The Road To Hell

June 13, 2013

Last night's storm left little evidence of its ominous grip on we patrons of the Holiday Express in Portland, Indiana; only receding puddles, a blustery wind and overcast sky with sporadic rain in the forecast. I felt occasional drops while unwrapping the Harley and stuffing its now dry cover into the saddlebag. After a tasty and filling breakfast in the lobby I returned to my room and suited up for what I anticipated would be a rainy ride to Hell.

According to television's travel channel, the small community of "Hell" is  a "must see" for those who meander off the beaten interstate when traveling through Michigan. I watched that episode a year or so ago and decided to check the place out since it is on my route north.
 
(Click)    Visit Hell Here

Eastbound out of Portland, I retraced my route to Fort Recovery and turned north where, suddenly, mood-enhancing blue sky stretched to the horizon. I rode deeper into the barn-dotted countryside of Ohio, across miles and miles of rich-green farmland and among sprouting silos. No rain in sight. But I was comfortable in my rain gear and felt no need to take it off for it cut the chill, something I hadn't felt since crossing the high desert of West Texas in April.

Surprisingly, Ms Garmin and I were getting along just fine for most of the day.  I followed her lead along a variety of sparsely populated roads as we diagonaled north toward Michigan, only questioning her wisdom once. Actually, it was a mere case of "double-checking" and just because of a convenient spot to stop in the town of Rockford to tap the "zoom out" button and check the overall perspective. Turns out she was right. She muttered something about my lack of trust and I countered with her inability to find "Hell". Being the angel she is, it wasn't on her radar, she snickered, adding that it must not be a real town.  I reminded her Google Earth had no problem finding Hell. If we were lucky we'd just happen onto it between Chelsea and Howell, Michigan, our ultimate destination because I knew there was no lodging in Hell.

Meanwhile, we rode on to Van Wert and eventually to the city of Defiance where, soon afterward, we found ourselves on a "turnpike" that soon came to a barricaded, pay-or-stay end. Good thing I had some pocket money. The self-pay machine wasn't up to negotiating. We're not used to this turnpike stuff out west.

As pleasant as the ride was, it was a tiring day. Though there were ample stretches of high-throttle-straight-roads, there was also a lot of clutch-handing my way through numerous stop lights in various towns. By the time I reached Chelsea, Michigan I was ready to call it a day and wheeled into the breezeway of Comfort Suites where I braced for a price quote in the 90-dollar range. I was too tired to argue. Although only 27 miles from Howell, and close to Hell, I thought why go to Hell when tired? Why not get a fresh start in the morning?

The desk clerk said she had one room left, a "double-queen," for $225. I uttered a jaw-dropping "wow" as I scanned the lobby, looking for evidence of anything that would justify such a ridiculous price. Nothing. It all looked pretty normal to me. The good news is that, suddenly, I was re-energized. I'd ride to Canada before paying such an absurd price. 

With no intent to negotiate, just disbelief, I couldn't help but say to the clerk I'd never heard of such a price for an average looking motel. 

"That's what rooms go for around here," she answered with a slightly defensive tone, but finally added, "NASCAR is in town."

I took that to mean rabid fans of NASCAR had swarmed the town and were willing to pay any price for a room, which also explained why there was only one vacancy left long before dark. It started to make gradual sense to me (not to be confused with complete sense).

Inasmuch as I'd rather be in Hell, I asked for directions. The desk clerk was more than happy to oblige. No, she answered, it's not along the direct route to Howell but on a seldom used backroad. She computerized and printed a small map for me to take along. 

Perhaps to my credit, I was not impressed with Hell, which, in my opinion, had been highly overrated by the Travel Channel. Maybe because there was absolutely nothing there, just two ..... count 'em ... two buildings; three if you include the Dam Site Inn, a restaurant/bar on the outskirts. Under more comfortable circumstances I might have tried it out for dinner, but a cloud-darkening sky and lack of lodging put my hunger on hold. Besides, I still hadn't found "the town". Had I known it was just around the curve I'd have walked. I re-parked in a gravel lot between the other two buildings and thought, "what now?" 

