Day 11 -- Menomonie to Rhineland, Wisconsin -- 184 Miles

We just settled into camp, ran the sewer and water hoses, and then went for a walk down to the lake. This camp, called "West Bay" for its location on the west end of Wisconsin's Lake Tomahawk, is perhaps the nicest RV campsite that we've visited on our 2019 sojourn to Ohio. We are camped amidst a thick forest (photo lower right), and the camp access road is tiny and twisty and following it had me holding my breath a few times. Once we found our site we discovered that it was a bit out of level, but I was able to quickly level the rig by elevating just one set of dualies on the right rear. It's so quiet here you'd almost guess that all of our very few neighbors must be out on the lake. Last night we had the crying baby and the barking dog in the rig next door, the screaming kids in the nearby swimming pool, and the sounds of dirt-track racers nearby to accompany our forest reverie. But in this camp it's so quiet that the sound of a pine cone landing unexpectedly on the roof made us jump.

So last night's camp in Menomonie was not the greatest, but once the noise died down things got pretty quiet after dark. For some reason, though we didn't enjoy the luxury of full hookups as we most often request, the price at last night's camp was a lofty fifty dollars, which we don't see very often. Still, by the time we got to Menomonie I was pretty darn tired of driving and battling the Interstate. I had earlier tried to leave the interstate and perhaps "stumble upon" a municipal camp somewhere to the north. But after passing through a couple of towns with no success in that area, we gave up, returned to I94 and headed for a camp we knew existed.

The town nearest our camp here is "Rhinelander," which I assume is a variation of the more accurate German word "Rheinlander." We decided to stay here for two reasons: first, Rhinelander had the only RV resort that we could find along our intended route of travel; second, there is supposedly a logging museum nearby. We haven't done the research, so we're not sure where it is, but we are confident it's fairly close and we'll find it tomorrow. We're anxious to see the logging museum here because back in 2015, when we visited such a museum in upstate Pennsylvania, we had a terrific time learning all about the timber business.

Today's drive east, mostly along Wisconsin Route 8, was just downright dreamy. The lightly-traveled highway was lined on both side by pines and a variety of deciduous trees. Our very first discovery on our Route 8 sojourn this morning was the Barron County Cheese Store. It was not my intent initially to stop there, but right next store was what looked like a full-fledged barn sale. Since there is a particular item for which I've been looking for years -- a part to a 150-year-old blacksmith's vise -- I decided to stop in the cheese store's parking lot and walk next door to the barn sale.

Once I had parked, Concetta announced that she wanted to visit the sale as well, then come back and check out the cheese store. Unfortunately, the barn sale turned out to be mostly junk, though had I been closer to home I would have definitely purchased the huge iron kettle for inclusion in Concetta's new rock garden. It just had that sort of "desert environment" look to it. But sadly, what with the Model A seats I had already added to our cargo hold, there was simply no room for a kettle the size of a barbecue grill.

Failing to find anything of interest at the barn sale, we retraced our steps to the cheese store and went inside. There we were greeted merrily by a very Scandinavian-looking young girl who told us to make ourselves at home and if we wanted to taste anything to just let her know. Well, let me just tell you that very nearly everything in the teenager's immaculate store was near and dear to my heart. She had spirits of every conceivable description. She had hand crafted jams containing nothing but cane sugar and the fruit (I bought the peach/raspberry). She had maple syrups handcrafted in Wisconsin and aged in bourbon barrels in what the label termed "small batches." She had new and exotic flavors of ice cream (I tried the Rhubarb concoction which was to die for). AND she had about a zillion different cheeses, most of which you could try if you wanted. Naturally we tried a bunch of them. We both like the combination of Asiago and Parmesan which they call "Parmasio." Believe me when I tell you we could have easily spent much longer in that shop. We came away with several cheeses, a jar of jam, and a bottle of the special syrup and would have purchased more if we had the room.

Somewhat after leaving the cheese store, we came across another opportunity to find the blacksmith vise part when we stumbled upon a junk shop that came complete with an eclectic collection of old vehicles at the edge of the parking lot (photo above right). I stopped, shot some photos of the cars and trucks, then interviewed the shop owner about my sought after part. "Sorry," he said, "but I don't see those anymore. Used to have a half dozen blacksmith vises in here, but I just don't come across them now." I would have liked to stay and tour his massive antiques and junk collection, but decided that after the cheese shop another hour-long visit might not be prudent.

I did get lucky after leaving the junk shop when I found a case for my flip phone. Nowadays it's getting exceedingly difficult to find phone cases for a device that is not in vogue anymore. A couple of days ago we visited a Verizon store in the town of Benson, Minnesota, but he was fresh out of flip phone cases. But today as we traveled up Route 8 we stopped to buy some fresh corn and a cucumber for dinner. As we made our purchases I glanced over the vendor's shoulder and saw that just a few yards away was another Verizon store. This time I got lucky. The store had just what I needed. So now I'm back in business as far as carrying my cell phone with me.

Shortly after the corn, cuc, and cell phone purchases we chanced upon the perfect lunch spot right beside yet another lake (photo left). Though I'm not sure the park manager would have approved, but the only parking provided near the lake was for small autos. But since no one was around to chastise me, I parked across four or five spaces and the view out our lunchtime window was outstanding.

The last lucky break of the day was a garage sale I ran across just as I was beginning to get fidgety from driving too long and wanted to pull in somewhere and stretch my legs. Right at that moment a handy garage sale appeared on the radar screen and I pulled over in front of the house. The elderly female homeowner welcomed me and invited me to wander around at my leisure. I was especially interested in the tools she had displayed. But I soon found out that many of the tools were Asian-made and held no interest for me. However I did manage to pick up a small American-made wrench, a wonderfully heavy and well cared-for pair of wire cutters, and a queer sort of drill chuck on the end of a steel rod that was meant to accomplish some sort of task that so far escapes me. Still, the three tools came to $5.00 and I considered them a bargain.

