Antpocalypse Now

“And all the little ants are marching, Red and black antennas waving; They all do it the same, They all do it the same way.”— Dave Matthews Band; Ants Marching

Late one evening, Kristy told me that she was seeing some ants in the RV.  I gave her my “what do I look like, an entomologist?”-look before realizing this was going to be MY problem regardless of how I tried to package it.  I told her it was probably a few feral “scouts” who were lost and I’d investigate further in the morning.

While I slumbered, a massive logistical mobilization was underway.  Tens of thousands of ants—under the orders of their “I can’t live in this flooded burrow any longer” queen—had grabbed all of their personal belongings and relocated into the more comfortable confines of Chateau Walker de Mobile.  [Note: we later found that this was the name they used in reference to or rig, as all ants are of French lineage.]

When I awoke, I was no less surprised than any adolescent who stared in amazement at the complete overnight transformation that occurs in one’s own abode on Christmas Eve.  There were ants.  Thousands of ants.  Everywhere.  There were ants on my night stand.  Ants in the shower.  Ants on the walls.  And to my horror (and Kristy’s quiet approbation) ants in my 6-pack of maple-glazed apple fritters that I had just purchased from La Walmart Patisserie.  NOW this was a crisis!

“I really knew I wanted to be “Adam,” because Adam was the first man.  “Ant” I chose because, if there's a nuclear explosion, the ants will survive.” –Adam Ant; Musician

With the exception of the red imported fire ant (Solenopsis invita)—whose past primogenitors and future progeny I maliciously despise with extreme prejudice—I actually like ants.  During my primary educational years, ants were generally depicted as hard-working, socially-responsible, and level-headed (well...the ecdysial cleavage is somewhat level).  Against many mother’s wishes, “ant farms” were peddled as “natural learning tools” to help young kids develop an appreciation for working all of their lives for the betterment of a monarch or oppressive ruling party.  Bedtime stories were written, exalting the tenacious work ethics of The International Brotherhood of Formicidae members, and their distain for non-unionized grasshoppers.  Even Saturday morning cartoons showcased The Ant as the arthropod we all wish we could grow up to be; displaying seemingly effortless charisma and self-assuredness, a “living-loose lifestyle,” and universally recognizable Dean Martin voice. 

With such an engrained reverence for these creatures with the Ethel Granger waist, you can imagine my shock and disappointment when I discovered that there was a coup d'état in-progress for control of our rig.  I grabbed my trusty reading glasses and a flashlight, and set-out in search of the origin of this infestation.  Upon closer inspection of the rig, I was seriously impressed with the degree of logistical planning that had gone into this invasion. 

“We rebuilt the colony; better than before, because now we have a very large indoor swimming pool.” –“Z” from Disney’s Antz

There were bi-directional columns of ants infiltrating our trailer via the electrical supply cables, water hoses, tires, and stabilizer jacks.  Every point that had ground contact was being used to relocate the colony into our home.  They were now fully entrenched in our walls, our cabinets, and our under-belly storage area.   There were active trails along every piece of molding, every pipe, and every seam.  We had been invaded.

I realized that they could not be reasoned with, and—even with their French genetics—would not retreat without cause.  I had to create a plan to forcibly remove them from our abode.  I headed to the nearest big-box do-it-yourself store—keeping my mind occupied with the “BunnyTuna” sign that I passed en route—and headed to the pesticide aisle.  Although I had allowed my Department of Defense Pesticide Applicator’s License to lapse, I still wanted to “bring the big guns.”  I was somewhat disappointed by selection of lesser killing agents, so I grabbed a few cans that had the most ominous graphics of an insect dying in agony.  

Once back at the campsite, I received a mission update (from The General) regarding the current status of opposing forces.  It went something like this:

“Are you going to do anything about these ants?  They’re everywhere.”  

I know most of you won’t fully understand all the operational jargon of that mission brief, but trust me when I tell you that things were looking really bad.

I quickly employed a plan of attack, borrowing a strategy from the Desert Storm mastermind, General “Stormin’” Norman Schwarzkopf. Since I planned on using chemical weapons, I decided not to seek out a coalition of my neighboring campers; nor did I seek any resolutions or community sanctions from the campground host to try and pressure the ants to return to their own borders. This was my battle, and I was going it alone.  Seeing how the ants had a propensity for plundering and pillaging pastries, I deemed my mission OPERATION DESSERT STORM. 

