Story Excerpts from: 

Chasing the Good Life

50,000 Miles Across America

 by

 John & Diane Wolfskill

Copyright (c) 2006 -  All rights reserved  

   Chasing the Good Life is a collection of travel vignettes gathered during a 50,000-mile road journey across America.

 From September 1997 until May 2000 the ever-winding highway led Diane and I through forty-one of our United States of America on a mission to encounter as many interesting people, places and things as possible. 

Along the way, almost everyone we met had a story waiting to be heard, or told. Throughout our journey we kept a detailed journal of daily activities, with no intention of using the contents for any purpose other than to later help us remember things that had happened, and places we had visited. 

As it turned out, this book is very much more about people, than places and things.

  Gathering these small slices of life was not difficult. In most cases all that was required was to introduce ourselves, pull up a lawn chair and listen. Aside from a good story, we discovered that it's true - The whole world loves a good listener. 

The stories that follow, which you can read in any order you choose, are at once human, funny and sad. We hope you will enjoy them.  

Advice from Larry

Hershey, Pennsylvania - Larry Frick, 49, lately of Troy, New York is an itinerant wheeler and dealer; a man who knows more about life than he's willing to say.

  Larry, a lanky string bean of a man, travels the country trading goods at flea markets and public auctions, offers us a warm soda pop from the small refrigerator he's strapped loosely to the rear bumper of his old but serviceable travel trailer.

 As we sip our drinks, Larry explains how he manages to travel 364 days a year without a permanent place to call home:

 "Every day but Christmas. We don't travel or work on Jesus' day". 

 He continues, "We live pretty simple, that's for sure. Mostly, this is a cash business, so I don't pay much tax on anything. I don't have a TV, a telephone, or a bank account.  Sheila (his black Labrador dog) and me, we get along fine. Don't we girl?" Sheila is too busy snuffling my pant leg to nod in agreement.

 He continues, "I've been on the road now for eight years. She's been with me for about six. We've never had an accident, and never been robbed. Now't I think about it, I don't recall we've even been what you'd say was real sick, either."

 I tell Larry of our travel plans and ask him for some advice about living on the road.

He chuckles, "Mercy! I'm not much for giving or taking advice."

 He pauses for a long moment, "Well, if there's one thing I can tell you, it's that this life has an order. A rhythm, I guess you'd call it. You need to plan things a little, but not too much. If you overdo the planning, then it spoils the natural flow, and that's when things start to go haywire. I just sort of feel my way around. Can't really explain it in words."

Larry continues, "Right now we're headed for Hickory, North Carolina. Maybe we'll spend a few weeks down there looking at furniture. Maybe we won't. That depends on what happens along the way."  

Muscling In

Love Creek, Delaware - The third week in August is not a good time to be stranded by the sea. Rehoboth Beach, Delaware (pop. 1,234) is at this time of year a crowded and bustling seaside community that caters to day-trippers and seasonal vacationers.

  In addition to a wide and beautiful ocean beach, this whitewashed town is famous for sticky saltwater taffy and its boardwalk, a scaled down version of its famous namesake located in Atlantic City, New Jersey. We'd hoped to spend some time here soaking up the seaside atmosphere, but there's no room at the beach. In fact, there's not a place available for rent anywhere in town. 

   As we leave town on State Road 24 we pass through the small village of Oak Orchard.  Across a wide creek we can see what appears to be a commercial campground located on the north side of the highway bridge. With our hope of finding temporary lodging rekindled, we decide to stop and check it out. The place turns out to be a trailer park with no RV spaces for rent.

 Bill Parsons, the park owner, suggests, "If you're not fussy you might try Dolly's place down by Love Creek Bridge. She sometimes lets people camp on the sand flats down there." 

  We thank the man and head back toward the bridge.

    A long gravel lane leads to Dolly's place. The road is filled with cavernous ruts that effectively remove everything from Odyssey's walls and cupboards that's not securely bolted down. We park and knock on the back door of a ramshackle white clapboard house, which has been built partially out over the creek. Two small children appear at the door, followed by a tan dog with large tonsils. In a moment Dolly appears wearing a stained apron around her waist.

    I explain, "We'd like to camp here in the area for a few weeks. The owner of the trailer park over there beyond the bridge says you might be able to help us."

     For lack of a better phrase to describe her, I'll say that Dorothy Van Ostenkamp is the most physically intimidating woman I've ever met. She is about 30 years old, 6-feet tall in her stocking feet, and weighs about 235 pounds; of which not one ounce appears to come from body fat. Dolly wears a pair of black bib-style overalls over a T-shirt that strains to cover a pair of pedantic breasts. Her long brown hair is tied back in a tight ponytail, held in place by a two-inch wide rubber band.

    "You can park it over there back of Dutch's trailer. But park your truck over there", she points to an open spot next to the boathouse. "The electric box is on the pole. It's $15 a night with electricity, that's unless you want to work. You know how to dig?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Clams. Do you know how to clam?"

"Ah.. No. But that sounds interesting."

 She demands, "Can you swim?"

"Yes."

She continues, "If you want to help on the boat, here's the deal. You get to keep the first 50, that's state law. The rest are mine. You get free rent for every day you help on the boat, and you pay me $15 for every day you don't."

I seal the deal, "o.k."

She continues, "Be on the dock over there at seven-fifteen in the morning, and leave your wallet with your wife."

Dolly then turns to Diane for the first time, "You wanna' work, too?"

Diane wisely lies, "No. I'm sorry but I can't swim".

Dolly's clam boat is a non-descript wooden tub about 16-feet long, with a large old Mercury outboard motor mounted on its stern. Vernon "Dutch" Afflelback, 49, my work partner for the day, sits on the gunwale holding his head to one side as if thinking about something important. As I get close enough to introduce myself, I realize he is (or recently was) dead drunk. He wavers slightly as he extends his right hand to shake mine.