A short time later we were rolling through Rhinelander and keeping an eye out for the turnoffs being actively dictated by the GPS. Unfortunately, the GPS wasn't exactly on her game this time, and she twice took us to the wrong street and address. Fortunately, however, Concetta had perchance seen a weathered old sign for the very camp for which we searched and directed us to return the way we had come and locate that vintage sign again. We did locate the sign, and following only the sign's directions, we soon found ourselves at the sought-after camp. The office was closed, but the manager had thoughtfully left us the necessary directions to our campsite and after that we were home free.

The key to traveling by RV across this great land of ours is avoid getting too upset when things don't go exactly as planned. I sometimes forget that a cool head generally pulls you through in the end. And, of course, you're much better off if you simply DON'T PLAN too much and simply revel in the serendipity of the experience.

So that's about it for now dear reader. I'm not sure exactly where we'll be headed tomorrow. It may happen that we'll stay another night right here since it's such a nice spot. Concetta tells me that the Logging Museum doesn't open until lunchtime, which would mean that we wouldn't even leave town until mid afternoon. There'd be no chance to put on some miles and reach the next camp. But we'll see. Perhaps there are other attractions hereabouts that we don't yet know about.

And at this point I'll say good night. The Happy Wanderers wish you happy travels and exciting destinations as you, too get out there on the two-lanes and see this big, wide, wonderful country of ours.

Day 10 -- Sauk Center, Minnesota to Menomonie, Wisconsin -- 199 Miles

Well, we finally made it to Minneapolis/Saint Paul to pick up my Model A seats. I was a little tense wondering if I had cleared one of the lockers thoroughly enough to fit two seat frames and two sets of springs. But with a little persuasion, we got everything loaded and not a thing left behind. Sorry I didn't photograph them, but they're not much to look at right now. But I did photograph Jeff who sold me the seats and a section of the Model A Panel Delivery that he hopes to restore. He told me he has all the various body parts to restore the delivery body back to it's former glory. I certainly hope he succeeds.

The story actually begins this past spring when I was doing my usual search on Craigslist for a body for a 1928/29 Ford. Usually there are no bodies for sale, and the restorable cars for sale were way out of my price range. But on this particular day, when I pulled up the listings, my eye immediately fell upon a photo of a yellow 1929 Ford Tudor body. The body didn't look complete, but it DID look in pretty good shape. I immediately contacted the seller and made a date to come see it (Photo below right).

For months and months I had been looking for a 1928 pickup body. Since this particular Model A Ford had belonged to my baby brother back in the 1960s -- You see him in the photo below left being pulled by Dad's pickup as they try to "pull start" the newly rebuilt engine -- I thought it would be fitting now that I'm retired to finish the restoration that he had started more than fifty years ago. I at least wanted to move the project in that direction.

When I purchased the car back in 1969 it came with a Fordor body, product of the Briggs Body Company. The original Ford Coupe body that came with the car was long gone. The Briggs sedan was in pretty good shape, but really constituted a much tougher restoration project than an all-steel Ford body

My quarry originally was a pickup body since Cliff had been a self-styled mechanic since he was old enough to hold a box wrench. I thought that I would restore the pickup, paint it in Ford's typical pickup green color, then put Cliff's name on the door in yellow in honor of his having owned the car once upon a time. I thought the door should read, "Cliff Davis," "Family Mechanic," or something similar.

But there I was with an opportunity to buy a perfectly good sedan body that required not much in the way of body work. I just had to locate the missing pieces. Well, I thought, I can paint his name on a sedan door just as easily as a truck door. I went ahead and visited the seller's garage and made him an offer. He met me in the middle and the car was mine. All I had to do was rope in my neighbor Joe, bring the box trailer, and haul it home.

Throughout the summer I've been doing small projects on the car like getting the wheels powder-coated and outfitted with new tires. In the meantime I've been looking around for some of the pieces I'm missing. I purchased a visor and a driver's door lower hinge from a friend in Los Angeles. I bought a trim piece for the front header from a friend at the Hot August Nights Swap Meet in Reno in August. And I purchased two front bucket seats from a car enthusiast in Minneapolis. Things were moving along.

As fate would have it, we were already planning a vacation back to Ohio so that Concetta might attend her high school reunion in mid September. When the seat seller asked if I wanted him to ship the seats, I told him no. We would just come to his house and pick them up. I'm sure Jeff marveled that we intended to drive fifteen hundred miles to retrieve the seats, but today we fulfilled our promise, though we did go to his work location instead of his home.

So two more pieces have now been added to the restoration total. I know I have a long way to go, but heck, it sat in Dad's front yard for a decade or more, and has been hibernating our garage since the mid 1980s. But progress is progress no matter how small.

Now this morning, before we went to retrieve the seats, we decided to visit the home of Sinclair Lewis, the writer. It would have been a shame to miss the opportunity since our camp last night was about three blocks from Sinclair's house. Though not all house tours are interesting, especially if they tell you "no photographs," but sometimes these house tours will surprise you. My big interest is learning about household items that I perhaps can't identify, but appear to hold an important place in the family's everyday activities.

Today we presented ourselves at Sinclair's residence at ten o'clock when they officially open for visitors and were conducted on a personal tour by a wonderfully animated and knowledgeable docent. Though I initially hung back and didn't take any photos, the docent, whose name was Jill, told me to go right ahead and take all the photos I wanted.

We then proceeded to visit every single room in the house and in each room Jill had a wealth of stories for us. We learned about the family; we learned about the individual rooms and the pieces of furniture they held; and we learned about Sinclair Lewis' career. Everything was fascinating and we came away with a distinct desire to track down one of Sinclair's books, preferably the first successful book, "Main Street," and explore his view of the world of his time and place.

