Leaving Maine we happened off the road to refuel just prior to this wide load rolling by. I’m glad we didn’t meet on the roadway.

An early start to our journey got us down the eastern seaboard to Fort Knox and Penobscot Narrows Bridge early enough to take in the sights. Our goal was to check out Fort Knox. Now this isn’t the Fort Knox that comes to mind laden with gold bars. This is the Fort Knox that was constructed in the late 1800’s to defend this coastline against foreign invaders. As we crossed the rather newly constructed Penobscot Narrows Bridge we could see Fort Knox below. Once across we pulled off to a view point to take a few pictures of the bridge.

As we were clicking away a guy on a motorcycle pulled up next to where we were standing. He lifted the visor on his helmet and over the hum of his engine asked us if we had been up to the top of the bridge. We said, yeah we just drove across. He said, “No, have you been to the top?” He continued to explain that you can take an elevator up to the top of one of the suspension towers over four hundred feet above the river. We had no idea and before we could thank him, he started to ride off. We knew we had to go and looked at each other laughing at how cool it was that some random stranger pulled up to share that with us. As he was driving away I couldn’t get my camera ready fast enough to take a shot of his license plate which read, “Yuck Foo”. Obviously it translates to mean, ”Very Helpful”.

 

A short drive from the viewpoint is the entrance to Fort Knox and Penobscot Narrows Bridge which requires a modest entrance fee for both attractions. Standing at the base of the bridge suspension tower, the top is a long way from the ground.  Inside the base of the tower there is a display describing the history of the old bridge and the construction costs of the new one. We entered the high speed elevator which accelerates you nearly to the top. The last section requires to hoof it up a stairway next to the interior glass siding. At the top is the observation deck enclosed in glass offering incredible three hundred sixty degree views. The host at the top explained the clouds had moved out just an hour before allowing you to see for miles in every direction. Looking down we were glad not to be in earthquake country as it would not be fun to ride one out in the observation deck. With a quick elevator ride down we were back in the car park looking back up to where just moments before we stood high above the earth.

 

Fort Knox was scary as they were setting up a haunted house throughout the fort for their largest fundraiser of the year. The fort is constructed of granite and built into the hillside along the shore of the Penobscot River. It has multiple levels and open courtyards. There are narrow corridors which link empty, large rooms with numerous dark nooks and crannies in between.

The time of year couldn’t be better as the facilities were nearly empty. We had the place completely to ourselves aside from the occasional volunteer working on the Halloween decorations. At every turn we stumbled across props in every stage of preparation which many times gave the kids a proper scare.

Laurel and I took full advantage of the spooky atmosphere by popping out of the dark corridors and letting out the occasional roar. Along with the fun we learned about the history of the Fort and life of the soldiers there when it functioned as a key line of defense. The weather was great but we had to get on the road to find our next campsite. We let the dog run around and loaded up to head down the coast ultimately ending up in an idyllic location.

While on the road we joined a program called, Harvest Hosts, http://www.harvesthosts.com. Harvest Hosts has developed a network of participating farms and vineyards that allow you to camp on their property overnight. There are a few requirements; you need to adhere to Harvest Hosts code of conduct, be fully self-contained and patronize their establishment. Harvest Host provides the contact information for the farm or vineyard to call ahead for availability and to let them know your expected arrival. You need to show up during business hours which allows time to get to know your host and learn about their products and property. We have met some very passionate people through the program and have received an education each time we have stayed at a participating property. One of our top three campsites was through this program on a small Christmas tree farm and vineyard in New Hampshire. The cost of goods purchased is usually equal to a campsite. We would have purchased the food or occasional bottle of wine anyway. To date we have only stayed in a few participating properties and look forward to more along the way.

Leaving Maine we found our next campsite in New Hampshire through the Harvest Host program. We arrived around four o’clock to a gracious reception by the owner. She welcomed us with an education on the history of her property. They had been farming Christmas trees for twenty years and recently dedicated a portion of their over one hundred acre property to grow grapes. They offer a handful of wines with an emphasis on fruit wines which I have never before tasted. Suppressing my inner wine snob, I prefer bold, earthy reds and oaky chardonnays. While we shied away from the fruit wines we did choose the more traditional Sunny Grigio and Romeo’s Red. She designs the labels and creates the names taking inspiration from her many pets. Sunny and Romeo being her Jack Russell Terriers.

