Day 21 -- Enfield to Coinjock, North Carolina -- 129 Miles

Today we continued our trek east getting ever nearer to the Atlantic Ocean. The morning's drive was spent mostly wending our way through endless miles of ramrod-straight pines that stood like sentinels on both sides of the freeway. We were traveling quite happily on North Carolina's sparsely-traveled Route 64 which was aimed almost directly at our destination of Kitty Hawk.

However, at one point our trusty GPS on Concetta's iPhone directed us to leave Route 64 and transition over to Route 17, a change that I considered suspect. Not wanting to end up further north in Virginia (where Route 17 goes), I pulled into the handy parking lot of an abandoned fast food restaurant and checked the map.

After a few minutes of study, I decided that the iPhone lady obviously knew her stuff, as the map indicated the KOA we had chosen for the night could be more easily reached via Route 17 followed by Route 158 to the Outer Banks. Satisfied that we were on the right track, we made the transition to Route 17 and started looking for a lunch spot.

The perfect place to leave our traveled route and find a nice place for lunch came when we noticed a sign for "Edenton." Obviously the name started out as Eden Town and we were hoping that the lunch spot would live up to the name. Sure enough, as we reached the town's western edge, we came upon a building sitting on the edge of a large vacant parking lot. We pulled right off the highway and into a perfect, out-of-the-way spot with a view of three dozen yachts just scant yards away.

While Concetta got started on lunch, I grabbed the camera and started exploring. An overcast sky made sure the light for photographs was disappointingly flat, but I thought I might still get a few shots for the blog. After wandering around for a few minutes, I circled back to the rig and lunch and immediately ran into a guy who was standing next to what looked like a bright yellow Kayak with retractable outriggers. Turns out it was a Hobbiecat catermaran atop a trailer pulled behind his Subaru Outback.

I altered my route and stopped next to the guy and we both stood for a moment studying the craft. Finally I spoke up and said, "Hobbiecat?" He turned, smiled, and said "Yup. Just got it. I used to have a boat in this marina, but it just got to be too much work for me. So now I have this little craft, and I think I'll like it better. No upkeep, no scrappng the bottom, and no mechicals."

"What's your name," I asked. He told me his name was Brian and we shook hands. I told him that I had done a bit of sailing on a Hobbiecat back in the day, then I told him about my buddy's dad who designed things for spacecraft professionally but as a hobby designed racing catamarans.

Bill perked up, so I continued my story of a guy named Norm Riise who designed and built what would be the fastest sailboat in the world back in the 1960s. The boat was known as the "Wild Wind," and it held that top speed title for two years running. I got to sail on her a time or two, I told him, but I also got to spend some time cleaning the fiberglass hull which was not so much fun.

We continued our discussion of boats in general for awhile, and then I decided that I better not keep Concetta waiting. Brian and I shook hands, and in parting I told him if he needed help launching his new boat to come knock on the RV door and I'd come out and give him a hand. As it turned out, Brian must have had second thoughts about today being good for sailing as he left after a few minutes and we watched him head off down the road, his little trailer and yellow Hobbiecat in tow.

After lunch was over, I told Concetta that I'd like just a few more minutes out on the dock where I could grab a few shots from a different angles. That done, I was wandering back down the dock when another local boat owner ambled in my direction and asked me what I was doing.

"Just getting a few photos of these great boats," I told the guy who looked like he was probably in his mid-eighties.

"Ah," he said. "I was just wondering."

Knowing as I do that yacht owners don't much like strangers wandering the Quays, I immediately set out to put him at ease. "What's your name?" I asked him.

"I'm Bill," the old man said.

"Tom," I said, and I held out my hand. Once we had shaken hands Bill seemed to relax, and I immediately started questioning him about his life. "That your boat?" I asked, and I pointed to the fiberglass sloop behind him.

"Yup," he said. "That's where I stay."

"you mean you live on this sloop?" I asked him.

Bill said, "That's right. At one point I just decided to give everything I owned to my kids, and I moved onto the boat. It's not a sloop, though. I've rigged it more like a cutter."

What sort of rigging differentiated a sloop from a cutter was beyond my education level, but I just smiled and pretended I knew. It was time I was getting on, but I had a final request of Bill. "How about you lean up against that stanchion there and let me get your photo?"

"Nah," Bill said, "I'll just break your camera!"

"Come on, Bill," I said. "Let's do it." And at that point Bill decided that he wouldn't mind a photo, and he stood right there while a snapped a few shots. The light wasn't the best, but in the end I think we got something usable.

After that I hastened back to the rig where Concetta was waiting in the passenger seat. I jumped behind the wheel, and off we went to seek out new adventures.

At the end of today's drive, finding our KOA turned out to be both harrowing and tiring. Still, the scenery was fantastic even though the tiny, impossibly narrow roads that led out to the camp at "Coinjock" severely taxed my late afternoon tolerance level. Still, once at the camp the employees were wonderful to deal with, our campsite was nice, and the neighbors seemed amiable. We are too far from the laundry facility, however, to consider that task as doable. But we are just mere paces from the Atlantic (or albemarle Sound perhaps) to get a few decent photos if the sun comes out tomorrow.

I did have one more interesting conversation once we got into camp, and that was with the woman and her husband who were the guides to our respective spot. The couple had sold their house in Virginia and were now having a difficult time buying another. So, the two have hired on as camp workers which allows them to make money while they try and decide where to relocate. I suggested the Cumberland Plateau in Tennessee because we thought it was so beautiful when we came through. They said at this point they were considering nearly anywhere.

There seems to be a large number of folks who have found themselves in need of a new location, and I have been able to talk to a handful of them. Concetta and I have found most of the camps where we managed to get a spot full to overflowing. Though we've never done it before, getting reservations this trip has been almost mandatory as there are so many folks we call "full-timers" ahead of us.

I sure hope the next administration gets the country back on the right track, or we're really going to be in for some rough sledding! There just way too many people hurting.

In closing, we wish you many exciting adventures of your own. Ciao!

