Morning came soft and slow, with the smell of coffee curling through the bus. We stirred awake, made breakfast in our tiny kitchen, and said our goodbyes to Emily and Nat.
We drove to downtown Ithaca to pick up some transmission fluid to have stocked just in case. We hoped to also wander through the brick sidewalks, stopping in the small coffee shops filled with college students studying for their next exam. But as we got closer, the city tightened around us. Streets narrowed. Parking spots shrank. Cities were never built for vehicles like ours. After a few failed attempts at parking—and realizing it would be a 20-minute walk just to start exploring—we made the call to keep moving. Sometimes the road has its own ideas about where you should be. We weren’t going to fight it today.
On the way out of a gravel lot, a low, guttural scrape came from our water tanks making both of us wince. We stopped. Checked. Everything was intact, again, but it was a warning we knew we couldn’t ignore much longer. Soon we’ll have to lose a day at a Lowe’s or Home Depot finding a way to lift those tanks higher. One of those tasks you wish you could push off forever, but the road has a way of making you honest.
I’m learning that out here, cities will always cost us something. Time, patience, maybe a little pride. Wide open spaces, though, is where the bus will feel at home. Where we feel at home, too.
We drove along the lake to Taughannock Falls, just fifteen minutes outside of town. As the city faded behind us, the land opened up, spilling out forest and glimpses of Cayuga Lake. We pulled into the park, tucked the bus into a spot close to the water’s edge, and stopped to simply be.
There’s something deeply satisfying about making lunch with the lake as your backdrop. Your house right there with you whenever you need it. We brewed some coffee once again. People walked past. Some paused to examine the bus and some snapped photos of it as if it were some great oddity. Maybe it is.
The trail to the falls is an easy one. A mile and a half, flat and wide, winding through the gorge. It’s short and accessible but that doesn’t make it any less beautiful. Moss coats the towering walls. Dandelions bloom stubbornly out of cracks in the stone. Life insisting on itself, even in the most unlikely places. We passed the Lower Falls first: a wide fan of water only twenty feet tall but 70 feet across. We kept walking and the sound of the river grew louder.
And then the upper falls: Taughannock Falls itself. 215 feet of water slipping straight off the cliff. It is the tallest free-falling waterfall in the northeast. Even taller than Niagara. We stood at the base with the mist cooling our faces, and for a while I just let the sight of it soak in. It is humbling to stand in front of something so ancient and steady.
Taughannock Falls is the result of nearly 400 million years of geologic storytelling written in layers of limestone, shale, and sandstone. Long before dinosaurs, this land sat beneath a warm inland sea, where ancient shells and sediments slowly hardened into rock. Over time, tectonic pressure fractured those layers, forming joints that would later guide erosion like invisible blueprints. Fast forward to the last Ice Age: glaciers a mile thick carved deep trenches into the land, giving shape to the Finger Lakes. When the ice retreated about 12,000 years ago, Taughannock Creek began its quiet but relentless work chiseling a gorge and sculpting the dramatic 215-foot drop we see today. As the softer shale erodes beneath stronger rock, massive slabs eventually break off, causing the waterfall to creep slowly upstream. Every stone at the base of the falls once stood high above. Every shift in the gorge walls echoes the slow rhythm of freezing, thawing, and falling. Even now, water and time continue to shape the canyon.
On the way back to the bus, I felt a lightness. Maybe all the scraped tanks and missed parking spots and closed-up cities were just part of it. All part of earning moments in the places that matter like this.
We had one more stop to make that evening: a visit to Charlie’s great aunt. She beamed at the bus. She asked questions, brushed her hands over the wooden counters, and peeked into all the little corners we’ve carved out for living.
As dusk slipped in, we pulled off the highway into a Cracker Barrel parking lot just outside of Buffalo, NY. Our plan was to visit Niagara Falls the following day. Cracker Barrel is one of those strange promises of the American roadtrip: free RV parking out back, no questions asked, and a warm meal only if you feel like it. A place that gives and asks nothing in return. We made caprese salad and watched 30 Rock. This Cracker Barrel was near the airport, so we fell asleep to the sound of planes, buses, and cars bringing travelers onto their next place. It didn’t bother us. Other RVs scattered around us like little ships at anchor. Tomorrow would bring another stretch of highway. But tonight, we were home.
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