Winnemucca

7/11/12         

        Winnemucca proved to be an ideal place to spend the night. We slept in sleeping bags without the tent. The dry air with cool overnight temperatures felt like air conditioning. Insects did not bother us.

        An early start put us on the road west before 7AM. Light traffic allowed Primate to keep us at the speed limit and we arrived at Dr. Bobo's home at 1:30PM without problem.

        After an afternoon's rest and a night's sleep, Primate and I will head home tomorrow.

        Our trip successful, we completed our pre-trip goals, plus went to the Illinois high point, took only twenty-six days, and covered 12,083 miles.

        We'll cover the southern tier of the US next year to complete the "fifty high points" and "fifty low points." Well, almost ... Primate and I will have to travel to Alaska to touch the ocean there as its low point. Also, we will have done the high point and low point of DC. 

        Primate and I plan to upload some photos of our trip upon our return home. Keep in mind that Primate is still evolving. We made some editing changes to correct spelling, punctuation and arithmetic to our previous postings, and may make additional editing changes later, but none of these will effect the meaning or substance of the content.

Gunslinger Territory

7/7/12         

        Dr. Bobo stood next to the picnic table where Christopher stirred bacon on an aluminum pan in preparation of our breakfast. "I checked the temperature awhile ago. Before sun up it was already eighty degrees," Dr. Bobo observed.

        "I believe it," I said. In spite of the high temperature, everything felt clammy from the humidity.

         Primate guided the car away from the campground within 30 minutes, and within another 30 minutes we walked through the open gate and down the long, gravel road towards the Illinois high point. The private road gained 125 feet as we traversed the 1.2 miles alongside cultivated fields on the lower levels, then through woods nearer the summit of Charles Mound at 1,235 feet.

Christopher & Dr. Bobo On IL High Point

        We moved on. There was no time to waste.

        Back in the car, while Primate drove, Dr. Bobo consulted maps and road directions to our next point.

        Christopher consulted his cell phone for texts and e-mails. "I've got to go home. Can you drop me at an airport? I just got word my roommate is screwing up. My neighbor says, 'He's gotta go.' If I don't deal with it I could get evicted."

        "We're going right by Dubuque Airport," Dr. Bobo said.

        Christopher learned flights from Dubuque were expensive, so declined to fly from there. "Six hundred dollars, that's too much."

        "We can drop you at Omaha, but it will be late today. Maybe, Kansas City, Missouri, just 30 miles out of our way?" Dr. Bobo offered. Dr. Bobo and I already discussed this and considered it no inconvenience to our plans. Primate considered the extra distance trivial.

        We headed south past Davenport and Moline.

        I heard Dr. Bobo say, "It's 94 degrees."

        In my peripheral vision I saw him looking to the side of the road and glanced over to see for myself. A digital bank sign flashed the time of 10:30AM. As I looked it flashed the temperature of 94 degrees. That made me feel even hotter.

        We continued south to the odd tip of Iowa. We parked and crossed over the chain that dangled a sign that suggested NO TRESSPASSING and walked about one-quarter mile to the muddy bank of the confluence of the Des Moines and Mississippi Rivers, then considered we were at the low point of Iowa.

        We drove west towards the Kansas City airport through the oppressive heat, the sun occasionally blocked by clouds. As we neared Kansas City, MO, bank signs showed temperatures of 106 and 104 degrees. We dropped Chris at the airport and said our goodbyes at 4:15PM.

        Primate drove us north through Missouri, back into Iowa, then west into Nebraska, then turned south again following Dr. Bobo's directions.

        We came to an open gate at a levee before the road south entered Kansas.

        "I didn't expect that to be open. It was locked when I looked at it on Google," Dr. Bobo said.

        Primate turned left onto the levee and maneuvered us down the dusty, vegetated path almost to the river. We bushwhacked the remaining 100 feet to the bank, and scrambled down to the muddy, flat edge of the Missouri River.

        Dr. Bobo determined the border with Kansas with his GPS device and we called that low point of Nebraska. "Good, I don't think I could have hiked this."

Primate Rests At the NB Low Point.

        Several photos ensued and we high-tailed it off the levee to reduce the odds of getting locked behind the gate.

        North beckoned again. The temperature seemed to be less stiffling once we drank cold water at a rest stop. We found a campground late afternoon so had plenty of time to relax.

