Up and at ‘em

This morning I became one of those people we’re supposed to admire for being out of bed and doing something as the sun rises.

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 had been thinking, “Ain’t I something for being out here, walking the deserted streets, instead of being a slothful sleeper?” when I saw a group of not-young people preparing to do some rowing. Oh, actual physical exertion, not just strolling with hands in pockets. It was barely 5:30 and I had already been put in my place.

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.

Don’t stop now

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.)

I awoke refreshed and decided, what the hell, I might as well go the rest of the way to Port Townsend. I fired off an email to my friend to warn him I’d be a day early. He was cool with that. So off I went.

We spent the afternoon in Fort Worden park, talking, poking around in one of the old artillery batteries, gazing at Mt. Rainier and the Northern Cascades (on a rare day the haze was light enough to make that possible at this distance), and talking about van dweller and guy stuff.

Then we split off to streetdock on different downtown streets. He had been in Port Townsend a few days, and had hung out here several times before, so he assured me I would not be hassled. That was true. Today we’re going to do some more van dweller and guy stuff, including a walk in the forest. Unless plans change.

Driving tip

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?

View from the Washington side. The high part is in the fog.

I knew better, but...

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.

This was from later in the day. It was much worse when I was stuck there. Westbound 26 was backed up too.

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.

The detour

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.

I finally found a short dead end near the Columbia River and the docks, with a government building on one side and some sort of ship-related business on the other. The river walk, bicycle path and trolly line are at the end.

I can see part of the infamous Astoria-Meglar bridge from here. Its height scares many people, but I’ve driven it twice. No fear, dudes. I’ll be using it tomorrow. Very early in the morning, even though the route through Washington is further inland and has fewer tourist destinations. I can’t let myself be stupid two days in a row.

My best streetdocking view so far

I’m parked right on US-101 in Depoe Bay, Oregon. They claim to have the world’s smallest harbor, but they also have some terrific views of the ocean.

It’s 10:05 on a busy holiday weekend, and there has been a lot of traffic whizzing by (I’m just outside the 25 MPH zone). But things are quieting down, and the bicycle lane between me and the southbound vehicles eases my mind a little.

In the lower left corner of the picture you can see a rope. It’s about 1.5 inches thick and is neatly and professionally fastened to a large tree at the edge of the cliff. It’s there to help brave/foolish people make their way down and back up a very steep trail to the black sand beach in the cove. I have not tried it. 

I-I-I-I-I-I love a para-a-a-a-de!

My friend Lee Barker makes art, mechanical contraptions and other stuff from salvaged materials. He has enough of a local reputation that people also bring him things they want to get rid of or think he can use. Several years ago he started turning old riding mowers into art cars. He and his friends and family drive them in the Redmond, Oregon Independence Day parade. They had enough drivers so I walked along with them and tossed candy to the hundreds of kids lining the street. It was a fun time. Maybe Lee will transform a mower into a miniature Rolling Steel Tent.

 

Oh, and we had a special position in the parade: behind the sheriff’s department mounted posse. They had a cleanup crew, so it was mostly not a problem.

Bug off

My friend, The Other Alan, said he avoided camping near water because water = bugs. Annoying bugs. Biting bugs. I’ve found that to be true, although I’ve camped in places far from water and have still been plagued by unwanted insects.

However, I’ve noticed a remarkable lack of bugs during my costal travels. I guess they don’t like cool, moist, salty air. Or something.

One day in Mendocino a single bee flew into the Rolling Steel Tent, hovered a moment to check things out, determined there was no pollen to be had, and left.

There was a small fly in Crescent City that spent most of its time trying to figure out what mysterious invisible force was blocking the way. And repeatedly bashing its head on the windows caused it to forget the very large door it entered through.

And today, by the Rogue River a tiny bee kept leaving and returning and leaving and returning. I think it just couldn’t get enough of the Rolling Steel Tent’s wonderfulness. Or it was checking to see if I had left yet.

Then a butterfly perched in the doorway, flexing its iridescent wings, perhaps to signal a mate, or to tell me, “I’m much prettier than you.”

But the best data I have about the low number of insects is how few are splattered on the front of the van and windshield. 

