Nov. 7- Dec. 4, 2004 - Bellingham to Redding,and points in between

Finally, after more than a month in Bellingham, we leave on our year-long journey.

Our plan was to head for Oregon, hitting the Columbia Gorge and then the Oregon coast. But about an hour into our journey, I realized we had left our RV park guide behind. Without it we had no idea where we could find overnight facilities. So we made an unscheduled stop in Tacoma to find a bookstore. With a late start and wrong turns (our 38 foot “big rig” doesn’t allow U turns or even the typical right or left turn very easily, so if you miss your turn, it may take 15 to 30 minutes to get back to where you want to be) there was no way we would make Oregon by sunset.
Looking at the roadmap, I noticed that Mt. Ranier was enroute to the Columbia Gorge if we went by way of The Dalles rather than via Portland. We decided to stop for the night at Mt. Ranier National Park, and headed off I-5 to Hway 7. What a beautiful drive through peaceful forested countryside, dotted with the occasional small town - many of them little more than a small market and a gas station. They are sheltered by mountains of forest green, with splashesof yellow or gold – the diehard trees that have yet to drop their leaves. Some are ribboned with white drifts of snow.
We drive through Elbe, a quaint little town that looks like a Normal Rockwell painting, complete with old-fashioned 2-pump gas station. On the edge of Mt. Ranier National Park, and on the dark edge of sunset, we pull into Mounthaven RV Resort, 19 RV sites and cabins on 6 acres of land in the middle of the forest. The park is owned by a couple in their mid-40s – former banking and sales professionals who chucked it all to buy the site about 5 years ago. The husband, Craig,tells me where our site is offers to direct us into our space with his powerful flashlight, but I confidently brush off the offer, telling him, “Oh, I can do it.”

Ha! Even with the 2-way radio Steve insists I use, I’m not the pro I think I am. Steve wants to know which way to turn the front of the RV and I can only think and direct in terms of the back end. In the darkness, I’m trying to slot us into a 20 foot space between huge tall trees and a picnic bench while also avoiding the sewer and electric connections – and as I’m yelling directions – “Watch out for that tree! Don’t hit the bench!” -- I continually forget to push the Talk button so Steve doesn’t hear my instructions – which probably wouldn’t have helped him anyway. Despite my navigation, we finally get parked and we (or, to be honest, Steve) get hooked up and settled in.
On Monday we drive in the Jeep to Mt. Ranier National Park. The park is huge and covers all sorts of terrain, from meadows to forests, plateaus to craggy mountains, with Mt. Ranier, dominating the landscape. We drive through a deeply wooded road with trees so tall and dense that very little daylight shone through even on this very rare sunny day (for this time of year). The drive is like an Elliot Porter photograph brought to life. We park at an area of the park called Longmire and begin hiking on the Wonderland trail (which we later discover is a 94- mile trail and takes 2 weeks to complete!) The trail winds through the forest, following a river much of the way. We can hear the water rushing over the rocks – at times a dull roaring, at times a quiet murmur in the background. I marvel at how green can have such depth and breadth of hue. I admire the lacy beauty of the ferns, undergrowth and bushes that line the path, the lichen and richly textured moss that creeps up the trees, and especially, the variety of colors and types of mushrooms sprouting from the ground and on the trees. Steve laughs as I snap photo after photo of the mushrooms, from snow white caps to fluorescent orange and delicate coral-like gold. I captured pictures of about 10 different varieties, none of which I’ve ever seen before.

We hike for a couple of hours and then continue our drive through the park, awestruck at our surroundings, continually pointing out the scenery to each other - “Look at that!” – “Isn’t that gorgeous!” It is impossible to describe such beauty without giving it less than it deserves – the richness and depth of color and texture and shading, the range and subtlety of color and tone, the majesty of the mountains and trees that have been growing for eons. I am a writer and I don’t know how to write about what such magnificence - so I won’t try for fear of demeaning the lush palette we have seen.

November 9: On to Oregon - Almost!

