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!

Day 24 -- Byron Center to Battle Creek, Michigan -- 108 Miles

Last night we parked our rig in the town of Byron Center, Michigan, which is a southern suburb of the bustling city of Grand Rapids. I'm sort of sorry that we didn't make an effort to discover where the "grand" rapids were located, but we got into camp pretty late and the blog production ate up the rest of the evening.

Our sole purpose in coming to Grand Rapids was to visit the President Gerald Ford Museum. Grand Rapids hosts the museum, but it's Ann Arbor that hosts the Presidential Museum. We're hoping to find the President Ford Museum tomorrow if the creeks don't rise.

We chose our camp wisely last night since it was only about 10 miles from our destination museum. Yesterday we found the narrow, antiquated freeway in central Grand Rapids pretty daunting as we bumped and vibrated over the hideously patched ribbon of asphalt in concert with cement trucks on one side and 18-wheelers on the other. The twisty freeway reminded me of the Pasadena Freeway, vintage 1939, which was designed when cars and trucks were smaller and traffic loads much lighter

But this morning, as we retraced our route of the previous afternoon, we encountered no heavy traffic. Before we knew it, we were exiting the freeway at our destination. Except it wasn't at our destination. I had exited one opportunity before I should have. This meant that I had to thread our way down some pretty narrow city lanes so I could get back on the freeway again and exit just a short distance to the north.

But once that was accomplished, we quickly found the museum parking lot which, to our relief, was nearly empty. Lots of museums nowadays fail to take into consideration that folks in RVs might drop by someday. Today, when we saw that 95% of the lot was empty, we just parked as far away from the museum building as we could, then got ready to go inside.

But right in the middle of collecting our cameras and glasses and things, there came a knock at the door. When Concetta opened the door, she found a nice officer standing there who preceded to tell her that we could not park in the mostly empty parking lot. We had to go park on the street next door because the 95%-empty lot was reserved for little cars. He did graciously explain to us that if we parked where he indicated, we would be right on the ramp to the freeway north, which would allow us to stay off the narrow city streets.

Well, as you might guess, I was less than thrilled for a couple of reasons: first, the place where he wanted us to park WAS right on the on-ramp traffic lane, which meant lots of cars coming disconcertingly close to the rig as they sped by; second, we often end up having lunch in museum parking lots before taking off, and having lunch next to a busy thoroughfare is less than wonderful. But we did as the officer asked and we all parted as friends.

And then, Concetta and I proceeded to spend two of the most memorable hours we've ever spent in a museum, Presidential or otherwise. To put it simply, the Gerald R. Ford Presidential Museum, in his home town of Grand Rapids, Michigan, just bowled us over, The thoroughness of the museum's design, covering all aspects of the President's life, the simplicity of the theme presented in each display, and the overwhelming poignancy of the message left us humbled, often teary-eyed.

I have to confess that I paid very little attention to President Ford when he was in office. The sheer energy-draining weight of President Nixon's problems, and the years of controversy surrounding Watergate, left me less than eager to devote any more of my time and energy to politics in any form. Ignoring President Ford had nothing to do with his suitability for the job, or with his skill in office. I just didn't want to know anymore.

But TODAY! Today I was able to rectify a huge mistake on my part, and bring myself up to speed on perhaps one of our greatest Presidents. There was an awful lot of information to digest, and I gave it my full attention. But the hundreds of photo captions, photographs, theater audios, relics, artifacts, and magnificent recreations of things like the Oval Office left us positively breathless as we tried to contemplate the mass of information we had to assimilate.

Concetta was much more successful in dutifully reading each and every display caption from the 1st room on, but in the end, I took to flitting around like a sort of butterfly, photographing, reading, and appreciating in a more "unstructured" fashion. I don't think I missed much, from Gerald's youngest days as a child abandoned by his father, his Boy-Scouting activities, his early work experience, his sports successes, his WWII military adventures.

Naturally, I was especially interested in his life aboard an aircraft carrier in the Pacific Theater of World War II. I was held completely enthralled as a short film clip explained how his carrier, the Monterey, was beset by a typhoon while steaming toward the Philippines. The wind and waves pounding the ship were so strong, that airplanes on the deck as well as down on the hanger deck, began to break loose from their tie-downs and crash into one another. Soon, because of the combination of leaking gasoline and sparks from the destroyed airplanes, a fire started and quickly got out of control.

So much smoke was created, that the engineering part of the vessel was evacuated, and the ship ultimately lost power. Fortunately, the Monterey survived the typhoon and onboard fire, but three crewmen died, and 37 more were severely injured. Additionally, the task force with which the Monterey had been steaming, lost a total of three ships, and 87 sailors before the typhoon's winds and waves abated. And as for ensign Ford, the future President of the United States came very close to being lost over the side as the Monterey's deck listed dangerously to starboard.

It occurred to me as I read the many accolades President Ford received, the many awards he won, the many milestones he achieved, the regard in which everyone from world leaders to members of the opposing party held him, that I had foolishly missed out on one of the most impressive public careers that ever taken place in the United States. As far as I could see, Gerald R. Ford, statesman, humanitarian, stellar husband and father, world leader, patriotic American, and, heck, all around decent guy, was an incredible gift to the people of this country.

Just as I didn't appreciate President Ford's incredible significance and unwavering presence in national and world events, I'm not sure how many of our present citizens recognize the value of his Presidency, or even care about this truly fabulous public servant. So I urge you to travel to Grand Rapids, at your earliest convenience, and see for yourself what Concetta and I saw today. You won't be sorry, and we assure you that you will never forget what you encounter in the Gerald R. Ford Museum. Bring some tissues because you're going to need them.

And, when you get out there on those wonderful two-lanes in the heart of the greatest country in the world, The Happy Wanderers wish you happy travels and exciting destinations.