"Y'all from New Hampshire?"

I reply, "Yup. We're a couple of transplanted Yankees."

He continues, "Hee.. My first wives live up there ... somewhere."

 At this point Dolly arrives on the scene and begins to bark orders like an Army drillmaster.

"Don't just sit there Dutch, get this guy a vest and some rubbers!"

Dutch disappears into the boathouse and quickly reappears with a large pair of rubber hip-waders and a moldy smelling kapok life vest. I slip them on, and within minutes we're on the water. 

The wooden boat strains and creaks as the bow lifts clear of the water, the rear end carving a deep watery trench as we make headway into in the ever-widening and muddy channel that leads into Rehoboth Bay.

   Dolly is the last of a dying breed of independent commercial clammers who've plied these waters for more than a hundred years. Digging clams for commercial purposes requires a license from the State of Delaware, which is renewable on an annual basis, depending on the condition of the ancient clam beds that pepper the shallow bay estuaries. Therefore, for a commercial clammer a steady income is not always guaranteed, or available.

   Occasionally I steal a glance at Dutch. He's drinking from a bottle he's hidden somewhere in his gear. He catches me looking at him:

 "Got to a get a little of that old dog that bit ya!", he chuckles.

    Dolly stands stoically at the stern, guiding the huge outboard motor with one hand and smoking a long filter cigarette with the other. After twenty-five minutes of flat-out running, Dolly unexpectedly slows the boat to a crawl, and then cuts the motor. We're floating in what appears to be a shallow water estuary about a hundred yards from shore. With a splash, Dutch tosses out the metal anchor. In less than a half-minute the boat heaves to.

 Without a word, Dolly hoists herself over the side and into the water.

Dutch instructs, "Jump in. It's not deep. When you get unstuck I'll pass you the ring."

 I heave over the side and immediately sink to the bottom, weighted down by cold water that instantly fills my hip-waders. Dutch tosses me the ring, a fine wire-mesh metal basket surrounded by an inflated truck tire inner tube. After I attach the basket's umbilical rope to a belt loop he passes me a clam rake; an ordinary garden rake with chicken wire mesh interwoven between its short metal tines.

    Dutch quickly climbs into the water beside me. Within ten minutes he manages to teach me the basics of clamming. You slowly drag the rake over the bottom, holding the tines at a slight angle. You must both feel and listen for the clam. When you pass over a clam there's a slight screech. You also feel vibrations in the rake handle. Now simply dig down and pull straight up.

Voila!

 Sometimes you have a clam.

 Sometimes you have a rock.

 Sometimes you have a giant ball of oozy slime.

   At the end of the day, with every muscle in my upper torso aflame, I've harvested clams of all conceivable sizes and shapes. The smallest ones are called cherrystones, prized for their tender good taste. The larger nondescript ones can be steamed and eaten, but usually end up in commercially-produced clam chowder. 

Since I am an officially unlicensed clammer, I can legally keep only fifty of my day's catch. The rest of the clams belong to Dolly, who must also adhere to a legal daily limit.   

Lettuce Woes

Chambersburg, Pennsylvania - Ron Christie, 66, lives in Wellton, Arizona. He formally introduces himself as a "retired former professional chicken farmer". Now here is a fellow you would like instantly, despite his gruff manner and bone dry sense of humor. After a brief introduction he gets right down to business:

"So where did you guys leave the rest of your trailer?"

Although surprised, I manage a pretty decent retort:

 "It isn't the size of your trailer that matters. It's how you use it that counts."

With that remark hanging heavily in the afternoon air, Diane retreats inside to prepare our dinner. Ron roars with laughter. He sputters and coughs so hard I fear he's going to expire.

But I'm not going to let this guy off the hook that easy:

 "So you're a professional chicken farmer. Tell me then, why did the rooster cross the road?"

 Without flinching Ron rebuts, "Hell that's simple. There was probably a hen over there in the bushes."

He continues, "Take it from an expert in these matters, there ain't no animal on God's earth stupider or meaner than a rooster with sex on his mind."

We both roar with laughter. The neighbors are not impressed.

Ron is headed for New England in his new motorhome.

 He says, "I can't wait to see the Maine coast. I never been this far east in my life".

I ask Ron to tell me more about his home in Arizona, where he's lived through a lifetime of hard work. For forty-five years he's raised chickens and lettuce on a sprawling 1,700-acre low desert ranch east of Yuma. His mood changes abruptly as he recalls the more recent past:

 "It's not really farming anymore. Now we call it Agribusiness. You know, three years ago I had to plow under almost 300 acres of ripe winter lettuce because I'd have lost money harvesting the stuff. Screw farming."

My uneducated vision of Arizona is of a barren place where rich lawyers go to retire and play golf. Ron emphasizes with a grin:

 "Where'd you get that silly notion? Yuma isn't an expensive place to live. Besides, I doubt there'd be enough lawyers in town to make a decent foursome."

 He continues, "John, don't miss Yuma if you pass through Arizona on your travels. We've got the best people there, and the best winter weather in the world. But get out of there come the middle of May. You'll fry like an egg."

That sounds like a plan to me.

 But then just about anything sounds like a plan to me.  

Trucker's Lament

 Athens, Tennessee - As we sit on our makeshift patio and think about possibilities, a short and burly man of about forty and his tow-headed young son stop to admire Odyssey.

 "Howday. I'm Mark Tatum. This here's little Mark. Y'all from New Hampshiire?" he asks, gazing intently at our license plate.

 Mark is half owner of Tatum Brothers Transport, a professional moving company based in Valdosta, Georgia. He transports new vehicles from manufacturers to dealer lots throughout the country.

 "My brother Bill counts the beans and I pull the boxes."

 Little Mark, a precocious five-year-old, is along for the ride this week.

We chat for hours about everything in general. Actually, big Mark does most of the talking. Perhaps you know a person with that wonderful gift for gab? Mark the elder is one such gifted man. At one point the subject turns to the highway, and how people drive these days.

