No, not the athletic event in Paris, the Olympic Mountains of northwestern Washington. I stopped by Lake Crescent, hiked to Marymere Falls, made a stop at the no-longer dammed Elwha River, then drove up to Hurricane Ridge and looked out onto the snowcapped heart of the range.
It was a nice day. But this being a national park, it attracts crowds. There wasn’t much solitude and communing with nature to be had. I’d still do it again.
Over the past eleven years the Rolling Steel Tent has been registered in North Carolina, South Dakota, Arizona and, currently, New Mexico. Each has been relatively easy but with a hoop or two to jump through — mostly because of unconventional life choices on my part. The trick for full-time nomads is providing proof of residency, yet I’ve found ways to do it.
I really need to wash the van
Well, my New Mexico registration expires next month. Ever since Lou’s place sold this past December, leaving me without a convenient domicile or New Mexico mailing address, I’ve been figuring how to handle renewal. Here’s what I came up with.Step 1: See if the very friendly and helpful neighbors would let me use their address. They easily agreed.
Step 2: Go online to change my address with New Mexico Motor Vehicles Division. Done. Change it with my insurance company. Done.
Step 3: Try to renew registration online. Learned I needed a code number that would be on the renewal notice which would be mailed sometime in July — hopefully to the new address.
Step 4: Notify friends to be on the lookout for the renewal notice. Learned they were in Idaho dealing with an ailing mother. Wished them the best regarding that, and (to myself) hoped they’d return in time. Because I didn’t want to go all the way back to New Mexico to renew in person, which would require proof of residing at the new address.
Step 5: Wait
Step 6: Learn the friendly neighbors’ mother’s issues are under control and they are back home. Receive text with a photo of the renewal notice and its code number. Yay!
Step 7: Fill out online renewal (for two years this time). Encounter new worry. Since I was paying the renewal with my card, they wanted my billing address, which is at my Arizona mail forwarder, not at my neighbors. But the NMMVD program automatically copied it to the space for my mailing address, and I couldn’t figure out how to change it. I hoped that since the renewal notice and its code number had gone to my new mailing address then so would the new registration certificate and sticker.
Step 8: Wait. And hope.
Step 9: Receive text from friendly neighbors with the news the new registration stuff had arrived. Where should they send it? I gave them the general delivery address for where I am at the moment.
Step 10: Wait.
I don’t know how long it’ll take for my registration to chug through the Postal Service. It could be here Friday or it might not be until the middle of next week. So I won’t be wandering too far from here. In the meantime I can make day trips into Olympic National Park, go out to the farthest northwest corner of the Lower 48, and poke around various coastal towns. And wait. At least I won’t need to worry about it again for two years (I wish they would do five, like Arizona). And my driver’s license is good until 2026. Who knows, by then I might be trying to register in, oh, Arkansas or something. The future is unknown.
I knew my front brakes needed new pads. The rolling Steel Tent hadn’t been stopping as briskly. Besides, the last time a repair shop worked on the van they told me it was about time for new pads. I agreed but was tight on money at the time.
Since I’ve been hanging around Port Townsend for a while, and might be here a few more days, I looked into getting the pads replaced. An independent shop couldn’t even look at it for another two weeks. I went next door to a tire retailer. They insisted they conduct a complete system check (free) so they’d know whether more than pads would be necessary (and so they can try to talk me into more repairs than necessary). Okay, if it’ll move things along.
While I was in the customer waiting area, breathing whatever off-gasses from new tires, I recalled the conversation with a van dwelling friend. “Could do this myself. I did the rears several years ago. It’s just that I don’t have a floor jack, jack stands, or a torque wrench like I did then. I could make do, but…”
They came back with their list of stuff and the estimate: $749.00. Um, no thank you.
So I walked across the parking lot to an auto parts store and got some $46.00 pads. Then I went to a hardware store and bought a large C-clamp I knew I’d need. $14.00. I found a good spot in a beach parking lot and went to work.
Here are the old pads. New ones are about three-eighths of an inch thick, and there’s a groove in the middle that, as you can see, had worn completely away on one pad. These are about a sixteenth of an inch thick, and I think part of that is the adhesive that sticks the friction material to the steel backing plate. Yeah, time to replace them.
I had the wheels off and the old pads out when I encountered a problem. I couldn’t figure out how to get one of the new pads in. I had gotten the old one out easy as pie, but it was thinner because it was worn out. After several minutes of struggling and cursing , and with some commiseration from the afore-mentioned friend, and having considered doing something that would have opened up a whole can of fanged poisonous worms, I found the magic angle and the pad slipped right in.
