The Healing Waters of Salt Springs

The delay in receiving the part we needed for our old furnace provided us with the unexpected opportunity of spending another weekend in this part of Florida. We had already packed up and said our good-byes to my parents earlier that morning, so we decided to find a different resting place for the weekend while we waited for the arrival of the new jet and spreader. Looking at the map, we considered parks on the seashore, both north and south of St. Augustine. In town, Anastasia Park offered refuge, but we knew that dogs weren’t allowed on the beach. To the south, Faver-Dykes and Tomoka State Parks, and to the north, Little and Big Talbot Islands, had the same attraction and drawbacks. Therefore, we decided to head away from the ocean, and find someplace that was interesting for both us and the dawg. About 60 miles south and west of St. Augustine, the Ocala National Forest offered numerous camping sites, and seemed the place to go.

We headed out of town on route 207, and crossed the St. John’s River at Palatka, an interesting old town that, like many places in Florida, had seen more prosperous times. We passed Angel’s diner, the oldest in Florida, and then aimed south towards the campgrounds in Ocala. The highways were straight and flat, and passed through large fields of cabbages and cauliflower, stands of planted pine trees, and a large military base. Finally, as the afternoon was ending, we entered the national forest area. There were still the scattered private residences and businesses, that were in place before this land was designated as a preserved area, but for the most part the woods and swamps spread in all directions to the horizon. We first came to a private Ranch and Boy’s Camp, that was hosting a Bluegrass Festival this weekend, so we passed by the adjacent campgrounds, anticipating it would be full of pickers and fiddlers and aficionados. Both entering and leaving the road that led from the highway to the next camp shown on the map were big, four wheel drive pick up trucks pulling trailers with ATV’s. We kind of figured what the general population there might be, so once again decided to carry on further south. I had passed through this forest on several other visits to my folks, when I flew into Orlando, and then traveled north via this highway. I remembered how pretty it seemed at the time, and also that Salt Springs was the place where there was a Ranger’s Station, and information about the park and various campgrounds. We pulled into Salt Springs just before five, and found that the information area had closed at 4:30. However, the office was in a bit of a strip mall in the woods, housing a beauty salon, a real estate agent, a video store, a restaurant, and the offices for a huge private RV park, located just behind the buildings. It was truly awful from our point of view, a many acre RV parking lot, under trees, where you could look out your window and see rigs worth hundreds of thousands of dollars in every direction. But it was full, and thriving, and expanding, with a bustling community of people who had traded in their crowded neighborhoods of houses up north somewhere, for a crowded neighborhood of RV’s down south, They all had their cars parked alongside for trips to town, and their golf carts parked there too, for the ride to the pool, bingo night, or drinks with the Joneses, two lanes over. However, in the parking lot, there were folks that pointed just down the road, and said the campgrounds for Salt Springs was the next left, only 100 yards away. Hoping for the best, and needing a place for the night, we motored down to it.

At the entrance gates, we were met with a not very friendly camp employee, who said yes, sites were available, but no, we didn’t qualify for senior’s rates, cuz we didn’t have the right Golden Age Pass. The map of the grounds showed five roads of side by side campsites. After several questions from us, they also admitted there was primitive camping (no power or hook-ups), which we said was what we wanted, but they weren’t sure our trailer was small enough to go down the roads. Fortunately, old Dave stopped in just then, and said of course we would fit, we were just in a little bitty trailer. So we brightened up at the thought of being back in the woods with the other small rigs, and folks in tents. They didn’t let us go back and choose our site, so we looked at a second map, and picked the site that seemed farthest away from most of the others, well away from the boat ramp, and wash house. As it turned out, anything could have gone down those roads, as the folks at the gate were actually the “hosts” at this area, and they were in full blown big rigs, with full hook-ups, and all the bells and whistles. Actually, later on, the became much friendlier and more helpful, but at first it seemed that they were doing everything they could to make us decide to try some other place. We rolled down to our “site unseen,” and found a lovely little A-liner (a clever pop-up trailer that travels flat, then has the roof open up into an A-frame configuration) on one side, and a tent with a little motorcycle trailer near by on the other. We were well away from the louder groups of campers, and it seemed like quite a nice place after all. We parked the trailer, said hi to the folks in the A-liner, who grunted something back at us (what were we doing wrong?) and explored a bit before settling in for dinner and an early night. By 8:30, the grounds were extremely quiet and peaceful, and we happily said good night.
The next morning was beautiful. I took the dog for a long walk around the Bear Swamp Trail, which was much nicer than it sounds. Dixie however must have been having flashbacks of her times, lost in the woods of O’leno State Park, before we rescued her, as she almost had to be dragged the first half mile or so. But eventually, when I took her off lead, and gave her the choice of staying behind or following along, she kept pace and only cowered a bit. By our next walk there, she was happily taking the lead again. As we returned to the grounds, I discovered a very secluded end camp site that the occupant seemed to just be leaving. Back at our trailer, we spoke, and Donna agreed that in spite of the rough beginning, this was actually a nice place, and spending another night seemed like a fine idea. Up at the headquarters, they weren’t sure if the site in question was really vacant yet, as old Tom who was in it, left every morning for his breakfast somewhere, and they never knew till about 11 whether he would be back or not. So I put a hold on his site, and said if it wasn’t available, we would stay where we were for another night. We spent the morning relaxing and enjoying the warmth of the day. Tom never came back, so we moved on over to the “honeymoon suite” (as the campground folks called it), settled in, hung out some laundry, and put our feet up. There was no cell phone service, no one knew where we were, the sun was shining, we had woods all around us, a fridge full of food…what could be better. That afternoon, I went for the first swim at the Springs, and had another pleasant surprise. The water was a constant 72 degrees, which was quite pleasant after you got in. There were numbers of people in the water, and around the shores, but it was not at all crowded. The springs had been a favorite spot for locals for thousands of years, as attested to by the artefacts that have been found of the various peoples who lived or visited here; and it still has its charms. The springs are in a fairly large pool of water that opens into a larger lake and waterway, inhabited by mullet and manatees, alligators and water moccasins, fishermen and pleasure boaters. But in the springs themselves are only bathers and few fish. The water for the most part is only two to four feet deep, but in five different locations, the bottom opens up into 15 to twenty foot deep areas, where the slightly salty springs have emerged for centuries. On the surface, you can see the upward surge of the water, and you can feel the current as you swim towards the different springs. After about thirty minutes, I returned to our camp, feeling refreshed and even more relaxed. Donna then took her turn, as again, dogs weren’t allowed at the “beach,” and she had a similarly refreshing experience, except that by the time she got there, she was the only one in the water. That night, we walked around a bit in the different areas, had a great dinner, and slept soundly, far away from all the other campers, and under the star filled skies.

