KentsUSdrive

More about Idaho...my first Rodeo

When Steve and I pulled into Grangeville, Idaho, we saw more vehicles (pickups, junkers, chopped Chevys, tractors, grain wagons and a couple of sulkys) than we'd seen in the whole state in the past two weeks. Turns out there was a rodeo in town.

Which we learned in spades when we tried to find a cheap motel room for the night. Or any room, for that matter.

We'd learned Idaho women were Big Girl panties wearers, so we boldly approached the pretty young woman at the desk of the town's Best Western. "I know you told us you were full up," I said bravely. "But surely you could think of something for us."

And by cracky, she did.

"We can give you about the biggest room in the house," she said without a moment's pause. "And we can give it to you for half the regular room rate. What do you think about that?"

We thought about that for a nanosecond, and I said, "We'll take it."

"Cool," she intoned. "We're not using the conference room until noon tomorrow, so if you boys don't might bunking down there and can be out about 11, I think we can put you in there. I'll have a couple of rollaways moved in for you....oh, and by the way, there's a few bikers here for the rodeo. They needed a place, too. Don't mind if they share the room, do you? And another thing: there's no bathroom, so you can use the public bathroom down the hall. There's no shower or bathtub, but you can splash around in the sink all you want, as long as you're out by 7 am. I'll be off duty by then, so I'll need your word of honor. And another thing: we can't supply soap or towels, but you can use one of the pillow cases when you wake up. You can probably get some soap from Housekeeping when they get here at 6. Something else: we can't give you a wakeup call 'cause there's no phone in the conference room, so I'll leave a note for housekeeping to rattle the door early for you. That be OK?"

Like there was a choice? As you can see, there was a folding wall diving this cavernous space, and the bikers -- all of whom snored in random patterns and volumes -- were on the other side of the wall. The coed public bathroom was about 100 feet down the hall, and we got to it by going through the lobby. Modesty prevents me showing you the pictures of Steve and me creeping behind the lobby chairs, only to find the bathroom door locked by the three bikers who were inside already, and from the sounds, having a great time.

So on to the rodeo. We found this guy leaning on a rail in front of the stands. Could you find a better poster boy for a cowboy? Well, he was a very nice guy who had a 10-year-old daughter riding with the Color Team, and he was there to watch. In this picture, you see the guy from the waist up. I didn't have the guts to take a picture of what he was wearing on his feet. Bright pink rubber Krocs! I couldn't believe it. "Why are you wearing those things?" I asked. "Well," he said, "sprained my ankle last night in the trials, can't get inta my boots. These here things are my daughter's. Not bad, either. Whadduya think?" We couldn't find the words.

As for the Grangeville Rodeo, I thought it was spectacular. Pre-teen girls galloping all over the place as the Color Team to kick off things, then all kinds of roping, jumping, chasing, yelling, tying, moaning, tossing, clowning, bullbaiting, falling and general hubbub. At the end, something like 100 kids charged into the circle, chasing pigs. A great evening. These pictures only hint at what we saw, and the great time we had.

 

 

...now, where was I? Oh, yes...

Thank you for coming back. It's been a while. I apologize to you who have faithfully looked for my drive into the US to resume. I took nine months off. (You probably got discouraged, and did, too.)

When I left you, I was just entering Astoria, Oregon.

I continued on through a whole lot of Oregon, California, Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Louisiana, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Missouri, Kentucky, Virginia, Maryland, Delaware, New Jersey and finally: New York.

Many states. Many towns. Many adventures. I'll get to them.

But I want to tell you some stories about people I met along the way, stories I didn't have room for in my previous posts. I've had a lot of time to think, and as we all have experienced, time has a wonderful way of helping us cull the dross from the gold.

A year ago this month, my great friend, Steve Wilson, and I were heading north from Sun Valley & Ketchum, Idaho. Cruising slowly through the Sawtooth Mountains...seeing the sand-colored grasses waving in the wind far below us ...wading in the wild Salmon River...in short, being surprised by the beauty of Idaho was worth the trip. (I'd planned to zip across the northern Idaho panhandle in about four hours, and dart directly into Washington. As it turned out, Steve and I spend four days in Idaho.)

We were on our way up to Grangeville. On the way, we stopped for lunch at a small bar & grill in a little town along the Salmon River. (A guide was drowned there earlier in the day, having saved his eight clients, but that's another story for another time.)

Steve and I hate air conditioning. We never used it in our van. So when we entered this place for lunch, we went from a 105 degree outside temperature to an inside 72. it felt like jumping into an ice bath after a sauna. We asked the mini-skirted waitress, Karen, if there was an outdoor patio where we could have a sandwich.

"Sure is," she said, "But whyja wanna do that?"

"We don't like air conditioning," I said.

"Folla me." Karen went through a side door to a small patio with four metal tables. Closed umbrellas stood dutifully in center holes in each of the tables. "Ya want some shade, surely?" Karen asked, and went to open one of the umbrellas. It was a big thing, heavy looking. Karen was sort of slight, pretty and late 30s, so I stepped over and said, "Let me."

I wrestled with the darn umbrella, trying to get it up and open. No luck. It was pretty heavy.

Karen moved in, pushed me aside, put her hand on the table and the other hand on the slide at the base of the umbrella, and pushed it up in one fluid motion.

