Tax Day, but ours had been mailed, appropriately, from
Speculator, New York. So, conscience free, we were off to see New Hampshire.
This day was planned to be shorter than yesterday, with more time for relaxing
and less for driving. We passed along the Connecticut River with its neat
homes and green lawns stretching down to the river. In other spots there
were maples and oaks with their limbs overhanging the water. The river might
have been a bit brown and murky, but the picture was breathtaking.
As we traveled north the colors, promising in Vermont, were becoming more
vivid and prevalent. I doubted we would get the full color display, but
we would certainly have had a taste. And perhaps by the time we return to
the UP, they will be in full foliage.
Tom is redefining "East". He continues to claim he doesn't like
"it", but there are so many sections of these states he does appreciate
that he has had to eliminate them from consideration. He is left with an
"East" that he really doesn't care for. Like big cities. And smog.
So far, East encompasses the lower peninsula of Michigan, Ohio, Pennsylvania,
New York (because of NYC), Massachusetts (because of Boston), Rhode Island
(since Providence takes up the whole state), Delaware and Maryland. Perhaps
I can get him to draw up a new map for the AAA.
It was only 100 miles to Twin Mountain, NH. The colors as we traveled north
continued to become more and more brilliant. We drove up to the base of
Mt. Washington, the highest mountain in New England, up which one can take
a cog wheel train at the speedy rate of 4 mph for what must surely be a
spectacular view. We toured the grounds of the Bretton Woods Hotel. The
hotel, white with a red roof, has Mt. Washington as a backdrop. A wing to
the right as you enter the grounds through the golf course (!) has an old
fashioned verandah.
Highway 2 came back to visit as we traveled into Maine
It took us into Bangor as a twisting, bumpy lane...or it would have if we
hadn't opted off it at the first convenient point. The route was picturesque,
though quite different from Vermont & New Hampshire. The colors were
not as intense and we have seen no signs as in New Hampshire, welcoming
the "leaf peepers".
We drove through Rumsford, Maine, a small mill (Boise Cascade) town, with
narrow streets and a pall of paper pulp smoke which hung over and pervaded
everything. The route took us on what seemed like every street existing
in Rumsford, which did little for our dispositions. Spent the night in Bangor,
where we boarded the dog, arranged to leave the 5th wheel, and had an excellent
lobster dinner-our first of the trip.
September 17th. Dog-less, RV-less and armed with a load of tourbooks, we
were off for the Maritimes
There aren't many options for traveling from Bangor to New Brunswick. What
appeared to be the most direct route led first through the "last true
wilderness east of the Mississippi", then to the border at Calais,
and on to St. John. There are few signs of life on the lonely stretch of
two lane road which leads past wetlands and mixed woods of scrub conifers
and hardwoods.
As we crossed over New Brunswick's southeast coast, the terrain became somewhat
rocky, and very much moss-covered. At the higher elevations there were huge
fields of blueberries. One small sign even boasted that the berries of this
particular region are superior because they are "nourished with fog".
As we approached St. John, the capital of New Brunswick, we decided on a
routing that would take us that night to Moncton. Naturally, we didn't travel
the main road, but instead took a roundabout path that lead through a Provincial
Park and out to the coast on the Bay of Fundy. When we finally reached the
rugged coastline, the tide seemed very far out. No doubt this is because
the Bay of Fundy has the greatest tidal change of anywhere in the world
-- with tidal changes in excess of 50 feet. Near the coastline, the countryside
is riddled with what then appeared to be meandering, empty canals. These
of course merely were marking where the water would penetrate when the tide
rises. And they are everywhere in the low lying coastal areas along the
Bay of Fundy. Nowhere is commercial advantage better taken of this phenomenon
than in Moncton. Downtown Moncton's premier attraction is the bore tides,
which occur there twice daily. Our accommodations that evening were at the
epicenter of this activity. Near the reception desk there was a small sign
which provided the predicted times of that day's bore tides. We arrived
in the late afternoon, and the next bore tide was "scheduled"
for 9:32 that evening. Visitors were admonished to be at the viewing area
at least 15 minutes early, as the tides apparently keep schedules which
are not precisely predictable.
About a half hour before the scheduled event, we visited the viewing area.
There were few tourists evident in the growing group of spectators. It appears
the changing tides are a continuing attraction even to those who live here.
The "viewing area" was really no more than a stretch of real estate
behind some local businesses, and along side of one of those empty canals
which infiltrate the landscape of coastal New Brunswick. This particular
spot, however, was well lighted for night viewing. Along with a crowd of
locals, we waited silently, staring across a flat, muddy bottomed inlet
perhaps 100 yards across, and approximately 15 feet below the elevation
of the surrounding landscape. Given the 50+ foot tidal swing in the Bay
of Fundy, obviously only the top 10 or 12 feet of this gush would get this
far inland.
The scene was one of silent expectancy. The still air was a slightly warm
and humid, and the occasional soft waves of fine raindrops danced in front
of the bright lights focused out on the empty chasm in front of us. We weren't
even sure which direction the tide would come; or whether we'd hear it before
we'd see it. According to some local information, the first wave of these
tides can be as high as 6 feet, flooding the empty channel in only a few
seconds. 9:32 came and went, with not even a hint of a flooding tide. 9:50
rolled by. Still dry. Then, at about the time everyone was starting to believe
this would be an evening in which the tides decided to defy all predictions
and simply not rise in New Brunswick, there was a sense of motion along
the bottom of the channel to our far left. This was not to be a lion event,
but a lamb. But it was impressive none the less. It was as if someone had
taken a giant and bottomless pail of salt water and poured it into the channel
to our left. The water proceeded up the channel at perhaps 4-5 miles per
hour, with its leading edge being no more than perhaps six inches in height.