While a low bug count saves me some annoyance and itching, it’s not good for the insectivores out there. Other than seagulls, pelicans, cormorants, and sandpipers I haven’t seen many birds. I was a little shocked to see a robin on the path through the green maze. And it was shocked to see me.

I’ll enjoy the bug situation while I can. Word has it Vancouver Island is aswarm with mosquitos and no-see-ems. Which reminds me of an old joke:

A man was camped in the deep woods when he became aware of a low droning noise above his head. He looked up and saw two mosquitos as large as Great Danes. 

One mosquito said to the other, “Should we eat him here or take him with us?”

His partner replied, “Eat him here, because if we take him back the bigger ones will steal him from us.”

 

If a tree falls in the forest...

…and I’m there to hear it, it does make a sound. 

Crack-crackity BOOM-A!

It was somewhere nearby. I wandered in the direction I thought the noise came from — and there it was, about 25 yards away, lying across an ATV trail with broken limbs scattered about. It smelled like Christmas.

It wasn’t a big tree (see my foot for scale) but it's large enough to do serious damage to you or your vehicle. The way the root ball pulled out of the ground I’m guessing it had been leaning for some time and it finally reached the literal tipping point. Gravity wins again.

I’ve been trying to make friends with the forests. Their cozy embrace which makes them appealing also makes me feel a little claustrophobic. I can’t see very far. I can’t see the horizon. I can’t see where I'm going until I'm almost there. I can’t see what’s coming until it’s almost here. Bears. Cougars. Crazy old hermits. And trees might fall.

Fortunately, that blocked trail isn’t the way out of here. I’m in a decent sized clearing surrounded by big healthy looking trees. There’s not much of a wind. But that one leaning tree.............. I should probably move out of range.

If you’re going to spend a considerable amount of time camping in forests, you probably want to have an ax or saw in case you need to clear a downed tree from your route. Lumberjack clothing is optional.

Higher and drier

I love the coast, despite its dampness. It’s cooler in summer, no bugs have been bothering me, and the people have been pleasant enough for me to rethink my aversion to cities.

But it’s time to head to central Oregon to spend the 4th with friends who’ve said something about me driving one of their art cars in the Independence Day parade.

I took US199 out of Crescent City. The scenery was nice, following the Smith River much of the way. Oh look, kayakers. And, to my delight, slow vehicles — like motorhomes — actually used the pullouts to let others by. 

I stopped at one of the Redwood National and State Forest visitor centers to buy some stickers for my collection. And as I drove through Cave Junction I tried to recall which place I had stopped for lunch the last time I was there.

The boondocking area I was heading for is about ten miles up a mountain on a paved — paved?! — Forest Service road. What, no washboard? I had a little excitement/panic/trauma as I approached the left turn off 199. It was just where a passing lane ended. There was no turn lane, so it meant I had to slow down with several vehicles zooming up behind me trying to use the last bit of the passing lane. And there was traffic coming the opposite direction. Brake, swerve into opposite left lane after a truck passed, drive on the wrong side of the road for a few seconds then — ACK, I’m a little past the turnoff — brake harder and make a crazy half-U-turn onto the forest road. Well, that’ll wake you up. And get other drivers swearing.

My campsite is at a modest 3,500 feet (as compared to 15 feet at the coast) but it’s enough to keep the temperature at a tolerable-to-me 85°.  This site will help me adjust to the higher temperatures in central Oregon. Then it’ll be back through Salem and Tillamook to the coast, northward to the Olympic Peninsula, and a ferry to Vancouver Island. That will be my second ride on an auto ferry and the Rolling Steel Tent’s first. And its first time in Canada.

Oh, and there’s just enough cell signal here to post this.

Where am I?

I was in the Rolling Steel Tent researching possible boondocking spots for the rest of my trip through Oregon and Washington to Vancouver Island. I was so deep into Google Maps, iOverlander, and Adventure Know-How that when I finally looked away from the computer there was a half second of disorientation.

Oh, right, I’m not in a National Forest campsite near Crater Lake, I’m parked by the Pacific in Crescent City. And, oh look, the fog has burned off and it’s a beautiful day out there. Guess I should go out and enjoy some of it.

A similar thing happens when I wake in the middle of the night, particularly — but not limited to — when I’m frequently changing locations. And sometimes the confusion will be caused by a vivid dream I was having. And part of it, I suppose, is from aging. Where am I? What type of place is it? Where will the sun be rising from? At least I haven’t yet woken up wondering who I am.