On Sunday morning, the campgrounds became almost empty. Friday night 40 of the sixty or so sites were filled. Saturday night saw the crowds reduced to 25 sites, but for Sunday night, the place cleared out except for the two host families, their brother in a tent nearby, the grumpy A-liners, and us. So we gladly decided to stay one more night. The fully serviced side was still almost totally filled, with mostly retired folks, there long term in their houses on wheels. They had a Craft barn there, a large building with many big tables inside, and a large stone fire place. The guys had set up small shops in their end, with tiny lathes and wood working equipment, where they made fancy pens and other crafty things, and the ladies had the other end, with their sewing machines and quilting materials ready for action. It actually was quite a community, with everyone knowing everyone else, and many returning winter after winter, escaping from the cold up north, and settling in for months at a time at salt Springs. Of course, there also were more transient visitors, people there like us, in for days or a week at a time, but over there in the fully serviced side, in their rigs of various sizes. One of the things we enjoy doing wherever we are, is exploring the campgrounds, and seeing all the different rigs people travel in. For the most part, we marvel at the cost and extravagance of the huge machines. They are truly homes on wheels, many with slide-outs and comforts and conveniences equal or better than many houses. And some are smaller, and older, and occasionally home made; and we are always amazed at how many old farts are on the road, living their winters in wheeled abodes, away from the cold and snow of the states and provinces up north. And then there are the gems of folks who are more similar to us. We found and talked to the owners of two different “Casitas.” These are also small fibreglass trailers, usually 16 or 17 feet long, built in Texas, and outfitted and priced more expensively than our old Trillium. But the basic premise is the same…make it small and efficient and light and comfortable. Put in what is essential for a civilized life on the road, but make it easily transportable, and easy to maintain. In all of our searches and conversations, we still have found few other rigs we like us much as outs. The Trillium is usually lighter than most, and yet still has all the features and storage we want. And the clincher, every time, is our windows. We have louvered jalousie windows on all four sides, so whatever the weather, we can stay cool and ventilated and dry. Most new trailers have fewer windows, and have sliders for safety and economy. But if it’s rainy, water comes in. And at best, only half the area is open. And very few have windows that open on all sides. We’ve been in heat of Death Valley, and the rains of the Maritimes, and have always had a way to stay dry and catch whatever breezes may be available. As many times as we’ve seen another rig that catches our eyes, it almost always comes back to what about the windows, and isn’t “the Buug” really just what we want. We spent several hours one night and the next afternoon talking with Don, a man from Tennessee traveling in his 16 foot Casita. And on Monday, right before we left, we visited with Fred and Betty in their 17 foot Casita, and traded stories of life on the road, and picked their brains a bit about their trailering down in Mexico. On our first morning there, we also chatted with the motorcycling owners of the tent next to us. They also were a retired couple, who traveled on their R100 Airhead, a gorgeous 1995 1000 cc BMW. They were full of life, and were happy as larks, touring the country on their motorcycle, pitching a tent, or finding an inexpensive motel. As she said, “I worked hard to get here, and by golly, I’m sure gonna enjoy my life from here on out”. And that’s one of the joys of traveling…meeting folks for the first and maybe last time, but finding kindred spirits, people with a spark and a joy for life, people who will take the time just to stop and chat for an hour, and trade tips and hints, places to see, things to do. And it’s good to find these folks, and share some time, and realize that we’re not the only crazy ones out there. There’s lots of us, and maybe what we’re doing is the sanest thing to do, trying to live each moment to the fullest we can.

On Monday morning, I got to experience a very special event. The folks at SeaWorld in Orlando, and the Florida State wildlife department, were re-introducing a manatee back into the springs. Jingles was a small female manatee, that had ingested monofilament, and a nylon net, and was rescued in these waters in late November. She had been nursed back to health, and was being returned to her native waters later that morning. It was quite the event for the local campground community, and hours ahead of time, people were getting ready. The brother of the campground host had been at the boat launch all morning, clearing the area and waterway that she would be released at, making sure all was safe above and below the waterline. By 10:30, folks from the big rig side were walking and driving down to the area (mostly driving, although it was a 10 minute walk at most). I knew that the transport vehicles would have to drive right by our site, so I waited until they were arriving to head down to the event. When I got there, it was like the circus was coming to town. 50 or 60 people were lining the boat launch, chairs were set up, cameras were at the ready. In general, people were quiet and interested, but the median age was probably 75, and the average weight about 235. Looking around, I fear for the fate of America, and realize why the health care system is collapsing under the pressures of obesity and senility, diabetes and heart conditions, after seeing this portion of the citizenry represented by the folks at the campgrounds. I realize it was a skewed sampling, but in general, it wasn’t a pretty sight. However, soon my attention went only to the manatee. She was in the back of a large closed 5 ton truck, with a hydraulic lift on the back. She was on one thick, wet foam pad, and had another foam pad covering her. Being a mammal, she was fine out of water, and was being protected and comforted by three wet suit clad workers from SeaWorld. There were four or five other people there, including the woman who was ultimately in charge of the safety and care of the animal. They first carefully monitored her vital signs, and did a final measurement of her length and breadth. They then carefully rolled her on one side, then the other, as they placed a padded sling underneath her. The raised the tail gate to level, then lifted and backed her out the truck. The folks on the sides of the sling couldn’t fully see, so they almost backed the chap at the end right off the three foot high tailgate. Seeing an accident about to happen, I quickly stepped up and braced his backend, shifting him to a side and keeping him from stepping back onto thin air. Realizing what I had done, he thanked me, and handed me an end while we manoeuvred the manatee around, an lowered the tailgate. When she was safely on the ground, they again checked her out, and then attached a padded belt just in front of her wide strong tail. To this, a beacon was attached, so they could monitor her whereabouts and condition for the next month. When it was determined that she was safe and healthy, living in her home waters, they would carefully remove this apparatus, and let her be fully unencumbered and ready to hopefully grow into full adulthood. She weighed 530 pounds, and was less than a year old. She was quite calm, and peaceful, with a very gentle, soft face, and a beautiful, but already scarred grey hide. When all was ready, they prepared to bring her out into the water. The needed another hand, and the chap I had protected from falling, looked over at me and gave me a nod and a smile. If I was willing to get a little wet, I could help bring her the final yards back home. We waded into the water, lowered the sling, and let her glide into deeper water. She turned, and looked back for fifteen or twenty seconds. Then with a slow turn, and a powerful flip of her tail, she was off and gone into deeper water, the marker buoy showing her steady progress into the wider channel. Whatever her fate will be, it is hard to say. During both of the previous nights, we had heard the roar of the airboats on the waterways, as the poachers hunted gators and frogs with powerful lights from their high powered boats. Careless boaters and thoughtless fishermen endanger and kill countless other members of her species, but fortunately, there are those I helped today, whose life work is to save this gentle creature, As the slogan said on the back of one of their sweatshirts, “Manatees…extinction is not an option.” I hope they are right. With this as an amazing farewell, I returned to our camp, helped with the final packing, and we headed back to St. Augustine to see if we could get our furnace up and running again.

