Day 27 -- Yipsilani, Michigan to Swanton, Ohio -- 76 Miles

This past weekend, having been a real energy-drainer, we took our time this morning having breakfast, packing up, and getting on the road. Normally we try to get rolling by 9:00 a.m., but today it was every bit of 10:30 before we cranked up the V-10 and eased out of camp.

Our plans contained nothing special. We knew I wanted to head toward Detroit from our camp in Yipsilanti using Interstate 94. Along the way we knew we'd encounter Route 275 south toward Toledo, Ohio. And we knew we wanted to break away from Route 275 (which becomes Interstate 75) and head west to Monroe, Michigan, so we could photograph a larger-than-life statue of George Armstrong Custer, who called Monroe home. We also knew we wanted to continue south and west from Monroe on Route 24 so that we could stop, perhaps for lunch, at the post Revolution "Fallen Timbers" battlefield site in Ohio.

Turned out that our somewhat brief time on the Interstate went as smooth as pie. A lot of 18-wheelers as usual, but no real problems. The GPS got us a little off track as we left Interstate 75 and headed west on Michigan Route 50. As reached the outskirts of Monroe, the GPS suddenly decided we should veer to the north and bypass the town. At that point we turned off the silly computer, and I took over and headed back to the town's main street.

Concetta soon found the address of a church which is across the street from the statue, and before we knew it, we had found a large parking lot next to the Raisin River and parked. Then it was a simple matter to walk a hundred yards and start snapping our photos. Only problem we encountered was that the sun kept going behind clouds, which made it extremely difficult to get a decent shot of the very dark statue.

This is what wikipedia has to say about the statue: "the George Armstrong Custer Equestrian Monument, also known as Sighting the Enemy, is an equestrian statue of General George Armstrong Custer by Edward Clark Potter, located in Monroe, Michigan. The statue was designated as a Michigan Historic Site on June 15, 1992, and was listed on the National Register of Historic Places on December 9, 1994."

"While Custer was not born in Monroe, he lived much of his early childhood there with relatives and attended the schools in Monroe. During his youth, he met his future wife Elizabeth Bacon, whom he returned to marry in 1864. Custer left Monroe to attend the United States Military Academy and fight in the Civil War."

"Because of his hard work and success during the war, as well as the Union's need for officers, he was promoted to the rank of Major General and became a very well-known military figure. After the Civil War, he fought in the Indian Wars in the West. His previous accomplishments in the Civil War, however, were overshadowed by his catastrophic defeat and death at the Battle of the Little Big Horn on June 25, 1876."

"To honor him, a $24,000, 14-foot bronze equestrian statue, sculpted by Edward Clark Potter, was unveiled in Monroe in June 1910 by President William Howard Taft and the widowed Elizabeth Bacon Custer. The statue commemorates his successful actions during the Civil War and not his more well-known defeat in 1876."

Once we had satisfied our need to pay our respects to General Custer, we jumpted back on Ohio Route 24 and let the not-always-trustworthy GPS take us to our next destination, that of the Fallen Timbers battlefield site. I know I must have encountered the subject of Fallen Timbers sometime in my studies of the Old Northwest in the 19th Century, but I don't nearly enough to relate it to you.

The National Park Service website has this to say about Fallen Timbers: "On August 20, 1794, Maj. Gen. Anthony Wayne led troops of the Legion of the United States from their fort at Roche de Bout. The left wing and flanking militia from Kentucky crossed level but poorly-drained land containing dense forest and underbrush. After a 5-mile march, the mounted volunteers came upon a line of 1,100 Indian warriors from a confederation of Ohio and Great Lakes Indian tribes."

"The militia volunteers retreated around the legion's front guard. The front guard returned fire while retreating but eventually fled. The warriors closely pursued the soldiers of the front guard until a light infantry skirmish line forced the Indians to seek shelter amid timbers that had been felled a few years before by a tornado."

