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.

Driving through the rolling hills of western Illinois and its tidy farms. All white farms are a thing here:

Summer’s deep greens are giving way to fall’s browns and golds as the vast fields of corn and soybeans ripen. My campground at Johnson-Sauk Trail State Recreational Area is city park-like, with oaks and maples for shade. It is within an easy walk to both Johnson Lake and an unusual round barn. Unfortunately, I’ve missed the weekend when you can tour the barn.

Once I set up, I could not help but notice the camper across from me—except for being a different shape (bread loaf instead of teardrop), every external detail was identical to my T@b. The owners said it had been made by the Dutchmen Company (the company that nüCamp split off from) and that it was called a T@Da! Dutchmen doesn’t make them any more, but you can find used ones for sale. Looking online, I discovered that the interior was also identical to my camper—same cabinetry, same wood trim, sink, range, and bathroom. The same, but bigger! I may have found my next camper!

I was under strict orders from my friends to take it easy after my medical ordeal, but as I settled in to relax with some stitching, I discovered that I didn’t have what I needed to start a new cross-stitch project. When you have a cross-stitch emergency, you have to deal with that right away, so off to Kewanee, IL I went. By great luck, there was a quilt shop in Kewanee that had one piece of Aida cloth, even though they don’t normally carry that (of course, I had to browse the quilt shop offerings, too.)

Then I discovered the beautiful painted murals that were all over downtown Kewanee, depicting historic businesses and organizations. Dunno who did these, but they were GOOD!

When Russ arrived, we decided to eat out, and we went to Cerno’s Bar and Grill in Kewanee, where we discovered an historic bar and fixtures that dated to the late 1800s. The 50-foot bar had been imported from Belgium for the Pabst Blue Ribbon Company, and the lamps, pressed tin ceiling, and stained glass details were original. You’ll be happy to know that the food was as good as the decor, and we left stuffed to the gills.

One last note of interest. These are Hedge Balls:

Also called Horse Apples or Osage Oranges, they grow from Texas north at least as far as Illinois. They range from baseball size to grapefruit size, and are hard, knobbly, and sticky. Locals claim that they repel bugs, and they put them in their basements to keep out cockroaches and crickets. I asked one person what kind of tree they grow on and he answered, somewhat unhelpfully, ”Hedge trees.” I’ve been told they were imported from England, as the wood is extremely hard and does not rot quickly, making them good material for fencing.

A little background: The first time I encountered Hedge Balls, they were in a basket in the middle of the produce section of a grocery in (I forget: Montana or North Dakota). I’d never heard of them. The gentlemen near me didn’t know what they were, and the basket only said Hedge Balls, with a price. It took me quite awhile to find someone working in the store who knew what they were. I’m so glad I didn’t buy one to see how it tasted, because they are toxic! I did suggest that the fresh fruit aisle was perhaps not the appropriate location to display them in.

Before we left, we had to see Dyersville’s claim to fame: the farm where they filmed Field of Dreams. The movie site has been preserved, and you can visit it for free. There are (paid) tours of the farmhouse, and a gift shop. We wandered the baseball field and met this elderly gentleman, appropriately dressed in a Chicago White Sox uniform, who was cheerfully posing for photographs.

There were signs warning people not to go too far into the cornfield (“People have gotten lost!” they proclaimed), but otherwise, you were free to wander the grounds, sit in the bleachers, run the bases, or pitch a ball across home plate. Russ had never seen the movie; I was trying to convey the gist of it when a woman stopped and, overhearing us, said ”But it’s about the power of following your dreams.” I couldn’t have said it better.

A small, tidy park under some of the most beautiful, umbrella-like maples I’ve ever seen.

Russ showed up right after I did, and I decided, as a treat, to take him out to a local brewery in an old shirtwaist factory, called the Textile Brewery. It had great beer, amazing local hard ciders, and the biggest damn soft pretzels I’ve ever seen! We stayed and teamed up with two women at a neighboring table for Trivia Night and had a wonderful time.

The next morning, Russ wanted to do some work on his bike, so I drove to a nearby town to check out a thrift shop that had been recommended to me by our friends of the previous night. Inside, I found a number of goodies, and spent a happy hour or so just noodling around. As I stepped outside with my treasures, I thought I’d send a picture of the store to my friend Suzi, who loves to thrift shop/tag sale/flea market with me.

I turned around to take a picture of the store, and was startled by the sign. The name of the store had no meaning to me. I checked my Apple Maps destinations list—i couldn’t find the name of the store there, even though I’d just used Apple Maps to get there. Confused, I got into the car and started to drive back to our campsite. That’s when I realized I couldn’t remember the name of our campground. And again, when I looked at my Apple Map history, I couldn’t find the name of the campground there. I finally called Russ, told him what was happening, got the name of the campground from him, plugged that into Apple Maps, and was able to drive back to the campground. On the way, I recognized windmills I’d passed on my way before, but I could not remember how old I was, even though I knew my birthdate. I could not recall the name of the town we were near. I could not remember the name of the restaurant we’d eaten at the night before. I was terrified.

Back at camp, I told Russ I needed to go to a hospital to be checked out. He drove into town and I was seen immediately at the small hospital there. They did a CT scan, which showed nothing. The doctor believed I was most likely suffering from something called Transient Global Amnesia, which looks like a stroke, with memory loss, but has no lasting effects and is not likely to recur. The fact that I had no physical symptoms of a stroke—numbness, tingling, or weakness—pointed to TGA, but they could not be sure without an MRI and further monitoring.

I elected to go to the University of Iowa hospital, an hour and a half away, where they had a full neurological team. Poor Russ, who never drives a car anymore, had to drive me into the city. I was admitted immediately (they had been informed I was coming), but it was an all night ordeal to get the MRI and EEG, and, more importantly, to get them interpreted. Meanwhile, we had brought the dogs with us, because we didn’t know when we would be back, and people kept calling security to tell them the dogs were ’abandoned,’ even though we were checking on them regularly. Russ did his best to get some sleep on a two-person settee in the waiting room, while I dozed fitfully in the exam room. It was midnight until a doctor allowed me to have food and water. We had just bought food in the all-night cafeteria when my phone rang: the MRI was ready: could I come right down? It was another half an hour until I actually got my food and drink.

It was 10 am the next morning before I met with the neurological team and the diagnosis of Transient Global Anemia was confirmed. Finally, I could continue our trip knowing that I was not in danger of having another stroke (my father had a series of TIA’s—small strokes—before he died, and I was worried about that family history). Russ was completely brain dead from the night before, so I drove the hour and a half back to the campground, where I promptly went to sleep and slept through most of the day.

The next day, I drove to Johnson-Sauk Trail State Recreational Area, just north of Kewanee, IL, to wait for Russ, who would catch up to me in another two days.