“The horror…the horror…” – Colonel Walter E. Kurtz from Apocalypse Now

The first wave of attack focused on their infrastructure.  I took out the electrical cables, water hoses, wheels, and landing gear pathways; cutting off the forward army from the safe confines of their subterranean lair.  With a pesticide residual blocking their escape route, I moved to the second phase of the attack; eliminating the unwanted intruders from inside the RV.  I had to be much more cautious during this phase, as there was food and other items that were in close proximity to the ant population.  This phase would require surgical precision of the close aerosol support.

The nozzle quickly dispensed death to the unsuspecting workers who were busy relocating their potentate's wicker furniture and duvet covers.  It was a quick and decisive battle that had not been seen since the A-10s showed their tusks on The Road to Basra. The mortality was great.  From my towering vantage point six feet above the RV floor, the numerous casualties strewn across the linoleum battlefield looked like it was covered in…well…ants.  The next few days were dedicated to performing “mop-up” operations, finding the few feral stragglers that had escaped, and “dispatching” them.  I returned to a hero’s welcome, and enjoyed an ant-free atmosphere in the shower, the cabinets, and my coffee (I think…it could just be a few coffee grounds).

I love the smell of 0.025% Lambda-cyhalothrin in the morning.  It smells like…victory.

Hartwell (GA)

With an innate feeling that we needed to keep moving southward, we left Clemson and headed to the southern most end of the lake—Watsadler (Army CoE) campground in Hartwell, Georgia.  Although this trip would take us into another state, we enjoyed another short travel day and took comfort in the expectation of setting-up before dusk.  

“Life’s under no obligation to give us what we expect.”  - Margaret Mitchell

This leg of the trip was…odd.  Not really “bad” (let’s face it; we’re on a year-long vacation…how can anything be “bad?”), but just odd.  It’s like one of those days where you unknowingly wore socks that didn’t match; locked yourself out of your car until you found your keys in your jacket; had to take a detour on the way home due to a delivery truck accident slathering bologna all over the highway; and then had a door-to-door aquarium salesman interrupt your dinner.  Nothing catastrophically “bad”…just odd.

En route to Watsadler, we decided to take the scenic route.  It was along this route that we encountered a bearded hillbilly–complete with cover-alls–standing on the side of the road selling moonshine.  The Palmetto Moonshine Company is an interesting roadside attraction. The ground floor of this establishment has two entrances.  One for high-octane moonshine sales & tastings, and the other for no-octane moonshine shirts, hats, bandanas, glasses, and other souvenirs to show your support for your local squeeze-maker. The area around the building is fenced-in, with an array of animals calmly lounging about…that is until you introduce two golden retrievers into their space.  Apparently there is an on-going feud ‘tween the EquusFields & the McCanines that nobody mentioned to either of our hounds.  Once Buddy (aka. Bubba) approached the fence-line, the resident Jackass [oh, where I could go with that statement] started running & bucking as if it had just come off an 8-hour shift of being Chief of Moonshine Quality Control.  I did mention a “ground floor,” and yes…there was an upstairs.  It was labeled, “Zoo on the Roof.”  Perched above the moonshine tasting room, the moonshine bling store, and the customer entrances were numerous farm animals…namely goats.  I’m not knocking the wisdom in housing farm animals above human habitations, but my years in the military taught me about gravitational laws and the tendencies for things to “roll downhill.”  In a very un-Southern display of manners, I kept my hat on when I entered the establishment, and purchased a small souvenir…located on the bottom shelf. 

“None shall pass.” – The Black Knight (Monty Python and the Holy Grail)

When we reached Watsadler, we checked-in and headed to our site.  We reserved a “pull through” as this requires zero backing skillz (hence the term, “pull through”).  There was a patron who was blocking the access road to our site, performing complex algebraic calculations in an effort to figure out how he was going to back his rig in.  Being completely oblivious to our 50+’ of truck & trailer, we decided to give him some time to pontificate the dilemma and simply walk to our reserved site for a pre-setup assessment.  When we walked our reserved site, we found it was not nearly as level as the on-line photo or description, so we found a nearby suitable site and returned to the check-in office to change our camp site.  After changing our campsite, we circled the campground (again), only to find the aforementioned gentleman attempting to jackknife his trailer into his campsite while seeing how close he could get to a very large oak tree without hit it.  After 15 minutes of traversing the same 15",  he managed to get most of his property onto the pad unscathed. 