Yet, considering this channel was about 100 yards across, the volume of
water required to fill it was still impressive. Perhaps even more impressive,
is watching what happens next -- the entire body of water silently begins
to rise rapidly in front of your eyes. In a very few minutes, the entire
width of the channel is filled to a depth of several feet, and it seems
as it it's always been there.
As addicted ferry travelers, we could hardly resist the attraction of crossing
the waters to Price Edward Island ("PEI") the next day. After
our usual "which road shall we take" routine, ("I don't know,
what road do you think we should take"? ), we chose a route to one
of the two ferry crossings to the Island.
There are two crossing routes. One leaves from eastern New Brunswick, and
crosses to a point north of Charlottetown on the Northwest side of the island;
the other connects the southwest portion of the island with Pictou, in Nova
Scotia.
Each of the ferry crossings is a bit more than an hour. The boats are smaller,
but more seaworthy than those we were used to. And while they are scheduled
to run all year 'round, there is a warning that the southern route may be
closed during parts of the winter months, apparently due to storms and ice.
No doubt the fact they sail in waters far less protected than ours accounts
for the "deep V hull" design of these boats. They seemed a bit
tall and narrow to us -- almost a bit top heavy. But this design must somehow
accommodate the rough waters which can be found here.
We were only on PEI for a matter of a few hours. It is mostly flat, with
low rolling farmlands. Except for the capitol, which is not particularly
large, it is composed of small villages scattered throughout the farming
areas. On the east coast, which we did not have time to visit, there appeared
to be many tourist attraction, centered on the sandy beaches with warm summertime
water temperatures. The Island is divided into several "sections".
We opted not to visit "Anne's Island", named after the Green Gables
heroine, with its advertisements of mini-golf and amusement rides. We were
instead content to take an abbreviated trip through the countryside, essentially
between the two ferry ports.
Though we'd lost track of which day it was, it doesn't take long here to
recognize Sunday. The roads on PEI don't go around the villages, they go
through them. The villages are small, and uniformly picturesque with modest
homes, always neat and well maintained. And there is green grass everywhere.
I have no idea how they have time to mow all the lawns on PEI, because it
seems as if all of the land which is not being used for farming has been
transformed into beautifully manicured lawn.
The churches are clearly the center of all of the villages. They are all
relatively small, painted white, have a steeple which gives a hint of its
denomination, and have perfectly manicured green lawn all around them.
It was almost as if we went to church on Prince Edward Island. At about
10:45, there were many cars moving around, filled with Islanders in their
Sunday best. Just before 11:00, all those cars began parking on the brilliant
green lawns which surrounded the white churches. For the next hour there
were virtually no cars on the road, but every church lawn was packed with
them. Just after noon the church doors opened, and the Islanders strolled
around the church grounds talking with their neighbors. Soon there were
cars on the road everywhere, as they drove from church home, or out to the
local restaurant.
For veteran ferry travelers, we showed little savvy this particular day.
We'd noted that the loading from New Brunswick to PEI was very light. No
chance of overload this day -- or so we thought. As we neared Wood Island,
the southern ferry route back to Nova Scotia, it belatedly struck us that
this was now a Sunday afternoon on an island. Just like being in the San
Juans on a Sunday afternoon -- everyone wants off! As we neared the ferry
terminal at Wood Island, we could see the lines of cars already waiting.
And we were justly rewarded for our lapse in thinking -- by finding ourselves
in line for a ferry which wouldn't sail for another 3 hours.
Attached to the ferry landing area, there was a small restaurant called
Crabby's, (decorated with large pictures of lobsters). We had excellent
lobster sandwiches on local bakery bread, served by the proprietor, who
wasn't at all crabby. There was a gift shop which was in the end of season
close out sale phase, and a Nova Scotia tourist bureau.
On our Maritime sojourn, we found that these bureaus were very helpful.
They provide maps, tourbooks and brochures of most places in each province.
If there is any downside to this service, it is that you get more information
than you can actually use. The maps are very complete -- more so than the
signposts along the road. We discovered this one morning after getting lost.
(I knew the correct route was on Rte 7 - we just couldn't get there the
way the map said, because there was no sign at the most critical spot.)
Our helpful tourist "person" pointed out Pictou, Nova Scotia,
gave us a map of the town, and 3 brochures describing accommodations. We
settled on Braeside House, an historic country inn with a marvelous restaurant.
The entire building was full of antiques, from the carpets to the furniture.
The dinner, Atlantic salmon stuffed with scallops and crab with Jarlsberg
cheese, and Caesar salad, was scrumptious. The town has an historic district,
very small and closed on a Sunday night. The town pier was crowded with
locals mackerel fishing; there had been a run for the past several weeks.
Tom awoke this am, (September 19), with the first line of an intended verse
in mind,
"We've traveled to the edge of east, and now we're headed west"
It didn't happen quite that quickly, however. As we began what we'd intended
as the first miles of our trip back "west", we concluded instead
we'd scrap our intended agenda, and continue instead further east to Nova
Scotia's southeastern coast. We knew, realistically, we didn't have sufficient
time for Cape Breton on this trip, though it would make a wonderful destination
for a future junket. But we did conclude that by adding a day to our visit
to the Maritimes we'd be able to continue across to the northeastern shore,
to Sherbrooke, and explore south along the outside coast. Nova Scotia is
divided for tourists into 7 sections. We would be traveling the western
coast, part of which is the "Marine Drive", and part of which
is the "Lighthouse Route". The day was extremely cooperative,
sunny with a slight breeze.
We neared the outer coast near the historic village of Sherbrooke. A portion
of this small town is partially restored to reflect the heyday of the village's
activity in the late nineteenth century. But the rest of the town -- the
part that isn't "restored", is equally attractive. Moreover, there
were but a handful of people in the entire town, this Monday morning --
and most of them were locals.
