Embracing America on a Hog and a Hack without Reservations

Leaf Peepers, who had arrived in hordes with their cameras and their sensible shoes to photograph the dazzling show. ‘No vacancy’ signs were everywhere.

It was around 7:00 P.M., a time that Bob had dubbed the witching hour. It was about then that I, worn out after a long day of travel and anxious for a place to rest my weary head, would lose my sunny disposition or, as my husband so prosaically stated, ‘turn into a witch.’ On this particular night, the transformation was nearly complete. As we passed yet another motel with no vacancy, I reopened somewhat negatively the subject of the ‘no reservations’ rule. Bob’s microphone was apparently malfunctioning, since I got no response. I was acutely aware of the curious stares of those already comfortably lodged, and I was left with no recourse but to sink deeper into the hack in fatigue, hoping the frustration I felt would telegraph to my spouse.

Bob stopped at each likely prospect, and was politely turned away time after time. As we pulled into yet another packed parking lot, I remarked to his departing backside on our chances of success with some pessimism. The whining sermon might have happened in another life.

I got the full story on his return to the rig. Bob had entered the warm lobby, approached the front desk and inquired, once again, about the availability of a room. He saw the sympathetic look beginning to creep into the clerk’s eyes, and he saw her glance past him to the waiting rig outside with me, hunkered down into a fetal position inside the hack. She paused, and then said, “We usually hold back just one room for emergencies, and I see you’re traveling with a small child.” Bob, with laughter in his voice, had replied, “No, that’s my wife—but she’s acting like a small child. Does that qualify?” It was fortunate that the clerk had a great sense of humor, and we got the room.

That proved to be a high point in our efforts to secure nightly lodging among the throngs of Peepers. Other motel clerks on other nights weren’t moved by our situation. In New Hampshire, the night duty man observed the rig sitting outside in the chill. He not only had no room, but he compounded the insult by boasting that he owned a Goldwing with a sidecar, equipped with its own heater and windshield wiper. While I slowly digested that news, Bob found something interesting on the ceiling to study.