Day 23 -- Houghton Lake to Byron Center, Michigan -- 171 Miles

Today we just needed to rack up a few miles since we suffered quite a bit of down time when we had the recent electrical problems. After we left Houghton Lake, we rolled west to the edge of town, then jumped on Route 131 south, a lightly-traveled and heavily-forested divided highway with a great lack of 18-wheelers to keep us company. That is, we eventually rolled south on Route 131. Before that, I misheard the GPS instructions and went north on that highway. Concetta caught the mistake, thankfully, and told me I had to turn around. I tried to argue, but to no avail. As we were just then approaching one of those tiny roads that connect the north and south routes that are forbidden to anyone except emergency vehicles, I decided on the fly to consider myself an emergency vehicle, and I quickly reversed direction.

That bit of drama was the extent of our excitement for the morning which had started several hours earlier with a trip to the Laundromat to do the bedding. This was made much more easily accomplished as now the bedroom slider will actually slide. It's impossible to "unmake" the bed and extricate the sheets when the slider has pinned the edge of the bed under the wardrobe.

Perhaps I should relate to you how laundry-day goes for us while we're out seeing the country. First of all, Concetta is absolutely meticulous and fussy about the condition of washers and driers in the local laundry facilities. The machines must be squeaky clean or she won't use them. If we simply must stay and do our laundry at a less-than-perfect spot, Concetta immediately descends on her intended machines with a bottle of spray disinfectant and a giant roll of paper towels. Usually, it's ten or fifteen minutes later before the clothes go into the washing machine.

In all the time we've been traveling by RV, only one laundry facility has actually passed this inspection with flying colors. That one was in a rather dusty, dirty little frontier cow town in northwestern Oklahoma. The disreputable camp in which we had found ourselves the previous day had no building for doing laundry. In fact, the site was weed-choked, the utilities were marginal and hard to find, and we had to walk two blocks to leave a check in a drop box since there was no manager present. It was barely a legitimate camp at all.

So, the next morning, after breaking camp, we found a Laundromat in town. When we arrived we could hardly believe our eyes. The whole facility was immaculate and state-of-the-art, wall-to-wall, and floor-to-ceiling. Brand new, digital machines gleamed like they'd only been installed that morning. Needless to say, I think Concetta found SOMETHING to clean, but it was hardly necessary. You could eat off most of the surfaces in the place.

So today, the usual cleaning of machines in progress, I poured over the Rand McNally Atlas searching for a reasonable route south toward Ohio. I knew we wanted to visit the Henry Ford Museum in Dearborn, but aside from that we hadn't chosen a route. It was at this time that I noticed that the Gerald Ford Library was in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Grand Rapids wasn't exactly the direction I had been thinking about, but once Concetta was back in the rig while the clothes washer did its thing, we mutually decided that Grand Rapids would be our next destination. So, once the laundry was finished washing and drying, we made up the bed with the clean sheets, and then hit the road. The sliders were working perfectly and it was a beautiful day for adventure.

At this point it was getting very close to lunch time and I knew I would need to find a nice level place to pull out, preferably one that was well away from the traffic noise. So it was then that we arrived at Denny's house. I couldn't tell you the off-ramp, and I never learned Denny's last name, but Denny turned out to be perhaps the most interesting person I've met so far on this vacation.

The story began like this. The road that I picked to exit Route 131 south turned out to be perfect for our lunchtime stop, as just at the top of the off-ramp we came across an out-of-business restaurant. Thinking that the dilapidated old place at least had a level parking lot, we pulled in and I shut off the engine. The concrete didn't turn out to be perfectly level, but I decided it would do. Then for the next thirty or forty minutes we had a nice quiet lunch with no traffic noise to keep us company.

Later, when we were about ready to leave, I decided to grab a photo of the spot just in case I found nothing else to photograph today (photo top left). I walked across the road in the direction of a neat and tidy home and workshop. Standing on the far shoulder, I snapped a couple of shots, then I headed back for the rig. It was while I was thus occupied that a gentleman emerged from his house and made for his mailbox out by the road. When he saw me he waved, then immediately came over to talk to me.

And that's all it took for he and I to become friends. The reason for the instant camaraderie was a simple hat, or maybe TWO simple hats, as the guy was wearing a ball cap emblazoned with a patch for the 101st Airborne, and I was wearing my U.S. Navy ball cap

Naturally once we had exchanged pleasantries, I immediately asked him about the hat. I had just never met anyone who served in such a historically revered and famous outfit. "Yup," my new friend said, "I was a parachute rigger. Though I have to tell you that the first time I tried to get in they rejected me for being one pound under the weight requirement."

"You're kidding," I said.

"Nope, he said, "My buddy and I decided to go down together and join up. He got in and I didn't. I had to go home and put on some weight before they'd let me in. By then my buddy had gone on, but we met up later and got assigned to units under the same command. So it worked out pretty good."

"And you were a parachute rigger," I said.

That's right, he said. "I liked the work and did a good job. But sometimes you ran into guys who didn't do so good. I was jumping one time and I was the last out of the plane. I pulled my ripcord and the chute didn't open. Whoever had packed the chute, and I'm pretty sure who it was, didn't pack it carefully enough. Those lines were all tangled above me and I was trying to clear them by tugging as hard as I could." My new friend spread his arms wide to indicate how he was trying to untangle the lines. He went on. "And I didn't want to pull the reserve chute because I knew it would probably get tangled in the main chute."

"Dang," I said. "What did you do?"

"Well," he said, "I just kept yanking on those lines and I finally got them loose and the chute deployed. A second later I hit the ground."

"That's cutting it close," I said.

He nodded. "I think I used up one of my nine lives that day. Made 23 jumps in all," he said.

Now I had learned all of this and I hadn't even learned the guy's name. I had told him about my time in the Naval Air Corp and about my non-existent experience with jumping. "They told us that we really wouldn't need a chute since anit-submarine planes always flew too close to the water for the thing to open," I said. That got a big smile out of him.