        "The temperature should drop tomorrow," we were told by one of the managers of the campground.

        The breezes increased to a steady wind and brought welcomed relief from the heat. A shower with a cool-down helped improve my disposition.

       I offered to share my beer with Dr. Bobo. Primate didn't care. Canned chili and instant rice, flavored with spicy peppers, and a half-a-beer chaser went down well.

       We covered another 657 miles today. Low points - twenty six; high points - twenty.

7/8/12         

        The clear sky, and mild temperature, bode for a more pleasant day. We continued north. Iowa farmland flattened. Hills, seen in the distance to either side of the road, provided me some relief to the flatness.

        Near Sibley, Iowa, before the border with Minnesota, we came to Hawkeye Point, 1,670 feet, located on private farmland. Primate stopped the car in front of the signs and plaque and with a 50-foot walk we stood and took photos at Iowa's high point.

        Northward, we proceeded up the western side of Minnesota, alongside the border with North Dakota. The sun shone bright in a near cloudless sky, but the temperature was, at least, more bearable than yesterday.

        Primate wanted a break from driving, so Dr. Bobo consented to take a turn. "It's 86 degrees," Dr. Bobo yelled as we neared Dawson. The car clock read 2:45PM.

        We targeted South Dakota next, crossed the border to Big Stone Lake, where we ate sandwiches for lunch, then commemorated touching the lake's edge for another low point.

        We headed west. Rolling hills replaced flatter terrain, birds congregated around lakes by the roadside, and the crops gradually shifted from corn to wheat.

        I couldn't live in a place like this, it's too isolated.

        Dr. Bobo found us a possible campsite near Pierre. An easy tent setup, then late dinner at a restaurant, got us to bed about mid-night.

        Low points - twenty seven; high points - twenty one. The odometer today topped 676 miles.

7/9/12         

        Dr. Bobo's footsteps on the gravel pad of our campsite prompted me out of the tent at 6AM. We packed up in the cool air, sans mosquitoes, and drove away for an early morning start.

        Mount Rushmore beckoned.

Primate Ponders How He Would Look As Part of Rushmore.

        Our route led us past it, so we stopped to marvel awhile, then we moved on to Custer State Park for our next goal.

        I felt fatigued from my first step. Doubts about doing the three-mile hike to the high point of South Dakota plagued me, in spite of the breeze and mild temperature. Within a short period perspiration covered my face, even though the trail climbed gradually, but I began to gather energy and my doubts waned as I advanced.

        Dr. Bobo looked at his GPS device. "It's only one mile from here, as the crow flies. The elevation gain from the parking lot is 1,100 feet, but the trail gains and loses elevation along the way, making the truer gain about 1,600 feet." The trail requires three miles of travel to the South Dakota high point from the parking lot, however. "This is my favorite hike," he added.

        "Yes, I agree this trail is better, you don't have to fight your way around boulders, like the ones on Katahdin and Mt. Marcy," I said.

        At the summit of Harney Peak, 7,242 feet, we examined the defunct hotel and ate our lunch sandwiches.

Primate Stands At The Highest Natural Point Of Narney Peak.

        Onward south, out of the Black Hills, into Nebraska, and over rolling hills where cattle grazed. This felt even more desolate and isolated than yesterday.

        As we neared the southwest corner of Nebraska, near the tri-corner with Wyoming and Colorado, we took gravel roads, alternating between south and west directions to work our way to the high point, referred to by the property owner as Panorama Point, 5,424 feet. The setting sun colored the distant clouds and provided an enhanced backdrop for our photos.

Dr. Bobo On NB High Point.

Primate Touches NB High Point.

        Dr. Bobo and I discussed the possibility of adding the high and low points of Colorado to this trip while Primate drove us back to the civilization of Pine Bluffs, Wyoming, careful to avoid animals on the road at dusk.

        BEEP, BEEP! The antelope standing by the roadside turned away and fled.

        We found a campsite, a fast food restaurant for dinner, concluded we should postpone Colorado until next year, and went to bed late again.

        Low points - twenty seven; high points - twenty three. The odometer recorded another 527 miles.

7/10/12         

        I stirred to a quiet surrounding. Dr. Bobo's sleeping bag was not in the tent and the sun hung about two hands above the horizon, one hour for each hand is a good estimation. I figured it was about 9AM. The warm air in the tent also prompted me to get up.

