Day 27 -- Ocala to Thonotosassa, Florida -- 93 Miles

Cell phone reception being an “on-again, off-again” situation here the Happy Travlers RV Resort in Thonotosassa means the blog is going to be iffy tonight, but here goes. Today we traveled south from Ocala, Florida using Route 301 until we got tired of all the traffic lights, then we jumped over to Interstate 75 to brave all the big rigs.

The danger in traveling the Interstate, aside from the menacing 18-wheelers, is that you miss so much of the real American. Part of the fun of traveling the two-lane ribbons of asphalt across our land is seeing the America that "used to be." Long dead gas stations, cabin courts, and restaurants still broadcast their historic presence via welcoming, if faded signs, which helps us visualize what used to be.

Today, amazingly enough, we spotted our blog destination for the day as we traveled Interstate 75. Because of the speed you're traveling on the Blue highways, and the number of lanes involved, it becomes much harder to "dart" out of your lane and exit the Interstate if you suddenly see a point of interest you'd like to investigate.

But today we got lucky as we easily slid over to the offramp and were soon following the brown signs. We headed east toward something called the Dade Battlefield Historic Park, only stopping to dash into Walmart for more bottled water to add to our dwindling supply.

Since we had scored a prime spot under an ancient oak tree in the outer reaches of the Walmart parking lot, we went ahead and had our lunch there. Once lunch was over, we headed on down the road toward the promised battlefield.

We made a couple of navigational mistakes on our way, missed our turnoff, and had to execute a U-turn in a local business parking lot. Once that bit of floundering was out of the way, we managed to find our way to the front gate of the battlefield and park. Confident that we had found the right place, we rolled up to the ticket window.

We must have looked like we weren’t headed anywhere important as the resident ranger immediately informed us that we had to be off the grounds by five p.m. as they had scheduled a Halloween extravaganza for the evening.

Glancing around the park, we saw almost nothing that might prompt someone to WANT to stay until five o’clock, but we nodded our agreement, paid our $3.00 entrance fee, and rolled on in.

Once parked, we decided that we would just hoof it around a bit and stretch our legs. We didn’t see anything that even remotely suggested a battle had been fought there, so we just chalked it off to a nice, green park to visit.

But moments later the ranger who had told us to be out by five walked by, and she pointed out where we had to walk to see the outdoor battlefield displays. She regretted that all the archeological aritifacts that had been found on the grounds were inside the closed visitor center, but she hoped that we could get a feel for the battle by way of the outdoor displays.

After we crossed the key bridge on foot, we easiy found the reconstructed breastworks (stacked log fortifications) used during the battle as well as displays of photos taken of reinacters over the years. Though we would have enjoyed even more visual displays, we still liked the walk through the woods to our objective. As it turned out, the pamphlet provided to us by the ranger did a lot to fill in the historic gaps of what went on at the Dade Battle, verbiage of which follows.

"The first Seminole War (1817-1818) took place in Florida and southern Georgia when U.S. troops attacked and defeated a group of Seminoles. Spain formally ceded Florida to the United States in 1821. When Florida became a U.S. territory and more settlers began steadily moving into tribal territory, the Native Americans were forced to move south."

"By the 1830s, significant conflict had arisen between Seminoles and white settlers who coveted Seminole lands. The Seminole practice of giving refuge to fugitive slaves added further cause for conflict."

"With the signing of the treaty of Payne’s Landing in 1832, some chiefs agreed to moved to territory west of the Mississippi River. Widespread opposition to this treaty, led by a Seminole named Osceola, resulted in the outbreak of the Second Seminole War."

"In December 1835. 108 U.S. troops and officers were marching from Fort Brooke on Tampa Bay to reinforce Fort King in present-day Ocala. One hundred miles from Fort Brooke, they were attacked by 180 Seminole warriors. All but three of the soldiers were killed."

"In 1921, the state legislature appropriated funds for the preservation of the battle site as a memorial. Today visitors can tour the site where a replica of the original log breastwork can be seen. A visitor center and a section of the original Fort King Military Road provide insight into a battle between Florida’s clashing cultures."