"How'd you do that so easily?" I said. Steve was grinning.

"Well," said Karen, hitching up her miniskirt, "today I've got my big girl panties on."

Crossing the bridge...crossing the bar...and into Astoria, Oregon

I know I've said it before, but this trip has been a long series of delightful accidents. Not the vehicular kind. The seeing-what's-to-be-seen kind.

As I drove onto the Megler-Astoria bridge to cross from Washington into Oregon, I could see the not-too-distant shores of Oregon. I didn't know what to expect. As I drove on, the Megler-Astoria bridge (completed in 1966, for those of you who adore such factoids) became  higher and higher. Toward the middle, the elevation was considerable. Given my newly-discovered acrophobia, I resisted the temptation to glance to my right to see where the Columbia River surged into the Pacific. In fact, I waited until I was safely across on the Astoria side of the bridge to stop and take the picture you see here. I don't know the exact distance, but I'd guess the bridge was at least a mile across, and, as you can see, high enough to discourage fishing off it.

So here was Oregon. And the welcoming town of Astoria.

Highway 101 continued off to the right at the base of the bridge, but I was Portland bound and took the indicated left turn into Astoria. That was the surprise. Not only was Astoria the winter home of Lewis & Clark in 1805-06, but it is named after John Jacob Astor. Why? Well, in 1810, hard on the heels of the Lewis & Clark expedition, Astor's Pacific Fur Company was established at Ft. Astoria as the primary fur trading post in the Northwest, making Astoria the first permanent U. S. settlement on the Pacific Coast. When I asked a man I met a few minutes later (at Pete's Coffee shop) where the old Pacific Fur Company had stood, he told me he hadn't any idea, and suggested I find the Tourist Center. "I don't know if there is one, but I kind of think there is. Don't know where it is, though."

When I found the small Chamber of Commerce office, I found a folder which said the Pacific Fur Company had folded a few years after it was created, and the fort and company was sold to the British in 1813. I also learned the location was restored to the U. S. in 1818, but that the fur trade remained a British-controlled enterprise "...until American pioneers following the Oregon Trial began filtering into the port town in the mid-1840's."

I also learned that the first U. S. Post Office west of the Rockies was set up in Astoria in 1847. And that Astoria attracted immigrants from all over Europe and the Far East, drawn to available work in the fast-growing fishing and canning enterprises in Astoria.

A testament to the Scandinavian immigrant population was one of the first buildings I encountered when I exited the Megler-Astoria bridge. It was a Finnish-American club, and it boasted a Finnish sauna and massage. "Just what I needed," I thought to myself, and went in. But I was rebuffed.

A pleasant woman asked if I belonged to the club.

"No," I said. "I'm a visitor."

"Are you Finnish?"

"No."

"Well, then, you can't come in."

Nonetheless, driving down the somewhat narrow, shop-strewn street bordering the Columbia River was pleasant and pretty, although jammed with midday traffic. There were any number of seafood restaurants and snack shops, flower shops and souvenir stores. I saw a sign indicating that there was a Columbia River Maritime Museum in Astoria, and I thought that would be well worth a visit. But the people I encountered in Astoria were not so helpful nor forthcoming as had been the people in Washington. No one seemed to know just where the museum was, although one woman said, "I think it's up ahead, if you just go down the street and turn left."

"Where should I turn left?"

"I'm not sure. But you'll find it."

I did, after driving way up to the top of a very high bluff that overlooked the town, and then descending to the waterfront again. I'd spotted the museum, a winged modern-looking structure, from my aerial view. I was going the wrong way on a one-way street, trying to find a way down. (Astoria was the most one-way-street burdened town I'd encountered in my travels thus far, a fact of not much significance, but something that made navigating in a strange place all the more nettlesome.)

But the navigational difficulty was worth it. The Columbia River Maritime Museum is just short of spectacular. Life-size boats were set up everywhere, with human-looking dummies as the crews. I easily got a sense of how small these boats were, considering that they were setting out into some of the most dangerous waters to be found in that part of the Northwest. (One of the exhibits in the Museum shows the numbers and locations of many shipwrecks at or near the mouth of the Columbia River, and carefully describes how the bar (the sandbar stretching across the mouth of the river) is constantly shifting in size and location.

Where do we get such men...and women?

"Thanks to the Interstate Highway System, it is now possible to travel across the country from coast to coast without seeing anything."
So said Charles Kuralt, one of America's best known travelers.

He's so right.

That is why I chose to make my way across and into America only on state and county roads...well off the well-beaten track. These are the Blue Highways that William Least Heat-Moon describes so beautifully in his eponymous book.

I want to pause in my adventure story, because I want to reflect on the sheer joyousness I have felt on the road this summer.

The rewards have been many:

-- Unbelievable beauty of mountains, rivers, plains, hills, streams, valleys, passes, bridges, national parks, glaciers, dawns, sunsets and black nights under moonless canopies that I would never otherwise have seen

-- A significant absence of frighteningly huge trucks, 16-wheelers and larger, thundering by at breakneck speeds and challenging my space on the road

-- The opportunity to meet and talk with many people who live vastly different lives from my own, and to learn about and appreciate their experiences and joys and sorrows and dreams

-- Discovering the delight of being alone, without feeling lonely

-- The opportunity to discard plans and choose the road less traveled by when there is a prospect of seeing something different or quirky or compelling

-- The sounds of rushing water and riffling wind just before dawn breaks in the high mountains

-- Being welcomed by people everywhere I went, welcomed with warmth and humor and curiosity about my life, my stories, my place among them

-- Being overcome, day after amazing day, with an awesome sense of pride in this singular great nation.

