The alarm goes off at 1:30 A.M.. Someday we will take a trip which does not entail driving through Chicago. Chummy sits on the street packed and waiting, we rub the sleep out of out eyes and bring out the last minute stuff. Two A.M. We pull away from the curb. We hit Chicago at 5:00 and the rush hour is just starting. I drive through the thirty or forty toll booths on the 290 around the west end of the city, leaving the state of Illinois the better part of our April mortgage payment. Then on the South side of Chicago we hit a dead stop. We almost made it through. After creeping along for miles we reach open roads and are headed South through Indiana. Good-bye Chicago until our next trip. Our first stop was a Flying J Truck Stop for a nap. I was asleep in a minute while Fran took Cromwell, our dog, for a long walk. I slept for a good hour at least that's what Cromwell said.
Refreshed after my nap I prepared the night's dinner in our 12 volt crock pot. Pork tenderloin, sweet onions, carrots, and cilantro all stirred in a chicken broth. This would slow cook during day and fill Chummy with a luscious smell, then be ready when we stop for the night. After my cooking chores and making sure Fran and Cromwell were back from their walk we started driving South to Georgia.
Chummy's top speed with a strong tail wind down a hill is 60MPH. I set the cruise control at 55 and hoped for the best. The cars and truck passing us are barely distinguishable as to make and model. We can see the blur of color as they blaze by. At one time we joined a flock of migrating birds flying South, we kept pace for awhile but soon they bored of our slowness and flew on. Needless to say we were not making very good time but at least we were steady. Eventually Indiana did give up and we entered Kentucky.
We had now been on the road for more than thirteen hours and thought it best to stop for the night. I needed bourbon so we headed toward Bardstown and a state park there. My Old Kentucky Home State Park right in the town of Bardstown was a lovely choice with good facilities, nice walking paths and room for Cromwell to run on the golf course next to the campgrounds. He managed to cover all eighteen holes creating a few new water hazards and possibly some others I did not get cleaned up. The night's entertainment was a motor home. We call anything other than Airstreams: SOB's. They pulled into a spot and then proceeded to take an hour to level, eventually they ended with all four wheels off of the ground. My applause may not have been appreciated by the operators of the levelers but I thought they deserved something for their effort. Oh yes, the pork tenderloin. It seems that during the hours of driving we were never treated to the luscious smells of slow cooking plus we never noticed. The crock pot did not work. This was not the first time it had failed us so we threw it all into the garbage and had ham sandwiches for dinner.
We woke up early on Friday after being treated to a friendly rain shower overnight. The sky was blue and the air smelled clean. I started my diesel engine and with a few puffs of black smoke we were off. We figured to be at our destination in Georgia about noon. Our destination was Chatsworth, GA and a state park named Fort Mountain. I belong to an internet forum of Airstream owners and there was to be a gathering of fellow forum members with their Airstreams assembled for a rally there. I was quite excited since these were people who I have communicated with on the internet but never met in person. We also enjoy getting together with fellow Airstream owners since we all share a common love and admiration for our aluminum RVs. The drive through Kentucky was beautiful as was Tennessee. We have been in this area before and really enjoy the scenery. Although it became apparent there was no way we would make it to the rally by noon, now I was hoping to make it by dinner. Fortunately it was mostly downhill, I thought. Well, it was or is. If you look at the map Wisconsin is on the top and is Georgia underneath, thus it is downhill or at least down from Wisconsin. I was repeating this rationalization to myself as we climbed the mountain just outside of Chattanooga. Chummy had no problem getting up but he really wanted to fly going down. I kept tapping the brakes to slow down thinking if only I could harness this speed and use it later when it was needed. Eventually we hit the bottom and there was a loud noise coming from the front right wheel. Ceerump, ceerump, ceerump, each time the wheel turned I heard this ceerump. Then it stopped. Maybe I just had something stuck underneath. Everything was working. No warning lights were lit. Should I be worried about a ceerump in the right front wheel of a 24,000 pound vehicle driving through the mountains? We pulled off to get supplies before going to the campground and then I heard it again but softer, ceerump, ceerump. Well I decided to keep my ear on it and see if it got worse, or louder.