I took a few pictures then wandered into the store and browsed assorted souvenirs; T-shirts, ball caps and coffee mugs were embossed with whimsical sayings that included the word, Hell.  "I've Been Through Hell And Back", was a common slogan. Most of the merchandise was like that found in stores nationwide during Halloween season and nothing made me want to unholster my wallet. The stool-perched girl behind the counter had been studying her fingernails all the while and only looked up to advise, "Have a Helluva nice day" as I left the building.

Needless to say, my time in Hell was short-lived. I mounted up and rode the remaining 13 miles to Howell where I paid $79 for a room at the Best Western just as the rain started. Perfect timing.

The Road To Hell Video (Part 1)

 The Road To Hell Video (Part 2)

Doing Time In Hell

Dam Site Inn

There's a Chapel In Hell

Devilish Signs

Miniature Golf

Novelty Shop

Alone In Hell

The Other Side Of Hell

Leaving Hell

2013 0613 Portland, IN to Howell, MI 232 Miles

Whether Weather Matters

June 12, 2013

Morning Report: (Portland, Indiana) A relaxing morning, biding time at the Holiday Express and enjoying their ample breakfast before heading back to Fort Recovery. The museum doesn't open until 12-noon so there's no hurry to get the day started. Although, according to the weather channel, it might behoove me to hasten the end of any excursions today due to severe thunderstorms predicted for later, probably this evening; strong wind and hail is on the menu. 

Return To Fort Recovery: I rode east under an increasingly cloudy sky, arriving a short time later across the state line at Fort Recovery to continue my exploration of St Clair's Defeat. I noticed Ohio's gasoline price is 3.89 per gallon while Indiana it is around 4.20, at least in Portland. According to Indiana news the temporary spike has to do with refinery issues. Whatever. I filled up in Ohio.

The State Line

 

13 Miles To Fort Recovery

Video

I spent a few hours touring the museum, the fort and the brick-streeted town.

See All About It: (Click the links)

THE TOWN

THE MUSEUM

THE MUSEUM BASEMENT

THE FORT

THE MONUMENT 

Fort Recovery Museum

The Fort

The sky was a little darker on the ride back; the wind a little gusty. Mindful of  tonight's predicted storm, I parked the Harley up close to a large maintenance shed at the corner of the back lot, within view of my window. It is handily positioned to block the wind and might also deflect any hail if it falls at a wind-directed-angle. I put the cover on the bike and stretched bungee cords underneath, cinching it down. That should do it.

Later: There was time to do laundry before supper. I obtained soap and dryer sheets at the front desk and entered the one-machine laundry room as a man was finishing up, hanging on hangers what appeared to be utility uniforms and clearing the dryer of the last of his clothes as he helpfully explained the controls to me. 

I completed my laundry and walked to the Buffalo Wings And Rings restaurant across the parking lot where I'd eaten last night. They make a very good gyro sandwich and I figured to have another. I did. Ate on the covered patio, listening to the rumble of distant thunder while watching the sky grow darker. Occasionally, grape-sized rain drops exploded on the adjacent sidewalk and I chewed a little faster, thinking I should have brought my hooded rain jacket for the walk back. I was far from being drenched but scurried quickly, head down, into the turbulent wind.

Northwest Corner of Portland, Indiana

It was near dark when I peered out the window of my first-floor room to check on the Harley, its cover billowing upward like a parachute. Things might hold if the storm gets no worse, I thought, closing the curtains and focusing on the evening project -- transferring/cataloging photos and working on blog videos.

Time passed. Background chatter from the weather channel caught my attention. Tornadoes were breaking out all around Chicago as several thunderstorms joined forces on a southeastward path. Ummm? Chicago is a long way from here, 212 miles according to Google Earth, and I'm right comfortable in my well-insulated room. Wouldn't even know a storm was brewing unless I looked outside, which I did and .... MAN OH MAN! .....  Lightening flashes revealed "white caps" in the parking lot. Somewhere in the darkness was the Harley but I couldn't see it. It was on its own. Wouldn't be surprised if the cover was sailing somewhere over Cincinnati by now.

An emergency alert sounded, drawing my attention back to the TV where I saw the scrolling words ... TORNADO WARNING ! And they weren't talking about Chicago anymore. Nope ... Jay County, wherever that is. I checked Google Earth and discovered it's RIGHT HERE!  Instructions were to take shelter; stay away from windows. 

