When I picked up my daughter from her overnight summer camp in Pennsylvania last year, I had driven through or near some sights that called to me to visit. This year I decided to make a weekend trip out of it.

I drove a little over two hours northwest of Washington, DC to the historic town of Cumberland, Maryland. Established in 1787 at the confluence of the Potomac River and Wills Creek and at the base of the Appalachian Mountains, the town has been at the heart of American history. Here, in the late 1750’s young army colonel George Washington led General Braddock’s operations in the French and Indian War and he returned in 1794 to review troops preparing to quell the Whisky Rebellion. Cumberland also gained fame in the 1800s as a transportation hub with the National Road (now US 40) began construction there in 1811 and in 1850 the Chesapeake and Ohio (C&O) Canal between Cumberland and Washington, D.C. opened.

History like that is my jam.

I picked the centrally-located (and historic!) Cumberland Inn and Spa as my base. I wanted to just park the car and then walk all over the historic district. I headed first a few streets up to the Gordon-Roberts House, once home to a prominent lawyer, statesman, and President of the C&O Canal. Unfortunately, the door was locked and I saw no one about. I tried knocking and called their phone number and left a message, but it seemed I had already struck out in the Queen City.

No worries, it was lunch time. So, I made my way down the street, passing the tiny building that served as Washington’s headquarters, and headed across the river. Baltimore Street is the main artery here and is flanked by beautiful buildings from Cumberland’s heyday. And the street completely torn up for a major renovation project that will turn it pedestrian only. It will be wonderful when it is completed, but wished my timing had been better. Still, I found a nice place for lunch and made the most of it. I did have wonderful weather!

After lunch, I visited Cumberland Station, built in 1913, from where still operates scenic steam and diesel train rides. I walked over to Mile 0, the terminus, of the 184.5 mile C&O canal; its towpath a popular multi-day ride for cycling enthusiasts. I will be honest here: the canal waters were a bit stagnant, some rubbish was floating in it; across the way some unhoused individuals crouched beneath a bridge, likely welcome shade from the strong, hot sun, and a festival featuring a death-metal band was in full swing (though the music was pretty good, it was not quite the soundtrack I expected). Yet, the sky was a blazing blue generously sprinkled with cumulus clouds and with just the right angle, the scene was perfect.

In the National Park visitor’s center I chatted with a young AmeriCorps volunteer eager to learn about how to parlay his education and experience into a career at the State Department. I was grateful my daughter was not with me; she is not a fan when I get too friendly and chatty with strangers. She would also have disliked my talking with the lovely volunteer docent at the Allegany Museum. Housed in two floors of a former 1930s courthouse and post office, it is packed full with interesting information, mostly on the architecture, industry, and transportation history of the region.

I left just before the 5 PM closing and planned only to walkabout the area looking at the architecture when my phone rang. A young woman asked if I had called earlier that day to visit the Gordon-Roberts House and told me that unfortunately they have few tours and it would be closed for a special event on Saturday. Well, I figured, that’s that. But then she said, “Well, I am here now doing preparations for the event…If you are nearby, I can give you a quick 15 minute spiel and then let you self-tour.”

And that is how I ended up with an after hours tour at the house. I really could hardly believe my luck and the woman’s generosity. She gave me more than 15 minutes of her time and really did let me wander around on my own through the ground floor, second floor, and basement (the third floor is closed to the public – but I still took a peek). I found the house interesting – six bedrooms on the second floor alone! And a dumbwaiter! And a pre-electric single person elevator! – but by far the best part of the experience was that I got to tour it in the manner I did. I spent another hour or so of the long summer evening wandering past the churches, the Masonic Temple, and other architectural gems before calling it a night.

On Saturday morning I set off for Somerset County, Pennsylvania along US40. At the Allegany Museum, I had learned that Maryland’s first (and last) toll house still stands just a few miles outside of Cumberland. It was on the way—just a slower, more picturesque way—so how could I resist?

The LaVale Toll Gate stands forlorn on the side of US40. Next door there was a Goodyear tire shop and across the street a gas station, both of which seemed rather fitting to me for a place where travelers have had to stop their journey for nearly 200 years. It was not open, there were no other cars in the parking lot and no other visitors while I was there, yet, I am glad it is still there for the odd traveler and history enthusiast.