We arrived at the campgrounds about 4:00 and were greeted by fellow forum members after circling the campgrounds several times I chose a nice spot on a hill. Soon after we set up Alan came with his wife Shannon and their son. They parked their identical 280 motor home right next to ours. Airstream Corp. made so few of these wonderful vehicles it was great to see two of them parked next to each other. Alan and I were quick to be making comparisons, pointing out differences, and swapping tales. His is a gas engine and mine a diesel so there was a lot to talk about. Our wives separated us for dinner chores or we might still be there to this very day.
This was our first forum rally and we noticed immediately it was to be different from the rallies we had attended before. First there were no agenda, no schedule, no planned meetings, no meeting hall, no catered meals, no grocery store cake, no berets, no group of fancy motor homes off to the side, and no rules to follow other than the state park rules. There was a group of friendly Airstreamers; plenty of good food to share; and more fun than the weekend could hold.
So just what went on at the Georgia Spring Fling Forums Rally? First let me make one thing perfectly clear, so to speak. We have had many good times at WBCCI (Wally Byam Caravan Club International), the official Airstream owners group rallies and I am in no way trying to make a comparison or choose one over the other with the exception of business meetings. I place camping and business meeting on my list of obvious oxymorons, like jumbo shrimp or icey hot. These two do not go together and I will never understand those who prefer to spend a day camping by sitting on a metal folding chair under the control of Robert's Rules of Order. There it is, send me the hate mail, I've said it.
So no meetings at this rally but there were two activities which all participated and no vote was taken for the planning. The first activity was a group dinner cooked and served at Kathy's spot. Somehow she had sneaked into the campground early and got herself the best spot in the park. A path led down to the lake and canoes provided entertainment for the kids. She was right next to Craig which only improved Kathy's site. Craig was the one who had first welcomed us. The food was an experience for us Northerners. But then I had to go and brag about my ribs. I had bought them at our butcher shop and carried them down from Wisconsin. About 11:00 Saturday I lit the fire and filled the Dutch Oven with all the ingredients. At11:30 I relit the fire, and again at 11:45, 12:00, 12:15, 1:00, 1:10, 1:30. I had now gone through all my fire starters, a cylinder of propane and a quart of charcoal lighter. Never before had I experienced trying to start a fire inside a cloud. The wood was not just wet, but it was a sponge. Eventually I gave up and turned to my trusty propane grill and burned the ribs. There was no tangy sauce which developed by slow cooking over the wood fire and no smokey flavor. When we got to Kathy's site, she had a fire blazing, Southern wood. All the other food contributions were cooked to perfection and we ate Southern Banquet of fritters, bar-b-que, gumbo, some tasty, spicy thing in a pan, in addition to burned, tasteless, Northern ribs. After we ate Alan and Phil joined their guitars and played some favorites for our enjoyment. We even sang some songs from the official Wally Byam Song Book. We sang: "Roll Out The Airstreams," and "An Airstream Built For Two" among other crowd favorites. Fran provided margaritas from our NuTone blender and the singing improved. Along with the music there were many good stories told. The evening ended too soon but we had to let the neighboring campers go to sleep.
The second organized event was the Sunday morning church service. I asked if anyone was going into town for church the next morning and the answer was: no. It was just assumed that since I was a Chaplain I would be holding a service at my campsite. How could I refuse? However, it was a community effort. Alan provided the praise music, the kids provided the spirit, the state of Georgia provided the cross, and God provided the scenery. Praise was offered; scripture was read; and the prayer for safe travel home was answered.
The remainder of the day was filled with long good byes and promises to return next year. Lavon passed out pictures he had taken of each of us and then printed in his beautifully restored 1958 Safari. One by one each pulled out until only Ben and his wife Irene and we were left. The rally had reached its end pretty much how it started.
