Today is Doug’s 63rd birthday. We’re on the road, heading west in our new-to-us Lance truck camper, which perches on top of a blue F-250 truck.
When we bought the truck, used, we traded in our 17-year-old Prius. The dealer reluctantly gave us $2K — I’m sure he was sorry he had to buy it. But we were even sorrier to sell. Who cared that the air conditioning had been broken since 2018? Doug drove that trusty vehicle to school every day to teach sixth graders. He isn’t scared of anything, obviously.
But we won’t need the Prius where we’re going. We are letting go of lots of things.
I named the truck the instant I hoisted myself into it for the first time. “Big Blue.” As we drove it home, we debated whether the truck cabin could contain one or two Priuses. We didn’t dare compare gas mileages, not yet.
We are still not used to any of this.
Buying the camper, then the truck, then putting the two together, then driving the rig down the highway — every step shoots me with adrenaline. What if the camper comes loose and flies off the truck? What if the truck rolls over? What are we doing and why?
And also: I am shot through with happy adrenaline because we can do this. We want to do this, and we want to do it together. We have the resources to do this. For so many people the pandemic has been nothing but anxiety and loss and deprivation. How lucky we are to plan a Big Blue adventure.
So we made the plans. My church contracted ended on Sept 30, so we would leave on Oct 1. Doug’s birthday on Oct 2 would make a noteworthy beginning. Of course, the tight timeframe meant that the last few weeks have been very busy. But we also have reservations to camp in Yellowstone NP Oct 11-17, and there are many reasons why I’m eager to get to Yellowstone — I’ll explain all that later.
Yesterday — Laurel Hills State Park, PA
We left Virginia on Friday, Oct 1, as planned. We drove on highways for four hours, then turned onto minor roads for the last half hour, just as the sun was getting low. The fall colors were starting to turn so there was a golden cast to the landscape. We passed rolling hills, farmhouses, and picturesque barns. The crop land, yet to be harvested, was especially beautiful in the slanting sun. We had a reservation at Laurel Hills SP, south of Pittsburgh, at a wooded campsite.
We used our electric skillet to cook some bratwurst, then I opened a bottle of wine as Doug built a fire in the fire-pit. That turned out to be challenging because it was dark and he had to locate the hatchet in the camper’s various hatches and bins.
We already began to suspect that we may have overpacked. What seemed full at home now seemed over-full. Maybe this trip will recalibrate our notion of what’s “enough.”
Back to Doug’s 63rd Birthday
On Doug’s 63rd birthday we sleep in because we can. We are really here at last. Our camper is warm and cozy and dark, even though the overnight low had dropped to 43 degrees.
It takes a while because we don’t have any routines yet, but we manage to make coffee and oatmeal and fruit for breakfast. Because we intend to set good habits, we pray together. Then we’re on our way.
We detour slightly to visit Cuyahoga Valley NP. We are stopping mainly because of the parting gift our daughters gave us — a scratch-off poster of national parks. We can’t scratch off a park unless we stop.
There are 62 national parks on the poster. We are telling people we’ll be gone a year. Really, we have no idea. Will we like it? Will we be able to co-exist in such a tiny space?
Cuyahoga Valley National Park, OH
The weather is sunny and breezy, with a blue sky and puffy clouds. We check out the Visitor Center, which has an impressive overhead view of Route 80 crossing the gorge. I have zipped over that bridge many times, traveling from New Jersey to Michigan.
Reading the history of the Cuyahoga River is reassuring, an example of conservation efforts restoring what industry ruined. This river was so polluted that it famously caught fire in 1969, when debris near Cleveland ignited. I remember that, do you? The area was set aside in 1974 as part of a broader effort to put national parks near population centers.
There’s no entrance fee so we buy a postcard and a blueberry lemon scone.
Then back in the truck for a short, but steep and winding drive to Brandywine Falls. I’m still not used to the way the rig sometimes lurches around corners and find myself gripping the seat. We park near the top of the falls and walk along the boardwalk to various overlooks. Water volume is low but the falls are pretty.
