Two curiosities

1. I discovered the paw prints of a cat on my windshield. I’m guessing it was from a neighbor’s cat or a feral one. Either way, I hope it was on rodent patrol.

2. Sedans are a dying breed as pickups, SUVs and crossovers take over the automotive market. Furthermore, sedans are even more rare out here in the rural West where trucks are king. So when I was driving Highway 180 to Flagstaff this morning I was surprised to see a cluster of seven late model sedans of various makes driving the other way. Perhaps they were the entire Arizona Sedan Owners’ Club headed to Grand Canyon.

I’m incrementally less ignorant today

I realized something today worthy of a self-administered head smack. Like most red-blooded ‘Mericans, I was raised without the metric system. I think it was because they wanted us to suffer more. Anyway, now and then I take a stab at using metric. The other day I flipped the switch on my digital thermometer so I could start making a connection between degrees Celsius and what it feels like. For example, when I started writing this it was 30°C and felt rather warm. It’s about 86°F. Okay, I’ll use that as a reference point.

Now, about that realization: As a metrically-impaired person I looked at the two scales and thought, “Fahrenheit has 180 increments between freezing and boiling but Celsius has only 100 increments, so Fahrenheit is more precise.”  

But then my thermometer changed to 28.7°C. Oh!!! (head smack) Decimals! Duh! Both the C and F scales can use them, so there’s an infinite number of increments. A little pothole of my ignorance has been filled.

Net access

A few weeks ago I wrote how delighted (and somewhat concerned) I was to not be bothered by bugs in the Pacific Northwest. But now I’m back in the high desert and so are the bugs. Flies during the day, moths and other flying annoyances at night. The most annoying insects are the tiny flies that never land anywhere for more than a sixteenth of a second. And some variety of small nocturnal pest that always wants to tickle the crook of my right arm. It’s too warm to seal up the Rolling Steel Tent, And even though I’ve had eleven years to figure out some type of convenient screen system, well, I haven’t. So the simplest thing I can do it toss netting over me.

I’m starting to yearn for the coast when I’m done here. Or is autumn high bug season there?

Rolling wood building

My friend, Tom, is an on-and-off nomad who seems to be settling into an extended off period. Maybe a permanent one. He bought a small bit of property in the high desert of Arizona and installed a prefabricated tiny house a while back. Then a couple of days ago he had a tiny barn delivered.

I had never witnessed the delivery of prefabricated buildings before. I had imagined it would be about the same as a shipping container brought to another friend’s place in Colorado: back the truck up to the designated spot, tilt the bed, slide structure off until one end hits the ground, then drive out from under it. Scrape thud scrape boom. But this was much fancier — and far more appropriate for stick-built structures rather than steel boxes.

The barn was slid off a low tilt-bed trailer by a small tractor/forklift. Then it was shoved down the driveway and nimbly maneuvered into place. Pretty slick.

Tom is pleased

As Tom explained his vision for the barn and the rest of the property I thought how different our needs, desires and goals were. He has grand plans while I was thinking if I got a piece of land (an idea that feels alien to me) the most I’d want is a sufficiently smooth access road, a patio/parking slab, and a pit toilet. A place to simply be — once in a while.

My ideals are different from Tom’s. They were different from Lou’s. And that’s okay. Universal agreement and conformity are not necessary. It’s only a problem if a person is unable to live the way that makes them happy. I’m lucky.

Mind-altering experience

Conventional vehicle-dwelling wisdom holds that it’s a lot easier staying in the boondocks than in cities. Civilization is filled with laws and folks hostile to those living in unconventional ways. Sooner or later law enforcement or irate neighbors will come a-knockin’.

Yet my friend, Scott, has spent almost a decade living in a van up and down the West Coast — all in cities. Without trying to be stealthy. And never with any encounters. I was skeptical. I thought he was just incredibly lucky.

But since I was committed to going to Vancouver Island to take Lou’s ashes out to sea, and since there was triple-digit heat inland, I decided to take the coastal route. 

