A Happy Surprise

When last we saw the Happy Wanderers they had tried unsuccessfully to locate fellow co-worker, George Aldrich's mother at her farm in rural Wisconsin. Not sure how they were going to connect with her, the Wanderers decided to locate a KOA for the night and puzzle out the problem in the morning.

Low and behold, we had only just thrown off the covers this morning and stumbled out to make the coffee when the phone rang. Who should be calling but Rachel, George's missing mom. It turned out that not only were we going to get to see her, but she was only minutes away from knocking on our door.

Just in time for breakfast, Rachel soon pulled up outside and we spent a very pleasant hour over oatmeal, homemade cranberry bread (courtesy Rachel), and some wonderfully strong Peet's coffee (George's favorite). We were thrilled to find out that Rachel was farming/ranching sixty acres in rural Wisconsin, just down the road from the cranberry bogs. We could see from the drive that she has ample room for gardening. I suspect she has just a half dozen acres cleared for the homestead. Most of the rest is in hardwood and softwood forest. Speaking of forests, Rachel even chops her own wood, which we saw neatly piled behind the house. A more pleasant setting you would never find.

Anyway, thanks again to Rachel for the visit, the cranberry bread, and for making possible some forty-four years ago our association with one George Aldrich, computer tech extraordinaire and good friend. And George, Concetta and I liked your mom immediately and extended our invitation to come visit us (and you) anytime she feels like it. The guest room has her name on it whenever she's in town.

The balance of the day the Wanderers spent listening to one FABULOUS book on tape by a favorite author, Jack Higgins, rolling down the road in the direction of Chicago, and enjoying the scenery. We stopped for a very pleasant lunch in a state park off I39 called Lake Kegonza. The day was rather overcast and the light not very good for taking photos so, unfortunately, no scenics today. But for your viewing pleasure I include a shot of Rachel's old-time Aermotor windmill. I just love those things and would love to have one on our property.

I hope the sun's shining tomorrow. Word has it that there's a railroad museum just down the road from where we're camped off I90 above Chicago. However, my main thrust tomorrow is to introduce Concetta to the Field Museum on Chicago's lakeshore so that's where the Wanderers are headed next.

Stay tuned.

Breathing a sigh of relief

This morning, literally holding our breath, we headed back to the tire company to have our last two tires mounted and installed on the truck. After spending five hours yesterday getting four tires installed we were really apprehensive about going back. We didn't want to spend our whole day there. As we motored down the freeway we chanced a call and told them that we'd be in their shop in the next ten minutes. The front man told us that the new tires had arrived from the distributor and Derek was as we spoke mounting the first of the tires on one of our new wheels.

Soon after, we pulled up in front of the store and the crew set to work right away. We got there at 10:30 a.m. and we were unbelievably done an hour later, including remounting the spare underneath the coach. So, we now have six new tires, two new wheels, and we still have our new spare that we started out with underneath. All the other tires and the wheel that ended up on the ground along the freeway yesterday went into the dumpster.

Before we left town, we stopped by the Ford dealer, conveniently located next door to the tire shop, to inquire about any recalls for our 1996 E350 Ford. One of the maintenance men at our camp last night, a very helpful and friendly chap named Brent, said that there might be a recall on the cruise control, which was reported to catch fire. It was nice to find out that such was not the case for our 1996 coach.

Once we were out of the Ford dealer we set our sights on heading on down the road into Wisconsin. It had taken us two days to accomplish it, but we were finally clearing out of Minnesota, not the luckiest state that we have encountered, at least for the pocketbook.

The rest of the day we rolled down the interstate moving southeast. At one time I tried getting off and driving route 12, a secondary road that promised to be more rural in nature. We found so many 18-wheelers clogging the interstate (Sorry John) that it was kinda unnerving in view of our recent luck with tires. But that particular stretch of route 12 was just as busy and had a million stop lights to boot. So, we got back on the interstate.


Our special quest today was to find George Aldrich's mother's house just off I94 in Wisconsin. Mrs Aldrich lives in a beautiful area, though somewhat perplexing to find unless you're paying really close attention. Still, we eventually found the homestead and spent a half hour waiting to see if Mrs Alrich would show up. When she didn't, we left a message and headed back for the interstate where we had seen a camp site called, "Jellystone." Pretty original, hey?

Anyway, we soon missed an important turn and ended up way south of our intended camp site. So, when we wandered into Tomah we went ahead and cranked the address of the nearest KOA into the GPS and, well, here we are in beautiful downtown Oakdale, just eating some fresh trout, watching Pawn Stars on TV, and enjoying the good life.

George's mother's home was located in a truly beautiful forested area of Wisconsin and the log cabin-style construction was terrific (see photos above).

On the way to George's mother's house we chanced to pass a nice display of a vintage steam locomotive and two passenger cars that I just had to stop and photograph. I know not many of you are railroad fans, but for those who are, enjoy!

Just a sittin' and and a grinin'

Sitting in the morning sun
we'll be sitting when the evening comes
Watching the trucks roll in
And we watch 'em roll away again

Yes we're sittin' in the service bay
Watching the day roll away
We're just sitting in the service bay
Wasting time

We left our home in Carson
Headed for an eastern stay
'Cause we had nothing to wait for
looked like everything was headed our way

[chorus]
Looks like all the tires are gonna change
Hope nothing still remains the same
We can't leave 'till they do what they have to do
So I guess we'll remain all day

Sittin' here resting our bones
And this boringness won't leave us alone
It's three thousand miles we roamed
Just to make this tire store our home

Yes we're sittin' in the service bay
Watching the day roll away
We're just sitting in the service bay
Wasting time

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Yup, Otis Redding said it best. We're sitting in the tire store waiting and waiting and waiting while they turn a 60 minute job into an all-day affair. Of course we can't bitch too much. They did rescue us off the highway. Trouble is, we got back here at 2:00 p.m. It's now a quarter to five and they've finished precisely one tire. Not sure how anyone can move that slow, but Concetta and I are sitting in the waiting room -- thankfully air conditioned -- and wasting time.