As we pulled into our new “more level” site, Kristy hopped out and decided to sweep away the leaves where we would park the rig.  This keeps your tires from resting in a continual damp environment, and also gives you an idea as to how much contact the landing gear has on the ground.  After sweeping for awhile, we soon realized this site was level at “leaf height,” but still unlevel on the gravel pad.  We began the our routine of adding leveling planks to make the downward slope flush. With the rig finally set-up, we were ready to enjoy the lakeside site.  The sky was clear, the winds calm, and the distant sounds of Canadian Geese flying through the darkness echoed across the lake.  I grabbed my Canon SLR and tripod, and tried to capture the lake under cover of darkness.

And the blind shall lead the sighted, as we lose the candle glow; No one knows tomorrow, in the blinding light show.” –Triumph, The Blinding Light Show

Being mid-week campers as winter approaches, we have found ourselves with a higher degree of solitude than you would experience during the summer months at these same sites.  I guess we became spoiled, as we got a neighbor at the adjacent campsite.  We’ve had neighbor before, and all of them have been very nice and pleasant to be near.  This one also seemed nice, but for some reason he felt as though he needed to have his campsite seen from space.  The entire campsite was lit as well as any prison camp, with high-wattage lights hung above, and yards of rope-lighting marking the camp perimeter.  We actually discussed how we could rig a make-shift privacy screen so that we could sit by our campfire without wearing sunglasses.

We normally make grocery runs into the local towns, which gives us the opportunity to mix with the locals.  Hartwell, is another small town; with a town square and (during this time of year) Christmas decorations adorning the streetlights.  During our first trip into town, we passed something that confuses us to this day.  We didn’t film our initial reaction, but it looked something like THIS. 

It wasn’t a store.  It wasn’t open land.  It was a large, empty, fenced-in area…adorned with "No Parking" signs and barbed wire (to keep something out), and displayed a large sign with the word “Bunnytuna.”  Perhaps this was a project that involved the genetic splicing of rodents & fish in a hellish tale that mixes the storylines of Deliverance & The Island of Doctor Moreau.  Maybe this was failed attempt to create a culinary “meat-meld” that rivals the now-famous Turducken (although I would’ve named it “Hook-N-Hop”).  I think the answer is far more simpler.  Someone with excess money just wanted to see how many people he could mess with.  Touché’

Next up: Rain.  Lots of Rain.  Over an inch of rain fell in one night.  The rainfall was significant, and there were reports of tornatic activity within 50-miles of us.  The thought of using our RV as a shelter-in-place option was scary.  The rain continued for over a day, but we were spared from any damaging winds.  It was during these long hours of sitting inside during heavy rains that Kristy and I reminisced about our past tent camping days, and how a rain event of that magnitude would make life absolutely miserable.  As the water continued to wash through our campsite, we felt fortunate to have such comfortable accommodations—a dry place to live & sleep, and lots of grub to keep us full.  We weren’t the only one’s who understood the misery that heavy rains can cause, nor were we the only one’s that desired to be in dryer, more comfortable digs. 

Ants.

(to be continued)

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Main Street, Mills & Mortal Monuments

One of the greatest joys we garner while traveling is the opportunity to spend quality time in Small-Town America.  In the rigors of maintaining our road schedule, we’re drawn into locations in search of common services—such as laundry, groceries, and fuel—but often uncover fascinating gems.   While staying at Twin Lakes, we stumbled upon one of these classic examples of Americana—Pendleton, South Carolina.

Founded in the late 1700’s, this area was a key agricultural trade point for both Native Americans & the British.  The “well off” of Charleston would later procure large farms and vacation homes in what was called the “Upstate.”  Wealth & prosperity continued until the Civil War, when the destruction of battle and economic reshaping during reconstruction changed the economic landscape.

The town square is still active, with city workers busy attaching Christmas decorations to streetlamps and a 20’ tree in front of the historic Farmers Hall on the Square.  The original pharmacy—with a doctors office co-located on the 2^nd floor—has given way to an art gallery, but there is an full-service cobbler shop (not peach…that’s three doors down at the bakery) that will repair or construct a pair of shoes for you.

