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.