Then it was time to put the C-clamp to work. The hydraulic pistons in the caliper that squeeze the pads against the disk stick out more and more as the pads get thinner. They need to be pushed back into the caliper so they can fit over the new thick pads. No one’s hands are strong enough to do that. The pros use a special tool. I had the C-clamp. It was slow but it worked.
I got everything back together and tightened as much as I could with a two-foot wrench. The only leftover parts were the old pads. That’s a good sign. I fired up the Rolling Steel Tent, rolled forward and, yes, the brakes worked — like new. I drove faster; still worked. New brakes for a fraction of the cost. Plus I earned enough bonus Man Points for Tim Allen and Mike Rowe to come add a star to my Man Card.
I spent $30 on a Washington Discover Pass because most of the places I’ve wanted to stop in the state require it. A single-day pass is $10, so the annual pass is worth it.
I’ve been hanging out at the day use area next to the campground at Worden State Park. The pass also gives me access to the showers, which are no additional cost. No coins or tokes or digital codes necessary. Just push the timer button.
However, unlike truck stop showers I use time to time, I need to supply my own washcloth and towel. That’s fine, but it means I also need to dry the towel and washcloth. That’s quick and simple when I’m in the desert’s ultra-low humidity. The towel would almost dry while I was using it. But it’s a different matter here in the high-humidity Pacific Northwest. It could take all day. And maybe part of the next.
And so…
My goal after reentering the US at Blaine WA was to return to Port Townsend and the Olympic Peninsula. I also wanted to minimize driving and avoid the congestion and frustration of the Seattle metro area. So driving all the way around Puget Sound was off the agenda.
What I wanted was to go to Fidalgo Island via the bridge, then take the bridge over Deception Pass to Whitbey Island. From there I could take a ferry to Port Townsend. The problem, I discovered, was all the reservations on that ferry were sold out for several days into the future. I could wait in line and hope for one of the few remaining unreserved spots. Who knew how long I’d be stuck there? If only I had planned ahead.
When I overnight on the street there is sometimes plenty of room between the Rolling Steel Tent and passing traffic, such as an extra wide shoulder, or bicycle lanes separating parking and passing vehicles. Other times it’s tighter. Whatever the circumstances, I try to get as close to the curb as possible. Occasionally too close. Boondockers get “desert pinstripes.” Streetdockers (or at least the ones without great vehicle maneuvering skills) get their tires scrubbed. Maybe several times in one parallel parking attempt.
The weather was miserable the last time I was in northwestern Washington. Rain, fog, 2,000 percent humidity. Everything seemed gray and depressed. Including me.
But this time the weather has been perfect. Sunny with temperatures in that Goldilocks just right zone. It’s like the state is trying to win me back, make it up to me, get me to stop saying bad things about it. It has been successful. So far.
Most of us are suspicious of middle-of-the-night activities. That’s particularly true when we’re streetdocking in an unfamiliar town. Is this place safe or sketchy?
Last night I was parked in front of a strip mall containing a martial arts school, an insurance office, a laundromat, a sign shop, a salon, and something with a sign too small for me to read from the street at night. A little after 2:00 AM I woke to the sound of vehicle doors slamming. About eight or ten pickups and a passenger van were clustered in front of the storefront on the end. Men were casually making their way to the building. What was going on? Was this the local gang hangout or something? Who meets at this hour?
Then it hit me. Oh, these guys are probably coming off a late shift somewhere and this is an AA meeting. Carry on folks.
My conclusion was strengthened this morning when I could read the sign. It’s a church’s community center.
Sometimes I might be too trusting, too optimistic, too certain everything is okay. Other times I might be freaked out for no reason other than my ability to imagine terrible things. Yes, there are dangers in the world, but not everything that goes bump in the night is dangerous. Sometimes it’s a good thing.
There have been several memorable times when I was far from my home territory, in a new place for the first time, and someone would ask me for directions. A carload of Italians in Paris. A Spaniard in Amsterdam. A Nebraskan in Manhattan…
It happened again today.
I was walking on the quay at Qualicum Beach on Vancouver Island. A couple in an Audi suddenly pulled up next to me and called out something unintelligible. I walked closer. “What?”
“Where is the Rotary Club Beach Center?”
They were in luck. I had just walked past the place a couple of moments before and noticed the patio was set up for a banquet. I pointed. “Right there.” I didn’t add, “With the big sign.”
“Oh! Thank you!” And off they went.
It was the same with the man in Amsterdam and the woman in New York City. I just happened to know. (I was no help for the Italians. I wasn’t even certain where I was.) It makes me wonder if there is some force in the universe telling lost people, “That guy knows.” That voice might want to point me to people with the answers I seek, but it knows I’m too socially awkward to ever ask strangers. Hell, I have a hard enough time talking with people I know.