As I think on it, I cannot adequately express my gratefulness, my appreciation and my sense of wonder at the thousands of men and women who built these hundreds of thousands of miles of roads...roads that made it possible for me to explore America to my heart's content... roads that made it possible for me to go wherever I wanted to go...roads that were built on sheer and dangerous mountain precipices, through scaldingly hot deserts, across threatening rivers and waterways, into nearly impenetrably dense forests.

Where did we get the engineers who envisioned this web of secondary roads? Where did we get the people who sweated out the backbreaking and dangerous work it took to lay the roadbeds and pave the roads? These unknown, unheralded, probably unthanked invisible Americans who made it possible for you and me to explore all this country has to offer: I owe them so much.

So do we all.

On to Oregon!

I don't want to flog a crippled horse, but I became more disturbed as I drove down the coast highway toward Chinook, Washington and the Columbia River. I found the drive from the hauntingly beautiful Ruby Beach with its remote stretches of soft sand, gentle tidal pools, whispery inlets and silvery sculpted driftwood to be unpleasantly disrupted by the increasing number of hillsides stripped of stately, shadowing firs. 

At first, I thought this kind of roadside logging was an anomaly, but as I proceeded south, I saw acre after acre that had been cleared of the beautiful conifers that cradled my leisurely drive down the lonesome highway...always with the dark and distant mountain peaks watching from the faraway horizon.

Not far past the small hamlet of Humptulips (see previous posting), I encountered a short straightaway.  In the knee-high grass off the highway to my right stood a doe, contemplating a crossing. At the time, there was nothing behind me, so I stopped to take a picture of the young deer. Suddenly a car came into view, rounding the corner rather fast. I wondered if I'd be a reluctant witness to a leaping doe striking streaking metal. But no, luckily. the driver slowed to a stop. The deer stood immobile. Then the doe slowly sauntered across the road, reaching the other side safely, almost purposefully strolling up into the high grass. The oncoming car started up, and went slowly past me. The driver waved, and I waved back, standing by my car with camera in hand.

Although the doe made a safe crossing, I was less than successful as I proceeded down Highway 101. A few miles past Humptulips, it began to get dark. I'd vowed that I'd pull off and seek a place to spend the night sometime between 6 and 7 each evening. I came to the pleasant little town of Aberdeen, near the eastern shore of Gray's Harbor. Being of Scots descent, I took this for a sign. I stopped, found the Olympic Motel (pleasant, inexpensive, near a fairly good local restaurant), and bedded down.

The next day began with detours and lots of construction and confusing signs trying to get out of Aberdeen and cleaving to Highway 101. Road signs were scarce, and impatient drivers were plentiful. I bumbled my way along. Just outside Willapa National Wildlife Refuge (worth visiting), I missed a turnoff I'd planned to take onto Route 4. This would have led me along the northern edge of the Columbia River until I reached Brush Prairie, Washington, where I intended to take a right and drive a short distance to a bridge that would cross the Columbia and bring me into Portland.

So much for the best-laid-plans department.

I missed the turnoff to Rt. 4, maintaining a beady-eyed faithfulness to Highway 101. It seemed to me -- and the compass on my trusty van -- that I was heading west, and I wanted to be heading east.  As I went along, I was struck by the sight of a lonely-looking blue church by the side of the road. It seemed deserted, inactive. But throughout my entire trip, I've been attracted by churches. There is something about the spires, pointing upwards, stretching toward heaven, representing hope and faith and aspiration, that never fails to make my heart swell.

So Highway 101 took me into a delightful little town called Seaview, just up the road from Ilwaco. I stopped at the Seaview Visitor's Center to ask for help in getting to Portland, Oregon. Nearby Ilwaco, as my good fortune had it, was the end of the Lewis & Clark Trail, and situated right at the inappropriately named Cape Disappointment State Park, and the relatively new Lewis & Clark State Park. (Ilwaco claims to be the Pacific Northwest's premiere sturgeon, salmon, halibut, crab and tuna fishing spot, and from all the boats and seamen I saw, I believe it.)

At the  Seaview Visitor's Center, one of the sweetest, gentlest ladies I'd encountered so far -- Pinky by name -- told me I was far from Rt. 4...that I'd be better off to get back on Highway 101, follow it past Chinook into Megler and cross the long bridge to Astoria, Oregon. From there, Pinky said, "...you'll find just the kind of country road you're looking for. It's route 30, lots of bends and curves and hills, and you'll love the countryside. That's the way my husband and I go when we go to the Good Sam (for Samaritan, I later learned) hospital down to Portland. We don't have to go there too often, knock wood, but we do like the drive. I think you will, too. I don't go in the hospital. I just stay in the car. My husband goes in. He's good, though. He's just moved too many pianos in his life. I used to help him, but we're both a little too old now. Now did you eat lunch yet? Well, you go just down the road there to the Shelburne Inn. There's a good restaurant there called, I think, Shoalwater's. You'll like it. And then you be sure to come right back here and tell me if you liked it. Because if you didn't, then I'm not going to tell any more good folks to go there."

