So long, Washington

About a month split between the Olympic Peninsula and Vancouver Island felt like enough time in the same general area. Besides, the National Weather Service was laying odds for a streak of wet, gloomy weather. Time to move on. Or, more accurately, to backtrack.

I left Port Townsend this morning, took a break in Shelton, and now I’m in Astoria, Oregon. Again. I was so ready to get south that I took the shorter, faster route on the east side of the peninsula rather than the longer slower, more famously beautiful west side. (It’s unusual and sometimes confusing that US-101 is on the west, north and east sides of Olympic Peninsula.)

My tenuous plan is to spend the next two months s-l-o-w-l-y making my way back down the Coast, avoiding hot weather and even hotter wildfires.

Tomorrow’s agenda is to get past the popular Oregon costal towns. The stretch between Astoria and Tillamook is particularly vexatious to me, even when it’s not packed with weekenders.

In other news, the Rolling Steel Tent’s registration renewal arrived. The sticker is in place (after washing the van), the document is stowed, and now I’m legal for a couple more years. Wander on!

Great luck on a great spot

I got a tip from a friend who had gotten the tip from another friend. Lyre River Campground, run by the Washington Department of Natural Resources. First-come-first-served. And since I had acquired a DNR Discover Pass a while back, the campground — with pit toilets, a dumpster, water, and camp host — was free.

It was a weekend, so I knew there was little chance of a site being available in the small campground, but it was nearby and I wanted to at least check it out for future reference, and to see if it lived up to the recommendations.

Well, just as I was starting to cruise through the campground a Sprinter adventure van vacated a riverside site. The nomad deity had smiled upon me.

There’s a short loop trail along the river and through the forest. And there’s a 1.5 mile trail up over the ridge and down to the Strait of Juan de Fuca. So I went walking.

The campground was quiet, and even though it rained during the night it didn’t get muddy. The one drawback, and the reason I didn’t stay longer, was lack of cell signal. But that’s good for me once in a while. It forced me to work on a novel I’ve been trying to put together for several years. I got a couple of chapters done, added some tasty bits to an older chapter, and worked out a plot complication I had been struggling with. I don’t know if this is what they mean when they say being in nature is good for you, but the lack of distractions certainly helped.

All the way to the end this time

Cape Flattery is the far northwest corner of the 48 contiguous states. It’s the type of geographical tidbit I enjoy. I wanted to go to Cape Flattery back in 2018 but the fog was so thick I didn’t see the point of paying the tribal fee to go there from Neah Bay. But I was in the area and it was time to give it another try. The weather report looked much better.

Frankly, the 1.5 mile walk from the parking area to the actual point, through the coastal forest and partly along a boardwalk, was the most enjoyable part for me. I ambled while others hustled by. Don’t hurry, friends. Stop and smell the roses moss.

It happened again

I wrote before about the weird thing of strangers asking me for directions. It seems to be my fate, because there I was, in Neah Bay way out in the far northwest corner of Washington for only the second time in my life, strolling along the road and looking for a restaurant, when a guy who sounded French or Québécois pulled up next to me, evidently quite lost.

“Do you know how to get to Clallum Bay and Ruby Beach? I think I made a wrong turn.”

He would have needed to go through Clallum Bay to get to Neah Bay, which is essentially the end of the road. I guess he didn’t have GPS helping him. Had someone told him he had to go to Callum Bay to get to Ruby Beach? If those were well intended instructions, then where the hell had he been coming from? Had he been smuggled by small boat from Vancouver Island, with a car awaiting him in Sekiu? Mystery.

“Callum Bay is back the way you came. I don’t know where Ruby Beach is.” I learned since then it’s about an hour south from Clallum Bay, on the Pacific coast. So if the next stranger needs to go there I’ll be able to help.

He drove off, resigned to a couple more hours of driving. And I continued my quest for lunch. And life’s answers.

I went to the Olympics

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.

