6, and traveled up a mountain road for about five miles, she suddenly proclaimed that we should exit that road and plunge down a dirt road that disappeared into the forest.
Needing to react swiftly, I went ahead and threw the wheel over and when flying down the dirt road for about a hundred feet. “This doesn’t feel right,” Concetta said.
”I know,” I said. “This is supposed to be one of Good Sam’s preferred camps. It doesn’t look like a road made for large RVs to me.”
We stared at the foliage-darkened road for a minute or two, then I said, “Well, let’s roll a bit further and see what it looks like. But even though I said to go on, I was nervous since there didn’t look like any place to turn around should I get further down the road and get into trouble.
Well, after we’d go on for another quarter mile or so, Jezebel suddenly demanded that we turn sharply right and ascend what looked to us like an even narrower and dangerously steep track. I tried it at first, but the rig’s rear skid devices bottomed out immediately as I turned. Then, sitting there wondering what to do, we looked up and saw a small sign about a hundred feet up the road. It was of an ATV rider and machine. We had been trying to climb an off-road, ATV track.
With some difficulty we backed around and headed toward the paved highway. Here again, as we climbed out of the depressed area of the dirt road, the rear skid devices made a horrendous crunching sound as they protested their way over the edge of the blacktop.
After that we went further up the road hoping that the accursed GPS, Jezebel, would come to her senses and give us good directions. But it was not to be. When we had traveled another five miles up the road, then turned the on GPS, she immediately demanded that we return to the torturous dirt road and have another go at it.
After that, we turned off Jezebel and returned to Route 6. I told Concetta that we’d just head further west and find whatever camp we could find, hopefully before nightfall. At that point it was nearly five o’clock.
We tried once more to leave Route 6, driving five miles into the mountains to something called “Colton’s Camp,” a state-sponsored campground. But once there, we discovered that the camp was primarily designed for folks in tents, and other small camping vehicles. No hookups were provided, not even water.
With resignation, we once more returned to the highway and kept driving. Finally, around 6:00 p.m. we finally came to a small clearing on the edge of the town of “Gaines.” Here we saw a sign announcing campsites available, though we could see no campsites, and what we could see was not very enticing. Just a rundown shack of an office at the edge of a muddy parking lot met our eyes.
Neither of us got any warm and fuzzy feelings about the camp. Still, it was getting very late, so I pulled into the drive and stopped. Looking up on the second-floor deck I could see someone watching us. “Well,” I said, “Let’s give it a try.” I got out and walked toward the building.
Then from the person who had been watching us came a cheery, “Hello!”
”Hi,” I called up to the person, I could see now she was a woman. “Do you have a camp space for the night?”
”Sure,” the woman said. “Come on up and we’ll check you in.”
When I got up on her porch, I met her coming down from the second floor deck, rolling on what was actually a large ramp built for her motorized scooter. “Come on,” she said. “We’ll take the ATV and go look at the sites. You can decide if your rig will fit in one.”
That set a few alarm bells ringing in my head, but I told her okay.
”I’m going to let you drive, “ she said. “I have MS and it’s hard for me sometimes.”
”Now I really started to get worried.”
She must have seen my trepidation because she said, “Don’t worry, it’s easy. Just let me back it off the porch.”
This she did quite expertly, and very soon we were off down a muddy trail toward what turned out to be a bunch of very, very soggy river-front campsites. I spent all my time dodging around all the mud puddles, even going onto the grass if there wasn’t any good place to navigate the road.
Now the only spaces with full hookups are over there to the east,” she said. “Floods took out all the rest.
”Okay,” I told her, and I motored toward the most eastern boundary of the camp. When we got there, I could see that it was going to take some doing to take advantage of the somewhat illogically-placed utilities AND dodge all the trees in the process.
”I’m not sure which camp to recommend," she said. “You’ll just have to look them over and decide.”
After a time I came to the conclusion that things were not going to be perfect, but I probably would be able to horse the rig between the trees, get it as close as possible to the sewer connection, and then hope that I could reach the distant water and electricity with my extra hoses and electrical cord extension. “I think I can make this work,” I told her.
”Good,” she said. “Let’s go get you checked in and you can try it.”
Miracle of miracles, I was able to pay for the space – she demanded cash, roll the rig into place on the squishy grass, get close enough to the sewer, and get everything else hooked up with no trouble. It turned out to be easy enough. Later on, Jeanie – that was our host’s name – came by and flashed us a huge smile and asked if everything was okay. I told her it was great, and then off she went. For a person who can hardly move around unaided due to her MS, I thought Jeanie had the most positive attitude that I’d encountered on this trip. She was just amazing.
