Leaving the Shire
July 24, 2023
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“Hey Siri? Why are barns red?” I ask as Rollsbud and I trundle down a long road somewhere in New York.
It’s early and the day is already heating up after an impressive morning thunderstorm.
There’s a roiling mist spinning off of every surface and obscuring bits of the mountains to my right.
The sun seems to be jabbing itself in sharp angles through any break it can find in the lingering storm clouds — making everything I see through the windshield look ultra saturated against the gray sky. The road is a slick black snake split in two by sunflower yellow stripes winding through the greener-than-green cornfields. The trees seem both as intensely green as the corn and yet splotchily faded in the mist. It gives the effect of a color-corrected old-timey photo, which makes the rundown farmhouses seem new - and every. stinking. one of them. is a bright, storybook red. Clifford the Big Red Dog red. …Why?
“Here’s what I found,” says Siri:
In the late 18th century, New England farmers applied a protective varnish to barn surfaces. The varnish usually contained some mixture of linseed oil, lime, or iron oxide, which overtime would rust. When paint became more available, many people chose red paint for their barns in honor of tradition.
Go figure.
I had spent the weekend visiting my cousin (Nick) and his girlfriend (Rex) at their house just a smidge south of Ithaca, NY. They’ve named their homestead The Shire and it’s easy to see why. It’s a tiny Hobbit hole of a house nestled on a large plot of land that they are transforming into a naturalist’s wet dream. Inside is just as green as out, thanks to Nick’s obsession with bonsai (@thegrovetender).
Y’all… they met while working at a greenhouse. I mean, come on!
I seem to have arrived at their Hobbit haven precisely when I needed to. As a newly self-employed, vehicle-dwelling nomad… days of the week have begun to blur on my mental calendar. After only three weeks as my own boss on the road, I feel as though I’m working all the time… or when I’m not, like I should be. Plus, for the past two years, every second of spare time has been devoted to converting Rollsbud. Even though the adventure feels as though it has just begun, I need to rest, but I don’t quite remember how. By invading this pastoral paradise on a weekend, I’m able to relearn what it means to relax. Nick and Rex are eager teachers.
We sit and sip coffee from giant mugs. We watch the sunrise over their pond while we chat about nothing and everything. Nick makes big beautiful breakfasts (and second breakfasts, and elevenses). We pop into Ithaca for a quick shopping trip, but are soon back at The Shire, baking cookies, making butter, swimming in the pond. Evenings end with movies and stargazing. Two days of perfection.
The Shire; 2. water lily; 3. the barn (which is in fact blue); 4. churning my keep; 5. morning cobwebs; 6. VanLife: Your Home on the Road ; 7.private pond; 8. staircase in Home Green Home - 126 E State St, 215 “The Commons,” Ithaca, NY 14850; 9. swimming in the pond; 10. Rollsbud; 11. sunset over NY farmland
I’m a spoiled guest and a lawless nomad so it takes me a moment to recognize the change in my hosts when it comes. I realize the Sunday Scaries have descended on both of them. None of us want the weekend to end, but I can feel the heaviness of their 9 to 5s weighing on them like anchors. Having recently exempted myself from the burden of Mondays, part of me pities them, part of me, I realize, is jealous.
Anchors are heavy, yes, but they have to be to hold you in place. If it’s a place you want to be, it’s a comfort, something to hold onto. If not, you’re stuck. I have loved and resented many anchors over the years. In starting my vanlife adventure, I’ve cut myself loose from nearly every anchor I’ve ever known.
Is being unmoored the same as being lessened? Lessoned?
I’m not used to drifting.
The open ocean is too big.
I’m in a 2003 Ford dinghy for crying outloud.
That I built myself.
Oh god I’m going to drown.
Nick and Rex offer repeatedly for me to stay in their little harbor for as long as I want or need to. I love them for offering, but even my confused inner clock knows that it’s time to go.
Anchors aweigh.
When Monday morning comes (as it always does) I glance out the guest room window to see a blood red sunrise.
“Red sky at night, sailors delight. Red sky at dawn, sailors be warned.”
I barely finish whispering the (superstition? saying?) to myself when BOOM! An enormous thunder clap shakes The Shire. The red sun is swallowed by black clouds and sheets of rain come crashing down, shattering the surface of the pond and pummeling the poor pink water lily we floated with just the day before.
What a time to set sail.
“Hey Siri? Why am I going?”
“At the next light, turn right onto 81 N towards…”
“Yes I know that, but, why?”
“Keep left to merge onto…”
I turn on my audiobook to spare Siri anymore of this Abbott & Costello routine but more so to distract myself from any other nagging existential questions.
An hour or so later, I see a road sign that says Cortland County. Cortland is a familiar name to me from my theatre admin days. Cortland Repertory Theatre. Is that near here? By now I’ve spent enough time in my atlas (Rand McNally 2022 Road Atlas & National Park Guide) to know there’s:
a Richmond, NY,
a Philadelphia, NY,
and a Cleveland, NY.