Finally I asked him his name and learned that he was Denny. I never asked his last name, probably because I had trouble sometimes getting a word in edgewise. It was like Denny hadn't had anyone to talk to for some time.

"What brings you up this way," Denny asked when he learned I was from Nevada. When I told him that I had to travel north to pick up some 1929 Ford seats in Minneapolis, Denny's eyes got a sparkle in them and he said, "Come on, I have something to show you."

I looked back at the rig hoping that Concetta would understand that I needed to accept Denny's invitation, but didn't see her. "Come on," he said, "you'll like this!"

Before I knew it, we had briskly walked over to Denny's barn and he had thrown open the door revealing a bright orange Mustang inside. "It's a 1966 with only 38,000 miles on her," he said. "Come have a look. I got it from the original owner."

Denny was right, it was a peach of a car. It had the original 289 and three-speed shifter on the floor. I was certainly happy I was still holding my camera, as I put it to good use shooting several different angles of the pony car. I could tell it was Denny's pride and joy, so I was a bit taken aback when he told me that his wife was insisting that they move down to Indiana to be nearer to their sons, and he would only have a single-car garage down there. I didn't have the courage to ask him what was going to happen to the Mustang.

At this point I knew that Concetta was probably wondering if I had been abducted by aliens or fallen in the creek or something, so I started moving toward the door. Denny didn't really want to break off our conversation. I'm sure if I had said, hey let's go make some coffee and sit and talk for the rest of the day he'd have jumped at the chance. In fact, if Concetta hadn't been with me, I would have done exactly that. But the road was calling, and if we ever wanted to make our deadline in Ohio, I had to drive a few more miles before we slept.

I came away from my encounter with Denny completely humbled by the way we bonded almost from the moment we shook hands. Like I said, I've never met anyone in my life who had the guts and fortitude to join the 101st airborne, or any wartime parachute regiment for that matter. Though Denny didn't tell me when he had joined, I expect it was the early 1960s, right during the buildup for Vietnam. I'm not sure he spent a lot of time there, because he told me he worked as parachute rigger for about 18 months. What he did before or after that period, and where he did it, he didn't say. But as we parted, I handed him my card and told him when he visited his daughter in Las Vegas to come north and I'd take him to dinner. I meant it, and would truly love to see him again. I think in the space of thirty minutes we became great friends. And THAT is the real beauty of life on the road.

Tonight we rented a camp space in the town of Byron Center, which is south of Grand Rapids, Michigan. The camp is small, and has lots of full-timers, I suspect, by the rather settled look to things. The camp is quiet, has lots of mature trees to shade the RV, and it has an additional feature that I have not encountered before: it has a young lady behind the registration counter who genuinely seemed to care who I was when I walked into the office to register today.

After I filled out the registration card she ashed me for my email address. I still have the same email address I've had since I was 47 years old. I spelled it out for her as she entered the data in their computer. "Writeguy47@aol.com," I said.

The woman paused and looked over at me. "Do you really write?" she asked.

"Well," I said, "I was writing a murder mystery back when I invented that email name".

The woman brightened when I said that. "Really," she said. "I love to read!"

"Yes, well, I never got it published," I said. "I tried to get an agent for awhile, but when that didn't work out, I put it away and went on to write other things. Now I just give the book to anyone who expresses an interest in reading a copy."

"I'd really love to read it," the woman said, sounding hopeful and giving me the broadest smile I'd seen in a month.

I hesitated, wondering if she was being sincere. "Well, I think I have a copy in the RV. If I find it, I'll bring it to you after I get set up."

"That's great," she said. "Thanks!"

With that I left with my map of the park showing the space number, and a strangely warm feeling that someone -- once again, a complete stranger -- would take an interest in who I was and what I'd done for the second time in a single day. After setting up the rig, I rummaged through the things I'd packed for the trip, and found a copy of my murder mystery that I'd brought along just in case one of the relatives wanted a copy. As I walked over to the office, I tried to think back on all the camps in which we'd stayed in the last 40,000 miles of RVing, and all the people who'd asked for my email address. I decided that I could not remember a single person showing any interest in the sort of nom de plume that I'd chosen way back when I started writing. Her name was Michelle, and today was the first.

It's kinda funny to think that if we hadn't stumbled into trouble with the truck that ultimately altered our travel plans, our intended direction, and the stops we would have made, I never would have encountered the two individuals I met today. I never would have had a lively discussion about collector cars and parachute jumps with Denny, and I never would have spent many minutes talking to a bubbly young woman about famous writers, writing groups, and how I came to write a book myself. Who knows, maybe she'll read my book and decide that she can write a book, too. Maybe she'll even be famous someday. I'd love it if that proved true.

And there's plenty more stories out there on the two-lanes that are just waiting to be discovered. So when you venture out to find those stories and those future friends, the Happy Wanderers wish you happy travels and exciting adventures.

Day 22 -- Kalkaska to Houghton Lake, Michigan -- 53 Miles

Well, sleeping in the RV last night behind the Ford Dealer building wasn't so bad after all. We weren't able to make the slides go out, but we made the best of it anyway. Dinner was a simple one of cold cuts and fruit, then we worked on the blog until bedtime. I usually type away furiously and Concetta proof reads and suggests things I might correct. Oftentimes my brain doesn't quite keep up with my fingers on the keyboard.

There was one weird aspect of sleeping in the car dealer lot after everyone had gone home. Every half hour or so a strange car would enter the lot, drive around the rows of new cars, then exit the same way they had come. It wasn't always the same car. Sometimes it was a red one, and sometimes it was a dark blue or black one. We just couldn't figure what they might be up to, and we don't know how late they pursued their mysterious motoring because we went to bed at nine.