I noted the time -- 11:30 p.m. and wondered if anyone else was still up? I stepped into the hallway and saw silent, trance-faced guests wandering about, reminiscent of the scene in the movie, Titanic, when confused passengers, in like manner, wandered the listing passageways of the doomed ship.

I recognized the guy from the laundry standing at the laundry door. He was down from the 2nd floor on orders from the desk clerk who was calling everyone on the upper floors to come to ground level, the safest place if we get hit by a tornado. He figured the windowless laundry room was a good place to hide.

The man was from Cookeville, Tennessee, here on business; working on commercialized air-conditioning units. I told him I'd done time in Cookeville, at the Harley shop a couple of weeks back, making us practically neighbors. We quickly bonded and he shared with me some updated knowledge from a weather "AP" on his smart phone. He pointed to three red triangles, saying each represented a tornado and the one on the bottom was 5 to 8 miles away traveling toward us at 16 mph. According to lighter shades of red fanning from the triangles, showing their projected path, the bottom one had us in mind. Not Good! 

I wondered at what point I should go hide in my bathtub? Meanwhile, we strolled down the center hallway toward the front desk, observing others who shared our concern.  Some folks were watching TV in the lounge where the word Tornado still scrolled. A band of young men, standing too close to the sliding glass entry doors, causing them to open and close automatically, whooped and hollered, daring one another to run outside and back whenever a burst of marble-sized hail hammered the breezeway. They were ordered to stay away from the door by the outnumbered desk clerk who was doing her best to minimize anxiety among the guests. Most stood about making small talk, a form of denial I suppose, for none seemed any too interested in the triviality of the conversations. All we could do was wait, hope and pray.

At the stroke of midnight the desk clerk (who was in apparent contact with local emergency services) gave us the "all clear" announcement, saying the upper floor guests could return to their rooms. But according to that guy's smart phone the red triangle was still headed our way? He left before I knew what became of us. I guess we're okay.

Weather Report (Video)

Fort Recovery, Ohio

June 11, 2013

In the fall of 1791, gout-suffering General Arthur St Clair led an under-trained and poorly-equipped army of soldiers into the northwestern frontier, under orders from President George Washington, to suppress ongoing Indian hostilities against white settlers in that region ceded by the British at the end of the American Revolution. The Indians, most of whom were confederates of the British during the war, were considered by President Washington in violation of the Treaty of Paris, the document marking an end to the war and relinquishing all formerly held British land east of the Mississippi River to the new nation, The United States of America. Of course the Indians disagreed. They hadn't been represented at the Treaty of Paris and had signed nothing. To them, the unwanted settlers were intruders, as was any army sent to protect them.

Plagued by desertion and illness during the month-long march from Fort Washington to the intended destination near present day Fort Wayne, Indiana, St Clair's army of 600 regulars, 800 six-month conscripts and 600 poorly disciplined militia had dwindled from 2,000 to 1,486. They were massacred by a confederation of Indian tribes in early morning (Nov 4th) before they could break camp. Only 48 survived uninjured and only by running for their lives. The human loss is said to have been 3 times greater than the Custer slaughter 85 years later. 

The 4-hour battle would come to be known as St. Clair's Defeat, though its official name would be Battle of The Wabash for its location at the headwaters of the Wabash River.  Among the 39 officers killed was 32-year-old Inslee Anderson, a veteran of the Battles of Brandywine and Germantown during the American Revolution. He is listed among the dead only as "Adjutant Anderson." He left behind two orphaned sons, their mother having died 5 years earlier. The boys would be raised by Inslee's brother, Joseph Inslee Anderson, who  became the 4th state senator in the newly formed state of Tennessee and, later, the first Comptroller of the U.S. Treasury. One of the boys, also named Joseph Anderson, would grow up and have descendants of his own, one of whom is my wife, Sherry. Adjutant Anderson was her 5th great grandfather.

Three years after St. Clair's Defeat a better prepared army, commanded by General Anthony Wayne, waged a victorious fight against the Indians and built a fort on the site of the original battle, aptly naming it "Fort Recovery". The village that later formed retains the name and maintains a replica of the original fort that has long since weathered away.