As we traveled southwest, we encountered a coastline unlike anything we'd
seen before. It was "wild" like California's Mendocino area, but
the villages were smaller, further separated, and uniformly much older --
clinging tenaciously to their times of origin. No fast food stands, no motels,
and almost no gas stations. Just old homes, small local businesses, a quaint
white church surrounded by green grass for what seemed to be at least every
50 inhabitants, and an occasional country inn with a handful of rooms. We
passed through the town of Moser River, and through towns with such strange
names as Musquodobit, and Chezzetcook, (both Indian names, the former meaning
"river of foam"). We also came near the town of Glenelg, a name
which reads the same no matter on which end of town one is located.
This coast is reminiscent as well of Norway's fjord area, as the coastline
is hardly "straight". It is continually indented by deep penetrating
bays which sometimes stretch miles inland to small fishing villages at the
head of the bay. Yet unlike the fjords, the banks of the inlets are low,
not high. Moreover, little islands dot these inland waters, sometimes as
far as the eye can see. The closest thing we'd seen to this scenery was
the remote coastal areas of Ireland and Scotland. However it is not as "stark"
as those areas either, as the mixed forests of conifers and maples provides
a much softer contrast. Even so, would seem that those who migrated here
from the British Isles must have felt quite at home in this environment.
One thing we noted on this sunny, slightly breezy Monday morning was that
everyone -- yes everyone -- seemed to think it was the day to hang out the
wash. Virtually every house, in every tiny village, had a clothes line outside
-- the kind with a large pulley on each end to reel the clothes in and out.
Maybe there is some sort law or local ordinance which mandates that everyone
living along the coast in this section of Nova Scotia must wash clothes
on sunny Monday mornings, and hang them out to dry in the side yard.
Another ordinance may decree something about having colorful little statues
or cut-outs of farm animals, rabbits, squirrels, and little-Bo-peep type
creatures in one's front yard. They are very popular here. There might have
been some sort of local competition underway. However, perhaps it was inter-Provincial,
as we'd seen a profusion of these displays throughout all of New Brunswick,
Prince Edward Island, and now Nova Scotia.
Although there is a relatively nice two lane road which provides a "main"
route up and down the coast, we preferred the small side roads which visited
the little fishing villages along the way. We discovered "Sober Island",
where the road crosses a bridge to a few modest homes -- and then just ends.
On another side road, we found a local farm which raises "Christmas
trees and blueberries". On one road just off the main coastal route
we found a small smoked fish shop that advertised its product as "world
famous". This we could not resist. I compared smoking recipes and methods
with the proprietress, and she cheerfully gave us a tour of her hand-built
smoking ovens. We ended up purchasing a half pound of smoked Atlantic salmon,
which we devoured completely as an hors d'oeuvre later that evening.
In the early afternoon we approached Halifax, and managed eventually to
negotiate our way through and around the city. Now we were on a new "trail",
the "Lighthouse Trail". Southwest along the coast from here is
the center of Nova Scotia's lobster fishing area. As we'd discovered earlier,
the lobsters one eats in Maine will have come from this part of Nova Scotia.
That evening we found a small motel in Lunenburg, a fishing village of some
2,000 people on one of the inlets of the outer Nova Scotia coast. Founded
in 1753, Lunenburg is a very pretty town without the overlooking pulp mill
that so many of the towns had. Although we did not have a great deal of
time, we explored a reconstruction of the famous (in Nova Scotia) schooner
Bluenose, and boarded a trawler.
In the museum, we met Nan, a museum docent with a delightful combination
Nova Scotia-Dutch accent, who gave us the fundamentals of the construction
of lobster traps. We left feeling that our West Coast crab traps would be
more efficient if they took a feature from these lobster traps and included
a "parlor". When the crustacean crawls into this area of the trap,
there is virtually no chance of escape.
Yesterday, when we reached the coast at Sherbrooke, we'd found our easternmost
point on this motorized voyage. At that point we were almost exactly 5,000
road miles from home. While our route had been more zigzag than straight,
still we were hundreds of miles east of the most easterly point in the United
States -- far further than we'd contemplated. This morning we'd really be
heading West -- back across the lower peninsula of Nova Scotia. We couldn't
resist going just a bit further south on the outer coast, to the one time
pirate haven, Liverpool, before turning inland and heading across to Digby,
on Nova Scotia's west coast.
Digby is also a fishing village, but this time the catch is scallops. Digby
scallops are touted as the "best". We were a bit too "fished
out", in terms of culinary interests, to have one last try at about
11:00 a.m. when we arrived. We'd noted a steady increase in tourist traffic
from Sherbrooke, to south of Halifax, and now we encountered bus loads of
them in Digby.
The ferry from Digby crosses the mouth of the Bay of Fundy, a distance of
some 72 kilometers, in approximately two hours. When one first leaves the
Nova Scotia coast, the destination province, New Brunswick, cannot be seen.
However, soon enough it becomes visible and in due course we reached our
destination port, St. John. This ferry is very unlike our Puget Sound fleet.
Rather than flat bottom double-enders, these are large seagoing deep V hulls,
remarkably similar to the Alaska ferry vessels which sail from Bellingham.
The captain and crew here, as with their smaller sister ships which provide
two separate ferry routings to Prince Edward Island, are quite "tourist
oriented", and provide a sort of holiday atmosphere. In the spacious
forward lounge, they offer live musical entertainment during the voyage;
and even promote "happy hour" type specials at the bar.
