My trip from Niagara Falls to Maine was in stays in a few differently privately owned campgrounds. Most stops were only overnight but made the experience so much more pleasant to be in a forest with campfire smoke drifting about. This KOA in Connecticut is also set up as a campground, with all tent camping spots full. The downside of my RV spot is that it has the view of houses in the suburban neighborhood next door. It’s an odd juxtaposition, a campground, across the street from a state park with hiking trails to the beach, woods on one side and new houses on the other. I was able to get in a 5-mile hike along the tidal marshes to the beach the other day; then sat and watched a family fishing for crabs with chicken drumsticks and nets. I also got some time in the little village of Niantic, CT.
The other thing about these types of parks, there is a heavy use of “seasonal” spaces where people rent the spot for months and leave their RVs full-time for weekend or holiday use. I would say most parks have 50-75% of their spaces filled as seasonal rentals – although I see a number of set ups that are probably used year-round as well. People tend to attach decks, plant and care for yards and plantings, have outdoor structures with nice lawn furniture and in general decorate their places festively – I guess these places have become the new cabin villages of the old days. Not a bad idea.
On my way through Vermont, I stopped at a family run maple processing plant. When I say family, run – I got a tour of the place by the man whose family had run the business since 1761! Yes, that’s right, his family learned how to tap maple trees from the indigenous peoples who were willing to share their knowledge and the land with people who might not have survived the winter if they didn’t. Sad how we never learned to respect their ways or reciprocate on their generosity. Maybe they should have built a wall to stop all the illegal immigrants invading from Europe! (I might add, this family honors and respects their teachers in the history of their maple business)
Maine – Acadia National Park and BaaHaaBa
Love the Maine accent, in which Bar Harbor is pronounced “baahaaba” and they sell t-shirts to prove it. Another great private RV Campground, rustic but right on the very tidal Thompson Bay. And a great free shuttle system to get you to and around Acadia National Park and the local villages on the island, with Bar Harbor being the most popular town for tourists. Don’t know why, but I actually like kitschy tourist traps with restaurant options and souvenir shops – so spent a day there. My day started with coffee and a donut in the park at the bay front, where I watched the fog roll in over the sail boats, ferries and other sea-going vessels, yachts for the wealthy and cruise boats for the tourists. Great day there, had the infamous lobster roll and clam chowder in a dish called a “mini-bake” that included a blueberry tart (sweet!). Tried the Bar Harbor Iced Tea, made with blueberry vodka, but can’t say it was the highlight of the meal.
I heard a local say to a tourist, we went from summer to autumn overnight. And it’s a welcome change. Definitely have seen cooler temps in the evening now, nice sleeping weather. And ever so slightly yellowing, reding of the tips of the leaves as I drive through the deciduous forest in the New England states. I’ll miss the fall foliage that this part of the nation is famous for, but staying would risk hitting the snowfall out west during my final weeks of this trip.
I spent a day in Acadia NP, a beautiful park at the furthest northeast corner of the USA. Once again, I loved the shuttle system that allowed me to get on/off at the various locations in the park – I got to see the clear blue Atlantic Waters, which were sky blue in the little cove called Sand Beach. I watched the waves break, shooting straight up at Thunder Hole where the ocean has carved little crevices in the rocks. I put my feet in the Atlantic here, and it was cold. And yet people were swimming in it (despite the warnings of rip tides related to the recently departed Hurricane Erin). Wonderful place to visit, glad I put another stamp in my National Park passport book to show I was here.
A Night in Another Vineyard – Flag Hill Distillery
It’s been a while since I boon-docked, and I’m so glad I stopped at this place in New Hampshire. This distillery dates back to the 1700 and was the first distellery to reopen in the state after Prohibition ended. Kayla, the tasting room manager, was gracious and since they also distill vodka, rum and other spirits, she set me up with a flight of my choices even though they were closing in a few minutes. Loved The Crescent wine and Spiced Rum, so bought two of the first and one of the other. After enjoying a glass with my personal selections of salami, ham and cheese from my fridge, I poured another glass and Audy and I walked over a mile on their property, which had self-guided tour markers to help you understand the different vines and grains they grow. Perfect evening all around in the countryside of this small state.
Coming Home to Say Goodbye, Rhode Island
This visit and writing about it is emotional for me. From the ages of 5 through 8, 1st grade through 3rd grade, I lived on Narragansett Bay in East Greenwich, Rhode Island. I’ve written about this place, and if you’ve ever spent time with me, I’ve probably talked about this idealistic, novel-worthy part of my life. The little red brick house, my first best friend Roberta, the running and playing on the little beach and in the cornfield. It was a part of my childhood so ingrained in me it comes to me in dreams and stories in my active brain. I have loved two places in my live, this charming little piece of Rhode Island and my property, Copper Rise, in Woodland, WA (which I’ve grieved the loss of due to the 2008 recession).