With our purchase she pointed out the location to park for the night across a small pond from their tasting room. The turning leaves of mature alder and maple trees framed the perimeter of the property.  She offered us full run of her property. While I set up the coach the kids found the closest irrigation ditch and were entertained well into the darkness chasing frogs. Inspired by the hand crafted wines I made another dinner to remember and we again giggled ourselves to sleep at our good fortune.

I rose with the morning light and walked the property to snap a few pictures as Charlie ran free. The irrigation pond was absolutely still and made for a perfect subject.

 

Prior to our departure I drew a quick sketch of the tasting room across the pond and it’s surroundings making it into a thank you card. The kids made their own and we dropped them by their door on our way out to express our sincere appreciation.

As we crossed the border from New Hampshire to Massachusetts we struggled to avoid the last exit.

Massachusetts

There is so much to see in Massachusetts that we should have planned on staying several weeks here. Fall is not the best time of year to camp in Massachusetts as we found the majority of state and private campgrounds were closed or closing in preparation for winter. The first night we ended up in a Walmart parking lot. This was a stark contrast last night’s picturesque campsite. There were several other RV’s  there and the night was uneventful. At first light we drove to the nearest Starbucks to pilfer free wifi in search of an open campground.

The RV parks that remained open in the area were expensive. With Halloween approaching, we wanted to be stationary for a few days. Our goal was to go to Salem to experience Halloween in all its creepiness. Finding somewhere to stay at the late date proved difficult. The only open campground near Salem was full. Having no interest in driving around trying to find a spot to boon-dock near Salem we headed toward Boston. South of Boston there seemed to be more options for private campgrounds. A few of which were within striking distance of our points of interest. Places like Boston, Plymouth, Martha’s Vineyard and Province Town where Laurel has a cousin.

We located a campground that was open for another few days and headed there with an estimated time of arrival around dark. We were north of Boston and our southern route took us through the heart of the city. There was a storm approaching coupled with a high wind warning providing a sense of urgency to be off the road. We approached the north side of the city around three o’clock. The skies were dark and the rain began to fall just as we joined a sea of brake lights. We had definitely taken the wrong route to our destination as this looked like it was going to take a while. Our original route forced us to find an alternative as our coach was too tall for the low bridges. As we approached Boston, the expressway climbed above the fringes of the city below.

The lanes multiplied and the road became stacked with another level above. There was no getting out. We had become fully committed to the slow flowing tide of traffic. Just when all hope for a speedy route was lost, a turn off emerged. It was a road to freedom, an E Ticket, salvation street or as we called it, “our escape”. The freeway split and we were in the option lane. The signs read, “Boston Bypass”. Since there was little traffic to the right we boldly turned off and followed the road past the sea of brake lights. We were out of that mess and back on track. As the lanes narrowed we realized the Boston Bypass was delivering us directly onto the streets of downtown Boston. As we entered the single lane horse shoe exit ramp we realized we had made a big mistake. Narrow city streets clogged with traffic were not a place for the Windryder. From bow to stern we are just over sixty feet making many old cities impossible to get through. As we approached the red light Laurel was frantically searching Google maps while I was yelling at Suri in a futile attempt to find a way out. To add to the madness we were faced with a scattering of orange detour signs telling us the route we had chosen was closed. The signs led us through the tight streets filled with road construction, pedestrians, bicyclists, cars and trucks. To make matters just a bit tougher it started to rain. Not Southern California rain as we are accustomed but east coast rain that requires the windshield wipers at full speed and quickly fills the gutters with a torrent of water. Our best option was to follow the detour signs. With each turn we questioned the validity of the signs. After several left turns we crossed the intersection we had just exited through but from a different direction. We were really doubting our choice as the skies grew darker and the rain steadied. Through a series of right turns and angry motorists we were now pointing directly at the ramp we had just exited.  We turned to each other and started laughing. Our detour had taken us in a figure eight pattern through the city streets and was now pointing us in the direction of the on ramp to the original expressway. With no other options we thankfully rejoined the sea of brake lights.