        "Good morning," I said to Dr. Bobo. "How long have you been up?"

        "About two hours."

        "You could have woke me up," I said.

        "I figure you wanted to sleep," he responded.

        Primate put us on the highway and set the cruise control at the speed limit. The weather good, the road uncongested, we started the long count down of miles to home.

        Dr. Bobo took a nap. Primate steered the car along our way. I wandered around in my storage closet of stories of the old West, triggered by names on highway signs as we went - Cheyenne, Laramie, Medicine Bow, and the Platte River.

        Gunslingers rode on horseback across these plains, traded shots with adversaries, drank whiskey in saloons in little towns scattered all over. Pioneers walked alongside and rode in wagons searching for a better life. Miners hurried to other places in a fever pitch. Indians pondered how to deal with the encroachment of white men. Cattlemen came and fenced off the open land.

        The highway led us over higher terrain. I pointed out an elevation marker to Dr. Bobo. "Eighty two fifty nine. The road's been climbed since we started this morning."

        This country seems even more desolated than that of yesterday, drier, less inviting, more open and exposed to the scorching sun and cold blasts of winter winds. I wouldn't want to life here, either.

        The mile markers counted down towards zero, signifying the border with Utah.

        Primate inquired, "You drive, Dr. Bobo?"

        "Sure."

        During stretches of highway between small towns, I saw few houses, but no cattle. Dried grasses and small shrubs provided color contrast to the exposed soil and rock, but offered no reassurance of my survival here, if I were left to fend for myself. Glad to be whisked along at high speed, I hoped my conveyance of passage through here would not fail me.

        Dr. Bobo consented to drive. He drove us through the remainder of Wyoming, then Utah, past the Great Salt Lake and across the salt flats, and then into Nevada. We stopped at Winnemucca for the night.

        We logged another 823 miles today.

Moline

7/6/12         

        We rejoiced this morning over bacon and scrambled eggs a’ la Christopher, and still broke camp at the reasonable hour of 8:30AM. 

        Primate got behind the wheel already aware we wouldn't get to a high point or low point today. Tomorrow, we plan to do our next high point in Illinois and access to it is restricted by the owner to daylight hours of the first full weekend in June, July and August each year. Our timing couldn't be better.

        We were glad to be leaving the high humidity at camp, but as we drove past cultivated farms of northern Indiana in the sun, the temperature rose. In spite of blowing air through fully opened windows, we baked in the heat before noon, and we still had many miles to go.

        We skirted around South Bend, glanced off Chicago, and headed straight for Moline. The temperature continued to rise.

        Christopher researched the weather forecast on the web. "It's ninety-eight degrees in Dubuque already and it's supposed to get to one-hundred-two this afternoon."

        Of course, that's where we were headed, so we followed a road around downtown Moline, crossed the Mississippi and took a right turn north to Dubuque.

        A stop at an Iowa Visitor's Center just across the river allowed us to break up the monotony of our journey, but more importantly gain refuge indoors and drinks of cold water from a fountain.

        By mid-afternoon we identified and arrived at a good campsite near tomorrow's goal, and to beat the heat went into Galena to have a late lunch or early dinner at Durty Gurt's Burger Joynt.

        "It's a meal in itself," Dr. Bobo said when his Bloody Mary was served.

        "That's the best Bloody Mary I've ever had," I told Christopher and Dr. Bobo, after I drank a good portion of my first, and I meant it. Garnished with a long, thin sausage, a slice of pickle, and an olive, and flavored with horseradish, I considered it perfect. Primate wanted another so I ordered a second with my entree of frog-legs.

        By the end of our meal we were stuffed.

        "We haven't been eating much, my stomach must have shrunk," Dr. Bobo observed after eating his half-pound burger.

        Christopher collected a good portion of his meal in a "to go" box for later.

        We hung out in a brewery, had a cold drink, watched portions of several sporting events on their TV's, while we waited for the sun to drop, as well as the temperature, before returning to our campsite. Strategies to remain cool occupied us for the remainder of the evening.

        We logged 426 miles today, mostly across Indiana and Illinois, and a small portion going north through Iowa.

        Low points - twenty four; high points - nineteen.

Arctic Alpine Zone?

7/4/12         

        Rain insured that everything was wet during the night. An early break from camp promised a parking spot at the Adirondack Loj trail head to Mt. Marcy. An overcast sky with an early start meant we packed our gear wet.