The house tour was the exciting part of the day for sure. The not so exciting part of the day was navigating the jam-packed Interstate highway system around Minneapolis/Saint Paul. All I have to do is get off the two-lanes and plunge into four and five-lane traffic and my need for any earlier cocktail hour becomes apparent.

But now we're in our camp in a small clearing amidst the lofty Wisconsin pines and lush forest growth and a distinct calmness has re-emerged. I'm breathing easier again. Plans for tomorrow's journey are still to be made and I hope I can avoid the hustle and bustle of Interstate 94 that so effectively hammered its way into my consciousness today.

So stay tuned, and perhaps we'll see YOU out on the two-lanes as we make our way across Wisconsin and on into Michigan. And as always, The Happy Wanderers wish you happy travels and exciting destinations.

Day 9 -- Watertown, South Dakota to Sauk Center, Minnesota -- 202 Miles

Well, we might have traveled 202 miles today but 11 of those miles were in the wrong direction, which meant another 11 were needed to get back to where we started. But hey, everyone takes the wrong turn once in awhile. Right?

It happened because our intended avenue of travel, that of the two-lane highway known as Route 212, was closed from Watertown, South Dakota, clear to the Minnesota State line due to highway maintenance. I guess they didn't get the memo that we were coming. At any rate, in an effort to navigate the detour I turned right when I should have turned left.

So, once we'd gotten back to the starting point, we headed north on Route 29 with the intention of grabbing the next available road of respectable size heading east. That turned out to be Route 12. That particular route was nice since it ultimately ends up in Minneapolis, our intended destination for this portion of the trip.

There was only one problem with Route 12 -- It didn't offer much in the way of camping opportunities. When we reached the town of Benson, we asked a local where the nearest camp was located and he shrugged and said he didn't know of any. That should have been a clue. But using all our sources of information we decided to go north as there seemed to be a camp on Route 29 north of Benson that advertised full hookups. There was only one problem when we got there: they didn't really have full hookups, nor much in the way vacant spaces at all.

Okay, so we went back to the camp book and the GPS and the internet to try and find another camp, which is how we ended up in Sauk Center, Minnesota, which turned out to be 61 Miles north of our starting point in Benson.

Anyway, here we are near the beautiful town of Sauk Center, Minnesota with our rig all set up about 150 feet from a beautiful lake. The breeze is quite cool this afternoon, but it feels good after the heat of the day. We were quite fortunate in getting this particular spot in Sauk Center as it was the last camp site they had with full hookups. While all the laundry AND the RV rig itself got washed this morning before we left Watertown, neither Concetta nor I had enjoyed the privilege at last night's camp since it had no sewer connections. Were it not for our desire to get baths ourselves, we might have forgone the sewer hookup as the park here had lots of water/electric campsites. So we were hugely pleased to secure this site even though I had to work on leveling the rig more than usual due to the uneven terrain.

The other thing that suffered today was the photography. We got such a late start that we didn't do any lallygagging at all. We stopped for lunch in the lovely town of Milbank on Route 12 but didn't take a walk. We did take a walk in the town of Benson, but the only point of interest was a very cool diner that I shot that was not the pretend type of diner, but an honest to God railroad car from a century ago still used as a restaurant.

I wondered when I first spotted this gem on Benson, South Dakota's main street if it was just a facade that some rail enthusiast had "tacked on" to the front of his restaurant. But once I walked up on the porch and peered through the window I could easily see that the rail car existed all the way back to the rear of the restaurant. The car even still had its clerestory windows above the tables, though the owners had knocked out the eastern side of the car body to expand into the adjoining structure. Still pretty cool as you just don't see real railroad-car diners these days.

You may not know that the first "diner" as such goes back to the early 1870s when a budding entrepreneur hitched up old Dobbin to a light delivery wagon and sold food out of the conveyance along a regular route. By the 1920s prefabricated diners began to appear that were meant to look like rail cars. People had been eating in rail cars since before the turn of the 20th century. As cross-country train travel became more commonplace, passengers began to expect high-quality food to be served on board. The level of meal service on trains in the 1920s and 1930s rivaled that of high-end restaurants and clubs.

So, it was natural that entrepreneurs simply used surplus railroad diners as their restaurants in the beginning. They were cheap and already set up as restaurants. From there it was an easy jump from using real dining cars to companies beginning to build diners that "looked like" railroad dining cars, but had no wheels to get in the way. These originally came from the manufacturer as full units, but eventually companies constructed the diners in modular pieces which were easier to move and easier to set up. Many of these pseudo railroad diners still exist today in cities all over America. We have one quite near where we live in the town of Truckee, California.

There are things you always look for when you're a fan of transportation subjects from a long-gone era, and diners is one of them. Lots of the surviving examples are lovingly refurbished and maintained. Still, you just don't see many of them. So if you're out there driving the two-lanes, be sure and keep an eye out for the survivors and snap a few photos. Let us know where you find them and maybe we can go take a look as well.

As you know, our purpose for beginning our trip east with a visit to Minneapolis is to retrieve a couple of seat frames and springs I purchased for our 1929 Ford. The frame and drive train for this particular car is one that my baby brother began way, way back in the mid 1960s. Later, when he decided to get married and move to upstate New York, I purchased his lovingly restored Model A running gear so the car would stay in the family. This frame has been in our garage most of the past 40 years. However the original body for this car was lost long ago.

Recently I discovered that just a dozen miles from where we live a fellow Nevadan had a 1929 Model A Tudor body for sale that I decided would be a great fit for my brother's one-time project. So now, the body rests mere inches from the frame it will eventually adorn, but there are a number of parts still to be found to make the project come together. Hence the seat deal.

Thus far, I have had five wheels powder-coated and new tires installed thanks to my buddy Buzz Middleton. Buzz has the mechanical genius that my brother once had and is always my first choice for advice on this project. Buzz is also working on my rear fenders which I suspect will be done sometime this summer. So if you're out there reading this and YOU have parts and pieces for a 1929 Model A Tudor, or indeed any model, please feel free to let me know.