Reading the signs at the battle site we learned that: "The second Seminole War was the longest and most costly Indian war in American history, and now one of the least known. It began where [we were] standing. In December 1835 peace existed in the Florida Territory, but it was a tenuous peace. It was the first time of President Andrew Jackson's Indian Removal Act, and Seminole leaders had agreed under a series of treaties to relocate their people to Indian Territory in present-day Oklahoma. Some felt the Chiefs had been tricked into signing. And no Chief or group of Chiefs could speak for all the people. Many were determined to remain in Florida and to fight for their homes."

"Thus began seven years of warfare, at the end of which several thousand Seminoles, having surrendered or been captured, were sent forcibly to Indian Territory. But a few hundred remained in scattered bands in the everglades. The government declared victory. Todays proud Seminoles, the descendents of those who never surrendered, see it differently. That's why they are known as the unconquered people."

It's ironic that one of the most impressive stops we have made on this vacation was at the Andrew Jackson home, the Hermitage, in Tennessee. There we learned all about the Indian Removal Act and about how Jackson had actually defied Congress AND the Supreme Court to remove the Native Americans of the southeast against the wishes of many in the government. History is not always pretty, it's not always fair to the participants, but it is always available for study to those who wish to avoid making the same mistakes.

Though our visit to the Dade Battlefield Historic Park fell somewhat short of our expectations, it nevertheless was a great reminder of the things we have learned from our nation's illustrious and sometimes nefarious history.

Tomorow we hope to complete our journey to Naples, Florida and a reunion with Concetta's family members in the area. So for now we wish you exciting adventures of your own. Ciao!

Day 26 -- Savannah, Georgia to Ocala, Florida -- 238 Miles

Okay, somebody help me figure out what's going on. I was just setting up the rig, and I was sweating so profusely that I looked around to see if I had taken a wrong turn today and ended up in Panama. Sweat was pouring off my face, and I figured that I could wring my shirt out and save enough water for several future desert journeys. The air felt like it was half oxygen and half water vapor. Maybe ALL water vapor! Had I accidently driven the rig into a lake? Have the waters of the Atlantic suddenly started rising and swept over southeastern America? No, I suddenly realized, we had just crossed the border into Florida!

Please tell me why everyone is moving here. It's almost winter for God's sake, and I'd have to climb inside a freezer to experience weather I recognize! When we set off on this vacation, we thought that when we finally got to Florida the daily temperatures would be manageable by people who are used to the change of seasons. But here we are nearly a month after we left home, a home where frost was putting most vegetable gardens out of commission, and Florida feels like they still haven't gotten the message. IT'S WINTER FOR GOD'S SAKE! Put away the patio furniture and turn off the air conditioner! It's time to quit sweating!!!!

Last night in Savannah, Georgia I had to get up around eleven o'clock and retrieve the comforter. It had been pretty mild and wonderful all day, but by eleven o'clock it had gotten cold enough to need more covers. So today, as we traveled south 238 miles, I had no idea we were also going to travel into a diffent reality; a reality where Panama summers never end and Bermuda shorts stay in style all year.

But enough about climate catastrophes, let's talk about things we like to visit and photograph along the way. Today, as we motored south on Interstate 95, we knew that we had to transition at some point over to Interstate 75. When we consulted the Atlas, we discoverd if we didn't want to spend too much time traveling straight west, we had to watch for Route 301. Route 301 takes off on the north side of Jacksonville, Florida, but first you have to catch ring road 295 which makes the transition to Route 301 south.

That accomplished, we looked for a place to park and have lunch and found one just before the Route 301 offramp. Our ideal lunch spot lay just across the street from an elementary school and came in the form of several acres of grass punctuated by super-large, moss draped oak trees. The light was poor for taking a photo, but the setting was exellent for our lunch break.

Lunch done, we jumped right back on Route 295 and just a very few miles later, we were able to exit to Route 301 south. I thought the route would be lightly traveled, but such was not the case. Though it is a vast improvement over the Interstate, we did have to contend with the occassional stop light, road construction, and reduced speeds. However, if you're traveling from say Naples, Florida to Fort Augustine, Florida, Route 301 should be your choice for moving you elegantly between Interstate 75 and Interstate 95.

The big push for today was to find something to write about in the blog since we didn't spy anything from our routes to tempt us to stop. It wasn't until we were less than two dozen miles from our evening camp that we stumbled onto the perfect human interest story. Even more attractive, the tempting site was only four miles off Route 301.