Once ashore, we pointed in the direction of Fredericton, as a mid-route
point to the evening's destination, Houlton, ME. Houlton, is the county
seat of the northernmost county in Maine -- Aroostock County. The ancestors
of Tom's Uncle John Elliott chose to migrate North when their contemporaries
pushed West. They settled in this county. When we checked the local phone
book in the motel that evening, we found more variations in the spelling
of "Elliott" than we'd recalled seeing anywhere. Collectively,
they took up about half the pages in the telephone book.
Having now touched the most northerly point of our trip, we headed back
south this morning, (September 21), to Bangor to bail Missy out of the kennel,
and to reclaim our home on wheels. Rather than opting for the Interstate,
we choose instead to drive "the Haynesville Woods" -- that being
the title of a country folk song we used to favor years ago. The narrow
ribbon of a road lived up to our expectations, as we meandered through miles
and miles of potato fields before becoming completely immersed in the "woods".
And it's also quite a distance between towns. We found one of the very few
rustic cafes along this route for breakfast. For $1.79, the morning special
was two eggs cooked to order, home fried fresh Maine potatoes, "grilled"
fresh home made toast, and coffee. We'd never even heard of "grilled"
toast, but it was excellent. The proprietor makes it daily from scratch,
and the fresh loaves were so beautiful we couldn't resist buying one to
take along with us. We stopped at a roadside stand and picked up a bag of
honor-pay Maine potatoes, and then back to Bangor to reclaim our home and
mascot.
With Missy and the 5th wheel, we headed for a destination in the White Mountains
of New Hampshire. Though we'd been there only six days earlier, the fall
colors were noticeably more vivid. We opted to drive south almost to Portland
and then cut across into New Hampshire. This route took us through the lake
country of Maine, and some of the bedroom communities of Portland, However,
we thought that it wouldn't be too many miles before we climbed out of the
cities and into the rural White Mountains again.
Wrong. We had a bit of a surprise in approaching from the east through southwestern
Maine, and into New Hampshire through what on the map appeared to be a small
town called North Conway. The AAA book recommends 18 motels and 4 restaurants.
There seemed to be at least 50 motels, and as many restaurants. Moreover,
factory outlet stores bearing familiar trade names of virtually anything
one has ever heard of -- as well as many one hasn't -- stretch along the
sides of the road for miles on end. This, as it turns out, is the main "base
camp" for people visiting the White Mountains of New Hampshire. The
accepted sequence apparently includes touring the mountains (there are so
few in the East even a small one by Western standards is a rare and prized
sighting), followed by a shop-'til-you-drop run through the gamut of outlet
stores.
Once we thought we were past North Conway, and finally into the White Mountain
countryside, we found one last, lonely store. One would wonder how it could
possibly compete with the hundreds of outlet stores crowded together in
one place back in North Conway. The success, it seems, must be attributable
to a very clever sign prominently displayed in front of this establishment.
It reads: "You've NEVER seen a store like THIS!". For the crowds
which pass this way, such an enticement seems to have proved irresistible,
as this isolated establishment is obviously flourishing.
But, even North Conway doesn't go on forever, (it just seems like it), and
we returned again to Twin Mountain, and the KOA. We were delighted that
they remembered us!
As we were registering, we asked about maple syrup -- where and what kind
to get. We were told that the neighborhood "sugarers" come by
periodically to offer their product to be sold at the KOA. When they first
arrived, the KOA proprietors tasted and liked it. The sellers said little
but they all grinned as the deal was struck - and there was not one tooth
among them!
Today, September 22, would be our final chance to experience the part of
the country we'd targeted for this particular trip -- New England. Our route
would take us across the small northern peninsula of New Hampshire, and
to the town of St. Johnsbury, Vermont. We did the mandatory tour of a maple
syrup factory, and learned a bit about the various grades of maple syrup.
Syrup is graded "A" and "B", with the first being the
more desirable. The color, varies from very light, then amber, dark amber,
and finally dark. The premium grades, which have a gentle maple flavor,
are the lightest. As the syrup is cooked for longer periods, it darkens
and retains an increasingly strong maple flavor. At the darkest end of the
spectrum, the recommended uses are more for cooking than for pancakes. Likewise,
"real" maple candy is darker than the lighter colored maple candies
one normally sees. The darker ones are "sweeter", but also much
stronger, and heavily flavored of maple. The process of getting sap from
maple trees is called "sugaring" since until the 1920's virtually
all the maple sap was used to make sugar, not syrup.
The factory makes other products as well as syrup, and today they were bottling
parmesan-cracked pepper salad dressing. Trying everything, we left with
an array of candy, syrup and salad dressing.
As we proceeded through our last few miles of Vermont on this bright sunny
morning, the fall colors were more spectacular than we could possibly have
anticipated. This was supposed to be a bit too early for the "Leaf
Peepers". But this year, according to the locals, the colors came early.
And colors there were. Not only the "macro" scenes of mixed fires
of yellow, orange, red and gold; but also the "micro" scenes --
individual maple trees with spring green leaves on one side, and blazing
red leaves on top. And when you walk among these monuments to color, you
even notice the individual leaves: They are partly a fresh green color,
and partly red, yellow or orange. They form a mosaic, each one different
from its neighbors.
Into this natural scenery is blended some of the most charming works of
man -- little towns and villages occupying their claimed islands in these
flaming woods. The houses are mostly white, with carefully manicured lawns.
The only structures one sees above the rooftops are the steeples of the
village churches. And the villages don't sprawl along the main roadways.
One is either "in town", or "out of town". And for the
most part, it is the latter. There are few places on earth which both have
a storybook reputation, and live up to it so very well. One could imagine
a movie spectacular:
Starring reds, oranges, yellows and greens
Forming a vibrant patchwork screen.
Produced by the Leaves of Fall
Assisted ably by spectacular views
Which serve to enhance the glorious hues.