We leave Mt. Ranier around 11:30 a.m., with advice from Craig and his wife about where to go and what to see. He recommends stopping in Goldendale, Wash., where there is a world-renowned observatory – and the chance to see the aurora borealis, which is currently at peak viewing – and a renowned art museum as well as several wineries – and it is not far from the Columbia Gorge.We take the state highway – the back route – rather than the interstate because Craig promises it is far more scenic. He’s absolutely right – at one point, we drive along a narrow winding mountain roadway cut through tree- studded mountains that drop precipitously on the right side of the road to valleys blanketed with tall slender evergreens hundreds of feet tall. Some are tipped with gold and look like matches for giants – but the golden needles, unfortunately, are due to some blight that creates beauty even as it kills.

Driving along, we reach a straight, flat section of road, and Steve pulls the RV over and says, “Your turn to drive. This is a good place for you to practice.” I’m leary, but agree – I do need to practice driving, and this seems to be a safe stretch of road. Steve explains the push-button gears and the air brakes, and after adjusting the seat and mirror, I put our 48 feet of vehicles (including our Jeep Wrangler in tow) in Drive and set off timidly down the road. Steve has to tell me multiple times to “move left!”; I want to hug the right side of the road (where it feels safe!), but I’m gradually beginning to feel a little more confidence when I see a sign: Moutain Pass Ahead. Sure enough – the road narrows and starts to wind like a snake with vertigo.At least that’s what it feels like to me, and I decide this is not the kind of road to practice on. I announce that I’m not ready to drive mountain passes yet and pull over to relinquish the driver’s seat. I think Steve’s ready to take over – even though I’ve probably driven less than half a mile.

But – typical of our journey – our late start and stops along the way mean we are still too far from Goldendale by late afternoon, and not wanting hook up after dark (which it is by 5 p.m. here) we stop in Toppenish, an hour south of Yakima. After pulling into our space, Steve discovers the cover to the water heater is missing – apparently it was not fully latched and blew off enroute after he removed it the previous day to check the water heater. Without the cover the water heater is fully exposed to rain and other elements, so we’ll need to find a dealer or call Newmar to order a replacement. We are only 2 days into our trip and each day seems to bring some new (if small) problem – all self-inflicted. But we hope that as we become more expert and/or knowledgeable RV’ers, the number of dumb mistakes we make will diminish.

November 10

We drive in the Jeep to Goldendale – after Steve calls an RV repair place in Yakima and arranges to get a new water heater cover the following day. The highway winds through rolling hills covered in grasses and brush dried to a soft gold; from afar, it looks like a velvet covering. There are occasional clumps of trees in hues of yellow, gold and buttery beige, with an occasional splash of brilliant russet. We can’t stop looking and remarking on the landscape - “Look at that!” "Isn't that gorgeous!" We finally agree that we can appreciate the view without constant reminders from each other.

It is a gloomy overcast day in Goldendale. We stop at the Chamber of Commerce – a one-room building barely bigger than a storage shed – and hear an incredible story from Tom, the volunteer staffer. He and his wife moved to Goldendale a few years ago – after walking across the United States. He tells us that at age 39, he was diagnosed with diabetes. A smoker who weighed 300 pounds at the time, he lost 3 family members to diabetes. “I had a choice – keep on living the way I was and die within a few years, or change my life.” He chose the latter, quit smoking and lost the excess weight. He began jogging and eventually was able to outrun his sons. That's when he decided to walk across the U.S. to prove that diabetes is not a death sentence. He trained for months, and in 2000, walked from California to Washington, D.C. in 4 ½ months, averaging 30-35 miles a day, wearing out 10 pairs of New Balance shoes along the way. His wife drove ahead of him, contacting newspapers and media in towns along the way to publicize his trek. Tom has written a book about his journey and is now working with his editor to find a publisher. And he still walks 6-8 miles a day and thrives on his new healthy lifestyle.

We drive through Goldendale, stopping at the Maryhill Winery tasting room to sample (and buy) – a crisp Sauvignon blanc and wonderful cabernet (and a huge berry luscious zinfandel which we don’t buy. Dumb. I can still taste it!). Then on to The Dalles, a town of about 9,000, where we stop for lunch. At 5 p.m. we’re heading back to Toppanish. It’s nearly dark, but we decide to check out an RV park at Maryhill State Park right on the Columbia river. The park gate is closed so we turn around and head up the hill and down the highway toward home (the RV). Thirty minutes later when we see the sign welcoming us to Roosevelt, we both know we’ve taken a wrong turn – we’ve been driving east instead of north. We turn around and drive 32 miles back to where we missed our turn. We arrive “home” at 7:30 p.m. and decide to order a handheld GPS system tomorrow.