Discoveries in olde St. Augustine

St. Augustine, Florida, is a very beautiful, very old town, 50 miles south of Jacksonville, sitting on the Atlantic coast in the north of the state. It is in contention with that other Saint on the north Atlantic coast, St. John’s, Newfoundland, as the oldest city in North America. Both boast of that place in history, and maybe they are both right. St. Augustine soon will be celebrating it’s 450 birthday, and has other claims to fame, such as another beautiful, old and operating lighthouse; Castillo De San Marcos ( a wonderful many sided ancient fortification, reminiscent of the Citadel in Halifax); Ponce de Leon’s Fountain of Youth; and Ripley’s Believe it or Not. We had visited all of these on visits before, but did get to rediscover several other highpoints, and find several new treasures, during our rest and recuperation at The Barney’s household between the seashore and intercoastal just outside of St. A.

Our greatest pleasure was revisiting the Lightner Museum in the charming downtown. Situated in a many storied old hotel complex, just across the street from Flagler College, it is the culmination of a lifetime passion of a man who described himself as a “collector of collections.” Inside, there are rooms and rooms of the weird and wonderful that he had found and acquired over the years in the early 1900’s. Shaving mugs, tobacco tins, and match holders; buttons, coins, and cigar box lables; crystal, mercury glass, and fine china; hair jewellery, valentine cards, and antique dolls: furniture , oil paintings, and Tiffany stained glass; top hats, lady’s bonnets, and beaded purses; fantastic, elaborate music boxes, player pianos, and orchestras in a box; stuffed animals, hooked rugs, and embroidery samplers; orange crate lables, matchbox covers, and cigar band art; and this is only a smattering of the things that you can discover as you wander the halls, and climb the various stairways. It also is housed in a famous old hotel, that once boasted that largest indoor pool in all of the United States. At one time, St. Augustine was the farthest point south on the railway line that Flagler had built to bring the rich and beautiful people from the cold north to enjoy the warmer clime of the state of Florida. It was the first stop of the brand new migration of snowbirds to the beaches of the Sunshine State. Flagler himself constructed a number of magnificent buildings, including the hotels that have become the core of the campus of Flagler College, and a wonderful Presbyterian Church. In an effort to lure the rich and famous, he spared no expense, and the buildings have numerous, original Tiffany lamps and windows, casting colored light onto the oblivious students lounging in the commons area, or eating in the lunch rooms. Yes, there is a lot of schlock and hype today, with the tourist trolleys, and horse drawn carts wandering around the city, extolling the history of the town and buildings; but the city in spite of it all has a pace and charm and beauty that is worth a visit and stay. Eventually, Flagler realized that the weather was even better farther south, and extended his railroad and tourist industry all the way to Miami, again building famous hotels and structures catering to those with the time and money to spend on a winter in the sun. We don’t have the bags of disposable income that the fabulously wealthy original patrons had, but we did enjoy several hours on several days, discovering the artefacts of a time long gone.

We also rediscovered the Gypsy Cab company, one of the few restaurants that has survived all the turmoil and changes since we first visited St. Augustine years and years ago. They catered (via take-out orders) the 80th birthday celebration we had for my father a decade ago, and the food, prices, and peanut butter pie are still as good as they were, and brought us back again for two different take-out lunches Donna and I, and Dixie Dawg, enjoyed in the shadow of the St. Augustine Lighthouse. We found several quiet, town parks or historic places around the town; well posted with “no overnite parking” signs, but welcoming nonetheless, with clean washrooms, picnic tables under groves of moss draped oak trees, access to beaches or waterways, and sanctuaries from the congestion and roadways just yards away. At the beach just minutes away from my parents place, we spent a quiet morning at the site of the Surfside Dance Hall and Bathhouse, part of the Capo family resort, that started in the early 1900’s bringing people from St. Augustine , to the hotel and restaurant, beaches and horse races. It continued through both World Wars, serving as a famous dance hall and meeting place. It survived into the 70’s, when it was torn down, and the site has become a county oceanfront park.. Florida as a state has countless parks and forests and areas that are set aside as public places, many with fees, but also many free. On some other trip, months could be spent just exploring the state, and all it has to offer .

Our final discovery was made when I attempted to solve our furnace problems. Yes, we were in the deep South, but this was already a winter to remember, or forget, due to the extremely cold temperatures and snowy conditions. I anticipated needing supplemental heat again before this journey was over. so first went to an on line forum. I had an earlier thought confirmed, that it might be a propane pressure problem, and the logical first step was to get our regulator checked. Calling a local propane company, Coutesy Gas, I was told that I could come on in, and have them check the lines and regulator. So Thursday morning, I hooked the trailer back up, and cruised to the closer of their two locations. Unfortunately, there was no one there at the time who could help me, but the gal at the desk, and the guy filling the propane bottles, figured Teir, over at the other location, was who I really needed to see. They called him, to make sure he wasn’t out on call, and he confirmed, sure, he was there, and would look at the furnace and see if he could sort out the problem. To this point, all of the advice I had been able to find was consistently ”it’s a really old furnace, you’ll never get parts, you should buy a new one.” This might still be the ultimate solution, but the furnace has served us well before, and is an older model that doesn’t require electrical power of any sort to run and keep us toasty warm. The newer ones all have an electric fan at least, and when you are boondocking, are a constant drain on your 12 volt batteries. So I leapt, or drove quickly, to the site of someone whose first response was, well, let me look at it, and see what I can do. Teir is a forty something, black gentleman, who manages this branch of Coutesy Gas. In Florida, much of the heating and cooking is done with propane, and he runs a office, workshop, and propane depot that employs 5 or six technicians. It’s located in a old residential neighborhood by the railroad tacks west of the historic downtown. He immediately told the secretary he’d be out back, pocketed a mobile phone, and settled in on the floor of our little trailer. He methodically took the furnace apart, immediately determined that the pressure was fine, but the pilot jet was probably partially clogged, and the thermopile might be faulty. He took the assemblies all apart, cleaned out the jet, found a replacement thermopile (a little gizmo housed in a small brass tube that uses the heat from the pilot light to generate 40 millivolts of current). This activates both the thermostat and opens the valve to allow gas to flow to the furnace. If the furnace goes out, there’s no heat to generate this tiny charge of electricity, so the valve closes, safely shutting off the flow of propane. So simple, but so miraculous. Electricity from heat, changing thermal energy to electrical energy, as is done by the atomic power plants and coal fired generators around the world, and by our little furnace in the belly of the Buug. As he put it back together, he found a problem with the head of the pilot light. It has a spreader, that directs part of the flame to and around the thermopile, and the clip holding this in place was broken. When we were stationary, it would be fine, but the bounces along the road would shake it loose, and cause our furnace to become inoperable once again. He figured he could order one, and have it in by the next afternoon. It sounded good to me, so I left with the hopes of having heat again, and with the very, very reasonable quote of $127 to have it all working. He gave me a deal on the thermopile ( as he figured he would never sell it to anyone else), would charge me the price he was paying for the jet and spreader, and then added $45 for his time and labour. He had already worked for several hours; and also was a source of propane knowledge, and general wisdom, as I worked along side of him, handing him tools, aiming the flashlight, and asking him countless questions. I think he may have enjoyed my company and interest as much as I enjoyed his expertise and compassion. He also liked the challenge of fixing something that others had written off as too old, and maintaining a furnace that still was serviceable and right for our needs. I said his quote was too low, so he laughingly said OK, $227; but we settled back at his original price. It was a wonderful way to spend the middle of the day, getting to know a special person, and the innards of my furnace.
The rest of the story had several glitches, as the parts company, despite the requests I had heard him make to have the part shipped overnight, sent it via two-day service. Friday afternoon, amid humble apologies which he did not need to make, because I knew it wasn’t his fault, we agreed to come back on Monday, when the part would be there. The next segment will recount how we spent our weekend, but we did return on Monday to find the ordered part there, but the wrong size for the housing. Never one to give up, Teir took the unit apart again, and then rebuilt the old jet and spreader so that it would hold. I also watched the process, knowing that if it breaks down again eventually, I should be able to at least have a good working knowledge, and starting point, to fix it myself. When it was all back together, after 90 minutes more work, we did up the bill…$35 for the thermopile, as agreed, and $45 for labor, his original under priced quote. He’d see what he could do about returning the newly arrived part. I gave him $100 cash and my sincere thanks, and said I didn’t need any paperwork. I think I still got a real deal, as I had a furnace that was working again, and had a new friend and a whole bunch of new knowledge. I hope he also feels that the interaction was as worthwhile as he indicated, and that my respect and our shared time away from his desk were worth the discounted price for he gave us. If anyone out there has problems with their old propane furnace, and is anywhere near northern Florida, maybe calling up Teir at Courtesy Gas in St. Augustine might give you the help you can’t find in other places. If you do, say hi and thanks again from Lance and Donna and Dixie Dawg.

