The drive to our campground near Bethel, New Hampshire was relatively uneventful. It was in rain, of course. We arrived at the campground and told the lady who stopped by to welcome us - the office was officially closed at the time, two thirty in the afternoon - that it might be more appropriately named hilltop something. The driveway into the campground was steep, very steep. However, the site was a pull through and fairly flat, a plus compared to some places we had been.
We went to the office at three to check in at the time the office opened. Bill, the office guy, gave suggestions as to places we might go to to sight see. He acted as though he had not done it before and we were thinking that this stop might be a bust.
Hooking up the rv and unhooking the car had been no problem, so we decided to check out the town of Bethel. Gin had heard so many good things about the town, our expectations were high. It was a nice town. It was a nice town. It was a nice town. No, I did not have a stroke. It was a nice town. There was nothing there of interest to even stop and look into. We drove around several times and explored every nook and cranny in about 42 seconds flat. It was a nice town.
Moving on... We then decided to go to one of the scenic places that Bill recommended, Grafton Notch. It was still spritzing rain, but we didn't have anything else to do, so we went. As it turned out, the main attraction was not the falls that we saw, but the fall foliage at its peak. The colors were overwhelming. The colors were overwhelming - see no stroke above. There were brilliant reds, yellows, oranges, and they were everywhere we looked. Nothing Gin or I had ever seen could compare. This foliage made the whole trip worth it. This foliage made the - well, you get it.
One little item of interest was our hybrid which gets a bazillion miles per galleon of gas. Since it was twenty eight miles out to the end of where we going and we had seventy some miles left according to the gas digital readout, I thought that we could gas up on the way out and have a margin of error. There were no gas stations on the way out. I could repeat this sentence here, but you are probably tire of that. REALLY, THERE WERE NO GAS STATIONS ANYWHERE. Gulp! Normally, I am not one to worry about this situation, but not only were there no gas stations, there were no houses, no people, signs of civilization, no signal on Gin's smart phone to check where civilization was, and only one moose on the way as we started worrying - and the moose wasn't talking. She was just munching away and could care less about how our dried bones would look to future adventurers who had the gasoline in their tanks like they should have.
Finally, we came across a road crew, the only human beings (some might dispute that, but they were one of the prettiest sights our sore eyes have seen) to ask where we could find a gas station. We were told the nearest one was probably in a small town in New Hampshire, remember that we started in Maine. Part of the plan I had for gas was to get to Upton, Maine, a small town on the map. When we passed through Upton, there were three houses spread a half mile apart, two of which were dilapidated ones with nine vehicles surrounding them in West Virginia's state car color, rust with primer red in a few spots. No sign of life was around them. The third house had a picture of Anthony Perkins on the front door.
So, I babied the hybrid like I never have before. The gas mileage for that ten miles was probably two bazillion miles per galleon. Anticlimactically, we got there and put gas in the car. To make a play on an old commercial, "How do you spell relief?" G a s
We went to a place in Bethel suggested by Bill for dinner. Had pizza in the dining room because the pub in the basement had a waiting list. Pizza was goooooooood! Gin had a Sam Adams draft. What a treat for us.
Tomorrow, we are off to Rangely Lakes, high altitude bodies of water......
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