Trouble on the Road

After many RVing years, I am greatly accomplished…at getting into trouble…with no effort on my part. My motorhome George and tow car Cavy fare better than I do, probably because inanimate objects don’t get angry (as far as we know!).

I wanted to lead you down the primrose path of hyperbole with my trip to Leavenworth. It was a good two-lane road winding through tall maples and blooming tulip trees.
“Hmmm, no trees like that going into Leavenworth,” you’d say. I fancied telling you that I crossed the Blue River and passed small neat houses with well-kept lawns. “Hmmm, no Blue River on the way to Leavenworth; not much lawn either,” you’d think. I planned to visit Wyandotte Caves. “Hmmm, no Wyandotte Caves near Leavenworth.”

You’d probably catch on that I wasn’t talking about Leavenworth, Washington. There is no Blue River in Leavenworth, Kansas, either. That Leavenworth is famous for the big federal prison. My shenanigans haven’t landed me there…yet.

Down on the Dock
Life was simple where I was. I turned at the, “Seventeen miles to Leavenworth” sign. OK, so if you find your next step splashing in the Ohio River, you’ll be far enough into southern Indiana that you’ll be in Leavenworth. “Visit Historic Leavenworth on the Dock,” the next sign begged. I made a wide turn to accommodate my entourage, headed down the hill, and found myself nose to nose with a third sign, “Road Closed.” Major construction blocked the road.

A woman walking by said the gravel road to the right dead-ended on the hilltop. I also asked her about a deafening noise I didn’t recognize. “Millions of cicadas,” she said, “Decibels to the 99 percent level. They might land on you but they won’t bite or sting.” That was comforting. Although fascinating, desperate cicadas crying for mates after a 17-year hiatus wasn’t my primary concern at the moment. Happily, they didn’t land on me, probably because I more resembled a raving maniac than another distressed cicada.
Inching onto the narrow gravel road, the car and motorhome were “reasonably” level. I put the car in park so it wouldn’t go bye-bye when I disconnected it. The hitch was still in a bind. I pulled the motorhome forward another five feet without actually starting up the hill. I had forgotten to put the car back in neutral so I drug it those few feet. Purple is a lovely color and I was beginning to see a lot of it.

I stepped over the hitch to dislodge the second safety cable. That’s not quite accurate; I tripped over the hitch. I went down faster than I get into trouble. Fortunately, I didn’t catch myself because that probably would have broken my wrists.

When I could actually breathe again, I ascertained there were no broken bones. My shins turned purple to match my thoughts. With my trusty rubber hammer, I beat that bound hitch into submission that otherwise I wouldn’t have had the strength to do. I backed the car up on to a side road, daring anybody to tell me that was illegal parking. I backed the motorhome up the hill, perfectly lining it up to the car. Taking an orange cone and a “Road Closed” sign, I propped them where they could be easily seen by anyone contemplating a trip down to “Historic Leavenworth on the Dock.”

Perusing Leavenworth’s General Store and Old Rivertown Museum calmed me considerably. I enjoyed a delicious Overlook Restaurant hamburger while I watched a tugboat push loaded barges around a big Ohio River bend, but I guess I’ll never be able
to report on “Historic Leavenworth on the Dock.”

Beyond Rustic
Of course, there were good days between Indiana and New York. My stubborn aversion to campground directories is akin to my not wanting a GPS. I may one day change my desire for mystery in my life. The “Campsite” sign appeared in the Adirondack Mountains and I thought I was home. I turned up the hill. As soon as you turn into any place while towing a car, you are committed (And some say I should be).

The establishment, while trying for “rustic” with old tires, dilapidated cars, rusted parts, and vintage camping rigs around which household goods accumulated, had definitely slipped into “dump.” I have nothing against old rigs. I used the same one for 17 years, but even the weeds desperately tried to cover this up.

The “office” didn’t have an attendee. Frantically looking for the campground road, I turned right with an immediate left onto a narrow two-track that wasn’t well used. George took a few leaves and small branches. With nobody around anywhere, I felt like I had driven into the Twilight Zone. Around a sharp curve leading to a “home away from home” was an electric wire that looked as low as I was feeling. It must be high enough for an RV to go under it in a campground, right?

I watched out the window as the wire pulled tight. I failed to dislodge it with a long branch. George backed up to loosen its hold. It was stuck. The week before I nursed an aching back that hadn’t improved with hot pads and aspirin, but a little of that anger stuff helped me stomp right up those ladder rungs carrying that long branch.

Minding that there were no other wires to tangle with, I used the branch to encourage the wedged wire up and over the vent and solar panels. I looked for a plausible continuation of road almost in vain. George maneuvered beautifully through downed trees, upped trees, and rocks. I was grateful for the monitor that showed the Cavalier hopscotching successfully across gullies and rotten logs on his narrower path. As fast as we could, we streaked by the office that by this time had a truck parked next to it.

Although I manage to stay in constant trouble, I still end the day thrilled with my RVing lifestyle. I hope you are happy living yours.

God Bless.