A slightly warmer place, at a slightly better pace

After a restful night in Emporia, we realized several things. The first was that, although there was still snow on the ground, we were past the worst of the weather. The second blizzard that had buried DC and |NYC even deeper, had traveled north of here, and the snow still on the ground was from the previous storm (we also had been encouraged the night before when the equipment parked in the lot at the motel were lawn mowers rather than snow blowers). The second was that it was time to get off of 95, and travel on smaller highways. So far, our trip was unusual, since due to weather conditions and our dead furnace, we were traveling south at 65 mph, and seeking out centrally heated motels every evening. Towards this end, we had stopped at each welcome area as we entered a new state, and picked up the Discount coupon booklets for the motels along the way. We found not only did this get us a better rate, it allowed us to do some preplanning, and determine which exits had the greatest amount of potentially suitable choices. AT Emporia, we first tried two that were listed at $29.95, with one even adding in big letters “VERY SAFE.” The Chinese owner at the first was rude and unfriendly, so we passed without even looking and sniffing the rooms. The second, run by an Indian chap, was friendly enough, but couldn’t pass the scent free test, as Javex (Chlorox) was the cleaner of choice. So we stayed off the main highway, and wandered through downtown Emporia heading for the next options. The third was friendly and clean enough, but the Indian manager suggested it would be quieter across the street, and they had a better internet connection. When we commented and asked, he also said yes, many East Indians were taking up motel management in the United States, and his family, the Patels, were quite numerous in this vocation. This excursion to find the better motel also showed us that highway 301 was running parallel to the huge interstate 95, and that all of the services were actually located on this smaller highway. Checking the map, we saw that we could travel the length of North Carolina on this road, and see the countryside and small towns along the way.

Route 301 turned out to be perfect. It was a quiet Saturday morning, no one was on this smaller road, but the pavement was clear and dry. Before 95 had been bulldozed through, so three lanes of traffic could fly south faster, this was one of the main roads, with all of the towns providing rest stops, fuel, and food along the way. Now, 90 % of these businesses were closed and abandoned, and only the towns near where these two routes crisscrossed still had viable businesses. As we have seen in so many other places, including along the \Trans-Canada, when the big highways go through, the local economies and small businesses take a huge hit, and usually can’t survive. It was sweet and sad to cruise down this forgotten road, but the pavement was good, and we were able to travel at a steady 55 mph, slowing down as we went through Skipper and Pleasant Hill, Sharpsburg and Four Oaks, and yes, even Halifax. In Smithfield, we experienced another example of how the demographics of the United States is radically changing. We had noticed numbers of Mexican groceries along the way, and then going through this larger town, we saw a huge building with hundreds of tables and booths set up in the lot around it, and a sign announcing the Giant Saturday Flea market. We also saw several lunch trucks selling mexican food, so we pulled in for some lunch and a look around. It was cold and snowy, so most of the outside tables weren’t occupied, but inside there was everything from new cowboy hats and boots, clothes, toiletries, gifts, everything you could imagine, and the majority of the vendors, and most of the patrons were Mexican. When we ordered our burritos from one of the stands, we spoke to the big gringo in line behind us, and he said that if the weather was warmer, all the tables would have been occupied, and the parking lot full and overflowing. The Mexicans have taken over as the farm labor in even this part of america, and they have settled in and become a vibrant and active part of the community. Happy, and friendly, and shivering a bit, the vibe was good and the food was great. $2 for a great bean burrito, with salad, green and red salsa, and lime to add that perfect zap to it all.

Well fed and rested, we got back on the 301, and watched the snow get thinner on the ground as we headed farther south. We did get to see fields of unpicked cotton, with tufts of snow covering the balls of cotton still clinging to the branches. We saw a very exuberant young black child, bundled up with scarf, mitts, and wool hat, proudly beaming over possibly his first ever snowman. We saw families with plastic sleds and cardboard boxes, running towards small hills by the highway, going for a slide in the snow. It was a wonderful day, going through real towns, watching real people experiencing a very surreal southern Saturday in the snow. We carried on to the border of South Carolina, and stopped at the info center, and had both a good and bad discovery. Dixie and I found a family of healthy and well fed wild cats living at the back of the parking area, sprawled out in the sun on the picnic tables, frolicking in the grass, and then some taking cover in the storm drain, peering out at us like gunners in a bunker. By the markings and sizes, it was obvious that there were several generations here, but they seemed happy and content. The bad discovery was that one of our trailer tires was quite low. I got out the 12volt pump, but couldn’t get more than 25 pounds in the tire. Hmmm, maybe the air pump had crapped out too. So we slowly went to the next exit, and pulled into the first gas station. There I found that even with a real tire hose, the pressure wouldn’t hold. In the parking lot were two police cars, parked window to window, with the cops chatting to each other, and yes, actually eating donuts. When I asked where I might get a tire checked at 4:30 on a Saturday afternoon, they thought a minute, then sent me down to the Walmart, less than a mile away. Anticipating the worst, I asked and was told that, Yup, no problem, folks parked overnight at the Walmart all the time. So we headed on down to the Wala-marte, where first the friendly ladies signed me in, and then J.R., a 20 something good ol’ boy, in his Nascar cap, flames and all, helped me get this little problem all fixed up. They loaned me a rolling jack and tire wrench to take off the tire, and we then discovered that the rim was badly bent on the inside, so it wouldn’t hold pressure. It was fine in the morning, but somehow we had hit something that put a big ding in the rim. He figured he could pound it out with a big ol hammer, and it should hold. So while he did this, I took the spare off and discovered that while this rim was good, the tire was old and cracked. J.R. was successful, and the old rim and tire were holding pressure, but with thousands of miles ahead of us, many of them hours away from help[, I decided to get a new tire put on the good rim, and use the fixed up, pounded out rim as the spare. Thirty minutes and $59.10 later, we were ready to roll, with a new tire on, a spare that worked, and J.R. wishing us well, have a safe trip, now y’all. Eventually Donna returned from the grocery section and main store, where she found a great salad mix, wonderful papayas, mango orange juice, and a great deal on the heavy duty sun screen that would fit perfectly over our windshield. As the sun was setting, we decided that yes, the Walmart parking lot was spacious, the washrooms clean, the people friendly, and there was no need to look any farther for our night’s resting place. Dillon South Carolina, we were home for the night.

