Day 29 -- New Perris to Westerville, Ohio --142 Miles

There's a rather sad fact that Concetta and I have found to be true as we visit scores of camps throughout the United States. Many, and often MOST of the camp spaces are spoken for long before we ever roll through the front gate. These spaces are not spoken for by folks on the road like us. No, the spaces have been placed in perpetual reserved status by the camp owners to accommodate weekend camping warriors who drive out from the city to spend a few hours in their rig that never moves, then return home to do the nine to five once more. The rigs never move and are always available to their owners. The checks come in to the camp owners. And everyone is happy.

Naturally, these aren't the only folks who end up reserving a camp spot for an entire year. In some camps folks down on their luck, who have been forced to live in their RV for economic reasons, can be found in many of the camps. You can tell these camps right away, as they often allow their permanent residents to have all kinds of flotsam and jetsam to be piled around the tenant's rigs. So these campsites will have multiple cars, a group of old propane cylinders, a motorcycle or two, ladders, sheds, container gardens and, well, you name it.

The camps that cater to working class, homeless folks, are not bad if they manage to reserve a few sites for travelers, but sometimes those sites are really in the minority. We were in one camp in Washington state that had only two sites in the whole camp for over-nighters. Normally everyone is very cordial, and we've never had any problems staying in them. We are certainly sympathetic with the homeless, and realize that they have to live somewhere.

No, our major source of irritation are the camps that cater to the folks who simply don't want to be bothered with the uncertainty of driving out to the country to find a camp, doing all the setup when they find one, and then repacking everything when they want to come home two days later. Those folks pay a yearly fee, reserve the nicest spots on the grounds -- usually those with trees -- and don't actually inhabit the RV for more than two dozen nights a year. Good business for the camp owner, but not so nice for those of us on the road who need campsites.

Such a camp provided our accommodations last night. It was quite a big deal for us to find this particular camp, way out as it was amidst the corn fields and soy bean acres. But when we finally found it down a series of tiny farm roads and country lanes northwest of Dayton, Ohio, it turned out to be well worth the trouble. The camp was absolutely immaculate. In fact, it actually looked more like a prototype mock-up of a camp than a real camp; like we had entered the Twilight Zone and had stumbled onto someone's architectural drafting board.

The roads and RV spots were all graveled perfectly, and all campsites camp with a concrete patio. Each camp was separated by well-tended grass, most had steel barbecue rings, small trees, and picnic tables. Each camp space came with not one, not two, but three sewer connections along with the usual water and electric. This would allow one to effortlessly hook up the sewer line wherever it was located on the RV, back, front, or middle.

When we explored the laundry room, it was clean, air conditioned, and the machines didn't need much cleaning themselves. We made full use of these during much of our stay.

The manager was completely accommodating. He helped us get settled, gave us advice on where exactly to park the rig, and even provided two rolls of quarters for our laundry needs.

It was only after we'd been in camp for a few hours that I began to notice something was wrong. There were almost no other campers present. I did see perhaps two people by evening-time. And I saw a couple more this morning. But there was NO hustle. There was NO bustle. There were no sounds of folks having alcohol-induced fun, no one building campfires with noxious smoke to come in our windows, and no boisterous children riding to and fro on their bikes and shouting at each other.

Don't get me wrong, we didn't actually miss most of the aforementioned things. But when they're totally absent it's eerie in the extreme. So I went and asked the manager what percentage of his campsites were occupied by absentee campers. More than ninety-eight percent, he said. That's where the money is. Most people are gone now, he went on, because their kids are back in school. They only come up on the odd weekend and holiday. So that's why we didn't have to fight anyone for the two washing machines. There was just no one else who had desires on them.

So this morning I wandered around with the camera taking photos of the lifeless camp. No noises came from any of the RVs I passed. No one was down at the picnic shelter. No one could be seen sitting on their patio drinking their morning coffee. No one out pumping their black and gray tanks. No one shaking out a rug or two. Just me, my camera, and a whole lot of scenery.

But there is a positive note to this story. They do reserve something like eleven spots for overnight guests. So don't be put off by my description of the place. Just look at the photos and realize that this camp was perhaps in the top five of beautiful camps we've ever seen.

We stayed in camp this morning in a futile attempt to wash a bathroom rug and a bunch of towels that just never dried. Finally, about 11:30 a.m. we gave up and left, with all the offending towels and rug laid out around the coach on whatever flat surfaces we could find. Our hope for the day was to travel east, but not on Interstate 70 which would have been easiest, but on Route 40, better known as the National Road.

From the web I learned that: "the National Road (also known as the Cumberland Road) was the first major improved highway in the United States built by the federal government. Established between 1811 and 1837, the 620-mile road connected the Potomac and Ohio Rivers and was a main transport path to the West for thousands of settlers. When rebuilt in the 1830s, it became the second U.S. road surfaced with the macadam process pioneered by Scotsman John Loudon McAdam."