The falls are historic as the location of a grist mill. I think about the theory that civilization itself was driven by the desire to produce and consume alcohol. Have you heard that? It usually takes group effort to produce alcohol. The sign says that the grist mill ground grain, with only a parenthetical comment about the grain being used in a distillery.
Quintessentially Midwestern
After a full day of driving, we are glad to turn off Route 80 onto Hwy 2, which leads north to Lake Erie. On the far side of a field of drying corn I notice a white clapboard church with a large steeple. It reminds me of the church I served in rural Illinois two decades ago. The white-sided church faces a brick church with an equally large steeple. I wonder if the facing churches face-off in this place with more corn than people. The sight seems to me quintessentially Midwestern.
Sandusky, OH — On the Way to Magee Marsh
As we approach Sandusky, OH, it begins to rain heavily. We’re familiar with the area because Doug’s parents lived in Sandusky some 35 years. (No more. His dad died in 2018 and his mom moved to Reno, NV.)
I intended to stop for a lovely dinner in honor of Doug’s birthday, but all the restaurants are either closed or drive-through only. At a place called the Huron Eagle Club we park in the pouring rain and get wet dashing to the door. The establishment turns out to be for members only.
So we get back in the car and drive toward Magee Marsh, which is a waterfowl sanctuary along the shores of Lake Erie. I made reservations for us to spend the night camping at a marina there. When I made the plans, I had a romantic vision — we could watch migrating waterfowl as we enjoyed a delicious meal. The idea was worthy of Instagram. But this is real life.
We do finally find a place to have supper, in Port Clinton at the Jolly Roger Seafood House. It’s the kind of place where you order at the counter. It’s crowded. We wear our masks; about half of the people there are masked. We order fried perch, french fries, coleslaw, hush puppies and clam strips.
We eat our fill and take the leftovers back to the rig. We drive the remaining distance to Magee Marsh. Along the way we pass a nuclear reactor, smoking in the rainy dark. A row of red lights blink around the rim of the crown.
When we arrive at the marina where I made a reservation months ago, Doug braves the rain, only to find out they have no record of my request. It turns out they don’t do online reservations. (Although the website has a reservation system.) However they can accommodate us for $28, including electricity.
Since it’s 8:00 at night and dark and raining, I suggest we go ahead and stop. Doug feels like he could drive all night. I think it’s just his birthday and a belly full of perch talking.
He agrees, and goes to make the payment. I watch as he trudges across the gravel parking lot once again. I can see and hear a lot of people sitting at a roofed outdoor patio drinking. It’s Saturday night. The neon signs proclaim the presence of Yuengling and Keno.
Our campsite, if you were to call it that, is only a stone’s throw from Hwy 2, and across the parking lot from the patio bar. The parking lot is a slurry of muddy water which means we can’t unload the items we store on the floor of the camper when we’re driving. To get to the bed, which is over the cab of the truck, we must step over and around piles of stuff— two folding chairs, a roll-up table, a large solar panel, a screen tent, toolboxes, tarps, a bucket, etc.
We FaceTime with our daughters as we had promised to do for Dad’s birthday.
And So It Begins
Tonight’s weather is completely different from the previous night. It’s not only raining, it’s twenty degrees warmer, in the mid 60s. We put the fan on and open the bedside windows, which tilt out. I hope that the sound of the rain will drown out the road noise and bar noise.
As I lay in the comfortable bed beside my sleeping now-63-year-old husband, my face is level with the bedside window. I watch the headlights of passing cars and trucks, which pierce the neon glow from the bar behind me. I listen to the roar of engines and swish of wet pavement. It’s like music— rising crescendo quickly fading to echo.
The constant and perpetual motion of traffic is hypnotic, lulling me into the underground of my thoughts. Am I watching movement or just motion?
The noise and neon and night feel very American. I could be anywhere at all in these United States, watching traffic flow. And now we have become a part of this flow.