When we got up this morning, we knew that R.J. had to do a big job on a pickup truck before he could pay any attention to us. So after breakfast, I went in search of a few grocery items. The folks at the dealership had already told us that there was no grocery market within walking distance of us. But wanting to see for myself, I set off in a easterly direction. Before long I came upon what looked like a drug store. Thinking that perhaps they would have a few food items, I crossed the street and entered.

Unbelievably, the "Drug Store" was actually a pretty substantial food mart with a drug store as a sideline. They had everything on my shopping list and more. Then, it was a simple ten-minute walk back to the rig. I had been prepared to be a bit glum today since we were probably going to have to spend another night in the parking lot, but my shopping success bolstered my spirits.

By the time I got back to the rig I had made a decision. I told Concetta that I was going to get out the manual one more time and study the fuse box under the hood. Surely everyone had just overlooked something, and I just needed to go fuse by fuse and check to see if they were all in their correct places. I was especially interested in finding any fuse that had to do with the computer operation of the truck. Everyone felt that it was the computer-controlled anti-theft mechanism that was preventing us from starting the truck. After going through the manual at the kitchen table, I had highlighted the three fuses that appeared to be responsible, then I popped the hood and got to work.

Immediately I discovered that of the three CPM fuses that seemed to be the likely candidates for effecting computer control, only two of them actually had fuses in the proper slots. One slot was missing its fuse. Scanning the manual, I saw that it needed a 10 amp fuse. I still had a small selection of fuses that I had purchased the previous day from Value Auto, and I quickly went and retrieved one of the proper amperage.

Once the fuse was in the slot, I put the key in the ignition and flipped it to start. Immediately the truck fired right up and ran smoothly without any hint that we had been unable to make it run most of the day on Tuesday. Flabbergasted, I shut off the engine, then turned it on again. Once again the truck started and ran fine. I left the engine running and went inside. I held my breath and pushed the button for the slide-outs, but as usual nothing happened.

Of course, now, Concetta and I had to debate whether we should leave the Ford Dealer, or go find ourselves an RV dealer who would know more about things like slide-outs. Since the truck was running, the Ford dealer would not be able to do us much good, but we didn't know if the truck would keep running once we left.

In the end, leaving got the most votes. The GPS told us that there was a Camping World just an hour away, and we decided to risk the drive and hope that the folks at the RV center would be better versed on slider problems to help us with ours.

Now I had to go tell the Ford guys that I wasn't staying after all, and that I had fixed the engine problem myself. "YOU fixed it?" R.J. said when I told him. When I explained how I had done it, he said that was exactly what he meant to do and had made that decision as he was driving home after work yesterday.

I wanted to go find Joshua, the Service Manager, and let him know, too, so R.J. led me through the warren of service-bay areas, and when we finally got to the front office, Joshua was nowhere to be seen. But when the Assistant Service Manager heard that I had fixed the truck by myself, he laughed and offered me a job if I wanted it.

It was all in good fun, of course, but everyone was impressed at what I'd done, and spent a lot of time congratulating me. I offered the Assistant Service Manager a check to put in their Christmas fund since they didn't intend to have me pay for anything, but he declined. All in all, the folks at the Kalkaska Ford Dealership are a great bunch and I liked them one and all.

So, out on the road we held our breath for awhile, but after a time it appeared that the truck was not going to pull any funny stuff. It just kept going, and before long we had relaxed and listened to the last of our book on DVD. But as I drove I decided that perhaps the coach batteries were not putting out enough voltage to make the sliders work. Perhaps I should pull in somewhere and check them.

Thus the continuing saga of our RV problems turned a new page, the one entitled "Oh Crap, the Batteries are Toast," as we discovered to our great dismay. The battery caps were loose for some reason, the batteries had lost much of their distilled water, and more money was about to fly out the window.

Hoping that I might yet salvage my sorry-looking coach batteries with an infusion of distilled water, we stopped at a local grocery store on our route south toward Camping World. There I bought a whole gallon of the vital water and filled all the cells to the top. I was pretty sure that I was wasting my time, but hey, sometimes you just have to do something.

We finally arrived at Camping World in Houghton Lake, Michigan about two o'clock. There we showed out batteries to the sales person and he recommended, since they were four years old anyway, that we not trust them. I agreed and I got out the credit card. But when I asked if someone could be persuaded to put them in, a nearby service tech told me that they were so slammed it would be a couple of weeks before that could happen. Oh, well, I thought, I put the last set in, I'll just install them myself.

Of course, once I started to install the batteries I ended up with a couple of helpers anyway. Before long we were done, and the new batteries were terrific looking and seemed to work just fine. There was only one problem, the sliders still didn't slide.

I knew from by battery installation work, that anything I did in the parking lot, right beside the service bays, would eventually garner some interest and curiosity from the service technicians. So, I threw open the hood, opened the tool locker and dragged out some tools, and set about looking at everything with a flashlight in one hand and a screwdriver in the other. Sure enough before long an absolutely charming chap named Fred Nielsen, who happened to be the service manager, came to see what I was up to. When I explained that I had just bought a new set of batteries, but my sliders still didn't work, Fred made the instant decision that he was going to help us.

Fred turned out to be our savior and guardian angel rolled into one. Not only did he immediately put a technician on the slider problem, but before long other interested techs were also lending their support. In the end there were five angels, including Fred, who simply would not stop until they figured out what was wrong.

As it turned out, what was wrong was not such a small deal. Somehow, some way, a little pink wire from the ignition switch had become compromised or broken in between the switch and a controller under entryway to the rig. There was no way in the time allotted to trace that wire and find the break, so Evan installed a jumper that pulled power from somewhere else, which meant you no longer had to have the key turned on when you activated the slides. Eventually, when we are back in Nevada, we'll have to get that fixed after we locate the break in the pink wire.