        "Heavy showers and isolated thunderstorms after 2PM," Christopher reported, after checking a website forecast.

        The parking lot, with only a few dozen cars, has a capacity for two hundred vehicles, according to Dr. Bobo, but, "If you don't get a spot, there's no other place to park."

        "How long is the trail?" Christopher asked on our drive there.

        "Seven point two miles, one way," Dr. Bobo said.

        I wasn't looking forward to this hike. Primate was ready.

        The trail started down within one quarter mile. "I don't like this," I said. "Going down here means we'll be coming up at the end of our hike."

        The trail soon climbed up and around a hill. The tree-shaded path blocked views except in our immediate vicinity. Glances upward between the foliage proved the sky remained overcast. No breeze amongst the sheltering trees, along with the high humidity, soon made our trek a walk in a sauna. Perspiration soaked our shirts, then dripped off our noses. I removed my hat and constantly wiped my face and head with my hand in an attempt to avoid sweat in my eyes. My glasses fogged over.

        The trail steepened and shared the way with a stream bed, dry at the moment, or nearly so.

        We separated as we climbed. Christopher, the fastest, went on ahead. For awhile I kept up with Dr. Bobo, but lagged behind as we proceeded up the mountain. Fatigue, along with gravity, conspired to hold me back, but I reminded myself, according to Tensing Norgay's advice to Edmond Hillary on Everest, "Slow means success."

        Stream bed and trail parted. The trail eased. We congregated at a junction on a ridge where three other hikers had stopped. One hiker, familiar with the trail, said, "It goes down here, not very far, then goes up. It gets steep on bare rock, straight up." He used one hand to indicate the slope, then added, "Well, not that steep."

        A few moments rest and we set off again, separating immediately in our previous order. The sun broke through clouds occasionally and short breezes provided brief periods of cooling. Trail over and around boulders transitioned to walking up bare rock face. The rock faces grew steeper while the trees grew shorter. A sign, "Entering an artic alpine zone," extolled hikers to stay off the "fragile" vegetation.

        How much steeper can this get?

        The sight of others coming down and of cairns piled on rounded slopes provided encouragement.     Clouds thinned, the sun broke through.

        Take a breather, and then push a little higher.

        As the rock above diminished, as the view of surrounding mountains and forests increased, and as the breeze intensified to strong sustained wind, I grew encouraged. And finally at 5,344 feet the mountain topped out and I stood at the summit, the highest point in New York.

        We all commiserated on our struggle uphill, a climb of 3,200 feet from the parking lot, posed for photos and snacked on our lunch sandwiches. Primate played in a puddle and wanted to take a nap.

        Dr. Bobo said, "I guess we'd better get going. I'm surprised it hasn't rained."

        "I'm ready," Christopher said.

        "Yea, I wouldn't want to climb down these rocks when they're wet. I imagine they'd be slippery," as I shouldered my day pack.

        Christopher started ahead. Dr. Bobo and I headed down together. Step after step seemed torture. I knew what I faced going down, over seven miles worth. Slowly, one step, one slip, one stumble at a time, we retraced our earlier travel. Breezes stirred the air; intermittent sun reduced the humidity while some clouds shaded the forest canopy to keep it cooler; my leg muscles and joints fought an on-going battle against gravity. And I felt it.

        Dr. Bobo and I joked, half seriously, or was it, we complained, half joking?

        "How much longer does this river bed go on?" I didn't expect Dr. Bobo to have the answer.

        "You just have to put in the distance," he responded. "Man, I thought this would level out by now," he said.

         How much farther? "I think somebody saw a stream coming down the mountain and said, 'Let's go up it.' How about some switchbacks?" I complained.

         We came to a trail junction with a sign, "Adirondack Loj .9 miles."

         "I can do that, piece of cake," Dr. Bobo said.

         "Less than one mile. Less ... than one mile." I wanted to reassure myself I could make it. My legs begged to differ. Time seemed to slow, distance seemed to stretch.

         We passed a family with two young children. There's hope.

         Plod, plod. I see the parking lot. It's all over but the after-pain, the soreness and aching, the stiffness, the grunting, and the slow shuffling gait that others, who watch me, dismiss or pay no attention, while I know what I have earned through my suffering.

         Christopher approached the car. "I forgot. I left my wallet in the car and I was looking at the ice cream and cold drinks in the shop, and saying, 'Oh, I wish I had some money.'"