The next morning, we noted that the 301 was more sporadic and joined up with the 95 at several places, so we took 41 instead, a similar type road that meandered down towards the coast north of Charleston. Eventually, we made it to Francis Marion National Forest, and then wandered down a long dirt road in the forest. Eventually we found a peaceful turn off, and set up for lunch and stroll in the woods. We unpacked the new LL Bean table, set out the folding chairs, and enjoyed a delicious broccoli fritata, with salad and a sip of wine, way back in the woods somewhere in Carolina woods. Donna had commented earlier that the forest there was just like the one at Point Pelee in Ontario, and then remembered that it was classified as a “Carolina Forest,” and yes, it was true, they were one and the same; the tall pines, the grasses growing below, the quality of the light, the sound of the trees. After lunch, we scooted through Charleston, and then got into the ritzier parts towards Hilton Head. Realizing that boondocking spots were too far behind or ahead of us, we aimed for Hunting Island Sate Park. We found a quiet , secluded spot, near the beach, with a view of the lighthouse, where we parked for the night. We were visited by a family of deer that dusk, heard the howl of a bobcat that nite (that scared the bejeezus out of Dixie), and then had a wonderful morning stroll down the beach. Later that day we drove over to, and climbed the 183 foot tall lighthouse. Eventually we said goodbye to the area, and headed farther south. The latest storm started to close in, but it was rain and not snow. The byways were bigger, and more crowded, so we again got back on the 95 for the final stretch down to Florida. We had decided to surprise my folks in St. Augustine, so knew that we could arrive late, ands still have a welcome place to set up. We stopped once on the way outside of Jacksonville, at the most amazing mall we had ever seen. Called St. John’s Town Center, it was an outside mall that stretched for a mile and a half (we clocked it on the way out). Every store you could imagine was there, hundreds and hundreds of them. It was literally a city of stores. Several even had valet parking…at a mall! But they did have a Chipotle’s that we finally found, and were well fed at. So eventually, as the sun was setting, we rolled into the Villages of Villano, happy and content, and feeling that we finally had started to travel at a pace, and on the roads that we wanted, finding the neglected or forgotten places that are often so much more interesting than the tourist spots along the big highways.

LL Bean to the Snowfields of the MidAtlantic

We slept in a bit at Vacationland, and then made our first travel decision of the trip. We had watched the weather reports, and saw that the next storm coming across the states was moving faster than first anticipated, and beating it south would mean two very full days of driving; from upstate Maine to somewhere around New York City, and then into the heart of East Coast madness to Virginia at least, going through or near the snow filled cities of New York, Philadelphia, Washington, Baltimore. We looked at Dixie's paw, our still sleepy eyes, the questionable furnace, and the bins that needed attention, and decided that spending another slow day in Brewer, getting a bit more rest and finding a good vet for Dixie, was the thing to do. So we eased into the day, sorted and repacked some things, and took our bearings. We later found an excellent local Vet only minutes away who could see us without an appointment. After a bit of a wait where we heard nothing but praise from the other patrons, we had Dixie's paw gently shaved, then checked carefully. She had torn the rough outer surface off of her pad, but there was no serious cut, and no sign of infection. The part that was injured didn't contact the ground during normal walking, and it was only walking in snow that put this very sensitive soft skin in contact with the freezing cold that caused her to hobble on three legs. Our previous night's inspection made us hope that this was the case, but having an expert confirm our diagnosis, and relieve our fears was what we needed. Later that afternoon we explored the town a bit, met a number of the longer term residents in this sprawling motel complex ( a number of people seemed either to be weekly stay working people, or monthly stay residents possibly on Social Assistance. But in winter in northern Maine, trying to make a go in the motel business when there aren't many takers for your luxury suites, renting a number of the back rooms for a lower, but steady income, probably makes the difference between making it to the next tourist season or not), and just continued to rest up from the weeks of pre-departure madness. We walked Dixie that night on the dry paved parking lot, waving to some of our new friends walking their dogs, and settled in early for another good night's sleep.

The next morning bright and early, we loaded the van, said goodbye and thanks to the owners, giving them a gift of a PEI garlic, and headed towards Freeport and LL Bean's. We had a very stale dated refund check, and also wanted to see the 2010 version of this iconic store. Having not been there in years, and remembering way back when the original old house was incorporated into a larger retail space, we were amazed at the shopping experience that this once sleepy little town had become. The town has now become a center for outlet stores of many, many major brands, anchored by LL Bean, that still is open 24 hours a day, every day of the year. Bean's one store is now five, with a huge many leveled retail space covering all of the original property, plus separate buildings for boating, skiing, hunting and fishing, and home products, plus an additional outlet store of their own marked down, discontinued, or returned products. But in spite of how it sounds, it actually was a pleasant and rewarding stop. The store itself was incredibly well stocked with their high quality products, and the numerous green shirted staff were helpful, friendly, and personable. There lifetime guarantee and emphasis on customer satisfaction still was functioning smoothly, and soon we had a gift card to replace our several year old refund check we have never used. All of the winter clothing was on 30% off, and for that week only, many things had an additional 30% reduction. We chatted and wandered around, saw the trout swimming in the indoor pools, the taxidermy moose in the windows,used the washrooms, and were enticed by the abundance of wonderful stuff everywhere. But we were good, and eventually both left with new down vests to replace our patched and faded old ones, at a price more than 50% off, and covered by our newly issued gift card. We also found a little solar or crank powered am /fm/ weather radio, for half off, and a wonderful folding camp table, the final one, a floor model, again at less than half price. So soon we were sitting in the parking lot at our new table, listening to our radio, wearing our new down vests, for less than $50 cash and a very old $50 credit note. What a deal. The sun was shining, and we headed down the road, realizing the next time through we could park there overnight without a hassle, and again enjoy their hospitality and amazingly friendly shopping experience. It was a huge store, that somehow hasn't lost touch with providing service and products of a very high standard.