Day 20 -- Winston-Salem to Enfield, North Carolina -- 167 Miles

Have you ever strolled through a cottonfield? I hadn't until today. In fact, I've seen loads of cottonfields zip by outside my car or truck window over the years, but it had never occured to me to stop and get up close and personal with one. But today we are camping in the town of Enfield in North Carolina, and the camp is literally surrounded by cottonfields. Naturally, as soon as I had set up our water and electrical (no sewer here), I retrieved the camera and got right down to business.

First I walked across the rural highway on which our camp is located and tried to get a shot. The field was sort of small and uninteresting and had obviously received too much water at some point as there were lots of bare patches and spindly plants. But the bare patches made for easier walking across the field, so I persisted.

One of the things I discovered in the bare patches were cotton plants with unopened bolls. At the time, it didn't occur to me to photograph one, but now I realize it would have made a good comparison alongside an opened boll. Oftentimes failure is just as intereseting as success when it comes to plants.

Abandoning the first field, I recrossed the road and entered a field on the same side of the road as our camp. There I saw healthier plants, but the field was so well-formed and perfect I didn't find it interesting, either. Besides the sun was not quite in the right quadrant. I did stop short at one point, as I was bushwacking through some low growth toward the field and reminded myself that I wasn't in familiar territory. I knew that most states in the southeastern part of the country come complete with snakes with which I had never had any experience.

In the second field I snapped a few shots but nothing that thrilled me at all. I began to make my way back to camp disappointed that I just hadn't seen any vistas that knocked my socks off. That's when I noticed that just off the eastern border of our camp was yet another cottonfield, so I briskly made my way in that direction.

Once I had arrived at the third field, I was a little more heartened by such things as the convergence of light and shadow, the irregular tree line in the background, and the blueness of the sky since I was shooting with the sun a little more over my shoulder now (photo upper left). There was also more of a pronouced change in elevations in some spots.

At one point I happened to glance across the road to the east of the cottonfield and saw a different kind of plant growing there. Naturally I had to go and investigate. Crossing the road, I climbed a slight berm and discovered a whole field of soybeans. Now I HAVE walked amongst fields of soybeans on prior vacations as we sojourned across mid-America. I have to say that I find soybeans particularly uninteresting, both to photograph, and to see up close (photo left).

But while I was busy NOT appreciating the field of soybeans, I turned and there before me was a huge field of peanuts -- not the plants, just the peanuts in their shells lying in great clumps on the ground (photo lower right). Once again, this was not something that I had ever seen in person. I'm not sure exactly how they harvest these legumes, and I'm not sure once they do whatever they do with the green part of the plant, how or why the peanuts end up on the ground. Maybe they have to be left to dry.

I tried taking a few photos of the peanut field but I could not conjure up a way to make them look exciting or appetizing or in any way artistically presentable. But I did bend down and grab one shell, crack it open, and pop the peanut in my mouth. I don't suppose many of you have ever tried eating them right out of the field, but I encourage you not to bother. The peanut, liberated from its shell, had absolutely NO taste whatsoever. I stooped down and picked two more off the ground to take back to Concetta to see what she thought about them, then recrossed the road toward camp.

It was after I had left the peanut field and returned to cottonfield number three that I hit on the idea of doing a closeup of the open cotton boll. And that was when I wished I had shot the closed boll in field number one for comparison. But by then, the light was failing and field one was a long distance away, and I just shrugged off the idea. Let it suffice to say that the unopened boll was hard and greenish brown, and shaped like a fig, and no one in their right mind would photograph one. Still, I may go back to field number one in the morning and get that shot.

Today, by my calculations, we drove half the remaining distance between Winston-Salem and Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. I hope that's true. The nights have been getting quite cold up here along Interstate 40, and we look forward to dropping south toward warmer climes once we have achieved our objective of visiting the place where the Wright Brothers made their famous first flights.

Today we had to stop at a Walmart on the way to our evening camp. While we’re on the road, we rely on Walmart if we need to fill prescriptions since their computer system can easily tap into the information recorded by the pharmacy in Carson City. Usually, they ask us to give them about twenty minutes to fill the order, and we go off to do some grocery shopping.

So it was today I found myself standing in a longish line waiting to talk to the girl in the “drop off” line when the guy ahead of me turned, saw my Navy emblazoned ball cap, and launched into a discussion of life in the service. He had been in the Air Force, he told me, and I told him I had been airborn as well, except I flew for the Navy.

Our conversation went on for some moments without the line moving perceptibly, and then it was the Air Force guy’s turn at the window. I told him it had been great talking with him, and he said the same, and then he left me and walked up to the counter.

Immediately after the Air Force guy left, the guy behind me started talking. “I got a draft notice,” he said. I turned around to see who was talking. “and when I got to the draft board they told me that since I was a high school science teacher they were not going to take me.”

”Wow!” I said. “That was a lucky break!” The old guy smiled and said, “sure was!”

After that impromptu opening, the Science Teacher and I got into a spirited discussion of the Vietnam war in which neither of us had participated. He had a deferment, and I had an enlistment in the Naval Air Corp based in America.

Each of us firmly held the opinion that the war was an embarrassment and a criminal waste of life. This went on for several more minutes, then the Drop Off counter girl called me over, and the Science Teacher and I said our goodbyes, wished each other well, and emphasized how we had enjoyed talking.

The point I’m hoping to make is that encounters such as what occurred today are nothing new. It happens to me all the time since I started wearing a U.S. Navy ball cap. Most of the time the guys who stop to talk are other service veterans, but sometimes I think it's just folks who need someone to listen to their story.

And that's all for now. We wish you many happy adventures of your own. Ciao!

Day 19 -- Morganton to Winston-Salem, North Carolina -- 92 Miles

TODAY was our lucky day -- times two! I'll tell you why shortly, but first, I'll recount a few more mundane aspects of the last 24 hours or so: I may not have mentioned yestersay that we stopped for lunch in a Lowe's parking lot in a town just off Interstate 40. While we were there, I went inside and bought a small stepstool made completely of molded plastic. We needed a stepstool because, you might recall, our automatic step on the rig quit working days ago when we somehow blew the fuse that controls the slide-out rooms and the step. Why the two things are connected is anyone's guess. And why the steps didn't come back to life when I replaced the fuse that fixed the slideouts is also anyone's guess.