The rally started and ended on the low key side, just a group of friends getting together who all happen to own Airstreams. With all the visiting out of the way Fran and I had time to explore this park. We walked for several hours around the camp grounds and lake area. It truly is a beautiful park. On our walk we found a pile of left firewood and the park host let us use their electric cart to haul it back to Chummy. This was good training for me when I would be park hosting this June in Wisconsin. We hauled a pile of firewood, enough to last the week, back to our camp site. Soon I had a blazing fire going but no ribs to cook.
The next morning we broke camp and set out for Helen, GA. First we wanted to see the fort of Ft. Mountain and drove out to the start of the path. Driving on the way up I began to hear this loud ceerump, ceerump, ceerump from my right front wheel. Something must be wrong but first there was the fort to see. The fort is a mystery, same as my ceerump. There are several theories but none are substantiated. This is the Stonehenge of North America. Built out of stones there is a ridge which could have been defensive, or since it is lined up with the sun's rising and setting could have another meaning. One theory is that it was built by a group of Welsh in 1120, another attributes it to a group of white skinned blue eyed "moon" people who could see in the dark but not in the day. Somebody built it and that cannot be denied. The walk was spectacular and we finally realized that we were in the mountains.
Driving down the mountain I heard the ceerump louder at each turn and each time I applied the brakes. That was not a good sign. We decided that we had to get it looked at and would do it in Elijay, GA. Not knowing where to go we followed Paul Harvey's advice and went to Wal Mart. The auto service manager there directed us to a place call Paradise Pricecut Auto Repairs about five miles out of town on a lonely road. We found "paradise" right where it was supposed to be and were told they would look at the ceerump in about an hour. We settled back, ate lunch and relaxed. Eventually after a Georgia hour they came out and had me pull Chummy into the shop. A guy pulled off the right front wheel and announced that our brake was fried. I was going to need new front brakes. Who was I to argue? Next he says he would try and find the parts but he thought it would take a day or two. He calls a part's guy on the phone and talks a while to him then hangs up the phone. Then he walks to the back of his shop and pulls several boxes off of a shelf, blows off the dust and walks back to Chummy hands the boxes to the guy still sitting by the "fried brake." He had the parts in stock, I was shocked but to be honest so was the Paradise Pricecut guy. He looked at me and said, "you must live right." Fifty five minutes and $125.00 later we were on the road with new front brakes and no ceerump. The Paradise Pricecut crew was wonderful they all came in Chummy for a tour and one even tried to stow away. They gave us a route to Cleveland, GA which they said would avoid a dangerous mountain crossing which just may burn out our new brakes. We heeded the warning and took the 30-mile detour around the mountain. With 15 minutes to spare we pulled into the Enterprise Rental Car lot to pick up our rental car.
It's not Dogpatch anymore. Appalachia had changed in the forty or fifty years since I was last there. Gone from view were the rows of run down homes, the people sitting on porches and the obvious abject poverty. Though the poverty must still remain, possibly buried deeper into the mountains it was no longer visible from the main roads. What was to be seen is an urban migration from Atlanta which is only 75 miles or so south. On the road maps you will find several main highways including two interstates leading north out of Atlanta into this area. What we found was a gentrified Appalachia. Replacing the rows of unpainted board houses were freshly built log homes with decks built to take full advantage of the vistas. The logs were all shiny and oiled, the roofs green and the homes designed the same. Suburbia meets rustic. Elm Grove Estates meets Yokum Lane. Billboards tucked into the pines announce: "log homes starting at $299,999." Little villages a few miles apart with quaint names like Elijah, Blue Ridge, Hiawasee all have a Home Depot, Wares, and of course Wal Mart. Like elsewhere in our country the Super Wal Mart has replaced the small grocery store, town square businesses, and uniqueness of rural America. Filling the empty space of the town's hardware store is now a Rock and Gift Shop, or a Christmas Store. Each town has to have at least one "Touch of Country," "Country Gifts" or some other derivation of the country/ gifts combination. Inside you will find an array of items which share a familiarity with those found in any Cracker Barrel restaurant off the interstates. Then there is the pottery shop, the local artist, and the wood furniture maker. I always wondered how the family of four driving through in their Toyota Camry gets that giant swing into the trunk. Restaurants in each town included the Chinese Buffet, a coffee shop named something like: Koffee Kabin, and of course the Pizzeria with authentic New York or Chicago style pizza. If you want a true Southern meal, I guess there is always the Waffle House. We were headed to Helen, GA the extreme of what can go wrong and did.