We cruised down the highway, and on into Massachusetts. We stopped to fill up on gas, had to prepay before pumping, and had the pleasant surprise of getting change back from a fifty dollar bill for a full tank of gas. Our last fill up in Canada had been almost $80, so even with the exchange, driving down the highway was going to be easier on our pockets . Our next stop on our shopping adventure was in Framingham, Mass, where we knew both a Trader Joe's and a Chipotle's existed within miles of each other. Trader Joe's again is a big chain of food stores with not only a heart and soul, but also two buck Chuck. They sell a line of award winning California wines under the Charles Shaw label, and on our last trip, you could get a very drinkable bottle of wine for $2...hence two buck chuck. Here on the east coast, 8 years later, it is now three dollars, but hey, a case of palatable wine for $36, makes you want to by a pallet. With our wine cellar full, we then drove on to Chipotles, a chain of fast food restaurants that features high quality, freshly made mexican food. The vegies are local, the beef and chicken are free range and hormone free, the guacamole is fresh and good, the service is fast and friendly, and this one also had margaritas and mexican beer. We had a burrito each, shared a beer, got a salad bowl to go, and headed back down the highway. We made it into Connecticut when the sun was setting, and decided to spend the night at the state information center just across the border. The person on duty advised us that the next blizzard was due to hit by noon the next day, and we might want to bypass the big cities by heading west on 84 to central Pennsylvania, but we were welcome to park there for the night, as the building and restrooms were open 24 hours. Back at the trailer we found that the furnace had quit altogether, the pilot would light, but the main furnace would shut down five seconds after firing. So we dug out our back up catalytic Buddy Heater, piled on the covers, and settled in for another cold night on the side of the road.

We woke the next morning, refreshed and invigorated. Getting dressed in a tiny, freezing cold trailer will do that to you. The morning info person said, yup, heavy snows hitting the whole east coast by noon, good luck, and sent us out to ponder our next move. I decided to try to contact old friends of mine in southern Connecticut, and despite not having seen them in years, they welcomed our call, said they were both working at home for the day due to the impending storm, and come on down, and hide out with them. We drove the two hours to their place, and pulled up to their house just as the snow was starting to accumulate on the ground. Colin and Myra are dear friends from years ago. Colin studied Industrial design, and has returned to school to become a licensed architect, Myra has taught music and art to young children in various schools over the years, and they both are wonderful musicians who love traditional folk and Irish music. So there home is overflowing with books and art and instruments and craft supplies and Valentines and memories and love. They were both incredibly busy, but somehow found the time to make us feel welcome and at home. We told stories over several shared meals, shoveled snow together, looked at old pictures of young hippies when I was the best man at their wedding almost 40 years ago, and wondered where does the time go. We went to bed (while Colin stayed up most of the night to finish a presentation he was doing for school the next day), and settled in for a much warmer night's sleep.

The next morning the snow had ended, so first Colin headed to work, then school, Myra headed in another direction to teach her young students their music for the day, and we loaded up and headed further west and South to see what the highways would hold for us this day. We decided to take the advice of the info person two nights before, and bypassed the corridor through the major cities by going across the Tappan Zee bridge north of NYC and then heading through a small part of New Jersey and into Pennsylvania. The highways were clear and the sun was shining as we crossed over the mighty Hudson River and aimed west. We made it to Pennsylvania with ease, and pulled into the state info area there to stretch, walk the dog, and check the road conditions. The snow was deeper here than in Connecticut, but the roads had been clear and dry most of the way. Unfortunately, we learned that the road we hoped to take further west was still closed from the day before, as the winds across the flat farm lands just past Allentown were slowing down the snow clearing efforts. So we ate lunch in our mobile kitchen, chatted with other traveller's waiting for the delayed opening of the highway, and generally amused ourselves and made new friends in the early afternoon, sunny parking lot. Two hours later, we got the all clear signal, and headed out with the cars and trucks who all were waiting for the same good news. We carried on through the beautiful countryside, seeing large farms with huge barns adorned with the traditional Pennsylvania Dutch hex signs. Some were obviously hand painted, but Donna noted that several barns had identical ones, so obviously what used to be individual statements by each farmer, were now in some cases mass produced kitch to jazz up gentlemen farms. Oh well, what can ya do. We passed through Harrisburg, the state capital (I guess when Philadelphia is in the east, and Pittsburgh is over 300 miles to the west, you choose Harrisburg in the middle to house the state government), and then as it was getting dark, rolled into Carlisle to find a motel for the night. With a furnace that wasn't working, a gimpy dawg, and mile weary humans, a warm motel seemed again the right choice. Carlisle is at a crossroads of two major interstate highways, and also is a major truck stop, and car show area, so vehicles, bad restaurants, and relatively cheap motels were everywhere. Our third try was a Howard Johnson's that was relatively scent free, had WiFi, and had quiet rooms around in the back with a large safe parking lot for Dixie to get some off lead exercise. Again, Donna fired up the stove in the trailer, we had a wonderful home cooked meal, and again did some more catching up on our missed sleep from the weeks past.

The next morning, it was again clear and bright, so it was back on the highways, bending south and west. We passed briefly into Maryland and then West Virginia, and stopped again at the state info center in Winchester, Virginia to see if Highway 81 through the Shenandoah Valley was passable. The good news was that 81 was clear all the way, but 77 which would take us east over the Blue Mountains was closed due to heavy snow and high winds. So we headed east and south sooner, seeking out the flat lands and Route 95 which we had avoided so far, and put aside the highway through the mountains and valleys of Virginia for another time in better weather. As we got farther south, the snow had gotten deeper, and the winter driving experience of the local drivers was getting thinner, so we decided to stay on the safest, most travelled highway, Route 95, which starts in Houlton Maine and takes you all the way to Miami, if you so desire. We took smaller roads to get there, then joined it at Fredericksburg, and took it through Richmond, and all the way to Emporia, just before the North Carolina border. The traveling was fast and easy, but you sure didn't see much other than cities, trucks, cars, and things off in the distance. But our goal was to get past the snow as safely and quickly as possible, without killing ourselves. In Emporia, we realized we finally were past the worst of the weather, as the most recent storm had passed further north. We decided to do a final night in a small motel in the quiet town center on the old 301, and see what the morning would bring. Another Donna miracle meal, a long walk with the dog, and another good night's sleep ended the dash past the blizzards of 2010.

West by Downeast

The morning broke frigid and cloudy, with fresh snow starting to fly, and the cold realization that the furnace had cut out at some time during the night. The weather report, the trivia, and the joke on the loudspeaker loop had been updated, so we learned that last night's predicted storm hadn't quite hit yet, but by noon this part of Nova Scotia would be under several inches of new snow. So we transferred the bins back to the van, had a last walk on the grounds where we discovered Dixie's paw was even more sensitive, and then headed west into New Brunswick and on towards the US border.

It was Sunday morning, there were just enough vehicles on the road to keep the right hand lane clear, and the traveling was easy. We stopped at the Big Stop in Salisbury, where we found a dog loving waitress who sent us on our way with full bellies, best wishes, and a doggy bag of potatoes and toast and sausage for Dixie, that she had made from the cleared plates of other diners. Our trip had again started with the reality we have so often found, that people all over are wonderful and generous and friendly, if you just open up to them and give them a chance.