"The legion's right wing was under heavy fire from the concealed warriors, who broke down an effort to flank them from the river. The left flank of soldiers charged, inflicting heavy casualties on the Indians and driving them from the field. Wayne's scouts tracked the Indians to the mouth of Swan Creek, but they were not engaged. After regrouping his troops, Wayne held his position into the afternoon. With no Indian counter-attack, Wayne set up camp on high ground overlooking the foot of the rapids, within sight of Fort Miamis."

"In the following days Wayne's men returned to the battlefield to collect the wounded and equipment. Two officers and 15 to 17 soldiers were buried, but hard-soil conditions deterred soldiers from burying more men. The entire legion marched back through the battlefield on August 23 as they returned to Roche de Bout."

"The Battle of Fallen Timbers, August 20, 1794, has been called the “last battle of the American Revolution” and one of the three most important battles in the development of our nation. The decisive victory by the Legion of the United States over a confederacy of Indian tribes opened the Northwest Territory, a five-state region unceeded by the native inhabitants, for westward expansion and led to Ohio’s statehood in 1803."

Of course there is nothing to see at Fallen Timbers today. However, the Park Service has done an excellent job of laying out a circular trail system encompassing the park that is complete with informational signs every hundred feet or so. These signs are very, very informative detailing every aspect of the battle. In addition, the very forest in which you're walking is hushed with just a bit of filtered light coming through the trees making it easy to visualize the opposing forces firing on each other in the gloom.

In a moment of exuberance, Concetta and I decided to walk the entire trail that probably is between 1.5 and 2 miles long. Much is in the cool of the forest, but a significant portion is out in the hot sunshine. So if you go, be prepared with a hat and a bottle of water.

One of the great things about today's hike was the variety of the local flora, which included quite a variety of trees and bushy undergrowth when we were in the forest, and a huge variety of weeds and wildflowers when we emerged into the sunlight. Many of the weeds were extraordinarily colorful and interesting. I tried to take photos of everything, but naturally there is only so much room to show you here.

When we had made it back to the rig from our hike, we set off in search of a local campsite. There didn't seem to be too many, especially ones with full hookups. When we arrived at the closest camp, a shady spot in the world called Big Sandy, we discovered that they, too, lacked full hookups. But we went ahead and paid our fee, selected a site, and settled in for the night. Unfortunately, the electrics here at Big Sandy are marginal at best.

Ours seemed to work fine until another camper came in and hooked up to the same electric tree that we were using. Once he ran the cable to his rig and powered up, our electric quit working and I had to get out my extension cable and run our cable to a post forty feet away before we had power. I'm not going to leave ours there as someone might come in tonight and need it. So now we're on battery power and contemplating going to bed so we can get up early and hit the road.

And when you set out on the two-lanes to pursue your dream vacation, the Happy Wanderers wish you happy travels and exciting destinations AND an abundance of electric power.

Day 26 -- All Day in the Henry Ford Museum -- 46 Miles to and from camp

I was halfway to the museum entrance with Concetta Sunday morning, when I realized I'd left the camera photo chip in the laptop. I had to walk back to retrieve it. On my way back, this guy happened to stop near me, so I asked him if I could ride in his Essex to the front door. His name was Scott, and he graciously said, "Sure!" Great guy and a wonderful car. He told me it had 65 horsepower, which is 15 more than our Model A Ford. I think he said the car was a 1924 and was produced by the Hudson Motorcar Company.

When Concetta and I were nearing the end of our day at the Henry Ford Museum, I told her I wanted to go to the Diner that we had passed a couple of times that day and have some ice cream and coffee. Concetta didn't really want any, but said, "Let's do it, we're on vacation." The idea turned out to be a winner, as the ice cream from the Guernsey Farms Dairy of Northville, Michigan, produces some of the finest ice cream we've ever had. We sat there in the Diner's outdoor patio and rested after nearly five hours of walking. Reflecting back, it had been a wonderfully thrilling and eventful weekend.