I was parked a block from the docks last night. I could see a slice of the Sound between buildings. The stillness of the water and quality of light gave me the urge to try out the photographic capabilities of the “old” phone my friend had passed along to me yesterday.
I tried to assuage my humiliation. “How are they going to squeeze those wide butts into such a narrow boat?” I only made myself feel petty.
This afternoon I’ll be squeezing my 18-foot 2.3-inch van onto a ferry with a vehicle length restriction of 18 feet. I had better arrive extra early in case I need to engage in some actual physical exertion removing a bumper in the parking lot.
Previous readers know by now when I mention a plan it’s only to tell of it being abandoned. Yeah, this is another time. But it was a change for the better.
I left Astoria at the crack of almost-dawn intending to stop somewhere about half way to Port Townsend, on the northeast corner of the Olympic Peninsula. Then I would meet up with a friend in Port Townsend on Monday, and go to Port Angeles on Tuesday to catch the ferry to Vancouver Island.
Having started out so early I found myself at the halfway point before 9:00. Oh. Um. That was sooner than I thought (if I had actually thought about it beforehand). I found a place to park beneath a large tree and took a nap to compensate for being awake since the middle of the night. (I hadn’t slept well because I was worried about missing my early start. Starting early had paid off, though. The road was nearly empty.)
If you’re uneasy driving on high bridges like the Astoria-Meglar Bridge over the Columbia River, do it in the fog. Then you can’t see how high you are. Of course, it’s harder to see ahead, but that’s a small price, isn’t it?
I have some rules.
– Avoid popular tourist destinations on weekends and holidays during prime seasons
– Don’t drive through popular tourist destinations on weekends and holidays during prime seasons
– If I must drive through those places in those seasons, do it very early in the morning
I broke all those rules today.
The Oregon coast is very popular in summer and particularly during long weekends like, oh, today. There are towns and beaches from California to Washington attracting folks from the sweltering inland cities, as well as travelers from other parts of the country (which would include me).
And there I was, in Depoe Bay, on my way to Canada, on a Saturday morning, and I could have been on the road at 5:30 AM. I was awake and dressed and the sky had been getting lighter. The day’s destination — Astoria — was about four hours away. I could be there before all the thousands of visitors between here and there had even had their morning coffee.
But I had a fatal thought: I don’t want to hang around Astoria all day. There’s no rush.
So I farted around until 9:30.
The drive started out with mild frustration. Come on, folks. Keep it moving… Don’t slow down to gawk… Don’t let the curves and cliffs freak you out…
Then there were timid drivers wanting to make left turns into parks, scenic overlooks, resorts, flea markets, whatever, while a nearly constant stream of cars were coming the other way.
Then there were stretches where the road shoulders were filled with parked cars and those trying to parallel park big vehicles into small places.
Then there were the towns and cities with low speed limits, bad traffic control, and things like food and gas tempting drivers, many of whom had to stop in the middle of the road while they figured out how to get to them.
Then there were cities that are a pain to drive in at any time or season. Narrow streets, bad light timing, closed lanes, suddenly merging lanes…
Then there are places like Rockaway Beach, all decked out for holiday tourists, all the parking spots taken, and swarms of pedestrians holding up traffic as they shuffle through every intersection.
Oh, and there was the small village of Cloverdale that was about to close 101 — which is their Main Street — for their Independence Day parade.
And, of course, there were huge trailers struggling up modest inclines.
But things got really bad just after Cannon Beach, where Highway 26 from Portland meets US-101. Boom, suddenly twice the traffic. Everything was backed up and getting worse. Google Maps’ red and yellow traffic alert lines showed things were clogged all the way to the edge of the Earth. And my patience was already gone.
So I made a last second decision to turn east on 26. At the time, I had no idea how far I would need to go to reach an alternate route north that wasn’t also clogged. If I had to go as far as Portland, so be it.
After a while I found a place to pull over and consult GPS. There was a thin gray line running through the mountains toward Astoria. And it had a state route number rather than a county or Forest Service designation. Risk it, or go for something larger looking? I would go for it.
But first I needed to get past the emergency vehicles and a car in a steep ditch. Then I needed gas before heading off into the unknown. Ah, there’s a pump at that general store/restaurant/gift shop. Outrageously priced gas. But what’re you gonna do?
The road turned out to be nicely paved. A little wiggly in stretches, but nothing too bad. I cruised along and eventually reached Astoria, which is also packed with visitors.
I had picked out a streetdocking area on iOverlander. A one-way street on the edge of downtown with unrestricted parking on both sides. But all the spaces were filled with shoppers and diners and whatever else. So I had to do some searching.