Busted flat -- AGAIN!!!!

No one is going to believe this. I hardly believe it myself. This morning, first thing, we headed out to buy supplies and check on a recommended tire company to check on purchasing a new spare. After that, we intended to travel about a dozen miles away and purchase a new wheel on which to mount the spare for, as you remember from yesterday, the old wheel was the wrong one for this truck. On the way out of the tire company parking lot I told Concetta, "You know, I'm just going to replace both the front tires on this rig with new ones and use one of the front ones for a spare." Concetta thought that sounded like a good idea.

So, off we went, back into Minneapolis to find the wheel company. Passing the spot where we were broke down yesterday afternoon we headed west on I94 with a stiff side wind out of the south to keep us company. Something with as much surface mass as a motor home is understandably harder to keep on the highway when the wind is blowing so I didn't think anything of the fact that the truck was tracking a bit strange. Finally, however, I told Concetta that something didn't feel just right in the steering so I pulled over to the side of the freeway. At that point the tire on the right front wheel tore through the sidewall and "walked" right off the wheel. Sigh!



















So, here we are, sitting beside the freeway, as millions of cars roar by a couple of feet away. Naturally, I called the tire guy to whom we had just been speaking and asked him to come rescue me. In return, I offered, to purchase a whole new set of tires for the rig from him. That deal was immediately struck, though he had to go a little afield to find two of the six since he didn't have them on hand.

Then I called the wheel company in Minneapolis and asked if they made house calls. "Not normally," was their response.

"Well," I said, "this is kind of an emergency."

After hearing my tale of woe, the wheel company agreed to send a wheel out to our rig parked on the shoulder of I94.

Soon after, the tire company kid arrived, removed the shredded tire from the right front and took it back to his shop. A half hour later they called and said that the wheel might get me back to their shop if they put a used tire on it, but it was bent enough to not be safe to put back in service. SIGH!

Soooooo, I called the wheel company back and asked if the delivery boy hadn't left with the first wheel, to please load up a second wheel because I was going to need two. This deal was also struck, though the the delivery guy was already a mile away from the shop at the time. The wheel people graciously offered to call him back to pick up the other wheel.

I'm not sure how this is all going to end. We're not stuck in Lodi again, but it feels darn close. Ironic that this coach came from Lodi, isn't it?

The Flying Fickle Finger of Fate Falls Fast and Furious

Well, I guess our impeccable luck couldn't go on forever, Right? Coming out of Minneapolis we neatly blew out the inboard driver's side dualie, shredded it into a hundred different pieces, with a sound like we'd been hit with canon fire. Not satisfied with merely ruining a $150.00 tire, the errant rubber proceeded to thrash the aft locker full of sewer pipes and connections and trashed that, too. I (carefully) motored off the freeway at greatly reduced speed, flashers bleeping, and parked her beneath a convenient freeway overpass. After chocking the front wheels, I settled in with my phone to communicate with my (heretofore) trusty AAA card folks. They've never let me down before and have always responded cheerfully and, more important, swiftly to my emergencies.

Well, it appears as though they now intend to pay me back for all the cheerful service over the years. On the phone I got what can only be described as a complete idiot. You know the type. They ask you the same questions over and over again as if while sitting in the hot sun with a flat tire you'd be tempted to lie to them about where you are and what your problem is. Jeeze!

Anyway, in addition to being dense as a wheelbarrow full of sod, this woman proceeded to tell me that even though I am a "Plus" member at some $90.00 a year my card does not cover motor homes.

"What?" I said, I'm sure sounding incredulous. "When did you folks think you might let me in on that piece of news."

"Sorry, sir," she said, sounding bored. "Where did you say you were?"

"St Croix senic byway where it crosses I94," I said, perhaps for the fourth time.

"And what was your exit number?" she asked.

"Don't know," I said.

"Sir," she said, though I don't think sir was what she mentally was identifying me as, "I have 22,000 St Croix streets in the area."

I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. Had I inadvertently called the local funny farm? "Let me get this straight," I said. "Just east of Minneapolis on I94 you have 22,000 references to the St. Croix scenic byway."

Silence. Then, "What is your milepost, sir?"

Anyway, the conversation went on like that with the AAA bimbo asking a succession of repetitious, inane questions until she finally said that she'd have someone call me. Somehow, while I was out cutting the metal strapping off the side of the wheel well that had probably peeled the tread off our tire, I got said call from somebody but missed it. When I saw the message, I called the number back and got AAA in -- where else -- northern California. Thankfully, this time the AAA lady was both intelligent and thorough and soon had a dispatcher for AAA call me. The dispatcher called the fixit shop and they called me back. By this time, of course, we'd been sitting for over an hour. The fixit shop said they'd be another 90 minutes. So, here we sit, trying to act composed, while we wait and see if anyone in Minneapolis knows where the St. Croix parkway is located.

