The story of this particular journey will begin part way through a trip that originated at the northwestern most town in North Dakota, Fortuna, and ended in the small town of Caswell in northern Aroostook County, Maine. For the sake of brevity and to leave me room for another yarn describing the first half of my trip at another time, I'll begin as I left Wichita, Kansas heading towards Maine, with no map in the car, but armed with the knowledge that certain cities lay along the path I wanted to follow
I'd spent some time visiting with my children and their mother in Wichita, but it was time to move on. I'd been reassigned to a USAF radar site in northern Maine and I'd already used up a number of the days I was allotted for the trip and the leave I'd been granted. It was in the early summer of 1970 and nearly everything I owned had been crammed into the trunk and back seat of my year and a half old Plymouth. There was room open behind me so I could use the rear view mirror, but no room for anything else. The radio in my car had failed, but earlier, I'd added an 8-track cartridge player that hung beneath the dash in front of the shifting lever. The number of cartridges that I owned now escapes me, but some of the names of them remain fresh: The Lettermen, The Carpenters and Blood, Sweat and Tears, and to this day, I can sing along to a number of the tunes I played over and over
I'd had a good time with the kids and a side trip, but when I drove out onto highway heading northeast, I had about $30.00 in cash and an ESSO gas card. I knew full well I'd need to limit my spending to only what was absolutely necessary. Some of that trip is but a blur in the mind of this septuagenarian, but other parts are as clear as if they'd happened just yesterday.
Leaving Wichita, I srove due east on US-54, not exactly the fastest or shortest route, but the Interstate highway between Wichita and Kansas City was a toll road and I couldn't spend money that way. I made it up into northern Indiana that day, fading about the time I passed Peru, so I bagan looking for a McDonalds and a place to park for he night. I saw a roadside picnic area on the right and a mile or so further on, a lit up golden arch. I stopped, got a burger and fries to go, then drove back to that picnic area.
I parked my car near a picnic table with one of those seemingly unsanitary iron grills on a pipe in the ground, sat at the table and ate my dinner in peace. It was a quiet place and the traffic along the highway didn't seem to be terribly heavy, so I unrolled my sleeping bag on the ground next to my car, crawled in, and within a minute or so was sound asleep. Around two or three the next morning, I awoke with a start. The ground was shaking. I sat up in my cocoon and looked around and behind some trees to the west saw a brilliant light flashing back and forth and in a second or two, heard the violence of a train whistle piercing the night air. Unbeknownst to me at the time I'd parked, that picnic area was immediately adjacent to a set of railroad tracks and a Burlington Northern freight train was interrupting my sleep.
The train soon was gone, but so was my sleep, so I rolled up my sleeping bag, shoved it back in the back of the car, took my trash to a nearby barrel, started my car and drove east.
Later that day, I exited a tunnel west of Wheeling, West Virginia to a somewhat sobering sight, The highway sloped down into a valley and back up the other side. At the bottom, a pickup truck towing a pop-op camper topped with a car-top fishing boat began swerving from lane to lane with that camper whipping back and forth behind. The truck then jerked off the pavement into a rather deep, grassy median and began a slow roll. The trailer snapped loose and bounded freely up the center of the median, spewing the boat, clothing, and all matter of debris in its path. By the time it had stopped, I was already past the scene in some fairly fast moving traffic, but in my mirror I could see cars stopped and people moving about, so I just kept on motoring.
Over the years, I'd read the college football scores in the Sunday papers and one name always stuck out - Slippery Rock State College. Entering Wheeling, I saw a road sign pointing towards Slippery Rock and on the spur of the moment, decided I'd go see the college. The route took me west of Pittsburgh and in a couple of hours, I found myself parked in front of a brick building with a tall clock tower. I've been to Slippery Rock.
Later, in the early afternoon, I was traveling east in a divided highway when a rest stop sign cooperated with a need I was building. In the many years since that trip, I've used a lot of public rest stops. This one was clean enough, but had no running water - it was an outhouse on a larger scale that I'd ever seen. Mom taught us to always wash our hands after going, but this oversized outhouse had no sinks. Back outside, I saw an old fashioned hand pump in the center of a small graveled area, so I went to it and moved the handle up and down. Sure enough water flowed from the spout, but by the time I could get my hand down to the spout, the water stopped. I tried three or four times and only succeeded in getting one hand wet. There were three young guys nearby eating lunch and when they saw my dilemma, one of them came over and pumped away so I could wash my hands and get enough to splash on my face.