Directed by the Trees of Fall
The extras are towns under the ridges
And steams running 'neath covered bridges.
From the book by Mother Nature
The curtain goes up in early fall
And the audience will fill the hall.
Catch it at your local New England state.
With these extraordinary last glimpses of New England fresh in our memories, we crossed the border into Canada. We'd had a very tempting invitation to linger on a while, and visit a friend in Montpelier. We'd have to save that for another day, as by now some obligations for our return were creeping into our time horizon. But it was not without a considerable sense of hesitancy that we left this beautiful countryside. Surely no one would think of this area as "East". It is a land unto itself, and properly labeled "New England". It is, admittedly, geographically east. But is unhurried, uncrowded, civilized, tidy, and above all else beautiful. It cannot be lumped together with that mass of self destructing landscape which lies to its south, and which more suitably responds to the Westerner's image of the East.
East is East, and West is West
But there's other places too
New England fits in neither one
For us 'twas someplace new
A land of dated villages --
The storybooks are true
With neat white homes on lawns of green
And church's steeples e're in view
A countryside of rolling hills
And endless forest views
A carpet green from spring to fall
Exploding then in flaming hues
A place of history well preserved
Which takes you way back when
A place which even as you leave it
You know you'll surely come again
Upon leaving Vermont and venturing into Quebec, Tom was
dismayed that the signs were only in French. It appears that all the provinces
are required to post dual language signs, except Quebec, where it's French
and French only.
The trip across Canada was calculated to get us across those portions of
"the East" which one couldn't otherwise escape on the return route.
Our intended route would take us through Quebec, most of Ontario, and back
into the Michigan's upper peninsula, which had been such a welcome surprise
to us on the trip east. In the first couple of hundred miles we had to deal
with Montreal and Ottawa, both attractive cities in their own right -- but
not overly attractive to drive through towing our fifth wheel. Once well
east of Ottawa, however, we once again found ourselves at the starting point
of a long, long road which would lead us north of Lake Huron, and down into
Sault Ste. Marie. We drove a bit longer than usual this day to ensure we'd
have Ottawa well behind us, and a clear road ahead for the day to come.
Oddly, as we left Ottawa heading west, instead of diminishing as we'd expected,
we encountered a steady stream of traffic coming into Ottawa from the west
-- a direction which, according to the map, was only sparsely populated.
We stopped this night at a secluded KOA near Renfrew, ON. We were far enough
into the countryside here that the grounds were expansive -- so much so
that they even had their own (golf) driving range. Typical of private Canadian
RV parks, notwithstanding this surfeit of space, the RV parking layout managed
to pack all the "fully serviced" RV spots into a tiny fraction
of the land available.
We were surprised when, this far into a very sparsely populated countryside,
the RV park was jammed. They inquired politely whether we had a reservation,
which of course we did not. We'd not needed a reservation anywhere we'd
been over the past few weeks -- and this location seemed the least likely
place in the world to fill up. Wrong. We learned for the first time why
all the Ottawa bound traffic -- and why this place was almost overflowing:
The "International Plowing Match", one of the premier annual events
in Ontario, was being held in Pembroke, about 50 kilometers west. The story
behind this match is as follows. Several years ago, the mayors of several
small Ontario villages had a bet to see who could plow the straightest furrow.
(As politicians, they were considered abysmal plowers). The money raised
went to the village of the winning mayor. The current plowing match was
attracting daily crowds in excess of 25,000 people, and naturally the majority
of them were coming from the populated area in and around Ottawa. Every
camping facility within an hour of Pembroke was full. And we were lucky
to get a "semi-serviced" spot away from the crowded melee of RV's
which occupied all of the "fully" serviced sites. Thus the mysterious
traffic congestion out here in no man's land - everyone was headed home.
The notion of a "plowing match" was not entirely new to us. We'd
noted when driving from Nova Scotia's outer coast, across it's main peninsula
to the ferry at Digby, signs of some sort of local fair that coming weekend.
We stopped briefly at the village which appeared to be the location of the
gathering, and read the local posting of events. This, too, was a happening
based on various contests, including such events as plowing competition,
draft horse tug-of-wars, and, featured Friday night, the "ladies' oxen
pull". Even if the notion of an "international plowing match"
was not entirely foreign, it seemed far removed from more familiar events
such as Monday Night Football.
September 22 was essentially a driving day. It's not easy to get from New
England to the Midwest. There are some very large lakes in the way. Going
east, we'd opted to go below them, which not only involved a traffic laden
route not well suited to RVs, but also a detour of several hundred miles
to get around the lakes. This time we were headed above most of them (all
but Superior), traveling from the top of Vermont to Sault Ste. Marie, where
Ontario is connected via toll bridge to Michigan's upper peninsula.
The penalty associated with this route is a long, long stretch of two lane
roadway, most of which is sorely in need of attention. It seems the Province
of Ontario has adopted a clever strategy for restraining its budget for
roads. Instead of allocating what would be the very large sums needed to
repair and replace these bumpy byways, they chose instead to purchase vast
quantities of "rough road ahead" signs, which now are beginning
to create a sort of continuous roadside border that runs the entire length
of the path from Ottawa to Sault Ste. Marie.
As we left Sudbury, Ontario, (actually a pretty ugly city seen from our
route), Tom expounded on his "East" theory. He continues to lump
everything he dislikes about cities (size, pollution, heavy industry) and
such annoyances as toll roads and calling it East.