We do have a couple of pluses to our credit, however. For the first time I tried using the generator, which is currently humming away pleasantly. The second thing is, I tried my buddy Tennessee Don's suggestion for getting my mobile network connection to function and -- good God! -- the darn thing works perfectly. Thanks to Tennessee Don for his sleuthing on my behalf.

As you would expect, we have no idea just when the tow truck chap might appear around the bend. We're just hoping he knows where to come. I was able to go to Mapquest and easily find the St. Croix Scenic Byway off of I94 and learned that our exit is 258. Makes you wonder what sort of dumb pills the first AAA lady might have been taking when she (keeping in mind she does this for a living) tried to find the street on her list of 22,000 other streets. I'm just sorry I failed to learn her actual name as I'd love to refer to her by name here in the blog. Ah, missed opportunities.

It's just short of 6:00 p.m. and the fixit chap just drove up in an official-looking truck and immediately set to work on changing the tire. He seem appreciative that I parked the rig under the underpass where it's cool instead of leaving it up on the freeway.

Brian, our rescuer, immediately set about pulling off the tires on the driver's side of the RV. That all went well enough. He also checked my discovery that the passenger side inside dualie was low on air. "This is your problem with the low tire," Brian said, and showed me a air filler tube that had been worn part way through. He removed the filler tube and was able to pump the tire back up. "Those filler tubes have to be watched closely," Brian continued because they move around a lot.

Okay, I thought, we're looking good here. I continued to think those thoughts right up until I heard Brian cuss and I went over to see what problem he had encountered now. He said, "you got your spare on the wrong wheel for this rig. The bolt pattern is the same but the center hole is for a Chevy or something."

"What can we do," I asked.

"Well, we take the shredded one off its wheel and put the spare on."

"Wonderful," I said. And then Brian gave me a tip on just where I might find the proper wheel as well as a tip for what kind of tires to buy that would hold up better than my Chinese tire lookalikes, information I am almost certain to find useful in the future.

Around about 7:00 p.m., an hour after he arrived, Brian air gunned the last bolt into place, lowered the RV off the jack, and I pulled out the chocks. Moments later we were on the road again. Not wanting to press my luck for the evening, I took the back roads to a camp Concetta had found in the immediate area, which although closed for the evening when we arrived, opened the gates and motioned us in. Thank goodness for small favors at this point.

The next thing I had to do was determine just how much was damaged by the flying shards of steel-belted radial as it ate into my sewer access locker. To my surprise, the carnage (not counting the side wall of the locker) was limited to the 90-degree-angle end piece to the flexible sewer pipe. Wonder of wonders, the one gadget that came with the RV in duplicate, was a 90-degree-angle sewer pipe fitting. I just pried out the old one and clamped on the new one and I was in business. I tested the line by dumping the black water tank and nothing leaked. Whoopie!

My garden hoses (water filler and sewer clean-out) went through the maelstrom unscathed, thankfully. But the tray that I had bought at Home Depot to contain all these various parts was a total loss, however, and currently rests in about nine pieces. So, it could have been a lot worse. We're thankful that we got out from under that overpass before dark. I really wasn't looking forward to sleeping with a .38 under my pillow.

Headed for Minneapolis

This morning when we'd packed up the motorhome and made sure that we'd not forgotten to unplug stuff, we headed south on state route 81 for a short distance, then jumped on Interstate 90 east. Our intention was to head toward Minneapolis but we wanted to stick with secondary roads if we could. The first opportunity I found on the map was Highway 60 which, more or less, headed on a diagonal toward the twin cities area from the Interstate, though it became another highway before you had reached the halfway point. We hadn't made any specific plans to visit anything along the way. We just wanted to put some miles on the truck, plug in a good thriller on the CD player, and watch the fields full of feed corn and soy beans blow by.

For the past couple of days we've been listening to a Robert Crais mystery, though I wish I had tossed it out the window on the second disk. Robert is a native of my home county, Los Angeles, and I have read his works before. But after several days of listening to an absolutely exquisite thriller by my favorite author of such works, Hammond Innes, Robert Crais' effort was rather dismal by comparison. Thankfully, today's book is by Jack Higgins, another long-time favorite of mine and he is so far doing an admirable job. By the way, I gave the Robert Crais book to the camp host of our municipal camp tonight and won't have to look at it any more. Sorry Robert.

Anyway, we're headed northeast on Hwy 60 today, just minding our own business, when about mid-day we go sailing past a wide spot in the highway called Mountain Lake. Just out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of a large, white building with the words, "Telephone Museum" emblazoned on the side. My dear father worked for three decades for the Western Electric Company, a supplier of much equipment to the various telephone companies.

"Did you see that?" I said to Concetta.

"What?"

"The telephone museum sign."

"No," she said.

"Well, we haven't had our cultural stop for the day, you know."

"Go ahead and go back," she said, and braced herself for a radical U-turn.

It turns out the Mountain Lake folks hold an open house at their Heritage Village ONCE A YEAR and we just happened to stumble upon it on just the right day. These folks have pulled old historic buildings from around the area into one location encompassing about an acre or two in size and outfitted the buildings with appropriate furnishings. The restored structures range from a railroad station to a school house, from a general store to a blacksmith shop. In fact, just about every type of business you can think of is represented. On their one day a year open house they all dress up in costume, staff all the buildings, and serve up homemade food enough to satisfy everyone's tastes, both residents and visitors. We were just thrilled.

Concetta and I wandered throughout the grounds for about an hour taking in as much as we could absorb. All the docents were wonderfully friendly and outgoing and made our visit as enjoyable as we could hope for. We especially liked the ladies in the farmhouse who showed us their waffle makers designed to sit atop a wood-burning stove (photo above).