I reported back to Pinky that I liked the restaurant plenty -- I ate outside in the garden -- and had a crab sandwich that looked suspiciously like a hamburger until I bit into it. "However," I said, "the desserts -- I had a piece of berry pie -- were about a quarter of the normal size of a slice of pie. Seems I got cheated."

"Nope," Pinky said, "you didn't. They only charge a quarter of the normal price, since they figure people don't need all that much dessert anyhow." Pinky didn't look like she'd missed many desserts in her 70-plus years, but I let it go. "Now I can't stand here talking all day with you, there's other folks who have questions. I was in New York City once a couple of years ago, and you talk about getting cheated! We paid more than $5 for a ham sandwich, and you should have seen the people we saw walking around. I'm not going back. Now, if you'll excuse me..." Pinky dismissed me in a kindly way, but firmly. A young Asian couple was asking where to get a good crab sandwich...

And so I drove on, past Chinook, to the bridge at Megers and the Columbia River. Oregon was within sight.

Come visit Ruby Beach with me

Not far down the west coast of the Olympic Peninsula from sparkling Crescent Lake (see previous post) is Ruby Beach and long stretches of distressing deforestration.

First the beauty, then the beastly.

This last picture was taken as I was leaving the parking lot for Ruby Beach. These resilient trees slope down to the beach, and the constant wind has stunted the growth of the trees nearest the beach (on your right).

The picture below shows a lone man walking the beach. (click on the picture to enlarge it for your screen; then you'll be able to pick him out in the center.) A few minutes after taking this picture, his wife clambered over the hundreds of sea-tossed logs to join him. When they came within talking distance, I asked where they were from. They said they lived on the San Juan Islands, west of Seattle, but that they had always wanted to spend time on this peninsula. They were sleeping further up the beach in a tent. The woman (I think her name was Gretchen, but I'm not sure) said, "We'd live outdoors if we could. Next year, we're going to move somewhere we can live off the grid. It'll be in the west. We want to have a family, but only when we're used to the life ourselves. We come from the Midwest. We're used to light switches and running water. I want to see how we copy with living with the land, what it provides. My husband is a sculptor. We're just blown away by the way nature throws these immense logs around and sculpts them into these incredible shapes and silvers them in the sun. Gordon seems to adapt to this life better than me. I'm not used to rinsing my clothes in seawater and stuff, but I'll get used to it, I guess. You're from New York? You ought to give it a try."

Ruby Beach has several illuminating signs, telling about the way tsunamis work (this is a very susceptible area for tsunamis), and how dangerous it can be to ignore the forces of nature at work in and near tidal pools. Rather than repeat what the signs say, I'll reproduce them here. You can click to enlarge and read them. 

When I left Ruby Beach, I saw many beautiful, rolling hills to my left. The patterns on these hillsides looked beautiful at first, until I came closer and saw what they were. In the picture here, the lighter area or 'bell curve' you see is an area where trees have been cut and harvested. The darker areas are the still-existing forest. Below this picture are close-ups of how ugly the hills look when there's nothing but stumps and debris. I should point out that as I drove south from Ruby Beach, I counted no less than 40 huge, log-laden trucks speeding north to Port Angeles.

The highway was beautiful, though, and the day was splashed with sun. Many of the hills (small mountains, really) in the distance were impressive and rugged. Still, as I came upon stripped hillsides, I lamented the loss of and lack of trees. I know that logging companies are doing their 'best' to replant trees, but how long will these hills look denuded and stumpy?

Finally, toward late afternoon, I was nearing a  stopping point for the night when I  spotted a small bridge in the distance. A sign stood before the bridge. The name -- Humptulips -- struck me so funny I had to share it with you. When residents of this small area give out their mailing address to friends (and, yes: that is the name of the town), I can just imaging them suppressing giggles every time they pronounce it. Or, maybe they're used to it. I don't think I'd ever be.

Ports Townsend & Angeles, with a stop in between

Many delights awaited my first day's journey into the Olympic Peninsula. A few surprises, too.

Not the least of which was the wall of stone that greeted me upon my venturing outside the motel-in-the-dark I had booked the evening before. It was easy to believe what a casual passerby had told me: "This place is built on landfill." (So, for the record, is the entire 200-plus acres on which Battery Park City is built at the tip of Manhattan Island in New York City. Some 50 years from now, some hapless New Yorker is going to find orange peels and a 1975 washing machine emerging into their parking garages, but that's another story.)

It was a glorious morning, and I have realized something about myself on this journey. I am unusually buoyed high by bright sunshine and large, puffy white clouds. I saw much of this kind of sky in Montana, Idaho, Washington and now on the Peninsula. And, although completely alone, I felt supremely happy to be ad-libbing along the road.

On the way from Port Townsend to Port Angeles, I saw a sign for "Sequim." Didn't know what it was, hadn't planned to visit it. But I'm glad I did. A pleasant little town, pristine  and scrubbed, full of shops selling paintings of local scenes and crafts. Right in the middle of town was a small sturdy building devoted to men's and ladies' restrooms. Nowhere on my trip thus far had I seen so thoughtful (and clean) a placement of public restrooms. May not seem like a big deal, but for many of us, the sight of a public restroom that's clean is worth a whoop. While home to many (and seemingly very well-off) residents with lovely large homes and yards, Sequim also appears to be a vacation town; lots of well-designed, newish homes on pleasant lanes and byways, with gardens and lovely shrubs and plantings.