I had concluded years ago there was no such thing as free camping anywhere near the ocean. Except for the driveways of good friends, it was all private property, military facilities, or paid campgrounds that required reservations months in advance. Scott and some online resources provided some location tips, and I headed out.

My first shock was Huntington Beach. I had lived there back in the 90s. How could I get away with overnighting on one of its streets? Perfectly well, it turns out. It was just a matter of finding the right type of place. In this case it was a divided boulevard between upscale residential developments. There were tennis courts on one side and a berm on the other that blocked the view of the homes and the homeowners’ view of the various live-aboard rigs parked on the street. Police and private security vehicles passed now and then, never stopping. Well I’ll be.

Encouraged by my experience in Huntington Beach, I continued northward. And everything was fine. I used what I had learned from the tips to scope out my own locations. Up through California, Oregon and Washington to British Columbia and back. The “worst” thing was that a couple of the spots had noisy traffic late into the night and/or early in the morning. Yeah, well, civilization.

These are the places I streetdocked. It doesn’t include places I boondocked, a hotel stay, a free campground, and friends’ places.

As I said earlier, I had assumed urban areas (especially the wealthy ones) were hostile to vehicle dwellers, while rural areas were more commodious. So when I left the Coast to go to Flagstaff I expected no trouble when I parked between a church and playing field in Tehachapi. But two hours later there was The Knock. The officer informed me sleeping in vehicles was prohibited. As he checked my ID another officer arrived. Then another. Were they expecting trouble? Were they going to start some? Did they simply have nothing else to do?

After determining I had no outstanding warrants and that I was just a harmless old man passing through, they told me it was okay to sleep at the truck stop just outside the city limits. 

So as I dozed off to the sounds of idling semis and passing trains I thought about the irony of it all. And I thought about returning to the coast after I finish helping my Flagstaff friend.

Drive on!

Eleven years ago, on the first day of van life, I drove from Lexington, South Carolina to a campground near Cincinnati. Six-hundred and something miles fueled by excitement and a deep desire to get back to my true home in the West. 

The next day I logged 730 miles, ending up in Minnesota at the junction of I-35 and I-90. Part of that was through fog so thick all I could do was follow the big rig lights ahead of me and pray they didn’t lead me into the ditch.

The third day was a “short” 500 miles to Rapid City, South Dakota. While waiting for my South Dakota residency stuff I wandered to Devil’s Tower, the Badlands, Wounded Knee, Mount Rushmore, and the Crazy Horse memorial. Drive drive drive drive… 

Then off to Boise to see friends. Then onward to the Oregon Coast.

I don’t drive like that anymore. I have no desire to. And I physically and mentally can’t. I’m an old man now.

But there I was a couple of days ago, wanting to get from the Coast to Flagstaff. That meant crossing the triple-digit heat of the Central Valley and the Mojave Desert, with long empty stretches that make the trip feel even longer.

I considered various routes, including one that followed the coastline all the way to San Diego. I finally settled on starting in the late afternoon, when things should begin cooling down a little, then taking 166 east from Santa Maria, over some low mountains to the bottom of the Central Valley, passing just south of Bakersfield, then up into the hills/mountains that separate the valley from the desert. I could stop in Tehachapi, at about 4,000 feet, where it wouldn’t be as hot. Then I’d leave as soon as the sky started to lighten and blast the 300 miles across the desert to Kingman before maximum heat of the day.

I do something that makes summer driving, oh, less pleasant. I avoid using air conditioning in order to save gas. Also, I just prefer driving with the windows open when the weather allows. The wind and the connection to the outside make me more alert and refreshed. But as I was approaching Needles it got to the point where being sealed in the cooler confines of the van would not only be nicer but also kind of necessary.

There are many of us who avoid driving on holiday weekends. Argh, vacationers clogging up the roads, many of them with large, slow rigs. However, there were far fewer of them than I had feared and for more big rigs than I think I’ve ever encountered. Half of them were driving at speeds that made the other half want to pass them. You know how that goes.