In the train station we looked up when a terrible racket began to emanate from a nearby room. I stuck my head in the door and caught the pictured conductor "playing" a terribly out-of-tune player piano, though the state of the tuning didn't appear to bother the old gent at all. I think he was hopeful that I'd come in and listen to he music, but I nevertheless beat a hasty retreat.

The Mountain Lake folks had a marvelously beautiful day for their festivities. We certainly thank them for their enthusiastic efforts and for their willingness, one and all, to make us feel welcome though they'd never laid eyes on us before.

The Mountain Lake Heritage festival was actually only one of two exciting adventures we had today. The second was -- are you ready for this -- washing the motor home. Lord, I never, ever tried to wash something so big. If you've been reading this blog you know that we have systematically been collecting six states worth of bugs, road grime, and campfire smoke on the ol' Tioga. It looked like a rolling science experiment.

But the general filthy condition of the coach wasn't the worst part. The worst part was that we drove it into one of those do-it-yourself car washes where you feed your quarters into the slot and then rush like hell to finish before your time runs out. Before I finished, I had fed in about a week's allowance worth of quarters and large bills and worked like the sorcerer's apprentice trying to scrub that massive thing with a brush, then rinse it off completely before the bell announced my time was up.

Meanwhile, the soapy brush was busily spewing out what seemed like acres of sudsy foam faster than I could actually deal with it. Even weirder, the foam came out in a wild kaleidoscope of colors that would have sent some of my former roommates from the sixties into never, never land. I had to brush furiously on every part of the coach I could reach or, if I had stood in one spot, the suds would have buried me. It reminded me of one of those old sitcoms, probably "I love Lucy," where the inexperienced housewife puts too much soap in the washing machine and it proceeds to fill the room with suds.

Once the coach was all covered with the kaleidoscope of suds, I then had to try and get off all that soap while I still had time on the machine. The result was a veritable blur of washing, rinsing, re-washing places I'd missed, and re-rinsing. Of course the coach is so big, thirty feet, that I couldn't reach the rear at all. The hoses were too short. In the end, the rig looks pretty good and I got most of the worst of the bug splatters off the front. I think the next time I need the darn thing washed I'm going to find one of those high school charity car washes and turn it over to the youngsters. They need the money.

We actually had one more adventure today before the sun dipped below the horizon: we tried to barbecue some vegetables and a couple of steaks. Now normally this would not have been a big deal. Most campgrounds have a barbecue pit or steel cage to make your barbecuing experience a pleasurable one. But here in Madelia, in the municipal park camp, they provide you with a large steal wheel, probably from some long defunct 18-wheeler,and call it good. I studied the wheel, at least I did after I stole one from a nearby empty camp since our camp had no such wheel. I could see where I could easily fill the cavity of the wheel with charcoal and make myself a nice little fire. But since there was no actual grilling surface to go over the wheel, I could not see how the steaks would be cooked. Hmmm.

Finally I decided that I'd just take some of the firewood that we've been carrying since Carson City and build myself a little square, log cabin style, inside the cavernous wheel. Into the square I'd dump my charcoal. And over the square I could put the little 12" diameter screen that we'd found in a grocery store somewhere in South Dakota. It all seemed very logical and easy.

Anyway, that's what I did. Only problem was that the wood was so dry that it instantly caught fire, even better than the charcoal. Now I had this roaring fire that could have cooked a whole buffalo and still nothing to cook on.

So, for my next trick I scrounged around the camp area for large rocks or rock-like items. I finally managed to collect an igneous rock about the size of a football and what could only be described as a concrete stepping stone about ten inches in diameter. Placing these things on either side of my fire (it had begun to die down a bit once I removed some of the wood -- at great danger to myself I might add), I propped two slender pieces of wood between the igneous rock and the stepping stone in a sort of A-frame configuration and then rested the 12" diameter screen on top of the sticks and then Concetta's foil-wrapped potatoes, onions, and carrots on the screen. At last, success.

Or that's what I thought. I sat down to have our vodka and cranberry cocktail and chat a moment with the park host who had motored by on her golf cart. Occasionally I'd glance over to check the progress of the food. Suddenly, I caught sight of the tin foil drop straight down into the fire. I leaped up and ran over and saw immediately that the two sticks that I had used to prop up the whole cooking arrangement had burned right through.

Fortunately I was able to rescue the packet with loss of only one potato wedge. In disgust I abandoned the whole thing and dragged out the camp stove. Note to self: next time bring a grill topper for those rare times when no such appliance is provided. Might take a bit of wire-brushing after each use before it could be stowed, but it sure would make life a lot simpler.

Crickets and stuff

Back home in Carson City I've notice that the crickets have been extra loud this summer. I've not done any real research on the subject to see why they might be cricketing extra loud, but Wikipedia says "there are four types of cricket songs: the calling song which attracts females and repels other males, and is fairly loud; the courting song which is used when a female cricket is near, and is a very quiet song; an aggressive song which is triggered by chemoreceptors (how about that for a cool word) on the antennae that detect the near presence of another male cricket; and a copulatory song that is produced for a brief period after a successful mating."