And there you have it. Tomorrow we're going to see Sinclair Lewis' home just north of here followed by whatever educational and historically fascinating things we can find to do before driving the last hundred miles to Minneapolis. Hopefully Saturday we'll be able to meet with the gentleman who has my seats, and then we're off to upstate Michigan. So in parting I will say, the Happy wanderers wish you happy travels and exciting destinations as YOU venture out on the two-lanes of this wonderful country.

Day 8 -- Gettysburg to Watertown, South Dakota -- 185 Miles

It has come to our attention that there are NO strangers in South Dakota. No matter what part of the state you're in, no matter what activity you're pursuing, every single South Dakotan you encounter is going to greet you with a cheery hello, a wave, or a handshake. There have been absolutely NO exceptions. So far we've motored across nearly 400 miles of this neighborly state, talked to at least two dozen residents, and every single one has made us welcome. We were in one tiny, tiny town today where everyone is probably related in some way to everyone else, and every single car we passed sported a driver or passenger with their hand extended out the window in a wave. No there's no chance they thought we were one of their partners on the bowling team in this giant silver box on wheels of ours. They just had to know we were from out of town, and still they sought to welcome us warmly.

Yes, I know what you're thinking. The wavers probably heard of the Nevada branch of the Happy Wanderers and were just eager to make our acquaintance; perhaps appear on the TV show. And you may be right. But personally I think that South Dakota is just the friendliest place on the planet. In fact, a couple of days ago in Belle Fourche, we talked to a docent at the town museum who came to South Dakota to do a friend a favor. The super friendly docent had been asked to house-sit while the owner was away. Low and behold, when the woman's friend returned, she immediately returned to her home town, packed her belongs, and headed back to Belle Fourche. THAT'S how captivating South Dakota can be.

This morning, while touring the serene and beautiful town of Gettysburg where the town welcome sign informs the tourist that it's "Not where the battle was," we stopped to buy some gasoline. The first thing that happened was a local farmer rolled up in his pickup truck, threw open the door, and came right over to talk to me.

"How do you like traveling in that rig," he asked.

After I told him I loved it, he asked, "has it been green all the way from Nevada?" I wasn't sure what he meant by that, but I told him it had been pretty green all the way. After all, we took the northern route above Yellowstone park and once out of Nevada, most of the land looks green.

Once those formal questions were out of the way we fell into a general question and answer session about farming. Though I'd never be able to live on a farm with all my allergies, farming has become intensely fascinating to me since we took up RVing and rolled by so many thousands of acres of farmland. My main question for the day involved sunflowers. "How come," I said, "we've seen fields of sunflowers on the way here that look like no one ever watered them." Concetta and I had seen some pretty sorry-looking sunflowers just a few miles west of Gettysbury. I was expecting him to say words like "drought" or "disease."

"Too much water," he said. "We've had so much rain this summer that some of the fields are simply drowned. Sunflowers like lots of water, but they don't like to be flooded."

"What becomes of your sunflowers," I asked, thinking perhaps they went into making sunflower oil.

"People eat them," he said. "Mostly people in North Dakota and the Middle East."

That surprised me. I wondered how come North Dakotans didn't grow their own. But what I said was, "but how do they separate all those millions of seeds from the seed heads?"

"Combine does it just fine," he said. But if there's too much chaff in with the seeds then the price goes down. I get .25 cents per hundred weight," he said. "Goes down to .22 cents if there's too much litter in with the seeds."

I desperately wanted to continue to pump him for farming information, like how long Middle Easterners have been getting their sunflower seeds from South Dakota, but I guess he had to get back out there in the fields and earn his living. "Gotta go," he said, "but it's been a pleasure talking with you."

I returned the compliment and in a flash he was gone. But my point is, the whole darn population here in South Dakota acts like they've just been waiting for you personally to come by and chat with them. While we were in Belle Fourche, touring the museum, we stumbled upon a docent at an outdoor log cabin exhibit. In the ten minutes we stood and talked to him we got the entire history and efficacy of South Dakota beef ranching. I swear I had never heard so much about cows in my entire life. For instance, who knew that you can't give beef cattle too much "sweet clover" as it's too rich. Makes them sick. We also learned that beef ranchers are supplied with a kind of raw molasses that the rancher combines with other things and reduces it down to a solid. The docent said the cows lick it, which sounded kinda funny. But from the web I learned: "Molasses is very sticky, which when mixed with feed makes the feed easier to eat by the livestock. It also has a natural tendency of increasing your animal’s energy. Molasses can act as a catalyst for dairy cows to increase their milk production, and it can help strengthen the overall bone structure of livestock and weight gain for cattle, among other benefits." So I guess the cows are able to both eat and lick it and they like it a lot.

We learned so much about cows in that conversation that we could probably become cattle ranchers if we were so inclined. We'll pass, of course, but it's always wonderful when a local person is willing to talk about their lives and lifestyle.

Today's drive was rather tame in that we basically drove, listened to a book on tape, and continued to marvel at mile after mile of corn and sunflowers (and other unidentified green things). There weren't many opportunities to leave the highway as the shoulders were scant, the roadside ditches were muddy from all the rain, and I really didn't see much that warranted a photograph. I have been looking for an opportunity to slide the rig in between a couple of widely-spaced rows of sunflowers to get a cool picture, but no such widely-spaced sunflower row presented itself.