"Construction began heading west in 1811 at Cumberland, Maryland, on the Potomac River. After the Financial Panic of 1837 and the resulting economic depression, congressional funding ran dry and construction was stopped at Vandalia, Illinois, the then capital of the Illinois, 63 miles northeast of St. Louis across the Mississippi River."

"The road has also been referred to as the Cumberland Turnpike, the Cumberland–Brownsville Turnpike (or Road or Pike), the Cumberland Pike, the National Pike, and the National Turnpike."

"Today, much of the alignment is followed by U.S. Route 40, with various portions bearing the Alternate U.S. Route 40 designation, or various state-road numbers (such as Maryland Route 144 for several sections between Baltimore and Cumberland)."

"In 2002, the full road, including extensions east to Baltimore and west to St. Louis, was designated the Historic National Road, an All-American Road."

I don't think we've ever been on the National Road before and it sure sounded like a wonderful thing to do. It was also easy to find since it parallels Interstate 70 for many miles. In fact, at times you can look over and see the traffic-choked Interstate just a mile north of our travel route. We really enjoyed seeing all the tiny towns and verdant fields that hugged the old road. It was obvious that being bypassed by the Interstate had been a blow to the villages through which we passed, but I'm sure there were some positive effects as well. Economically it was a disaster. But the quality of life must have improved measurably with the lack noisy traffic day and night.

Though I neglected to take a photo of the place, we passed a junk shop in one of the tiny towns on the National Road that appeared to be just what I needed in my quest for the missing part to my blacksmith vise. I pulled in at a church just a few doors past the junk shop, then walked back to find my quarry. There I met ol' Bill Reece, a gentleman perhaps in his early to mid eighties, who obviously loved junk just as much as I do. He had boxes and drawers and shelf units and bins and trays full of tools and hardware. And there was worlds of tools and hardware just lying around loose. I thought for sure that Bill would have my part.

But the more I looked the more I realized that I would have to spend a full day with Bill, maybe even several days to look through all his treasures. To make matters worse, Bill told me that he really didn't know what part I was describing and might never have seen one. So, after twenty minutes of looking, I selected a very nice ball-peen hammer that was so tight and lovingly maintained, I just couldn't leave it there. Bill tried to talk me into buying a larger one that he thought was a better buy, but I insisted on the small one. The one I chose was at least seventy years old, perhaps older, and had never been abused in any way. It just cried out to be added to my collection.

In the end I left my card with Bill since he said he had customers who were blacksmiths, and I hope he contacts me some day. He probably won't. He has no email address on his card, which means he's not computer literate. It was a nice try, but I suspect I'll have to keep looking.

The early part of the day was progressing so pleasantly, that it came as a real shock when we determined that there were no camps in front of us, and the only good camp was one we passed in Springfield, Ohio, about twenty miles behind us. This bit of bad luck resulted in our being immersed into rush hour traffic in Columbus, Ohio. But we had to get to the far northeast side of town to the only camp we could find on our GPS. To make matters worse, the GPS ordered us to leave Interstate 70 and go north on Route 270 at exit number 93B. As we neared exit 93, I could see that exit 93 promised to take us to Route 270. But it wasn't 93B, just 93. So we stupidly sailed right on by Exit 93, which immediately plunged us into the center of Columbus and a true traffic nightmare. We had gone from the most idyllic road conditions imaginable on the National Road, to the worst of the worst conditions in the center of a busy city at 4:00 p.m.

But after doing our penance in bumper-to-bumper traffic for a good hour, we finally emerged from the nightmare and got off the offensive Interstates and onto some beautiful rural roads. We always feel more at home there, and we soon followed our GPS directions right to a very pretty little camp called "Tree Haven." Tree Haven probably has just as many reserved sites as last night's camp, but our next door neighbors are in residence, the manager was a delightful lady, the price was really low, and we have a magnificent view of the surrounding farm fields any time we want it. I enjoyed my cocktail out on the lanai with some cheese an crackers, and not a single mosquito landed on me, though Concetta said she saw one.

Tomorrow we're headed to Akron, Ohio, and what promises to be our camp for the next 10 days or so. We have a class reunion to attend at one end of our stay, and a wedding to attend at the other. Aside from that, I'm not at all sure what we'll be doing to amuse ourselves. Interstate 71 goes practically right to Akron's front door, but we won't be traveling on that one. There is a tiny road called Route 3 that I have my eye one. Hopefully we will be able to meander up that tiny rural avenue, enjoying the surrounding countryside, and won't have a bit of high blood pressure when we arrive tomorrow afternoon.

And when you venture out on the two-lanes, we hope you avoid the Interstates, take advantage of the beautiful rural roads in this country, and savor every meandering mile of your trip. While you're out there, the Happy Wanderers wish you happy travels and exciting destinations.