We settled into the stop and go traffic as the road began to slope down before us. Caught in the glowing red current, we entered the belly of the city. The sky disappeared, the walls closed in and the rain stopped. The traffic slowed as the space in between narrowed. No exits or signage, only cars merging from the right forcing others to let them join.

There was no getting out and through the navigational crisis I had held on as long as possible. I couldn’t take it any longer, my bladder couldn’t wait another minute.

Persuasive conversation got Laurel into the driver’s seat as we bumped along inside the tunnel. Our twelve year old would have gladly taken the helm but he was not ready for the captain’s chair. Hurried, I ran back to the lavatory and braced myself in the small windowless space. The Windryder lurched forward and abruptly stopped, lurched forward and abruptly stopped again reminding me of time spent at sea. Thankfully relieved I resumed my position in the captain’s chair only to continue the pace for another two hours. We finally emerged from Boston’s Central Artery tunnel to near darkness and the rain had stopped. We had spent nearly three hours fighting Boston traffic, half of which was underground. Any future visit into the city would be by rail.

With the city behind us, the winds started to increase and it became very dark. The drive was made more challenging as the expressway shoulder becomes it’s own lane for the evening commute. Every now and then I was politely reminded by the fast approaching head lights in my passenger side view mirror. The expressway soon narrowed to two lanes and rose and fell in the darkness. We continued to gain altitude along the bumpy road as I fought to steady the Windryder in the increasing storm. The rain began to fall lightly with under an hour drive ahead. I kept telling myself a familiar phrase, “never again, drive at night”. This lesson seemingly is always learned after the test.

Our exit continued uphill delivering us to a rural town. We continued in the darkness through rural neighborhoods and sparsely populated roads. At the end of one of these roads awaited Pinewood Lodge, a private campground nestled in a forest of towering pines. Did I say it was dark? It is dark, windy and lightly raining but thankfully not cold. We made our way to the office located deep in the campground. Taped to the office door, there was an envelope with our name on it giving directions to our site.

Heading through the labyrinth of camp sites and pine trees the rain again began to fall as we searched for our site in the darkness. A “back-in” site wedged between several trees with a rock fire pit which would ultimately end up a few feet from our propane tank.  I dawned my foul weather gear and stepped into the rain filled darkness to unhook the truck. With the truck out of the way I jumped back in the coach to back into the site. It was Laurel’s turn to go outside to help direct me into the narrow space. With the coach in place we switched places again as I spent the next thirty minutes getting us settled.

Each campsite requires a similar list of tasks to set up the coach for our stay.  This site offered full hookups consisting of water, sewer and electric. In addition we place blocks under the leveling jacks to provide a solid flat surface for greater stability. This has become fairly easy and uneventful throughout the trip. However tonight was daunting as the rain fell steadily. The wind was howling and whistling through the tall pines. Every now and then a branch would break with a loud crack. With the jacks down and the coach stable I hooked up the water line and crossed my fingers I didn’t get shocked as I threw the breaker for the electrical. Saving the sewer for the morning I got back in the coach to dry off.

We all needed a shower and piled into the truck braving the storm to drive to the shower house. The shower house was a wood framed structure with chicken wire walls covered with tarps. Luckily it was not too cold. Fifty cents for six minutes we maxed out our change. A few wrong turns on the way back provided an unplanned tour of the campground. This would become the norm over our stay as it was easy to get disoriented in the labyrinth of tight dirt roads. Nearly deserted the forested campground looked spooky in the raging storm.  This offered the perfect opportunity to scare the kids with a ghost story but my conscious told me I would be better served by refraining.

Drained from the drive, we settled in and went to bed to recharge. As I lay listening to the impending storm calling the forest to life I couldn’t help but know a tree or branch could get blown onto the coach. I tossed and turned finally falling into a deep sleep.

I awoke to a loud crash, my thoughts had materialized. We had a direct hit. It was loud and the noise spread out across the top and down the outside. It sounded as if person had jumped on top, tumbled across the roof and down the side. I ejected out of bed with the startling noise, heart racing, I got my bearings. Headlamp in hand, I assessed the coach from the inside and found no damage. Surprisingly I was the only one to awake to the loud noise. Once in bed I again struggled to fall back asleep listening to the storm but ultimately managed to slumber deeply until morning.