So here we are, living in an RV that sits at least 28 inches off the ground, which makes it rather difficult to exit or enter the rig unless we use the front cab. So I decided that a stepstool of some sort might do the trick until we could get home and drop the rig off at the RV fix-it shop. The selection at Lowe's trended more to ladders than stepstools, but I finally found two that sort of fit the bill. One was all metal and was too tall, and the other was plastic and exactly the right height.

The only trouble with the plastic one, which I found out after I had purchased it, was that it had a tendency to fall apart when you attempted to fold it into its carrying shape. Okay, I decided, I can deal with that. I'll just leave it unfolded and locked in place and we'll just store it in the doorway when we're on the road. That is what we did today, and it worked out fine. Once parked, I retrieve the step, place it next to the door, and we're instantly back to convenient access to the rig.

If you've been reading the blog regularly, you know about the shredded tire in Tennessee and the purchase of two new tires in Dandridge. You also know that we tried to buy two more tires yesterday as we approached our camp in Morganton, but without success.

Adding to that lack of success, the camp in Morganton was a tad on the rustic side. We did notice that the camp was certainly on the quiet side, and most of the RVs might even have been vacant. We only saw a single tenant out walking his pet, and never saw anyone else. We did hear the occassional vehicle arrive or depart after we were in for the night, but that may have been our imagination.

Part of what made last night's camp "rustic" was the fact that I had to "construct" a new sewer line out of my spare parts because the camp's sewer outlet wouldn't fit my standard hose fitting. I've encountered a variety of sewer line difficulties in the nine years we've been traveling by RV, but last night was the first time I had to revise a connection fitting and use my extra hose to make it all work.

At any rate, we had a good night, got lots of sleep, and departed once more still without seeing a soul. Our intention was to continue our search for a tire dealer who might stock the proper tires for our rig. However, I told Concetta that I was not going to stop and meander through each and every town along Interstate 40 to find that dealer. I thought that when we saw a dealer from the freeway, we'd exit and drive there. That way we'd waste far less time.

And this is where the first part of today's good luck came into play. We had been traveling east on Route 40 for about ninety minutes when I caught sight of a tire dealer located across the Interstate from us. The sign on the side of the business proclaimed that they specialized in heavy-duty truck tires. Fortunately, we were just approaching the offramp, and I quickly turned on the blinker and moved in that direction just in time. At the bottom of the hill we crossed under the freeway, turned left on the frontage road, and we were soon pulling up in the parking lot for the Parrish Tire Company.

As we pulled up, I sensed that we had come to just the right place as the parking lot held a variety of trucks of all sizes just waiting their turn in one of the half dozen tire-changing bays. We quickly added our rig to the parking lot's collection, and I made my way toward what appeared to be the office.

Inside the office I found a young blond woman in glasses who greated me and offered to help me. When I told her what I needed -- a set of General Tires in size LT 225 SR75 16 she thought for a moment, checked her computer, then informed me that she didn't think they had that size or that brand at the moment. "Well," I said to her, "perhaps you could come look at the tires and make sure I'm telling you the right size." This she did and confirmed that I was right. Still, she didn't think they had any in stock.

When we got back to the young lady's office, she sat down at her computer and rechecked her supplies, and once again told me that there were no Gernerals at all in the size I needed. About that time the boss, Aaron, came in and agreed to see if they could solve the problem in some other fashion. He asked to see the rig, and with one look he said he could solve our problem. He didn't have Generals, but he could match the size and other specifications with a pair of Firestone Transforce LT2s.

I perked right up when Aaron said Transforce for those were the very tires we were running already; the very ones that had been recommended to us by a tow truck driver when he changed out a flat for us underneath a freeway overpass in Minneapolis, Minnesota, back in 2013. At the time I figured a guy who spends his working life rescuing folks who've bought the wrong tires for their RV should know what to recommend.

Aarron proved to be true to his word. Not only did he have the tires I needed -- and wish I could have purchased two days before -- but he moved us up in the work scheduling order so that his guys could tackle our rig directly after they finished putting tires on an ambulance that was in progress. I was just totally thrilled.

In the meantime, Aaron was holding an open house which gave as some time to just chat. Turned out we hit it off like we'd been friends for years, and I just can't say enough about the friendliness, the efficiency, and the professionalism of everyone I met at Parrish Tire. I certainly would not hesitate to recommend them to anyone who might be headed through North Carolina west of Winston-Salem and needs tires for their rig. Aaron and his crew would be the ones to see.

So far I hadn't mentioned that as we crossed under the freeway to get to the frontage road where Parrish Tire was located, we noticed a sign for a historic site called "Fort Dobbs." When we were ready to leave the tire shop, I asked some of the guys if they knew how far away Fort Dobbs might be and whether they could accommodate a 32-foot rig in the parking lot.

One of Aaron's folks spoke up and said that it was quite nearby, and we could just go back to where we had turned onto the frontage road and turn left there. After that we should go to the second traffic light, turn right, and then just a couple of miles later we'd arrive at the Fort. Turns out the guy left off one right turn, but the necessary brown historic sign was there, and we made the turn, found the Fort, and were easily able to park with lots of room to spare.

This is where the second half of our lucky day began. Where I thought Concetta and I would just be taking a few minutes to stroll the grounds, shoot a few photos, and then be off. What happened was we were met at the Fort's log cabin office by Andrew, dressed appropriately as an 18th century soldier. He took us under his wing, and proceeded to conduct us on a private tour of the fort.

Let me just say that Concetta and I just had the greatest time we've had in many years touring Fort Dobbs. We learned that the present fort is a reconstruction of one built in 1755 in response to rising problems with local Native American tribes, notably the Shawnee, Cherokee, and Catawba. Soon the fort and its soldiers would play a small part in the bigger conflict known as the "Seven Years War," which raged internationally, but was known in America as the "French and Indian War." Fort Dobbs, I should mention, is named for the then Governor of North Carolina.

The original fort was in use for a fairly short time, our guide Andrew told us, and had been abandoned by 1761. But archeological digs on the site in modern times revealed the original footprint and thus an exact replica could be accomplished. Amazingly, the replica was constructed in 2019 and contained some of the largest, most robust white oak timbers we had ever seen.