So here we are with a marvelous piece of river frontage, lots of pines surrounding, and so far no rain this evening. I did get into a little trouble when I wandered off to take photos after I’d set up, found a couple of fly-fishermen that captivated my interest for nearly an hour, and forgot to turn on the propane valve so Concetta could get started on dinner. She finally had to honk the horn on the rig to alert me to the impending disaster. But aside from that, everything seems right with the world. Serendipity was in full force today, though not always in a positive direction, but still we managed to put quite a few miles on the clock, and got a whole lot closer to Ohio where we intend to visit a passel of relatives.
We did encounter one problem at Gaines – the mobile WiFi device couldn’t get a signal to save its little life. So I had to post this today. Photos will follow. If you don't see any, check back later. And while you do that, we wish you Happy Travels!
Monday, June 6, 2016
Day 59 -- Saugeries, New York to Honesdale, Pennsylvania -- 180 Miles
Summer appeared to arrive today. In fact, that long-ago summer of 1969 came back to keep us company today as we set off from our soggy camp in Saugerties, New York. We traveled beneath a canopy of blue skies and fluffy white clouds along New York Route 212, as it plunged headlong into the Catskill Mountains.
I don't think either Concetta or I had ever ventured into the densely forested slopes of the Catskills before. Of course everyone has heard the legend of Sleepy Hallow and the headless horseman. And I suspect that as many have heard the fanciful story of Rip Van winkle who went into the woods and fell asleep under a tree for 18 years. But aside from those familiar fairy tales, we found the Catskills simply lovely. Some of the time you're in the deep, dark forest as trees crowd in from both sides of the narrow roads. Other times you're cresting tall hills with stunning views down to the Delaware River far below. And everywhere the vistas are just grand.
The route we chose was the same road on which our evening's camp was located, and it looked convenient to use that same road since it crossed the Catskills from east to west. To make sure that we found the right path through the mountains, I had programmed the GPS to take us to the town of Woodstock, little realizing that I had just chosen as my "guide-on" one of the most celebrated villages in America.
As we approached Woodstock, we both began to wonder just where the "real" Woodstock was located. We knew that the four days of music and counter-culture togetherness had taken place in Farmer Yasgur's cow pasture. Looking around at all the forested hillsides, we couldn't believe that the Woodstock that lay just down the road from our camp was the famous one. But could the state of New York actually have more than one Woodstock?
As we entered town, the first thing that hit us was all the wild and crazy colors that shouted at us from the buildings on both sides of the road. And if it wasn't whole buildings painted in bright oranges and purples and yellows, it was the wildly colorful signs on each building that announced the products being sold therein. And what were the products? Well, as you might expect, they included candles, tie-dyed shirts, and a myriad of different forms of artwork, as well as everything from antiques and books, to bakery goods and a variety of services. We even saw on sign advertising a specialist who could talk to animals.
By the time we had driven from one end of Woodstock to the other we knew, convenient cow pasture or not, we had actually found that most famous concert venue of 1969. I immediately suggested that we find a place to park and work on our 10,000 steps by walking both sides of main street from end to end. This we did. After parking the RV next to the local post office, off the side of a lightly-used access road, we set off with cameras in hand. Though we might have missed the original event, we were certainly not going to pass up the opportunity that serendipity had bestowed upon us.
Naturally, we walked along and enjoyed all the spectacular sights and sounds and (next to the bakery) smells, I began to realize that I would just have to find a t-shirt shop and bring home a honest-to-God Woodstock shirt. We perused one shop that came complete with the Blues Brothers in the front yard (photo above right), but moved on in favor of one further down and across the street that appeared to have a much larger selection.
The t-shirt shop is where our cultural bubble got pricked. I asked the owner if she would tell me just where the actual cow pasture was located, hastening to apologize since she was probably asked that same question about 42 times a day. She nodded, looking a bit glum, and told me that she certainly did.
"So," I continued, "north, south, east, or west of here?"
"Sort of southeast," she said, and then, after a beat or two, "about seventy miles from here."
Well, I guess you know that answer took me by surprise, and I'm sure I showed it.
So the owner hastened to add, "Don't feel bad. Just about everyone thinks it took place here. In fact, the fifty-year anniversary concert in 2019 is going to be held here, but I'm not very happy about it."
"Why is that?" I asked.
"It's because no one knows how to behave anymore," she said, in a sad tone. "I'm afraid that they will turn the town upside down."
We both agreed that today's young Americans seem to lack any sort of civilized deportment, and that was about all we could say on the subject. By then she had rung up my new t-shirt, and I left the shop in search of more atmosphere. It would be a shame if the cute and quiet little town of Woodstock should suffer any damage or vandalism if the town had to host the kind of numbers that attended in 1969.