When we turned onto a country backroad that promised to take us to a nice park beside a nice lake, we had no idea the outing was going to turn into quite a lengthy stay. When we arrived, I immediately chose the wrong place to park which put us in a tiny little alcove with almost no place to turn around. It was tough, but I finally moved a little bit this way and a little bit that way until I had turned completely around and exited the way we had come.

Back out in the more open parking area, we noticed all the shady parking places were occupied by boaters' trucks and their empty boat trailers. Obviously the boaters had used the boat ramp and were now out catching fish. Oh, well, we just went ahead and parked in the sun and opened the windows.

The next thing we did was wander around the stands of moss-drapped oaks and enjoyed the shade that we couldn't take advantage of with the rig. The ancient oaks were stately and sturdy, and we enjoyed walking amoung them. Off in the distance, the beautiful lake embraced the brilliant blue sky and fluffly clouds, and it certainly beckoned us to find a boat somehow and go fishing. That not being an option, we satisfied ourselves with exploring the park grounds.

At one point, as I was wandering beneath the oaks, I could hear hammering going on in some unseen place nearby. The park was farily well bounded by thick brush and trees, but before long I discovered a gate that led into the world beyond. At that point I retraced my steps and told Concetta that I intended to explore the grounds beyond the gate, and she agreed that she'd wait for me in the shady coolness of the rig.

When I returned to the gate, I noticed a signboard that gave me some clues to what I might find in the leafy world beyond. The sign promised that I was about to enter a special place known as Cross Creek. Cross Creek belonged to the renouned writer, Marjorie Kinnen Rawlings, the author of famous books like "The Yearling."

To quote the sign adjacent to the gate, "Margorie described her adopted home in north central Florida as an enchanted land. Immediately upon arrival in Cross Creek, Rawlings immersed herself in the local culture, including hunting and fishing with her Big Scrub neighbors. She quickly grew to understand and appreciate the lifestyle of people who depend on the land for survival. With this understanding, Rawlings became a voice for environmental stewardship." Margorie would write that she had become a part of Cross Creek, she was more than a writer. She was a wife, a friend, a part of the earth. Of her Florida home, Marjorie msaid, "Cross Creek belongs to the wind and the rain, to the sun and the seasons, to the cosmic secrecy of seed, and beyond all, to time."

Well, after that stiring send off, I could hardly remain outside the grounds. I opened the gate and strode purposely through. The first thing I encountered was an orchard of lemons and palmettos. I looked around for something clearly ripe, but then decided I wouldn't be able to carry anything and shoot photos as well. Next, I encountered the barn containing a light spring wagon, walls full of tack, and a bale of hay. The wagon was vintage looking, and I snapped a couple of photos.

When I left the barn there was nothing else visible on the grounds but a white frame house, probably constructed in the 1920s, upon which a couple of workers were busily constructing a new roof. They weren't just applying singles, they were doing new plywood sheeting on parts as well as applying the old-style 1"x6" slatted fir that was commonly found under cedar shingles until the latter part of the twentieth century.

Unfortunately, the new work in progress sort of ruined the vintage look of the house for photos, so I snapped one for the heck of it, then approached for a closer look. The first thing I saw was a 1940s vintage yellow Studebaker under a lean-to roof. That might make a good subject, I thought to myself, but a closer look revealed that the Studebaker was hemmed in so tightly by the walls of the lean-to that photos were not going to be easy or pleasing.

After snapping a shot of the yellow car anyway, I wandered over to a screen door that provided access to the east end of the house. I looked around and didn't see anyone who might oppose my entry, so I just opened the door and stepped into what turned out to be a screened porch. Immediately inside I found what looked like Marjorie's work space. Her typewriter, a very vintage portable manual machine, rested on what was once a dining room table. Nearby, a couple of book sheleves full of ancient tomes clung to the wall near her work space.

Busily snapping photos as I went, I began to wander through the house. At least I did that for a couple more minutes. I was busily photographing the living room when a bright young lady appeared in front of me and asked what I was doing.

"Ahhhhh," I said, "Are you the person who collects my three dollar admission."

"Well, not exactly," the young woman said. She didn't look terribly cross with me, but I wasn't exactly sure how much trouble I was in by looking at her. "Are you part of the tour group," she said finally.