And so it is, I have personal reasons for visiting the little known town of Fort Recovery, Ohio. Because it's apparently too small to have a motel I'm staying 13 miles west in Portland, Indiana at the Holiday Express where I've booked two nights.

Today was beautiful riding weather, all 255 miles of the ride. Though I could have shaved off an hour, and 50 miles, by traveling the direct route through Indianapolis, I chose to meander the numerous two lane highways that weave a diagonal path across the state. The GPS was on her best behavior. Led me through mazes all day with nary a glitch. Highlights from today's ride are shown in the video below:

Smugmug

After off-loading my gear at the motel, I decided to spend what was left of this bright and clear afternoon at Fort Recovery, a short distance away. Standing in the city park, and visible from most areas of town, is a tall obelisk, a monument commemorating the victims of St. Clair's Defeat erected in 1913 atop the mass grave where their remains are buried. Though all soldiers are not listed, names of the officers are engraved on the walls at the base of the monument.

By the time I finished with pictures and pondering the history, the nearby fort and museum were closed. Not a problem in that I fully intend to return tomorrow.

Entering The Small Town of Fort Recovery, Ohio

Monument Commemorating The Victims of St. Clair's Defeat

 

Officer Names

Only Last Names Are Listed

MORE PICTURES

For Magnification Click HERE Then Click Again

Washington, Indiana To Portland, Indiana (255 Miles)

On Tour With Jim

June 7, 2013

Jim picked me up at my room about 10 a.m. this morning and we met Terri and two grandsons (9-year-old Ashton and his younger brother, Alton) at a nearby restaurant.  Mannerly boys, they joined the breakfast conversation and eagerly recounted their hunting and fishing exploits. Ashton told of his recent success on a turkey hunt with their father and Alton shared his experience of catching a 7-pound catfish.

Having lived his whole life in and around Washington, Jim knows the countryside like the back of his hand and is happy to drive me around, showing me the sights. Given my fascination with Amish culture, he humored me with an excursion along the backroads east of town where the sect is most prominent, all the while with me wielding two cameras in an attempt to capture the moment through the windshield.

Video

Women, dressed in their Amish attire were working in various yards we passed. I saw more than one operating gas-powered weed-eaters, dust and rocks flying up around their bare legs. Two others were rolling down a driveway on a full-sized tractor. Jim shared his knowledge, saying you never see the men doing yard work, just the women. As for the modern conveniences, he says it depends on whether they are "new order" or "old order" Amish, the "new order" being more in tune with modern living. Seemingly a dying breed, there are fewer and fewer "old order" Amish left. Also, it's hard to tell the Amish and Mennonites apart. Both are prominent in the area, the latter being much more progressive. Chuckling at the irony, Jim says though Amish reject electricity, many keep food in the freezers of their English friends/neighbors and depend on them for automobile transportation from time to time. 

The distinguishing characteristic of the Amish --- the horse and buggy --- is still a common sight in the area, so much so, says Jim, the buggy wheels and horse shoes, especially because cleats are added for traversing icy roads in winter, wear ruts in the asphalt. He pointed to lengthy road patches and said there has been talk of creating special off road paths for the Amish but that's as far as it's gotten, just the talking stage.

PICTURES

The day went quickly and it was nearing appointment time for the big interview. We met with Terri, Britney and the newspaper reporter at Britney's and made it through the interview with minimal pain. Here it is:

Larger Image in Smugmug

I told the reporter of my Smugmug site from where she later selected the Tonkin Gulf sunrise picture of Jim and me in 1971. An interesting coincidence is ball-cap wearing Jim standing with nearly an identical pose in both pictures, with his left forearm at a 45 degree angle.

Larger Image in Smugmug

 

Me-n-Jim

Britney, Jim, Terri and Lucy

June 8, 2013

After a deli sandwich at "The Amish Kountry Korner" we headed west about 20 miles to  Vincennes, a fair-sized city on the banks of the Wabash River, which serves as the south border between Indiana and Illinois. In addition to being the hometown of the late comedian, Red Skelton, Vincennes is famous for its historic affiliation with famed frontier leader George Rogers Clark who wrested the area from the British during the American Revolution.  A memorial, honoring Clark, stands next to the river on the west side of town.  After a visit to the memorial, where, in the adjacent park, a pioneer re-enactment was just finishing up, Jim and I stumbled upon a Vietnam-era Army Display at the Military Museum in town. Although it was, by then, after 5 p.m. and the building was closed, the outside event was still open to the public. 

