ASHLAND, Nebraska - The playlist for the next leg of the Red Writer's continued journey west seems incomplete with just 12 songs culled from my iPhone music library. Tomorrow the goal is to make it to the town of Ogallala, Nebraska home to one of the best Mexican restaurants ever. Ever. But after Nebraska, spotty FM (and AM) radio reception becomes the norm, especially given my boon-docking plans in Colorado.
So far the list includes:
On The Road Again
Ballad of Thunder Road
Hot Rod Lincoln
Catch Us If You Can
Born To Be Wild
I Get Around
Leaving On a Jet Plane
Six Days On the Road
Ramblin' Man
Wagon Wheel
Rawhide
See You In September
That last song goes out dedicated to Admiral Sylvia Fox, of course. I am on my way! Honest! Any suggestions for songs that will help me put the hammer down on the next 1,700 miles to touchdown in Point Richmond?
ASHLAND, Nebraska - The run from Watkins Glen to this idyllic locale just over the Platte River from Omaha was faster than anticipated.
But that stopped yesterday afternoon when I pulled into Eugene T. Mahoney State Park. I have visited this park several times in the last few years, either heading east or returning west. With the Red Writer teardrop, it's much more enjoyable. And I need a rest after driving too many hours in too short a time frame.
The Red Writer at rest in Nebraska
Translation? I'll leave Saturday for either Scottsbluff, Neb. or to Minturn, Colo. Or maybe Sunday? Or Monday. ?Quien sabe? A few days in a nice creek side campsite should put my nerves back into their proper casings after living through twin thunderstorm-related events. If you're from the Midwest, they were just storms. To a Californian-New Yorker, a tad more.
The first happened in Atkinson, Il.
The lightning in the distance flashing out of low, the dark black clouds were spectacular and covered the horizon. Had I been sailing on the ocean, I would have turned and ran as fast as I could away from the storm.
But Interstate Highways don't let you do that so easily.
And so an hour after first seeing the storm I drove right into, I ended up pulling off the highway in a hasty search for high ground to avoid predicted flash flooding. The rain was coming down so fast visibility was near zero. The town streets were deserted, too...
When the storm cleared it was off to the next town up a few miles the highway in search of a campground.
The only one was on the banks of a river outside of town.
Given that flash flood warnings, plus witnessing the devastation from flooding in Hector, NY, the choice was obvious.
NO (&(^^%)*))*Q% WAY!
A few miles later the Red Writer crossed over the Mississippi into Iowa, where the Interstate RV Park beckoned.
The park has full RV services and is tucked in snugly amid lots of commercial activity.
The snug part proved to be really important.
Just after the Red Writer as all hooked up and settled, another RV owner - who bore a strange resemblance to Mr. Magoo in looks and speech - knocked on the door and warned that a huge storm was headed our way in a half-hour packing 70 mph winds and torrential rains. He said many people were going to "shelter in place" in the building housing the bathrooms and showers.
I was still trying to decide whether this was a red wine or white wine kind of storm when the wind and rain walloped the campground well ahead of schedule, trapping most people in RVs.
Luckily, no RVs did a Dorothy, flying off to OZ. All stayed firmly on the ground, though the RV park was a swamp for hours.
There's more rain in the forecast for the next week here, but no tormentas like the ones in these videos.
None predicted anway.
INDIAN CREEK, Ohio - The concept of an RV park right in a rest area along a turnpike is a good one. You pull in, hook up to power and have a safe, well-lighted place away from the diesel trucks and the car parking lots where people zip and out of the place all night.
That said, it's still pretty noisy with the constant thrum of Interstate 90 in the background. But it was easy to pull in and should be easy to pull out as soon as this is posted. The Red Writer is starting Day 3 of my cross-country sojourn from Seneca Lake to San Francisco.
And thanks to the diesel trucks that cranked up their engines at 6 a.m., I will be getting an early start on the day.
Day one was a short hop from Watkins Glen (and Amanda Smith-Socaris' hospitality) to Lakewood, NY. There I spent the afternoon and evening with lifelong friend Doug Hooper. My head is still spinning with all the memories our conversations turned up.
Yesterday was a nearly 300-mile run from Lakewood to this rest stop, the last stop on the Ohio Turnpike before entering Indiana as I lurch towards the Chicago traffic miasma. I hope I can find the same interstate bypass as Admiral Fox and I took when we came east in June.
Indian Creek RV parking
The hardest part of the trip so far - other than staying awake while driving mile after mile after mile - has been forcing myself to slow down and look at things along the way.
When I stopped last night at 5 p.m. - way earlier than Adm. Fox and I generally would pull over on any of our usual road trips - I was rewarded by meeting some very interesting folks from New Hampshire, heading to Montana for a family wedding.
We shared a glass of wine, good conversation and I suspect next summer we might rendezvous someplace in their home state of New Hampshire.
It was a good reminder of the words I read on a stone placed near author Jack Kerouac's grave in Lowell, Mass. when I was on another road trip a few weeks ago visiting amigo Dan Sundquist and his wife Sarah in New Hampshire before catching up with and my two sisters, Evelyn and Anne.
His words? The Road is Life.
Thanks Jack...
VALOIS, NY - The days and nights here in the Finger Lakes since arriving in late June have been amazing. And a little exhausting. How much fun can you pack in?
A lot, it seems. But since the weather turned from steamy humid and blistering heat to overcast and rain, Willie Nelson's refrain from "On The Road Again" is getting stuck in my head.
I found myself - after a 5+mile hike early yesterday morning with amigo Harry Ellison - looking longingly at the road atlas (yes, I have a paper road atlas thank you very much). I started plotting a course across country with a dozen stops.
So far... The lift-off for that trip is just short of three weeks from today, but I can hear the thrum of the tires already and Willie blasting out of the speakers.
Three weeks can be an eternity or go by in a flash. Based on the weeks since Admiral Sylvia Fox and I arrived in late June, I'll put my bet on the time flashing by. She left three weeks ago to get back to cooler air in San Francisco.
From what she has told me, she found it. Too much of it.
And in about a week, I have a New Hampshire to Lowell, Mass to Woodmere, Long Island road trip planned.
That will be sans the Red Writer trailer, however...I just can't imagine hauling the Red Writer on the Cross-Bronx Expressway or any of the Manhattan Bridges.
The artist as musician
Yesterday I went to an artist's reception/exhibit at a shop called Hector Handmade, just a few miles up the road.
I've been to hundreds of such arty soirees over the years but this one was exceptional. Really exceptional. It was partly because of the interesting art, but also because artist Nicole Costa is a musician, too. She is also a seamstress and probably a dozen other creative things based what people told me.
She and a band called Mother Wort put on a rockin' concert while people oooohed and ahhhhed over her art, most of them sipping wine.
Below is a short sample of their tunes...
ASHLAND, Nebraska - The playlist for the next leg of the Red Writer's continued journey west seems incomplete with just 12 songs culled from my iPhone music library. Tomorrow the goal is to make it to the town of Ogallala, Nebraska home to one of the best Mexican restaurants ever.