So, as my Dad used to say, "All's well that ends well." And I say, "our hats are certainly off to the guys at Camping World, Houghton Lake, Michigan." Were it not for them, I'm not really sure how we could have easily dealt with our slider issue. One thing for sure, I gained some valuable knowledge in the electrical systems of our rig. Knowledge is power, and knowledge about the various systems in your RV is going to cut down on some sleepless nights.

Tomorrow we're continuing our journey to the southwest corner of Michigan. Not sure what there is to see, but early tomorrow we'll be seeing a Laundromat. Gotta have clean sheets and clothes now and again.

So we're going to keep on keepin' on, and I hope you're thinking about hitting the two-lanes sometime in the future. And when you do, the Happy Wanderers wish you happy travels and exciting destinations.

Day 21 -- All day in Kalkaska, Michigan -- No miles

Well, you know what they say about the best laid plans. We HAD planned on heading south toward the southwest corner of Michigan this morning. However, while I was packing up and getting ready to leave, my next door neighbor and I got to chatting and he mentioned that he was out checking his running lights before he took off. Now that sounded like a great idea. I checked ours when we left, but had hardly glanced at them since. We always insist on being in camp no later than late afternoon, so running lights were not on the watch list.

So, with a song in my heart, since I knew my running lights would be shining bright as usual, I got the keys to the rig, inserted the key in the ignition, and turned on the lights. And then I did a doubletake and checked to see if I'd actually turned on the lights, since I didn't see any running lights shining brightly. I walked around to check the headlights and they were on as expected. But when I walked to the back of the rig and checked the taillights, they were decidedly not on. Okay, I told myself, this is not good. It made me wonder how long our taillights hadn't been working.

As you might guess, this bit of news sent me and my suddenly interested neighbor into a flurry of activity as we tried to determine what was wrong. I popped the hood, then flipped up the fuse box lid, and peered inside. Nothing looked burned or oddly melted or damaged in any way. Still, neighbor Tom and I peered at each fuse with a flashlight and we soon found one of the larger ones which had been burnt through.

Concetta went right to the GPS and learned that there was a Ford Dealer just five minutes away. All we had to do was visit the Ford folks in Kalkaska and buy the proper fuse and then the problem would be solved. We bid our friendly and helpful neighbors goodbye as they prepared to head for their home in Kentucky, and we started the engine and moved out.

Moments later we were rolling into the dealer's parking lot and I quickly appeared at the Parts Department window. When the young lady behind the counter looked up and smiled, I said, "I just need a 50 amp fuse for a Ford E-450."

The girl at the counter grimaced, evidently trying to remember what an E-450 was, and just where the fuses for same might be located. "I'm not sure we have those," she said, but then turned and approached the shelving units. Quickly she seemed to find the proper box and began to rummage through it. After a few moments she came back to the counter and showed me what she had found. Fortunately she had found the right size. Unfortunately she had only 40 amp fuses in her outstretched hand. "This is all I have," she said.

"Okay," I said. "That's not going to do it."

"You should be able to find these in any auto supply store," she said. "There's one right across the street."

I had seen the store when we pulled in, so I thanked the girl and headed back to the rig. I had really wanted to remain at the Ford Dealership just in case there were further problems that a replacement fuse wouldn't fix. I knew if I couldn't get the lights to come back on after the fuse fix, only the Dealership mechanics were going to be able to find out what was wrong. Unfortunately, I had no choice and we were soon pulling up at the edge of the parking lot at the "Auto Value" store. At this point I truly had no idea that our worst nightmares were about to come true.

Naturally, the parts store was filled with racks and racks of fuses, fuse pullers, and related paraphernalia. One sales person volunteered to look up our rig on his computer to see if any information existed about unlit running lights. Although he was unsuccessful, I still had high hopes that a simple fuse replacement was all that was required and we'd soon be on our way. So, with the same song in my heart that I had enjoyed earlier that morning, I skipped out to the rig with my fuse, opened the hood, popped the lid on the fuse box and set about removing the old damaged fuse. Seconds later I had the fuse extricated and the new fuse sitting in its place. With a smile on my face I stepped to the cab, threw open the door, and flicked on the lights.

That's the point when the foreboding music began in my head. Stunned, I stared up at the unlit running lights and realized that a brick had just fallen from a third-story window, and like the constantly unlucky Oliver Hardy, the hurtling missile hit me squarely on the head and knocked me flat. I knew it just as surely as Oliver Hardy felt that brick, we were totally screwed.

It was at this point that I decided to make our situation worse, evidently, because rather than call a professional to find the problem I decided do a check myself on all the fuses whose continuity I could not see from above. The fuse I had replaced was clear on the top and you could see instantly if it was bad. But a number of the saddle fuses could only be seen when extracted from their position and examined. So, that's what I did. One by one I removed perhaps a six or eight fuses and found them perfectly fine. I had only one choice now, I had to go back to the dealer and ask them to find the trouble with my running lights and taillights.

No problem, right? Wrong! When I got in the truck I immediately discovered that the engine would turn over but it would not run. In addition, the whole panoply of lights was blazing on the dash, which led me to believe that something was dreadfully wrong indeed. Obviously I had touched something that was absolutely forbidden to touch. Now most of us have changed fuses in our lives and these Ford fuses were just like all other fuses, so why the big problem?

I went back into the Auto Value store to see if they knew of any mechanics who made house calls. I had already learned from a service rep at the Dealership that they did not. Thankfully, the Auto Value folks knew of a perfect company to recommend to me and they even went as far as calling them and then putting me on the phone. I talked to the owner, Doug, and he said he'd be happy to come take a look and bring his computer analyzing device.

That sounded perfect to me. It was only about noon so we had time to figure out the problem, fix it, and still get somewhere down the road today. That's what I thought, at least.

Soon Doug rolled up and was hard at work on the problem. Here was guy just a half-decade younger than me who had been a mechanic since the age of fourteen, just like my Dad. Nothing could of sounded more sweet. Working together Doug and I proceeded to go over every entry in the rig's handbook, and all the fuses not only looked fine but tested fine when he applied his continuity tester.