This is Henry Ford's original "Quadricycle," one of America's first cars. Here's what Wikipedia says about Henry's car: "The Ford Quadricycle was the first vehicle developed by Henry Ford. Ford's first car was a simple frame with a gas-powered engine and four bicycle wheels mounted on it. On June 4, 1896, in a tiny workshop behind his home on 58 Bagley Avenue, Detroit, where the Michigan Building now stands, Ford put the finishing touches on his pure ethanol-powered motor. After more than two years of experimentation, Ford, at the age of 32, had completed his first experimental automobile. He dubbed his creation the "Quadricycle," because it ran on four bicycle tires, and because of the means through which the engine drove the back wheels. The success of the little vehicle led to the founding of the Henry Ford Company and then later the Ford Motor Company in 1903."

One interesting fact that I remember reading about in my one of my books on Ford was that Henry was doing his assembly of the car in a brick shed behind his home. When it came to time move the car outside, it wouldn't fit through the only door. Henry had to enlarge the door opening to be able to get his invention outside so he could drive it.

This was one of my favorite exhibits in the whole museum. Here you see two young women assembling a Model T Ford from the ground up. At this point in the build, one woman is under the car with a slender steel rod, inserting it through a hole in the frame so she could line up the mounting holes for the frame and body. Evidently once the car is assembled, they then disassemble the car in the same order in which they assembled it. I asked them what the record was for assembling the T, and they said they thought that one of the other teams had done it in 26 minutes. I was impressed with this display, not just because someone had suggested it as a great addition to the museum, but because they had women as well as men involved. In our society, a reverence for mechanical ability has been largely forgotten. Here at the Henry Ford Museum, that ability sat in the front row. Kudos to everyone involved!

Everyone probably recognizes the Wright Flyer. This plane is not the original as the original went to England, and later came back to the Smithsonian as an incomplete plane. Nevertheless, the flyer is such an astounding piece of work that even a replica is humbling to view and think about. The Wright Flyer was the first successful heavier-than-air powered aircraft. Designed and built by the Wright brothers, it flew four times on December 17, 1903, near Kill Devil Hills, about four miles south of Kitty Hawk, North Carolina.

From the web I learned that: "The Flyer I had a wooden frame in which the straight parts were spruce and the curved parts ash. The frame was covered with a finely-woven cotton cloth and was sealed with "canvas paint" similar to what sailors in Kitty Hawk used on their sails, probably paraffin dissolved in kerosene. The metal fittings were made from mild steel and the aircraft was rigged with15-gauge bicycle spoke wire. The engine block was cast from a hard aluminum alloy, 92% aluminum and 8% copper. The other parts of the engine were made from steel or cast iron, with the exception of the spark points which contained tiny bits of platinum."

"This was the only aircraft the Wrights tried to preserve. Damaged by wind after 4th flight, they returned it to Dayton; Orville restored it in 1916 and sent it to the Kensington Science Museum in London, England in 1928. It was returned to the United States in 1948 and since 1949 the Smithsonian has displayed it as the world's first piloted powered airplane."

You can't help but put yourself in the place of Wilbur or Orville, prone on that wing, knowing full well that actually getting the plane airborne could ultimately result in one of their deaths that day. The brothers were two of the emerging mechanical geniuses of their day, and it certainly humbles me to think about how far we've come since that miraculous day in 1903 when the two brothers proved once and for all that man would fly. Thrilling!

This airplane hanging the ceiling in the Henry Ford Museum is a DC3. Here's Wikipedia's blurb on DC3's history: "the Douglas DC-3 is a fixed-wing propeller-driven airliner that revolutionized air transport in the 1930s and 1940s. Its lasting effect on the airline industry and World War II makes it one of the most significant transport aircraft ever produced.

It has a cruise speed of 207 mph; capacity of 21 to 32 passengers or 6,000 lbs (2,700 kg) of cargo; and a range of 1,500 mi. The DC-3 is a twin-engine metal monoplane with a tailwheel-type landing gear and was developed as a larger, improved 14-bed sleeper version of the Douglas DC-2. It had many exceptional qualities compared to previous aircraft. It was fast, had good range, and could operate from short runways. It was reliable and easy to maintain and carried passengers in greater comfort. Before the war it pioneered many air travel routes. It could cross the continental United States and made worldwide flights possible. It is considered the first airliner that could profitably carry just passengers.