A few streets over is a thoroughfare lined with several churches of various denominations; most of which have their own congregational cemetery on-site.  Walking the grounds of these structures reveal the history and longevity of this smallish community.  There are markers dating back into the early 1800’s, with a few non-descript service-member markers standing out amongst the ornate.  The repetitive surnames, coupled with the elaborate family markers, allow one to piece together the social history of this community.  All of this just by walking down one street.

A few streets further stands (barely) the Pendleton Oil Mill.  This complex of rusted metal and crumbling brick was once a thriving industry for the region.  Located track-side, the mill would extract plant-based oils from the various regional crops—most notably, cotton seed oil.  Today the mill is a scart of buildings that lay in ruin;  the casualty of modern technology and trade. 

What really makes this town great is the people.  Everything written above was told to me by total strangers who I approached and asked if they could tell me a little bit about their town.  Standing a block away from the mill, I was given a historical account of the political and agricultural impact of Pendleton—to a degree that will likely never see print (except here).  While enjoying a fresh-baked apple-cheese danish, I listened as two city workers (hanging Christmas lights from lamp posts) described the evolution of the town square and adjacent historical sites.   Most of this town looks like it’s in throwback mode; and the locals I had the pleasure of interacting with don’t seem to think that’s such a bad thing.

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Clemson (SC)

Less than 100-miles due south of Candler sits the collegiate town of Clemson, South Carolina.  Although the university that sports the name of the town dates to 1889, the town of Clemson has only carried that name since 1943.  Prior to 1943 this piece of land was named Calhoun, after the South Carolina Senator and 7^th Vice President of the United States—John C. Calhoun.

We relished the short trip south, as it made our travel day an easier trek, and set-up tasks were completed well before sunset.  We checked into our new digs at the Twin Lakes (Army CoE) campground, and set-up next to a local Boy Scout troop that had assembled their encampment amongst the aged hardwoods adjacent to the 56,000-acre Hartwell Lake.  The campground is situated on the northern end of Hartwell Lake, and our campsite was on a peninsula that gave us a distant view of the clock tower of Clemson University’s Tillman Hall, as well as the nose-bleed section of Frank Howard Field (aka “Death Valley”).  When we arrived on Saturday, the campground was relatively full; but by Sunday evening we were living in relative solitude. 

"There is no such thing as bad weather; only inappropriate attire." -  Author Unknown

 The weather was better.  Not warm, but better.  Daytime temps only reached into the mid-40’s, but the nighttime temps only dipped into the very manageable “upper-20’s” range.  We still worked to implement our anti-freezing countermeasures, but activities—both inside and outside the rig—were not hampered by the weather.

We had been on the road for 3-weeks, and our S&S (subsistence & sundries) were beginning to diminish.  It was time to roast a turkey.

“Gobble gobble goo, and gobble gobble gickel.  I wish turkey only cost a nickel.”  -Adam Sandler; The Thanksgiving Song

Relevant back-story information for readers:  We have two large dogs that have large dog appetites.  Today’s going price for canned dog food is just under a buck for all-purpose Alpo.  This, coupled with a mixture of dry dog food, would make owning a horse more economically viable.  After trying to find a healthy, yet cost-effective solution to feeding these voracious hounds, we found a happy median—turkey and rice.  We can normally get whole turkeys for under a dollar per pound, and we mix it with rice (which we have readily available in our house 24/7) at a 2:1 ratio.  This ends up being 1) cheaper & healthier than canned dog food; and 2) a quick snack for me when I don’t feel like fixing dinner.

Campground Turkey Roasting 101:  Although this may seem like no big deal, we actually prepared for this activity long before we hit the road.  There are three “main parts” to roasting a turkey while RVing.

The first is thawing.  Being chronically brain-washed in the Public Health arts, there is no bigger nemesis during the holidays than the microbes lurking on improperly thawed meats.  The “M.O.” of these microscopic menaces and their alimentary assaults have been purported for decades; resulting in preventive posturing of vulnerable vittles <whew!>.  Unlike our “stick home,” the RV has a small refrigerator—8 cubic feet to be exact.  The Lilliputian-sized ice-box—coupled with the multiple days required to thaw a frozen turkey—would leave us with enough room to store a pint of half & half (which is the most important food group between 5am-9am).  Our original plan was to thaw a turkey in a cooler, replacing the ice as it melts.  For this bird, we got lucky—the outside temperatures were not expected to rise above 45F, so we had ideal thawing temps outside of our RV!  Only two additional issues to deal with when thawing food in the woods: 1) protect it from animals (see make-shift security detail photo); and 2) making sure it didn’t refreeze overnight.  For the latter, we put it back into the cooler when temps dropped below freezing.  After a few days, the gobbler was ready for the roaster.

