Day 25 -- Battle Creek to Yipsilanti, Michigan -- 149 Miles

In last night's blog I forgot to give you a rundown on the difficulties that we encountered merely trying to find a camp near Battle Creek. We thought we were basically home free because Concetta found a camp on the GPS, and I found the information about the camp in the Good Sam book. Finding camp info in two places almost always assures one of actually finding the physical camp where both information sources tell you it is. Such was not the case as we arrived in Battle Creek.

Because of spending nearly an hour at a Walmart just up Route 37 from Battle Creek, we were already a bit late arriving where we hoped to find our camp. But the GPS seemed to be playing with us as we reached the city limits, and it guided us off the route we had taken from Grand Rapids. It then began wending us through a maze of city streets and short segments of freeway, supposedly on the way to our camp

Finally, it appeared we were getting close. The neighborhood was more rural, in keeping with a camp for RVs, and the GPS's announced "mileage to target" was getting down to a mere few. We were a bit concerned since we were seeing nothing but single family homes and no real rural acreage, when suddenly the infernal machine announced, "Arriving at address 1571, on the left." We starred blankly at a small subdivision of split-level homes as we rolled slowly past. We'd been HAD by the machine yet again.

At this point there was no choice but to pull over, consult the Good Sam book, and try and find another camp, hopefully nearby. Trouble was, there was only one camp listed, one called "Fort Custer Recreation Area." Well, I said, Fort Custer it is. Let's get going before it gets any later.

And so began a trek almost exactly the same way we had come. If we had simply turned right when the GPS insisted we leave Route 37 and go left, we would have found the camp in just a couple of miles. That was bad enough, but at this point we were still trusting the GPS to take us to Fort Custer, and she was definitely not through tormenting us yet. When we reached the point where we needed to turn left into the park, the GPS voice directed us to take a right. We were alarmed, but figured that Fort Custer must straddle the highway with camping on both sides.

This bit of Polly Anna thinking lasted until we discovered ourselves following a tiny rural road back into the forest with not a shred of signage to guide us. Finally, after we had had enough, we found a crude side road just wide enough to turn around, and we retraced our route back to the highway. Then we crossed to the other side and immediately found the Fort Custer camping facilities. Only electric service was provided, but by that time I would have opted for a nice stretch of pavement at Walmart, rather than drive another circuitous mile.

When I went in the park office to pay my fee, I said to the youngster taking the money that I had forgotten that General Custer grew up in Michigan. The lad looked at me quizzically, and said, "I have no idea." Okay, here's a potentially well-educated person of perhaps 21 years, who is working in the Fort Custer state park, and he doesn't seem to know who General Custer is. I had to bite my tongue at that point, as I doubted I could add anything useful to the conversation that would educate the poor chap any further.

But later I told Concetta that the state of education in this country nowadays is abysmal. How in the world can you get through high school, and perhaps even several years of college, and not know American history well enough to recognize the name Custer?

Anyway, the camp last night was located in a secluded niche in the forest, just barely big enough to allow us to slide in, and was as damp and drippy as part of the Amazon greenery. But it was darn quiet, and we rested pretty well with raindrops on the roof to lull us to sleep. We didn't have any utilities but electricity, but it didn't cause us any problems. This morning, since I didn't have much outside gear to put away, we were up and rolling toward Dearborn at nine A.M. sharp.

Dearborn was a pretty fair distance away, about 130 miles I expect. But while we were traveling east on Interstate 94 we could see that the sky was brightening and the rain clouds seemed to be dissipating. That was the good news. The bad news hit us once we arrived at the Henry Ford Museum and Greenfield Villiage in Dearborn. That's when we learned that there was a HUGE annual antique car meet taking place and there was literally no place anywhere on the grounds to put our rig (we thought).

We drove by sign after sign proclaiming that the lot was completely full, which meant you couldn't even squeeze a compact car in anywhere. There would be zero chance of finding a spot for a 32-foot RV. Still we drove all the way through the park, then reversed direction and drove all the way out again.

On the way in I had noticed that to the west was another parking area not designated for the museum or Greenfield Park. So I headed there next. But we soon saw that all the spaces were taken in that lot as well. We were about to exit that parking lot when I noticed that further to the west was an adjacent, but unused parking lot that was partially occupied by construction supplies and equipment. Not one to be deterred by things like rules and regulations, I wheeled right in, chose a spot, and with some trouble slid in with a planter on the rear end and a Bobcat tractor on the front. We weren't exactly level, but I soon remedied that situation with my drive-up blocks.