From a web site called "The60sofficialsite.com" I learned that: "The Woodstock Music and Art Fair was an event held at Max Yasgur's 600-acre dairy farm in the rural town of Bethel, New York from August 15 to August 18, 1969. For many, it exemplified the counterculture of the 1960s and the 'hippie era.' Many of the best-known musicians of the time appeared during the rainy weekend, captured in a successful 1970 movie, Woodstock. Joni Mitchell's song "Woodstock," which memorialized the event, became a major hit for Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. Though attempts have been made over the years to recreate the festival, the original Woodstock festival of 1969 has proven to be unique and legendary."
"Woodstock has been idealized in the American popular culture as the culmination of the hippie movement. What started as a paid event, ended being free with over 400,000 attendees or flower children. Although the festival was remarkably peaceful given the number of people and conditions involved, the reality was less than perfect."
"Woodstock did have some crime and other misbehavior, as well as a fatality from a drug overdose, an accidental death caused by an occupied sleeping bag being run over by a tractor, and one participant died from falling off a scaffold. There were also three miscarriages and two births recorded at the event and colossal logistical headaches. Furthermore, because Woodstock was not intended for such a large crowd, there were not enough resources such as portable toilets and first-aid tents. As a matter of fact the original plan for holding the festival in Wallkill, NY was scrapped because the town officially banned it on the grounds that the planned portable toilets wouldn't meet town code."
"Woodstock began as a profit-making venture; it only became a free festival after it became obvious that the concert was drawing hundreds of thousands more people than the organizers had prepared for, and that the fence had been torn down by eager, unticketed arrivals. Tickets for the event in 1969 cost $18 a ticket in advance, and $24 at the gate for all three days. Ticket sales were limited to record stores in the greater New York City area, or by mail via a Post Office Box at the Radio City Station Post Office located in Midtown Manhattan."
"Yet, in tune with the idealistic hopes of the 1960s, Woodstock satisfied most attendees. Especially memorable was the sense of social harmony, the quality of music, and the overwhelming mass of people, many sporting bohemian dress, behavior, and attitudes."
The balance of our day was decidedly anticlimactic after Woodstock, though we drove the rest of the afternoon along the banks of the Delaware River through some of the most magnificent scenery we've seen on this trip. We passed loads of RV camps, had we been seeking one, as well as at least a dozen cute river towns and villages. We even passed a tourist railroad that would not be opening until after school was out for the summer, so we didn't stop to check it out. According to the map it's called the Delaware-Ulster Railway.
Tomorrow we'll be headed west again, this time into the wilds of the great state of Pennsylvania. We'll be staying away from the Interstates, so we could be running across just about anything. Tonight at the inimitable local Walmart store we scored a copy of Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young's CD album with the Woodstock song on it, so we'll be playing those boys as we head toward the sunset tomorrow. Stay tuned, it's sure to be interesting, and remember, we wish you Happy Traveling.
Sunday, June 5, 2016
Day 58 -- Littleton, Massachusetts to Saugerties, New York -- 200 Miles
Can you hear the raindrops falling on the tin roof? To us, as we sit here in our camp in Saugerties, New York, it sounds like we're being pelted with pennies.
This morning, before we broke camp, a very slight patter of raindrops could be heard during breakfast. We couldn't actually see any rain, but we knew it was out there. Later, as we left our camp in Littleton, Masschusetts the rain grew steadily more persistent. And then, for the remainder of the day, with only brief interludes, it just rained and rained and rained. Well, except for our lunch break (bottom photo). We stopped to eat on the edge of Grafton State Park, Massachusetts, and actually had a moment of sunlight to keep us company.
So, as you might guess, we decided to just put miles on the machine and forego most stops for interesting sights, should we run into any. Our chosen route, Highway 2 that runs all the way across Massachusetts, or at least most of it, was at one time the "famous" Mohawk Trail in the early days of automobiling. I put quotes around the word famous because I don't suppose many of you have ever heard of it. I know of it because I'm a fan of early motoring memorabilia, and I've seen postcards on the Mohawk on Ebay.
Though I tried the whole day to catch a glimpse of some remnant of early 20th century petroliana, or other interesting roadside architecture, I never really saw much. I guess that time has obliterated most of the automobile-related support structures, though we did see during the course of our drive a teepee advertising a defunct restaurant, a petrol station converted to a flower shop, and numerous decayed and lifeless commercial spaces that would no doubt have been standing during the teens and twenties.
So, I wondered just what I might write about this evening. All I could come up with is perhaps the history of the Mohawk Trail. I'm certainly no authority, but I will try and glean some facts from the web and combine it with some old postcards that are being sold on Ebay right now. I hope you find it interesting.