The drive through New Brunswick was safe and swift, with the drivers patient, and no one attempting to use the snow covered passing lane. We passed the wonderfully named towns of Petitcodiac and Pocologan, Musquash and Digdeguash, and made our way west to the border crossing at St. Stephen. There the border guard sullenly looked at our passports, and checked us out on his computer. He then asked to look in the trailer, and quite adamantly told me to get back into the van as I saw him fumbling with the lock. Eventually, he opened, inspected and relocked the trailer, and ordered us on our way, having found nothing of note to delay us further (he obviously missed our PEI garlic we had tucked away under the bed). Past the parking lot, we pulled over, and made sure the door was securely fastened, but I failed to check all the cupboard doors. An hour later, when we stopped again, I discovered he had been thorough in his search by opening every door and drawer, but negligent in closing them securely...so half the contents of our tall, many shelved storage closet were in a pile on the floor. Fortunately, only a plastic wash tub was broken, and everything else survived. It was a cheap reminder to check all door and drawers, and batten down the hatches, each time before heading onto the highways.

As we starting down the highway in Maine, we remarked how good the conditions were for driving, with the only thing that could be better would be if the roads were dry. 15 minutes later, the sun came out, the roads dried completely, and we continued on our way with the big grins on our faces even bigger. We were actually away, on the road, and life was not only good, it couldn't be better.

We carries on down the Maine Skyline, route 9 from Calais to Bangor. Late in the afternoon, we stopped in a gas station before Brewer, and were told that motels in Brewer, across the river from Bangor, were cheaper and friendlier, so we decided to start our search for the night's accommodations a little sooner than expected. Donna had already made the concession that we could get a room for the night so that I could fulfil my male needs of watching the Super Bowl (yes, I am an american, and was looking forward to the big game, hype and all. Actually, being in the US of A, there was the added attraction of actually seeing the gazillion dollar ads that are broadcast during the game. In Canada, all the ads are replaced by local ones, and despite all the money that is spent on those thirty seconds of innovative marketing, they never get seen north of the border.) We also had left Halifax not fully rested, we weren't sure what was wrong with the furnace, and we wanted to find a vet to check Dixie's paw, so a night in the big city seemed the best thing to do. The first two places seemed nice, but were way too scented for Donna to spend more than 17 seconds in, so we carried on to the place recommended by both: Vacationland! It turned out to be perfect. The room was small but well equipped, clean, relatively scent free, dog friendly, and with both an interior and exterior door. We unloaded our bins, let the wind blow through to do a final airing, and then continued our splurging by having a meal out at the adjoining restaurant. We returned just in time for kick-off, and Donna rested, repacked a few things, took a long, hot shower, and watched the ads, while I enjoyed a few beers and an exciting, well played game. Eventually, we all settled in for a warm, quiet, long night's sleep. Our first full day on the road was under our belts; there were a few obvious problems, but nothing major; we were safely past the border; and the reality that the adventure was underway was keeping our spirits high.

Bravely limping into the future

The final week before our departure was one of many changes, much chaos, and hours and days of working towards the goal of getting on the road. One enormous task was to get our house ready to turn over to the housesitters. This meant taking care of years of loose ends, fixing little problems that we had grown accustomed to, clearing out and storing all the flotsam and jetsam accumulated by the royal family of junk, and preparing the instruction manual for our idiosyncratic abode. Then we had to get our 14 year old vehicle, and our thirty year old trailer, ready and roadworthy. They had both served us well our last adventure, but that was 8 years ago, so repairs, maintenance, and making sure all systems were still functioning was essential. We also then had to pack everything we needed for three months of boondocking, starting in the dead of winter in eastern Canada , and driving into the desert spring of southwestern U S of A. Lastly, we attempted to rapidly jump into the future (for us) of new technology. We recently bought a new laptop after Donna's faithful Dell crashed. We also just acquired a GPS, a lovely Garmin.... and finally we promised ourselves and others to set up a blog of our travels. So three of the last nights were spent as I got up to speed on the computer, as I downloaded and loaded maps onto a whole new toy, the GPS;, and jumped headfirst into the whole new realm of bloging (blogging?) And as you all know, doing things for the first time can create quite a time consuming learning curve.

Happily, we actually accomplished everything we hoped to do (well, almost). But by the time we were finally all ready, mentally, physically, electronically and spiritually, the week was rapidly ending. By the time the bins were all stashed safely in their stacks (see yesterday's posting), and we had said our final farewells, it was 5 in the afternoon Saturday. Hooray, we were away, but the sun was already setting. Fortunately, we had agreed to make a traditional and symbolic first night at the Amherst rest stop. When we left on our last big adventure, we also had only made it 2oo km's away, and were still in Nova Scotia, when we stopped for the first night. The rest area just before the New Brunswick border we knew to be safe, friendly, with all night restrooms, free newspapers, and various parking lots to tuck away into. So this time, we gladly anticipated getting only to Amherst, and using the familiar first stopping point as a place to remember the last trip, and think about and plan the new one.

It was quite dark at 7:30 when we rolled into the rest area. The main information area was closed but the restrooms were open, both as expected. However, we were surprised by the amount of snow, and the fact that only the main loop of roads were plowed. The area is right at the narrow low portion of land that is the provincial border, and the winds and weather there is often worse than the surrounding area as the winds blow off the cold Gulf of St. Lawrence, and roar across to the Bay of Fundy, or vice versa. That night this was definitely the case, but we were here, on the road at last, and sure that there was no better place to stop for miles in any direction. After doing a couple of exploratory loops, we settled on a safe corner of the parking lot, with our furnace vent and door away from the prevailing wind. We set the parking brake, and were home for the night.

My first task was to fire up the furnace. Fortunately, the great owner/mechanic at Jerry's RV in New Minas had told us a trick to speed up the process of heating the thermocoupler, so within seconds the furnace was lit, and starting to take the deep chill out of the trailer. I took the dawg out for an evening walk around the grounds, and Donna moved into the trailer to start warming up dinner. The wind was howling outside, and it took quite a while before the trailer actually got comfortable enough to settle down for our first meal on the road. But eventually, we had a lovely meal at the little dining room table at one end of the Buug, while Dixie was settled in on the bed at the other end, closely watching every move of the forks. After dinner we went for a final walk of the grounds, and a limp that Dixie had earlier into the day, developed into a three legged hobble as she kept her right, rear leg up off the ground and out of the snow. We had noticed the day before we left that she had been worrying the pad on that foot, but she wasn't exhibiting any other signs of distress, and with everything else going on, it didn't warrant our attention pre-departure. Back in the dim light of the trailer, we inspected the foot, and found that all was not well in Dawgland. She was quite hesitant to let us inspect it closely, but it seemed that she had torn part of the tough pad on her foot. After we determined that she was comfortable in the trailer and that it wasn't a serious emergency, we settled in for the night, knowing that we had a new problem to deal with in the morning.