The winds let up and the rain passed. Greeted by the morning sunlight I stepped onto a wet blanket of fresh pine needles which covered nearly every inch of the landscape. Fresh forest scents filled the air. As breathed in the morning air my tranquility was abruptly interrupted by several nearby gunshots echoing through the forest. Surprise, there is a private firing range close by. This became a periodic familiar sound from early morning til dark every day. Surveying the RV I found the tree branch that struck the coach. I climbed on top to assess the damage. A sizable moss covered branch had fallen across our paddleboards and in between the skylights over the lavatory. The branch struck the large skylight above the shower leaving a scar across the plastic. Thankfully there were no breaks and we escaped any real harm.

School work, School work, school work was the order for the week as we caught up. We broke up the day with hikes around the deserted campground which has a small lake and a few play areas. In fact it was about the most boring place we had stayed. The people in the office seemed to be already done for the season as no one tried very hard to be friendly. In fact it motivated me to find another place to stay. That and the fact they were closing and we had to move on the thirty first.

With Halloween approaching the kids were excited to get dressed up. I told them we were on a budget and there would be a prize for the most cost effective costume. With absolutely zero enthusiasm for my contest we headed to a thrift store. We knew the kids were missing their friends back home so we wanted to provide some normalcy through our tradition of “trick or treating’. We looked for somewhere to spend the holiday. Unfortunately, our first choice, Salem was out of the question as it was too far away, packed with people making the pilgrimage  for Halloween and we were unable to find a place to stay. We discovered the nearby town of Plymouth offered an evening of trick or treating at the shops along the main street the day before Halloween.

Plymouth was close by and we got there early to see the famous rock and nearby points of interest.  As we were having a late lunch on the main street some very little trick or treaters came in the restaurant. Our kids were thinking this was going to be a bust as it looked like the event was set up for little kids. As the evening wore on the crowds grew and the streets filled with costumes. The kids changed in the parking lot and joined the festivities. We had some surreal moments throughout the evening as we stood in front of a building that had once been foreclosed on by the note holder John Hancock and especially taking pictures in costume in front of Plymouth Rock.

 

It was great to see all the people who went all in with their costumes. The kids had a fantastic afternoon and we took in the sunset over looking the harbor and a replica of the Mayflower.

With all the campgrounds closing it felt like Massachusetts was kicking us out. Since Pinewood closed on Halloween, we headed an hour away to an RV Resort called Normandy Farms. This place was packed for the holiday weekend. They were so full, the only option available was to park on a grass field for fifty bucks a night. With persistence and charm we upgraded to our own site but with no hookups so it was still just an expensive place to park. However the kids loved this place. Well-manicured grounds and an organized, friendly staff they justify their “resort” pricing with a wealth of amenities. Indoor pool, jacuzzi’s, BMX track, Frisbee golf course, fishing pond and dog park to name a few, made it the resort with everything. We were told, families have been coming here for several generations and they offer all kinds of activities surrounding the Halloween weekend.  Despite all the activities on offer the kids opted to hit a local neighborhood to trick or treat… again.

We headed out towards some nice neighborhoods we had passed on the way into the campground. Not knowing the area we pulled into a dead end street with nice looking homes. It was a bit early and still nothing happening. We pulled over to ask a family who were taking pictures of their infant dressed as a bumblebee where we should go. They directed us to what they called, “The Neighborhood”.

We hit pay dirt, ending up in a quintessential New England neighborhood flush with Trick or Treaters. Large homes on large lots, of traditional New England architecture and cloaked in decorations. There were literally thousands of people walking around. Throughout the night we experienced friendly New Englanders displaying true hospitality and generosity.

A few kids thought they recognized our children. When they realized they didn’t they asked where we were from? When we replied, “California”, they all thought we were joking. We even had one woman pour Laurel and I wine to warm us up as we walked around. It was a memorable night in an idyllic setting.

Once passed the holiday we knew we had to move south. With nowhere affordable left to camp in Massachusetts and impending cold weather, I was disappointed to leave without visiting all of the places we had wanted to stop. Even the ferries to Martha’s Vineyard and the outer islands had long since stopped running. Staying with our mantra to keep a step ahead of Old Man Winter, it was time to head south.