Keepin' it legal

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. 

Quiet time

Still of the night, Sequim, Washington

Still of the morning, Dungeness Bay, Washington

On patrol

I certify this stretch of trail near Sequim, Washington to be Sasquatch free.

Stop it

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.

Wet and dry

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…

Magnets hold the towel to the steel bulkhead frame. The washcloth is draped on the steering wheel. Sunlight heats up the cab, aiding drying. It’s not a clothesline in the sun with a breeze, but it’ll do. I think.

Ferry tale

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.

The way I wanted to go

The alternative was to use the ferry from Edmonds to Kingston, then the infamous Hood Canal Floating Drawbridge to the Peninsula, and drive north to Port Townsend. That ferry was all first-come-first-served. Also, they were running two vessels on this crossing. That meant shorter wait times. Even if I didn’t get on the next boat, at least the line would move more often.

The way I ended up going

To give myself the best chance of a shorter wait, I decided to get there before the bulk of commuter traffic. I left my overnighting spot at 4:57 AM, just as the sky was beginning to lighten. I-5 was flowing, but there was a surprising amount of traffic for that hour. A lot of people with long commutes and/or trying to get to their destination before everything clogged up, I suppose.

I hadn’t been specific enough with Google Maps. I had plugged in Edmonds WA instead of the ferry terminal, so it directed me downtown (which was a nice looking place) and I had to figure out how to backtrack to the entrance of the ferry waiting lane.

There weren’t a lot of others in line ahead of me. It looked like we would all fit on the next boat. We just needed to wait for it to arrive and unload. It was about 15 minutes. Not bad.

The crewman directing traffic pointed for me to go up the ramp to the upper level. That was new for me. I pulled up behind two pickups. We were on a rather steep downward ramp back to the lower deck and the exit. I put the Rolling Steel Tent in Park, mashed the parking brake, and hoped it was enough. In a few seconds another crewman put chocks under our wheels. Ah, there we go.

I referred to the Hood Canal Floating Bridge as “infamous” because I had crossed it before, going the other direction. Back then the traffic was backed up at least a mile on both sides as the drawbridge was raised to let two very leisurely sailboats pass. I didn’t time it, but it felt like an hour. Or more. Well, I had to wait again, although this time it was only 45 minutes. No telling how long the folks ahead of me had been waiting.

But things went smoothly from there and I was soon back in Port Townsend, parked at the beach in Fort Worden, catching up on my lost sleep.

Some people might be thinking, “But Al, why did you rush back? You could’ve spent more time in BC. You could’ve gone to the Canadian Rockies. You could’ve gone to the Upper Cascades.” Yeah, that’s true. In fact that had been part of the original plan. But I realized I wanted to stop moving for a while. I wanted a break from searching out places to park, studying maps, and all that. I wanted to wander less.

My first experience with Port Townsend had been miserable because of nonstop rain and high humidity. But it’s surprising how much some sunshine can change my opinion of a place. Now I like it here, the same way I liked Shell Beach, Point Reyes Station, Mendocino and Arcata. I don’t want to rush off. I don’t need to rush off. So I’ll stay a little longer. And I’ve had my fill of ferries. For now.

Marks of a streetdocker

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.

Washington apologizes

Overlooking Samish Bay from Dogfish Point on Chuckanut Drive

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. 

Friends of Bill

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.

Back to the mainland

BC Ferries from Duke Point terminal in Nanaimo to Tsawwassen terminal south of Vancouver. Two levels of vehicles. Those under seven feet high on the upper level, everything else, including me, on the lower. Hot food available. No wifi. Very windy out on deck. A few fussy babies. A couple of bewildered seniors blocking the passageways. Multiple stern announcements on the PA about no running on the vessel. Traffic clogged on the road from the terminal.

Only two lanes open at the border so there was a wait. But no problems with the officer.