The night was relatively quiet and warm, snuggled into our little bed, with the down duvet pulled up to our chins. The winds howled outside, and the 24 hour continuous loop of traveler's information blared out from the loudspeakers on the outside of the building, telling the moon and snowdrifts and trees and us, the current weather conditions, a blurb about maple syrup, the conditions on the bridge to PEI, and ad for a local ski area, a bit of trivia about the queen, and a very lame joke, over and over and over and... But we were happy and cozy, and definitely on the road and starting our new adventure.

The Beauty of Bins

So yes, we did actually make our re-rescheduled departure on Saturday, as hoped: and so far we have successfully dodged, and survived our first blasts of winter. Considering that on our last big adventure 8 years ago, our departure was delayed for almost two months, leaving only two DAYS later than first expected was a major step forward for us. Of course, because of all the last minute things to be done in preparing the house for the housesitters, and in tying up all the loose ends required when one leaves on a three month holiday, we knew that the day was going to be quite busy. We also had to do all of the packing of Bucko and the Buug, because the very frigid weather of the past 10 days meant putting much of anything into the van and trailer ahead of time would be problematic, with condensation, frozen liquids, spoiled foodstuffs, etc, etc.

So what we did was fill and lable 15 different Rubbermaid Roughneck bins with everything we felt we needed for an adventure traveling from the east coast to the west, leaving in the dead of winter, and hopefully experiencing spring, and then "summertime conditions." Because we are packrats, and have at least two of anything we might need for almost any occassion, and because of my boy scout training to "Be Prepared," (and also because we are, as one dear friend called us, "the King and Queen of Junk"), I was actually quite pleased we got everything into only fifteen various sized, well labled bins bins. We have a bin each of warm weather clothes, a bin of tools and work clothes, a computer bin, an electronics/ camera bin, a map and paperwork bin, and "dawg" bin, a toiletries bin, a couple of "can be frozen" food bins, more "do not freeze" food bins, a keep cool food bin, a first aid and emergency bin, a battery/ light/ hardware bin, and a couple of flotsam and jetsum, to be stored in the trailer later bins. There are full size, three quarter size, and half size bins, that nest neatly when empty, share common sized lids, and stack safely and securly when full. There's also side by side quarter size bins, that are the same height as halves, and complement and complete the Roughneck family. Although it took a lot of preparation time and thought, already we are thankful for having everything in sturdy, waterproof, compartmentalized units.

During the day, the van is warm, and the trailer freezes. Overnight, we turn on the furnace in the trailer, but everything we leave in the van would freeze up. Yup, that's what happens when the days are -15 C, or just above 0 degrees F, and the nights are colder. So part of our ritual every evening and every morning is taking the 8 various no freeze bins, and moving the stack from the day time heated area, to the night time warmth. And looking at the upcoming weather, with another storm sweeping through the mid-atlantic states to dump more snow on top of the two to three feet that fell this past weekend, we anticipate doing the rubbermaid shuffle for several days to come. And that's the "Beauty of the Bins." They slide easily from the back of the van, onto half the "dawg bed" in the trailer, and then back again; don't care if they get snowed on; and combine nicely into secure stacks no matter what configuration we need. And when we need something, we know pretty well, right where to look. Of course, there will be some fine tuning, and hopefully consolidating as the days go on, and the weather warms, but for the first week of our trip at least, what could have been a major problem, is actually a quite manageable housekeeping ritual. For years, as a set dresser in the film industry, I have used these bins because of the very same practical qualities, and once again there value and worth has been proven. Maybe when millions of people are reading our blog, Rubbermaid will provide free bins for our testimonials, or as "product placement" is done in the movies (you don't think when a movie star uses a brand name product on screen, or when Jerry Seinfeld blatently mentioned a product by name, they did it for free, do ya?) But for now, I went into my stash of work bins, and cleaned out and sorted the ones we're using on this trip, and provided what we needed. And seriously, Rubbermaid Roughnecks are the ones to get. They last forever, and are guaranteed if they don't.

Phew, where did that all come from? But I guess that's what a blog is, one's thoughts of the day, or moment, and after doing several nights and mornings already, and looking at the two stacks of bins right now on my left, that's what came to mind. The next posting will be back to details of the trip, and probably the beginning of Donna's photo journals; but for now, let me say we are well, warm,and watching the weather and traveling accordingly. We also are feeling very thankful and blessed, and pinching ourselves, not really believing that we are again right where we want to be...with each other, and on the road.

Baby it's cold outside

It's the night before our scheduled (rescheduled...re-rescheduled) departure date, and the temperature here in Halifax is -15 C, or about 5 degrees farhenheit. Whichever way you look at it, it is bloody cold, and has been for the past week. The good news is that the blizzards that are raging on the eastern seaboard are either east of us in Newfoundland, or south of us in the Mid-Atlantic states. Our plan is to leave tomorrow and stay ahead of the wrap-around snows that will be coming down from northern New Brunswick. We'll then delay long enough that the flying snow will be over, and the highways cleared when we venture south through Pennsylvania, past D.C., and down towards the Carolinas. Hopefully, we will be into Georgia and warmer weather before the next storm sweeps through and makes the "winter to remember" even deeper in those states south of the Mason-Dixon line. We realize that starting the adventure (and it promises to be one) in the middle of winter, between two snowstorms, is not the most prudent course of action. However, we have been waiting so long (years and years) to get back on the road with our little fiberglass home hitched to the tail end of our faithful Aerostar, that we are determined that we will head out tomorrow, come hail or high snowdrifts. We have all wheel drive on the van, a propane furnace in the trailer, winter clothes, and a thick duvet, so we should be warm and cosy whatever the conditions. We also will go whichever way, and how fast, the wind blows us, and realize that part of the joy of how we travel is letting the fates, weather, and road conditions dictate how far we travel, and when it is time to stop for the night. We do hope to be in warmer climes within four or five days, and then slow down and get off the big highways to meander further south and west on the smaller roadways; but we mustn't forget our motto: Never late, never lost, and will take whatever time, caution, and direction seems best. Some of our fondest memories of the last trip were getting snowed in, both in the mountains above Santa Fe, and in the national park on the Bay of Fundy in New Brunswick. And of course Dixie will always add her opinion, that snow is the most wonderful thing to roll and frolic in.

But enough for now. This is my first posting, and I've already spent several hours just learning how to create a Blog, and setting this up. Do you like it? I can't wait for Donna to see it, and add her eye and insights to the process. I'm sure it will get her immediate input, as she learns how to add photos from the journey, and lends her design expertise. But like the trip, it was time to just jump in and start, and learn as we go along. But now it's way past time for bed, as we have to do all the packing tomorrow morning before we can leave. Almost everything is ready to go, but it has been too, too freezing cold to put many of the things into the stone cold vehicles, so the bins and boxes and bags will all be stowed away tomorrow, and then...Tally-ho, gypsy trailer rolls again. Good night all. Lance