We did pass through a town, it might have been Clark, where the town sculpture artist had obviously been given total control over any and all public art. Some we liked and some we didn't, but the caravan of identical, red and white Chevrolets certainly took my eye. I also stopped once just to shoot an astoundingly singular cloud formation. I'd never seen anything like it for its symmetry. The town of Faulkton where we had lunch contained a totally fascinating century-old building that just had to be a Catholic or Lutheran school in its heyday. Judging from the rundown condition of the building its heyday must have been when Roosevelt was Commander in Chief. I'm taking my clue for the religious affiliation of the school from the nearby ancient clapboard church which was Catholic. But the Lutheran guess is because forty percent of South Dakotans are of German ethnicity. Might have been either in its history I suppose.

Our main goal this afternoon was to finally rendezvous with a Walmart. Believe it or not, we have encountered not a single Super Store between central Montana and eastern South Dakota. We could have shopped anywhere, of course, but there was a couple of things I needed from Walmart's RV center to make my life complete. Once our shopping was done, we had to scramble to find a camp for the night. The afternoon was waning and most camps fill up in late afternoon.

Using the combination of the GPS, Concetta's IPhone, and the Good Sam guide we picked a nice-sounding camp just five or six miles from town. And indeed, once we had arrived, the camp looked fantastic. The spaces were few, only about half were occupied, all spaces lay just a few yards from a lake. But once we called the number to feed some unseen being our credit card info, we discovered that despite the fact that the camp was gorgeous and there were so many trees that we had plenty of shade in all directions, we learned that there were no services but electricity. Sign! Thankfully, the restrooms and showers are brand new and glowing in their cleanliness. We decided to stay, especially since the price was half what we've been paying elsewhere.

Since we're making do without baths and such for now, we'll just pretend that we're traveling with Lewis and Clark. Tomorrow we have to do the dreaded laundry. But once that's done it's on the road again with our sights on Minnesota. Doing the laundry will make it impossible to reach Minnesota tomorrow, but we're getting close now at only 200 miles away. Soon we'll be picking up my Model A seats and then we can turn our full attention to picking destinations based solely on whims and whatevers.

So if you see the Happy Wanderers somewhere up here on the northern plains, be sure and wave, come over for a chat, or just give us a honk or two. And while you're out here on the two-lanes enjoying what a lot of people miss by traveling the "Blue Highways," we wish you happy travels and exciting destinations.

P.S. The photo at the top left is last night's camp as the sun was setting over Lake Oahe, which is fashioned from a damn on the Missouri River. You could stand on the high bluff where our rig was parked and look down at the shimmering water and envision Lewis and Clark's Corp of Discovery poling their way upriver in their expedition boat, which Lewis called both a "keel boat" and a "barge." It felt right and it felt historic and I could just see it.

Day 7 -- Belle Fourche to Gettysburg, South Dakota -- 201 Miles

Right now we're sitting on a bluff overlooking a section of the Missouri River that has been dammed and expanded into a lake called Oahe. The sun is close to setting, and we're anxious to see if nature plans a spectacular sunset. Our camp tonight, called Bob's Resort, is one that Concetta found using her trusty IPhone and it's great. There's lots of room between each individual RV space, it's quiet as a church, and there's a pretty nice restaurant called Bob's Steakhouse just a 10-minute walk from our door. I guess Bob must be doing alright for himself since he also owns the tackle shop and mini-mart up at the front entrance to the camp.

We spent most of the day rolling east along South Dakota Route 212. Just as yesterday, we saw lots of farm fields of corn and hay. But new today was quite a few acres of beautiful yellow sunflowers. I looked diligently for a side road that would have allowed me to pull the RV in among the sunflowers for a cool photograph, but I never saw an opportunity. I did grab an opportunity to photograph one of the large hay bales I've been talking about. Concetta wondered just how I was going to get on top of the thing, but naturally I MacGivered a way.

This morning, before we hit the road, we decided to visit the museum in Belle Fourche. The exterior of the museum grounds looked so inviting as we passed by yesterday afternoon on the way to our campsite, that we knew we just had to check it out before we left town. Thank goodness we did as the interior of the museum as even more spectacular then the outside.

As you probably know if you've been reading this blog through our several trips around the U.S., Concetta and I visit a LOT of museums. So we've become amateur connoisseurs of such establishments. Believe me when I tell you that the Tri-State Museum in Belle Fourche, South Dakota, is perhaps the most marvelously and expertly displayed collection of artifacts that we have ever seen in a small town. Each and every topical display provided a museum-goer with all the information they needed on a given subject without adding too much or too little in the way of visual displays and informational placards. Simply put, we spent an extremely enjoyable ninety minutes learning about everything from the history of kitchens and cooking, to the military experiences of a number of local boys who fought in various conflicts through the years. One such local military aviator even flew with Jimmy Doolittle's Tokyo raid during WWII.

One of the first things I saw as we arrived on the museum grounds is a piece that I've only seen in person only twice in my life -- that of a horse-drawn ice saw. Back before the days of refrigeration, ice was the commodity that everyone wanted for household use to keep things cold. Everyone had an "icebox" in the kitchen and the occasional visit from the iceman was commonplace. Placards placed in the home's front window were used by the housewife to request that the iceman stop that day.

The ice was collected each winter from local lakes that had frozen over to a depth sufficient to support considerable weight. To make it easy to harvest the ice, a system was devised where a horse-drawn ice saw would be pulled across the lake in lines about two feet apart. Once done, the ice saw would then be pulled repeatedly across the lake at ninety degrees to the first lines of travel about four feet apart. The saw would not cut the ice all the way through, but would leave a about a fourth of the ice to be cut by hand. This kept the blocks together until it was time to separate them and float them to the ice house. Ice houses would be located adjacent to the cutting operation and would be super insulated, usually with saw dust, and were able to keep ice frozen all through the summer months. Ice houses were a great place for men to work whose regular jobs were curtailed or eliminated by winter weather.