The locals refer to Helen as "Hell in Georgia." The story goes like this. One day a group of businessmen from Helen were sitting at a table discussing the waning fortunes of their town. One of this august group had recently looked at the pictures of a travel brochure while waiting for the dentist. When the good doctor started to drill molar # five, this gentleman had epiphany. Why not turn Helen into a Bavarian village? Armed with the travel brochure showing a Bavarian Alps village, he convinced his fellow businessmen that this was just what Helen needed to change its fortunes. The group took this brochure to their congressman who was always interested in a good pork barrel project and soon they had a block grant and the congressman was assured of the 238 votes from Helen in the next election. The work began in earnest and this Appalachian town was transformed into a facade of a Bavarian Alp village. You may ask if Helen has any connection to Bavaria, or maybe some early immigrants or even a famous former resident? No, none of the above, the only connection was the travel brochure. Today Helen stands as a monument to everything that could go wrong when trying to change a town's fortunes. Sure enough they now have several chain motels, an amusement park, a German restaurant, and a Bavarian styled beauty salon but it has lost all of its charm. What did we do in Helen? Got out as quick as we could. Why did we choose to go to Helen? Location, location, location.
First we were able to rent a car in Cleveland which is just a few miles south and second Helen is centrally located to all we wanted to see and do. Third there is an Airstream campground plus a state park right in the general vicinity which provided a base camp for us.
After picking up the car we proceeded to Top Of Geogia Airstream Campgrounds. There are several Airstream only campgrounds around the country and this was recommended as one of the nicest. The locals refer to it as the "Toaster Ranch" due to all the Airstreams and the unique shape of our RV's. We were greeted by a lovely couple and it appeared half of the park's residents. Since most of the people live here for several months at a time a new face and Airstream is an event. Fran was cornered by the women who wanted to know all about her latest culinary, knitting, and craft encounters. I was pelted with, "what about those gas prices?" "How do you keep this thing running with today's price of fuel?" Where did you say you came from? Isn't it cold up there?" I caught Fran's eye and the look of help within when a lady came up to me and presented me with an official bookmark which she had made. Then she took it back and gave me another color saying that my wife would like the first color better. But before she went to present the bookmark she asked me if Fran read or not? I assured her she was literate. We were escorted by golf cart around the park to choose our site. Naturally we wanted to be by the dog run area so that is where we found our way. Top of Georgia or TOG is a wonderful campground with the friendliest people anyone could ask for. The facilities were top notch and the grounds were well maintained and beautifully planted. The price could not be beat for a full service park. I remain one of their fans and will encourage all to stop there for a night or two. We left after the second night and moved to a nearby state park only because we wanted to build a camp fire and have more access to hiking trails.