I admitted that I wasn't.

"Okay," she said, "I'm just about to start a thirty-minute tour, and you can come along on that if you like."

I told her about Concetta being in the RV out in the parking lot and how it was hot and how I better not keep her waiting that long. "Guess I'll have to pass," I said.

"Hmm," the young lady said. Her name turned out to be Joy, but I didn't ask her until later. "How about if I give you a five-minute synopsis before my regular tour begins?"

"That would be great," I said. "Thank you very much!"

And so Joy gave me the briefest of tours only finishing when she had to leave to collect her legitimate tour folks. She let me take her photo a couple of times while I told her about my own writing efforts. Somehow she didn't seem to react to my tales of the writing life so maybe I was treading a little too heavily on her patience. But in the end, she and I shook hands and parted amicably. I'm sure in the future she's probably going to try harder to keep wanderers out of Marjorie's small house until the tour begins.

Returning to the rig, I passed the same fishermen whom I had passed earier when I approached the gate. They had told me at the time they were waiting for one of the men's sons to come rescue them with the tools necessary to remove the boat trailer's spare tire. Glancing at their problem, I told them that I probably had a wrench that would do the job, and I went to retrieve it. Thankfully, my super duty cresent wrench was exactly what was needed, and it made me feel good to give them a hand.

Concetta wanted me to be sure and let my readers know that the beautiful park adjacent to the Rawlings estate where we had parked earlier, had at one time been slated for a GIANT building project that would have, at buildout, provided homes for 200,000 residents and established a major rural city. But a community-spirited woman formed a group to save the parkland. In the process of saving the park for future nature-lovers, she became a county commissioner so she could have a greater say in future such projects.

Anyway, that was our day. Just a few miles down the road from Cross Creek we wandered into a park adjacent to Route 301, and found that they had a site just for us. Now night is swiftly coming on and we hope that cooler temperatures prevale. So until next time, we wish you exciting travels of your own. Ciao!

Day 25 -- All day in Savannah, Georgia -- no miles

Today we played hookey from our constant driving and spent the entire day, well from 10:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m., in the beautiful southern city of Savannah. Yesterday we picked a camp that boasted being a stop for the morning Savannah-bound shuttle. All we had to do was line up at the front office at 9:00 a.m. and the shuttle would pull up and spirit us away in air-conditioned comfort for the fourteen-mile drive into the city.

Then, just before ten, our driver deposited us at the collection point for the hop-on, hop-off, orange and green trollies. Before we scarcely had time to collect a map and talk about our preferred destinations, the trolley arrived, loaded us aboard, and away we went into one of the most romantic cities in America.

Oddly enough, our driver was an expatriot from Colorado, and so at first we didn't get to hear that soft southern drawl of the Georgian natives. Driver Ewell might have only been piloting a trolley for eighteen months, but he knew his material like he'd been telling folks about Savannah all his life.

We learned that Savanah had been planned and laid out by James Edward Ogglethorpe back in 1733. Ogglethorpe, known as the father of Savannah, was responsible for America's first planned city. He laid the city out in a series of grids that allowed for wide open streets intertwined with shady public squares and parks that served as town meeting places and centers of business. Savannah had 25 original squares; 22 squares are still in existence today.

The trolley does its best to cruise around as many of the park-like squares as possible while the driver describes the statues located in the very center of the squares. Most of these green spaces are notable for their huge, mosss-draped live oak trees that bear the brunt of the hot summer sun and ensure lovely cool places for Savannah residents to gather and meet. The squares are also notable, said our trolley driver, for their two and three story historic homes and other structures that line all four sides of the street across from the parks.

One structure we remember was the house where Julliete Gordon Low lived, the prime-mover of the Girl Scouts. Another home we passed a massion that could boast of none other than Robert E. Lee as a house guest in 1861/62. Of course, after Union General Sherman's march through Georgia to the sea, many of the historic residences became homes for Union officers as well as hospitals for Union soldiers. Still, I don't think the southern folks in Savannah minded too much, as it was General Sherman who actually "saved" Savannah from being put to the torch. Sherman thought the city was just too beautiful. General Sherman cleverly gifted Savannah to President Abraham Lincoln as a Christmas present on December 22, 1864, which ensured its survival.