Once inside the building I was totally dazzled by the professional look of the displays. One that took my eye did so because we had so recently passed on Route 212 a Bentonite plant. Until we saw the plant and the many trucks on the highway hauling the Bentonite product, we had no idea such a substance even existed. According to the information sheet at the museum, "Western Sodium Bentonite, the mineral of 1,000 uses -- from face creams to fertilizer, laxatives to lubrication oil, paper to putty. Bentonite plays an important part in everyone's lives."

Bentonite, if I understand correctly, is a product of volcanic ash falling into an inland sea that once existed in the central part of America between 135 and 65 million years ago. Later, thanks to plate tectonics, the inland sea was pushed upwards and the inland sea was dispersed. But while the ash was being deposited in an on again, off again process, other sediments were deposited on top of it and ultimately compressed the Bentonite into layers. Most of the Bentonite deposits are in the Big Horn hills of Montana and the Black Hills of South Dakota.

So, you're probably wondering why anyone would care about Bentonite. Well, the most obvious reason is that the museum's brochure lists no less than 160 different products that use Bentonite to some degree. Everything from animal feed to batteries, from cardboard to cleansing agents, from dynamite to insulation board, and from water softeners to sewer pipes. And there are still 152 other common everyday things I haven't mentioned. They even mix this product with the material you're using at the local pottery center if you're learning to throw clay pots. How in the world have I never heard about this stuff before?

The next display to really take my interest involved a local Belle Fourche native named Donald Smith. Lieutenant Donald Smith, United States Army Aircorp, piloted the 15th B-25 Bomber to take off from the aircraft carrier Hornet on April 8th, 1942 for the famous Doolittle bombing Raid over Japan. After successfully conducting the raid, Lieutenant Smith, running out of gas, was able to crash land his plane off the coast of China and Chinese peasants helped the crew to safety. When Smith and his crew were eventually rescued and returned to duty, Lieutenant Smith was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross and was promoted to the rank of Captain. He also received the Military Order of China from Madame Chiang Cai Shek.

Sadly, the now Captain Smith immediately returned to active duty in World War II and was shot down and killed while flying another bombing run over occupied Europe just seven months after his rescue. As the saying goes, all gave some and some gave all. But still a pretty impressive record for a distinguished son of Belle Fourche, South Dakota, population (today) of just 5,000 people.

While I was looking at all the "manly" stuff, Concetta was completely captivated by about thirty lineal feet of displays on the subject of food and cooking. You know me, I like to eat, but cooking isn't my thing. So it was that not until I had looked at everything else did I wander over to see what the cook in this family was doing. Well, come to find out, the food and cooking displays were just as fascinating, and just as well done, as what I had been perusing.

My favorite food and cooking display, one that Concetta also liked, was the origin of the Betty Crocker cook book. At one point the parent company of Gold Medal Flour ran a contest wherein people were encouraged to complete a puzzle then send in their results. If the puzzle was correct, the respondents would get a free pin cushion in the shape of a Gold Medal Four sack. Well, as sometimes happens, the contest was far more popular than anyone predicted. Rather than a few women responding, some 30,000 women not only sent in their contest response, but they sent in their favorite recipes along with requests for other recipes. The response was so massive, that the company decided to sponsor a cookbook.

But what to call the cookbook? The company director, a male, wanted at first to put his name on the cookbook. But cooler heads thought that a woman's name would be better. The director relented and requested suggestions for a woman's name. The name Betty was eventually decided upon since it sounded sort of homey and friendly. The name Crocker was similar to the director's name of Croker. The famous signature for Betty was derived from one of the secretaries at the home office who was judged to have the nicest, clearest handwriting. So there you have it. Mass marketing in the making.

Well, that's all for now. Tomorrow we'll be heading for the eastern border of South Dakota. Stay tuned for all the adventures that lie ahead. And when you decide to join the Happy Wanderers on the road, we wish you happy travels and exiting destinations! Please see the map below for our progress toward our Ohio destination so far.

Day 6 -- Garryowen, Montana to Belle Fourche, South Dakota -- 214 Miles

Today our aim was to stay off the Interstate (always our aim), backtrack to the Little Big Horn battlefield for a last look, then cruise the nearby Warrior Trail all the way to South Dakota. I figured that the first two goals were easily accomplished. But I wasn't sure about the 3rd goal because I just didn't know what to expect of the 200+ miles of Montana Route 212. On the map it's just an insignificant red line that passes through towns with dubious names like "Busby," "Muddy," "Lame Deer," and "Broadus." I felt sure that the towns would be so small that there was every possibility that we would have time to meet and chat with the entire population if we so desired.

We rolled out of camp (photo top left) around our usual hour of 9:00 a.m. and crunched our way along the camp's gravel drive out to the frontage road that runs alongside Interstate 90. Once there, I could see that there was no on-ramp to gain access to the Interstate so that we could retrace our steps to the Little Big Horn battlefield site.

Not to be deterred, we stayed on the frontage road until we found a spot that tunneled under the freeway, then we crossed to the frontage road on the north side of the Interstate and resumed our drive north until we reached Route 212, the Warrior Trail. Stopping first to top off the tank, we were soon in motion again. We had by then decided to skip our visit with General Custer and just get on our way.

At that point it hadn't really occurred to us to question why Route 212 was the "Warrior Trail," so we did some research. We saw descriptions of the highway -- how it started in Yellowstone and went all the way to Minnesota (as Route 12 in Minnesota) -- but we hadn't found any information on who was responsible for the name.

The Warrior Trail crosses the very large Crow reservation that surrounds the Custer Battlefield, and it also crosses the Northern Cheyenne reservation that lies between the Crow reservation and the Custer National Forest. Reading up on other Warrior Trails in other parts of the U.S., we found that the name is usually derived because the current paved route follows the ancient Native American trade and hunting routes in a given area. I suspect that the Warrior Trail here in Montana, Wyoming, South Dakota, and Minnesota is just such a phenomena.