I'd seen signs to a point indicating the northernmost point of the Peninsula, or perhaps the northernmost part of Sequim. A young girl on the street told me it was several miles out of town, to get on the road and just keep going. (Reliable instructions at last, it turned out.) while on my way, I saw a sign indicating that life may not always be idyllic on the Peninsula. It was a sign warning of a possible Tsunami, indicating an escape route. Startled me, I'll tell you. But this was the edge of the Pacific Ocean, Tsunami country. Nonetheless, another sign popped up, a much more  appealing sign. It indicated that my favorite kind of crab was to be found but a few short miles away. Mindless of the tsuname threat, I pressed on, only slightly salivating.

I found two things at the end of the road. One was a one-room schoolhouse plopped right at the bend in the road that led to the sea, a beautiful, striking building that made me wonder who attended (and taught) there, what they learned, how they prospered, where they went afterwards. The other was a fine restaurant called "The 3 Crabs" where I  had a superb (if somewhat overpriced) lunch of dungeness crab salad, dungeness crab cakes and if they had had a dungeness crab dessert, I'd have had that, too. All the while I was treated to a compelling view of the wide wetsand beach that lay between the restaurant the ever-encroaching, greedy Pacific. All over the wet sand were people out crabbing. Perhaps some were sold to the restaurant, but more likely, they were foraging for their own kitchens. Some were young people, but most were middle-aged and beyond. The seaside was chilly and breezy, and the bucket-pitchfork-and rake-equipped crabbers were bundled up against the wind.The wide expanse of sand was also a landing field to dozens of seagulls, which alternated between dive-bombing and scree-ing at the crabbers and alighting on the rails and roofs of "The 3 Crabs", seeking handouts (or foodouts) from the diners. I saw more than one seagull with an injured or missing leg, and hobbled as they were, they seemed to be just as scrappy as their two-legged competitors. In fact, I got close enough to one of the  fulls to take the picture to see, and he (or she; who can tell?) gave me a very loud 'get away' scree. Might be an injured bird, but he was determined to defend his turf. And his handouts.

And then, on the way back to Sequim and the main road to Port Angeles and the rest of the Peninsula, I saw something I'd missed on the way out to the point: a lovely home selling lavender. In fact, the more I looked, the more homes and small roadside stands selling the lovely, vibrant purple, fragrant blossoms. It almost seems to be a major trade among the residents. Some were elaborately set up, as shown here, others were simple tables set up along the road. Perhaps this part of the Peninsula is the lavender capital of Washington. Or perhaps the local citizenry has stumbled on something the rest of the world wants. They all seemed to be quite successful. I saw one buyer purchase several quite large bunches, and put them into the trunk of her car. Lord knows how long they last, but this woman was sure to have the most sweet-smelling auto on the Peninsula for some time to come.

The economy of different states, towns, communities has always intrigued me. Not from a bookish sense, but from a sense of curiosity. How do people make out? What do they do for a living? What supports a town and its people? Well, on the Olympic Peninsula, one answer is clear: Logging.

As I drove into Port Angeles, I was passed by dozens of fully-loaded logging trucks.  These are huge affairs, going well over the speed limit (55 mph on the open roads, 35 and 25 in towns. I had a dread of meeting one of these behemoths head-on. I'd have been a mere smear on their windshield; they were that big and that powerful and to me, scary.). There is a large paper industry, both in this country and abroad. You can smell a paper plant from miles away, and I encountered them in Washington, Oregon, Arkansas, Minnesota and Wisconsin. I wonder why, with all our vaunted technology, there hasn't been something done by the paper mills to reduce the noxious and objectionable odors that spew from their stacks.

At any rate, when I got to Port Angeles, I saw where the logs were going. There was a large Japanese plant at the harbor, and there were hundreds of huge logs,  stacked and awaiting the machinery that would turn them into pulp, slurry and eventually, paper. For the first time, the phrase "recycle paper, save a tree" really meant something. While I parked outside the plant entrance, I counted nine trucks, all heavily log-laden, zooming into the gates, and offloading their cargo. I had the impression, perhaps mistaken, that this activity was going on 16 hours a day, 7 days a week. Port Angeles turns out to be a huge shipping port, so I'm sure as soon as the logs are processed into paper, they're loaded on a ship bound for the Far East.

Not far down the road from the Nippon plant was a charming little town of Fork, where I stopped for a snack. A man who was heading north (I was heading south) told me outside the little restaurant to make sure "...you stop for a while by Crescent Lake. It's something you won't see the like of in a long time."

He was right. This beautiful glacial lake, nestled in amongst cliffs and hills, is sparkling. I read on one of the many informational signs that it's 800 feet deep (if you dropped the Empire State Building into it, you'd see only the top 20 floors and broadcasting spire of that 102 storey building), and colder than you want to imagine. One family had stopped by the lake about the same time as I did, and the little girls were playing by the lakeside. One turned to her mom and said, "Ooooh, mommy. It's soooo cold. We can't go swimming. It's much colder than our lake." I asked their father where "their lake" was. "In New Hampshire," he said. "She's talking about Lake Winnepasaukee. We came out here for a wedding of one of my wife's friends, and decided to take a drive down the coast. Spectacular, isn't it?"