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When you've been on the trolley long enough, all the history you hear begins to fill your head to overflowing. Once that happens, it's best to pick a stop and get off. We picked the city market area for its potential to provide us with lunch. It was a tad early since we got off around 11:00, but we spent some time perusing the shops in the area. When we finally picked a restaurant, it was Belford's that we chose. The menu looked good, but even more important, two Florida ladies standing with us at the gate said that they had heard really great reviews.

When we were shown our outdoor table by a very polite and bright young woman named Brittany, I knew we had chosen wisely. We just love how polite and helpful southerners are. Soon we were scanning the menu and saw many entres that we would love to try. Finally, when pressed, Concetta chose the crab cakes, and I chose the fish and chips and a glass of a beer called "Scofflaw Brewing Basement IPA" from Atlanta.

Concetta found the crab cakes exellent. My Scofflaw Brewing Basement IPA from Atlanta was truly wonderful, and I thought my fish and chips was the best I ever had! And I'm not kidding!

In 2008 when we were driving south of Scotland in the county of Northumberland, we happened upon a wide spot in the road where a small bar seemed to be the only structure around. Since the bar advertised food to eat, we stopped, went in, and ordered fish and chips and a couple of beers. Granted, the place didn't look like much, but we had the best meal of that traditional Enlish dish we had ever eaten. And until today that record had not been broken.

And a further endorsement of Belford's, Brittiany helped us with our maps and directions. Then, moments later, a young man approached our table and asked how long I had been in the Navy. When I told him three years, he said he had been in for fourteen years. Then we proceeded to have just the greatest conversation about our respective lives. He said that he had considered submarines after I told him I had been trained in anti-submarine warfare. But he didn't get to become a submariner as he was assigned to the Pentagon. Eventually we learned that the young man's name was Alex and he'd been born in Savannah.

Eventually, Alex wished us well and made his way back into the restaurant. When I asked Brittany if Alex was the owner, she laughed and said no. "That's the owner," She turned pointed at a man standing at the front entrance. That man broke into a giant grin and told us to "watch out" for Alex. I laughed and said, "Don't be saying anything about Alex. He's great." Later Brittany would tell us that Alex was the bartender.

We all laughed together and we knew that the owner wasn't insulted. Later when we left, we stopped and shook hands with the owner whose name was Kevin. We told him we loved his food AND his restaurant and maybe someday we'd be back.

During lunch we had decided that perhaps we could walk the couple of blocks and visit the maritime museum. We had tried to see it on our last visit to Savannah in 2014, and it had been closed. We're not up to doing the kind of long-distance walking we once enjoyed, so a couple of blocks would be great.

Since Brittany had told us exactly how to proceed, we set off at a determined pace and were soon strolling up the garden path to the entry door. Once inside, we received a very fast-paced disertation on the contents of the museum, the things that we shouldn't do, and something about photography, which I totally missed and decided not to have him repeat.

The museum was pretty incredible, but certainly was meant for those who have an avid interest in maritime history. I wasn't sure that applied to us, but we soldiered on anyway. Many of the exhibits were minutely-crafted vessels in glass cases which proved almost impossible to photograph, with or without a flash. I had set my camera to 1000 ASA and was able to shoot most of the displays without flash, which lessened the potential for reflection.

However, there were so many interior lights and so much light coming through the plethora of windows, that the glass cases just bounced whatever light was near and right into the camera. Still, there were other things not in cases. Quite a few figureheads stood in corners just begging for a shot. There were dozens of informational plaques that were outside the glass, or were situated so that they could be shot inside the glass while excluding reflections.

In the end, the displays that stuck in our minds were the shipwreck stories. They had a model of the Titanic, of course, and it came complete with passengers and lifeboats. The shipwreck that fascinated Concetta most was of the Pulaski. The boat was named for a Polish Count Kasamir Pulaski who fought with the patriots in the Revolutionary War.

The boat named the Pulaski sailed from Savannah on June 14, 1838, and after one stop had a passenger complement of about 187 counting both passengers and crew. Later that night the starboard boiler exploded, and the boat sank within 45 minutes. Fifty-nine people survived, and 128 died. Incredibly, the bow portion forward of the explosion area didn't sink and 23 of the survivors lived by clinging to the wreckage. They floated for five days without food or water, but were eventually picked up by a passing steamer.