The reason I bring this up is because here in Salem, South Dakota, at the Campground America park near Interstate 90, the crickets are obviously planning to take over the world, aid a new wave of hijackers, or perhaps invade some ballistic missile site. The reason I think this is the sound that they are making in the canopy of trees over our heads is without a doubt the LOUDEST I've ever heard anywhere. The buggers have got to be pissed at something bigtime. I just hope it isn't me personally. The sound can only be compared to someone cutting a very hard piece of steal with a hacksaw. I even wandered around for a few minutes trying to spot them. I figured that any creature who could make that kind of racket ought to be at least as big as my fist and be perfectly visible to the naked eye. I didn't see them, but I'm not convinced they're not up there -- plotting. I hope the military is on high alert this next week after reading this blog.

Speaking of bugs, I know that people always joke about the quantity of bugs in the mid west. Having lived in Illinois and Tennessee for varying amounts of time I can attest to the fact that bugs seem to like the country's humid mid section the best. In the past I've watched scientific programs on TV that postulate that were man to disappear from the earth (and take their bug sprays, fly swatters, and electronic zappers with them) that the bugs would soon evolve into masters of the universe. Well, in my opinion, here in South Dakota the little fellows are trying to get a head start on that process. You literally can't do anything outside without troops of winged creatures zeroing in on you and making every effort to establish a beach head.

Tonight, the air was so perfect here in Salem that we naturally wanted to eat outside. The food and wine WERE extra good au naturale, but the multi-species invaders made it necessary to have my electronic "persuader" at the ready. Sorry to say that a good number of them will not be going home to feed the little ones tonight. Mom will just have to tell the kiddies that dad was off on his usual adventure and no doubt died they way he lived -- in someone's face.

Anyway, I was taking a look at the exterior of the RV this evening and came to the realization that there are probably entomologists out there who, if they were to see the Tioga, would immediately insist on quarantining the coach until they could study the 6,352 different samplings thereon. Ultimately, I don't think a mere wash is going to clean up this thing. I think I need a giant Brillo pad. Or maybe I'll just wait a tad longer and I'll be able to shovel the the whole group into a dumpster if one that size could be found.

I think I told you about my new bug zapper. I found it at the Raley's supermarket. It's a badminton racket-shaped, handheld, battery-operated device that, when the button is held down and the racket is placed over a fly or mosquito or some such, every other wire is activated with either a positive or negative charge. When the bothersome creature flies onto the grid of wires a small electric current passes from the negative wire to the positive wire and right through him. This renders him dead in a micro second. No frantic swings of the now obsolute swatter are required. Often the bugs like the bright yellow color so much they'll come investigate on their own. This makes your job so much easier.

Wish I'd have thought of this idea. I actually have a buddy who had a full fledged, 110 volt version of one of these near his horse coral. I saw it years ago, but never projected the idea into the portable realm as the inventor of my gadget probably did. I'm sure the inventor is even now sipping a cocktail on his deck overlooking the Pacific Ocean in Malibu, Hawaii or the Italian Amalfi Coast. Wish I had been born with a few of those entrepreneurial genius cells between my ears.

So, that's my rant on bugs this evening. I'm sure there's someone out there who is actively figuring a way that they can turn common bugs into household pets. Humans have done it with everything else on the planet. To them I suspect that I'm no better than a common murderer. To them I say, however fondly, "NUTS!"

Good night and good reading!

If it's Friday it must (still) be South Dakota

Dear reader. If you’ve been hanging on every word of this blog for the past week and a half you know that you had nothing to read this morning with your coffee. That’s because the camp last night had no internet and my mobile device, the infernal thing, continues to tell me that it can’t find a signal. Oh well. So, here we are in the “Camp America” RV park in the metropolis of Salem, South Dakota. It’s mid afternoon and we’ve decided to pack it in and do some laundry, take it easy, and bring the blog up to date. Guess which one of us got the laundry?

Anyway, we didn’t really get very far yesterday. From our camp on the fringe of the Bad Lands we traveled north and east to the capital of South Dakota, Pierre. Concetta and I say the name as if it were the surname of that infamous master of Le Gillotine, Robes Pierre. However, here in South Dakota they pronounce the name of their capital as if it was a wooden structure to which you tied your boat on the edge of a river.

Our plan yesterday morning was to drive north and east to Highway 14, through Pierre, and then on to the border of Minnesota and South Dakota. Well, we didn’t make it. Once in Pierre, we simply couldn’t pass up the chance to tour the state capitol building, which, if you’ve never seen it, is truly a magnificent edifice. Everyone we’ve met in South Dakota has been overboard friendly, including the Capitol policeman who invited us down to the Governor’s office to get a photograph of Concetta sitting in the Governor’s chair. Well, who could pass up that opportunity. Naturally, as we often do, we saw an advertisement for the state’s museum while touring the Capitol basement and just couldn’t leave town without seeing it, too.

So it was that it very soon got to be late afternoon and we not only hadn’t found our camp site for the day, we hadn’t even done the grocery shopping we had planned to do so we could actually cook something for dinner. Fortunately, the museum guard knew just where we could find the local Wally World and we jumped into the RV and headed over there. Once the shopping was done, we consulted the AAA guide to find the closest camp site. The sun hadn’t set yet so we thought we were home free. Au Contrar.

As it happens, since May South Dakota has been the victim of much flooding of the Missouri River with water broaching the river banks by several feet and flooding whatever happened to be in the way. The first camp site we sought out, which happened to be right in the middle of town, had been the unfortunate recipient of a bit more water than it was designed to handle. The waterline I saw on the main building in camp was about three feet over the foundation. Shucks! We knew immediately that we wouldn’t be staying there.

Fortunately, the Davis luck was running high and the very next camp site we found, only four or five miles out of town, had been flooded in some parts but other, higher parts were completely fine.