While we stood and talked, more than a dozen giant logging trucks whizzed by, heading north for the Nippon plant. The road was narrow, and these trucks, as I noted earlier, were going well over the speed limit. It's a wonder to me that there aren't accidents on these small and twisty roads. I guess the truckers have been doing this so long, they know where the turns and the hills and the narrow outturns are. At least, I was hoping they did.

I was not only cheered to meet up with someone else from the East Coast who was an enchanted as I was by the stark natural beauty of this special place, but I was so pleased to find his enthusiasm was no less than mine. I'll post a few pictures here to give you an impression of what we saw that sunny, dancing day.

A dark introduction to Washington's Olympic Peninsula

When the ferry from Whidbey Island finally docked at Port Townsend on the Olympic  Peninsula, it was nearly dark. My night vision sucks, so I drove down as many well-lighted streets as I could, seeking one of two things. One: where could I park my van so I could sleep safely in the back, or two, where could I find a cheap motel.

A friendly police officer told me there was no place nearby to park my van overnight, and pointed out a nearby motel.

The nearby motel was full. I was tired and hungry. The clerk at the full motel suggested I try a "...newish place...near the water...I can't vouch for it...nobody I know has stayed there." I went there. A room was available for $31.00. I took it.

However, I made the mistake of asking the young girl on the desk for directions to the room and to a nearby seafood restaurant, if such might still be open. (It was a Sunday night, and about 8:50 p.m.) This girl was one of the prettiest girls I'd seen on my journey, and I hope her nascent beauty carries her far in this world, because her brains won't.

Me: "Can you tell me where I might find a restaurant that's open? I know it's nearly nine o'clock."

Pretty girl: "I don't know."

Me: "You don't know any restaurants, or you don't know any that might be open?"

Pretty girl: "The other thing. That might be open."

Me: "Maybe you could suggest a restaurant, and we could call them."

Pretty girl: "Oh. Um. Oh. What's the number?"

Me: "How would I know? I don't know what restaurants there are here in Port Townsend. I thought you might know some."

Pretty girl: "I'm not from here."

Me: "OK. Then perhaps you have a list of restaurants somewhere...?"

Pretty girl: "Oh. Oh, yes. We do. Here." (She handed me a list of restaurants.)

Me: "So do you know any that serve seafood? These are just names."

Pretty girl: "What kind of seafood?"

Me: "Fish."

Pretty girl: "I don't eat fish."

Me: "That's OK. I just wondered if you might know which of these restaurants serve fish. Perhaps local fish."

Pretty girl: "I never heard of local fish."

Me: "It's not a kind of fish. I just mean fish that is caught in the waters around here."

Pretty girl: "I don't know what they catch. I don't fish."

Me: "What's the nearest place on this list, do you think?"

Pretty girl: "You could try -----------. Sometimes I park my car there."

Me: "I don't see the name on this list. Do they serve fish?"

Pretty girl: "I don't know. They let me park for free."

Me: "If you'll give me the list, I'll call them."

Pretty girl: "They're just down the street. There's a big blue sign out front. Well, not on the front. Sort of on the side."

Me: "How far down the street. And which side? I don't see too well in the dark."

Pretty girl: (Turns her whole body to the left, then to the right) Let's see. This side. (gestures with her left hand.)

Me: "I'll try it."

Pretty girl: "It says surf 'n turn on the sign. Is that what you want?"

Me: "Well, I'd like the surf without the turf."

Pretty girl: "What's surf? I don't know that."

Me: "It's like fish. Seafood. Something like that."

Pretty girl: "I never eat things like that."

She then gave me vague directions to my room, and I set off in my car to find the restaurant with the blue sign. It did not exist. Or I could not find it after 20 minutes of searching. I did find a diner that was open finally, which was just fine. I had deep-fried catfish which, with enough tartar sauce, was OK.

Such was my introduction to Port Townsend, Olympic Peninsula.

I realize it's mean-spirited of me to report a nearly-verbatim dialog with this young girl, but I was so taken with her open-eyed innocence and Gracie Allen replies, that I could help myself.

The ensuring days turned out much better. It happened that when i awoke the next morning, I found that the motel was indeed right on the water ("The place was built on landfill," a passerby told me), and it afforded a beautiful view of the water I had crossed the evening before.

And so I was off to explore the Olympic Peninsula, a journey...an adventure...an agglomerate of scenes that will stay forever in my memory. These will be the subjects of my next posting. Stay tuned for Port Angeles...Sequim...Crescent Lake...Ruby Beach and more. (A hint of what's coming: the the breathtakingly blue, glistening glacial Crescent Lake.)

From Manhattan Island to Whidbey Island

I've been a Manhattanite too long. Tall buildings don't faze me, but...

After my heart rate returned to normal following our creep through the towering Cascade Mountains, Cliff Snell and I parted company late on a Saturday night a couple of weeks ago. (Yes, I'm woefully behind on recent postings. Please bear with me.)