The display that I found the most memorable was that of the scrimshaw, usually crafted by crew members of whaling ships. The sailors, when not actively hunting or processing whales, suffered from extreme boredom. Whaling cruises could last a couple of years before reaching port again. Scrimshaw turned out to be the perfect free-time activity for the crew members. All sorts of scenes could be found carved on whale teeth. Everything from nautical scenes with ships and whaling activities, to fantasy scenes with mermaids were displayed.

After our trip to the maritime museum, we walked back to the City Market area. It was a tad too early to ride the trolley back to our point of origin, so we chose a restaurant that advertised peach cobbler, and went in to appease our sweet tooth with cobbler, ice cream, and black coffee. Once done with our midday snack, we walked to the nearest trolley stop, boarded, and very soon our afternoon in Savannah had come to an end. There was nothing left but to catch our shuttle back to camp and our rig waiting peacefully underneath the sheltering pines. Tomorrow we will be setting our GPS for Naples, Florida and a much anticipated reunion with Concetta's sisters and other relatives. So, until then, we wish you exciting adventures of your own. Ciao!

Day 24 -- Lumberton, North Carolina to Savannah, Georgia -- 230 Miles

Today we were just a driving machine, knocking off 230 miles when we ordinarily only drive 150-170. The reason is that we (sort of) decided that maybe we could spend the day in Savannah and still arrive in Naples, Florida, on the 29th of October if we drove more miles per day. Miraculously we were able to secure two nights at our Savannah camp and take advantage of the sightseeing trolley that comes right to our door.

While we basically did nothing but drive, we did find time to stop a couple of times to stretch our legs, do some shopping, and visit a point of interest that beckoned to us from the Interstate.

Aside from the shoping stop at Walmart, and the informational stop at the point of entry for South Carolina, we were fortunate to discover the location of a memorial to the Tuskeegee Airmen at the local Anderson airport as we rolled on toward Georgia. The airport was known as the Walterboro during World War II. We found the memorial to be nothing fancy, but we were impressed that such a tribute existed. Both of us would have liked to see a little more upkeep and maintenance done to the memorial site, but we stayed a good half hour and took a couple of dozen photos in the process.

There understandably was no time for research today, so here's Wikipedia on the Tuskegee Airmen: "The Tuskegee Airmen were a group of primarily African American military pilots (fighter and bomber) and airmen who fought in World War II. They formed the 332d Fighter Group and the 477th Bombardment Group (Medium) of the United States Army Air Forces (USAAF). The name also applies to the navigators, bombardiers, mechanics, instructors, crew chiefs, nurses, cooks, and other support personnel. The Tuskegee airmen received praise for their excellent combat record eaned while protecting American bombers from enemy fighters. The group was awarded three Distinguished Unit Citations."

"All black military pilots who trained in the United States trained at Griel Field, Kennedy Field, Moton Field, Shorter Field, and the Tuskegee Army Air Fields. They were educated at the Tuskegee Institute (now Tuskegee University), located near Tuskegee, Alabama. Of the 922 pilots, five were Haitians from the Haitian Air Force and one pilot was from Trinidad. It also included a Hispanic or Latino airman born in the Dominican Republic."

"The 99th Pursuit Squadron (later the 99th Fighter Squadron) was the first black flying squadron, and the first to deploy overseas (to North Africa in April 1943, and later to Sicily and other parts of Italy). The 332nd Fighter Group, which originally included the 100th, 301st and 302nd Fighter Squadrons, was the first black flying group. It deployed to Italy in early 1944. Although the 477th Bombardment Group trained with North American B-25 Mitchell bombers, they never served in combat. In June 1944, the 332nd Fighter Group began flying heavy bomber escort missions and, in July 1944, with the addition of the 99th Fighter Squadron, it had four fighter squadrons."

