Sorry this took so long to write: I may be having a harder time dealing with the end of the trip than Russ (friends warned Russ that he would feel depressed after finishing the tour, but nobody warned me).

Anyway, after leaving Waterford, we headed to Dalton, MA where we stayed one final night with a good friend (thanks, Bill!). His stepson, an executive chef, was in town and eager to meet us and hear about our trip. He cooked us a gourmet dinner, and even made breakfast the next morning with eggs and french toast, before heading off to work!

On the way to Bill’s I had some time to kill, so I stopped at Hancock Shaker Village just outside of Pittsfield, MA. I’d been there before, but as Russ’s helper at an art and crafts show, so had never really explored the place. The whole history and culture of the Shakers is fascinating to me, as is their very spare aesthetic, and I was lucky to catch an interactive talk on their music.

The day was beautiful:

I could not resist the picture of the dairy house and matching tree in fall foliage!

There are presently three art installations by contemporary Asian artists at Hancock, part of an annual program where Hancock invites artists to make new work in response to the historic site. One in particular, a series of large murals and some smaller works incorporating reproductions of Shaker gift drawings, drew me in. The artist, Yusuke Asai of Japan, created all of his pigments from nearby natural sources, and drew on the biocentric spirituality of the Shakers and of Asian cultures for his imagery. His works were visually stunning and deeply moving.

I urge anyone who can to see these installations, on view through November 14, and to read the excellent article about them by Chadd Scott in the July 18, 2022 issue of Forbes Magazine (“Hancock Shaker Village Welcomes Artists From Asia”).

The next day, we returned home to an overgrown lawn and an intact (but mouse-infested) house. I took off the next weekend to retrieve my cat, Inky. My brother and sister very generously cared for him while we were gone. They did a great job, as you can see!

One last look at the flowers of 2022: these were blooming amongst the overgrown weeds in our yard (on Nov. 1st, no less!):

So ends the Tentist and the Teapot Tour. Russ actually broke down and cried when he rode into our driveway on the last day. ”It’s over,” he sobbed. ”Now what?” I urged him to think of us as gardeners: we have reaped this year’s crop, and now we will dream and plan for next year. There will be future trips; we are already discussing them. Next year will be different, as Russ’s son is getting married in Massachusetts in July. Perhaps two shorter trips in spring and later summer; perhaps a very different adventure, like kayaking along the Erie Canal. Like the horizons in Montana, the possibilities are endless.

FOR ANYONE WHO IS INTERESTED: when we’re not touring, this website hosts my upcycled clothing business, Hermie Feyanna. Check future posts under the Hermie Feyanna heading to see what I’m up to.

After a quick overnight at the Rivers Crossing Campground, we headed east along the Erie Canalway. Our first stop was Lock 21, in Fort Plain:

The next morning was clear and crisp (nights are really getting chilly). Scooby inspected Russ’s bike, Moe protested his leaving, and he was off for our next stop, Lock 15 in Fort Plain.

The scenery was very pretty, especially when I climbed above the canal on a road that followed a high ridge.

We reached Lock 15 just before a troop of boy scouts, who had bicycled 30 miles to set up camp at the same place. They enjoyed meeting Scooby and Moe, and Russ was properly complimentary about their long bicycle ride. We even got to meet the tame peacock who visits the campground on a regular basis (in fact, I found him roosting in the tree right above the camper the next morning). The campground late in the day:

Early morning fog:

And then it was off to Waterford, our last stop on the Erie Canal. There was some confusion about whether we would be able to stay at the Waterford Harbor Visitors Center; our online searches seemed to indicate that there was camping allowed, but I was unable to reach anyone at the phone number given to confirm this. We finally decided that I would drive to Waterford and check out the situation. If I had to, I’d find other accommodations for the night. After a fruitless search for someone who could answer my questions, I drove across the bridge to Peebles Island Park, where I luckily met a park security guard who assured me that people do park campers overnight at the Visitors Center. With time to kill, I took the dogs out for a hke around one of the many trails on Peebles Island.

This will be our last night along the canal, as we head east to Massachusetts and home (finally!) after this.

My old friend Jay Saylor and his wife Joanne generously offered to put us up for two nights at their home in Pittsford, just outside of Rochester. We had a great time, enjoyed talking to them, and even got to take them out for a whiskey tasting at the Iron Smoke Distillery (I purchased a bottle of the crowd favorite: maple and bacon flavored whiskey, a delicious, well balanced blend of sweet and savory flavors). Then we headed out for dinner at a local eatery.

The next day, undaunted, Russ headed off in a pouring rain for the Erie Canal Trail, and I set off a bit later to meet him at the Rivers Crossing Campground in Montezuma.

I wanted to see Presque Isle, just outside of Erie, PA, so while Russ rode on ahead, I booked two nights at Lampe Campground, on the shore of Lake Erie.