The actual roasting of the turkey (the 2^nd main part) was no big deal, as it’s similar to how we’ve roasted turkeys at home for years.  The big difference in the cooking is 1) ensuring you don’t overload your RV circuitry with the electric roaster; and 2) finding a suitable place for the roaster.  The first issue was easily resolved by using the 20-amp campsite service (via extension cord) solely for the purpose of powering the electric roaster.  The latter was a little trickier, as cooking outside in 40F weather prevents the roaster from maintaining proper cooking temps; and cooking inside increases the internal heat, humidity, and turkey smell.  The first two can create a mold issue, and the third does to dogs what a pound of Skittles does to 5-year olds.  We opted to roast inside and run all the exhaust vents.

The last main part is storage.  As mentioned in the first main part, a whole frozen turkey takes up a lot of space.  We start by deboning the bird—removing as much meat as we can.  Then we dice it for easy mixing with rice.  Lastly we pack it into quart-sized storage bags and put it in the freezer.  Even after deboning and losing water-weight (and trust me when I tell you that these companies inject a LOT of water to make extra dough), there is still about 70% of the original bird left to deal with.  After competing our first RV turkey roasting, our freezer was P-A-C-K-E-D to capacity—with room only for two small pints of Ben & Jerry’s (which is the most important food group between 5pm-9pm).

There is a 4^th part (although it isn’t a “main part”)—clean-up.  Namely the roasting pan, the roasting rack, and the copious amounts dog drool on the kitchen floor.

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Candler (NC)

In an effort to position ourselves where we could quickly access mountain campgrounds, we headed  to the foothills of the Great Smokey Mountains; to a small town just west of Asheville named Candler.  This marked the first time we stayed at a privately owned RV park, and we were pleasantly surprised at the very reasonable cost for the full hook-up amenities.  The owner was a very pleasant man who told us during our reservation process to just pick a spot and he’d drop by later to square up.  The park was small—five or six slots tops—but it was located in a quiet area towards the end of the road, and had a bubbling creek 30’ out our back door.  There were hundreds of acres of national forest across the creek that we never got to explore.

Cold, Cold, Cold (from the Little Feat album Sailin' Shoes; 1972)

When we rolled into Candler, the temp was 50F, with north winds at 20-mph.  This would be the best weather we would experience for the next 4-days.  The next day the temperature hovered in the low-40’s, but the wind blowing at 30-mph, with gusts to 40-mph made the high-humidity & overcast day much colder than we were prepared for.  Then it rained.  Then it got colder, with daytime temperatures below freezing, and nighttime temperatures into the teens.  As the temperature and winds continued their relentless assault on our rig, the forecast inside the rig was reported to be 90% miserable with increased anxiety and diminishing morale over the next few days.

We were in all-out heat-seeker mode, both to keep ourselves in a comfortable climate, as well as protecting the utility infrastructure of our rig from freeze damage.  We headed to a local Home Depot and found that they didn’t have a specialized RV department, so we’d need to get inventive on our heat-preservation project.

The duct-tape addition to the external refrigeration panel we performed at Stone Mountain was not going to suffice at these temperatures.  When temperatures get below 20F, the liquid in the refrigerator compressor can start to “jell”, causing damage to the entire unit.  We opted to add a light-bulb in the small compressor compartment to keep the temperatures barely above freezing.

Another cold-weather threat was the freezing of our water lines and holding tanks.  The fresh water supply to the RV is bimodal—utilizing either a pressurized garden-type hose (if “city water” is available); or filling the internal potable water tank which uses an electric (and noisy) pump to keep internal lines pressurized.  The external garden-hose source was not going to work at sub-20F temps, as the hoses will quickly freeze and most likely burst.  We opted to fill our fresh water tank, and fill it with a large enough quantity that 1) it would benefit from the radiant warmth of the RV interior temperature; and 2) it would pose a large enough mass that it would not freeze in as short of a timeframe.  Another tactic to keep the fresh water tank from freezing is to add a bottle of vodka to lower the freezing point.  After careful consideration as to what life around the trailer would look like following the morning coffee, shower, and teeth brushing; we decided to practice this tactic when we had less life-threatening weather events occurring around us.