Civil DC-3 production ended in 1942 at 607 aircraft. Military versions, including the C-47 Skytrain (designated the Dakota in British Royal Air Force (RAF) service), and Russian- and Japanese-built versions, brought total production to over 16,000. Following the war, the airliner market was flooded with surplus C-47s and other ex-military transport aircraft, and Douglas' attempts to produce an upgraded DC-3 failed due to cost.

Post-war, the DC-3 was made obsolete on main routes by more advanced types such as the Douglas DC-6 and Lockheed Constellation, but the design proved exceptionally adaptable and useful. Large numbers continue to see service in a wide variety of niche roles well into the 21st century. In 2013 it was estimated that approximately 2,000 DC-3s and military derivatives were still flying, a testament to the durability of the design

During my three years in the Naval Air Corp I only flew on the military equivalent of the DC3. It was during my enlistment period that Native Americans began "occupying" closed military bases. They had taken over Alcatraz Island in San Francisco Bay at one point, and the Navy was afraid that they would try to occupy the closed Naval Air Station in Minneapolis/Saint Paul in Minnesota. I was based in Chicago, Illinois, and the Navy decided that sailors from our base would be flown to the NAS Twin Cities to guard against any such takeover. That's when I got to ride on one of these twin-engine, cargo carrying, planes.

If I remember correctly, the Navy was in such a sweat to get us up there that they loaded us into the plane at night and flew us out. There were no seats in the plane, so we got to sit on paratrooper benches on either side of the fuselage. Thinking back, I remember that plane ride as the most bumping bit of air travel I'd ever experienced. It was as if we were rolling to Twin Cities on square tires. I not sure if it was air turbulence or rough engines or what, but we were all extremely glad to touch down and get off that plane.

That was true until we learned that we would be standing guard around the perimeter of the base while a cold, incessant northern rain fell upon us. I don't remember how many days and nights we stayed, I don't think it was very long, but I sure remember that plane ride to this day.

I posted this photo because it hearkens back to my childhood. As you can see, pictured is the very first of Bob's restaurants that eventually blossomed into a restaurant empire known as the "Bob's Big Boy." When the Davis family went out for a burger in the 1950s, Bob's is traditionally where we went.

So when I became a teenager and wanted to take the '57 Chevy out with the guys and have a burger, Bob's was where I went. My opinion was then, and I suspect it still holds true, the Bob's three-bun, two pattie work of art was the greatest. Combine it with their outstanding fries, and you have a kid's dream come true. But wait, there's more. The final item I needed in order to make my meal complete was Bob's silver-goblet, triple-think shake with a dollop whipped cream and a juicy cherry on top. Back then, I'm sure that I was firmly convinced that God himself could not have come up with a more enticing thing to do with ice cream. I always, ALWAYS ordered the strawberry, and if I remember correctly brother Cliff always had the chocolate. Who knows what our parents had as I was lost in paradise from the moment I entered the restaurant.

Day 25 -- Battle Creek to Yipsilanti, Michigan -- 149 Miles

In last night's blog I forgot to give you a rundown on the difficulties that we encountered merely trying to find a camp near Battle Creek. We thought we were basically home free because Concetta found a camp on the GPS, and I found the information about the camp in the Good Sam book. Finding camp info in two places almost always assures one of actually finding the physical camp where both information sources tell you it is. Such was not the case as we arrived in Battle Creek.

