Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Walker Island Family Campground, The Berkshires
So our first destination was the Berkshires. We were going to see Brian's parents before we left, and also leave some stuff there. You would think I would be relaxed, happy, and excited to be off on the open road. In reality, I was worried that we would crash the trailer or end up having to back the thing up or find somewhere to turn around. I wasn't even driving. The guy who gave us our five-minute introduction to operating the trailer had cautioned us about turning. If the hitch for the trailer isn't in the right position and you try to make to sharp of a turn, BANG! Your trailer crashes right through the back corner of the truck's cab. Nice.
At least we went the right way to the Berkshires this time. But one good idea is to get the diesel filled up before you hitch the trailer. That way, you can drive for about 300 miles without worrying too much about finding a truck/trailer friendly gas station. It will save you from the parts of the adventure they don't talk about in books, where you trundle through a strange town with narrow streets, desperately squinting at the gas station signs ahead to see if they say "diesel" somewhere.
Anyway, we found the campground with no real problems. Walker Island is, surprise, surprise, on an island surrounded by Walker Brook. Walker Brook really meanders. We crossed it four times on Route 20 before we got to the campground! Anyway, Walker Island is a very small island, with a very small, very curved driveway. So Brian inched down the driveway, pumping the brakes. I think we were rocking forward in 4/4 time. No speed issues here.
While Seth, the owner, helped Brian to back the trailer into our lot (meaning he backed it in and Brian watched), Zorah and I walked around the grounds. Zorah stopped at one particular trailer. There was a little frog in front. A frog on a stick. A painted metal frog, not a real one.
"Can I touch it, Mama?" she asked. I let her, but I told her not to pull it out, since it belonged to the people who were in this trailer. As we were discussing the niceties of handling other people's lawn ornaments, an elderly woman greeted us. Betsy stepped out from the other side of the trailer, setting a plastic frog croaking. We all introduced ourselves and chatted a bit. She and her mother, Mae, were seasonal residents here.
Betsy's father had worked and lived at the campground all his life. When he retired, he was given lifetime use of the site. When he passed on, it passed on to Mae. So Betsy takes Mae here every weekend so she can be where she and Hokie had spent all their time together.
Unfortunately, I didn't get to hear any more of their story. We had to go set up camp. So we fumbled through all the steps to unhitching and connecting a trailer to the hookups. As we did so, Betsy volunteered their lot as a parking place for our truck. I thanked her and we continued to set up. Since Seth had backed us in, we couldn't level the camper! In a way I guess it was good. Our door closed automatically because we were off level, as did the refrigerator. By the time we had settled in, Betsy and Mae had already left.
At least we went the right way to the Berkshires this time. But one good idea is to get the diesel filled up before you hitch the trailer. That way, you can drive for about 300 miles without worrying too much about finding a truck/trailer friendly gas station. It will save you from the parts of the adventure they don't talk about in books, where you trundle through a strange town with narrow streets, desperately squinting at the gas station signs ahead to see if they say "diesel" somewhere.
Anyway, we found the campground with no real problems. Walker Island is, surprise, surprise, on an island surrounded by Walker Brook. Walker Brook really meanders. We crossed it four times on Route 20 before we got to the campground! Anyway, Walker Island is a very small island, with a very small, very curved driveway. So Brian inched down the driveway, pumping the brakes. I think we were rocking forward in 4/4 time. No speed issues here.
While Seth, the owner, helped Brian to back the trailer into our lot (meaning he backed it in and Brian watched), Zorah and I walked around the grounds. Zorah stopped at one particular trailer. There was a little frog in front. A frog on a stick. A painted metal frog, not a real one.
"Can I touch it, Mama?" she asked. I let her, but I told her not to pull it out, since it belonged to the people who were in this trailer. As we were discussing the niceties of handling other people's lawn ornaments, an elderly woman greeted us. Betsy stepped out from the other side of the trailer, setting a plastic frog croaking. We all introduced ourselves and chatted a bit. She and her mother, Mae, were seasonal residents here.
Betsy's father had worked and lived at the campground all his life. When he retired, he was given lifetime use of the site. When he passed on, it passed on to Mae. So Betsy takes Mae here every weekend so she can be where she and Hokie had spent all their time together.
Unfortunately, I didn't get to hear any more of their story. We had to go set up camp. So we fumbled through all the steps to unhitching and connecting a trailer to the hookups. As we did so, Betsy volunteered their lot as a parking place for our truck. I thanked her and we continued to set up. Since Seth had backed us in, we couldn't level the camper! In a way I guess it was good. Our door closed automatically because we were off level, as did the refrigerator. By the time we had settled in, Betsy and Mae had already left.