"The 99th Fighter Squadron was initially equipped with Curtiss P-40 Warhawk fighter-bomber aircraft. The 332nd Fighter Group and its 100th, 301st and 302nd Fighter Squadrons were equipped for initial combat missions with Bell P-39 Airacobras (March 1944), later with Republic P-47 Thunderbolts

(June–July 1944) and finally with the aircraft with which they became most commonly associated, the North American P-51 Mustang (July 1944). When the pilots of the 332nd Fighter Group painted the tails of their P-47s red, the nickname "Red Tails" was coined. The red markings that distinguished the Tuskegee Airmen included red bands on the noses of P-51s as well as a red empennage; the P-51B, C and D Mustangs flew with similar color schemes, with red propeller spinners, yellow wing bands and all-red tail surfaces."

"The Tuskegee Airmen were the first African-American military aviators in the United States Armed Forces. During World War II, black Americans in many U.S. states were still subject to the Jim Crow laws and the American military was racially segregated, as was much of the federal government. The Tuskegee Airmen were subjected to discrimination, both within and outside of the army."

I could not find a specific reference in the above Wiki article about the Tuskegee Airmen and the time they spent training at Anerderson (Walterboro) Field where the memorial rests today. It looks like for now I'll have to take the memorial as primafacia evidence. The sign that I photographed (top left) seems to be suggesting that lots of pilots trained at Anderson (Walterboro), so it's not hard to believe that the Tuskegee Airmen were around in the later part of the war.

Day 23 -- New Bern to Lumberton, North Carolina -- 160 Miles

Today the sun FINALLY made an appearance after nearly three full days of nothing but fog, rain, and gray skies. Unfortunately, the sunny blue skies and fluffy white clouds that just seem to make traveling so much more fun, did not seek us out. No, we had to go in search of those things, and we did that by simply heading west instead east or south.

My plan was to move away from the coast in hopes of finding less people and, therefore, more room in the camps. This seems to have worked out great. Once we had transitioned from Interstate 17 to Route 74/76 at Wilmington, the traffic thinned out to an extent that we almost had the freeway to ourselves at times. And when we saw a KOA sign just before three o'clock, we jumped on the chance to get into camp early and get some laundry done.

The plan worked perfectly! Not only was the camp virtually empty, but the laundry room was empty as well. We had finished the washing, and were well into the drying cycle before rigs started arriving in quick succession and parking all around us. Very soon folks started trekking to the laundry room, and by then we were almost finished.

This morning as we drove west, and the skies were still basically gray, we didn't see anything worth shooting for the blog. By the time blue skies appeared overhead, we were ready for some action, but still nothing much appeared. We did stop and take a walk around a small-town square at one point, but we didn't find anything interesting to photograph there, either. I thought the blog tonight might have to be a selection of Concetta's favorite recipes.

It wasn't until we arrived at the KOA, and were trudging back and forth with the laundry totes, that I spied a small cemetery tucked away near the eastern boundary of the camp. Making a mental note, I went on doing laundry detail until Concetta and I had finished, then I grabbed the camera and went to investigate to headstones.

Once in the tiny Cemetery, I could see right away that the occupants were probably all of the surname "Howell." Some of the stones were fairly readable, and some were not, but I decided to pull up Ancestry.com and see what I could find out about the family. After quite a bit of research time, I both discoverd information on the family tree and also a suggestion for who might be buried on the edge of the KOA campground.

The cemetery is located in the county of Robeson, the town of Lumberton, and the Howell family, both living and dead, have been here for a very long time. I identified the headstone for Henry Boswell Howell (photo upper right), as well as the headstone for his wife, Lucy. Henry was born May 30, 1815. His wife, Lucy Ann Matilda Coleman, was born May 3, 1814.

Henry and Lucy had the usual passel of children, but only two appear to be buried with the parents. Son William Franklin Howell was next to his father (photo left), as was Amanda Howell (photo lower right). William was born April 29, 1855 and he died November 28, 1935. Henry was married twice but I'm not sure if either wife is buried in the family plot. His sister Amanda was born January 30, 1844, and died July 10, 1895.

According to records collected by Ancestry.com, Henry Boswell Howell's father, Shadrach Howell, is also buried near his son and grandson. I didn't see a stone, but Shadrach was born in 1788 and died in 1869. That meant that he was too young for the revolution and too old for the Civil War.