So when I got to Kingman I chose to get off I-40 and it’s long slow-truck-clogged climb up to Flagstaff and take Route 66 through Peach Springs. It’s longer, and the speed limit is lower, but it was a pleasant, stress-free drive. Too bad it only gets you halfway to Flagstaff before being swallowed by I-40. But I had gotten my second or third wind and made the final 50-mile push to Flagstaff.

The Coconino forest around Flagstaff was filled with weekenders and summer-ers, but I found a decent site and collapsed. I woke up after a couple of hours and took some nourishment before going back to sleep. A day behind the wheel had wiped me out.

This morning I contacted my friend and got directions to his homestead. Then I took another nap. But I won’t be doing much driving for a while. I’ll be wearing out my old man body in other ways.

Lost somewhere on the Lost Coast

How rough was the road out to the Lost Coast? Rough enough to shake a hubcap off. These decorative covers are held on by plastic caps that look like bolts, but unless they’re screwed on just right the threads get stripped and... bye-bye.

This is my second set of hubcaps. The first ones got so loose I resorted to gluing them on. But they had to be removed to rotate the tires. So I got a new set off eBay. I checked the listings last night and there’s a guy selling these individually instead of the usual set of four. I could get just one, or should I get all four while I'm at it? At any rate, I’ll need to wait until I’m somewhere I can receive a shipment. Or I could just remove all the hubcaps and go with the rugged utilitarian look.

Vanniversary! Time for a change of direction

Yesterday marked eleven years of radically changing my life by doing the van life thing. I still love it! And I’ve really enjoyed hanging out in the Pacific Northwest this summer. But the past week or so I’ve been thinking I need to do something besides walk in the forest and stare at the ocean. Something useful (not that bliss doesn’t have its purposes).

Then a friend in northern Arizona said he could use some help winterizing the pre-fab tiny home he has on his bit of land. So farewell for now to the land of redwoods and rocky beaches, hello junipers and sage, with Ponderosa pines on the side.

I hit the road yesterday and put in over 300 miles. I’m about to head out again this morning, sticking pretty much to the coast. I’ll pause before slogging through Southern California traffic and making the mad (as in I must be crazy) dash through the still-too-hot desert. 

I spent the past few vanniversaries at Grand Canyon. I’ll do the same a few days late, then it’s tool time. I wonder how quickly I’ll readjust to higher elevation after three months at sea level.

Meanwhile, here are my last beach photos for a while. These are at the Lost Coast, the least developed, least populated, and least accessible section of the California coastline.

The literal and metaphorical less beaten path

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by

A friend had been researching possible quiet and uncrowded woodland hikes in the general Eureka area. He shared one of his finds with me, a trail along the Elk River. Events were such that I was able to go there first.

Once there I discovered there were two established trails. One was paved, wide, and flat. The other was none of those and looked far more interesting. So that’s the one I chose, of course. And though there were a couple of hills that had me panting I was happy with my choice.

That’s essentially how my life has been the past eleven years. First there was the huge diversion from my life’s paved, wide, flat path. Goodbye boring existence in a house; hello road less traveled by. That put me on a path of mental, spiritual, and physical growth. It reignited my ambition and will to live. And though there have been a couple of metaphorical hills to climb, I’m very happy with my choice.

Cliche days

The past couple of days the Pacific Northwest has been very Pacific Northwestish. The weather has been alternating between drizzle, heavier rain, overcast, and more drizzle. And wind. The only time I ventured outside was to transfer my trash to a bin at a scenic overlook.

But I’m fine. That surprises me. I usually get antsy and cranky and depressed in wet weather. I guess I’ve adjusted — but not to the point of becoming one of the Mole People. I still prefer sunshine and open doors and windows.