It was somewhere around this point that I noticed that one of the lights on the dashboard was indicating that the built-in anti-theft device had been activated, at least that was what Doug told me the lights meant. Doug said that the anti-theft device disables the ignition, the fuel pump, and probably other things to keep thieves from making off with the RV.

"I better go get our newer analyzer," he said, and he jumped in his truck and disappeared. A bit shell-shocked, I simply didn't know what I was going to do next. But soon Doug was back with his son, Lee, and together they tackled the problem. Lee quickly found the problem with the running lights when he discovered a burned fuse under the dash. I didn't even know about the under-dash fuses as I thought only the non-RV vans had those.

So, the running lights were fixed which I could have done with a fuse costing under two dollars, but try as they might, Doug and Lee could not make the truck run. "Guess I'll have to go back and beg the Ford guys to come over," I said to Doug.

"Looks that way," Doug said. "Here, jump in the truck and I'll drive you over."

Moments later I was standing, hat in hand, in front of the service manager who had been less than responsive on my last visit. However, this time I was able to charm him, or perhaps just wear him down, but in the end he agreed to grab his most experienced technician and come visit us at the Auto Value.

It was with a very heavy heart that I reappeared at the rig and told Concetta that I could not predict how this disaster was going to turn out. Of course I had high hopes that the Service Manager's technician would bring a more modern computer that could solve our problem, and we'd be on our way.

Though I really had no appetite, Concetta and I sat down to lunch and had nearly finished when the Service Manager, Joshua, and his tech, R.J., appeared at our door and we were in business again -- I hoped.

But after a fruitless thirty minutes of concerted effort on the part of R.J., and a great deal of tolerance on the part of Joshua, the Ford guys were not able to put us back on the road. We thanked them profusely and they both headed back to their jobs.

At this point we had only ONE choice: we called our Allstate Roadside Assistance number and asked for someone with a very large tow truck to come get us out of the Auto Value parking lot, and tow us right across the street to the Ford Dealership's parking lot where we would then be in a position of patiently waiting while the Ford guys tried to shoehorn us in between a couple of their regular customers.

About an hour later, Walt from AuSable Towing showed up, hooked onto our rear hitch, and dragged us backwards twenty feet to get the rig clear of a nearby fence. Then he grabbed the front-end torsion bar assembly with his hooks, and drove away with me sitting uselessly behind the wheel.

So here we are, in said parking lot, listening to the generator run so we can charge all the batteries and try and live life in solitary confinement for an unspecified space of time. Joshua, the Service Manager, told me that it was virtually impossible for his mechanic to get to us tomorrow as they were just booked solid. I asked him if he had rental cars and he told me that normally he did, but they were all out. That meant we really couldn't go rent a motel room, or even do shopping. We'd just have to live in the RV for however long it took.

My immediate problem was the gray water tank. I had forgotten to drain it before we left camp, probably because my attention was on the darn running lights. I had drained the black tank, which is wonderful, but with a full gray tank I'd be stuck unable to do everything from washing dishes to brushing teeth. I definitely needed a plan.

And then I had an idea. The tow truck driver had positioned the rig in such a fashion in the parking lot that should any cameras exist on the building they would not be able to see the left rear corner of the RV. I could see that perhaps forty feet away was a swale at the bottom of the paved area that ended in a mass of weeds. If I could stretch my sewer hose I could drain the gray tank in the weeds and no one would be the wiser. After all, the gray tank was largely only soap and water.

Fortunately, after 40,000 miles on the road, I've learned a lot about what to take along in the cargo lockers. But still I was surprised when I found three extra lengths of expandable pipe and I was able to drain the gray tank easy as pie.

Once we were parked, and before Service Manager Joshua went home for the evening, he said we were perfectly welcome to live in the parking lot for as long as it took to fix our truck -- assuming it's fixable by mere humans and doesn't require magic or sorcery. I guess it's better than living at the Walmart like in the book, "Where the Heart is." But living in a parking lot, miles from restaurants or grocery stores, is going to be absolute torture I'm sure. I know we have lots of books, and we can run the generator, presumably without bugging the fixit guys in the shop, to surf the web and type the blog. But Jeeze Louise, we need to be moving.

So that's it for now. You'll have to stay tuned to see how this turns out. Cross your fingers.

Day 20 -- Mackinaw City to Kalkaska, Michigan -- 89 Miles

Today I spent some time reflecting on the opportunities that come our way in life. I wondered, do we all get basically the same "pitches" thrown at us from the pitcher's mound over the long haul, or do some of us get straight-down-the-center fast balls all the time, while others get nothing but curve balls?

This particular question came to me as I was talking to one Gene Smet this afternoon as I looked over his rock collection and rusty pile of tools. The main reason I stopped at Gene's roadside stand was because of his tool collection. Since I've been on the lookout for a particular missing piece to my 19th century blacksmith's vise since we left home, I thought Gene's tool collection just might contain such a piece.

But once I left the truck and walked over, I could see that the rocks were what Gene was really interested in selling. I hadn't even begun to bend over the displays when Gene launched into a high-speed explanation of each and every category of rocks that he had for sale. His favorite rocks appeared to be his sixty square feet of Petoskeys. He kept leading me back there and showing me how cool they were when you added water to them. I wasn't interested in the dull-looking things as they sort of looked like plain old beach pebbles. It wasn't until I got into camp and researched the petoskeys that I discovered that they are solidified coral from 350 million years ago when Michigan was a warm, shallow inland sea. Yup, should have bought one of those.

From the web I learned that: "The Petoskey stone's name dates back to the late 1700s, to Antoine Carre, a fur trapper who was adopted by the Ottawa people and made a chief. Carre, whose native name was Neatooshing, married a princess and had a son with her, who was born in the middle of the night along the banks of the Kalamazoo River. As the sun rose, its rays illuminated the infant's face, which led Carre to name him Petosegay, a word that means "rising sun." A century later, a city of the same name was founded by settlers."