Because of spending nearly an hour at a Walmart just up Route 37 from Battle Creek, we were already a bit late arriving where we hoped to find our camp. But the GPS seemed to be playing with us as we reached the city limits, and it guided us off the route we had taken from Grand Rapids. It then began wending us through a maze of city streets and short segments of freeway, supposedly on the way to our camp

Finally, it appeared we were getting close. The neighborhood was more rural, in keeping with a camp for RVs, and the GPS's announced "mileage to target" was getting down to a mere few. We were a bit concerned since we were seeing nothing but single family homes and no real rural acreage, when suddenly the infernal machine announced, "Arriving at address 1571, on the left." We starred blankly at a small subdivision of split-level homes as we rolled slowly past. We'd been HAD by the machine yet again.

At this point there was no choice but to pull over, consult the Good Sam book, and try and find another camp, hopefully nearby. Trouble was, there was only one camp listed, one called "Fort Custer Recreation Area." Well, I said, Fort Custer it is. Let's get going before it gets any later.

And so began a trek almost exactly the same way we had come. If we had simply turned right when the GPS insisted we leave Route 37 and go left, we would have found the camp in just a couple of miles. That was bad enough, but at this point we were still trusting the GPS to take us to Fort Custer, and she was definitely not through tormenting us yet. When we reached the point where we needed to turn left into the park, the GPS voice directed us to take a right. We were alarmed, but figured that Fort Custer must straddle the highway with camping on both sides.

This bit of Polly Anna thinking lasted until we discovered ourselves following a tiny rural road back into the forest with not a shred of signage to guide us. Finally, after we had had enough, we found a crude side road just wide enough to turn around, and we retraced our route back to the highway. Then we crossed to the other side and immediately found the Fort Custer camping facilities. Only electric service was provided, but by that time I would have opted for a nice stretch of pavement at Walmart, rather than drive another circuitous mile.

When I went in the park office to pay my fee, I said to the youngster taking the money that I had forgotten that General Custer grew up in Michigan. The lad looked at me quizzically, and said, "I have no idea." Okay, here's a potentially well-educated person of perhaps 21 years, who is working in the Fort Custer state park, and he doesn't seem to know who General Custer is. I had to bite my tongue at that point, as I doubted I could add anything useful to the conversation that would educate the poor chap any further.

But later I told Concetta that the state of education in this country nowadays is abysmal. How in the world can you get through high school, and perhaps even several years of college, and not know American history well enough to recognize the name Custer?

Anyway, the camp last night was located in a secluded niche in the forest, just barely big enough to allow us to slide in, and was as damp and drippy as part of the Amazon greenery. But it was darn quiet, and we rested pretty well with raindrops on the roof to lull us to sleep. We didn't have any utilities but electricity, but it didn't cause us any problems. This morning, since I didn't have much outside gear to put away, we were up and rolling toward Dearborn at nine A.M. sharp.

Dearborn was a pretty fair distance away, about 130 miles I expect. But while we were traveling east on Interstate 94 we could see that the sky was brightening and the rain clouds seemed to be dissipating. That was the good news. The bad news hit us once we arrived at the Henry Ford Museum and Greenfield Villiage in Dearborn. That's when we learned that there was a HUGE annual antique car meet taking place and there was literally no place anywhere on the grounds to put our rig (we thought).

We drove by sign after sign proclaiming that the lot was completely full, which meant you couldn't even squeeze a compact car in anywhere. There would be zero chance of finding a spot for a 32-foot RV. Still we drove all the way through the park, then reversed direction and drove all the way out again.

On the way in I had noticed that to the west was another parking area not designated for the museum or Greenfield Park. So I headed there next. But we soon saw that all the spaces were taken in that lot as well. We were about to exit that parking lot when I noticed that further to the west was an adjacent, but unused parking lot that was partially occupied by construction supplies and equipment. Not one to be deterred by things like rules and regulations, I wheeled right in, chose a spot, and with some trouble slid in with a planter on the rear end and a Bobcat tractor on the front. We weren't exactly level, but I soon remedied that situation with my drive-up blocks.

