Road Trip 2005; III. Southward
This is the part of any road trip that is bittersweet -- still much to see and do during annual leave but you know you're due back for another performance in your starring role of everyday life. It is especially so when you grudgingly leave a special place like rural, unspoiled Upstate New York and say farewell to special people.
But the many roadways wending South offer a chance, a tease, a hope that you'll find something new and extraordinary along the way -- all you have to do is get after it.
Keuka farewell
It is dark and still along Keuka Lake this Monday morning, the 26th, as I head out on Route 54, past the turn-off to Hammondsport and into and through the still-slumbering town of Bath, then eastward along the permanent road work that is also occasionally referred to as Route 17. I retrace my route south on U.S. Highway 15 and before I can spell chrysanthemum I'm across the bridge and into Pennsylvania.
I'll take my time heading back and perhaps stop at the nicest, most well-constructed, aesthetically pleasing visitors' center I have ever experienced in any state -- ever. If you happen along Route 15 just north of Mansfield, please do yourself a favor and stop, relax, and enjoy. They even offer a mini historical center, a library section, and an antique Harley, for Pete's sake.
Then off again, the big Dodge humming along at 75 as if it was idling, but not for long. Storms that are the remnants of Hurricane Rita are pummeling the area and suddenly there are car crashes everywhere. I weave and bob my way through one mess after another, losing two hours and not caring a bit. Then it's back to gliding through all of the Keystone State towns I know so well, nestled among the hills I admire so much.
My friend B1 has provisioned me with a sack full of awesome Upstate garden tomatoes for Dana, our wine master comrade who is helping a South Carolina winery strive for financial solvency and decent products for the very first time. So what could possibly top a gift like that? Why, a giant bag of the world's greatest potato chips, that's what. I stop at three stores in Selinsgrove before I hit the jackpot: Middleswarth Kitchen Fresh Potato Chips in party size. Don't laugh -- they are incredibly delicious, and very hard to come by. Dana will do handsprings.
I cross the big bridge that spans the Susquehanna River, now swollen and heavy from the rains brought by Rita. Then join Interstate 81, re-cross the big river, and point the Ram's nose toward Virginia. The weather gradually warms up the farther south I progress and aside from some particularly nasty traffic on the outskirts of Harrisburg, the traffic thins, the sun comes out, and life is good.
From the mountains to the coast
Winchester, Virginia pops out of nowhere, as does the exit for U.S. 17 South. The first few miles of 17 is a great place for a pit stop -- hit the head, enjoy a satisfying lunch at the familiar BBQ joint, then homemade ice cream at one of my favorite roadside places right next door. There is also a McDonald's there, but that's not gonna happen.
Onward to I-95 at Fredericksburg, then south to Wilson, North Carolina. I check into a ridiculously cheap but extraordinarily clean and modern Comfort Inn, call Dana, chat with some fellow travelers at poolside, then off to bed. Tuesday the 27th brings me to I-40 East and on a beeline to Wilmington.
Following Dana's precise directions, I am treated to every street, lane, alley, bridge, and hog path in Historic Downtown Wilmington before I stumble back onto U.S. 17 South. Dana was obviously the scout for the Donner Party. Follow the coast road down into South Carolina, turn at the white oak, go straight until you see the Guernsey cows, and there is Silver Coast Winery.
The wine master
Dana is ... well, Dana. Always has been and always will be one of my favorite persons and dear friend. As with all of the other truly good persons who have graced my life, it's as though we just saw each other yesterday rather than so many months ago ... just the way it should be. Take the tour, meet the winery staff, see what he's up against, meet the boss Mary Ann -- see what he's up against! Then off to lunch at Provisions, a comfortable, ramshackle place along the Intracoastal Waterway and dine on the best-tasting fresh yellow fin tuna I have had in many years. Then back to the winery.
Of course at any winery you must buy stuff. Mind you, not normal, humdrum stuff but pricey, elitist stuff. Eclectic stuff. Trendy stuff. Who am I to be different? I buy. It is a good area, this little bit of earth near Shalotte, South Carolina, and Silver Coast greatly appreciates our talented friend Dana and wants him to stay there forever. We shall see.
Interstate jumble
It's mid afternoon and the perfectly-performing Dodge has its chrome-encrusted snout pointed southward, eating up mile after mile of South Carolina secondary four-lane like kids inhaling Juicy Fruit at a movie matinee. Now back to the jumble that is Interstate 95, matching the speed and purpose of my fellow highway denizens. I see the welcoming giant peach on a sign and now I'm marching through Georgia; with every rest break or pit stop I enjoy the pleasure of chatting with this person or that. It is amazing how people will open up to you if you help them along, and let's face it -- I've never been accused of being shy. Long before I reach the vicinity of Brunswick the sky is darkening and thankfully, interstate traffic is thinning as though mandated by curfew.
I run the risk of inducing Carpal Tunnel Syndrome as I constantly stab the seek button on my radio, looking for a decent country station. Is there anything finer than blasting along at the helm of a powerful vehicle, a warm Southern night, windows down and the radio up? Perhaps, but not many things, at least not tonight. Welcome to Florida, the sign says, and the welcome center beckons ...
Deland and Jerome
This is the last leg, a few hours from Little Martin and somehow I feel sad about that. It's late, I'm weary, but I must make one more stop after a stretch at the rest area. I exit at Deland and pull into the only service station open on this deserted stretch of local road. I like my Ram truck, but a HEMI is a thirsty goddess and must be regularly appeased.
It's dark, there are no other customers, so I drink coffee, smoke a cigarette, and chat with the attendant after servicing the beast; he's a big guy with a limp. Seems he played college basketball at St. John's University, was a professional prospect, then blew out his knee in his senior year. I ache for him as he pours his heart out to me, a perfect stranger.
I see the forlorn look in his eyes and hear the wistful timbre in his voice as he reflects upon what could have been, all the while looking around at what is. I'm shocked that it is thirty minutes later; We say goodbye, on a first-name basis now, and I leave Jerome and his never-to-be-attained vision behind me as I continue southward, not quite as carefree as I was just a short while ago.
There it is, the sign for County Road 714 and I'm nearly there. Just as well, because I don't think I could squeeze one more bug onto my windscreen. I check the digital clock on the dashboard as I slowly rumble through Old Palm City; Early morning on Wednesday the 28th. Water is standing everywhere so Little Martin certainly didn't dry out in my absence. Down my little street I turn, passing neighbor homes that all, in one form or another, still wear the marks of our two hurricane body blows of a year ago. There's my mailbox, there's my drive.
I'm home ... sort of.