An hour later, I had a teary-eyed C and her belongings in the car. She had had a wonderful two weeks at camp and was thrilled to see me (imagine it!) but also sad to leave her new friends. I knew immediately what would cheer her up! A visit to an old covered bridge! Somerset County is full of them (ten in total) and I had pre-programmed directions to one of them as we headed to our next destination. I should have known better though (and really I did) because once at the bridge C opted to stay in the car (“I can see it from here.”). My free-wheeling, teenager-free part of the trip was over.

I drove east about 30 minutes to a field just outside Shanksville, PA, where on September 11, 2001, the brave passengers and crew of United Flight 93, learning their plane was part of a terrorist act, forced the hijackers to crash the plane, killing them all but saving hundreds, if not thousands, more.

We started off with a walk down from the visitor’s center that passes the flight path, impact site, and wall of names. The weather was nice, warm, with clouds that threatened rain but held off; the field dotted with wild flowers. It felt both fitting and incongruous as a final resting place of such an act of terror. C was far more focused on a school issue than the site and I tried to refocus her attention on the importance of the location. We moved on to the Visitor’s Center and it was here, with the television footage of the planes flying into the towers, the photographs of the passengers and crew, and recordings of some of their final goodbyes that left us both weeping. We completed our visit at the Tower of Voices, a ninety-three foot tall structure of wind chimes that plays 40 tones representing the voices of the 40 passengers at their final resting place.

Our next stop, after a quick lunch stop: the Johnstown Flood National Memorial. Along the way, I thought, though certainly educational, perhaps two national disaster memorials in one day might not have been my brightest idea?

The Visitor’s Center sits on a hill overlooking a valley, what what was once the two mile long, one mile wide, and 60-feet deep Lake Conemaugh, before on May 31, 1889, the earthen dam holding it burst releasing 20 million tons of water downriver at 40 miles per hour, wiping out the town of Johnstown and killing over 2200 people within an hour. Reading that sentence is sobering enough. Looking at the photographs and reading or listening to first hand accounts of survivors was more so. But the 35-minute movie “Black Friday” shown at the Visitor’s Center? Wow. It is seriously a downer. It so vividly describes the horror and the fatalities that it comes with a PG rating with a recommendation that small children do not attend. I began to worry a bit about C. When she was six, she sobbed through her school viewing of a movie on the Pacific garbage patch, and when she was seven she cried out loudly “No! Stop!” when colonists attacked Native Americans at the production of “The Lost Colony” at Roanoke Island, NC and then bawling yelled “Mom! Why would you bring me here?” But thankfully at 12 1/2 she could handle this particular film though I found myself cringing several times.

To round out our day and bring the mood up, I turned north to Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, “the weather capital of the world,” and home to the famous spring forecaster Punxsutawney Phil. Although the movie “Groundhog Day” (one of my personal favorites), was actually filmed in Illinois (yeah, really), I did find us a lovely B&B just on the main town square that was close enough for me. We were just a hop, skip, and a jump from Phil’s Burrow, the home of Punxsutawney Phil, his spouse Phyllis, and their kit. After visiting Phil, whom C declared as adorable before asking if she could have a pet groundhog, we went for a nice evening walk in search of the Phantastic Phils, the six foot tall fiberglass groundhog statues placed around town.

On Sunday morning, C and I made the pilgrimage to Gobbler’s Knob where each on Groundhog’s Day since 1887, Punxsutawney Phil, “Seer of Seers, Sage of Sages, Prognosticator of Prognosticators and Weather Prophet Extraordinary,” is coaxed from a tree stump and held up before the eager crowds then makes his prediction of the coming Spring. I doubt we will ever make it for an actual Groundhog’s Day (accommodation books out years in advance and one has to wake up in the dead of night in the middle of winter; me I am not a fan of the cold or middle of the night galivanting), so this would have to do. We chased down the locations of a few more Phantastic Phils and then it was time to go. C’s dad picked her up for a week in New York and I headed home.

I don’t know why it continues to amaze me how restorative even a few days away can be, but throw in beautiful weather, lovely drives, and historical, natural, and cultural sites, and it can truly be perfect.