My three months in Indiana were not wasted. I chose to work part-time at a local clinic to garner enough money for the next adventure, allowing enough time in between to explore. Monsieur’s tracks led to a northern town called Rockville. The uniqueness of the area was not understood until I stopped at a visitor’s center. When I entered the building, the hostess was attempting to disconnect a phone call, but whoever was on the other end did not want to let go. Her eyes pleaded patience, so I wandered about the gift shop. Postcards abound featured various styles of covered bridges in the area and surrounding counties. Books that spoke of Indiana’s rich history as well as other nick knacks that lined the shelves.
“I’m so sorry,” the woman said breathlessly.
“I’ve noticed a lot of information here,” I stated after glancing up from one of the brochures.
“You’re the second visitor in less than an hour. The first was a rather handsome guy.”
“Really? Did he carry a black and red backpack.”
“Yes he did. He wanted to shoot photo’s and asked for the best path.” No doubt it was Monsieur. She explained that it was a good thing that we were here this week. “Come the week of the festival, the roads will be backed up five miles or more.” (The Parke County Covered Bridge Festival was held October 14-23)
“That’s right.” I turned to find out who had joined in the conversation. The couple crossed the threshold and looked to be in their late fifties early sixties. The wife was so excited as she explained the paths they had just completed to the various bridges. Since Monsieur seemed to have led me here, I figured why not and allowed the woman behind the counter to explain the routes.
“Red, yellow, black, brown and blue, ” she said as she pointed out each one’s direction. I choose the black one and began my education on the history of Indiana’s covered bridges and the path to Monsieur.