         We took a few minutes to collect our wits, drink water, and buy a cold drink in the shop before we drove away, towards a distant campsite, as yet undetermined.

         Dr. Bobo looked at Primate. "How far do you want to drive?"

         "Just before dark."

         Christopher and Dr. Bobo found a suitable campground for the evening.

         We set up camp, encouraged by the owner's words, "We're not expecting rain tonight." However, we did need to fight off the local mosquito population.

         Low points - twenty three ; high points - nineteen. The odometer said we did another 115 miles today.

7/5/12          

        A clear sky and dry gear welcomed us to a new day.

        Primate drove us out of the Adirondack State Park, headed us west towards Watertown. We looked for a grocery to resupply our staples, as well as morning coffee and pastry. From Watertown the "toll road" provided a fast transit across New York, although it took us some time to cover the distance, but the road cut through forests, and so provided an ample view of trees in summer foliage. We passed through Syracuse, then Buffalo, before we nipped the northeastern corner of Pennsylvania on our way past Cleveland and through Toledo, Ohio, then briefly into Michigan to touch water of Lake Erie at an obscure and defunct marina where we considered that the low point of Michigan.

        We back tracked into Toledo, headed west across the flat, then gently rolling terrain, of northern Ohio farmlands on rural roads, where the traffic thinned and the towns grew less populated.

        "Drive, drive, drive, drive," Primate complained. But Dr. Bobo shared some of the driving and I didn't feel rushed.

        We found suitable camping near the western edge of Ohio, just twelve miles from the Indiana border.

        The humidity and temperature, both high, prompted me to say, as I looked at trees across the pond near our campsite at the Funny Farm, "The haze, from the high humidity, reminds me we're in the mid-west, land of tornadoes."

        Low points - twenty-four; high points - nineteen. Our odometer read an additional 628 miles.

Lake Champlain

7/3/12         

        Thick fog crept in during the night and greeted us when we woke. In no hurry to leave, we broke camp leisurely, and drove up the Mt. Mansfield toll road as far as it allowed. We hiked up the trail over barren rock in brisk wind.   

Primate On VT High Point.

        From Vermont's high point, 4,393 feet, the views of forested landscape in every direction seemed endless, included Lake Champlain to the west which stretched north to south as far as we could see. Beyond the lake lay New York and the Adirondack Mountains. An easy hike down brought us to the car, passing a multitude of individuals going up as we went.

        "Too many people," Primate muttered.

        I felt glad to be leaving.

        Primate drove us across Vermont in search of that historic lake we saw from atop Mt. Mansfield. Smells of the countryside alternated between the ripened odor of cow pens and the sweet fragrance of summer foliage in bloom. On the Vermont side of the new bridge at Port Henry, Lake Champlain, we parked on an obsolete ferry car-ramp and walked down to the lake where we called it the low point of Vermont.

        Dr. Bobo proclaimed, "Vermont high and low points, in one day."

        Then, we  crossed into New York and stopped near Lake Placid where we secured a campsite for the night, set up camp and went into town for dinner and refreshment.

        "Big yuppie town," Primate said.

        Low points - twenty-three; high points - eighteen. I read the odometer - 135 miles.

Fog

7/2/12          

        Although it seemed later to me when Primate pulled the car away from our campsite, Dr. Bobo said, "It's 7:55."

        The weather had been good last night and we experienced no rain nor dew, but the ground clothes, tent, and my bedding felt damp when I packed them.

        Primate drove us west towards Mt. Washington in New Hampshire. By 11:30AM we arrived at the visitor's center at the start of the "drive yourself" road up the mountain. We decided to pay for a narrated van ride lasting one and a half hours round trip.

        Views at lower elevations were best, express-train clouds obscured the mountaintop at 6,288 feet. Hail greeted us as we disembarked from the van. Would we be able to get photos of ourselves at the summit?

        We toured the gift shop and museum in the same building, then checked outside. Although clouds blocked the sun, the rain and hail had moved on. We took photos, visited the Tip Top House hotel cum museum, established 1853, then an original weather observation building, and took a look at one cog-driven trains parked at the summit before jumping back into the van for the ride down.

Train On The Summit Of Mt. Washington.

        Whoever said getting to the top needed to be difficult?

        We drove west into Vermont, our next high point objective.