Out on a limb

Eureka and Arcata California are situated along Humboldt Bay and Arcata Bay which are separated from the Pacific by narrow peninsulas. I drove out to the end of the northern peninsula yesterday and spent several hours just chilling and being free.

Access to the paved road from the picnic area where I had parked is rather lumpy, a combination of holes, humps, and ruts. As I was slowly making my across it at the end of the day I heard a loud thump against the bottom of the Rolling Steel Tent. I assumed I had kicked up a rock. But as I continued I thought I heard (along with the thumping of tires, the various noises of things shifting around in the van, and Roxanne on the radio) a scraping and vibrating sound. Had I broken something? I got out to look.

There was a seven-foot tree branch, about and inch in diameter, wedged between the front wheel and the inner fender. Well there’s my problem. I pulled it out and deposited it off the “road.” Little things sent my way to make my day interesting.

Grass attack

Spend a while in the desert and you realize nearly every plant wants to stab you. But, of course, that’s not the only home of vicious vegetation. Now I’ve been reminded the Pacific Northwest has lots of briars and brambles too. And there’s a grass that, despite its docile appearance, wants to poke its tiny spines in you, all in the name of spreading its seeds. Fortunately, the goal is to have the prickly seeds fall off somewhere, so the poky bits don’t have barbs. Nevertheless, you’d rather not remove them with your bare fingers. I got about half of them off my shoes with a whiskbroom then used tweezers to get the rest. Well, it’s one way to spend a lazy afternoon. I’m very glad none of them found their way to my rug where my bare feet would find them.

Some comic (A. Whitney Brown, maybe) said he’s a vegetarian not because he loves animals but because he hates plants. I think that’s fair, because there are so many plants that hate us. I haven’t even gotten into the toxic ones.

Timing

I had spent the day at Clam Beach and was returning to Arcata when a patch of heavy rain hit. Rain is good, but not the best thing when driving, when your wipers are barely keeping up, when the water on the windshield is backlit by the western sky, and when there is additional glare from various lights.

I knew which street I wanted to turn on, yet despite having been in Arcata for a couple of weeks I didn’t have landmarks memorized. Furthermore, the street signs are small and the names are smaller: F, G, H… And in the rain-blurred conditions H and K look the same. So do L and I. But I knew there was a traffic light at the street I wanted, and there was one that seemed to be in the right place, so I turned — the wrong way onto a one-way street. With a bus headed toward me.

I managed to swerve to the curb and the protection of a parked truck. I gave my best “I messed up, I’m stupid and sorry” look at the bus driver as he scowled back. There was no further traffic so I pulled into a parking lot and got properly oriented. 

Then the rain stopped. That got me thinking of movies like Sliding Doors and Run Lola Run about how a few seconds’ change in timing can alter what happens later, and how chance might play a large role in the direction of our life. 

There had been no reason to leave Clam Beach at the moment I did. It was just, “Okay, I guess I’ll go.” So I ended up in heavy rain that contributed to me making a wrong turn. But I’ll never know what much worse or much better things I missed by leaving at that instant.

Thermal fluctuations

Summer temperatures along the northern Pacific Coast have been fairly even. Upper 60s in the day, upper 40s at night. An easy, predictable, twenty-degree cycle (unlike the big daily temperature swings in the desert). My “down alternative” quilt has been perfect under these conditions, and by perfect I mean I haven’t needed to think about my sleeping temperature at all.

However, the other night I woke up after a couple of hours because I was too warm. Okay. I switched to my lightweight blanket. That was better.

 Then I woke up later feeling just a little too chilly. I thought, “I’ll simply adjust my perception. The chill is like having air conditioning, right?” 

But I knew the night would continue to cool down until sunrise. I had lazily dumped the quilt on the floor, so I pushed the blanket aside and pulled the quilt over me. Of course, without my body generating heat the quilt was now cool, but in a nice cool-side-of-the-pillow way. And it warmed up quickly.

My struggle with the right bedding (and clothing) is usually an early spring/late fall thing as the seasons try to make up their mind. But the middle of August is late summer, and even autumn isn’t that different from summer in these parts. It must be me; an old geezer thing. Oh yay.