Cliff zipped north to Vancouver, Canada, where he lives, and I set out the next morning for more of western Washington. A couple of friends had suggested driving through the San Juan Islands -- it sounded perfect -- but it would have taken time I didn't have.

Happy not to have any peaks to contend with in the immediate future, I drove to another island, south of the San Juans. It was Whidbey Island. (Go there if you can.)

After crossing the bridge from the mainland, I came upon Deception Pass, so named because a couple of hundred years ago, a ship's mate (Joseph Whidbey) took the Island for the mainland. He thought the water they had entered was a bay. The ship's captain, a hardy soul named Vancouver (it's a popular name in these parts), named the island in honor of his first mate. Deception Pass is a pretty, wooded and rugged place. It offers several short, craggy,  picturesque walking trails, and wonderful views of the waterways surrounding the island. One couple from Germany had walked down the stony cliff (there are steps) to the beach. Walking back up was another proposition. As I was headed down, they were headed up. I inferred they were German because I heard the man wheeze to his wife about halfway up: "Gott in Himmel!" And then something else I didn't understand. He had clearly hoisted many a foaming stein over his 60-plus years. The picture at left  was taken from the top of Deception Pass, showing the water where many Washington weekenders speed around on Jet Skis and boats. The other  photos show another deception, at least for our German tourists: it makes the 'hikes' look short and simple.

Whidbey Island reminded me very much of Martha's Vineyard (a delightful island off the Massachusetts coast. Don't plan to visit: it's too crowded now). It was dotted with charming little curvy roads, byways and dead ends. The homes and lawns were modest for the most part, but neat and well-kept. The roads were in good shape (better than those on Martha's Vineyard), and there were several towns of nice size.

However, I got lost.

I had intentions of stopping and talking to people I met along the way, but eventually wanted to wind up at the south end of the island. There, I could catch a ferry to the Olympic Peninsula. Or so I thought.

Somehow, I got off the road that would take me directly south and to the ferry over to the Olympic Peninsula. Instead, I wandered down many a pretty winding road to nowhere. Finally, I found myself at one end of Whidbey where there were many,  many beach cottages, jumbled up close together. I had lived in one of these kinds of houses on the east coast, I'm too familiar with them. I know that they are charming, offer great views, but are seldom insulated, have quirky plumbing, and frequent water and storm damage when the winds turn fierce. And there's always the problem with nosy neighbors, just scant inches away.

Pleasant as these modest cottages were to look at, I knew I had taken several wrong turns. I hailed a very nice elderly couple (what am I saying? I'm 71. I'm elderly. Well, they were elderlier than I am.) who told me I was way off, and gave me careful instructions as to how to find the ferry. The exchange went like this:

Me: "Can you help me? I seem to be lost."

Man: "Where do you want to go?"

Me: "I believe there's a ferry..."

Man: "Ah, sure. You go down here (pointing) about, say, half a mile..."

Woman: "Jim, let me. You go about a MILE until you come to an intersection where there are purple flowers...I think they're hollyhocks..."

Man: "That isn't where the flowers are, and besides, they're beach spray and they might be gone."

Woman: "JI-IM, let me. You look for the flowers and you turn left. Then you go slow, because the police are everywhere, for about five miles until you come to a horse corral on your right. Turn there."

Me: "Turn right?"

Woman: (looks at me as if I should be institutionalized) Well, of course turn right. Or...wait. Maybe you turn before the corral. Yes, you do...but maybe..."

Man: "Look for the sign for the ferry. It's very small. It's at the end of the road. You'll be at a 'T"."

Me: "That same road, the five-miler?"

Man & Woman, together: "Yep."

They were short people, both buttoned up to their necks in hardy looking beige windbreakers (the wind that day was stiff, and chill), and sturdy corduroy trousers. The woman had a green scarf tied tightly around her head, the man a dark blue Navy watch cap pulled around his dome. Neither head covering disguised their wild sprays of iron-grey hair. They had clear blue eyes, both. Their skin was tanned, healthily wind-and-weatherworn. They strolled away, obviously out for a walk, hand in hand.

Trying to find the route was an adventure in itself. There were no purple flowers, hollyhocks or beach spray. But there was a minuscule sign with an arrow: "To Ferry."

On my way, I drove down a hilly, curvy road that had less well-cared for properties, and a generous share of trailers parked off in the fields. Some looked inhabited. Many looked abandoned. But the strangest sight of all was encountering a house with a junk-filled yard, in the middle of which was an old helicopter. Yep, a helicopter. I stopped to take the picture you see, since it seemed so incongruous, so out of place. And I wondered: how did it get here? Who brought it to this smallish island? Why? Why did they park it in their yard? Did they plan to live it it? What did it represent to someone's life? I didn't have the guts to walk up to the door and ask, so I snapped the picture, and snuck away, content to speculate. Now you can, too.

On the right road at last, I came to an overpass, turned right as a "ferry" sign directed, and felt well satisfied that I would indeed be on the ferry within a few minutes to the part of Washington State that juts out into the Pacific.

Boy, was I wrong.

In a short while, I came across Camp Casey, once an army post, now a summer camp for teenagers and a conference center. Also, up the hill from the camp was a lovely, lonely- looking house, overlooking the water between Whidbey Island and the Olympic Peninsula. But mainly, I encountered a llloooonnnngggg line of cars, waiting for the ferry. I had completely neglected several pieces of information that I hope will be helpful to you, if you ever travel anywhere a ferry is involved.