I complain, "You know, you take your life in your own hands on these interstates, especially when you're pulling a trailer. Those truckers don't seem to care if they run over you, or not".

That was the wrong thing to say. Mark's face turns fire engine red:

 "So where the hell are you going in this here trailer? Nowhere really. That guy in that truck, he's got to get that load to Cleveland tonight, or he won't eat next week. All he wants is for you to get out of his way. He's tryin' to tell you something, but you ain't listening. I don't think he wants to scare you. He just wants to get a piece of your attention.

 He continues, "Driving a truck is like flying one of those little wooden airplanes you had when you was a kid. It took you a long time to wind that little rubber band, but after you got it wound real good and tight and let go, that thing had a mind of its own."

He concludes, "Take my advice. If you got to drive slow, then get yourself off on them state highways. They'll get you where you're going almost as fast, and you can stop and gawk at things all you want."

My ego was shattered in a hundred tiny pieces. However, I could tell that Mark meant not to be mean, but only to help us get our journey started on the right road. I think we'll take his advice. After all, that was years of professional driving experience talking.

Rah.. Rah..

Auburn, Alabama - U.S. Highway 431, a broad two-lane asphalt ribbon, slashes through gently rolling hills where white clapboarded homes and small family farms hug the road. We pass south through sleepy villages with names such as Five Points, Hollis Crossroads, and Wedowee.

 It's a warm and sticky early autumn day. On every front porch is stationed an elderly lady or gent sitting in a comfortable chair. Everyone waves and smiles as we toddle by them at a leisurely forty miles per hour. Many of the friendly porch-sitters offer a quick two-finger salute, the signature road greeting of rural America. To say hello to a friend or neighbor is common courtesy in these parts. It's a simple act that makes you feel good.

    At dusk we roll into the sprawling city of Auburn, only to discover the Auburn University Football Booster Club has rented all of the sites in the only RV Park in town. Fortunately, the football fans have already moved their rigs to the university field house in preparation for the big game tomorrow. Beri Barnett, the young and merciful resident manager allows us to use one of the temporarily vacated sites for the night.

    George Gaddy, a corporate lawyer from Birmingham, and family arrived here early this evening in their large motorhome. The sole purpose for their 100-mile journey is to partake of an Alabama ritual, the first home game of the Auburn football season. George, his family, the poodle dog and even their RV are decked out in bright Auburn University shirts, pants, blouses, flags and banners. The scene looks like a political convention gone haywire.

 I ask George, "You guys down here really take this football thing to heart, don't you?"

 He replies with a huge smile:

 "You bet. When it comes to Auburn football, we take this stuff serious as a stroke!"

Jaws

Bay Minette, Alabama -  Interstate Highway 85 takes us today on a wide compass heading toward Mobile Bay, and a speck of a village called Summerdale. It's mid-afternoon when we stop briefly in the town of Bay Minette for groceries at a Piggly Wiggley Food Store. Here in the misty freezer case we find strange meat items to ponder, such as plastic-wrapped things marked:

Hog Jaws, Small

 At the express checkout I ask the young clerk what foods should be properly served with hog jaws. She replies without thinking:

 "Chitlins, I suppose."

I push my luck, "So, what goes good with chitlins?"

 She quickly replies, "Collard greens."

Huh?  

The Plantation: Dot’s Dogs

    Robertsdale, Alabama - Alabama's Gulf coast meets our minimum living requirements. The region has a reasonably warm year round climate and a modest standard of living. More importantly, it has the jitter-free lifestyle we crave.

 It doesn't take long to discover that life in this region evolves at its own leisurely pace. After a few informal people motion studies, I'm now sure that an Alabama second is exactly 55 times longer than a New York second.

    The southern end of Alabama's Gulf peninsula is table-flat farmland, punctuated by stands of old weeping trees and small streams that wander lazily toward the Gulf. Although there is little industry, the long summer season attracts thousands of tourists to Alabama's broad and white-sand covered coastal beaches. 

The weather is said by local residents to be tolerable for about eight months of the year, and the cost of living favorable to those who may find it necessary to live on a fixed income. Air conditioning and a nearby storm cellar should take care of the remaining environmental problems, that is if you don't factor bugs and ground-crawling critters into the equation.

     In their own way, south Alabama's coastal communities retain the warmth and charm we've known in the small towns of our youth. 

The crew cut young man behind the counter at the Highway 59 Dairy Bar asks, "May I help you, sir."

 What the young man says is not remarkable. It's the way he says the words that catch my ear. There is a slight emphasis on the last word; an intonation that suggests this young man probably uses the same tone to address his father at the dinner table. 

What we notice and appreciate most about the people of south Alabama is their utter lack of pretense. When a person here says to you, "Have a nice day, y'all!" that's exactly what they mean. 

There's no need to read anything between the words.

     The Escapees Plantation is a sprawling complex with a large RV campground and a housing subdivision. The Escapees Club, founded in 1978, is one of the country's most popular lifestyle social organizations for road people. Traveling club members can even purchase a lot here on which to build a home. The Plantation's tidy brick clubhouse comes with a spacious front porch and an inviting swimming pool.

    Ted White, 67, is a short and somewhat rotund fellow with a firm handshake and a quick smile. He says that the taxes on his large custom-built brick home are a mere $110 per year. His ample belly shakes as he brags:

 "Hell, electricity's so cheap down here we leave the lights on all night. And if you need something done, like cement work or dry wall, there's always someone around who knows the trade. I built this place for a song."

 He adds with a chuckle, "I'll tell you, life just don't get no better than this!"

 Dorothea Meyers simply wants you to call her Dot, and don't ask too many more damn foolish questions. A true woman of mystery, Dot lives with four large dogs she keeps in her small motorhome. I ask Dot how she came to have so many dogs:

     "Well, after Harold, that's my late husband, died about four years ago I bought this old motorhome and started traveling. Sold my house down in Ocala and never went back."