        Low points - twenty two; high points - seventeen. Primate relaxed more today as we drove 249 miles.

Katahdin

6/30/12         

        After we packed up, we walked across the campground, stuck our feet in the water and called it the low point of Massachusetts. Primate drove us three miles into New Hampshire where we crossed the beach to the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, and then called that a low point. We entered Maine, stopped at the Fort McClary State Historical Site and considered the water's edge another low point.

        Heavy traffic on the toll road to and across Maine thinned as we proceeded north. We came to newly paved roadway.

        "Don't you just love the smell of asphalt in the morning?" I looked at Dr. Bobo.

        We pulled to a stop at a toll booth to pay our fare.

        "Good morning," I told the elderly lady taking our money.

        She glanced at her watch. "Oh, darn, it's still morning."

        I said loudly as Primate accelerated us away, "Hang in there."

        We passed the Androscoggin River.

        "Did you see the moose sign?" Dr. Bobo asked.

        A clear sky and lush green forests invited us northward, but, as we approached Augusta, clouds formed in the distance. Would we get rain today? Or tomorrow? The road turned and led us away from the clouds.

        Then we crossed the Kennebec and the Sebasticook Rivers, and still Primate continued to drive.

        Dr. Bobo pointed off to the left. An eagle's nest perched atop a power pole, and in the nest sat a white-headed bald eagle.

        Other clouds hung over Bangor when we stopped for food supplies. We continued northward. Dark grey clouds crossed our route as we neared our destination. We checked out one campground as more rain fell, but decided to camp closer to our next goal, if we could find a site. After several phone calls Dr. Bobo made a reservation for the last campsite available at the trail head of our next target in Baxter State Park.

        Christopher referred to information from a website he accessed with his cell phone. "This says sixty percent chance of isolated severe thunder storms."

        "Sounds ominous," I said.

        At Ruthie's in Millinocket, we had a refreshment, and bought seafood dinners to go. We agreed we didn't want to cook dinner in the event of rain. After we set up camp, Christopher and Dr. Bobo purchased wood and built a campfire, our first on the trip.

        "Now we're camping," I heard Dr. Bobo say as I returned from a trip to the car 150 feet away.

        Christopher responded, "Unlike a campground with 484 sites, like last night."

        Low points - twenty-two; high points - fifteen. We added 320 miles to the odometer today.

7/1/12         

        Clouds turned grey. Strong winds gusted and changed direction. Trees swayed in the breeze.

        We knew rain was coming, but when and how? At first the rain was light, but grew heavier and steady. We decided to go to bed.

        Dr. Bobo and I shared my tent and settled in to sleep. The sound of rain on the tent was steady.

       "I felt a drop of water," Dr. Bobo said, turned on his light. I decided to do the same. We discovered water coating the inside of the rain fly and dripping through the mosquito netting.

        "Not a big deal," Dr. Bobo concluded.

        I wasn't so sure, however, and laid awake listening to the rain until early morning when it stopped.

        We packed our gear, some of it wet, and moved the car to the "day use" parking, per park rules, and started up the last section of the Appalachian Trail, 5.2 miles and 4,200 feet higher, to Katahdin at 7AM.

        After a 15 minute walk Dr. Bobo said, "This is why I don't hike the Appalachian Trail."

        Rocks and boulders on the trail required constant negotiation. Trees blocked our view of the sky. As we gained elevation the trail steepened. Larger boulders required use of hands. At tree line, the boulders grew even larger, now we climbed up a ridge. At several points metal rods inserted as aids provided sufficient holds to avoid serious risks. We climbed steadily. By 10:45AM we sat on the top of Maine at 5,267 feet, ate lunch, and took photos, while a cold wind blew and clouds obscuring our views came and went.

Primate Finishes His Climb of Katahdin, ME High Point.

        "We're on our way home," Dr. Bobo commented. "Everything now is towards home, with a little zig-zagging."

        The wind eased and the temperature rose as we descended to the car. Clouds increased over the mountain. My knees and ankles complained of pain. I descended slowly, but by 2:07PM I arrived at the parking lot. A rest to recuperate and Primate drove us south, retracing our route to Bangor for a seafood dinner and stopped about 30 miles west for the night with hope for the absence of rain tonight and an early start tomorrow.

        Low point - twenty-two; high points - sixteen. The odometer read 127 miles.