From Wiki we learn that: "The Mohawk Trail began as a Native American trade route which connected Atlantic tribes with tribes in Upstate New York and beyond. It followed the Millers River, the Deerfield River, and crossed the Hoosac Range, in the area that is now northwestern Massachusetts."
"Today the Mohawk Trail is a part of Routes 2 and 2A. It follows much of the original Indian trail, from Athol, Massachusetts to Williamstown, Massachusetts, for about 69 miles, and passes through the communities of Orange, Erving, Gill, Greenfield, Shelburne, Buckland, Charlemont, Florida, and North Adams."
"The Berkshire mountains are clearly visible from several points. The modern day Mohawk Trail is considered one of the most beautiful drives in Massachusetts. There are numerous points of interest along the way, including many scenic viewpoints, roadside attractions and gift shops."
"Of particular note is the Hail To The Sunrise Statue at Mohawk Park, which features a tribute to Native American heritage (Note: this was completely fogged in when we drove by). A portion of the trail parallels the Deerfield River for several miles, and passes through the village of Shelburne Falls, and the Bridge of Flowers. The route crosses the Connecticut River via the historic French King Bridge at a height of 140 feet."
"The road reaches a high elevation of 2272 feet at Whitcomb Summit. On the western side of the summit there is the popular hairpin turn and lookout overlooking the city of North Adams and the Taconic Mountains. On the eastern side, the highway descends steeply eastward from Whitcomb Summit down the slope of the Hoosac Range following the Cold River to the Deerfield River. Notable features include the infamous Dead Man’s Curve. (Note: my photos, as well as all the post cards are of the Dead Man's Curve portion of the Trail)."
"A six mile section of the Mohawk Trail was severely damaged by Hurricane Irene in August 2011. This has been expeditiously repaired. A considerable portion of the road is surrounded by the Mohawk Trail State Forest, a 6,400-acre forest known for its camping and occasional encounters with bobcats and black bears."
"Within this area there is substantial acreage of old growth forest containing many of the tallest trees in Massachusetts as verified by the Eastern Native Tree Society. The route passes close to Vermont's southern border, and alternate routes travel north into Vermont to Harriman Reservoir and Ball Mountain State Park. The western terminus in Williamstown provides access to Mount Greylock, U.S. Route 7, and New York State Route 2."
"A portion of the route, including at least the parts in Florida and Savoy, was added to the National Register of Historic Places on April 3, 1973."
From the New York Times of October 2007 we learn further that: "Construction of the trail, one of America’s earliest scenic roads, began in 1912, a decade before Kerouac was born. When it opened in 1914 the gravel road was just 15 feet across, about the length of a Honda Civic. Paved and widened to more comfortable proportions,
So there you have it. Since I started typing this account the rain has doubled in its ferocity. When it rains this hard we end up getting water inside the rig since the rubber seals for the slide-outs are just not 100% weatherproof. So, before we go to bed we'll run in the kitchen banquette to ensure that we don't drown while we sleep.
The other thing we have to report is that we're not camping tonight in the city, nor even on the highway that I had selected earlier today. Because Route 2, which we followed all day, appeared to run out when it reached Troy, New York, and since the highways in Troy appeared pretty confused and confusing, I programmed the GPS to take us to a town called "Richfield Springs" in central New York State. The town was located on Route 20, a road very similar in appearance to Route 2.
Care to guess what happened? Well, Jezebel decided, quite by herself, that we were NOT going to follow Route 20 West as we wished, and head toward Syracuse, but we would have to drive south on Interstate 87, a toll road, and drop into northeastern Pennsylvania. We're not at all sure when she decided this course of action, but before we had detected her subterfuge, we were committed to entering the toll road. We tried getting off Interstate 87 and just winging it, but we were soon faced with the reality that it was getting late, and navigating by map towards Syracuse was going to take a lot more time than we wanted to invest. Does this remind you of HAL and the pod bay doors? It should!
The conversation would go something like this: "Take us to Richfield Springs, in northern New York State, HAL!"
"I'm sorry, Tom, but I can't do that. I must complete my mission."
"What is your mission, HAL?"
"To winter in Florida, Tom. Setting course due south now."
Anyway, we got back on Interstate 87 south and here we are on the fringes of the Catskills, in a town you've never heard of called, "Saugerties." Come morning we intend, if at all possible, to navigate through that expanse of beautiful forest using those dependable three letters, M-A-P. From there we'll drop into Pennsylvania on Route 370 and drive, more or less, toward Scranton. But who knows, maybe the GPS will try and take control anyway, even though we'll leave her turned off. If you don't hear from us tomorrow night, well, the pod bay doors may have opened for the last time.
But don't let these tiny travails deter you, go out and have some Happy Travels!
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