  “I found this one (she points to her dog Tipper) on my patio one morning almost dead. She'd the mange so bad.. Took four trips to the vet to get it all cleared out."

 Dot continues, "After that I guess I just felt sorry for every stray one that came along."

 She adds, "Shoot no! I wasn't aimin' to collect these poor little fellas. Is that what you think? But you ain't gonna' just kill 'em if I'm around. No sir! That ain't right. No sir!"

Try hard to imagine four large animals and a human being living in a very small room?

Dot, a spry woman of about 70, complains that she must frequently move from place to place:

 "When the manager discovers the dogs, I usually get the boot right away. I'm used to it."  

Besides being a model of compassion and perseverance, Dot is also a walking human campground directory.

Oh Canada!

Summerdale, Alabama - Henry and Rita Lamarotte hail from Montreal, Quebec, Canada. The couple, both age 78, have been on the road an astonishing seventeen years, in which they have logged over 5 million highway miles. To prove it, Henry shows me his stack of detailed notebook logs, in which every mile has been duly recorded for posterity. 

Although the Lamarotte's are old enough to think seriously about hanging up the ignition keys for a more sedate way of life, the couple appears to thrive on this lifestyle. They travel the U.S. in their large 40-foot Class A motorhome in the Fall, Winter, and early Spring; and then return to Canada for the remainder of each year.

    Henry is a garrulous and a friendly sort. Unfortunately, we haven't come to a conclusion about Rita, who speaks no English. She does smile a lot though. After Henry discovers we're new road people he forces us to accept half of his coveted library of camping directories and roadmaps. As our self-appointed mentor, he dispenses well meaning advice on every subject, including tips on how to save money. 

We try to pay attention and learn. 

 Henry's French-Canadian philosophy on the subject of discount store shopping may sound comical to we Americans, but it amounts to sage advice:

"You don't buy thees cheapies stuff. No. You get what only you pay, eh!"  

Texas Talk: Mother Goose Tales

Mission, Texas - As the morning mist begins to clear we're on U.S. Highway 77, traveling fast across low coastal flatlands. A few miles south of Kingsville the landscape turns first to jagged saw grass then abruptly to scrub grass as we approach the north entrance to the famous million-acre King Ranch. 

After crossing the Los Olmos Creek Bridge you are in Kenedy County, a twenty-five by fifty mile square area with a population of less than 500 humans, and a thousand times that many long-horned brown cattle. Near Harlingen the semi-tropics arrive. Arrow-straight lines of slender Royal Palm trees point the way south.

A few miles north of Harlingen we turn west onto U.S. Highway 83, the busy highway corridor that bisects the most densely populated areas of the lower Rio Grande Valley. We pass quickly through the cities of Weslaco, McAllen and Pharr to arrive at Mission West RV Park.

 As we pull into the registration lane a small crowd of residents gather to greet us:

 "Welcome back!" they chant in unison.

One shouts, "Welcome Home!"

As I open my door I am besieged. "Howdy there New Hampshiiire!", says Charlie Goodman, 67, who quickly offers me his hand. I am almost too numb to shake it. Diane is also caught up in the turmoil. It sounds like a four-egg hen party on her side of the truck. Have we been mistaken for another couple?

 Susan Tillis, the park manager fusses over us in her soft Texas drawl:

 "Did y'all have a nice trip down?"

We have been blindsided. These are genuinely friendly people.

I ask Susan, "Do you greet everyone who arrives here like this?"

 She replies with a hearty chuckle, "No honey. Only the ones we like."

Our neighbor on site #19 is John T. Kelly, a crew cut retiree originally from Far Hills, New Jersey. Bare-chested, and otherwise clad only in a pair of flimsy Bermuda shorts and thongs in the chilly fifty-degree weather, John leans heavily against our awning pole and chatters non-stop for three hours. 

 Among his various occupations, the 54-year old divorcee claims he has been a Wall Street stockbroker, and has several times made fortunes and gone broke in Las Vegas. 

Here are a few choice sound bites from our almost one-sided conversation:

"Bonds! You're kidding me? Bonds are for old ladies..."

"Commercial paper. Futures. That's how I made the big bucks...

"you make a little bing every time one of those idiots buys or sells..."

"Kid, you ain't gonna' get rich with a hundred shares of Wal-Mart...

"you gotta' have gonads..."

"Amateurs. That's all you find out there in Vegas...

"hate that place..."

"they'd be better off just throwing their money into the toilet..."

"A pro like me would never let on whether he's lost or won..."

"so you drop a few hundred large tonight. You win it back tomorrow night..."

"A Whale! That's what they used to call me. I was one of the big fish..."

"I could afford not to work because I had a simple philosophy about money. I didn't give a sh..."

"So if all I got left in the morning are a few bucks for breakfast, that's O.K. But hey! If I got a half-million sitting there in my briefcase, it's all the same to me..."

Later, Diane summarizes Mr. Kelly in one sentence, "That guy's a professional bull artist, isn't he?"

 In honor of Diane's most recent astute observation we decide to nickname our new friend "Mother Goose" Kelly, owing to the wealth of his outlandish tales. There is one saving grace in Mr. Kelly's personality, however. If you are within earshot of this man, you'll never fall asleep while he's still awake.

We Blimin' Pigs

Kerrville, Texas - Fran and Pip Utley, our new neighbors are a pleasant and chatty couple from Leicester, England. Fran tells us that each year they fly across the pond to either Dallas or Houston, where they keep their 40-foot Bluebird Bus in summer storage.

 This year the couple plans to explore deep into Mexico and South America. Pip is sad because thieves have broken into their bus while it was parked in storage and made off with many valuables, including his favorite 35 millimeter camera body:

 "Bloody damn thieves they are all right!"

 Welcome to America, Pip.