Tom claims he doesn't like the East
He's taken greatest pains
To strip away its assets
To eliminate its gains
First he removes New England
And then the Maritimes
He classifies them separately
As completely different climes
The East that's left includes New York
But just the southern section
And anything industrial
In his Eastern state dissection
I think he really likes the East
I think he thinks it's pretty
It's just that as a Western boy
He can't stand Eastern cities
However, even long days on challenging roadways have their
rewards. Ours was pulling into what is one of the most beautiful RV parks
we've yet encountered. We were on our last drips of diesel when we pulled
into the KOA at Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, September 23. The fall colors
here were now a bit past their prime, and the falling leaves made a colorful
quilt over the neatly trimmed green lawns of this park-like setting. The
spaces were enormous, and the facilities superb. Missy had all the space
she could possibly use at the end of her longest lead. She loved diving
into the leaves, as a sort of "leaf gopher", chasing through them,
and building them into huge piles by racing in concentric circles at top
speed so that her leash would create new leaf stacks for her to dive into
and destroy.
We crossed from the larger town (50,000+) of Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario,
to its much smaller namesake in Michigan the morning of September 24. There
are locks on both sides of the St. Maries river which flows between Lake
Huron and Lake Superior. There is an 18' elevation difference between the
two lakes, requiring the locks. On the US. side one must pay a toll, in
our case $3.50, for the privilege of making the crossing. Curiously, the
cost is the same whether payment is made in Canadian or US. funds. Always
alert to such opportunities, we of course paid with Canadian currency!
The Michigan's "U.P." (upper peninsula) is worlds apart from the
lower portion of its "lower peninsula". One would never mistake
towns such as Germfask with Flint or Detroit. Up here, particularly along
the northern portions of the U.P., the towns are small, and the atmosphere
rural. To avoid backtracking from our earlier travels across the U.P., this
time we crossed primarily along the southern edge of the peninsula, with
much of the trip along the shores of Lake Michigan. We found the "southern"
route across the U.P. a bit more congested than the northern route we'd
taken before. Here, apparently, are the closer and more popular tourist
destinations for the huge populations centers to the south. Along the southern
U.P. route one never seems entirely "out of town", as is so distinctly
the feel of the north.
Our plans for today were influenced by two compelling factors. One was that,
being Saturday, college football would be on TV, requiring an early end
to the day's driving. The other was that we had again passed the 3,000 mile
mark since treating our faithful turbo diesel to a drink of fresh oil. Iron
Mountain, a small town on Michigan's western border with Wisconsin, agreeably
provided us with a suitable RV spot with cable TV, and a little town which
keeps its Quick Lube operation open on weekends. The fall colors had waned
substantially since we passed through some 16 days earlier. The leaves then
were well into their fall colors, though it appeared there was more to come.
According to our Park host, the U.P. had missed some of the color it ordinarily
gets, probably due to a lack of cool evenings. However, after the fall color
festival of New Hampshire and Vermont, we knew we'd seen this season at
its finest. Anything from here on west would be pure bonus.
Overnight we heard a few tell-tale taps on the roof, signaling rain. Ever
since we'd been in Ontario, the air had been heavy and humid. Happily it
was at worst a tepid humid, as any amount of heat at all would have provided
an unwelcome response from these western air aficionados. Unlike the West,
where Real Clouds sail in on Blue Skies and suddenly dump their watery loads,
in the Midwest the air first gets thick, then the sky just sort of "greys
out", without even the slightest hint of an individual cloud. Then,
over the next few hours -- or sometimes even days -- the air continues to
thicken until it becomes so saturated that the water just starts to fall
out of it. None of this should have come as a surprise. After all, we lived
in the Midwest for six years. We were certainly aware that around here it's
too hot, unless of course it's too cold.
The amount of "just right" is precious little. Ahhhhh, for the
Great Northwest....
The Midwestern weather is not to our liking.
It always is humid, and pleasant its not;
In the winter and springtime it always is cold here,
And the rest of the year its always too hot
Today we toured the Badger State rather more extensively than we might have
preferred. We had no "real" map (the sort handed out free at most
welcome/tourist bureaus), and using the Central States map didn't even start
to give us enough detail. We started from Florence, Wisconsin on Route 101.
This route was not on our map. We found Route 8 at Armstrong Creek. This
town was not on our map either. Traveling to Wausau, I overshot the turn,
retraced my path and undershot it the second time. Got a little lost in
Chippewa Falls, but by dint of careful questions finally found ourselves
on the road to Minneapolis.
Once we crossed into Minnesota near Minneapolis, we found ourselves back
on the interstate system -- something we had generally avoided until this
point. But now our travels had started to head for the West coast, and the
distances had again begun to lengthen. The only way to bring this voyage
to a timely conclusion would require that, for the most part, we abandon
the blue lines and attack the distances which lie ahead with routings which
take greater advantage of the interstate system.
Our campground tonight, the 25th, was a bit unusual -- Hope Oak Grove Farm,
a working farm in down state Minnesota. Apparently this is corn and "bean"
(which here translates to soy bean) territory. For reasons we could not
fathom, there were quite a few RVers here. As far as we can tell, there's
nothing much around here but farmland. Not that it's unattractive; indeed,
it's pretty in a pastoral sense. But there doesn't seem to be much in the
way of either scenic attraction or commercial interest. Tom quickly discovered
that one trade-off for being in such a quaint countryside location was that
the public phone here was a rotary phone, precluding his usual email, voice
mail, and securities management tools. Oh well, we could stop at some truck
stop en route along the interstate tomorrow and get all caught up on that
stuff. For the moment we would simply enjoy a stopover in a grove of giant
ancient oaks -- the first such trees we've seen in a long time.
As we got underway the following morning we contemplated a day which would
take us beyond Minnesota, and into South Dakota. We both saw the significance
of this as, at long last, getting beyond the "Midwest", and back
into the country which could rightfully claim to be "West". But
this was not to be...