We still didn't know much about our intended route, but we were game to give it a try. For half the day we were headed just about dead east across Montana. Then, after lunch, the route began to drop toward the bottom of the map until it finished up darting across the northeast corner of Wyoming and into west central South Dakota. For almost the entire day we saw very little traffic, very little in the way of habitations, and a whole LOT of those huge, round bales of hay. We passed field after field of those ubiquitous bales without ever seeing anyone actually baling the hay or even loading it for delivery.

Maybe some of you have heard about Nevada's Highway 50, the so called "Loneliest Road in America." Well, I'm here to tell you that the real "loneliest road" is right here in southern Montana. I think if you broke down out here on the Warrior Trail it would be three days before you saw a mechanic, and only then if it didn't interfere with his hay baling.

Anyway, the Trail didn't turn out to be quite as interesting and exciting as I had hoped. But the scale and scope of the rolling green hills and of course the hay fields was truly awesome. Given sufficient imagination, you would have no trouble at all visualizing bands of Sioux, Cheyenne, Crow, or Arapaho guiding their Pintos and Appaloosas across the distant ridges as they watched your progress from afar.

I have to admit that we scarcely noticed Busby, Muddy, or Lame Deer as we passed through. But when we reached Broadus it was time for lunch. AND, what did my wandering eyes spy as we rolled into town, but an absolutely magnificent antiques and rusty junk store. I immediately did a u-turn near the town square and parked lengthwise across five parking places right next to city hall. "Perfect," I said, and made ready to go junk shopping.

Now Concetta is not into junk of any sort, so she kindly consented to work on lunch prep while I went in search of that most rare of rare items for which I've looked long and hard -- a mounting bracket for a vintage blacksmith's pole vise. Now these mounting brackets definitely don't grow on trees, and most folks don't even know what I mean when I tell them I need one. But today Jane at the antiques shop knew exactly what I was talking about. Well, at least she knew what a pole vise was. Unfortunately she'd never seen the special mounting bracket and definitely didn't have one to sell me. Sigh.

But not to waste an opportunity to look at lots and lots and of old farm tools, I spent a few minutes combing through her stash and eventually came up with an antique wooden mallet that has also been on my list of things to acquire for my shop. The mallet appeared to be in good shape and the handle was tight, so I made Jane an offer and she knocked a bit off the price and off I went with my prize. I didn't get my pole vise bracket, but there will be other antique shops and other days.

After we had our lunch and wheeled out of town it was more of the same scenery of rolling hills, farm fields, and copious amounts of rolled hay. Most of this hay appeared to be freshly gathered and rolled, but there were substantial stacks of hay as hold as Methuselah. Neither of us had any idea why the unsold hay just sits around in jolly great stacks, but I rather suspect that at some point they must till it back into the soil or compost it in some other way.

During this post lunch drive we only stopped once to stretch our legs and ponder a collection of commercial archaeological subjects. The one seen here appears to me to be a 1939 Ford Business Coupe, sadly gone to seed. The subject sat forlornly in the parking lot of the local bar and grill, which, I was quick to note, advertised a weekly Tuesday night wet t-shirt contest on the side of the building. I didn't bother pointing that out to Concetta, however, but the bar's parking lot sign was pretty cool (photo bottom right).

Now the only thing left to tell you about is our contemplated breakdown that occurred as we neared the outskirts of the town of Belle Fourche, South Dakota. There we were, rather grateful that the long, hot day was nearing its completion, and cocktail hour would soon be upon us. Suddenly what sounded like the left front wheel began to make the all too ominous noise that tires make when they have produced a bubble on the sidewall and are about to blow out and leave you stranded. We know the sound because it happened to us while on vacation in our first motor home as we motored blissfully along the Interstate in Minneapolis back in 2013. First there came a thump-thump-thump, then a loud bang, and suddenly the rig was swerving toward the shoulder where it shredded the tire and dropped the bare metal wheel on the asphalt amidst a cacophony of screeching and grinding. Finally, came clouds of dust as we slid off the pavement and onto the soft shoulder when the rig finished up burying the right front wheel in the sand clear up to the axle.

Needless to say, we were not anxious to repeat that memorable event in our lives. So I immediately found a pull-out ahead, and rolled gently to a stop. Once the brake was set and it looked like we were well away from the passing traffic, I got out and inspected all the tires. Mysteriously, nothing appeared amiss. I couldn't find any sign of a bubble on any of the tires. Of course the rear duellies were not completely visible since each set was so closely tied together.

Since we were by then only a mile and a half from town I decided to nurse the rig into town, find a parking lot to get as far as possible away from passing traffic, and inspect the tires again. And that's what we did. Safely pulled over into the parking lot of a large gas station, I got out a mat that I could lay on and look under the truck. Nothing. I didn't see anything wrong. So I got out my large rubber hammer and went around and gave each tire a good whack, noting carefully the sound the tire made which would tell me if they all had the same (roughly) amount of air. Again, nothing

So, resigned now to try and find a tire shop, we topped up the tank since we were already in a gas station, then headed down the road toward our chosen camp. And wouldn't you know it, once we hit the nice smooth pavement of downtown Belle Fourche, the sound the tire or tires seemed to be making completely went away, and all was smooth and silent. Obviously, it was just the quality of the pavement on the Warrior Trail that had made it seem like we had a bad tire. Amazing!

Minutes later, the camp that Concetta had chosen appeared ahead and we rolled in. The owner of Wyatt's Hideaway Camp met us at the gate, led us to a nicely shaded space under the trees, and in the blink of an eye the rig was set up, the awning was extended, and we were sipping our cocktail in the shade. You just never know how your day is going to turn out when you're an RVer and you're exploring the highways and byways of American. But then, we wouldn't have it any other way.

And when you venture out on your own Warrior Trail, the Happy Wanderers wish you happy travels and exciting destinations.