Thursday – we drive to Yakima in the jeep to pick up the water heater cover, get batteries for my cameras, and shop for supplies in Costco. We’ve packed up the RV before we left, so when we get back to Toppanish, we’re ready to leave and we’re on the road within 30 minutes. We decide to stay at Maryhill State Park and pull in by midafternoon. But – another mishap – as we’re putting the leveling jacks down, the back jacks hit the cement parking blocks, and one of the jacks bends. When Steve crawls under the motorhome with a hammer and tries to fix it, it breaks – then it won’t retract. So we’re going nowhere (not with a jack cylinder hanging 6 inches above the ground!) until we get it repaired. Good thing the park we’re staying at is beautiful – we’re surrounded by gold-leafed trees, the river before us, mountain ridge behind us. There are worse places to be stuck. And we know –as RV newbies – we probably have plenty more mishaps ahead of us. And I'm envisioning a bill of several thousand dollars to repair the jacks, but the next day, we drive to an auto-RV repair shop Steve finds in the local phone book. The shop is a jungle of old cars in various states of disrepair; the owner wears grease-covered jeans that expose his butt when he bends over - but he knows exactly what the problem is. He crawls under the RV, hammers a few places, and Voila! it's fixed. He refuses to charge us, but Steve insists he take $20.

Nov. 16-19
We're at Cape Lookout State Park – a beautiful location at Pacific City, 40 miles from Tillamook (famous for cheese) in the forest, 10 yards from the beach, . No satellite TV or cell phone connection, though – trees and mountains are in the way. Instead of The Apprentice and Survivor, we watch old movies from the Dollar Store – The Hitchhiker (1953) with Edmund O'Brien about a bad guy who kidnaps 2 campers; he sleeps with one eye open).
The beach is long, rocky, windswept and beautiful. High tide and no sand beach in the early morning, low tide by noon. Walking on the beach, I encounter a group of three young kids (20-something) sitting on the rocks, drinking beer and eating oysters. They offer me fresh oysters, but it's the one shellfish I can't stomach, so I say no thanks.
Later - Walking through the forest on the trail, breathless from the beauty - layers of green, texture upon texture, the realization that nature wastes nothing, unlike humans. I detour from the trail – a no-no – to trek to the beach. Waves crashing, booming; lacy-edged surf – all the clichés fit. \

While at Cape Outlook, we v isit the Tillamook Cheese Factory (Watch cheese being packaged, eat curds.)We drive east to Willammette Valley wineries. Stop at Yamhill Valley Winery - tasting room is operated by 18 month old Amelia and her dad. Amelia was a 3 pound premie – still has the translucent skin (no fat layer) of a premie. Named after Amelia Earhart – mom is a pilot. Small winery specializing in pinot gris, pinot blanc, pinot noir. While we sample wines, Amelia plays with camera phone and calculator – making her “tickets” on the printout. Very precocious, adorable.

Nov. 20-23: Newport, OR - South Beach State Park:
No satellite again, even after moving to another site supposedly in a tree-free zone. More old movies – “The Last Time I Saw Paris,” a tear-jerker with a young and beautiful Elizabeth Taylor – who dies at the end after getting wet in the rain.

Nov. 26

Had set my alarm for 7:30 a.m., intending to get up “early” (early for us since we’ve been sleeping ‘till 8 every day.) Donald Trump, being interviewed by Larry King a few nights ago, commented about how little sleep he requires – 3-4 hours a night, and made a scathing comment about those who sleep “12 to 14 hours a night.” I think about us – sleeping 8 hours every night and feel like a lazy slob!

Anyway, I hear the alarm and turn it off without getting up. It was raining the night before and I assume it would be grey and wet this morning. So when I wake up at 8:10 a.m., I’m startled by sunshine pouring in the windows. I quickly make coffee, get dressed and Princess and I set out for a walk on the beach. Usually, she loves the beach and prances in the sand and tickles her toes in the surf as if she’s a puppy. But by the time we reach the water the biting wind has numbed my fingers and Princess shows little interest in frolicking – a few half-hearted leaps and she trudges up to the grassy area on the edge of the sand.