They invited me to join them, so I got some food from my car and did just that. It turned out that two of them were students out for a road trip in an old van and the third was a hitchhiker they'd picked up the previous day. The two were headed towards Washington, DC, but the hitchhiker wanted to get to Connecticut. Once he found that I was heading to New Hampshire he asked if he could ride with me because he'd get closer to his destination with me. I told him I didn't have any room for any luggage, but the front passenger seat could be his if he wanted. He went to the van and got a small old-fashioned suitcase, we both piled into my Plymouth and were soon underway, he with his suitcase on his legs and lap. At least I had someone to talk with for a while.
That evening as darkness made travel in a strange land difficult, we found ourselves in Wilkes-Barre and I knew I wanted to head northeast through Scranton, but couldn't find a highway sign pointing towards the city. I spotted a police cruiser in a gas station, so I pulled in, got out and asked the officer how to get there. He told me to go back on the same street and turn right at the second light. I thanked him, got back in the car and headed in the direction he'd pointed. At the second light I found a one-way street going to the left.
Eventually, we fumbled our way out of Wilkes-Barre in the right direction. Somewhere in those rolling hills of NE Pennsylvania, we ran into a downpour. I'd been awake a long, long time and trying to see a dark two-lane highway with windshield wipers slapping time (Thanks, Kris. I'd first heard that song in a bar in Phoenix earlier on another leg of this same trip), I decided it would be best to get off the road. I found a picnic area and pulled in. I went to sleep almost immediately with the drum of rain on the roof and can only assume my rider did the same, even while cuddling his suitcase.
Early in the morning, the sun streamed through the windshield and woke me up. My rider awoke when I started the car - the engine was fairly high powered and the exhaust rumbled, nicely to me then, probably irritating to me now, some 49 years later. We motored on into New York State, up to Troy, then east over the mountains of southern Vermont. As we came down on the plain around Brattleboro, we ran into that same hard rain that we'd slept through in Pennsylvania. My companion had indicated he'd get out at the Interstate, but with it raining so hard, I suggested it would be more comfortable if he got out in town and waited for the storm to pass. He decided to go as planned, so I let him out at the bottom of the ramp to the southbound lane. The last time I ever saw him, he was holding his suitcase over his head with one hand and holding the thumb of his other hand out for a ride south.
Heading north, I soon drove out of the storm and was enjoying the beauty of the Vermont hills somewhere south of Springfield when in the southbound lane, I saw a light green Malibu convertible with a grey-haired lady driving. I was sure it was my folks who knew I was coming, but not exactly when.
An hour or so later, I was at home and sure enough, they weren't. I let myself in, got some clothes from my car, and took a long shower, hoping they weren't going to be gone long. On the dining room table was an envelope addressed to me containing an Air Force paycheck I'd had forwarded to them. Just in time - I had about $6.00 left.
After my shower, I unloaded my car, putting my belongings in the Summer House (family and some NH friends will know what that is) and drove up to my grandparents to see if they knew where Mom and Dad were. They didn't, but we came to the conclusion that they'd soon be back because if they were going to be gone even overnight, they'd have said something. Sure enough, while I visited with them, Mom called. She'd noticed the mess I'd left in the bathroom and guessed where I might be. I'd left the bath mat on the floor. It had been them I'd seen on the highway, they'd driven down to Putney to a basket outlet.
I stayed in NH just a few days before continuing my trip to Aroostook County, Maine. Going north on Interstate 95 out of Bangor, once I'd passed Orono, the home of the University of Maine, and Old Town, famous for the canoes built there, the Interstate became a two lane highway stretching through mile after mile of dense forest. A song from a decade earlier stayed in my head along that stretch, Dick Curliss' Tombstone Every Mile. Those who remember the song will know why. At exits to towns along the way, the highway would change to four lanes through an interchange, then revert to two lanes again.
At one of those interchanges, I needed a break, so I swung off and drove to a small diner. Inside, I ordered a doughnut and a cup of coffee. The lady who took my order asked if I wanted that coffee regular. Not knowing any better, I told her I did. It came with cream and sugar already added. I've always taken my coffee black with no sugar, but apparently I got what I'd ordered.
I-95 ended at the town of Houlton and from there on up to my destination, I passed through numerous villages and past vast fields of potato plants. Approaching the town of Limestone at 55 MPH or so, I missed a 35 MPH sign place strategically just past a large maple tree on a curve and was pulled over by a town cop and given a ticket for speeding.
Ten minutes later, I saw the large radomes and pulled onto the base, found the Orderly Room and signed in. My trip was finished.