The locals know the best fishing spots

Sometimes I get to the viewpoint at the right time

Greetings from Trinidad, California

Bumming

When I was a kid a news man reported on an incident involving a transient. “Mom, what’s a transient?”

“A bum,” she said with a combination of sadness and disgust.

Years later I learned transient means temporary, brief, passing. I guess that fits me. I’m here temporarily, there briefly, always passing through. As my logo says, I’m permanently impermanent.

So I understand why some folks consider us vehicle-dwelling wanderers to be bums even if we keep clean and sober and cause no trouble beyond the negative feelings our nonconformity engenders in them. 

If we think about it a little, we realize we are all transient in the big scope of things. Everything is temporary. I move every few days, and they might move a handful of times in their entire life, but both are a nano-blip in cosmic time. Here today, gone almost instantly. But if we keep moving then the anxiety our presence causes will be only transient.

Driving and relaxing and hiking and fish tacos

It felt like it was time to move along. Things had been fine in Crescent City, but a week there was enough for now. Arcata was calling.

Arcata is only an hour and a half drive down US-101, but there are nice scenic things between — mostly Redwood National and State Parks and several beaches. I would take my time and actually stop at places I had driven past before. No destination fixation this time. But first a stop at the Elk Valley Tribal Fuel Mart to top off the tank with lower-priced gas.

It was still overcast when I got to Wilson Creek Beach. I hadn’t eaten so I fixed brunch and did some reading. The sky eventually cleared and it was a beautiful day. (True, overcast days at the ocean can be beautiful in their own way, but sunny ones are better.)

Various people came. Some just to spend a few minutes, some to spend the day. The most unexpected ones were an Amish-like family. Hey, everyone likes the beach.

Next on the list was Hidden Beach Trail. The trailhead is across the highway from Trees of Mystery — the place with the big Paul Bunyan and Babe statues. I had been there before, so I headed straight to the trail instead. The sign said it was a half mile, but a couple of steep inclines made it feel farther to this old geezer. The last bit of trail from the bluff to the beach was extra steep and had patches loose gravel and leaves to make footing dicey.

Once at the bottom you have to pick your way through washed up tree trunks and sizable rocks. But it’s all worth it, particularly with the perfect weather. There was a couple there who left shortly after I arrived, and two guys who arrived shortly before I left. Otherwise I was alone. Just me and the sea.

I made a couple of quick stops father south. The first was at Big Tree Wayside. The Big Tree is just a few steps from the parking lot. The Park Service demonstrated its sense of humor with this sign post.

More trails branch off from there. I took a loop trail. Indeed, there were more big trees that way.

Finally, just a hop down the road, was the trailhead for Atlas Grove. I didn’t realize it was so close to The Big Tree that I could have walked there. Oh well. Except for a family headed in the other direction I was the only one there. I sat on a bench for a while just getting my forest fix.

The last stop before Arcata was LoCo Fish Co, a food truck next to a gas station in McKinleyville. Locally sourced fish, choice of fried or grilled. I got two fish tacos. They’re standard with flour tortillas but you can get corn tortillas upon request. I went with grilled and corn. The tacos were as delicious as the fish sandwich I had there the last time I was in the area.

I was a little surprised how in the five weeks since I left Arcata I had forgotten some of my way around town. Was that parking spot off K Street or L? On 5th or 7th? And which streets are one way? Old man brain, I guess. I eventually found the spot I was looking for and settled in. Ah, home again.

Ork ork ork ork ork...

That small island is Castle Rock National Wildlife Refuge. I couldn’t see the sea lions but I could hear them.

Searching for sand dollars

Crescent Beach, just south of Crescent City CA, is a long, wide sandy stretch. It’s known as a place to find sand dollars. The trouble with such a reputation is that the beach pretty much gets picked clean of them. The same thing happens at beaches known for shells, sea glass, clams, or whatever.