We selected a nice, dry piece of ground beside a spreading forest of trees, hooked up our electric, and settled in for the night. The camp didn’t have water, sewer, or internet, but we had all the ambience of a tree-shaded paradise beside the mighty Missouri, a cheery lantern, and one of Concetta’s prize-winning fritatas for dinner. Best of all, the cost of the camp site was a very affordable six bucks. Wonderful.

To bring you up to date on another important subject, you may remember that yesterday, while in camp near the little town of “Interior,” South Dakota, I attempted a repair on the rooftop refrigerator coil shield that I had damaged by dragging it along a very, very large tree in Bozeman, Montana. My repair material of choice was the side walls of a gallon jug of spring water that I had picked out specifically for it’s resemblance to the contours of the part I had damaged. After spending an hour applying a product called “Goop” and attempting to make cut-out portions of the water bottle stick to the rubber-like material of the broken shield, I was somewhat disgusted with the result. I really didn’t think it was sticking worth a damn, still I decided that I would let it cure, then drive the motor home for a whole day. If the patches were still in place by the end of the day then I’d use some silicone sealant that I had brought along and fill in whatever parts of the patch hadn’t stuck well to make it water tight. Well, I have to tell you that my makeshift patches held for the day and have now been thoroughly sealed. I have high hopes that they will last the remainder of our voyage. They don’t look pretty, but they certainly do work.

Today, we had hopes of finding a reliable old Mickey Ds to post this blog, but after miles of nothing but corn, soy beans, and sun flowers we finally gave up that idea. So here we are in Salem, which is a tiny town just west of Sioux City, South Dakota. Yes, I know we had hoped to be in Minnesota tonight but the fates had other ideas. Our only diversion today was stumbling into Laura Ingalls Wilder’s home town and we stopped to check it out. The little old ladies tried to get us to go on an hour-long tour of everything Laura ever touched in town, but we begged off citing an important appointment down the road. We settled for shooting a pix or three of her school house and the surrounding gardens then we were back on the road.

I guess we were lucky that we stopped early today because there’s been a constant succession of Rvs coming in after us. The park is filling up fast. They only have two washing machines in the laundry area and we were first on the scene. Let that be a lesson to us. This place also has the added benefit of having an impromptu antiques and book store in one half of the office. Now what more in life could you want? I’ve already checked it out but so far have resisted buying anything.

Tomorrow? Well, we haven’t decided on tomorrow. I don’t know wether we’ll head back north before we head east (we had to drop south to the interstate to find this park) or whether we’ll just head toward Sioux City and decide from there. As you might guess the RV parks are more numerous on the interstates, but so too are the travelers. Last night was really nice because we had the half-filled park, the Missouri River, and us. No noise or other distractions. Just lots of quiet and cool breezes. So, until we rack up a few more adventures, I bid you adieu.

P.S. I’m thinking the Prairie museum north of here sounds pretty interesting.

On the trail of ancient mammoths

Last night we camped south of the Mount Rushmore area near the wonderfully picturesque town of Hot Springs, South Dakota. Our camp, identified simply as the "Hot Springs KOA," was not as scenically situated as some of our previous choices. And truck drivers decelerating out on the main road did so using their "Jake Brakes" instead of their wheel brakes, which meant a lot of racket from time to time. But the owner, a tall slender man named John, was one of the nicest camp hosts we've yet encountered. When I was unable to figure out the intricacies of his WiFi last night after trying for a good hour, John came to the RV and personally fixed the problem. I would, therefore, consider camping their again and unhesitatingly recommend this camp for other travelers coming John's way.

Today, our major goal was to navigate our way to a local museum and archaeological site known simply as, "The Mammoth Site." Short name; very impressive museum. The reason for the museum's existence can be traced to a chap intent on bulldozing off several acres of land in Hot Springs to build a tract of houses. But after several cuts into the hillside, the giant blade began to uncover bones -- very large bones. Fortunately, the builder not only halted his dozer driver, but agreed to turn the property over to a private non-profit that had been hurriedly formed to purchase the property. The builder magnanimously agreed to sell the property for his original purchase price.

This all took place back in, if I remember right, 1974. Working at first out in the open, then under the protection of a simple shed roof, volunteers began to unearth a vast cache of Mammoth bones, even some complete skeletons. Over the years, with lots of donations of time and money, the non-profit group has been able to erect a complete museum over the bone site, a piece of ground approximately 85 feet by 150 feet. Only 2% of the bone bed was not covered by the museum.

The reason for the bone bed is really fascinating. Tens of thousands of years ago a strata of ground, composed mostly of limestone, was covered by many feet of a much harder substance. At some point the limestone started to melt away as water was introduced from below. This formed a large cave. Later, when the size of the cave grew beyond the ability of the surface material to support it's own weight, the surface material fell into the cave. Once this happened and the ground water rose to near the surface, the old cave became a lake. Because the water in the old cave/new lake was warm, much vegetation grew up around the new watering hole.

This water and vegetation proved irresistible to animals, especially mammoths. Unfortunately, since the surface material that overlay the limestone was especially slick in nature the mammoths would put one foot on it and slide uncontrollably into the lake. Since these huge creatures couldn't climb out again they simply sank to the bottom and became part of the buildup of sediment that eventually filled the entire lake over a period of thirty thousand years or so. Because the contents of the lake contained gypsum and other "cement-like" substances, the filled lake turned out to be much harder than the surrounding terrain. This caused it to erode much slower, which then caused the one-time lake to become a hill in modern times.