Oh, one more thing. The NCOIC of the Radar Shop where I was presumably going to work came to the Orderly Room and introduced himself, and guided me to the maintenance building. On the way, he cautioned me about a speed trap in Limestone. I ruefully acknowledged I'd learned of the trap the hard way.
I'd spent some time visiting with my children and their mother in Wichita, but it was time to move on. I'd been reassigned to a USAF radar site in northern Maine and I'd already used up a number of the days I was allotted for the trip and the leave I'd been granted. It was in the early summer of 1970 and nearly everything I owned had been crammed into the trunk and back seat of my year and a half old Plymouth. There was room open behind me so I could use the rear view mirror, but no room for anything else. The radio in my car had failed, but earlier, I'd added an 8-track cartridge player that hung beneath the dash in front of the shifting lever. The number of cartridges that I owned now escapes me, but some of the names of them remain fresh: The Lettermen, The Carpenters and Blood, Sweat and Tears, and to this day, I can sing along to a number of the tunes I played over and over
I'd had a good time with the kids and a side trip, but when I drove out onto highway heading northeast, I had about $30.00 in cash and an ESSO gas card. I knew full well I'd need to limit my spending to only what was absolutely necessary. Some of that trip is but a blur in the mind of this septuagenarian, but other parts are as clear as if they'd happened just yesterday.
Leaving Wichita, I srove due east on US-54, not exactly the fastest or shortest route, but the Interstate highway between Wichita and Kansas City was a toll road and I couldn't spend money that way. I made it up into northern Indiana that day, fading about the time I passed Peru, so I bagan looking for a McDonalds and a place to park for he night. I saw a roadside picnic area on the right and a mile or so further on, a lit up golden arch. I stopped, got a burger and fries to go, then drove back to that picnic area.
I parked my car near a picnic table with one of those seemingly unsanitary iron grills on a pipe in the ground, sat at the table and ate my dinner in peace. It was a quiet place and the traffic along the highway didn't seem to be terribly heavy, so I unrolled my sleeping bag on the ground next to my car, crawled in, and within a minute or so was sound asleep. Around two or three the next morning, I awoke with a start. The ground was shaking. I sat up in my cocoon and looked around and behind some trees to the west saw a brilliant light flashing back and forth and in a second or two, heard the violence of a train whistle piercing the night air. Unbeknownst to me at the time I'd parked, that picnic area was immediately adjacent to a set of railroad tracks and a Burlington Northern freight train was interrupting my sleep.
The train soon was gone, but so was my sleep, so I rolled up my sleeping bag, shoved it back in the back of the car, took my trash to a nearby barrel, started my car and drove east.
Later that day, I exited a tunnel west of Wheeling, West Virginia to a somewhat sobering sight, The highway sloped down into a valley and back up the other side. At the bottom, a pickup truck towing a pop-op camper topped with a car-top fishing boat began swerving from lane to lane with that camper whipping back and forth behind. The truck then jerked off the pavement into a rather deep, grassy median and began a slow roll. The trailer snapped loose and bounded freely up the center of the median, spewing the boat, clothing, and all matter of debris in its path. By the time it had stopped, I was already past the scene in some fairly fast moving traffic, but in my mirror I could see cars stopped and people moving about, so I just kept on motoring.
Over the years, I'd read the college football scores in the Sunday papers and one name always stuck out - Slippery Rock State College. Entering Wheeling, I saw a road sign pointing towards Slippery Rock and on the spur of the moment, decided I'd go see the college. The route took me west of Pittsburgh and in a couple of hours, I found myself parked in front of a brick building with a tall clock tower. I've been to Slippery Rock.
Later, in the early afternoon, I was traveling east in a divided highway when a rest stop sign cooperated with a need I was building. In the many years since that trip, I've used a lot of public rest stops. This one was clean enough, but had no running water - it was an outhouse on a larger scale that I'd ever seen. Mom taught us to always wash our hands after going, but this oversized outhouse had no sinks. Back outside, I saw an old fashioned hand pump in the center of a small graveled area, so I went to it and moved the handle up and down. Sure enough water flowed from the spout, but by the time I could get my hand down to the spout, the water stopped. I tried three or four times and only succeeded in getting one hand wet. There were three young guys nearby eating lunch and when they saw my dilemma, one of them came over and pumped away so I could wash my hands and get enough to splash on my face.