The log walls of the Fort, which had been saw cut into rectangles but finished with an adz to make them look authentic, appeared to be perhaps 14 inches in height and ten inches in depth. All the corner joints were dove-tailed to shed water, just as the original ones would have been. Once inside the three-story fort, the interior was divided into two basic rooms on each floor. There was also a cellar, but that room was not part of the tour. Though I didn't think to ask the fort's dimensions, I suspect that the main part of the building measured about forty feet by seventy feet. Two smaller bumped-out additions added to that square footage.

On the left side of the lower floor was the enlisted men's bunk room where the bunk beds were designed for two soldiers at one time. The right side of the lower floor was used as a work room for indoor tasks and the storeroom for dry goods. There was a chimney constructed dead center in the building which provided a fireplace opening that faced both the lefthand room and the righthand room on each floor.

On the second floor left was the officers' quarters. There the men had their own bed and a common table for eating. On the second floor right there were more enlisted mens' bunks. Once again each space had its own fireplace for warmth.

The third floor was not on the tour as it was used for park business and storage. Still, from what I could see from the outside, all three floors contained a truly amazing number of square-cut "loopholes" used for the firing of muskets at hostile attackers. I was amazed to see that each loophold came with a carved, wedge-shaped block of wood with a short piece of rope attached which allowed the fort's defenders to block the loophole to preserve warmth, or to thwart incoming bullets or arrows.

Once our tour was over, Andrew, Concetta, and I walked back to the office and gift shop. At the beginning of our visit I had seen a great t-shirt for my collection as well as some interesting books that I wanted to consider. Andrew gave us some literature for the blog, rang up our purchases, and regrettfully we were off. I thought we were pretty much done for the day, but while grabbing a couple of exterior shots for the blog, I noticed that Andrew had left the office and had gone back to his earlier job of using period tools to split shingles out of white oak for a project he and the other guide, Scott, wanted to complete.

Naturally, photographing someone splitting shingles is not something you get to capture every day, so I immediately grabbed the opportunity and fired off a few more photos. I would like to have spent even longer as seeing someone use a splitting froe is really uncommon. But it was by then getting really late in the afternoon, and we needed to put on a few more miles before dinnertime.

But just in case Andrew gets to read this blog, I want him to know that he showed us the very best time we've had so far on this vacation. Andrew, you knew your job and you did it well. We talked about our time with you all the way to Winston-Salem this afternoon. Please keep up the great work and maybe we'll drop by again one day.

For everyone else reading this blog, Andrew has a wonderful selection of reading material in the Fort Dobbs cabin office, and a selection of other interesting things to see and purhase as well. And if you're into 18th century history, especially that of the conflicts between settlers and Native Americans, the fort is a must see for you.

Well, that's it for now. Concetta and I wish you many exciting adventures of your own in your RV! Ciao!

Day 18 -- Dandridge, Tennessee to Morganton, South Carolina -- 100 Miles

Today didn't turn out to be terribly productive, but we did see some awesome scenery as we cruised Interstate 40 through a part of the Great Smokey Mountains. Once again the sensational foliage colors that cloaked the millions of trees that flanked our route just took our breaths away. I was unhappy that photography was impossible because of the high traffic volumne and narrow shoulders on our route. I even resorted to shooting through the front window (photo left).

At one point, we enjoyed an unexpected visit and rest stop at the North Carolina Visitor's Center when we stopped for information on the state. We met a young chap named Justin who went way out of his way to make sure we found every possible pamphlet that would aid us on our journey. At first Justin told us he was all out of Kitty Hawk information, but later he tracked us down after he had spent time rumaging through the back room for one that had been missed.

Our main goal today was to try and locate another tire dealer who might have an identical set of tires in stock that would match those we purchased yesterday in Dandridge, Tennessee. The tires we purchased were for the passenger-side dualies and were the only two the dealer had. The driver's side set would have to come from some other dealer. Hence, we spent considerable time exiting and re-entering the Interstate for a meander through a small town as we scanned for a suitable tire dealer.

At one point we took a wrong turn out of the business section and soon found ouselves navigating up and down hills on a tiny mountain road that reminded me of the Hollywood Hills in Los Angeles. There were sharp turns, narrow lanes, and absolutely NO place to even think about turning around. We finally managed to bumble our way back out and rejoin the Interstate, but it was all for naught as we had not seen a single tire dealer anywhere.

We did manage to find a grocery store today and finally were able to stock up supplies. We're not sure where the locals buy their groceries, but it took us most of the day to track down a place where we could buy ours. Once we finished with that chore, we discovered that it was getting pretty late in the day, so we called ahead and secured a spot in the town of Morganton, which was a tad closer to us than the town of Hickory where we had intended to stay.

Wouldn't you know, once we took the offramp for Morganton and were just moments away from reaching our camp we passed a tire dealer. We had already told the camp host what time we would be arriving so I hated to stop. Nevertheless I hung a u-turn at the first opportunity and went back. Unfortunately, the manager looked at the tires we had just bought and shook his head. "Best I can do," he said, "is order them and have them here in two days." Well, two days was not going to work out for us, so we had to pass. Hopefully, there will be more tire stores on the horizon.

When we reached the camp, we were a little less than impressed with the layout and the grounds after staying in the "creme de la creme" of camps last night. There (photo below) all the sites had concrete slabs surrounded by neatly spread decorative gravel and all the amenities were top notch. Some of the site pads even came with their own personal fireplace. And I'm not saying an old steel wheel on a patch of dirt where they allow you to burn some wood. No, the pads had real, full-sized fireplaces.

Keep in mind that these pads that included fireplaces were not meant for "overnighters." I suspect that you had to have reserved a spot for an extended holiday period and your rig had to be washed, waxed, and have been a fairly recent purchase before you got a fireplace. I walked around the camp this morning, and just about every rig I passed was a high-dollar affair, many forty some odd feet long and sporting three axles, not to mention a brand new Jeep as a tow car.