Fran, a slim and feisty brunette with a defined cockney accent, is not shy about sharing her keen observations of American culture:

 "Blather! You yanks do whine and complain so. This one doesn't like cigarette smoke. That one doesn't like fat. Everyone's pro this and anti that. Ya' go a runnin' round in circles tryin' to lose weight, then ya' sit down at the table and eat like blimin' pigs!"

I guess that pretty well sums us up all right.

 Welcome to America, Fran.

Coyotes and Indians

Ajo, Arizona - The arid brown prairie, littered with scattered clumps of sagebrush and ancient Saguaro cactus, appears to stretch away to the ends of the planet. We're headed west on Highway 86 on our way to Arizona's Indian country. Dark shadows dance on canyon walls as we pass an unassuming dirt road that meanders off to Kitts Peak Observatory, one of the preeminent stargazing spots in the western world. 

Our two-lane undulating blacktop highway next slices through Sells (pop. 2,750), headquarters of the Papago Indian Reservation and the Tohono O'odham Nation. For several miles west of town the roadside is littered with shiny beer bottles that glint in the noonday sun. Broken glass and small wooden crosses mark the spots of past and recent highway tragedies. 

Together, these seemingly unrelated items tell a story of the plight of the American Indian in a struggle to cope with poverty, alcoholism and reservation life.

Ahead, a large convenience store looms in the open desert like a coral-white island. Hickiwan Trails RV Park, which is American Indian owned and operated, is a sparkling new facility. In every compass direction we can see hundreds of square miles of pristine desert; to the immediate south is Mexico.

Although the landscape appears desolate, we'll soon learn not to call it that. Our desert sojourns will find it teeming with life: fist-sized scorpions, slinky coyotes, gila monsters, jack rabbits, ungraceful vultures, golden eagles, snakes, wild pigs and several varieties of the elusive roadrunner bird.

At noon it's 80 degrees Fahrenheit, and getting warmer by the minute. With nothing better to do, we look for a hiking trail that may lead us into the surrounding desert. After not much searching we find a well worn path that leads east toward the low slung hills in the distance.

 We are to learn that this unassuming dirt path is called the Hickiwan Trail; an ancient road trod by the original Americans for centuries. Since we aren't sure what we may encounter out there, I forage a brush pile and come out with a slightly bent branch that may be serviceable for keeping snakes and other wild things at arm's length.

The trail leads away for several miles into the open desert, where we see signs of recent non-human habitation. Piles of fresh round animal dung indicate an overnight gathering of wild pigs or donkeys; serpentine marks in the hard pack gravel reveal the night wanderings of snakes, or gila monsters. 

About a mile from the campground we discover what may be one of the largest Saguaro cacti in the world. This grand and fat old-timer is 45-feet tall, and at least three hundred years young. For no good reason we nickname the cacti Big Joshua.

Our new neighbor, Bill Ebersole, 59, is a retired secondary school teacher from Seattle, Washington. He and wife Peggy arrived here last week in their new motorhome. According to Bill's rough travel plan, they'll cross the border at Lukeville after a few more days rest, and then spend what remains of the winter in Mexico.

At dusk a loud human voice breaks the desert silence, followed by a cacophony of yelping, shrieking and yapping. Only one breed of animal I know can make that unmistakable concert of sounds. Bill has cornered a pair of adolescent coyotes in the dry wash behind his motorhome. The pair, on a twilight foraging trip, has managed to trap the Ebersole's small Pomeranian dog in the steep-sided wash. Bill has interceded just in time to prevent the coyotes from carrying away his beloved pet.

The question now is who will win the standoff. The coyotes appear to have no fear of a large man brandishing a tire iron. The animals hold their ground. On the other hand, Bill is quite determined to save the family pet from harm. I know that I must help Bill distract the predators, but an odd thought flashes through my mind. I decide to help, but to do nothing that may harm the coyotes. After all, we humans are the intruders here. We have purposely wandered into and destroyed the natural habitat that has been the private domain of these resilient animals for millennia.

I let loose with a few loud and hopefully scary yelps, swing my arms wildly, and then pitch a handful of small pebbles in the direction of the coyotes. Bill uses the momentary distraction to rush into the wash and scoop his shivering and agitated ball of family fur from the brink. The extraction is a success. The coyotes slink away with tails pointed down.

Back home, the Ebersole's dog Cocoa seems no worse for wear. Bill is livid, however. He vows to march to the campground office and demand the management do something about the coyotes. I mention to Bill that for the sake of guest/management relations, he would probably not want to raise a fuss. From the cool encounters I've had with the folks at the campground office, I feel that given a choice between ejecting a paying guest or a coyote, the animal would win.

 Cultural differences aside, it remains that we've a long way to go before the American Indian forgets who is living on a reservation, and who is not.

Following our afternoon constitutional (a seven-mile round trip hike into the desert) we notice a stern looking Indian man standing on the bathhouse porch. He wears a crisp white shirt, a black string bolo tie, and a pair of magnificently tooled brown snakeskin boots. We sense that this guy may be of some importance in these parts. The man stands erect with arms folded, gazing intently toward the dull gray mountains in the distance. To our eyes, this is the unmistakable body language of a ruler surveying his domain.

Since it is our policy to never pass up anything (or anybody) that could be interesting, we decide to approach the man. After a shaky introduction and a bit of polite but somewhat lopsided conversation, I get to the point of my curiosity:

"So, are you the tribal chief?"

 Thomas Onno grins broadly as if he were about to break into a serious laugh, and then quickly recaptures his composure.

 "No", he states matter-of-factly, "I am a tribal elder."

He smiles again softly.

The tension released, we talk for over an hour, in which Diane and I learn more than we ever dreamed we wanted to know about this place - The Indian nation. We learn of its geography and colorful history, and the ancestry of every living creature within a hundred miles. For lack of a better phrase to describe him, this guy is awesome.