Now, since the entire lake contents, which descend to a depth of some 65 feet, is under the protecting cover of the museum roof, archaeology professionals and students can excavate at their leisure. The result is a "dig" that is nothing short of outstanding. I hope the photos do it some justice.

Tonight we're holed up in the "Bad Lands" (photo right) of South Dakota in a KOA near, of all places, the village of "Interior," population 77. I tried for the first hour after we parked to glue some patches over the roof cover that I massacred back in Bozeman. I have some glue that guarantees to glue anything to anything, but I had mixed results. I used hunks of plastic water bottle which seemed to have the proper curves in the proper places to seal the corners of the lid that were especially hard hit by the giant tree I inadvertently kissed up against. We'll see in the morning. Maybe I can seal whatever didn't glue with silicone roof sealant. Who knows? I'd just like to keep most of the rain out if possible.

Tomorrow we plan on heading toward the Capital of South Dakota in Pierre. Not only would we like to see it, but it lies north of I90 and will allow us to drive secondary roads all the way to Minnesota. For those of you wondering if we visited Wall's Drug in Wall, South Dakota, we did. Not only did I want to see the business founded in 1931 since I'd seen it on TV on more than one occasion, but I wanted to find a good American pocket knife that I could hang on my key chain. Well, we accomplished the first part of the quest, but the second part of the quest proved virtually impossible. Why? Because all the knives, no matter what price range, were made in China. Heavy sigh!

We are our history

The most important lesson I've learned on this trip was brought home to me even more powerfully today. It's this: you're never more certain of what it means to be American than when you're immersed in its history. In my life I've walked the grassy fields of Valley Forge, explored the narrow passages beneath Boulder Dam, trod the deck of a whaling ship in Connecticut, threaded my way up the spiral steps of the Statue of Liberty, gazed out the lofty windows of the Gateway Arch in St. Louis, even sat on the banks of the mighty Mississippi in Tennessee and watched a thunderstorm roll toward me like a speeding passenger train. I'm not sure at the time I truly grasped the significance of any of those experiences.

But on this trip, as we learned about General Custer and his violent end on a grassy piece of prairie known as the Little Big Horn, or today, as we learned about the hardship and dedication that went into constructing one of American's premier historic landmarks, Mount Rushmore, I can honestly say that I get it. I really get it.

Later, as we visited our second landmark of the day, the Crazy Horse memorial where a man named Korczak Ziółkowski, a Boston-born sculptor of Polish descent, almost single-handedly took on the task of carving that famous native American out of a living mountain, our emotions were just swept away. As Concetta and sat in the darkened auditorium and listened to what the Korczak went through to accomplish his task (Crazy Horse is still in progress after over fifty years) both of us came away with tears in our eyes and a new appreciation for the sacrifice that many ordinary Americans have made in order to make this country great.

If you have not seen the Custer battlefield, or Mount Rushmore, or the Crazy Horse memorial, I suggest you put these places on your itinerary for next time. While you're at it, all those other places I mentioned are pretty darn memorable, too.

Concetta cooked us up a passel of sausage, red beans, and rice for dinner tonight. Since I'd been working on the blog and photographs while she cooked (and did the laundry) I proposed a toast when she sat down at our diminutive dining table to eat. "A toast," I said, "to one of the best days on the road we've had yet." She just stared at me. "Not counting the laundry," I said, and she grimaced at me but raised her glass.

I recount this story to illustrate that being on the road isn't all cocktails and cheese platters by the park pool. Not by a long shot. Yesterday, as I explained (briefly) last night, we couldn't get internet access at all. In their infinite wisdom the RV folks had situated us just fifty feet or so BEYOND the outer limits of their WiFi access point. Tonight, try as I might, I could not get on line. My computer would happily connect to the RV park router but would not get to the outside world. They had parked me, at my insistence, right next to the access point. In desperation, I had to get the park owner over to explain to me why I could ping his router but not get out. This is where I learned just how my old customers felt when I would respond to their IT problems. The owner sat down at my laptop showing the big red X where the connection should be, changed access points (which I had already done without success) and immediately connected. Oh, well. I've looked like an idiot before and trust that it won't be the last time.

On this road trip I swear I've been gouged, sliced, banged, burned, and have generally lost more skin than when I was building the garden shed last summer. We've been beset by yellow jackets, plagued by flies, and showered with swarms of grasshoppers. You never know from mile to mile just which one of God's creatures is going to take a liking to you and try to move in. I've already recounted dropping the passenger-side wheels into an unseen hole while trying to park on a city street and trashing the protective cover of my refrigerator coils. I'm still trying to get used to just how high, wide and handsome (well, at least the first two) the machine is. Yesterday I easily zapped a carefully-placed highway sign (thank goodness a small one) as we drove through one town. Today, I just caught myself before I turned too quickly and unceremoniously removed the overhead lighting to a gas pump island.

The photo at right is at the Crazy Horse memorial. I'm standing inside the museum and shooting the memorial's horse head model, the whole memorial likeness is just outside the window, and in the distance you can see the mountain where the family of Korczak Ziółkowski carries on his work. Korczak died in 1982, but his wife and most of his children (He had five boys and five girls) carry on his work to this day. This afternoon, as we made for the exit, we actually saw the wife and one of the daughters walk right up to us. We were so stunned to see her (right out of the movie we'd just watched), but Concetta was able to compliment her on the job they were doing as well as the outstanding quality of the visitor center. The whole of the project, by the way, has no government money of any kind. It's funded through proceeds from the visitor center and from outside private donations.