As we made our way towards the western edge of Minnesota, we pulled off
the road into a small farming community for the limited purpose of changing
drivers. I had been driving, and Tom hopped out of the truck to fetch a
fresh cup of coffee from a local store while I turned our "train"
around in preparation for getting back to the highway. But as I drove slowly
forward, we both heard a terrible grinding noise. Then came a visual confirmation,
in the form of heavy dark smoke emanating from somewhere beneath the 5th
wheel. This was almost immediately followed by an unwelcome olfactory confirmation
that something was indeed very, very hot.
The "good news/bad news" character of this event was immediately
apparent. The bad news was that we'd obviously just suffered a severe mechanical
failure of some type. The good news was that instead of being on one of
the numerous lonely stretches of back country road where we'd spent most
of our time to date, we were parked in a spacious parking area of a gas
station -- one which had a pay phone within 50 feet. The small rural community
we were about to adopt was Luverne, Minnesota, (no, we had never heard of
it either), a town of approximately 3,500 persons, which was almost entirely
committed in some fashion to the crops which dominated the landscape for
as far as one could see in every direction.
Even one totally unschooled in the art of vehicle mechanics could quickly
surmise that something was dramatically wrong with the front left wheel
of the RV. Not only was it smoking hot, and emitting a foul scented smoke,
but as well it was tilted at a bizarre angle which did not match either
the pitch or direction of its three remaining mates. The decorative, once-shiny
hub ornament was now almost ash. Indeed, it appeared almost to be severed
from the axle to which it was supposed to have been firmly attached.
Multiple calls to the Yakima Alpenlite dealership and AAA resulted in our
towing the rig, minus wheel, about a mile to "Jim's Garage". Jim
and cronies are on the geriatric edge, and took some time even getting the
wheel off the rig. (The delay was increased when Jim took time off to go
home for "supper"). We took the axle to Sioux Falls South Dakota,
fairly conveniently located within 35 miles, where more phone calls resulted
in our return at 5:30 that evening with a new axle. Tomorrow morning we
would see if Jim and crew are better at putting an axle on than they were
in removing it. Watching them work today, I was reminded of the small child
who dismantles a clock and then can not get all the pieces back in. Tom
had similar sentiments, so we had everything assembled, welded on, etc.
in Sioux Falls, so all that Jim and crew would have to do is put the axle
on. Nothing more complex than that. It gives one a fairly shaky feeling
about driving down the freeway however. The tire would have come off in
about a mile if we hadn't pulled off when we did. So I predict we will drive
with more stops and tire checking at least tomorrow.
Our stop in Luverne had its brighter side, however. Missy got a chance to
take a run in a soybean field. Soybeans, which look like small dried up
peas, perfect for a 5 mile romp if you are a Brittany puppy. We spent the
night at the Magnolia "you can finally watch cable TV at the "Mag"
motel", with a nice steak dinner.
Our feelings the morning of the 27th were that things were really starting
to get "West" again. It seems that the far eastern end of South
Dakota belongs to the Midwest; but somewhere around the middle of the state
the Real West begins. This is our last "new state" of the trip.
The land's getting dryer, the "real" cows are back
It's obvious we're on a homeward bound track
Soon we'll be seeing the high mountain tops
Instead of these acres of bean and corn crops
This route, on Interstate 90, was very different from our trip across the
top half of North Dakota, on US 2. There, on a mostly two lane highway,
one had the sense of being not only out in the country, but somehow really
away from it all. I guess it's not possible to sense the same feeling from
an Interstate freeway, together with its steady stream of 18 wheelers and
a continuing commercial menu comprised of billboards which stretch, literally,
from one end of the state to the other. Even in those wide open distances
between small South Dakota towns, billboards seem indifferent to the lack
of population density. Apparently, most people go through South Dakota,
not to it.
New Hampshire says "live free or die"
Vermont's "Green Mountains" grace the plate
And South Dakota should be named
The nation's foremost "Billboard State"
If not the "billboard state" perhaps the "Wall Drug Store
state", since one out of three signs advertise this famous landmark.
However, there is entirely too much advertising, and the whole landscape
is littered with billboards. There are very few signs pointing out national
landmarks, and many, many billboards touting waterslides, mini-golf, Fred
Flintstone's campgrounds and the like.
This morning, September 28, we set off early for the Black Hills.
Unlike the rolling mountain woodlands of northern New Hampshire and Vermont,
which is soothing to the eye of the highway traveler, the southern route
across South Dakota suffers from severe visual pollution. We hoped that
we might only go a short way to find a state park campground. We pictured
5000+ feet of elevation, a running stream and a quiet day with maybe some
hikes thrown in. However, as we started from our Rapid City point of departure
towards Mt. Rushmore in the Black Hills, matters got even worse. Out in
the dry wasteland of the state, the endless jungle of billboards are perhaps
less offensive by virtue of the fact there's little scenery outside of the
solid fence which they create across the state. But as one ascends into
the Black Hills, the volume of billboards reaches a crescendo -- but this
time obscuring what otherwise would be the first mountainous forests which
one has seen for over 2,000 miles.
The signs repeatedly herald a wondrous variety of man made tourist attractions,
from reptile farms to water slides. It is as if every conceivable tourist
trap has been set to divert attention from the natural vistas of Mt. Rushmore.
The twisting routes to the mountain itself are almost entirely hidden by
the battery of billboards proclaiming the virtues of the many unrelated
tourist entrapments which clutter the routes to the mountain.
But there is a happy ending here. The Black Hills have not been totally
destroyed after all. One just needs to get a bit south of the Mt. Rushmore
area to find Custer State Park, a large and scenic portion of the Black
Hills which has been protected against the commercial invasions which have
so completely overrun the more highly traveled routes between Rapid City
and Mt. Rushmore. Here, at last, is true natural beauty. It is quiet and
serene. Its vistas are of well manicured forests of fir and majestic ponderosa
pine. There are picnic areas and campgrounds in a completely natural setting,
and trailheads leading into the back country. Here, too, is a unique wildlife
refuge, where the king of the beasts is the buffalo. There are said to be
some 1,300 buffalo within the park limits, and we may have seen all of them.