But I was unimpressed, imagining that these fancy machines travel once a year from the owner's home a few hours away to this marvelous lakeside "Beverly Hills" and then, vacation over, they travel back again for a wash and wax job before being put away in a heated garage. If I were to look, I bet the tires still have the little knobby spikes on the tread.

Still, our camp last night, though it contained no fireplace, was by far the nicest we've ever seen (or been allowed to enter) save for an even fancier one in Breckenridge, Colorado. Our camp in Breckenridge came complete with concrete pads, garden sheds, extensive altitude-correct landscaping, mood-evoking boulders, AND, just for us, a real live red fox who came to hang out with us for at least half an hour before returning to his den.

So we pull into this camp today about a quarter after four and find that it's attached to a golf course. There appears to be no office for the camp, so we go next door and stop in front of the golf course office. Once inside, I find a room about twenty-feet by fifty feet, covered wall to wall and floor to ceiling with golf-related equipment. Across the room from the door was a sales counter, and around the sales counter stood or sat several people, none of whom seemed to notice I'd arrived. There was a girl sitting on a tall stool completely mesmirized by her iPhone. There was a guy of about fifty years sitting on another stool smiling at me, but not saying anything. And there was a young kid in his twenties who was showing an older gentleman a newly-received golf club that must have been ordered for him.

Since no one was talking to me I went over to the fiftyish guy and said hello. "You play cribbage?" he asked

Never one to be at a loss for words, I tell the guy that my wife and I own a cribbage set but we've never used it. I go on to tell him that I knew how to play when I was in the Navy, just like I knew how to play pinoccle, but I don't remember a thing about either now.

At the mention of Navy, helped along I suppose because I was wearing my Navy ballcap, the guy launched into a discussion of submarines and submariners, and I tried to keep up with him, but he soon lost me. Not wanting to let the conversation die, I told the guy that actually I was in the Naval Air Corp.

"Hey, really?" the guy said. "What plane did you fly in?"

I told him that I flew in the Neptune P2V-5s and he seemed to know exactly what I was talking about. From that moment on, he and I were the best of friends. I learned that each of us had been privelged to fly in a WWII B-17, though his flight was about three times as long as my 45 minute flight. I talked about my getting to fly in a 1928 Ford Trimotor while seated in the co-pilot's seat, and he talked about wanting to fly in a corsair or a P51 Mustang. He said he missed flying in a B24 but he still liked to. And so on.

I think we would still be talking airplanes in that golf shack if the twenty-something youngster hadn't finally piped up about then and asked if I was the guy who called on the phone about a spot for the night. I said I was, and I went over to the checkin desk and got on with business of paying.

Afterwards I asked the fiftyish guy his name, and he said it was Jeff. I told him mine, and I told him it had been great talking with him. He said the same, and we shook hands. I hated to leave as Jeff seemed like he really needed someone his age to talk to, but it was time to get on with setting up and wished him well and took my leave. But I just love those encounters and wouldn't trade the experiences for gold.

Oh, in case you're wondering, the teenage girl who had been sitting on a stool and playing a video game when I came in, was still sitting on that stool playing that video game when I left. As far as I could tell, she had not stirred, spoken or looked up the whole time I had been there. Now THAT'S rapt attention.

Day 17 -- Crossville to Dandridge, Tennessee -- 100 Miles

Yesterday I met yet another fellow traveler with California plates on their rig (photo left). I was out walking with the camera to try and capture a few shots of our Crossville KOA before the sun dropped below the western hills and killed the "magic hour" lighting that photographers love. The California rig was on my way, and the owner stood beside it. Naturally I stopped to talk to the chap whose name was Josh because I was curious if he was vacationing all the way to Tennessee, or if he was house-hunting because he was looking to escape from California, which is what I have heard from several other campers over the last 17 days of our vacation.

Instinctively, I already knew the answer to my question and Josh confirmed it right off the bat. He told me that he lived in the Bay Area and had finally had enough of the craziness that has been going on in his state. Now he was looking for something better. Turns out he had followed much the same route as we had through Nevada, Arizona, and New Mexico. But he said he dropped down into Texas to visit relatives, then carried on into Alabama before coming back to Interstate 40 in Tennessee.

I told Josh that I had spent four months in the spring and early summer of 1970 around Memphis and found the state pretty rainy. It also had lots of bugs. But, I added, it sure is a pretty state.

He told me he had psyched out that Tennessee had lots of rain, but he hadn't really taken the bugs into account. He said he was visiting lots of states and hadn't really made a choice yet, however, he was in negotiations with a Tennessee park that would let him stay a full year. He added that he had been having a tremendous amount of difficulty finding spots in parks to stay as they all seemed to be filled with full-timers.

After telling him that's exactly what we had seen in our travels, Josh and I talked a bit more on this and that, then finally parted with a handshake and a mutual wish for safe travels. I so often meet folks on the road whom I really like, and I have long found that feature the best part of traveling.

Which brings me to today's adventures. We started out the day getting our propane tank filled as it had dropped to the halfway mark on the dial, and I don't like to pass up a camp with on-site propane when the gas is at that level. Tank filled, we motored off, not in the direction we had been headed on the Interstate but back to the village of Crossville to see if we might become acquainted with Tennessee Don's hometown.

For some reason, I habitually visualize small rural towns as consisting of one main street, a couple of dozen businesses, and a scattering of houses on the outskirts. Naturally, Crossville turned out to be anything but small. Though the outskirts where Don's property probably lies is made up of forests, small vintage homes, and a whole lot of abandoned structures that will never see life again, the main town is quite bustling. Lots of cars, and stop lights, and busy pedestrians met us as we rolled into town so we didn't stay long. We circled the block and headed back the way we had come.

I'll have to tell Tennessee Don, however, that there could be worse places in rural America to live. We believe that living on what our camp hosts in Crossville called "The Cumberland Plateau" could be quite pleasant. It really is absolutely beautiful! (photos left and lower right) One of our camp hosts who took my money when I paid for the propane, told me that she had actually lived in northern Nevada in the town of Yerington, which made me suspsect that she and her husband were themselves transplants when they bought the camp though I didn't ask her.