The Petoskeys were only one of perhaps two or even three dozen different rock types I saw on display. One of Gene's next favorite rocks was the "Pudding Stone" which I had never heard of before, even though I adore geology and read about rocks all the time. Gene didn't tell me what type of rock a Pudding Stone is, but I suspect that it's a type of breccia, or metamorphic rock that's formed when layer after layer of sandy sediment is put under so much pressure that it liquefies. Any surrounding pebbles that are harder than the sedimentary matrix do not melt and become suspended in the matrix when it cools.

The next group of rocks that Gene ushered me over to was the copper ore samples. These really took my eye, as I could easily see the tiny threads of copper on the surface of the samples. From the Detroit Free Press I learned that: "Michigan was the nation’s largest producer of copper from 1847 to 1877, according to Michigan State University. The copper-rich ore lived in rock layers deep in Lake Superior. By 1860, three major copper-producing regions had been developed in the Upper Pennisula, particularly in the Keweenaw Peninsula. This is why the best place to find copper today is in the Keweenaw Peninsula." I was thinking that the copper ore samples would be really cool in Concetta's rock garden, especially since most of the rocks already there have the same color to them. I didn't buy the copper ore samples, some of them quite large, but now I wish I had.

But what really took my eye were the petrified wood samples. Gene said that his particular samples came from Arizona, which made me wonder of course how he came to have them since most federally-owned lands in the west prohibit the removal of petrified wood. But that didn't stop me from purchasing a rather large hunk for the aforementioned rock garden. I also purchased a much smaller hunk of reddish rock that Gene identified as Michigan iron ore. Well, having visited a Canadian steel mill when we took our boat ride on the Saint Mary River in Sault Ste. Marie, wherein we saw the piles of Taconite which is made from raw iron ore, I decided I just had to have a piece.

In a perfect world I would have bought a piece of every single ore type that Gene was selling, not just because I adore rocks, and they all looked geologically interesting, but because Gene obviously needed the money. Which brings me back to the topic of this piece: the curve balls in life.

Gene struck me as a wonderful example of someone who has been pitched to by someone throwing those curve balls all his life. He seemed very intelligent. He was wearing a Vietnam Veteran hat and naturally I asked him about it. Yes, he told me, he'd been in Vietnam and had been part of a security detail charged with the incredibly heartbreaking task of evacuation some of the last people to leave that war-torn country alive. He didn't really have anything else to say on the subject, so I told him I'd been in the service about the same time as him, but didn't go to Vietnam. "That still makes you a Vietnam vet," he said.

I studied Gene when he said that. He was dirty and disheveled and probably had no warm home to go to at the end of the day. In fact, I knew with all the tools and hundreds of rocks he had on display that there was no way he could leave his collections by the roadside and go home somewhere. And there was no way he would be able to pick it all up in less than a couple of hours. I glanced at his tired old pickup truck, massively rusted from countless winters where salt is common on the roads, and just sensed that he probably had to sleep in that truck for want of any better place that would allow him to watch over his sole means of livelihood.

Obviously Gene had performed dangerous and patriotic duty once in his life, but after that things obviously hadn't gone so well. But I admired him. He might be homeless, but he was doing what he could to earn a living and he was doing it with gusto. He wasn't just going through the motions, he was genuinely enthusiastic about his chosen pursuit. So yes, I wish I could have bought an example of each and every type of rock he had for sale just to give him a charge of pleasure that someone appreciated not only what he had done so many years ago, but what he was trying to do now. I solute you, Gene, and I feel honored to have shaken your hand.

And if you're out there tonight, just thinking about hitting the road, the Happy Wanderers wish you happy travels and exciting adventures in this great and good land of ours. And if you should see Gene out there on Michigan Route 131 near the town of Kalkaska, stop and talk to him, buy a few of his rocks, then thank him for his service and shake his hand when you leave. He's gotten a few curve balls in this life, but he's still swinging.

Day 19 -- All day in Mackinaw City, Michigan -- No miles

Sometimes life surprises a person. When you're pretty sure you know how the future is going to turn out, fate steps in to show you there are lots of other alternatives. Take yesterday. We were pretty sure that our visit to Mackinac Island would knock our socks off. We expected to get to see the Grand Hotel, maybe sit on the veranda. Certainly we expected to enjoy the afternoon tea we'd heard so much about over the years.

But surprise surprise, our preconceived notions about what a visit to the Mackinac Island would entail turned out to be completely wrong. Not only were we afforded only the briefest of glimpses of the Grand Hotel on our carriage ride, but our research told us the afternoon tea was overpriced at $52.00 apiece and the quality was mediocre. This happened on Saturday of Labor Day weekend.

Then along came Sunday morning and the topic of discussion was whether we should just hang out and do nothing except enjoy the quiet of the camp. Concetta suggested that we could do a lot of walking along the beach of Lake Huron and otherwise just take it easy. But I didn't think that I'd be satisfied using up an entire day in Michigan's Upper Peninsula just walking and hanging out. On a hunch I went ahead and packed all the hoses and and other gear and got the rig ready for the road.

At this point Concetta hadn't objected, so once we were ready and everything was squared away, I emailed the camp manager and told him we were leaving but would return to spend our final night. I then handed Concetta a flyer for the Fort de Buade Museum that was devoted to life in colonial times and was purported to be nearby.

Once on the highway, we soon discovered that the GPS had other plans and was intent on sending us to some address roughly two hundred miles away. About this time Concetta researched and discovered that the Fort did not operate on Sundays. So much for that idea. Thankfully, we pulled over and reversed direction before we had gone very far.

