Eastern Seaboard, USA

The guard at the Maine border was obviously having a slow day. He decided to grill me at length. “How do you intend to support yourself during your stay in the U.S.?” I assured him we had sufficient means to see us through a six-week camping trip. Then, scrutinizing our passports, he asked disapprovingly, “What were you all doing in Boo-tan?”

Then he came aboard for a close inspection of our Unity motorhome (perhaps he just wanted to snoop at the great IB floorplan?). Finally he permitted us entry into the U.S. of A. but not before casting one last critical glance as we drove away.

From the middle of October ‘til the end of November Florence and I made a slow RV journey southward from Maine to Georgia, hugging the Eastern Seaboard. Over 100 million people live along this stretch. But except in the ridiculously congested areas such as Connecticut, New York and New Jersey, the drive was largely serene and peaceful. And employing our usual shoulder-season travel strategy meant that the campgrounds weren’t jammed. We often had our choice of sites in lovely seaside state parks.

After shaking off our experience with the rebarbative border guard, our first stop was Acadia National Park, a real gem. The 500-meter climb over lichen-covered pink granite to the top of Cadillac Mountain offers a sweeping 360 degree vista of the craggy Maine coastline. We descended as the sun set and enjoyed our first campfire in America.

Our ultimate goal was the southern Carolinas but we moved slowly through New England autumn, stopping at Cape Cod and Nantucket in Massachusetts and fabulously wealthy Newport in snooty Rhode Island. Rural New Jersey, tinted with fall colours, was surprisingly quaint and lovely. Then, as the thermometer inevitably dipped, I pointed the RV a little further south, “going to where the weather suits my clothes.”

We met a lot of interesting people on the road. Invariably, after only a short acquaintance, our new friends would enquire, “What do you think of our president?” Rather than responding, “He is an utter bozo,” or, “He’s a fine man, just what America needs,” we would answer evasively with, “Um, what do you think?”

Americans are not shy about offering an opinion, so this was a sure way to ascertain their spot on the broad spectrum of polarized American politics. Plus, keeping one’s opinion politely to one’s Canadian self helps keep the campfire conversation convivial. Incidentally, my anecdotal poll suggests that the vast majority of U.S. RV’ers are democrats.

For a thousand kilometers, from Delaware to Georgia, we traversed the Atlantic barrier islands. These long narrow strips of sand shield the mainland from harmful wind and water. Fragile shifting dunes and ferocious storms often obliterate the single thin strip of asphalt that meanders through these isles.

Road maintenance is perpetual – and highway navigation requires vigilance. Most nights we were lulled to sleep by the sound of waves crashing on a beach mere meters from our encampment.

As dark descended on Maryland at Assateague Island National Seashore I overheard a guy playing guitar. I moseyed over, introduced myself and boldly asked if I could bring a wife, some beer and my ukulele over for a singsong. He said “yes, sure, absolutely” and soon we were chatting and singing with Ed and Karen, from New Jersey, newly retired and “livin’ the dream” in their Airstream.

The next morning Florence and I visited Kitty Hawk, NC, where the Orville brothers first lifted off the ground in an astounding feat of American aeronautical ingenuity. I asked the national park ranger why the flag was flying at half-mast. “Because of the shooting,” she said. “What shooting?“ I asked. She wasn’t sure. There had been a few that week.

A few days later we again chanced upon Ed and Karen at Cape Hatteras on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. They introduced us to Ronda and Tim from New Mexico, who were camped next door and whom they had just met. That evening the six of us enjoyed music, camaraderie, adult beverages, a communal fire and some dark-sky navel gazing. And, in the words of Humphrey Bogart, this was “the beginning of a beautiful friendship”.

Florence hoists a trophy with Ronda and TimFor the next 10 days we leapfrogged one another down the coast, reuniting every few days for another dose of raucous campfire conversation. But all good things… Our newfound friends continued the southward journey into sunny Florida. We were headed home.

When we embarked on this trip the plan was to follow the fall changes for a couple of months. And then, to avoid the long wintry drive back to Alberta, we would store our motorhome somewhere down south, fly home for a few months of boreal adventure, and return in April to continue the homeward journey; but under warm, spring conditions.

I wasn’t sure where we would park and fly: Dallas, Orlando, Atlanta? We finally settled on Atlanta, Georgia, only 5 hours from the east coast. One morning, at Myrtle Beach State Park a week before our departure, I was occupied outside our RV, attending to the important, manly task of sweeping the campsite. Florence was offering helpful, vocal instruction. A domestic dispute was near eruption when a couple, walking their dog, stopped and said hello. “What kind of mileage do you get with that Sprinter diesel?” the man asked.

We got to talking and he asked us our plans. “We just booked a flight home,” I said. “We are headed to Alberta next week and are going to store our RV near the Atlanta airport until spring.”

“You can’t park a motorhome in Atlanta,” the fellow said, shocked. “When you get back there won’t be any wheels left on it. My wife and I have an acreage just outside Atlanta. Park it at our place for the winter.”

“That’s very generous of you,” said I, “but the RV needs to be winterized, and we also need to get to the airport. Plus we need a place to stay the night before we fly out.”

“No problem,” said he. “We’ll winterize it together at our place, you can spend the night in our mother-in-law suite and I’ll drive you to the airport.”

I looked at Florence, dumb-founded, turned to the fellow we had known for less than five minutes and said, “Okay, yes, thanks.” Then I asked him his name. He shook my hand. “Bill,” he said, “and this is my wife, Marian.”

Americans may be opinionated but they can also be the most generous of people.

At the airport in Atlanta, waiting for our inevitably delayed late-night flight, depressed about leaving the fine weather – and fine folks – we had encountered, my phone rang. It was Tim, Ronda, Karen and Ed, sitting around a fire in Florida, enjoying a Jameson’s and reminiscing about our short, fun vignette of time together. “Bon voyage – we love you guys,” they said. Then they made us promise we’d meet again some day.

I almost cried.

Gerry