When I left Rhode Island, I always knew I’d be back someday. It took me 63 years, but I made it. Yes, it has changed – the cornfield is now houses, most of them already decades old. And the rock jetty is now lined with townhouses and homes. But the little beach, Sandy Point, is still there – about ¼ mile long if that. Gone is the little ice cream shop at the beach that sold candy and was only open during the summer. A three-story white house lives there now. Gone are the seasonal cottages that had been significantly damaged by a hurricane when I lived there. But the essence, the ghosts of the days when only three families, maybe four, lived in the permanent houses year-round, in a world that was safe and innocent, where cars not belonging to our families were few and far between, is still tangible for me. And there, holding those memories are four original houses – the Duchteviches (not sure of spelling) immediately next door, the Scott’s caddy corner across the street and the little red brick house (now with painted siding over the brick) are still standing. My house and Roberta’s were rental homes that our large Navy families could afford.
I could visualize my childhood, and I could see the changes there at the same time. It felt more populated and constrained, the vastness of the fields missing. I felt relief in finally being there and sadness for what it had been. After my visit on the first day, when I had lunch near the rock jetty we used to climb on and collected seashells, a learning, an awareness came over me. I never got to say good-bye to this piece of my childhood that released my adventurous spirit and imagination more than any other experience I’ve had in life.
You see, a few months before my family transferred to San Diego, we moved into the big purple house since we now had my baby sister, Mandy, and needed more room. That was another part of my Rhode Island life – the big house with a tiny furnace in the basement that barely heated the house. We often slept in front of a wood fire in the living room, our campouts as Mom called them. But I digress, this move and having my heart broken over Roberta’s moving away before we did (Navy also transferred her father to San Diego), began my mourning over the loss of my childhood bliss.
I think in my childish mind, I also thought we’d move back to the little red brick house, we’d return to the place where Roberta and the cornfields were just across the street, where we’d go to the beach with Mom and Dad to see the horseshoe crabs come ashore to lay eggs, and where Dad would go Qua hogging and we’d swim along, holding onto the wicker basket in the inner tube. Perhaps I believed we’d once again live in the place where Roberta’s older sister Bonnie (no longer with us) and my older sister Wanda would give us rides on the old door in the “swamp” (a tidal marsh behind our house) until Mom would catch us, and we’d catch hell. I never said good-bye, only thought I’ll be back.
And so, on the second day of my visit, I drove to that little beach and said goodbye. I doubt I’ll ever be back; I carry the memories in my heart and have reconnected with my friend this year. There is nothing for me there now, it is a different neighborhood where others, generations later, are living their bliss. The red brick is hidden, but I like the updates they’ve made and the orange sunset color they’ve chosen for it. The old back porch, my brother’s summer bedroom is now a formal addition to the house, with a deck on the back facing our swamp – or more appropriately, the tidal marsh surrounded now by tall marsh reeds. I leave it to the people who will have never heard of the Barnes’ or the Scotts. Maybe a relative of the Duchteviches lives in their equally upgraded home? Who knows. I came home to say good-bye, and although I cried as I drove away, I’m glad I went.
On my way out, I stopped by Goddard State Park, 2 miles down the road, and visited the beach where I learned to swim. Looks the same, and I wondered if they still run the swimming classes in the bay where graduation is being taken far offshore to jump out of the rowboat and swim in? That’s the type of life it was in the early 1960s – before the end of innocence.
I also went to the head of Narragansett Bay, perhaps a place Mom and Dad might have taken us on a weekend drive, but I have no prior recollection of it. But now I know where the bay meets the ocean in this very special part of my life.
Unusual Campground Sights
I’m finishing on a light note, strange and unusual things in campgrounds. First, in my current campground in Niantic, CT, there is a flock of 3 lovely old hens wandering around the place. They show up for every new RV, check out the people, the rig and then move on. They visited a moment this morning, but they were unsure about Audy and kept their distance. They disappear during the day when the firetruck, yes, a firetruck, gives rides to the kids around the park blowing its very loud horn. Then there was the place in Rhode Island – a phenomenal place, WawaLoam CG – huge pool, waterslide, miniature golf, the works! But most interesting of all, there between RVs, on a generous plot, was a historic graveyard! I took pictures to prove it. No ghosts came around, but I do imagine they wandered the grounds at night amazed by all the new-fangled contraptions people live in these days!
I turned my eyes towards my home state now, with up to 2 more months on the road. Many states to visit, and I’ve booked my journey through Pennsylvania (for an oil change), Virginia, West Virginia and Kentucky – I’m booked through September 15 at a casino in St. Louis. My 71st birthday! Stay tuned for what is still to come😊
Namaste