I was up at 5:30 even though I didn’t need to be at the ferry until 1:00. So I killed time hanging out in shopping center parking lots, moving from one to another after a couple of hours. Although I didn’t do anything all day but sit and wait I’m exhausted. I made it a whole 13 miles from the border then saw a sign for a Pilot travel center. Showers! I wanted a shower! That taken care of I looked for a place to crash — other than the Pilot parking lot. So I’m streetdocked in Ferndale, a strip mall on one side and a Masonic Lodge on the other. Enough for the day. Over and out.

Hey, stranger

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.

Back online

The trouble with being away from cities and in a foreign country is iffy cellular connections. Then there’s the problem of simply not feeling like writing the blog. So, let’s catch up.

George and Jo were Lou’s sailing buddies. They have a wooden boat with a main sail, jib and mizzen, plus a small outboard motor. This mission was delayed a year while the boat was in dry dock for maintenance, minor repairs, and winter.

George was concerned there wasn’t much wind in the forecast, but after motoring out to the channel there was enough of a breeze — on and off — to move under sail.

I’m not much on ceremonies or appropriate speeches, but I managed to string together some inadequate words about my friend and his meaning to me. Then I slowly returned Lou’s ashes to the sea. I spent the rest of the day alone, mourning.

_________

The southeast part of Vancouver Island is quite developed, reminding me of northern California, Oregon and Washington coasts. So having seen that I decided to cross over to the west side via Highway 4. Ah, that was better.

About halfway along is Port Alberni. It seems peculiar to have a port in the middle of an island, but there’s a long inlet (25 to 40 miles, depending on what you consider open water) out to the Pacific. It made a good stopping point for the day.

But was it a good streetdocking town? Or should I search out a place in the forest? I drove around getting a sense of the town. Resources said it was okay to overnight at Walmart, but, eh, I figured I could do better. Somewhere less crowded, farther from traffic noise. 

I didn’t see any parking restriction signs around town except at the entrances to private properties, loading zones, red curbs here and there. I found a fairly level spot with a fenced field on one side and an RCMP station around the corner. I imagined the presence of Mounties would keep any malicious element away. The night was quiet and incident free.

I continued to the west side in the morning, stopping at a rest area to use the pit toilet. It was a large place with picnic tables, roomy trash bins, EV charging stations and, as I learned later, free wifi. Fancy. It was about 7:30 when I arrived and there were several rigs that looked as if they had overnighted there. 

I wanted to stretch my legs and glutes so I followed a trail (which eventually disappeared but didn’t stop me) into the surrounding forest and down to the river. It was a very appealing place. I decided to stay there on my return trip to the east side.

There are two towns at the end of Highway 4: Tofino and Ucluelet. Tofino is mentioned by all the Vancouver Island travel writers. Ucluelet isn’t. So I chose the latter. Less touristy perhaps.

There’s a system of hiking trails in the area. I took one through a grove of old growth cedars. Those things can get huge — about the size of a sequoia. The trail continues along the costal bluff for several kilometers, down to a lighthouse. It was nice in the shade of the forest and with only a light wind from the ocean. The trail was a little busy but I still enjoyed the experience.

Rather than try to find a streetdocking spot or seeing what I might find up a logging road, Idrove back to the rest area. There were several families there when I arrived, but they were gathering their belongings and kids and heading for home. Soon I was the only one there. By 7:30 only one other person had pulled in, and then just to use the restroom. I started wondering whether I was allowed to stay overnight. There were no sign posts saying otherwise, but I finally strolled over to the notice board. There, on a poster with a list of rules, four items down, it said overnighting/camping was prohibited. Sigh. I packed up and drove back to Port Alberni. This time I picked a street with forest on one side and a commercial building on the other.

Sunday I head back to the east side to be ready for my Monday ferry to Vancouver. I had originally planned to travel through southern BC then drop down into the Idaho panhandle to see some other friends. But it’s triple-digit heat once you get away from the water. I’ll reenter the US at Blaine WA and zoom back to Port Townsend. Then I’ll work my way back down the coast free of commitments and schedules once again.