On our first day in Helen I had to drive over that mountain pass which was so dangerous the Paradise Priceless guys sent us thirty miles out of our way. This peril was right in the middle of our path to Amicalola Falls State Park. We took off in our rental and never found the peril, maybe that was the big joke they played on all foreigners asking directions. We arrived at Amicalola Falls early in the morning. Our first stop was the registration station for the Appalachia Trail. This was where Nigel, our son, had registered for his walk of the trail almost ten years ago. Inside there were several young kids nervously waiting their turn to put their name in the book which would permanently record them as a "through hiker" or someone who really tried hard. We bought some souvenirs and of course I told the lady that my son made it all the way to the end. She was very excited to hear about his walk. We asked for directions to the start of the trail and were told it is about a 6.5 mile walk up Springer Mountain. Stuttering or maybe I was sputtering. I asked if there was a way to drive. She said yes but we would need a Jeep. As it turned out that was exactly what we were driving, a Jeep. The rental place gave us a choice between a 9-passenger van, a half passenger mini sub car or a Jeep. We took the Jeep, a white seven passenger Grand Cherokee something or other but a Jeep is a Jeep right? More about that later. Before we started off on our drive around the mountain, we walked to the top of Amicalola Falls. This was a beautiful hike were most of the inclines were eased by long stairways. The falls were spectacular, and you will hear me say that again.
Back in the Jeep we started on our trek around Springer Mt. Each turn brought us on a smaller less paved road until we eventually reached mud. Long before we turned onto the mud I knew this rental Jeep had never been intended to be driven off road. In fact this Jeep had problems driving straight on pavement and I was beginning to regret turning down the half passenger mini sub compact car. The final sixteen mud miles were quite an adventure the road went straight up and down over on Fran's side. I had this nice granite wall to hold onto but poor Fran kept looking over the side and wondering about the road worthiness of this vehicle or the sanity of the driver. Eventually the road leveled off and fortunately we met no one coming our way. After being certain we had passed our intended turn off we found it right where it was supposed to be. We parked the Jeep and Cromwell got out and immediately peed on a tire. The family was unanimous in its opinion of this car.
There was a sign which pointed to a trail that said: Appalachia Trail .9 miles. All three of us saw the decimal point and read it as .9 of a mile and who were we to not believe the sign maker? However, I am certain that somewhere imbedded in that sign is a camera which sends back a picture to the jokester who made it. The sign maker either was a cruel jokester or could not measure distance. I lean toward the former. The trail went on for miles. In the beginning the trail was smooth and friendly but when we rounded a turn it started to climb and was covered with wet, slimy, slippery, rocks. Directly to the right of us was the bottom of Georgia to the left was a wall of rock, in between was this tiny path. We trudged on wanting to see the spot where Nigel began his hike almost ten years ago. Several hours passed and we had climbed to heights we never imagined out side of the Himalayas. Suddenly through a cloud of exhaustion we saw the summit and the sign telling us that the start of the trail was only .5 of a mile away. We covered that distance in record time and soon were sitting with three other people on the top of Springer Mt. The start of the Appalachia Trail.
There was a young man with his dog who had recently bought out an REI store and was going to walk the trail. We also met a young girl who said she would walk until she was accepted into Grad school. The third was her boy friend who looked like he never walked outside of a mall before but was determined to make at least two weeks with his girl friend. We chatted and took some pictures then started on our decent. The going down was not half as bad as the going up but still quite a challenge for two grandparents. Upon arriving at the parking lot even the Jeep looked good to us. Cromwell crawled into the back and promptly went to sleep. We drove to a nearby town for supplies and then back to the "Toaster Ranch."
The next day was moving day for us. There was a state park about ten miles away and we headed there. Soon Chummy was nestled into a heavily wooded spot with a creek running in back. We wasted no time to start exploring this park and immediately set out for Ruby Falls. This area of Georgia is dotted with water falls, some big and some spectacular. We chose several to see and were very pleased that Ruby Falls was on the list. There was a nice paved path without a difficult incline to walk. I really enjoyed the natural history plaques that dotted the path sides. One of these plaques explained that the area was once clear cut to serve a saw mill in Helen. Another plaque explained how the owners of the saw mill tried to harness the river and falls for a chute to transport lumber. This eventually bankrupted them and the saw mill soon closed leaving the area to grow its forest again. Thank goodness for the river and its power to fight those robber barons. Once again the falls were spectacular.