A huge concern for us was the consequences of prolonged cold weather with regards to the possible freezing, expanding, and bursting of our waste holding tanks.  I won’t use this opuscule to belabor the potentially revolting scenario involving copious cordage of odure oozing about our abode; but rest assured that this was a terrifying proposition that remained in the forefront of our minds.  Unlike the freshwater tanks, you cannot simply “fill” your black-water tanks at will (at least we can’t…although we’ve met those blessed with hyper-regularity), so we opted to pour hot water down the toilet to increase the tank temperature.  Likewise, pre-bedtime showers were scheduled to add large quantities of warmer water to the grey-water reservoir (which didn’t break my heart, as I really missed long, hot showers).  I must admit that when we were planning this excursion, we just didn’t have the clairvoyance to consider how we would heat our waste.  This trip was truly changing the way we think about everyday life.

"A great wind is blowing, and that gives you either imagination or a headache." - Catherine the Great

Even with the measures put into place to heat the holding tanks, the frigid temperatures and high winds were presenting a tremendous challenge in keeping the underbelly temperature—which directly correlates to holding tank and living area temperature—from rapidly dropping.  What we really needed was a wind break around the RV.  An approach used by snow-belt campers is to either create snow berms around the RV—kinda “iglooing” the underbelly of the RV.  Others (likely Texans) stack hay squares around the exterior footprint.  Since we didn’t actually have snow on the ground; and we didn’t want to purchase a literal truckload of hay, we bought a 100’ roll of contractor-grade polypropylene anti-erosion fabric.  After wrapping the base of the RV, we stood frigidly proud of the light, inexpensive eye-sore we had "MacGyvered."

"If it weren't for electricity, we'd all be watching television by candlelight." - George Gobel

 It was during this cold streak that we also discovered the amperage limits of our RV.  Powering space heaters using the RV electrical system resulted in periodic loss of power when the fuse rating was exceeded.  Concerned that this might happen while we were sleeping—creating a really bad morning after scenario—we ran the space heaters off the 20-amp service, routing heavy gauge extension cords into the RV and sealing them off with duct-tape (use # 4,562,132).

We didn’t get a chance to visit the opulent Biltmore Estate, but we did find a few hours to shop at the Asheville Farmer’s Market.  This year-round market houses a treasure of foodstuffs—honey, nuts, jellies, jams, flours, produce—thousands of local small business produced items that show the skill & pride of the agrarian community that utilizes this outlet to sell their goods.

"My wife and I, we like to ride where there's not much traffic." - Evil Knievel

On the ride back to the RV, I asked my trusted navigator if we could make our return trip via the Blue Ridge Parkway.  We have always been fans of this scenic route, known for the breathtaking views and absence of any commercial presence.  Kristy made short work of getting us onto this historic route, and we were cruising the ridgeline towards our camp.  A few miles into the drive, we found ourselves in near whiteout conditions with the dense fog (clouds?) socking us in. 

The outside ambient temperature gauge on my dashboard began to drop, and was soon below freezing (at 3pm).  The last leg of the route home was a twisting, winding goat-path that descended down the mountainside.  The hairpin turns spaced about every 100’, coupled with the narrowing road—especially in the turns—made this portion of the drive a white-knuckle adventure.  I prayed that I would not meet any type of on-coming vehicle, as the dually covered more than half of the road width, and I’m not sure how a passing negotiation would play-out—as there was also a noticeable absence of guard rails.  In the end, my prayers were answered and I never got to add “dangerous mountain road passing” to my repertoire.  The next morning, the entire mountain top was coated with a glistening glaze left behind by the freezing fog we’d endured the day before.

When we were ready to break camp, we still fought the weather.  The dog dishes were frozen, as was the door mats and the 8’x18’ outdoor patio carpet.  There was a heavy frost on all of the RV & truck, which made packing out tricky—as I needed to climb on the roof and sweep any debris that had landed on the roof of the slides before we could retract them.  Breaking camp was profoundly slower than normal, and when we finally pulled-chocks, we had but one wish—warmer weather. 

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