But Crescent Beach is a nice place for a walk on a gray morning. The sound of the surf overrides most other sounds. It’s like white noise that enables contemplation. And that’s good.

When is a U-turn something more than a U-turn?

I’ve been in every state except Rhode Island, Alaska and Hawaii. As much as I can remember, in most states, when a U-turn is allowed on a divided highway there’s just a paved gap in the median. It’s as if the highway designers said, “Here ya go. Good luck if there’s a lot of traffic.”

But along the stretch of US-101 near Port Angeles, Washington (and perhaps elsewhere) there are a series of “U-turn Areas,” as the signs call them. They look like this:

To make a U-turn you start by moving into a special left lane that sets you up to cross the oncoming lanes rather than immediately merging with it. When there’s a sufficient break in traffic you cross the oncoming lanes and enter a loop that sets you up to merge back onto the highway.

I never had reason to use one of the U-turn Areas but they seem easier, less stressful and safer, especially if you're driving something long with a wide turning radius. I imagine their existence is the result of too many accidents.

I saw a similar thing in Baja California, but for left turns and not on divided roads. There the loop is on the right side, like a highway exit. Then you end up facing 90° to traffic in both directions and straight ahead to the road you want to turn onto. This way you can see traffic in all directions and instead of sitting in the middle of the highway waiting to turn, you’re safely at the side.

I think both of these solutions a smart. And, of course, there are traffic circles where you can turn in all the directions. Or just go around and around and around…

The elk did not disappoint, but my cameras did

About four miles east of Reedsport OR, along highway 38, is a designated Elk Viewing Area, complete with benches, a gazebo, and restrooms. I had driven past there a few years ago, fixated on some other destination and therefore not wanting to stop — especially after a quick glance at 65 miles per hour revealed no obvious elk.

But yesterday I was in an exploring mood and the viewing area was my goal. And, man, were there elk! Somewhere between 50 and 60 of them happily grazing or lounging in the field for our entertainment. There was also a single very large bovine bull that I guessed was being separated from the lady cattle for a while, or being put in time out because of belligerent behavior.

The zoom on my phone’s camera didn’t get close enough, so I dug out my 15-year-old “real” camera and the 250mm telephoto lens. That got me closer, but its pixel count (which I thought was amazing back in the day) is rather lacking compared to today’s cameras. Anyway, here are some of the elk.

About a third of the herd

Nicer day at the beach

Foggy day on an Oregon beach

Damp weather and white GM truck paint

The white paint on Chevrolet and GMC trucks and vans has a deserved bad reputation for peeling off. You also see this happening with some pre-Promaster vans from Dodge/Ram. 

It has been happening with the Rolling Steel Tent and I’ve touched things up now and then with spray paint. I’ve found Rustoleum has the best match. White paints are not all the same shade of white. My repairs are certainly not professional quality but things look okay from a distance, especially when covered with dust and dirt.

One of the things that causes the peeling is moisture working its way into tiny dings in the paint. And since I’ve spent the past few months in a wetter climate the paint problems have increased, sometimes in freaky ways.

I asked the all-knowing artificial intelligence bot about the paint problem and this is what it told me:

The issue with white paint on GM trucks is a well-documented and long-standing problem. Here are the key reasons why white paint specifically seems to be problematic on GM vehicles:

Lack of pigment: White paint contains no pigment, which makes it inherently weaker and more prone to peeling compared to other colors. This lack of pigment may contribute to reduced durability and UV protection.

UV exposure: The absence of pigment in white paint may provide less protection against UV rays. This can lead to the failure of the e-coat (electrocoat primer) due to prolonged UV exposure, ultimately causing the paint to peel.

Historical issues: GM has had a history of paint defects, particularly with white paint, dating back to the 1990s on their trucks. This suggests a persistent problem with their white paint formulation or application process.