Day 5 -- Bozeman to Garryowen, Montana -- 203 Miles

Today, leaving the Montana town of Bozeman, we did the expected and traveled the Bozeman trail for a good chunk of the day. Of the Bozeman trail Wikipedia says "In 1863, John Bozeman and John Jacobs scouted for a direct route from Virginia City, Montana [a then budding mining area] to central Wyoming to connect with the Oregon Trail, then the major passage to the West Coast. Before this, most access to the southwestern Montana Territory was from St. Louis via the Missouri River to Fort Benton. Thence travelers went by the 'Benton Road,' around the Great Falls and through the Chestnut, Hilger and Prickly Pear valleys (current site of Helena and Broadwater County, Montana)."

As you might guess, the various tribes of Native Americans living on and around the trail were less than pleased. Wikipedia continues: "Bozeman led the first group of about 2,000 settlers on the trail in 1864. Indian raids on white settlers increased dramatically from 1864 to 1866, which prompted the U.S. government to order the Army to carry out military campaigns against the Shoshone.

"Traffic along the trail increased following discovery of gold on Grasshopper Creek, Montana. The trail itself diverged from the Oregon Trail and the California trail to the north through the Powder River. William Tecumseh Sherman authorized construction of three forts in 1866 to guard travelers on the trail."

After years of conflict and several dozen deaths on the trail, the army eventually removed their forts, closed the trail, and recognized the Native American rights to the Powder River Country. An era of relative peace ensued. But this uneasy peace lasted only until General Custer's expedition found gold in the Black Hills of Montana and thousands of miners poured into the area in the mid 1870s. The most memorable battle in this renewed conflict came in 1876 when General Custer and 262 members of the 7th Calvary were massacred at the Little Bighorn just a few miles from the old Bozeman Trail.

Concetta and I visited the site of one Fort along the Bozeman trail this morning, that of Fort Parker (photo top left). Nothing remains of the Fort today but some plaques detailing the history of the Yellowstone River and the surrounding area. But from 1868 to the mid 1870s there was much commerce taking place at the Fort as settlers, Indians, and explorers exchanged goods and services there. Exploration of the valley by the U.S. Government goes back to the time of the Lewis and Clark expedition when Captain Clark and some of the expedition's crew, which split briefly from Captain Lewis' component, camped near the future location of Fort Parker on July 15, 1806.

As you so often find in history, transportation corridors can be found throughout the United States. A transportation corridor begins hundreds, even thousands of years ago with rivers and streams. On the banks of those rivers and streams wild animals establish migration trails that are then adopted by Native Americans as they travel to and from areas of trade, hunting, and even warfare. Later, as the fauna and Native peoples are pushed out, explorers and settlers adopt the rivers, streams, and trails as their principal trade and immigration routes. Still later military expeditions, canals, wagon roads, and railroads utilize these same well-worn paths between distinct geographic settled areas. Finally, in modern times, automobile roads absorb and broaden the age-old transportation corridors.

When we traveled the Bozeman Trail today we did so on a modern divided highway flanked by an old two-lane highway of nearly a hundred years ago. That old highway was paralleled by the railroad. All three were following the same path discovered by William Clark well over 200 years ago. Clark was simply following the nearby Yellowstone River, which was the very first component of the transportation corridor.

Our main destination today was the Custer Battlefield located on Interstate Route 90 Between Billings and Gerryowen, Montana. Though we've been to the site before, we found ourselves so enthralled back on our first visit in 2013 that we decided it deserved another look-see by the Happy Wanderers. Concetta especially was impressed by the Native American volunteer who narrated the story of the events that led up to the battle as well as the culmination of Custer's rash attempt to beat several thousand Sioux and Cheyenne warriors with a vastly smaller force.

This time, unfortunately, our events narrator was not a Native American and was not quite as accomplished as our last had been. But he gave it a good try. Speaking for myself, I'm always interested in the reading and research material that is available for sale in the gift shop. Though I am far from an authority on General Custer, I have recently read the two books, "Custer's Trials" and "The Glory Hunter" which do not seek to glorify the General, but to really explore his character thoroughly. But if you wanted to know about the the man or the battle or who he was facing on that fateful June day in 1876, you could do no better than visit the battlefield gift shop. There you'll find literally dozens of tomes on every single aspect of the battle and its participants. Personally, I bypassed all the traditional books on the battle and instead chose a nice large book on the equipment that Custer's men carried into battle. I was lucky to get it as it was the only one left.

Tomorrow we plan to revisit the Custer battlefield and take the self guided drive around the various key points on the bluff overlooking the Big Horn River. After that, we plan to jump onto Route 212, which diverges from Interstate 90 quite near the battlefield, then head for the very northeast corner of Wyoming. Beyond that we have no firm plans so we will see what crops up. Concetta says that she wouldn't mind staying in the super nice campground we visited in 2013 when we walked the paths to view the magnificent Mount Rushmore carvings and the equally magnificent sculpture of Crazy Horse nearby.

Right now we're sitting back in the shade of an old cottonwood tree, sipping a nice cocktail and sampling some equally nice cheeses and meats, and waiting for the day to finally cool off so we can ease into a relaxing dinner. We've managed to find a really nice campsite just a half dozen miles down Interstate 90 from the Custer battlefield.

It did have a gravel road on its approach, but once here we found that they've left lots of room between rigs and the whole park is so quiet you can here the sounds of ghostly gunfire from the 7th Calvary troopers and Indians as they re-fight the epic battle just over the hill. Out towards the west an equally epic sunset is bidding us farewell for a time as we make our way ever eastward toward the rising sun and the green fields of Ohio. So if you're in the area, give the 7th Ranch campground a try. As an added bonus they gave me a huckleberry ice cream sandwich just for checking in. Now how can you beat that?

So from southern Montana, the Happy Wanderers bid you exciting travels and rewarding destinations as you take to the highways of America and explore our rich heritage. There's nothing like it anywhere!