New England

6/27/12         

        With a slow morning start we headed for Washington D.C. high and low points, although not a state, we're here and, hey, why not?

        Primate bobbed and weaved through morning traffic and parked the car within an easy stroll of Reno Point at 410 feet. Within minutes we again bobbed and weaved our way towards Jones Point in Alexandria, Virginia, the closest land spot to D.C.'s low point about 100 hundred feet from the shore line.

        East we drove, past Annapolis, across the Chesapeake Bay and turned south.

        "Hey, look," I said in a loud voice, because the windows were down to let in air, "the world's largest watermelon." I pointed and Dr. Bobo looked, but I got no response from Christopher, riding in his spot in the back seat.

        Fields of corn grew along the roadside periodically, some sprouting flowers.

        "Damn, a bug hit me," Christopher yelled. I heard a smack and looked around to see him wiping his face with his hand.

        "Got whacked by a bug"? I asked and Dr. Bobo echoed.

        We detoured into Easton to get lunch supplies.

        Dr. Bobo prepared us sandwiches of cold cuts, cheese, spicy peppers, mayo and mustard, and we consumed them as we rode.

        I detected the odor of pine, and looked to see tall specimens on both sides of the roadway. They went on for miles in thick groves and scattered amongst other trees.

        We passed a filling station advertising gas at $3.23.9 per gallon.

        "That's the record?" Dr. Bobo asked.

        "Yes," Christopher confirmed.

        We passed a sign that read, "Farm Fresh Raised Vegetables." I mentioned this to Dr. Bobo who had missed it.

        Dr. Bobo said, "Yea, free range."

        Tractors with mowing equipment worked in places to cut high grass. The smell of fresh cut grass reminded me of adolescent days when Dad would say, "I want you to cut the grass this weekend." Primate hated doing chores, but loved the smell of gasoline, and I loved the smell of fresh cut grass.

        Dr. Bobo determined Chincoteague, Virginia, offered our easiest and closest access to the ocean, another state low point. We followed a two-lane road over a marshy bay to the town. Our short lived stay lasted no more than 15 minutes.

        "This is the southern most point of this trip," Dr. Bobo pointed out.

        We headed north again towards Ocean City beach. Digital bank signs read 86 and 87 degrees. Christopher and Dr. Bobo complained about the heat, particularly when we waited at red lights. Primate drove quietly.

        Once we found the correct street, following Dr. Bobo's maps and GPS device, we parked the car and strolled through the sand to the water's edge at the boundary of Maryland and Delaware, low points for both.

        "Good enough," Dr. Bobo said.

        After each of us touched the Atlantic water we returned to the car and ventured north again.

        We settled on a campsite in northern Delaware, an easy drive to tomorrow's goals, but a stop at a seafood restaurant beforehand provided a welcomed change to our usual meal.

        "I figure you wanted to sleep," he responded.

        The campground at Lums Pond State Park, AKA Lums Mosquito Colony, proved difficult for us to  find but we arrived and set up our tents before dusk.

        Low points - fourteen; high points - ten. We added another 411 miles to our trip today.

6/28/12         

        The mosquitoes slept when we broke camp and Primate drove us north to Ebright Azimuth, Delaware's high point at 448 feet. Dr. Bobo introduced us to Doreen who lives next to the official spot and provided us with a history of the site, as well as local color. We found Doreen delightful to meet and more than helpful to us.

Primate, Christopher & Dr. Bobo Cross The Road At Ebright Azimuth, Delaware's High Point.

        Following Dr. Bobo's directions, we traveled east-southeast to Marcus Hook, Pennsylvania, and climbed over the rail at a local park to touch the water. We considered this a low point.

        Dr. Bobo explained. "This is a tidal basin and the high tidal mark counts."

        Primate continued driving as Dr. Bobo guided us northeast into New Jersey. We stopped in Perth Amboy to touch water in Raritan Bay for New Jersey's low point. Soon we crossed the bridge to Staten Island to touch the water there and consider it New York's low point. We were on a roll. We headed across New Jersey for our next objective.

        Gas prices dropped. “There’s $3.19.9,” I said.

        Later, Dr. Bobo commented, “There’s $3.13.9.”

        We speculated about how low the prices would drop. “$3.13.9 is the record, so far,” Christopher said.