1. If it is a Sunday, chances are people will be returning from a weekend vacation. Crowds should be anticipated.

2. Check out the size of the ferry, that is, how many vehicles can it take?

3. Is there more than one ferry boat?

4. How long is a one-way and round-trip?

And so on. None of these considerations occurred to me. So I got into a line that was one mile and four hours long. Even at the ferry loading dock, there was delay after delay, while drivers argued over the price, the waiting time, the poor facilities, and on and on. I just wanted to get on the damn boat. Which I eventually did. It was a gloomy,windy  day, and the sea was rough, even for the ferry. Still, off to the west, a beautiful sunset was trying to break through, and looking at it, I felt much calmer than I had just minutes earlier. The next stop was Port Townsend, which is the subject of my next posting.

Cruising the Cascades

I have acrophobia.

When I drive over high, twisty, winding roads -- which the northwest mountain ranges are full of -- my palms sweat, my stomach welcomes flights of butterflies, and I literally  have to fight the urge to drive off the road into the gaping canyon below. So I creep around these S curves and switchbacks. Luckily, my friend Steve Wilson took over the motoring chores in the worst parts of the Grand Tetons, Yellowstone and Glacier National Park. I sat in the...I hate this name...death seat, jaws clenched, looking straight ahead, wishing Steve would stop accelerating up to 20 mph.

Every once in a while, Steve would spot a spectacular view (Glacier National Park is check full of them) and call out, "Hey, look at that!", indicating some chasm so far below that the River Stxy could easily have been flowing through it. I'd have been focussing on some distant high peak; looking straight ahead or even higher up is supposed to help acrophobics. So I would glance over and down, snap a quick photo, pray that Steve did not intend to lurch over the edge to take the short way down, and my stomach would flip faster than eggs-over-easy.

But the cruise (HA!) through the Cascade Mountains in central Washington was different. I was on my own, dry mouth and all. Fortunately, I'd hooked up with a new friend -- Cliff Snell -- who volunteered to be the 'lead car' through the spectacular Cascade Range. We'd met by chance just north of Davenport in eastern Washington, enjoyed each other's company and freakish sense of humor (Cliff spent hours looking for a bumper sticker cheesy enough to put on his Jeep Cherokee), shared a motel room (of course, separate beds; need you ask??!!), viewed the Grand Coulee Dam's inner workings together, and then set out in our separate cars for points west. Cliff was heading toward his home in Vancouver, British Columbia. I was heading for...well, wherever whim would take me. So Cliff thoughtfully snaked us through the Cascades at what I considered to be perfectly reasonable speeds. Sometimes our cars were outrun by the many chipmunks that darted in and out of the rocks by the sides of the road.

Cliff and I were attracted to the same kinds of sightings as Steve and I were, so we stopped frequently to gaze in awe at what nature had thrust up before us. And to take pictures. Because there are so many wonderful scenes in the Cascades, I'll drop a few of the better ones here to give you a sense of the beauty surrounding us on our day-long drive. (The green water in the bottom photo is not an illusion; it is created by the many minerals that run off into this glacial lake.)

Cliff and I spent a long time on Rt. 20 over and through the Cascades and now that I'm down, I cherish every minute of it. Rt. 20 spills into a long flat stretch, and we determined that we would stop for the night at Mount Vernon (could there be a Washington with a Mount Vernon?). As we neared the only motel that seemed to have a light on (It was nearly 11:30 p.m.), Cliff stopped and said he thought he'd push on to Vancouver that night, as he could probably make it in an hour or so.

We went into the motel (I think it was a Worst Western, or the equivalent). The porcine lady on the desk said she was full, and so were all the other motels in Mount Vernon. I put on my best forlorn look, and said, "Haven't you anything??"

She thumbed through some papers, and said, "Well, we have one, maybe. The guy hasn't shown up, and the room isn't made up and I don't know if..." At which point a chipper young lady emerged from behind the curtain, and said, "I just made up the room. The sheets are clean, but I haven't vacuumed."

"Never mind," I said. "I left my white gloves back in New York."

I took the room, and asked if there were anywhere still open where we could get something to eat. We hadn't eaten since lunch, although we'd each bought a couple of pounds of cherries, and were happily munching them all the way through the mountains.

"You could try Shari's," the desk clerk yawned. "Maybe they're open." She told us how to find it.

Shari's (it turns out to be a chain) was open when we got there, a little after midnight. Besides us, the customers consisted of 1) a teenage boy and girl who had enough tattoos between them to decorate a heavy coffee table book, 2) a tableful of truckers who were loudly discussing the mishaps in that night's baseball game between the Mariners and the Angels, 3) a couple who looked as if they'd spent a lively couple of hours at the Worst Western and were cooling off before they went to their respective homes, and 4) a lady of a certain age with determined black hair who had a dish of jello in front of her when we arrived and still had it in front of her when we left.

Back at the motel, I hauled out my computer and began making notes for the day, many of which have found their way into this report. Cliff asked if he could nap for half an hour before hauling off to Vancouver, and he did. Last I saw of him, his taillights were disappearing in the distance up Rt. 5.

PS Cliff did get his cheesy bumper sticker, after all.