Had Lunch at The Amish Kountry Korner

Vincennes, Indiana

Frontier Re-en-actors, Vincennes, Indiana

Black Powder Shooting Explanation

George Rogers Clark Memorial

George Rogers Clark Memorial

Military Museum, Vincennes, Indiana

Jim On The .50 Caliber

MORE PICTURES

"Boy, we hit the jackpot today," Jim mused on the drive back to Washington, reflecting on our day of touristic overload. We were home in time to catch grandson Alton's T-Ball game at a nearby ball-field.

I spent another day in Washington, touring the area and visiting with Jim and his many family members and friends. Having listened to my GPS tales of losing myself in America, Jim sent me off with a spare road atlas for back up and, as a reminder of my visit to Indiana, a red-hooded sweatshirt emblazoned with his state's name and university logo.  I will treasure the memories of our enjoyable visit and look forward to the next one, which will hopefully be sooner than 41 years.

On To Indiana

Video 

June 6, 2013

The drizzling rain I woke to made me want to call in sick today. Not an inviting thought to ride 150 miles in the rain but I told my old friend, Jim, I'd be in his town of Washington, Indiana on this day. We've put off this visit for 41 years and time is running out. Better saddle up.

Due to road spray, riding even in light rain means getting drenched from the knees down. Loose-legged rain pants don't quite solve the problem, which is why I strap on gators and connect them to my gortex lined boots. Once going through the preparation it is actually frustrating if the rain quits. And it did just that by the time I reached Interstate 65 for the short jaunt south to a stretch of highway leading to Radcliff. The road dried but clouds still threatened. Rather than having to go through the rain preparation again I stayed suited, locked in humid warmth, only tolerable if I kept moving. 

I've heard about Fort Knox all my life but never thought I'd be there. And I wasn't. But according to road signs I was passing right by it, somewhere. Never saw a speck of gold. Another item of interest I passed right by and might have stopped to look at if more convenient was the General George Patton Museum.

By the time I reached the town of Brandenburg the fact I hadn't eaten breakfast gave rise to the mental debate on whether to stop and un-suit for a restaurant stop, only to have to re-suit for more rain down the road. I compromised, stopping in a spot of shade and wolfing down a granola bar, chased by a few swigs from my water bottle. I motored on sweat free.

My chosen route took me through lots towns and every hoped for green light was red. I wondered if my decision to avoid Interstates was such a wise choice. Soon however, I crossed the Ohio River and a few miles farther north was a left turn onto 75-mph Interstate 64. The miles flew by.

I've never been to Indiana but always imagined it flat as a pancake and low in elevation. I was surprised when the GPS told me the hills I was rolling through were averaging 600 to 800 feet and some might have topped 1000 feet. The terrain did start to drop and flatten out by the time I took the Ferdinand exit and stopped for lunch at a handy, crowd-free Wendy's. From there it was 42 miles to Washington on the farm-bordered two-lane leading through Ferdinand, Jasper and Otwell.

I checked into Theroff's Motel on the east side of Washington and gave Jim Dant a call. Soon afterward he was knocking on the door of my room and, after 41 years, we were once again in face to face conversation. Though we'd already become reacquainted via telephone over the past few months, it was a monumental moment to finally meet once again. The years had erased the skinny kid images we projected when we were 22 years old but the personalities and voice inflections hadn't changed much and it wasn't long until we felt we'd never been apart.

Jim took me to his home where I met his wife, Terri, and daughter Britney who'd stopped by with grandbaby Lucy to accompany us to dinner at the town's favored Mexican Restaurant where we all enjoyed a "get acquainted" conversation and Jim and I made plans for tomorrow's excursion in the nearby countryside. 

Terri reminded Jim we needed to be at Britney's home by 3 p.m. for an arranged newspaper interview regarding the momentous occasion of our being reunited after 41 years. It was a chore neither Jim nor I looked forward to but, given the importance Terri and Britney affixed to it, we played along.

Bardstown, Kentucky to Washington, Indiana (155 Miles)