        The temperature dropped noticeably as we wound around the road to High Point on Kittatinny Mountain, 1803 feet, New Jersey’s high point. An obelisk, much like the Washington Monument in D.C., stood on the summit.

        When he discovered we could climb the steps inside, Dr. Bobo said, "I'm going to climb up. Want to come?"

        I started up but soon realized, when I looked up to see the steps winding there way around the open interior, that I didn't have the nerve nor the energy to do it. I felt weak and didn't have the will to overcome my trepidation. Christopher waited outside. I walked down the hill to the car for a needed snack. Views of forested hills stretched away from us on all to the north, east and south.

        Christopher said,"I wonder if these views before settlers came were much the same as ours."

        "Probably,” I said. I couldn't see much evidence of human activity from where we stood.

        We continued our quest, headed northeast. Here and there along the way I smelled the sweet fragrance of trees, flowers and weeds in bloom.

        A good gravel road brought us the final few miles to the trail head of Mt. Frissell. Our best guesses left us to conclude we had time enough to hike the 2.6 miles, round trip, and still make our campsite destination by dusk. Good trail soon led us to steep slope with exposed rock which required use of  hands for balance. We complained, grunted, groaned as we climbed higher, but our progress was steady, in spite of the need for Dr. Bobo and I to catch our breath occasionally. Christopher went on ahead. The trail led us up, back down again, then up towards the summit of Mt. Frissell. Near the summit the trail led us down and around the mountain where we stopped at a point on the slope at the boundary of Massachusetts and Connecticut. Here we stopped at the highest point of Connecticut at 2,380 feet, on the south slope of Mt. Frissell.

        The hike up and short stop for photos took us 55 minutes, then we hurried down the mountain and within 35 minutes were at the car.

        We moved on. Primate drove north across Massachusetts, past forest and fields, towards Greylock Mountain.

        The road curved around and up until it ended at a parking lot. Primate eased us into a space.

        "That’ll be six-dollars," the attendant said as Primate turned off the car’s engine.

        The summit hike required a five-minute walk to the Greylock Monument one-quarter mile away, Massachusetts’ high point at 3487 feet. We examined the monument, looked at the surrounding countryside, took photos, and then moved on.

        South and east we went. Winding our way across Massachusetts roads into Connecticut until we crossed the Mystic River. 

        "Turn here," Dr. Bobo instructed.

        We made our way to the waterfront at Williams Beach Park. Nearby a YMCA summer camp occupied a group of young girls and boys, but we casually crossed the beach to the water, took photos, and left, our Connecticut low point achieved.

        Small town traffic lights and local vehicles slowed our progress, yet we continued our quest and headed east. Within a few miles we had crossed the border into Rhode Island.

        Vehicles filled the paid parking lots as far as we could see along Misquamicut Beach. There appeared to be available paid parking but we didn’t want to pay for a five-minute visit to the beach, so Primate and I sat in the car at a pullout while Dr. Bobo and Christopher made their pilgrimage across the road, through a parking lot, and disappeared over the sand berm.

        Several minutes passed. As agreed, Dr. Bobo returned to stay with the car while Primate and I rendezvoused with Christopher who waited near the beach, and then continued to the surf’s edge for Rhode Island’s low point.

Primate Leaves Rhode Island Low Point.

        Crowds lined the beach in both directions as far as I could see.

        Primate said, “Too many people.”

        I agreed. I didn’t like the feel of wall-to-wall people outdoors. Who would want to come here for an afternoon?

        Once photos recorded our presence here, we headed to another place, this time north through Rhode Island.

        Primate parked the car at the rise of a gentle hill. We crossed the paved road and then followed a drive padded with pine needles that muffled the sounds of our footsteps. We relished the shade of the trees. A 100 yards stroll brought us to a rock outcrop with a small stone cairn.

        Dr. Bobo referred to his GPS device. “This is it.”

        We were at the Rhode Island high point of Jerimoth Hill at 812 feet.

        Late in the day we were determined to get as far as possible during daylight. We settled on Salisbury’s State Park in Massachusetts and considered ourselves lucky to get the pick of the last two campsites of the 484 there.

        Dinner of instant rice with canned chili, spicy peppers and beer came after sunset, while we fought off insects.

        We were careful not to flaunt our beer openly since the park rules forbade alcohol. As Dr. Bobo commented in that regard, “Well, I got rid of mine as quickly as I could.”

        Low points – nineteen; high points - fifteen.