On Leaving Vermont

This picture, shot by Jo, should pretty much be on my tombstone since it is the perfect representation of my life under the rig.

“Oooh! That can't be good.” The words came from grandson Graham when he saw me stop the rig moments after pulling out of the driveway in Colchester, Vermont. The accursed red light for the emergency brake was flickering.
He was right. It wasn't a good thing. I put some more fluid into the reservoir (yet another trip of squirming under the rig). The light went out and we pulled away. Five minutes later, however, the flickering light was a solid light. We were on the expressway south.
Decision time: Do I stop on the interstate or do I push on for 10 minutes to the only RV repair shop in Burlington? We chose the latter. We arrived at Peter's RV with smoke plumes pouring from under the rig. That got their attention!
I had visited the place earlier, seeking some regular maintenance and they'd refused to help unless I could wait four weeks. I'd even written a letter to the pretty awful local newspaper in which I made a pitch for hiring more help to turn this recession around – and to serve customers better.
Now they had to deal with my emergency – and they did. When the emergency brake cooled down sufficiently (two hours), a mechanic slid under the rig. He filled the reservoir with my brake fluid and asked me to start the engine, put the rig in gear – and definitely keep my foot on the regular brakes. I did and he was sprayed with brake fluid for a grey relay switch. When he disconnected this switch he found the tiny O-ring was broken. This O-ring had leaked when my son in law and I had changed out the heavy-duty actuator on the brake system back in May. We had made a 30-mile trip to replace this tiny piece at an auto parts store. The salesman said it needed a metric O-ring which surprised me on an American-built relay switch. But we installed it and it was the wrong size.
The mechanic installed a new O-ring and I asked for two spares. No leaks. So we scooted south and east and came to Northwood, New Hampshire. We had been to this tiny but delightful campground a few years back. The place has room for 20 rigs, all nestled in trees around a pond filled with croaking bullfrogs and trout that leap for flies in the setting sun. This is one of our favorite campgrounds in New England.
Now we head north to Saco, Maine. This takes us to the seacoast just south of Portland. This is the city we left aboard our sailboat, Quiet Passage, almost 11 years ago.