Last stop in California. If plans don’t change.

Some views from Crescent City on a lucky sunny day.

 

I think that’s Oregon in the distance

Is fog evil?

Artist’s/driver’s depiction (hell, I wasn't going to stop and take a photo)

In the northern part of Redwood National & State Park I drove into thick fog on a curvy two-lane section of US101. Really thick fog. On a tricky part of the highway. With no shoulders. With redwoods right at the edge of the pavement. And traffic — including semis and large RVs — coming the other way, with other vehicles riding my ass.

Then, as the road straightened and added additional lanes, the fog disappeared — until the next curvy section. 

This repeated three times. It was as if the fog was sentient and playing a potentially disastrous game with us. But fog is just a soup of water molecules. This fog was simply doing what fog does, with zero awareness of us humans and our inability to see through a wall of wetness. (How does something totally transparent become hard to see through?)

It finally occurred to me why the fog was coming and going like it was. The twisty areas were at a slightly higher elevation than the straight parts. I had been driving up into the fog and down out of it. Ah, my meteorology, geography, and physics lessons for the day.

Through the green maze

Hiller Park in McKinleyville (a town named in honor of the assassinated president) is probably not mentioned in the travel press. It’s mostly ball fields and a dog park. But there’s a network of footpaths through the woodland between the park’s fields and the Mad River. It’s a very nice, calming walk.

The final three miles of the Mad River run parallel to the coastline, separated by a sandbar. The river was named in 1849 in memory of an incident when Dr. Josiah Gregg lost his temper when his exploration party didn’t wait for him at the river’s mouth. I think it’s a little funny that the Mad River empties into the “Peaceful” Ocean, as if the Pacific’s volume is sufficient to dilute away any anger — though the ocean does occasionally send it’s wrath crashing back at us.

The deciduous trees (no redwoods here, alas) and heavy undergrowth feel like walls, or like a hug from Nature. They also deflect most of the ocean wind. The trail is basically a one mile loop, but there are also diversions, shortcuts and “longcuts.“ And there are benches here and there so you can just sit and be. And pet the happy dogs that come by. What more do I need?

Slow ride, take it easy

It seems to be a near universal pattern. New nomads want to go everywhere and see everything. Constantly. Then that compulsion fades and we start returning to favorite or convenient places with less time and energy spent seeking the new or moving for the sake of moving. Then some percentage of nomads settle into a cycle of two or three seasonal locations. And another percentage leave the road entirely.

After my commitment to Lou and his property was over I was extremely eager to return to wandering. Yay! No longer stuck in one location! Free to roam!

But a shift had taken place. Whereas I used to get antsy to move along after a couple of days at a location, now I’m happy staying a while in nice places. A week here, a week and a half there, having a little more than a superficial experience.

There are only two things on my schedule. The first is to be with friends in Redmond, Oregon, for Independence Day. The other is to be on Vancouver Island “sometime in July” to meet up with Lou’s sailing buddy and take our friend’s ashes out to sea.

Right now I’m a six-hour drive from my Oregon friends with a week and a half to get there. Things are easy and pleasant here in Arcata, California, and though I’m in no hurry to leave part of my old self is urging me onward. “At least go as far as Crescent City for a few days, then to, like, the Crater Lake area until the 3rd. Yeah? Okay?” Eh, maybe. I’ll see how I feel about it mañana.

Streetdocker jail

When I streetdock in a city I like to change up my overnight locations so people don’t think I’ve come to live in their neighborhood. Therefore last night I parked at the Arcata Sports Complex. I stayed there a few years ago. There are usually a few other vehicle dwellers there.

I had someplace I wanted to be early this morning so I was ready to go a little after 6:00. Then I discovered the gate was closed. 

There was a gate? I hadn’t noticed it coming in. But I hadn’t been looking for one. It hadn’t been an issue the previous time because I didn’t leave until later in the morning.

Exhale. Calm down.

Okay, how long will I need to wait?

About 45 minutes, it turned out. And the gatekeeper acted like it was perfectly normal for some dude in a van to get locked in the parking lot. Well, he wasn’t scowling or anything, so I took that as a good sign.