There’s a Middletown in every state for crying out loud.
Maybe the theatre I’m thinking of is in Cortland, TN?
At that moment, my driver’s side wiper blade goes off axis. Instinctively I hit the brakes. The latch on one of the drawers behind me fails and slides forward. In unison the drawer and I say “ShhhhhhhhhhhhhhiT” as we come to a stop.
Carefully, I pull into the first parking lot I can find to make repairs. While I’m stopped I figure I’ll look up where the heck CRT is just for shits and chorus lines. Siri tells me it’s 7 minutes away from where I’m stopped!
I’m still 4+ hours away from the free campsite I have on my radar for tonight.
Should I make the detour?
Why?
Why not?
What’s the point of any of this?
It’s 7 minutes.
It’s 7 minutes.
Who knows when you’ll be this way again?
Just go. That’s the point, isn’t it?
What Siri hasn’t told me, is that most of the streets surrounding the theatre are being repaved. My little detour hits detour after detour after detour. Finally, I see the facade of the building.
Great.
It looks like a building. Good job! You saw it. Can we go now?
My brain cycles like this for the rest of the day. Like warring toddlers in the backseat.
I name them YOLO and FOMO
“Can we sto0o0op?” says YOLO.
“I’m hungry!” screams FOMO.
“Keep left to continue on 81 N” says Siri.
Oh look at that! Can we stop? I wanna go home! What does that sign say? Can we stop? I don’t wanna stop! When are we gonna get there? Are we there yet? I’m hungry!
I stop at Chapman Park for lunch on Oneida Lake. I can see on my map there are two beaches further up the road. Maybe the view of the lake I can already see is better from over there. I burn a quarter of a tank of gas deciding where to stop again to see the lake I already saw.
Oneida Lake is the largest lake entirely within New York state, with a surface area of 79.8 square miles. The lake is located northeast of Syracuse and near the Great Lakes. It feeds the Oneida River, a tributary of the Oswego River, which flows into Lake Ontario.
The $7 admission fee to Verona Beach State Park finally forces me to stay put and get my moneys worth.
For $7, it’s a great value. A beautiful beach with lifeguards, shaded picnic areas, and pristine bathrooms (the flushing kind!). Heck, for a few more dollars I could claim a spot in their campground tonight.
Verona Beach State Park is a 1,735-acre state park located on the eastern shore of Oneida Lake in the Town of Verona, Oneida County, New York. The park is located on NY 13 northwest of the City of Oneida and south of Sylvan Beach. 6541 Lakeshore Road South, Route 13, Verona Beach, NY 13162. (43.176266,-75.728050). Admission $7.00
“But I wanted to camp in the Adirondacks tonight!” screams one of my brain toddlers.
“Fine, say goodbye to the seagulls and get back in the bus!"
Three hours later, I see the welcome sign for the Moose River Plains Wild Forest Area. A wave of relief washes over me. The little red dot I’ve been chasing on my phone’s GPS all day has finally materialized in front of me. I found it. I’m not lost. I’m where I’m supposed to be.
The toddlers are finally asleep. Exhausted from yelling at me all day.
Temporary parking spot for The Rollsbud Motel while I sign the registry at Moose River Plains Wild Forest. Moose River Plains Wild Forest is part of the 80,000 acre Moose River Plains Complex, a collection of public lands crossed by more than 40 miles of old dirt logging roads. There are 130 miles of marked trails within the complex, as well as more than 100 primitive roadside tent sites, 65 waterbodies, 100 miles of streams, and a fire tower on Wakely Mountain.
To prove it’s actually real, I sign the registry:
Why sign a registry?: When traveling alone, it’s extra important that you register as often as you can - for safety and as a civic duty. Registries serve as last known points (LKP) for search teams and as sort of census public areas are seeking funding. Use a trail name if you’d like to preserve some anonymity or androgyny.
It’s another 8 miles down a very bumpy road to get to the cluster of free campsites in the area. We crawl along at a glacial 10 mph. I feel each bump jostle YOLO and FOMO. I brace myself for them to start crying “What are we doing here?!” “I wanna go home!” but mercifully neither of them wake up. I’m dancing with anticipation.
Practically singing I say,
“Hey Siri, where does the name Adirondack come from?”
“Hey Siri?”
“Hey Siri!”
Zero bars of service.
My HomeFi hotspot is made to latch onto the strongest cell signal available regardless of carrier. It worked great at Verona Beach! Here, though?…there’s no Verizon, but maybe AT&T? T-Mobile?
No such luck.
No one can hear me now…
Being unable to text Nick or Rex…anyone…to let them know I made it to camp safely makes me feel like I didn’t…
I climb out of the drivers seat.
Push my stupid broken drawer back into place.
I attempt to cook dinner, but something is wrong with one of the burners and it melts the plastic on the control knob.
Then the rain starts…
Welcome to the Adirondacks. Whatever those are.
Much love,
Rachel & Rollsbud