Just before we depart company with Thomas Onno, I decide it would be fair to tell him about the people we've noticed who have been stealing services from the RV park. Each day, we’ve observed several RVs (many piloted by well-to-do retirees in luxury motorhomes) pull off the highway, dump their holding tanks at an unused campsite, use the bath house facilities, and then roar off down the highway without registering or paying for the services.

 I say, "Do you know these folks are stealing from you?"

 Without a pause he answers, "Yes. You must understand this is our first tribal venture into a business that directly involves the public. We want to make sure we understand our customers before we accidentally chase them away."

It doesn’t take too much real thinking to understand that a thief is a thief is a thief, Thomas. We wish Mr. Onno good luck in his new tribal venture. 

He will undoubtedly need it.

Bordering on Insanity

Lukeville, AZ - On a whim, we stop a hundred yards north of the International Border Station to explore one of the many duty-free shops that line the highway. A young Hispanic man greets us at the front door with a mildly disdainful look. Among other items, the walls and aisles of this store are crammed with cigarettes and liquors, all are which are wrapped in cellophane.

I ask, "Who buys all this stuff?"

"Who buys? You buy!" He motions widely with another of his patented grins.

 "You buy this stuff tax-free, guy."

"Aren't there taxes on these things in the state of Arizona?", I ask.

 The clerk grabs my arm and walks me to the front door like an ignorant schoolchild. He points to a dusty turnaround I can barely distinguish, which is located about fifty yards beyond the International Border Station.

"You buy here. Now you take across the border. See?"

 He continues to point, "You turn around and come back. Tax-free. See?"

Perhaps it was the hot afternoon sun, but the whole idea didn't make any sense. We decide not to risk getting stuck in Mexico with numerous cartons of untaxed cigarettes and booze. The irony in this was that we had that very morning decided to try to quit smoking.

We continue south through the International Border Station, where a brown-suited Mexican border guard lazily waves us into Mexico without as much as a cursory glance. Federal Highway 8, the road south to the Gulf of California runs smooth and straight.

Mail for Hooverville?

Two-Mile Wash, Arizona - There's no official post office address in the state of Arizona with this name. However, there probably should be. In case you want to go there sometime, Two-Mile Wash is located along Arizona Highway 85, in the town of Why; precisely two miles south of the “Why Not General Store”.

 In a hidden dry creek bed several hundred yards from the highway we discover an entire community of road people. There are 200-250 vehicles parked here on government land in a genuine free-for-all. This place immediately puts us in mind of John Steinbeck's description of Hooverville in his classic American novel, The Grapes of Wrath.

There are trailers, pickup trucks, vans, tents, lean-tos and anything else that can be cobbled into a temporary dwelling. These folks apparently live here without paying rent. Of course, there is a challenge. The key is to find sustenance in this inhospitable environment. Most of the squatters live in self-contained vehicles. However, all must find adequate water for drinking and bathing, and they need to generate enough electricity to establish at least basic creature comforts.

Everyone has mounted somewhere on their temporary claim a set of solar collectors. These polka-dotted panel affairs generate electricity at the rate of 65 watts per hour on a typical sunny day. That's only enough power to light a few small bulbs. However, when you couple them with a storage battery or two, the scheme works.

A larger challenge is sewage removal. For gray water, the not-so-yucky leftover water from bathing and washing dishes, you drill a hole in the desert and trickle the water into the porous sand. The water disappears instantly and without fanfare.

 For the hard stuff, you need the services of the honey wagon man. For about $10 per load, these garrulous roving entrepreneurs will pump the remains of your sewage tank into a large tank truck.

 I wonder what they do with all that stuff after they collect it?

 On second thought, it's probably better not to know.

Although the wash seems at first to be a chaotic hodge-podge of people and vehicles, we discover it's actually a well-organized community. As we head back for the highway a slender fellow stands in the middle of the undulating dirt path. He waves his hands to flag us down.

 I stop and roll down my window.

"I see you guys are from New Hampshire. What part of the state you from?", he asks.

 I introduce us to Ken Fortier, who hails from the far northern part of the Granite State. Ken, a recent widower, lives in a small brown pickup truck to which he has attached a tarp that is on its other end attached to a canvas platform tent.

 Inside, he shows us that he has all the comforts of home. There's a cot with a comforter, tattered gray carpeting, an overstuffed chair, a small wooden dresser, and even a satellite TV receiver. In the rear of the tent behind a blue plastic tarp is a portable shower contraption. There's also a portable toilet stashed away in the corner.

We talk with Ken for thirty minutes, and then move to leave.

"Why don't you guys come over for campfire tonight", he offers.

"If you play an instrument, bring it along. We always have a good time."

 I say that it sounds like fun. Perhaps we'll come.

He adds, "I'll be on watch tonight down by the highway. When you get here I'll bring you up and introduce you around."

I ask, "What will you be watching down there?"

 He explains, "We take turns at security patrol. Tonight is my turn. You don't get past the road after dark if we don't know you. Of course, we can't stop anyone from coming in here, but we can make them wish they'd kept moving."

He chuckles, "There are probably enough handguns in this coyote-camp to start a small war. I doubt that anyone would actually use them though. We never have any problems because everyone around here knows the score."

Them Trolley Cops'll Getcha

San Diego, California - Sandwiched between the Pacific Ocean and Mexico, the city of San Diego (pop. 1,110,549) owes its existence to one of the world's most perfect natural harbors, and its spectacular growth to three situations:

 During World War II Henry Kaiser's famed Liberty Ships where first mass-produced here at National Steel and Shipbuilding, Inc. on the harbor side of town. As a result, the city's population virtually doubled within a few short years.

 The 1960's brought a second period of growth when the fledgling aerospace industry took up permanent residence here. The abundant and talented workforce of the war years was put back to work building aircraft. During the 1980's, when it seemed as though most of our population of our country was on the move looking for a new lifestyle, migrants from all parts of the country converged on San Diego for its high paying jobs and picture postcard seaside ambience.