Of course once we were parked and settled, more people cruising by saw the RV and decided that they, too, would break the rules and find a spot. Before we had gathered our gear and set off for the Museum, most of the available parking spots had been taken. To say that getting a spot was a miracle, especially when it first appeared that 100% of them were taken, is probably an understatement. Not only did we get a spot, we got about five normal automobile spots all to ourselves. As a postscript, no one came over to chastise us, no notes were left on the window, and the rig was not towed away while we were gone. Pretty amazing.

I found out what had brought such a turnout to the Museum when a guy drove up and squeezed his tiny micro car in the half space in front of the rig that I had left to keep from being blocked in by parked cars. When I went to see if his rear bumper was going to clear our front bumper when we left, the guy told me that today was one of the biggest days of the year as hundreds of antique automobile enthusiasts had come to see perhaps a thousand fully-functional antique cars and trucks that would be motoring around the Greenfield Village until nine p.m. that night. So, not only did we find an improbable place to park, but we had hit the one weekend that I might have wished for since I'm a avid antique automobile fan.

To say the place was an absolute mad house would be understating the event tenfold. There were hundreds of cars parked everywhere you looked. There were dozens of "flivvers" roving the narrow streets and lanes. There were gay nineties chaps on high-wheel bicycles, there was a carousel and a circus tent, and displays of antique camping equipment, and strolling groups of folks in period clothes, and guys under cars trying to fix things, hundred-foot lines for ice cream, throngs of people in the various buildings, and demonstrations of glass blowing and Edison wax-cylinder making, and a steam train full of passengers circling the park every few minutes.

Concetta and I walked all over the park, and I scarcely had the camera away from my eye. Things were happening so swiftly, that I know I must have ruined half of the photos as I tried to catch moving cars as they passed by. By I was just totally, totally enthralled from the moment we arrived. Concetta, not being the car nut that I am, would occasionally take a seat in the shade and let me dash off to take as many photos as I could. But in the end, I realized that there were parts of the Village, with another vast number of parked antiques, that I would never get to see. We used up four solid hours and by the end of that time my feet and knees were definitely beginning to give me negative feedback.

But never fear, I may still get to see a bit more as we purchased a two-day pass. In the morning we're setting our sights on the indoor museum, since it would be foolish not to see it as well. We think it might be twenty-five or even thirty years since we came to Dearborn, and one should not miss the museum if you have a choice.

Just for kicks, I looked up the Henry Ford Museum's description of this incredible weekend. Here's what they say: "At the longest-running antique car show in America, you’ll be immersed in the moving stories of the early automotive era from the 1890s through 1932, perfectly set in the place where the history of the American automobile is passionately preserved and brought to life every day. From the turn of the century to the Great Depression, Old Car Festival in Greenfield Village offers a raucous ride of vehicles that epitomize the earnest optimism of the American Dream."

"Wander through the village, and talk to owners about their treasured vehicles. The ongoing Pass-in-Review parade is a car lover’s dream, as electric, steam and gas-powered engines are constantly in motion around you. Watch drivers engage in games of skill, see a Model T assembled in just minutes or just sit back and enjoy our experts sharing "car talks" while historic vehicles cruise."

"Ragtime America comes to life in the center of Greenfield Village with historically-inspired street food, music, dancing and even a cake walk. Plan to stay late Saturday evening for the Gaslight Parade of Cars, and dance along with the River Raisin Ragtime Revue as it performs popular music of the ragtime era. Cap off the evening with a Dixieland-style parade and fireworks finale."

As we could easily see, everyone was having a terrific time with their vintage machines, talking to their old friends and new friends, and imagining life 100 years ago. Concetta and I especially liked the high-wheeled bicycles and cyclists (photo right). They seemed to mount their lofty machines so effortlessly. There was even a man riding one of the earliest bicycles ever called a "Bone Shaker." Made entirely of wood and iron, I'd say by the looks of it the bike must of certainly lived up to it's name.

We had a simply wonderful day at Greenfield Village. There were sights and sounds and signs of merriment enough for anyone. And when you venture out on the two-lanes, the Happy Wanderers wish you happy travels and exiting adventures of you own!