Our final day in this area we decided to climb to the top of Brass Bald Mt., Which is the highest point in Georgia. We arrived in the parking lot to find that we were totally alone. The temperature was in the fifties, which was considered too cold for sight seeing in Georgia. Fran and I were comfortable so we plodded up to the sign that said: "Summit .6 mile." By now we should know better than to believe a sign made in this part of the world but we held onto our last threads of innocence and thought ".6 of a mile that's not bad." The sign lied, there was a mis placed decimal point. We plodded onward and upward for the better part of the morning eventually reaching the summit. On top was a visitor's center which was closed, too cold. We walked around outside and took some picture but since it had started raining we decided it was best to start our descent. Once again the Jeep looked good in fact I was beginning to like this car when it heated up so quickly and removed the ice from my sandal-covered feet. What we did not know was the higher you climbed the colder it became, now we know.
That night I checked our route to Asheville, NC and decided to change it from the one recommended by our son to a road I saw on the map that appeared to be straight and went right into Asheville. So we broke camp and made our way over to Highway 64. On the way I noticed a sign that said "Foxfire Museum" next left. Being a product of the 60's this was a must stop so we turned at the next left. Now what the sign did not say was that the Foxfire museum was several miles off the road. The sign also failed to mention that this particular road you would be driving on was not paved and navigated a mountain. Also excluded from the sign was the fact that when or if you made it to the end of this road there was no parking lot large enough for a 28' motor home. However, on the brochure they hand you when you arrive it does state that they are not accessible to motor homes or buses. I was most grateful for the warning now that I was there. The Foxfire museum consisted of several old cabins and some reconstructed ones arranged into a village type setting. The three of us walked around and took pictures and I worried about getting back to the highway. Since I am writing this today, the return to the highway was a success.
Now let me tell you about that road I found on the map. Nigel's suggestion was to drive south and pick up the interstate. I being the father and possessing much more wisdom from my years of experience on this planet thought I knew better so we did not heed his advice. I took route 64. This particular road I saw as straight on the map took more turns and flips than ever I thought possible. One 45-mile stretch took us three hours to drive I had to pull off at every courtesy shoulder to let the parade behind me pass. When we finally reached the end, my arms were six inches longer than when we had started and my left foot could not stop moving form one pedal to another. Fran took videos out of the window that rival those shown on the Discovery Channel for roller coaster invention. Thank goodness I had new brakes but I am sure they need to be replaced again.
We reached Bat Cave, NC with the transmission overheating and a welcome stop for visit. A friend from the Airstream forum operates a gift store here, Moonshine Junction. He also collects Airstreams and sells obsolete parts. Our reason for stopping was two fold. First off I wanted to meet Richard after communicating with him over the internet and secondly he was holding a window lock I needed for Chummy. Richard was an interesting fellow and we enjoyed our visit. His store supplied us with some locally made apple salsa, and jelly. He also gave us a tour of his Airstreams for sale. I wish I had room for another one in my drive. When in Bat Cave be sure to stop at the Moonshine Junction.
We drove onto our chosen campground on the French Broud River. Fran and I make it a policy to stay in state or national parks but there were none in the vicinity. The reason to be in Asheville was to meet our very special friends the Blakes the next day. They will drive up from their home in Raleigh and stay overnight in a motel. We will cook out and entertain in Chummy on Saturday. When we arrived at the French Broud River campground, we were greeted by a cigarette smoking person who said he knew nothing about the campground, the owners were away but our site was # eight. The site was a crooked piece of cement covered with dirt placed about 8 feet from a motor home that looked like it had seen its better days 20 years ago. I backed Chummy in Fran and I walked around trying to decide what to do next. Since our friends had directions to this park we were locked into staying so we started to clean. Using our fire pit shovel, we scraped up mounds of goose poop, and years of accumulated dirt. We filled up bags from the fire pit and soon had the site looking and smelling somewhat better. However there was still that hideous motor home sitting several feet from us that emitted an odor which could not be described. At least it appeared to be uninhabited. After our cleaning chores Fran walked to the bathroom and quickly returned with a sick look on her face. The facility had not been cleaned in an eon or two. While she was gone, I was digging around inside a 3' tall shed which contained the electric box and water connection. The lid kept falling down while I tried to contort my body inside to plug in a 30-amp cord to a box sitting under a dripping faucet and being in a mud puddle I could not get down on my knees to see where this plug was going. Dear Lord, if this is the way I am meant to die let it be swift and painless, oh and please do not let the papers print a story about how stupid I was to try and do this. Well as it turns out I did not die. We were plugged in, sort of. You may be asking how did we choose this gem of a campground? I invite you to visit their web page. It is a work of creative writing without a shred of truth.