Shadrach's father, Rayford (Ralph) Howell fought in the Revolutionary War. The following is from an Ancestry.com member: "When Captain Ralph Raeford Howell and his twin sister Letitia "Letty" were born in 1757 in Virginia, their father, William, was 37, and their mother, Martha, was 30. He married Dicey Barfield in 1782 in Edgecombe, North Carolina. They had nine children in 22 years. He died as a young father in 1790 in Howellsville, North Carolina, at the age of 33."

It's thought that the family originated with William Howell in Isle of Wight County, Virginia. But the 1790 census for Robeson County shows William living there in North Carolina. The family consisted of three white males and three white females. William Howell was born in 1720 and he married Martha Raiford in 1754.

Now that our laundry is up to snuff for the next week or more, it's time to find some fun things to do. Tomorrow we'll be jumping onto Interstate 95 and will probably remain there all the way through South Carolina to Savannah, Georgia. We've been to Savannah once before, but the city is completely captivating and perhaps we'll visit again.

While it was fun today tracking down dead folks, hopefully we will encounter more interesting above-ground folks in our travels and will actually be able to talk to them person to person. So until then, we wish you exciting travels of your own. Ciao!

Day 22 -- Coinjock to New Bern, North Carolina -- 181 Miles

Today I finally was able to achieve what has been, since my junior high school days, a much anticipated goal: to vist the site of Orville and Wilbur Wright's first powered flight in a fixed-wing airplane. In those days I never dreamed that I might one day become a Naval aviator, but airplanes were for me and my friends an almost fanatical fascination. Often we would sit in class sketching World War II airplanes while the instructor carried on in some subject like English not noticing our lack of attention or participation.

As recently as our 2019 RV vacation we purchased a copy of David McCullough's book on CD, "The Wright Brothers," and Concetta came away as big a fan of those famous brothers as her crazy husband. We listened for hours, fascinated by the tenacious nature of the two brothers. No matter what the Wrights tackled, whether it was in the bicycle business or in airplane development, they just never gave up or gave in until success was theirs.

The problem with reaching Kitty Hawk (actually the town of Coinjock) two days ago was we arrived just ahead of inclement weather. First the wind began to blow. Then by bedtime the rain set in. Before long it appeared that our visit to Kittyhawk the next day was not going to be as nice as we hoped. This morning our fears were confirmed as the previous night's rain was still falling.

Nevertheless, we put on our brave faces and drove the 29 miles from our camp in Coinjock to the Wright Brothers National Memorial while the rain pelted us with greater and lesser force. It didn't look good for us, as each of us envisioned the park grounds as being largely an outdoor activity. Thank goodness that we were both wrong as the only things located outdoor are the actual granite monument, recreations of the brothers' workshop and airplane hanger where they did their work while preparing to fly, and the markers noting the length of their first three powered flights.

The museum indoors was actually pretty startling. Initially we walked through the informational displays, which are easily understood, and the type fonts are large enough for senior citizen eyes to see. But right next door, in a room that we originally thought was just our meeting place for a talk by the park ranger, sat the most magnificent reconstruction of the Wright Flyer 3! The Flyer was perched on a raised platform under soft, flattering lighting, and guests could walk all the way around to see and photograph the historic craft craft from all angles.

We've seen an original Wright Flyer at the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum, but I don't remember it being as spectacularly displayed as the reproduction model was today. It was just so easy to catch it from every angle that I just kept circling the display, firing the shutter as I went. Outside the rain continued to pelt away, but inside and dry, Concetta and I have seldom been more in love with a piece of machinery or the unforgetable gift of being there in person to see it.

Once everyone was seated on the perimeter of the showroom, the park ranger began what turned out to be an absolutely outstanding rundown on the Wright Brothers and their personal history in the relm of heavier-than-air flight. I truly wish I could have recorded her somehow as she not only knew all the facts starting with their schoolboy days, but presented those facts in a animated fashion that just kept you hanging onto her every word.

After our museum visit we dashed back through the rain to reach the RV. Once there we had our lunch, and I did a little editing on the photos I had shot inside. After lunch we set our course for New Bern, North Carolina about four and a half hours away. And wouldn't you know, as we rolled toward the exit we saw that the rain had stopped, and folks were outside walking up the hill to the monument.

The rain was back, unfortunately, for a good part of our drive south and west and away from the Outer Banks. Nothing to report on our drive except that we got here safely thanks to Concetta and her iPhone.

Ciao for now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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