Moe usually catches the banana pieces I toss to him. Today he missed, and now he can’t find it:

On Monday (Indigenous Peoples Day), we headed over to Presque Isle. Not really an island, it extends out into Lake Erie on a long, thing neck, where lots of people come to walk, bike, birdwatch, etc. I stopped at a few places along the way and hiked in to Long Lake, in the interior of Presque Isle, where the trees and dense undergrowth were alive with migrating and local birds: white crowned and white throated sparrows, towhees, wood thrushes, yellow rumped warblers, hairy woodpeckers, golden-crowned kinglets, etc. We visited the beaches, but a number of them were ”under construction,” with huge machines removing or adding sand. It was a beautiful day.

Tuesday it’s off to Rochester and a stay with a childhood friend, then Russ and I will return to the Erie Canalway Trail to cross New York State. Home is beginning to feel very close.

I’ve come to realize that I have two very different morning routines based on one factor: RUSS. There are RUSS MORNINGS and there are NON-RUSS MORNINGS.

On RUSS MORNINGS, my major job is to STAY OUT OF HIS WAY as he prepares to leave. This is always accompanied by a high level of chaos, as he finds and loses things, checks his maps, forgets where he planned to stay, repacks his bags, and fends off the attention of the dogs, who scamper excitedly around him and generally get in the way. It is a high anxiety time, as I’m never sure if he is asking me a question (in which case I need to pay attention and answer) or just talking to himself (in which case I need to stay quiet so I don’t derail his train of thought). I used to try to help by making his breakfast, but as I have proved incapable of making eggs properly, I now leave that to him. My one job is to neatly write out his plans for the next few days until he meets me again: the day/date, starting and ending points, overnight accommodations if he knows that in advance (with contact information), mileages, etc. I include my next campground, site number, etc., so he can find me. Then I discreetly take the dogs for a walk to keep them out of his hair. Usually, I wait until he leaves to make my own breakfast.

Then there are the NON-RUSS mornings, when I leisurely awake, take the dogs for a pee, feed them, and make my breakfast:

(that is orange juice in that cup: don’t be weird)

I might pull up today’s Wordle, play that, read a book (this one is the latest from one of my favorite authors, Mary Roach. She writes hilariously on all aspects of science and nature. I laughed out loud all through Stiff, her book about cadavers. No, really.). I check emails and messages, compose blogs, maybe work on a stitching project. Then it’s time to go for a hike or whatever else I feel like doing that day.

In all fairness, and because he will probably point this out, there is a subset of RUSS MORNINGS where he is not leaving, but staying with me for the day. On those days, I start by walking the dogs for a bit so he can fold his sheet the way he likes it and put up the bed so we can move around the camper (my sheet will be neatly folded later). Breakfast may include exotic items such as bacon, pancakes, or muffins. We both prefer to sip our morning beverages in a leisurely manner (his coffee, my chai). That often segues into looking at maps to plan his next few days. Depending on where we are, there may be activities planned: hiking, whitewater rafting, kayaking. And so on.

Nice campground. The sites aren’t very secluded, but neither are they cheek-to-jowl like some places. And the showers are clean and have LOTS of hot water!

Went to deposit my rubbish the morning after I arrived, only to encounter TRASH PANDAS!

Commotion ensued. Neighbors were consulted. A long branch was found, and inserted into the dumpster. The thieves made a clean escape, applauded by onlookers.

Took the dogs for a stroll along the lakeshore, where I had several nice chats with long-time visitors to the area, who told me some of the area history. It has been a summer resort since the late 1800s. Lake Erie is constantly eroding its shoreline: this trail had to be completely rerouted.

I was told that Lakeshore Drive has been relocated away from the lake at least once, and many of the stately homes, which once had long sloping lawns and wide beaches, now cling precariously to the water’s edge.

And so, back to camp:

White Star Park had a small campground—only 48 spots—next door to the local high school. The campground was clean, if unexceptional, but across the road was an old flooded quarry, and the day after I arrived (Sunday, Oct. 2), there were at least 50 people gathered there, most in diving gear. I had walked the dogs over, expecting just to see the quarry, so I asked what was going on. They were conducting underwater rescue training, I was told. ”Oh, and underwater pumpkin carving,” the man said. ”You can see them in the pavilion.” Of course, I forgot to bring my camera along.

Russ showed up needing laundry done and I needed groceries, so the next day was spent on those errands. Driving through one of the towns, I spotted this mural, and had to stop to capture it:

After three nights at White Star, it was off to Geneva State Park on the shores of Lake Erie. I stayed close to Russ’s route, taking the smaller roads right along the lakeshore. There are lots of very pretty towns with beautiful (or at least very expensive) homes crowded together all along the shoreline.

But then the route took me directly through the heart of Cleveland. Earlier, I’d considered stopping to see the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame: I canned that idea and concentrated on not having an accident as I threaded the camper through the city streets. By the time I made it out the east side of Cleveland and spotted a Barnes & Noble, I had to make a stop and de-stress by browsing the books before driving the last thirty miles or so to Geneva State Park.