Starting in the late 1980s and early 90s, tens of thousands of external migrants from Mexico added themselves to the growing population. Today San Ysidro, the cities' border community, has become the busiest international border crossing point in the nation.

 In addition, the city proper enjoys what can be described as the world's most perfect weather. The average noon temperature in downtown San Diego varies only a few degrees from a norm of 65 degrees Fahrenheit on any day of the year.

The centerpiece of San Diego's unique transportation system is known simply as The Trolley. Actually, it's a spider web of fire engine red commuter trains that connect all points in greater San Diego County, from suburban El Cajon to the International Border.

It's 8:35 A.M. and we're waiting for the northbound trolley that will take us downtown.

"Hey man. y'all have an extra cigarette?" A.T. Johns, 29, is a black man with a streak of unbounded optimism. I shake the pack for him.

He lights up and continues, "Where you guys headed?"

I'm usually wary of panhandlers, but something in this guy's manner strikes me as genuine.

 "We're going downtown to see the waterfront", I say matter-of-factly.

 I quickly turn away to look for the train.

He continues, "Yeah. Been there. Nice. There's lots of grass down there by the seawall. Say, you got some spare change for the trolley?"

He continues. "I'm not too greased right now, but I'll pay y'all back."

I ignore his plea and continue:

"Are you from around here?"

He states with no particular conviction, "Naah. I'm from Kansas City. Came here a while back to look for work. I'm a MIG welder. A damn good one, too! Got an application in over there at the shipyard. I come down here every now and again to check on it."

I continue, "So you're still out of work after two months then?"

 He corrects me, "Been five months now. Yeah, but something's gonna' happen soon. I can feel it."

 I ask, "Where do you live while you're looking for work?"

He replies, "Got an apartment house up there on University". He points to an imaginary place somewhere on the other side of the wire mesh fence.

 He quickly adds, "Well, I don't actually rent a place. I stay in the laundry room. Got my stuff there and nobody bothers it during the day."

 I continue, "You mean you live in a laundry room?"

He chuckles, "Bad shit. Huh!"

I ask, "How do you get around to look for work?

He states, "This is it, man! I use the trolley. Just like you. I get by."

With that he yanks a wad of crumbled papers from his pocket, straightens one of them and hands it to me. It's a summons from the City of San Diego, admonishing him with a $50 fine for riding the trolley without a ticket.

"Them trolley cops'll get you if you ain't careful. Got this yesterday." Indeed, the summons is dated yesterday.

A bright light suddenly pierces the center of the track about a half-mile away. The train is coming. I pull out my wallet and search for something on which to write.

 I ask, "Diane, do you have a pen in your waist sack?"

 She quickly hands me a pen. I scribble our mail forwarding address on the back of an old business card and hand it to A.T., along with a $20 bill. Over the squealing brakes of the trolley I shout:

 "This is a loan. When you get work, you'll pay me back, right?"

 He replies quietly, "Yeah."

As we settle into our seats I notice that Diane has a frown frozen on her face that extends downward from each ear to her toes. She looks at me and utters one word:

 "Fish!"

I reply, "So what! We'd just spend it on junk anyway."

With that the matter was closed.

Chinese Checkers

Mount Carmel Junction, Utah - There's a loud commotion outside. I'd better go investigate. Parked not six feet away from our trailer is a rental motorhome in front of which stands three neatly dressed Chinese men. The men are engaged in animated conversation. One of the men holds the business end of a tattered RV sewer hose, which he swings about wildly as he gestures to the others.

 When I arrive on the scene the men grow quiet. The man with the sewer hose politely introduces himself in Chinese. I understand absolutely nothing of what he is saying, except his name. I gesture as if to ask Ying Lee if I can help to solve the problem. He points to the sewer hose and says:

 "Grouch Pings. Neh?" (that's what it sounds like, anyway) 

After a few more gestures I figure he's probably looking for a place to attach the hose. I make a rotating motion with my clenched hand, adding:

"vroom.. vroom" 

to indicate that we will probably need the ignition keys to solve this problem. The keys materialize in my hand instantly. This is great. We're communicating!

 I grab the keys and go around to the back of the motorhome, where after some searching I find a locked storage compartment with a small label that states: Sewer Valve Inside. As I unlock and raise the door the three men exclaim in unison:

 "Neh! patti.. Neh!", which I think means, "We've found the damn thing."  

Marge, Get Me a Bar of Soap!

Lakeside, Oregon - This morning we're following Interstate Highway 5, the broad and smooth highway that slices through the flatlands that run parallel with and east of the Pacific Coast Range. Near Sutherlin, Oregon we tack west for a short but brutal ascent of the rugged coastal range, and by early afternoon we spot the jagged and misty coastline near the town of Reedsport, Oregon.

 Osprey Point RV Park is located thirteen miles south of here in a small town named Lakeside. The town, a charming clapboard-style resort, is situated on an irregularly shaped inland freshwater lake called Tenmile Lake.

Odyssey's refrigerator holds only enough food for a few days. Therefore, we must usually spend a fair amount of time grocery shopping. This morning we necessarily make the short trip into town to stock up on food. As we park the truck in the empty supermarket store parking lot, a young girl of about sixteen greets us:

"Hey!" she shouts excitedly. "Where you guys from?"

 I explain, "We're from New Hampshire. Where are you from?"

"Cooweell", she says.

 The girl quickly focuses on Diane, "You guys have any food?"

Diane replies pleasantly, "No. That's why we're going to the grocery store."

The young girl, now walking backward as she tries to impede our progress into the supermarket confides:

 "Man, I really need something to eat. Can you spare a few bucks? I haven't eaten anything in, like, three days".

 Diane replies, "No. Sorry".