Head down the coast. Stop at Walmart to buy screws and Christmas decorations – a string of mini-lights and fake evergreens.

Nov. 27: Medford, OR - Holiday RV Park (2 nites)
November 28, 2004 – Saturday
We've left Gold Beach at the southern end of Oregon, and are driving down a winding forest road through Grants Pass to Medford – a road carved out of the mountains that follows the Smith River. We are surrounded by tall evergreens that tower over us – and in the canyon carved by the river on our right, we can look down on the tops of trees.
Our plan: skiing at Mt. Ashland – visit southern Oregon wineries - but we discover there's no snow on Mt. Ashland. Sunday, we set out to go to church, then visit wineries. But after driving around for 40 minutes looking for the church, we give up, go to the Dollar store, then to RoxyAnn and Pascal Wineries & Rogue Creamery Cheese. Great wines, great cheese (an international award winning blue cheese, and a buttery-smooth gorgonzola called Oregonzola.)
We are discovering what rural means. . . we pass through Jacksonville – one of those postcard-perfect villages, with clapboard houses, white picket fences, churches with steeples, beauty shops and doctor’s office (with a real “shingle” hanging out front) interspersed with doll-like homes with expansive leaf-covered lawns.
Entering the freeway, we see a white-bearded hitchhiker on the access road, duffle bag at his feet, in earnest conversation on his cell phone.

Nov. 29-Dec. 5 – Redding, CA
We head for Redding, where we’ll spend a few days to wait for our mail, go skiing (we think – turns out there’s no snow) on Mt. Shasta, and visit the redwoods. As we drive down I-5, Steve asks me (half jokingly, I suspect) if I wanted to drive the RV, as it was a wide, fairly straight 3-lane highway. I think about it for half a beat, then say, “not really.” His reply: “I’m still looking for that 6-lane, 1-way highway with no traffic so you can practice driving this thing.” Ha ha.
Wednesday, we decide to take Hwy 299 in the Jeep to Redwood forest on N. Calif. coast. On the map, it’s 135 miles – but what’s not apparent is that every mile is switchbacks and spiral, twisting road, like driving up a slinky.
As I drive, I’m thinking this mountain road that could have been used for one of those performance car commercials with the warning at the bottom of the screen: “Performance driver – don’t try this at home.” As if. I’m barely reaching the speed limit. This road defines the term “ribbon of highway” – you can see the road unfolding back and forth before you. Steve’s getting queasy – probably from my driving; he’s used to being in the driver’s seat, in control.
. . . We head north on the Redwood Coast Road, take the Newton Drury Scenic Parkway, a 10 mile drive through the heart of the redwood forest. We stop at one of the trailheads to hike. The forest is magical and quiet – there’s a reverential hush as if in deference to these ancient giants. As we walk past chest-high ferns and towering redwoods, I am both humbled and horrified, having read that 96% of the original old growth trees are gone – logged for homes and picnic tables.
We drive the Coastal road, a rutted one-lane gravel road with expansive views of the Pacific; we stop to see an old World War II radar station disguised as a farmhouse and barn, where the Army monitored the skies and ocean for enemy encroachment.
South on 101 from Eureka . . . nothing is “faux” along this route. We pass weathered old barns and houses with tin roofs that have a beautiful soft green patina. This is where shabby chic began, I suspect – where age has beauty and warmth, and it is a natural rather than artificially hastened process. What a paradox – and what a commentary on our society. On one hand, we adulate aging through artifice in our objects and possessions, using paint and other techniques to create instant antiques. But we abhor age in our bodies and ourselves, and resort to artifice to deny the very effects of aging we admire around us.
. . . I realize as we see more of America that in Scottsdale, we had no real awareness of how most Americans live. . . where a big evening out is dinner at Applebee’s or the local family-owned coffee shop. If we (I) were so out of touch and desensitized to real life, how unaware and out of touch must our political leaders be – from the President and Congress to all those who advise him/them. Their existence is rarified – it is life on a whole other level, in another world, where Wal-Mart has meaning only for its impact on the stock market, not for its “rollback prices.”