This place is surprisingly busy for a Tuesday, but tonight I will just have enough time to make dinner, catch up on my blogs and read a little bit of my new books before bed. Time to explore tomorrow.

States are definitely getting smaller now: it seems every three days is a new campground in a new state. Salamonie Lake is another reservoir created by the Army Corps of Engineers. Because the damming of the Salamonie River flooded towns along its banks, the lake bottom is considered an archaeological site, and removal of artifacts from the lake is prohibited. The reservoir has numerous islands, inlets and coves: it would be a wonderful place to explore by kayak or canoe (note for a future trip).

Sunset over Salamonie Lake: the view from my campsite.

There are LOTS of hiking trails around Salamone Lake, and a wonderful nature center with lots of information about the wildlife and history of the area. There are even several live raptors on exhibit! A group of area Master Gardeners have created beautiful educational gardens, including medicinal, herbal, dye plants, and everlastings, among others.

The dogs and I spent some time exploring the ”Tree Trail,” with its many identifying signs. I was astonished at the diversity of trees in this small area: in addition to the usual maples (red, sugar and silver) and oaks (red and black), there were beeches, Ohio buckeye, birch, alder, ash, honey locust, basswood, sycamore, sweetgum—there were even some I’d never heard of: mockernut hickory, bitternut hickory, and American hornbeam.

And then we walked out into the marshes, with their abundant fall wildflowers.

And MUSHROOMS! I came across these monster giant puffballs as we were heading back:

I harvested half of one of these, and there was so much meat that Russ and I couldn’t eat it all when I sauteed it with rice for dinner.

We spotted a black cat skulking around the campgrounds, then a half-grown, black and white kitten appeared at the edge of my campsite. Of course, I fed it, and was concerned enough about it to ask one of the rangers on leaving if they knew about the cats. She assured me that they stayed reasonably well fed throughout the camping season, and that the rangers looked after the ones who could not be tamed and captured over the winter months. Russ was just worried that I’d be bringing home another cat.

When there’s not much to look at but endless corn and soybeans, you start to focus on most anything that stands out. That’s how I came to notice a difference in barn styles between Illinois, Indiana and Ohio. Illinois had two distinctive types of barns: ones with a peaked central roof and two lower wings:

and tall, narrower barns with steep roofs. I especially loved the little cupolas on top. Most were clearly older structures. 

Cross into Indiana, and the barns became very utilitarian: plain, rectangular, pre-fab looking. I’m guessing their main purpose is to shelter equipment, rather than livestock and feed. Most of these farms had clusters of large silos. Very agri-business.

Then in Ohio, there were lots of red (and sometimes white) barns with the name and date of the farm on them. Very tidy family farms. Possibly Mennonite (certainly many of the names sounded very familiar to my PA German ears).

October is harvest time: those endless fields of corn were disappearing into the maws of harvesters and big trailer trucks right and left. 

The other thing that jumped out at me were the numbers of wind farms that I passed. This one stretched as far as I could see, all across the horizon. I must have passed three or four good sized wind farms in the space of a day. And I know that those blades are much higher above the ground than they look, but it would take a braver soul than I to drive a tractor around under those things!

Here’s the Ryan Round Barn at Johnson-Sauk Trail Park:

A plaque at the site stated that it had been built by a Dr. Ryan, ”a noted brain surgeon,” for his Angus herd in 1901. Wonder exactly how “noted brain surgery” went in 1901, but whatever. It contains a central silo for feed, a ringed feeding trough, stanchions for the cattle surrounding the trough, and a concrete drainage channel around the outside for removing waste. Plus, its beautiful.

There have been a lot of black walnuts in our most recent campgrounds, something I don’t see much of in New England. I’ve noticed them in every site since Minnesota. That, combined with lots of oak trees, and now hedge balls, mean you have to be careful where you park your camper (and your head!).

When I was growing up in Pennsylvania, we had one big black walnut tree right next to our driveway. It grew straight as an arrow for a good twenty feet before branching. It was our job as kids to pick up the walnuts—Dad would pay us a nickel a bag. As we got older, I remember the bags getting bigger, and the payment might have gone as high as a dime. He would bring the walnuts to a patient of his, who would husk and shell them over the winter, then give Dad half of the nut meat. He probably got a reduction in his medical bill, too—in those days Dad and his partner, Dr. Nagle, would occasionally be paid in eggs or produce from the local farmers.

I also remember that a man would come every year and offer Dad money for the tree, as walnut wood was valuable for furniture and cabinetry. I don’t remember exactly how much he offered, but I know it was more and more as time went by. Eventually, Dad had the tree cut down, had the wood cut into planks, and then stored them in our barn for quite a few years to dry. He finally gave the wood to a local carpenter, who made us a kitchen table and hanging corner cupboard out of it. My brother has the corner cupboard and I have the table.

And I still remember crisp autumn days picking up walnuts.