So once our sojourn to Crossville was behind us, we sought out Interstate 40 and resumed our trek eastward toward Kittyhawk. The morning was a tad on the gray side (photo lower left), though we were often blessed with moments of sunshine which made passing forests glow like they were on fire. We often feel when we'er driving through these long tunnels of trees, made brillant by a myriad of fall colors, as though we're driving through one of those hand-held Kaleidiscopes that you get as a kid.

After we had traveled a hundred miles, we sought out a place to have lunch, which turned out to be the town of Dandridge, Tennessee. We rolled into town and just off the Interstate found a near-perfect picnic spot that was level and away from traffic. We knew it was a picnic spot because the town had placed picnic tables and trash containers on the west side of the lot for the benefit, presumably, of travelers.

Lunch was quiet and pleasant, and at this point we had not the slightest idea that things were about to do an about face. Lunch over, we left the picnic site, turned right out of the drive, then headed away from the Interstate until we found a spot to make a u-turn and go back. That accomplished, we jumped back on Route 40 and headed for the Tennessee/North Carolina border that we hoped to cross within the hour.

It was at this point that I could feel in the steering wheel that something was not quite right. I told Concetta that I was going to have to find the nearest offramp and check the tires. There was just too much vibration coming from somewhere and I had to suspect that the problem was tire related.

Ordinarilly, I try and check the tires every few days. I should do it every day. I carry a very large rubber mallet that I use to strike each of the dual rear tires in turn and listen for any difference in tone. The dual tires on the rear are pretty difficult to check for air pressure and could be hazardous to attempt beside the highway. The mallet is quick and virtually fool proof.

Once stopped on the offramp apron, I dug out the mallet and began the thump test. The first and second tires on the driver's side thumped identically and seemed perfectly rock-hard. I circled around to the passenger side dualies. I thumped the outside tire and it seemed identical to the first two on the driver's side. Then I thumped the inside tire, and got a sickening thud rather than a solid thump, I knew immediately that I had found my vibration problem.

Fortunately, I had observed a gas station on the far side of the Interstate as we rolled down the offramp. Now I got back in the truck and made for that pontential place of refuge. Sadly, the gas station turned out to be the mini-mart variety of station and came with no mechanics of any kind. Nevertheless, I decided to go inside and ask for directions to the nearest tire store.

But before I could reach the store I spotted a guy working on his truck beside one of the pumps. Changing directions, I made for the guy who looked like he might know more about the location of such businesses than a store clerk. Amazingly, before I could get to the impromptu mechanic, another guy left the store. He was wearing a reflective vest and was heading for a county-owned dumptruck. So once again I changed course and intercepted this second guy.

County guy smiled and said, yes, he could tell me where to go. The directions were a tad commplicated, but amazingly we reversed direction, passed under the Interstate again, made a right turn, passed two traffic lights, passed under the Interstate yet again, and arrived at a towing center that was positively FILLED with mechanics.

Sorry to say the tow mechanics were unable to fit our 32-foot rig onto their lot that was filled with wrecked cars, nor did they have anyone free to work on the rig if it did fit. BUT, those guys absolutely saved our bacon because they directed us further down the road we were on to a store called "The Co-op" which had farm supplies AND a tire shop. So we jumped back in the rig and headed right there.

When I pulled up to the tire shop bays and got out, the first person I ran into was Arron, the tire operations manager. When I told him of our problem and asked him if he could possibly change the tire, Aaron rolled his eyes, turned and scanned the shop so he could mentally add up the various jobs he had promised, and then he looked back at me. "I just don't see how I can help, buddy," he said. "I don't have the time or the workers to tackle the job.

Knowing that money always talks, I told the manager that if he would work on my rig now I'd buy four new tires from him. I had been thinking of buying new ones before we returned to Nevada anyway, so why not now. But Aaron just shook his head. "I just don't see how I can help you," he told me again, "and beside, I don't have any tires this size."

"Well," I said to him, "I'm from Nevada and a long way from home. I really can't go anywhere with a flat tire." Then I stared at him and he stared at me. A moment later he shrugged, turned, and walked away.

I wasn't sure just what he had decided, if anything, and many minutes passed with nothing happening. Then from the far recesses of the tire shop, a young kid with a bandaged forehead and a bootcamp haircut came towards me dragging a heavyduty floor jack. I held my breath and waited. Then, sure enough, the kid whose name was John, slid the jack under the rig and bent down to find a jacking point. Eventually he decided on the differential, placed the jack appropriately, and started pumping.

It seemed like we were home free, at least Aaron had decided to fix the flat. But before John was able to get the jack high enough for the tires to lift from the pavement, the jack ran out of lifting ability. So, John had to go find another jack and put it under a newly-found support brace ahead of the axle that he thought perhaps would work and between the two jacks, the tires were lifted.

I really didn't know or could even visualize just what John intended to do at this point as he removed the inner and outer wheels and tires and set them aside. He showed me the inner, totally flat, tire that had been shredded pretty thoroughly and would have been extremely dangerous to be cruising with on the Interstate.

At this point I think that John actually went to consult Aaron to see what was wanted of him in the way of a fix. Shortly after, I saw John rummaging through their large stacks of tires and amazingly, he came up with not one, but two tires in the appropriate size that could be installed. Later the manager, Aaron, would advise me that it would not do well to just put on one new one as they would be too dissimilar. In addition, he advised me to replace the other two tires on the driver's side to make them all match as soon as I could manage it.

So, almost before I could say, lickety split, the tires were mounted and installed, and the rig was taken off the jack. I asked him to please check to make sure that all four tires were aired up identically and he said he'd be happy to. Near the end of the job, when Aaron was out of earshot, I slipped John a twenty for being so gracious about being pulled off whatever job he had been working on before turning his attention to my job.

ALL the employees at the Co-op Tire shop were extremely gracious, helpful, and professional. In addition, they let me wander around the shop, talk to John as he was working, and photograph the old tire for the blog. I was impressed with the expediency with which they solved our problem, especially since it took place so late in the day. Aaron could have held fast, I suppose, to his original decision and I wouldn't have thought less of him as deadlines are deadlines. No one wants to be interrupted when they're on a time crunch with other jobs, and that's how it is in tire shops. So kudos to Arron and his crew. We will be eternally grateful.