They invited me to join them, so I got some food from my car and did just that. It turned out that two of them were students out for a road trip in an old van and the third was a hitchhiker they'd picked up the previous day. The two were headed towards Washington, DC, but the hitchhiker wanted to get to Connecticut. Once he found that I was heading to New Hampshire he asked if he could ride with me because he'd get closer to his destination with me. I told him I didn't have any room for any luggage, but the front passenger seat could be his if he wanted. He went to the van and got a small old-fashioned suitcase, we both piled into my Plymouth and were soon underway, he with his suitcase on his legs and lap. At least I had someone to talk with for a while.
That evening as darkness made travel in a strange land difficult, we found ourselves in Wilkes-Barre and I knew I wanted to head northeast through Scranton, but couldn't find a highway sign pointing towards the city. I spotted a police cruiser in a gas station, so I pulled in, got out and asked the officer how to get there. He told me to go back on the same street and turn right at the second light. I thanked him, got back in the car and headed in the direction he'd pointed. At the second light I found a one-way street going to the left.
Eventually, we fumbled our way out of Wilkes-Barre in the right direction. Somewhere in those rolling hills of NE Pennsylvania, we ran into a downpour. I'd been awake a long, long time and trying to see a dark two-lane highway with windshield wipers slapping time (Thanks, Kris. I'd first heard that song in a bar in Phoenix earlier on another leg of this same trip), I decided it would be best to get off the road. I found a picnic area and pulled in. I went to sleep almost immediately with the drum of rain on the roof and can only assume my rider did the same, even while cuddling his suitcase.
Early in the morning, the sun streamed through the windshield and woke me up. My rider awoke when I started the car - the engine was fairly high powered and the exhaust rumbled, nicely to me then, probably irritating to me now, some 49 years later. We motored on into New York State, up to Troy, then east over the mountains of southern Vermont. As we came down on the plain around Brattleboro, we ran into that same hard rain that we'd slept through in Pennsylvania. My companion had indicated he'd get out at the Interstate, but with it raining so hard, I suggested it would be more comfortable if he got out in town and waited for the storm to pass. He decided to go as planned, so I let him out at the bottom of the ramp to the southbound lane. The last time I ever saw him, he was holding his suitcase over his head with one hand and holding the thumb of his other hand out for a ride south.
Heading north, I soon drove out of the storm and was enjoying the beauty of the Vermont hills somewhere south of Springfield when in the southbound lane, I saw a light green Malibu convertible with a grey-haired lady driving. I was sure it was my folks who knew I was coming, but not exactly when.
An hour or so later, I was at home and sure enough, they weren't. I let myself in, got some clothes from my car, and took a long shower, hoping they weren't going to be gone long. On the dining room table was an envelope addressed to me containing an Air Force paycheck I'd had forwarded to them. Just in time - I had about $6.00 left.
After my shower, I unloaded my car, putting my belongings in the Summer House (family and some NH friends will know what that is) and drove up to my grandparents to see if they knew where Mom and Dad were. They didn't, but we came to the conclusion that they'd soon be back because if they were going to be gone even overnight, they'd have said something. Sure enough, while I visited with them, Mom called. She'd noticed the mess I'd left in the bathroom and guessed where I might be. I'd left the bath mat on the floor. It had been them I'd seen on the highway, they'd driven down to Putney to a basket outlet.
I stayed in NH just a few days before continuing my trip to Aroostook County, Maine. Going north on Interstate 95 out of Bangor, once I'd passed Orono, the home of the University of Maine, and Old Town, famous for the canoes built there, the Interstate became a two lane highway stretching through mile after mile of dense forest. A song from a decade earlier stayed in my head along that stretch, Dick Curliss' Tombstone Every Mile. Those who remember the song will know why. At exits to towns along the way, the highway would change to four lanes through an interchange, then revert to two lanes again.
At one of those interchanges, I needed a break, so I swung off and drove to a small diner. Inside, I ordered a doughnut and a cup of coffee. The lady who took my order asked if I wanted that coffee regular. Not knowing any better, I told her I did. It came with cream and sugar already added. I've always taken my coffee black with no sugar, but apparently I got what I'd ordered.
I-95 ended at the town of Houlton and from there on up to my destination, I passed through numerous villages and past vast fields of potato plants. Approaching the town of Limestone at 55 MPH or so, I missed a 35 MPH sign place strategically just past a large maple tree on a curve and was pulled over by a town cop and given a ticket for speeding.
Ten minutes later, I saw the large radomes and pulled onto the base, found the Orderly Room and signed in. My trip was finished.
Oh, one more thing. The NCOIC of the Radar Shop where I was presumably going to work came to the Orderly Room and introduced himself, and guided me to the maintenance building. On the way, he cautioned me about a speed trap in Limestone. I ruefully acknowledged I'd learned of the trap the hard way.