Environmental factors: Heat and humidity, such as those found in Florida, can exacerbate the paint peeling problem on white GM vehicles. These conditions may accelerate the breakdown of the paint's adhesion to the underlying layers.

Quality control: Some owners report paint issues appearing very early in the vehicle's life, even within a few months of purchase. This indicates potential quality control problems in the manufacturing or painting process.

Clear coat issues: In some cases, the problem may be related to the clear coat rather than the white paint itself. Improper application or curing of the clear coat can lead to separation or peeling.

It's worth noting that while white paint seems to be particularly problematic, GM trucks in other colors may also experience paint issues. The prevalence of this problem has led some owners to take preventive measures, such as having their new trucks repainted or applying protective coatings. GM has faced criticism for this ongoing issue, especially considering the high price point of their vehicles.

Scabby paint tends to make us nomads look undesirable to the rest of the world. I think that’s a larger issue when I streetdock. I’d rather be perceived as the harmless wandering retiree that I am instead of a homeless addict invading their neighborhood. Anyway, I’ll wait until I get back to the dry desert to do my low-budget paint repairs again.

In memory of an embarrassment

You probably know the story. In November of 1970 a dead whale washed up on a beach near Florence, Oregon. After considering various methods of disposing of the whale, state officials decided to blow it up, thinking they could essentially vaporize it with a large enough blast. But that’s not what happened. Here’s a link to the video made by a Portland television station that thought it might make a story sufficiently interesting to justify sending a crew 170 miles to cover it. “What? They’re going to blow up a whale? We gotta be there.”

Although the literal fallout from the explosion was an embarrassment to the state officials, the people of Florence embraced the mishap. Today I made a brief stop at Exploding Whale Memorial Park. It’s not at the location of the blast, but it’s the thought that counts.

Perhaps (but probably not) in the footsteps of Lewis & Clark

After the Corps of Discovery reached the Pacific they needed a place to stay. So in December of 1805 they started building what would become Fort Clatsop. The site and surrounding area are now part of Lewis and Clark National Historic Park.

The ranger in the visitor center enthusiastically told me about the various films, lectures, demonstrations, and tours. She was a little let down when I told her I just wanted a trail map so I could do some hiking. That map turned out to be more vital than I had expected. There was everything from a brief 0.1 mile path to the fort, to a 25 mile loop, as well as a network of shorter trails. I plotted a route that would be a little less than three miles.

When I’m on a trail — particularly one in a forest where my line of sight is limited — the twists and turns and ups and downs make it feel like I’ve gone farther than I actually have. Luckily, the map had the segment distances labeled. Even then, when I encountered a junction with an unmarked path I didn’t know how far I’d gone and if it was the one I was looking for. If it was, and I didn’t take it, my 3 mile hike would turn into a ten miler. So I turned onto the new trail only to have it peter out after about 25 yards. Okay, so that wasn’t the trail I wanted.

Fortunately, the other junctions had signs and arrows. There we go. Well, until about halfway along where the trail crossed a dirt road. I didn’t see where it continued on the other side. But the highway was just off to my left. Was I farther along than I thought? Was I at the place where the trail crosses the highway? I went to the highway, but there was no trail on the other side. Hmmm… Maybe I should have walked the other way on the dirt road. I was nearly back to the trail when I saw a narrow, partly overgrown footpath with no sign. I looked ahead and saw how it followed the edge of a slew. I used my best Boy Scout skills and compared it to the shapes on the map. Mmmmmmmaybe. If it wasn’t I could always turn around and backtrack all the way to the trailhead rather than complete the loop.

But the narrow footpath widened and I eventually came to another junction sign. Ah, good, I was in the right place.

The trails had been improved by the Park Service, with hard packed gravel and occasional bridges and boardwalks, I wondered if the routes had originally been established by the Corps of Discovery or even the original inhabitants. Had Lewis and/or Clark walked here? Maybe one of those visitor center presentations I declined would have answered the question. And maybe a ranger would have told me, “Oh, and when the trail gets to that dirt road…”