Before we left, I asked Aaron to recommend a camp and he told me about a park that he had heard about. When I got back to the rig, Concetta had already hit upon the same park. Since it sounded good, she went online, made a reservation, paid the fee, and programmed her iPhone to take us there. It was supposed to be very near the tire shop.

As we followed the iPhone's directions, we very soon began to suspect that something was wrong. The iPhone strongly believed that the park was located right in the middle of the tiniest part of old Dandridge where nothing but narrrow roads, steep hills, and sharp curves met our every attempt to follow the directions. Finally, when the little device announced that we had "arrived at our destination," and only a tiny cemetery could be found there, we decided that Fate evidently was not done screwing up our afternoon.

We stopped opposite the police station to collect our thoughts and just then an elderly gentleman got out of his car and approached. Concetta rolled down her window and called to the man to draw his attention. She had to yell at him several times, but finally he stopped, turned, and waited for her to ask her question.

Once he was facing us, Concetta asked if he knew where the Anchor Down RV Park was located.

Evidently the gentleman was very hard of hearing so each time Concetta asked about the RV park he would shake his head and step closer for a repeat. When he had finally heard, he told us we should probably go to the DMV and ask, but then he indicated that there was some sort of RV park in the oppposite direction we had been seeking. "Just go out Route 139," he said, "and there's a place next to the lake."

Believe it or not, doing what the old codger said turned out to be exactly right. Eventually we grew insecure about the distance we had traveled and got the bright idea to call them. We were delighted that finally Fate got out of the way, and we connected with the park. Minutes later we rolled up to find a young woman waiting at the spot were we had to stop to register.

We were so relieved to actually find our camp, we didn't care that it was really late, we didn't care that it was freezing outside, and we didn't care that we had made virtually no headway since lunch. We were set for the night and looking forward to some hot soup and good wine. Tomorrow's problems were still hours away.

To show you how the serendippity of traveling continues to augment our journey, when I went into the office to officially check in, I mentioned that I hadn't been in Tennessee since the spring of 1970 and that had been at the Naval base in Millington near Memphis. The staff member who had met us out front piped up at that point and said, "I know Millington," she said. "I went to high school there."

Laughing, I said, "And I bet you didn't mind one bit that there were 11,000 sailors in Millington!"

The woman laughed as well and said, "No, I sure didn't!"

And that ladies and gentlemen was a potentially stress-filled afternoon ending on a high note.

So that's it for now. There's a freeze warning tonight so I didn't have to hook up any water hoses. We'll be using the onboard water tank and won't care one bit.... well, if we can sleep warm enough tonight. Ciao for now and we wish you many happy adventures of your own.

Day 16 -- Nashville to Crossville, Tennessee -- 112 Miles

Just to show you how life can sometimes travel in familiar circles, Concetta and I, after taking most of the morning touring President Andrew Jackson's Heritage home in Tennessee, traveled just 112 miles before we sought out a KOA and stopped for the night. Part of the reason for the short hop was we still had part of our laundry to do and wanted to get an early start, and part of the reason was that I recognized the KOA's "Crossville" location as a name I had heard once before.

By the time we arrived in Crossville, I had finally remembered just where I'd heard the name before. Way back in the late 1990s we welcomed a new tenant to one of our houses in Carson City, and this person went on to be a member of our rental family for the next two decades before deciding to return to Ohio where he had previously spent a portion of his childhood. I often referred to this tenant as "Tennessee Don" because at one point he had told me that he spent his earliest years in the tiny town of Crossville, Tennessee, before his family moved to Ohio.

The above photo of the front of the Hermitage, in too much shadow today for a photo, I captured off a painting in the museum

Once we had set up camp for the night and had started the washing, I gave Tennessee Don a call and asked him if my memory was correct and that we had accidently landed in his hometown. He told me, yes, Crossville was his hometown, and he really did still own property there as he had related to me more than two decades ago.

Tomorrow Concetta and I will cruise into Crossville and see if we can locate Tenessee Don's property, which he tells me is actually a piece of wetland and not suitable for building upon. Still, since Don hasn't been down to Tenessee for many years, I'll at least try and shoot a few photos of the general area even if I can't find the property he calls "the swamp."

On the subject of our camp in Nashville last night and of the Andrew Jackson land and gardens tour for which we had purchased tickets several days ago, we didn't exactly have high hopes of actually being able to spend any time outside today. Not only has it been raining contiuously since we got to Tennessee and Concetta made the reservations, but last night it rained so hard that I decided to move the living area slider back into place as heavy rain sometimes manages to seep inside the coach if the room is extended during such a storm.

But wonder of wonders, this morning dawned bright and relatively clear, and by the time we had broken camp and traveled the 10 miles to Andrew Jackson's Hermitage Mansion, the weather promised to be perfect if a bit on the chilly side. We had our choice of two different tours, the Hermitage Mansion itself and the museum, grounds, and gardens. You could do both, of course, but we didn't really envision having sufficient time in the day to take advantage of both tours. Plus, we aren't so keen on house tours. You aren't permitted to take photos, touch anything, and you are crushed in with a big crowd of people who seem to always be in the way of what you're hoping to see.

Naturally, being gardeners, Concetta and I chose the "low-key" visit, that of the grounds and gardens. As a further encouragement, many of the trees on the grounds were resplendent in their display of fall colors, and missing them would have been unthinkable. We first watched the movie which served to remind us of many of the things we had learned on our Andrew Jackson CD that's been keeping us company as we travel. Second, we visited the museum which proved to be most excellent in its presentation, and I was able to take many photos, some of which might make it into the blog.

Finally, we left the building and made our way toward the Hermitage and its gardens. The day was, at that point, still quite cool, but the brillance of the fall colors and the magnificence of the grounds that seemed to roll away from Jackson's Greek Revival mansion and neat white fences left us in awe.

In just about any direction I pointed the camera, I found a scene more wonderful than the last. Ancient trees, whether bathed in sunlight or standing in shadow against a colorful receding background seemed to just shout our beloved American history. I had expected a bit more in the area of color in the formal kitchen garden, but both of us truly loved the way paths radiated out from the kitchen garden like spokes in a wheel.