Bon voyage

The Black Ball Lines ferry between Port Angeles WA and Victoria BC was scheduled for 5:15. The instructions were to be there by 4:00 to check in and get in line. I got there at about 3:30. 

It wasn’t clear where I was supposed to enter the depot and I drove past it. By the time I got turned around there were three cars in the street with an official looking guy talking to the passenger in the first car and making hand gestures. The car turned and drove up to a service window. Ah, there’s where I go. My turn came and the guy asked to see my passport, looked at it briefly, then directed me to the window. 

The woman at the window asked if I had a reservation, which I did. I was expecting her to ask for identification but she only asked my name, found me on her computer and accepted my proffered credit card. She gave me a ticket and receipt and bid me a good day. 

Since the fare was for vehicles 18 feet or less I had expected them to check — maybe with high tech laser scanning or at least some old guy eyeballing it and checking with a long stick. But nope. Nothing. What? And miss an opportunity to charge me more because I was a couple of inches longer?

Just past the ticket window a guy in a safety vest and company shirt asked for my ticket. He tore off a stub, stuck the remainder under my wiper, and handed me a small form to fill out. It would be collected as I boarded. (It asked only the name, sex and birthdate of everyone in the vehicle.) Then he pointed me down one of several lanes to my place in line. I wasn’t the only early bird.

As the place filled up it became a little like a tailgate party. No one was grilling dinner or pounding down beer, but folks were out of their vehicles, wandering around, chatting in groups, rummaging through luggage and supplies, dealing with kids. As one would expect, most of the license plates were from Washington and British Columbia, but I saw some Oregon and California plates and one from Pennsylvania. I was the only one from New Mexico.

I was relaxing in the back of the Rolling Steel Tent when a big horn sounded. The ferry was pulling into port. It backed up to the dock, the ramp dropped, and vehicles started exiting. I was surprised to see a semi roll out — or squeeze out. Then another one. Oh. Okay. Sure. They use the ferry too. So overhead clearance wasn’t going to be an issue for us lesser vehicles.

I had been wondering how the loading-unloading situation worked. The ferry was unloading from the stern, with all the vehicles facing that way. Had they backed in, or had they loaded from the front through openings I couldn’t see from my vantage? Would we be backing in, or out? I guess I would find out soon.

The far lane on the right was directed to start loading. They drove on and disappeared into the darkness. There was a pause, then the next lane was waved on, then my lane. A man collected the form I had filled out earlier. A crew member pointed me toward a lane and I rolled forward to where another crewman motioned me to stop. I saw the the first cluster of cars were parked at an angle facing an opening on the side of the bow. That answered my question. On the Washington side we drive on at the back and drive off at the front. At the  Vancouver Island side they do the opposite.

We aren’t allowed to be on the vehicle deck while under way. The passenger decks were nothing fancy — sort of like the waiting room of a small airport — but they were fine for the hour-and-a-half ride. It was a little chilly for me outside, and the wind through the Strait of Juan de Fuca was stiff. The water was fairly calm except for a period when the boat rolled side to side just enough to make passengers walking around the ferry look drunk.

My past two encounters with Canadian border officials had been less than smooth. What would this one be like? Might I not have some bit of necessary documentation? Might they be suspicious of the van’s contents? Would the general level of insanity in the US mean an extra level of scrutiny for Americans? Would my old geezer status earn me some slack? Would their need to process a literal boatload of people ease the ordeal a little?

It was easy. Hand him the passport, answer the basic questions, and off I went.

Victoria is a nice looking city. Sort of a micro Vancouver but with way less traffic. The street from the ferry terminal becomes the main highway running to Lou’s sailing buddy’s place, so navigation was simple.

Today we sailed out and lovingly deposited Lou’s ashes in the sea. More about that in the next post.