Of course once we were parked and settled, more people cruising by saw the RV and decided that they, too, would break the rules and find a spot. Before we had gathered our gear and set off for the Museum, most of the available parking spots had been taken. To say that getting a spot was a miracle, especially when it first appeared that 100% of them were taken, is probably an understatement. Not only did we get a spot, we got about five normal automobile spots all to ourselves. As a postscript, no one came over to chastise us, no notes were left on the window, and the rig was not towed away while we were gone. Pretty amazing.

I found out what had brought such a turnout to the Museum when a guy drove up and squeezed his tiny micro car in the half space in front of the rig that I had left to keep from being blocked in by parked cars. When I went to see if his rear bumper was going to clear our front bumper when we left, the guy told me that today was one of the biggest days of the year as hundreds of antique automobile enthusiasts had come to see perhaps a thousand fully-functional antique cars and trucks that would be motoring around the Greenfield Village until nine p.m. that night. So, not only did we find an improbable place to park, but we had hit the one weekend that I might have wished for since I'm a avid antique automobile fan.

To say the place was an absolute mad house would be understating the event tenfold. There were hundreds of cars parked everywhere you looked. There were dozens of "flivvers" roving the narrow streets and lanes. There were gay nineties chaps on high-wheel bicycles, there was a carousel and a circus tent, and displays of antique camping equipment, and strolling groups of folks in period clothes, and guys under cars trying to fix things, hundred-foot lines for ice cream, throngs of people in the various buildings, and demonstrations of glass blowing and Edison wax-cylinder making, and a steam train full of passengers circling the park every few minutes.

Concetta and I walked all over the park, and I scarcely had the camera away from my eye. Things were happening so swiftly, that I know I must have ruined half of the photos as I tried to catch moving cars as they passed by. By I was just totally, totally enthralled from the moment we arrived. Concetta, not being the car nut that I am, would occasionally take a seat in the shade and let me dash off to take as many photos as I could. But in the end, I realized that there were parts of the Village, with another vast number of parked antiques, that I would never get to see. We used up four solid hours and by the end of that time my feet and knees were definitely beginning to give me negative feedback.

But never fear, I may still get to see a bit more as we purchased a two-day pass. In the morning we're setting our sights on the indoor museum, since it would be foolish not to see it as well. We think it might be twenty-five or even thirty years since we came to Dearborn, and one should not miss the museum if you have a choice.

Just for kicks, I looked up the Henry Ford Museum's description of this incredible weekend. Here's what they say: "At the longest-running antique car show in America, you’ll be immersed in the moving stories of the early automotive era from the 1890s through 1932, perfectly set in the place where the history of the American automobile is passionately preserved and brought to life every day. From the turn of the century to the Great Depression, Old Car Festival in Greenfield Village offers a raucous ride of vehicles that epitomize the earnest optimism of the American Dream."

"Wander through the village, and talk to owners about their treasured vehicles. The ongoing Pass-in-Review parade is a car lover’s dream, as electric, steam and gas-powered engines are constantly in motion around you. Watch drivers engage in games of skill, see a Model T assembled in just minutes or just sit back and enjoy our experts sharing "car talks" while historic vehicles cruise."

"Ragtime America comes to life in the center of Greenfield Village with historically-inspired street food, music, dancing and even a cake walk. Plan to stay late Saturday evening for the Gaslight Parade of Cars, and dance along with the River Raisin Ragtime Revue as it performs popular music of the ragtime era. Cap off the evening with a Dixieland-style parade and fireworks finale."

As we could easily see, everyone was having a terrific time with their vintage machines, talking to their old friends and new friends, and imagining life 100 years ago. Concetta and I especially liked the high-wheeled bicycles and cyclists (photo right). They seemed to mount their lofty machines so effortlessly. There was even a man riding one of the earliest bicycles ever called a "Bone Shaker." Made entirely of wood and iron, I'd say by the looks of it the bike must of certainly lived up to it's name.

We had a simply wonderful day at Greenfield Village. There were sights and sounds and signs of merriment enough for anyone. And when you venture out on the two-lanes, the Happy Wanderers wish you happy travels and exiting adventures of you own!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're kidding," I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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