Our next plan was to find the "Ice Breakers" museum ship that was near the ferry harbor and was devoted to ice-breaking ships in the Mackinac Channel. Unfortunately, try as we might, we were not successful in finding the museum location, though the road was festooned with lots of signs announcing its presence somewhere ahead. But in our efforts to find the Ice Breaker Ship Museum, we managed to stumble over the Michigan State Historic Park called "Colonial Michilimackinac." Well, we decided, we might as well stop and check it out.

Right away, however, we discovered that other RVs were currently using every RV space near the museum. With a sigh, we turned around and started back down the access road. It was at that point that I happened to glace over as we approached a "T" intersection and saw that the Motel we were passing had a large expanse of grass at the rear of their building and no one appeared to be using it for anything. I noticed that the Motel had very few windows on that side, and what windows existed were tiny and frosted, perhaps bathroom windows.

Throwing caution to the wind, I made a hard left and rolled up on the grass and stopped. We took a few minutes getting ready for our museum visit, but no one appeared to scold us for our choice of parking areas. So, seeing no overt aggression on part of the Motel employees, we locked the door and trekked off to the fort and museum to spend what we thought would be an hour of our time.

As sometimes happens, today turned out to be the day we were hoping for yesterday. Everywhere we went, everyone we talked to, and every situation we encountered was absolutely wonderful. The fort was ably manned with a number of super-friendly and knowledgeable docents who acquainted us with all aspects of living in a frontier settlement and fort. We learned about native American crafts and handiwork, we learned about life in the frontier British army, we learned about blacksmithing, we learned about colonial gardening, we learned about the fur business, we learned about defense weapons, and we learned about fireplace hearth cooking -- naturally a favorite of Concetta's

In short, we learned about every possible facet of surviving in the wilds of the northern frontier beginning in 1715. But did they live so differently then? As it turns out, not so much. As we toured the married officer's quarters we could see that rooms were arranged much as we arrange them today. When we listened to the cook, the items she was preparing for a meal are much the same things Concetta and I eat today: boiled beets, salad with olive oil dressing, homemade bread, and a crepe made with blueberries. The meat dish was rabbit, but I'm sure it tasted just like chicken.

One cooking process I had never seen before. When the cook needed to make a sort of crepe in which to put her warmed blueberries, she swept a couple of scoops of very hot coals out onto the stone hearth in front of the fireplace. When they coals were arranged to her liking, the cook poured an egg batter into a black kettle having small legs on the bottom. Finally she slid the kettle atop the hot coals and sat back to listen to it cook. Note, she didn't watch the crepe cooking, she listened. She told us if she were to hear no sounds coming from the kettle she would guess that the coals had cooled too much.

We had an extensive tour of the various gardens inside the fort. All the various plants were representative of what would have been grown three hundred years ago at the fort. The docent pointed out that as far north as the fort was located there was no possibility of residents being able to count on growing major food stuffs. So things like flour, sugar, and tea had to be brought in by boat. The gardens were predominantly used for producing vegetables like beans, beets and tomatoes, aromatic plants like lavender, and medicinal plants like mint.

We also learned in the cooking lecture that each person at the fort would require a loaf of bread a day, which even when the winter population of the fort dropped to 200 individuals, a huge amount of bread would be needed each day. During the height of the summer trading season, the population in and around the fort usually rose to some 2,000 individuals. Imagine the need for a loaf a day for each one of those residents. And each loaf could only be made in one of three outdoor brick ovens. No indoor ovens attached to the fireplace have been found at the fort so far.

We had a great discussion with the blacksmith, who, when asked about the History Channel program, "Forged in Fire," told us that the program has had an effect on the blacksmithing trade that is both good and bad. He told us that the focus on edged weapons ignores a whole spectrum of other forged goods that were the bread and butter of most frontier blacksmiths. He also told us that the techniques used by the Forged in Fire contestants tend to shortcut tried and true blacksmithing procedures. For instance, he said, the process of "annealing," which is the slow cooling of a piece of forge iron, cannot be used on the TV program as there is insufficient time.

"But," the blacksmith went on, "people used to come by my demonstrations and ask if I made horseshoes. When I told them no, they'd just move on. Now, with the advent of the Forged in Fire program, visitors ask much more in-depth questions that demonstrates that they have acquired a basic understanding of what a blacksmith does. For that I'm grateful."

One fascinating feature of our visit today was learning about a British officer named Arent Schuyler DePeyster. DePeyster was born in New York State, but received his schooling in England. DePeyster became a British military officer best known for his term as commandant of the British controlled Fort Michilimackinac and Fort Detroit during the American Revolution. Following the capture of Lieutenant-Governor General Henry Hamilton, DePeyster is often credited as being the military leader of British and Indian forces in the Western American and Canadian frontiers. We visited DePeyster's home and garden and were impressed with both. Once his military career was ended, DePeyster and his wife retired to Scotland, where his wife had family, and finished out his life writing poetry.

Naturally my favorite part of the day -- and yes, we spent the better part of the whole day at Fort Michilimackinac -- was the arms and armament lectures. I got to see the docents fire a mortar, a cannon, and a Brown Bess, smooth-bore musket which is the weapon most British soldiers carried during the French and Indian War and the American Revolution (photo bottom right). No actual projectiles are used, but the sound those weapons make is substantial. The mortar was perhaps the loudest as it was some minutes before my hearing returned to normal.

And that was our Sunday. We were so much happier in today's environment as the there was never more than perhaps two dozen guests at the fork. The docents were happy to spend the necessary time to answer any and all questions and to talk with us one-on-one. The experience we had today is what we hoped for yesterday and it didn't happen. But we won't be deterred. There's lots of adventures still to come and, who knows, we may still find the Ice Breaker Ship Museum tomorrow. We're not sure if it will be open on Labor Day, but we're willing to find out.

And if you're thinking of hitting the road in hopes of fulfilling your dreams of exploration, The Happy Wanderers wish you happy travels and exciting adventures.