Our first encounter with these giant western behemoths was at the junction
of two narrow lanes leading through the park. We slowed to make a turn,
and as we did so we saw two enormous black objects grazing in a grassy plot
in the center of the intersection. The size of these animals is staggering.
They appear at once powerful and docile. There are warning signs throughout
the park warning of them, and proclaiming the virtue of maintaining an adequate
distance from them. As we got further into the park, we came upon large
herds of them in the open grassy fields which grace the valley floors. We
also saw antelope, and Missy explored her first prairie dog village (leashed,
of course).
Near the southern edge of this state park is the Blue Bell Lodge, a nicely
maintained log building with a reception area and dining room downstairs,
and rooms above. It also has a dozen or more rustic cabins elsewhere on
the grounds. It seems as if it must be a million miles from the "other"
Black Hills country just to the north.
Traveling south from the park, we crossed into Wind Caves National Monument.
This area is still within a larger wildlife protective area, and is loaded
with opportunities for buffalo and antelope viewing. The "Wind Cave"
itself is an interesting National Monument, comprised of a vast underground
labyrinth of interconnected tunnels and chambers. Collectively, the passageways
comprise more than 75 miles of accessible underground terrain. Only a very
small portion of it is available for public entry, which is accomplished
in organized groups departing the Visitor Center every half hour or so,
under the guidance of one of the park staff.
The "wind" portion of the caves refers to the fact that the entire
underground area "breathes" continuously, and perceptibly.
There is but one tiny "natural" entrance to this vast underground
discovery, and it is less than 12" in diameter. Because the outside
air pressure is almost constantly changing, (i.e., from high pressure to
low pressure, and vice versa), the enormous volume of air trapped beneath
the surface responds to it by sucking in air when the underground pressure
is lower, and exhausting air when the outside air pressure is lower. At
the time we were visiting, the outside air pressure was dropping due to
an approaching weather system. As a consequence, at the cave's only natural
aperture air was gushing out, creating a strong wind at the mouth of the
cave. When you approached within a few feet of the opening, you could feel
the rush of cold air blowing in your face.
With such a tarrying pace during the first half of the day, our mileage
was a bit limited for this day, though we managed to reach a quiet, off-highway
KOA that afternoon in the small town of Douglas, WY -- some 50 miles east
of Casper.
This morning, before we left Rapid City, I had mentioned that I had seen
buffalo at the store where I got our last night's dinner. Tom was intrigued,
and we decided to try some. Having never eaten buffalo before, we asked
one of the "meat men" about it. He had only eaten buffalo burgers,
(advertisements for which also occur on billboards around here), and wasn't
much help. A helpful woman shopper said she had eaten it and it was very
tender. She had eaten it, boiled, at "feasts". Since I didn't
think I would boil it, and have never been invited to a feast, we treated
it as a steak, and experimented. We discovered that, while tender, buffalo
was somewhat lacking in taste, and a good deal of it went uneaten that evening.
I planned to try it as stroganoff at a later date.
The route we'd been taking would eventually lead us northwesterly to Montana
and Washington, but our next general destination was the Napa Valley. The
challenge was to pick an interesting route from the I-90 network to the
I-80 network to the south. We opted to try an interesting "gray line"
route that, in a somewhat circuitous fashion, would connect Casper with
Rawlins. Our chosen mountainous lanes would do this by crossing the continental
divide twice en route. We'd decided on this particular morning to create
a new game called "count the antelope", as we'd be traversing
some little-traveled mountainous countryside which would be perfect habitat
for antelope.
The game was a total failure. We had been only a few miles when the sightings
became so numerous that we were beginning to lose track of the numbers.
Then, soon after, we began to see substantial herds of antelope -- just
standing around for the apparent purpose of being counted. We abandoned
the game, as we would have fallen far behind our general travel scheme had
we persisted.
Before the day was out we would cross the Great Divide still twice more.
The reason for all these crossings is an interesting topographical fact:
In southeastern Wyoming there is a curious area where the Great Divide makes
a giant circle. The area inside the circle is the "Great Divide Basin"
-- which is exactly what its name implies. On our way south to Rawlins we'd
crossed into and then out of the basin; and on the way west from Rawlins,
we climbed into and out of another portion of it. Thus it took four crossings
to get from "east" of the divide this day, to "west"
of it!
Awakening at 5:00 am, in Evanston, Wyoming, resulted in a 6:05 departure
and a 600 mile day. We targeted Reno, Nevada as our destination.
The weather around Salt Lake steadily deteriorated; as we crossed the Bonneville
salt flats, all that could be seen was the road, and not too much of that.
The rain pelted down, with some wind, causing standing water on this completely
flat section of road. This condition continued until we were halfway through
Nevada. The whole road was freeway, however, making travel somewhat easier.
The mountains of Northeastern Nevada appeared interesting. The Ruby Mts.
have some tantalizing roads going through them. Right now the first snow
of the season has frosted them - but perhaps next spring?
Boomtown Nevada. We spent this evening, September 30, in the time honored
Nevadan style - gambling. A nice enough RV park, all concrete, but with
some space between vehicles and each site had a little spot of grass.
Over the Sierra on October 1. There was a bit of fog, but otherwise a beautiful
day for travel. Off to the Napa Valley. Thence home -- and on to the next
adventure in Alaska...
We'll visit the Valley, but soon we'll be gone
We'll head on up north to the Cape of San Juan
We'll tell all our friends of the places we've been
Then we're off on the boat for the far Northern scene.