One of the "spokes" took us to the tomb of both Andrew and his wife, Rachel, which we especially appreciated for its understated elegance and simplicty. A surprising number of Andrew and Rachel's grandchildren had been interred under simple marble headstones quite nearby the grandparents.

Several of the spokes around the kitchen garden were lined with trees with smooth, mottled bark of which we were unfamiliar. Fortunately, some of those trees came with small markers identifying the trees as crepe myrtle. Perhaps we were unfamiliar because the crepe myrtle trees don't do well in the cold climes of northern Nevada.

Yet another spoke took one to the privey, an unexpected but necessary spot in most early dooryards since houses were designed without any form of plumbing.

By the time that two o'clock rolled around, we knew that it was time to leave Andrew Jackson's wonderful and awesome Hermitage and find our way to the Interstate. After pausing a few moments to scout the gift shop for possible Christmas presents on our way out, we made our way to the rig. Fortunately, we had a surprisingly easy time finding our way thanks to Concetta's navigation. We had planned to try for Knoxville this afternoon but didn't quite make it. So tomorrow we'll be back at it. Hopefully, we'll turn up new adventures down the road.

So until next time, we wish you many exciting adventures of your own! Ciao!

Day 15 -- Jackson to Nashville, Tennessee -- 131 Mileas

The State of Tennessee has 38 Civil War battlefields, the most after Virginia which has three times as many. Today, as we traveled east on Interstate 40, we saw the occasional reference to such historic sites, but it wasn't until we reached the turnoff for "Parker's Crossroads" battlefield that we decided to leave the Interstate and explore.

Yesterday we tried visiting the Fort Pillow battlefield, but changed our minds when the directional sign indicated that it was 51 miles north of our location. I would like to have seen Fort Pillow as it was the battle depicted in the movie with Mathew Broderick as the commander of black troops. During the battle of Fort Pillow, the black troops were basically massacred by the Confederate troops who showed them no mercy.

Today, though Parker's Crossroads was some distance away to the south once we had exited, we discovered that the National Park Service had established a handy visitor's center and museum just a stone's throw from the offramp. Being so handy, the visitor center was just what we needed since our timeline was pretty tight today. We had already made reservations at an RV park in Nashville, but the computer response informed us that we should arrive before 1:00 p.m. We weren't sure why the camp would have such an early arrival demand, but we decided to heed that advice if possible. Probably they asked us to arrive early since it was Sunday.

The visitor center turned out to be really professionally designed and attractively decorated, and we enjoyed the minimalist nature of it. Just inside the door, we found the resident staff member who turned out to be quite pleasant and talkative about the local attractions, the battlefield, and, of course, her state of Tennessee. She told us that there would be no charge and we were free to tour the museum, watch the movie detailing the battle, and browse the gift shop as we desired.

By the way, when you click on any of the photos you will see a small version of that photo on the bottom of the screen. If you click on that thumbnail version, it will expand into a much larger version for viewing.

The battle of Parker's Crossroads was not one of the Civil War battles that I had ever read about. Starting in the 7th grade I became a great fan of the conflict between the states that lasted from April 1861 to April 1865. This interest started when my freshman year math teacher at Eliot Junior High, Mr. Schilling, learned of my love for history and asked if I'd like to attend a meeting of the Pasadena Civil War Roundtable with him.

"Would I!" I told him, and the next time the Roundtable met, another classmate and I went along with Mr. Schilling to the meeting. At the meeting, classmate, Vince Beggs, and I met a wonderful gathering of older gentlemen who were just thrilled to have two young people our age take an interest in their passion for the Civil War.

Vince and I especially loved it when the club members would bring along their vintage Civil War weapons and other era collectibles. They would even let us hold their artifacts -- very, very carefully -- which really emmersed us in the lives of soldiers in that far off-time of the 1860s. I don't know about Vince, but those meetings instilled in me a life-long appreciation and interest in the Civil War.

As I have learned from my reading over the years, one of the major aims of General Grant during the war was to capture Vicksburg, Mississippi, stop supplies from reaching the south from the Gulf of Mexico, and thus split the Confederacy in two. Once the Mississippi River was in Federal control, the Civil War would be all but won.

Though I'm not sure I understand how the battle of Parker's Crossroads played into the eventual downfall of Vicksburg, the movie we watched seemed to propose that theory. It could be because Confederate General Nathan Bedford Forrest, who had been directed to destroy Grant's supply-line railroad in west Tennessee, lost 300 of his 1,800 total troops who were captured at Parker's Crossroads. With the Confederates weakened and pushed further to the south, it might have been less possible to bring up support for Vicksburg. Or, it might have been that once Nathan Bedford Forrest successfully destroyed Grant's supply-line railroad in west Tennessee, and Grant switched his supply terminus to Memphis, perhaps Grant found the Memphis solution even better than what he had had before the Battle of Parker's Crossroads. More research will be necessary to answer that one.

Even though I'm not certain what the significance of the Parker's Crossroads battle was afterall, the movie we watched detailed each and every movement of the various military components of each side and explained how they were important. The graphics were so clearly depicted that it was easy to follow along (see photo above left).

At this point we were definitely running out of time for reaching Nashville over 80 miles away, so we skipped lunch and hit the road. Today it continued to be overcast and rainy, but even the somber weather could not disguise the beauty of the forest that lined each side of Interstate 40 as we motored east. All the fall colors were resplendent in their golds and yellows and reds.

Amazingly, when we reached Nashville just a short time before the 1:00 p.m. deadline, we found the small and quaint city of our imagination about a hundred times larger than it should have been. Still, Concetta's trusty iPhone directed us right to our destination camp without error. We arrived on time, checked in, and found our campsite to be quite level and reasonably near the laundry room that we hoped to use as soon as we had set up.

So now the rig is set up, the laundry is washed, dried, put away, and we're ready to get our showers done so we can settle in for the night. Tomorrow we're scheduled to visit President Andrew Jackson's home, the Hermitage for a tour of the seventh President's gardens. We decided not to do the mansion, so we hope it doesn't rain on the garden tour.

Now dinner is over, it's time to relax and kick back. While we're doing that we wish you exciting adventures of your own. Ciao!