by Jim Elder jimelder@wyoming.com
While visiting with several Harley riders at a rest stop in Minnesota (that state allows overnight camping at their fine waysides), we were admiring the custom mini-trailers often seen towed by bikes. There were compartments for sleeping bags, cooking gear, personal items, tools, and spare parts. We were told that many bikers camp by choice, and that some camp because motel owners still have the “Hell’s Angels” perception of anyone on a motorcycle.
One couple told us that when they travel without their camping gear, they park “around the corner” from any motel, and exchange their leather jackets for “proper” coats before trying to get a room. As our biker friends were spreading out ground cloths and sleeping bags, and watching clouds gather in the west, they joked about how nice it would be if someone made a bike trailer that would pop up into a camper. It did not rain, and they slept as soundly under the skies as we did inside Al.
Corn harvest was in full swing as we crossed Minnesota and Wisconsin. We often found farmers wives selling fresh sweet corn from pickups at truck stops. A Wisconsin woman took umbrage at my kidding about Iowa being the “real” corn state. She offered to give me a dozen ears, on the condition that if they were as good as Iowa corn, I had to come back and pay her double. Since we intended to be in Michigan by dinner time, we paid for four ears and agreed to send the cobs back for a refund if the corn was not as represented. I’ll bet she would have kept her word. No matter. The corn was as good as any Iowa ears.
Canada’s Route 17, from “the Soo” to Montreal, has been greatly improved since we last drove it. There is a shortage of campgrounds, but several wayside rest areas where one can stop for a break, or a meal. To avoid the Montreal traffic, we crossed the Ottawa River on the free ferry at Oka, skirted the city on 640, and headed for Quebec City on Highway 40, a fine four-lane.
For food. While we usually eat breakfast in the Alaskan Camper, we often treat ourselves to lunch or dinner with the natives, wherever that may be. Sometimes to meet people, and sometimes to eat! In Quebec, cooking is an art and eating an adventure.
Driving in downtown Quebec, in the “Old City,” is also an adventure. It is tres French, which means great food in sidewalk cafes, narrow streets, traffic congestion, and parking almost impossible. With our relatively compact Ford truck and Alaskan, we could drive, but still could not park. One could not have parked a Beetle anywhere near the most popular cafe area. Fortunately, we still had some Wisconsin sweet corn, and some Wisconsin brats. Turned the radio to French music and pretended Al was a sidewalk cafe.
At Riviere-du-loup we turned southeast into New Brunswick, heading for Holton, Maine, to pick up mail.
New Brunswick was, as always, a fine drive, and Nova Scotia gets more scenic as one goes east. Once over the causeway to Cape Breton Island, the land and seascapes seem like a series of travel posters. Nova Scotia is itself well worth a trip and a long visit, but is also a fitting warmup for Newfoundland.
That night we parked in the ferry terminal staging area at North Sydney, ready to board at dawn and begin the next leg of Al’s cross-continent adventure.
Note: Never volunteer any information, when going thru Customs and always claim to be nothing more than another tourist.
As we packed the Ford and the camper for the next leg of our coast-to-coast adventure, we replaced the heavy sleeping bag we had used in the canvas-wall pop-up camper with a lighter Trav-a-Sac. The Alaskan’s hard sides and ducted furnace promised a cozy camp no matter what the weather.
We were getting to know the Alaskan, and rediscovering something we had found over the years of RV travel. Big rigs isolate you from interesting people and places. The bigger the RV, the less likely you are to get to know a campground neighbor or be invited to park free for the night. Big rig people often bypass inviting shops, cafes, and small scenic turnouts because they cannot park.
Big rigs seem to intimidate. Somehow, the “natives” trust strangers who drive pickups with low-profile campers. And they are usually curious about Al, sometimes ask to see it raise, as did the lady at Sisters. Approval is not universal, however. Once, while passing the time of day with the “next door” motorhome couple at a campground, the man expressed a longing for a rig which would get better mileage, and go into more places. Especially to backcountry fishing places. His wife made it clear that she was not about to give up her 32 feet of at-home luxuries, even if a camper did have basic necessities and some of the conveniences.
In South Dakota, we found motorcycles everywhere. The annual Sturgis Rally was just breaking up, and for two days it was impossible to look in any direction without seeing motorcycles, mostly “Hogs,” the rider’s name for their beloved Harley Davidsons. From horizon to horizon on Interstate 90, there were bikes, mostly ridden by singles and couples, and some on trailers, towed by trucks, vans, cars, and motorhomes.
