Seeing is misbelieving

When I was wandering about yesterday, looking for a campsite with lots of sunshine, I saw this on Google Satellite View:

The gray patches looked like areas where people had camped before. I went to investigate.

No, the gray patches were actually piles of stumps, limbs and other debris from logging. Oh well. At least there was an easy way to turn around.

I. Like. Big. Maps, and I cannot lie

The Forest Service publishes Motor Vehicle Use maps showing where you can drive and, as a bonus, where dispersed camping is allowed.

I'm a map nerd. I love studying them and then comparing them with the real world. So I'm excited to have the actual paper map. WOOT!

And this is just one side!

You can get them online, but sometimes you don't have a connection when you need it. Or your battery is dead. Paper never lets you down. As long as you keep it dry. And in an emergency, you can burn it for heat. Try that with your smart phone or laptop.

Zoom in, zoom out, scroll scroll scroll, zoom in, zoom out, scroll scroll scroll...

Oops

It being Monday, the ranger station in Sisters was open. I drove in to get some information. They gave me a fine, big, map of the local National Forest roads with dispersed camping areas marked. It was interesting to learn that what Google Maps showed as a continuous swath of National Forest actually has a bunch of patches that aren't. And I happened to have spent the previous night a few hundred yards into private land.

Ah.

So I found a new, even better place. Larger clearing, more sun, closer to town.

Now, if only there were a place in Sisters to get fresh bagels and a variety of schmears.

Bye, Mt. Hood, for now

After five days it felt like it was time to move on.

The majority opinion would probably say I should head to the coast, see those famous Oregon beaches. That would be nice. Oregon law has made the entire coast accessible to the public. However, there is no free camping. You have to pay (a lot) and make reservations months in advance to stay at one of the state or federal campgrounds. It's high season and the Independence Day weekend is coming. So, no. Not now, anyway.

I was here. Now I'm not.

Instead, I've headed down the dry side of the Cascades, which is also warmer. And less popular. The land is flatter and the forests are less dense. Right now I'm camped in the Deschutes National Forest west of Sisters, which is north of Bend.

Instead of Mt. Hood, I have the Three Sisters mountains. Mt. Bachelor is a little farther south. I guess the Bachelor couldn't maintain a relationship with any of the Sisters. But he has skiers to distract him from his solitary life.

Too late

Today's buzz

I was sitting, enjoying the rare Pacific Northwest sunshine. I had gazed at the distant view, examined the closer view, and I had gotten down to noticing details. Like the bees.

These bees are smaller than honey bees. They fly close to the ground. Not too odd, seeing as how the flowers in my little ridge top clearing are also close to the ground. But these bees don't seem interested in the flowers.

They keep landing on bare patches of dirt, on pebbles, on rocks. They pause one or two seconds, then buzz off to another bit of dirt or rock. I guess collecting pollen isn't their thing. At least not today. But what are they up to? It's not like I can get down there and see, because, zip, they're gone. I can't even get a photo.

Hmmmm, maybe they're pouncing on bugs too small for me to notice. Carnivorous bees. The dreaded "meat bees" some friends say infest the Sierras? Uuuumm, no. Meat bees are actually yellow jackets, and I know them when I see them. These are smaller and less pointy. They're something else. Miners? Hole nesters? This quote is not encouraging:

"...the Willamette Valley is home to 250 bee species, and the deserts east of the Cascade Range hold 600 to 800 species."

Any apiary nerds out there with an answer? The Mt. Hood Rock-hopper Bee?

Well, good morning to you, too

Mr. Blue Sky

Looking down at a chunk of the Mt. Hood National Forest. The Columbia River is on the other side of the tan hills. Obscured by clouds are Mt. Adams, the remains of Mt. St. Helens, and Mt. Ranier.

Oh, look, I'm back at the ridge top campsite! My whiney self whined too soon. I was a third of the way back to Pendleton when the clouds started breaking. Rather than drive further, I pulled off at an exit, parked by a store and took a nap. (I'm excellent at napping.) When I awoke the depressing gray overcast had become cheerful partly cloudiness. And my batteries were charged. Hurray! So I went back. That'll teach me to trust the National Weather Service too much.

Another strategic retreat

Sigh. I like my campsite in the Mt. Hood National Forest, but the overcast is making it hard to keep my solar batteries charged. So, it's either head away from the wet western part of Oregon or turn off the fridge and throw away perishable food. Or binge eat all of it.

The National Weather Service says it won't be sunny here until Monday. Accuweather is slightly more optimistic, saying Sunday. Either way, I gotta flee. Sigh.

