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.

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.