After I dropped Jeff off in Rochester I started heading back to Berkshire. It is about a two hour drive between Jeff's Gregory Street compound and the homestead farm. I was pondering that this driving segment was only moderately longer than the distance between Chisisibi and Raddison which we had made about four times in the last week. I decided to take the NYS Thruway since I had made the trip many times before when I was commuting between Victor and Greene for work. It was familiar and predictable. It was a warm summer evening and the sun was just hinting at a sunset over the shoulder.

After a bit on the highway the camouflage tarp decided to get a bit unruly on the back of the truck. It was really starting to rip up. I could understand that. The tarp had been previously held down over the last 2500 miles by the two person canoe Jeff and I enjoyed paddling briefly to Fort George island. Since there seemed little chance of rain I decided to stop at the Clifton Springs rest area to take the tarp off and bundle it in the back for the rest of the trip.

Pulling into the rest area I stopped and started wrestling with the ropes that did their job so well and a older guy came up along side with a late model white Chevy full-size van. He asked, "The tarp starting to rip off?" I nodded and told him it was and that I guess that is what can be expected after all those miles. The gentleman, bald, friendly, had a distinctive aire. You could see that he enjoyed being on the road. I could sense that travel, especially by car, invigorated him. He casually complained about the clothes rack falling off the wall inside the van and that all their clothes had fallen on the floor. He chuckled in a subdued muttering kind of way as he described the situation. He went about the task of fixing the clothes rack and I continued untangling a tarp that had become part of the truck over that last 2500 miles.

Although visibly tired from his travels he had emotional energy. We went on describing to each other where we were coming from. I explained that I was finishing up a trip to and from James Bay Quebec. He was finishing up a trip burying his brother in Minnesota. We lamented about our upstate New York State home. Not that there was a reason to lament. It was just common ground. As we talked we worked. At that moment I saw my Mother's father, the age spots, and the attitude. I felt that the trip, my accomplishment, the amount of driving, the experience, and the pleasure was appreciated and understood. I saw my grandfather, looking at me with pride knowing that I had driven a trip that authors of travel guides normally only drive. I felt that the mission had been accomplished. I felt I had taken care of some unfinished business.