Swell

I moved up

The previous campsite had that nice deep-in-the-forest quality to it, but there was very little opportunity for sunlight and too much opportunity for mosquitoes. So I studied my maps and Google satellite views, looking for larger clearings. That meant moving out of the valleys and up onto the ridges.

Now, instead of being at the base of the trees, I look down on them. And instead of my view being about fifteen feet in any direction, I can see all the way to Mt. Adams, in Washington. (My view of Mt. Hood is blocked by other ridges.) Best of all, being up here gives me three bars of 4G mobile signal. Sweet. And (so far) no mosquitoes.

Now, if only the cloud cover would break up and give me some blue sky like yesterday. Oh, I forgot, this is the Pacific Northwest.

Break out the Deep Woods Off!

I have a nephew with the Forest Service. In the Mt. Hood area. Lucky me, that's where I wanted to camp. So he gave me some tips on boondocking sites.

The trick is finding a spot with a break in the forest where sunlight can reach my solar panel. I found one.

Too bad the cell signal is weak. Oh well, can't have everything.

And I just missed the solstice

If someone were to say, "Wanna see a memorial to the soldiers and sailors of Klickitat County, Washington, who lost their lives in WWI?" you'd probably pass.

But if someone were to say, "Wanna see a replica of Stonehenge a guy built overlooking the Columbia River?" you'd probably answer, "Hell yeah!"

Quaker pacifist, Samuel Hill, probably wasn't thinking about attracting tourists when he built his memorial, but it turned out to be marketing genius.

My own Oregon trail

Sunday afternoon it settled in my mind. Oregon it is.

I bid my thanks and farewells to Ophelia and Peter, stopped at Jiffy Lube to have them change the oil and rotate the tires, then headed off on I-84.

Interstates are dissed as not the way to see Real America. But I'd seen a lot of the country via blue highways. I'd dealt with narrow roads and slowing to 35 or even 25 miles an hour for all the little Real American towns along the way. It's nice, for a change, to cruise along on wide highways with extra lanes and gentle curves. It's nice having fewer things to be watchful for. Thanks, Dad, for midwifing the Interstate system. (He was Chief of Construction and Maintenance for the Bureau of Public Roads. Ike lobbied for the highways, Dad got them built.)

I-84 roughly follows the Oregon Trail. Indians, trappers, Lewis & Clark and wagon trains had already figured out the easiest path to the Columbia River and the coast. Just grade and pave it so I can come along and be grateful for it.

I'm in Pendleton right now. It's too early for both the Pendleton Roundup and for needing any wool apparel. But I'm going to call it a day here.

Idaho is a very tall state

So, there I was, stopped at a gas station near Glacier National Park, feeling like I’d had more than my fill of rivers, lakes and forested mountains, with more of it in every direction.

I’d spent the previous night by a beautiful creek near Darby, Montana. And I was bored. I wanted to move on. But I didn’t know where I wanted to go, where I wanted to be. I only knew I didn’t particularly want to be where I was. Whatever itch I had, the scenery wasn’t scratching it.

Maybe the problem was that I was alone. Maybe I’m not as reclusive as I’d assumed. During the past ten months on the road I’d been perfectly content in some less-than-wonderful patches of the country. Because, hmmmmm, I had other van dwellers to socialize with. A wee bit. (Don’t make me turn in my introvert card.)

So I texted some house dwelling friends in Boise to see if they’d like a weekend guest. They would. At least I’d have a place with a shower while I contemplated my next move.

There aren’t many paved roads through the middle of Idaho. The straightest line would have been highway 12 over Lolo Pass. But that would mean miles and miles of twisty roads. That’s fun in a sports car but not in a top-heavy van. So I took I-90 west to Coeur d’Alene, then US 95 south to McCall and state road 55 to Boise. It was a 580-mile schlep (plus the 190 miles from the Darby camp to the afore-mentioned gas station). Fortunately, most of the weekend traffic was going the other way.

Being here hasn’t lead to any revelations about where I want to head next. The coast is one option, even though it means a boring slog through eastern Oregon, even though coastal weather is damper and cooler than I like. I could make my way down the coast to San Francisco (a former home town), then cut across to the Sierras. Or I could head straight to the Sierras. I know some van dwellers summering there. I could head back to central and northern Idaho, even though it would be backtracking. I could go south, but to higher elevations in order to avoid the heat. I should check the extended forecast for northern New Mexico. I have my NM state park annual pass to use up. I could draw an option out of a hat.

I don’t know. I really don’t.

Up until a few days ago, just setting off to a new place—any new place—got me charged up. Now? There’s a whiff of existential despair in the air.