A cursory visual survey indicates that the girl may not be telling the whole truth. Although her light-brown hair is stringy and unkempt, she wears designer bluejeans and a pair of expensive leather sandals. On her left wrist hangs a thin gold chain-bracelet that could obviously have been used to buy food before this point in her ongoing famine.

 When the young girl senses we're not an easy touch, she quickly turns to me and points a threatening finger,

"Well, scr-w you then a--hole."

Her voice builds," Why don't you go back where you came from?"

 She exclaims still louder, "Get the hell out of my town!"

and finally at the top of her lungs, "GOD DAMN F....ING TOURISTS!"

The voice trails off to a muffled roar as we close the heavy steel door behind us. Inside the small supermarket the young manager stands close to the door talking with the lone clerk. We look at each other and then to him. I ask, "Does that girl carry any other weapons besides her filthy mouth?" The manager looks directly at me and states matter-of-factly:

 "I doubt it".

He then nonchalantly returns to his discussion with the clerk as though he'd been rudely interrupted. The manager has heard the entire exchange, and obviously has decided to remain neutral.

It isn't until we've almost completed our shopping that the effect of the encounter makes its real impression on me.

I say, "You know, I think someone needs to take a lesson away from this, even if it's only a small one."

Diane reluctantly agrees. We park the shopping cart filled with milk, eggs and frozen foods in the middle of the aisle, and leave the store empty handed. Perhaps while he is placing those melting groceries back on their respective shelves, the manager will have time to reflect on getting involved.

It Plays in Peoria

Peoria, Illinois - We pick up U.S. Highway 52 and head south through the city of Dubuque, Iowa, still following the wide and muddy Mississippi River.

 It's a warm and humid morning, which in the Midwest usually brings on a thunderstorm or two by late afternoon. At Bettendorf, Iowa we climb onto Interstate Highway 74 for the two hour run to Peoria, Illinois.

 It's lunchtime, so we decide to stop at the Kettle Restaurant on U.S. Highway 150. As our waitress Mary (a stout and garrulous brunette) places our chicken plates on the table, I try to start a conversation:

"So Mary. What's with this O.J.(Simpson) thing?  Does that play here in Peoria?"

 Mary is old enough to catch my subtle reference to the old vaudeville phrase: Will it play in Peoria?, meaning that perhaps simple Midwest farm folks may not understand the latest trends that emanate from in the big city.

 She quickly fires back an unexpected volley:

 "Mister, it plays here while most of you folks in the rest of the country are still thinkin' about what it means! You want salad, or not?"

Oooh! I think even Woody Allen would have a tough time getting a laugh here at the Kettle.

You can call me R.J.

Williamston, North Carolina - Over the thousands of miles we've traveled, our trailer Odyssey and our truck Bluejeans have become virtual soul mates. Normally, towing our rig is a quite painless task. But today it's different. I feel a slight tug and pull in the steering wheel as we travel south through the North Carolina countryside.

 Odyssey suddenly begins to pitch and swerve like a drunken sailor.

 I'm losing control!

We're off the highway now. Stones and gravel are flying everywhere. We come to a skewed rest in a shallow grassy ditch along U.S. Highway 17 directly in front of the First Grace Baptist Church. An appropriate place, I suppose, to say a prayer of thanks.  Upon inspection, we're not injured and Bluejeans appears undamaged. Odyssey, however, has suffered a badly mangled tire and wheel rim.

Ouch! I'm injured now. I cut my hand pretty badly while changing the trailer tire. Blood flows everywhere. We manage to get the bleeding under control without too much fuss, and then decide we'd better stop for the day to have the other damage repaired.

"Well lookie here!", says R. Jerome Smithfield (you can call me RJ), owner and proprietor of Town Tire and Auto Company. 

"Ain't seen one of them for awhile now."

Jerome presents me with a 2-1/2 inch galvanized nail he has extracted from Odyssey's mangled tire:

"Can't patch that. Hole's too big. But I'll give you a good deal on a new one?"

As R.J. works on the damage we chat about our mishap and journey, and his home state of North Carolina.

"So y'all are looking for a new place to live (that's our cover story). Well son, you've come to the right place. This town's just what you're looking for. We've got everything here. Good people. Jobs. Good weather. I'm the mayor of this here burg, so if anyone gives you any trouble, you just let me know".

I reply, "Thanks. We will."

As I reach for my wallet to pay the bill I am shocked. Just as he had promised, R.J. has given us a great deal on the tire and repair work.

As we turn to leave he asks, "Want to see our town. I'll show you around?"

His warm and friendly manner is hard to resist.

I say, "Sure. Why not?"

For the next hour we bump along in R.J.'s pickup truck on a whirlwind tour of  Greater Williamston and vicinity.

On the sun visor above my head I spot one of his business cards:

Richard Jerome Smithfield

Farm and Residence Specialist

Century Real Estate, Inc.  

So that's why we're taking the county tour. I should have known.  But oddly, the real estate pitch never came. As we turn back toward Williamston along U.S. Highway 64, R.J. turns to Diane:

"Have y'all been saved."

 She replies, "Pardon?"

He restates, "Have you found the Lord?"

She replies, "I'm not quite sure what you mean. But we have our own way of looking at life. We're not too religious, I guess."

R.J. replies, "Well, that's O.K., too. Most folks around here are Christians, but we don't hold it against anybody who's not."

As we pull out of the Town Tire and Auto parking lot, R.J. makes one last plea through my open window:

 "If you can't stay, then y'all come back and visit us. Hear!"

Back again on U.S. Highway 17, we speed through open farmland headed south. As Williamston recedes in the distance, I try to mentally summarize the eventful day. 

First, I was sure Jerome would try to cheat us on the repair work because he knew we were tourists. 

He didn't. 

And then I thought he'd try to sell us real estate. 

He didn't.

Then I thought he'd try to bring us over to his religion.

 He didn't.

Moral: Never close the gate just because you see the horse running toward it.