For some inexplicable reason, visiting the Utz potato chip factory in Hanover, Pa., was on my list of things to do for ages but I never managed to make the trip. Since I’d been contemplating a visit to Amish country with my daughter, Meg, this summer, I decided to combine the two plans and make an overnight road trip.
We left around 10 a.m. on a weekday morning, giving commuters a chance to get to work before we headed out on Interstate 270. By 11 a.m., we were parked at Pryor’s Orchard, just south of Thurmont, Md., for a much-needed peaches fix.
It may seem foolish to drive more than an hour to buy peaches but if you’ve ever sampled Pryor’s peaches you’ll understand why this pit stop was mandatory. Pryor’s grows more than a dozen varieties of peaches, along with other fruits and vegetables, and whenever I find myself within striking distance I make sure to stock up. A bushel of peaches will set you back about $18 and make you an instant favorite with your neighbors—if you share.
Hanover is not much further from Thurmont, making it the perfect stopping point for a snack of potato chips before lunch. At the Utz factory we found our way to the self-guided tour area and wandered down a hallway with giant windows overlooking the production facility below. There were other groups visiting the factory, but the tour is designed to make it relatively easy to learn and linger as you wish. I confess to a weakness for assembly lines and heavy machinery, yet I’m convinced anyone would enjoy following a potato from its unceremonious dumping out of the back of an 18-wheeler to its ultimate dusting with salt and flavoring, and sealing into a vacuum-puffed bag. Meg kept pointing out potatoes that somehow separated from the pack and were resting, inert and unwanted at the edge of giant machines, left there until the cleaning crew arrived.
Every visitor to the factory gets a free bag of chips, which we devoured on our way back to the car. The air hung heavy with the smell of oil and freshly baked chips. If we hadn’t received a sample at the end of the tour, we may have stormed the gates to satisfy the craving that came with seeing hundreds of thousands of potato chips being prepared and packaged.
Our next stop was lunch. We whizzed past lots of fast-food joints on Route 30, but I wanted something a little more local, if possible. Smokey Bones Bar and Fire Grill seemed to fit the bill. Located just alongside Route 30 in York, Pa., Smokey Bones serves up ribs, pulled pork, sandwiches, burgers and the like.
And televisions. It wasn’t until we were seated that we noticed the televisions suspended every few feet, all of them at that very moment announcing the death of Yankees owner George Steinbrenner. As an Orioles/Red Sox family we’re not too partial to the Yankees, but we paused a moment to reflect on the man, then moved on to reflect on the wonder of a restaurant that sports at least 21 flat-screen TVs, and fatty food. And it doesn’t tout itself as a sports bar—at least as far as we could tell—so why did it need two-dozen TVs? The story of obesity in America could begin right at a booth in Smokey Bones. We ordered tiny sliders and high-tailed it out of there, the memory of our snack binge at Utz lingering in the air like a mother’s scolding.
Another hour’s drive landed us in Strasburg, Pa., in the heart of Lancaster County. I’d chosen Strasburg so we could stay at the Verdant View Farm, which offers small but comfortable rooms and more importantly, the opportunity for kids to help out with chores. An added bonus is the proximity to the historic Strasburg Railroad, which runs 45-minute train rides through the Amish countryside every day.
We opted to hunt for a few covered bridges (my idea—covered bridges rank high with heavy machinery and assembly lines), and were unsuccessful at first, but we did see some beautiful farms as well as a smattering of Amish families traversing the roads in their black buggies. Later we took a 25-minute trip of our own with Aaron & Jessica’s Buggy Rides, and our driver described the location of a few choice bridges nearby.
We stopped at an Amish farm and bought homemade lemonade and root beer, and a fresh whoopee pie that Meg refused to share with me – it was that good.
In the evening we drove into downtown Strasburg to take a ghost tour, which I registered for prior to our visit. Our guide wore a cape and carried a lantern, despite the sun shining. That’s okay—the garb certainly added to the effect. She led us in a rough circle around town, pointing out homes with mysterious owners and rumors of hauntings. More than half of the homes in Strasburg are on the National Register of Historic Places with several dating to the 1700s. Certainly that span allows for all kinds of history to build up inside a home, and it sounds as if some deceased residents don’t appreciate the folks who’ve invaded their space in modern times.
We ended our tour at the cemetery just as the shadows were lengthening in an ominous hint of darkness to come. Meg was more or less satisfied but proclaimed that our Philadelphia ghost tour was better overall. Note to anyone with kids who love the prospect of paranormal activity: ghost tours are a great way to hook them into visiting historic areas.
The next morning we woke up too late to milk the calves, but we did take a quick barn tour and said goodbye to the goats, chickens, bunnies, cats, ducks, dog and donkey that populate Verdant View Farm. It was raining hard, so we dashed to the car and struck out for an abandoned mill outside Strasburg that our ghost tour guide had told us a story about.
We didn’t find any ghosts but it was fun to scare ourselves as we inched along the country road leading to the mill. Heavy tree canopies hung low from the rain, making it seem as if we were passing through a dark, green tunnel. Just a short drive further we found another covered bridge, and we paused in the middle to take a picture and listen to the rain drumming on the roof.
We drove home a different way, as I was heading to Baltimore to pick up my niece. Our drive took us along Route 1 and over the Conowingo Dam. Wow. It is not a route for the timid driver. Maybe it was the drenching rain, but when we rounded a corner and suddenly were driving directly across the dam with massive power lines surrounding us, I found myself a little spooked.
A few miles further we stopped for pit beef at Fast Eddie’s on Belair Road (still Route 1), and marveled at all we saw in 24 hours.