I was starting a fire in our newly cleaned fire pit when I heard this roar, it became louder and louder building in both velocity and sound. I thought maybe a tornado but the sun was shining, an earthquake in North Carolina? A nuclear bomb, the big one was dropped right here in rural Appalachia. Then I heard a whistle which I knew was a train. Across the river against the rock wall in this valley was a rain and the echo sound filled the valley with a deafening roar. What could be next? Well next was another roar coming down the road and then pulling into the small space next to Chummy. Our neighbors have come home. This tattooed couple emerge and walk right over to our picnic table and sit down. They introduce themselves and we were too startled to remember their names. I do remember when I told Mr. Tattoo we were from Wisconsin he replied that he had thought he had heard of it. Eventually they got up to unload their store of cigarettes and beer and went inside of their home that once was on wheels. On the other side of us was a family who were planning to leave in the morning. We were packed, with our levelers up, motor running, ready to move to their spot the second they pulled out. Our new spot faced the river, was up wind from Mr. And Mrs. Tattoo and had a small creek running through the middle. The water ran from across the road down the mud into the gravel alongside our fire pit and then into the river. It had to have ben a creek right? What else could this water running from those buildings be? Yes, the creek did run through the little 3' shed provided for the electricity and water hookup and once again I did the contortion dance and said my prayer.
Our friends Steve and Connie arrived for the day's visit. I have known Steve since college when we were both serious students working hard to fill our heads with the knowledge the good professors were shoveling out. OK, this was the 60's and memories are not as accurate as they could be. Even if my memory of scholarship may not have survived, this friendship has. We are going on forty years and still have not run out of things to visit about. I also need to mention that Steve is special to Chummy in that he was living in New Hampshire when we saw the ad and Steve went to check Chummy out for us. He also provided the ride from the Boston airport and the lodging when we went pick up Chummy. The day was spent visiting. Since there was a steady light rain outside we never left Chummy. The hours passed to quickly and soon it was dark and we had to say good bye. Fortunately we have the internet and can keep in touch with pictures and e-mail until we meet again.
We packed quickly the next morning having no desire to dally in this campground. I started out and ended up in downtown Asheville. There was a turn somewhere I needed to take. I saw a policeman and asked, "how do I get on I-40 East?" He said "follow me." and took us to I-40 east. I merged onto the interstate and drove forty miles before I realized that Milwaukee was West not East of Asheville. Forty plus forty is eighty. I had just driven eighty miles out of our way Maybe this vacation is not meant to end. Eventually I settled into the grove of driving home and the miles began to peel off. Toward evening we began to talk about a place to stay for the night and decided to have dinner and just keep driving until I got tired. We then had to think about what time we were going to hit the Chicago traffic on the way back. We decided to stay at a Flying J Truck Stop north of Indianapolis that night and leave so we would hit Chicago in the middle afternoon.
We pulled into the truck stop about 11:00P.M. I had been driving for fifteen hours with time out for lunch and dinner, needless to say the bones were weary. There was a quiet level spot and we were asleep soon.
The next day we had an uneventful drive back to Milwaukee. Chummy had performed perfectly; Cromwell was the best traveling dog; the trip was a success. All that was left was for Fran to do her scrap book and me to write this narrative. Another happy travel with Chummy.