Here's the specifications for the memorial from Wikipedia: The monument is being carved out of Thunderhead Mountain on land considered sacred by some Oglala Lakota, between Custer and Hill City, South Dakota, roughly 17 miles from Mount Rushmore. The sculpture's final dimensions are planned to be 641 feet (195 m) wide and 563 feet (172 m) high. The head of Crazy Horse will be 87 feet (27 m) high; by comparison, the heads of the four U.S. Presidents at Mount Rushmore are each 60 feet (18 m) high.

The photo at left is of our trusty Ford ensconced beneath the lofty Ponderosa Pines on the Rafter J Bar RV ranch near Mill City, South Dakota. Even though the internet service was lacking, the setting was to die for. They gave us the end site on the edge of a broad meadow surrounded by these wonderful old pines. This morning, as the sun came up, I lifted the bedroom blind and was blessed with a panoramic view of the full sweep of Mother Nature's handiwork. It was magnificent.

This evening we're enjoying the hospitality of the KOA in Hot Springs, South Dakota, a place I (and probably you) have never heard of. But in this little burg, population 3711 as of the latest census, we intend to, as the brochure puts it, "Experience an Ice Age museum filled with huge fossils displayed just as they were found." Now I have my doubts that the museum has been around since the ice age, I'll forgive them that piece of grammatical tomfoolery, but the brochure goes on to say that they have no less than 58 "Columbian and wooly mammoths." This we've got to see. AND, as an added touch, the folks here at the KOA have told us in confidence that the museum staff have recently discovered a couple more of the long-extinct creatures bringing their total to sixty! Obviously, tomorrow promises to be every bit as exciting as today.

Mount Rushmore

At the present time I'm sitting atop a high voltage box in our RV park, using the laptop, because the signal back at our motor home is so weak it keeps cutting out. Not sure why I continue to have so much luck with internet connection. My mobile connection device seems to care little for where we are. It says, "connecting" for an eternity and never does actually connect. Appears to be largely useless to me. Anyway, I'll try and bring you more information when I don't have to blaze a trail on foot into the forest to find an internet connection. Sitting on this high voltage thingy is making my fillings hum so, for now, I'll say goodbye and be back with you soon.

Walking in the footsteps of history

Today I got to do something I've wanted to do for at least the last fifty years: visit the Little Big Horn battlefield. Unlike most normal humans, I've been totally addicted to American history from my earliest elementary school days. I never pass up an opportunity to read about historic events, visit historic places, or put my hands on historic things. Today, I got to do all three and I was in heaven. Fortunately, I married a woman who is equally fascinated with history. Though she is far less likely to haul historic items home the way I do, Concetta is always game for being dragged to yet another historic site. Lucky for me.

We scheduled virtually nothing for today but visiting the scene of Custer's last stand, located in the rolling hills of southeastern Montana and only 35 miles or so from last night's camp in Billings. Though I had some trepidation that sufficient room would exist for us to park our thirty-foot motor home at the site, it turned out that there was more than enough room for a dozen such vehicles. The price was nominal and the route well marked and soon we were headed for my long sought after goal.

The first thing we did was take a seat in an outdoor patio to listen to a park service employee give a thirty-minute detailed account of the events leading up to the 7th Calvary's last battle. Let me just tell you that the guy was so knowledgeable and so enthusiastic about his subject that he easily surpassed any of the history professors I ever had for shear "listen-ability." By the time the speaker had finished the entire audience was chaffing at the bit to get out on the hilltops and into the various coulees to try and locate each and every one of the graves of the various troopers who met their end June 26, 1876. He was just that good.

One of the things that stuck with me about George Custer was, despite the fact that many people consider him a failure for the demise of a hefty portion of the 7th Calvary, he was a darn talented military commander. During the Civil War he was one of the youngest generals in the Union Army at age 23. You don't get to be a General at age 23 by being unimpressive as a soldier.

I always assumed that one would have to stand on the summit of Last Stand Hill and look out over the low hills and grassy valleys surrounding the Little Big Horn to have any chance of grasping the significance of the battle. In that I was dead on. Between the spirited descriptions of park employees and the physical effects of standing on the wind-swept summit of Last Stand imagining yourself trying to hold off thousands of native Americans with a single-shot rifle you become totally immersed in the drama. Wow! I just loved it.

After a brief break for lunch, Concetta and I signed up for a guided tour of the entire battle area, including those positions occupied by Reno and Benteen's men five miles off to the east. Our guide, a native American, gave us some of the "rest of the story" filling us in on her ancestor's movements on the day of the battle as well as acquainted us with stories told after the battle by surviving Native American warriors. It was powerful, very powerful.

So it was that the clock read 4:00 p.m. by the time we finally loaded up for the trip to our evening camp site. Not wanting to spend the afternoon on the interstate, we chose instead highway 212 that headed, more or less, straight east out of the Little Big Horn area. Triple A said that there was only one small camp in that direction, in the town of Broadus, which I know you've never heard of. We never had, either. But though we sailed right by the camp located two miles west of town and had to ask at the local gas station where we'd missed it, we easily found it on the second try located just off the highway in a stand of trees. I didn't hold out much hope of being impressed with the "Wayside Mobile RV park," and its sixteen spaces, but I was pleasantly surprised when they had full hookups, a 30 amp electric, individual sewer connections, AND Wifi!! Man, you just never know. The price was just half of what the folks in Billings charged us for a site wedged between two other RVs. Here, I could barely hit our neighbor RV with a tossed stone.